#i have a love-hate relationship with love talk. it sounds like. the french songs from 70-90's on which i was raised on | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-singlest-pringle · 2 years

Text

Thawed Out

Bakugou chooses to ignore the fact that he's low on spoons and goes out to the new cafe that opened with the Bakusquad. Things don't go too well and someone ends up crying in an alley.

ft. projection so powerful that it can reach the moon, Midoriya deserving all the love, Kirishima being the most amazing best friend, and someone give Bakugou a damn hug (only with consent, though)!

Warnings: self-harm in the form of hitting, detailed depiction of a meltdown (if that's triggering to you)

A/N: Bold text within quotes is Bakugou talking through AAC.

Read it here on AO3

Bakugou sat in his dorm room doing his homework. Unlike his classmates, he would always finish his homework on Friday so that he could focus on other things during the weekend. The day had already been exhausting. The worst part was, he felt exhausted for no apparent reason. There was nothing special about the day schedule wise. But he did wake up feeling more drained than usual, making every little thing feel like the end of the world. Bakugou had a love-hate relationship with his brain. He knew that he was highly intelligent, but sometimes he didn’t think it was worth all the other issues that came with his brain.

He saw one of his rigged lamps flicker, signaling that someone was at his door. He begrudgingly put his hearing aids back in to hear who it was.

“Bakugou!!!” A cheery voice called through the door. It’s Kirishima. “Do you want to go to that new french cafe that just opened? It’s a fifteen minute walk from here and the rest of the squad wanted to check it out.”

Bakugou opened the door to reveal an idiot with bright red hair and a shark-toothed smile. Just his presence managed to make Bakugou feel a little better.

“So? You coming? The place seems pretty popular,” Kirishima says in a sing-song voice to try and sell his point. A crowded cafe was probably not where he wanted to be right now.

“I can’t. I’m, uh… sick,” Bakugou stutters out the first excuse that pops into his head.

“That was a terrible excuse. Come on! We haven’t hung out all day!”

“I was literally with you all day,” Bakugou deadpans.

“Yeah. But you barely talked. Honestly I think this is the first time I’ve heard you talk today.”

“Maybe you’re just not worth talking to.”

“Don’t lie, Bakubro. I know you love me!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Please come. It’ll be fun. I swear! We won’t be out for long,” Kirishima pleads, pouting his lips.

Bakugou sighs. He could handle it. “Fucking fine, Shitty Hair. I’ll go if it’ll get you off my back. But I can’t guarantee that I won't cry.” That last sentence was the truth, but he knew Kirishima wouldn’t think much of it.

“Ha! So dramatic. Besides, you’re more of a screamer,” Kirishima teases.

“Are we fucking going or not?!”

“Yeah! You’re the best, bro.”

“Whatever. Let’s just get this shit over with.”

Bakugou was already low on spoons, but he had just enough to appease his idiots. He could make it through the night.

The closer they got to the cafe, the less sure he became of that statement.

Immediately after Kirishima opens the door for him, he is assaulted with a barrage of sensory input. Over ten different light sources that he could count. The mixing smells of all of the food items and drinks they sold. And the god-awful sound of dozens of conversations reverberating off of brick walls. Unfortunately Kirishima was right about this place being popular. The redhead smiled brightly with excitement as Bakugou fought off the urge to vomit.

The squad chose the table near the back left corner, waving at him and Kirishima when they got closer, having arrived about five minutes before. Everyone orders a drink and a savory item from the menu, except Bakugou. He just orders a banana bread slice. His friends continue to converse as Bakugou takes a bite of his slice, immediately making a face when it hits his mouth. Way too fucking sweet and soft.

Ashido giggles. “That bad, Blasty?”

Kaminari reached over the table to steal a piece. Normally, Bakugou would yell at Kaminari for touching his food, but he also knew that he was definitely not touching that banana bread again.

When Kaminari takes a bite, his face lights up. “Bro! This is so good! What are you on?”

“It’s fine. ‘M not hungry. Take it,” Bakugou mumbles, kneading his hands.

“Your loss, man.” Kaminari wastes no time in taking the rest of the bread and inhaling it. Bakugou cringes at the sight of him talking with his mouth full, so he turns his gaze towards his lap and continues playing with his fingers.

Every minute is more painful than the last sitting there. He became less and less engaged, going from short sentences to one word answers to nods and eventually nothing. He had been fighting the urge to cry the entire time, and that battle was becoming increasingly more difficult. Everything hurt. Every noise was grating on his ears. All of the lights were headache-inducing. The smells made his stomach churn. And now he could feel everything. He could feel the fabric of his shirt rubbing against his chest. Even though it was already unbuttoned to the middle of his sternum, the offending piece of clothing suddenly felt suffocating. He could feel the way his pants tightened around his thighs when he sat down. He could feel his socks and the pressure of the shoes trapping his feet.

Bakugou knew he had surpassed his limit a long time ago, and he wished he had left or not come at all. His breaths became more shallow and he lost his battle against holding back the tears, feeling them starting to pool in his eyes.

Everything was too much. He should probably tell Kirishima, but he lost his voice about fifteen minutes ago. The squad was too engrossed in their conversation to notice Bakugou, until he failed to bite back a sob. All of the heads turned to him just as he brought a tightly clenched fist to his face to quickly wipe the tears that were now rolling down his cheeks.

“Woah, Bakugou. Are you okay?” Jirou asks with concern but also shock lacing her voice.

Bakugou just stood up, quickly taking off his hearing aids and stuffing them in his pocket. He clamped his hands tightly over his ears and walked as fast as he could out of the cafe.

Bakugou sat in the alleyway next to the cafe, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes clenched shut, trying his hardest to block out any noise. He may be going deaf but he wasn’t completely deaf, and as of right now, any sound is too much. Even hearing his own loud sobs was too much. Bakugou was extremely overwhelmed and dysregulated, rocking violently and occasionally stomping his foot or hitting his leg repetitively in an attempt to regulate.

“What was that about?” Ashido asks.

“I have no idea.” Kaminari says, slowly taking a bite from his sandwich.

“Oh god. This was my fault. He said he didn’t want to go and I made him come anyway. He even said ‘I can’t guarantee that I won’t cry’, but I thought he was joking!” Kirishima cries.

“I can’t believe he actually said that to you.” Sero says in disbelief.

“Don’t you know, Jirou? Kirishima is the only person Bakugou is that open with because he’s in looove with Kiri.” Kaminari teases.

“Shut up, Kaminari. Now is not the time for jokes.” Jirou scolds, poking one of her jacks into his side.

“I’m gonna go find him and see if he’s alright.” Kirishima stands up, his face determined to help his best friend.

“Keep us updated, okay?” Ashido says with worry.

It wasn’t hard to find Bakugou, following the sounds of sobs that came from the alley beside the cafe.

Kirishima’s heart broke at what he saw. “Bakugou?” He puts a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, but Bakugou fully screams and flinches away.

“Hey, man. Please don’t cry! I’m sorry for making you come! I didn’t mean to make you upset. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Did I do something?” Bakugou didn’t answer. He just kept crying. Kirishima tries grabbing his wrist to stop him from hitting himself, but Bakugou just screams again and scrambles further away. Well, I was right about Bakugou being a screamer.

Kirishima was near panic now, not knowing what to do or how to help. He pulls out his phone to text Ashido, just to let her know the situation. The squad probably wouldn’t be too helpful at the moment.

Private message between Ashido Mina and Kirishima Eijirou

rock hard:

bakugou isnt doing too hot

but dont come. i’ll text if I need backup

ashy toe:

i’ll let the others know and tell them not to come

rock hard:

thanks

Kirishima thinks about calling Midoriya. He knows Bakugou the best, right? He probably knows what to do. He quickly dials Midoriya’s number. It rings twice before connecting.

“Hi, Kirishima! What’s up?” Kirishima silently thanks the universe for Midoriya being so quick to answer.

“Midoriya… It’s Bakugou. I don’t know what’s happening but something’s wrong and I don’t know what to do! I called hoping you might be able to help.” Kirishima can’t help the panicked edge to his voice.

“Is he okay? Is he safe?”

“He’s safe. And he’s okay physically… Well he keeps hitting himself. He’s definitely not okay emotionally.”

“Hmm. Can you explain the situation more and what led up to that?”

“We all went to the new cafe that opened up in Sendai 1-Chome. The rest of the squad wanted to go because the reviews were really good. Mina and I passed it three days ago and it looked pretty busy so it must be good, right?” Midoriya hums thoughtfully at that comment.

“I made Bakugou come because I didn’t want him to be left out. He had been silent the entire time we were there and out of nowhere he just started crying! He pretty much ran out of the cafe with his hands over his ears and now we’re in the alley. Bakugou is not doing too well. He’s crying pretty hard, bordering on screaming. He’s rocking back and forth and he won’t let me touch him. It sounds like he’s in pain. Oh god, is he in pain, Midoriya?!” Kirishima finishes frantically.

Midoriya breathes out a heavy sigh. “Kacchan is fine. Or, he will be. He’s just having a meltdown. It’ll pass. The cafe probably put him into sensory overload.”

What does that mean? This is way out of my depth, Kirishima thinks. “What can I do? How can I help him?”

“Just give him space. Try not to make too much noise. Do not touch him unless he gives you permission. Make sure nobody bothers you guys. The less people there are, the better. Actually, do you happen to have headphones on you? Preferably noise canceling?”

Kirishima lowers his volume. “No, I don’t. But I think Jirou might.”

“Could you go get them? Hand the phone to Kacchan while you do that. Just put it on the ground in front of him.”

“Okay. I will.” Kirishima puts the phone on speaker and places it in front of Bakugou. “It’s Midoriya.”

“Hey, Kacchan. Rough day, huh? I know Greta always cheers you up.” Midoriya starts to softly sing what sounds like an American song.

Kirishima runs back into the cafe. He snakes through the crowd, apologizing to every person he accidentally runs into. When he reaches the squad’s table, they all look pretty worried.

“Is Bakugou okay?” Sero asks.

“Should we come with you?” Ashido slowly starts to get up.

“No! It’s fine. He’s fine,” Kirishima brushes off quickly. “Hey, Jirou. Do you have your headphones with you?”

“Yes… Why?” Jirou asks apprehensively. Kirishima is thankful that they don’t press past his brief answer.

“Can I borrow them? Please?”

“Yeah. You can. What do you need them for?”

“I’ll explain later. But I really need those right now.”

“Okay. I trust you Kirishima.” Jirou pulls her headphones out of her backpack and hands them to him.

“Thanks, Jirou. You’re the best.” He quickly takes the headphones and runs back out to the alley.

Midoriya is at the tail end of singing when Kirishima returns, finishing soon after he arrives. Bakugou’s sobs are less like screaming now and he’s not rocking as violently, so Kirishima takes that as a good sign. He picks up his phone again.

“Hey, Midoriya. I have the headphones.”

“Good. Do you think you could get Kacchan’s attention enough to ask if he wants them on? Don’t expect a verbal response.”

“Yeah. I can do that.” Kirishima kneels down in front of the blond and holds out the headphones for him to see. “Bakugou? I have headphones. Can I put them on for you?”

Bakugou gives a minute nod through his tears.

“Alright.” Kirishima slips the headphones on, trying as much as he can to reduce contact. He puts the phone back up to his ear. “Now what?”

“Just wait. You can sit next to him, but don’t sit too close. When he’s ready, take him back to the dorms. Don’t ask him any questions. He will talk when he’s ready. But he probably won’t be speaking for the rest of the night. When he gets in his room, you can put on a documentary. Sea creatures or anything All Might. He’ll probably fall asleep pretty quickly.”

“Okay. Yeah, I can do that. Thank you so much for the help, Midoriya.”

“Thank you, Kirishima, for being there to help Kacchan. I’ll come by his dorm later to check in on him.”

“Alright. Bye, dude.”

“Bye.”

Kirishima sighs softly and sits next to Bakugou. The tears are silent now. He’s still rocking, but less frantically. Kirishima notices him flapping his hands. If he flaps them any harder he’ll probably fly away. Kirishima chuckles to himself at that imagery. They sit in silence for another ten minutes until Bakugou is almost still and has switched to fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt and chewing on the collar.

Bakugou lets out a slow exhale. He sniffs one more time and wipes his face with his sleeve before standing. Kirishima stands up with him.

“You ready to go back to the dorms?”

Bakugou nods, his eyes glued to the floor.

“I’m just gonna tell everyone else that we’re leaving so they don’t get too worried.

Bakugou just gives another nod.

Private Message with Ashido Mina and Kirishima Eijirou

rock hard:

hey mina

Im heading back to the dorms with Bakugou. Can u tell the others?

ashy toe:

is blasty ok?

rock hard:

hes doing better now

sorry for leaving so abruptly

ashy toe:

its ok!

u don’t have to apologize

i’ll tell everyone

rock hard:

thanks mina

ashy toe:

np!

tell blasty I said feel better!

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The walk was silent, but not uncomfortable. Kirishima still sent anxious glances towards Bakugou, but he felt more calm since Bakugou had stabilized. He notices the occasional stray tear that would be quickly wiped away, but doesn’t say anything. It was only 19:30 and curfew was at 21:00, so thankfully the common room was empty.

Upon entering the room, Bakugou immediately makes a beeline to his closet, grabbing a towel, night clothes, and a shower caddy. He makes his way back toward the door, Kirishima following with the intent of going back to his room. But Bakugou stops him with a hand and closes the door behind him. He must want me to wait here, Kirishima thinks. He walks over to Bakugou’s desk and moves the laptop to his bed. He leaves the screen open on Netflix in the documentary section for when Bakugou gets back.

Fifteen minutes later, Bakugou returns with wet hair wearing fresh clothes and actually has his hearing aids in. His face is significantly less blotchy, but his eyes are still red-rimmed. He hangs up his towel and throws his day clothes into the hamper.

“Hey, bro!” Kirishima says cheerily, but gets no response. “Still not talking?”

Bakugou looks in his direction and presses his mouth into a thin line before grabbing what looks to be a tablet with an obnoxiously orange case from his shelf. He sits on his bed and fiddles with it a bit before a robotic voice rings out. “Sorry.”

Immediately, Kirishima’s face lights up with wonder and he walks over to sit next to Bakugou. “Woah! What is that?”

Bakugou presses the screen a few more times before the voice starts up again. “This is an AAC app - Augmentative and Alternative Communication. It talks for me when I can’t.”

“That’s so cool! What can you say?”

“Anything. Typing is hard right now. I am using preset options.”

“Awe. So you can’t say my name?”

Bakugou smirks and taps the screen twice. “Shitty Hair.”

“You had my name pre- wait. Hey!”

Bakugou just taps again. “Shitty Hair.”

“You know that’s not my name!” Kirishima whines with a smile.

The blond just shrugs and taps again. “Shitty Hair.”

“Oh, come on. Now you’re just being mean!” Kirishima feigns offense while chuckling.

And Bakugou giggles. He keeps tapping. “Shitty Hair. Shitty Hair. Shitty Hair.”

Kirishima is laughing fully now, while Bakugou snickers quietly. They fall into a beat of silence before Bakugou is tapping again.

“I’m sorry, Kirishima.”

Kirishima’s perks up at the use of his real name before he registers what was actually said. He looks at Bakugou with concern. “What are you sorry for?”

“Messed up tonight. Sensory overload. You leave early. Sorry.”

“Hey, that’s not your fault. I made you go. I should have listened when you said you didn’t want to come.”

“My fault. I’m messed up.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not messed up!”

“Meltdown. Embarrassed you. Worried squad.”

“You’re not embarrassing. You didn’t embarrass me. You’re my best friend. I will always help you through anything. And I told the squad that you are okay. They’re worried because they care about you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies, okay? I set up a documentary for you. Just relax. Tonight was probably stressful.”

A second passes before Bakugou nods. He pushes back what seems to be a blanket that’s too heavy to be a normal blanket and sticks his legs under. He grabs his tablet and taps a few more times. “Dresser. Top shelf. Necklace. Green.”

“You want me to get something for you?” Kirishima asks, receiving a nod from the blond. Kirishima complies, quirking a brow when he pulls out what look to be green dog tags that are made of silicon. “Here you go, bro.”

Bakugou wastes no time putting them around his neck and sticking one in his mouth to chew on. He taps his tablet seven times. “Go change. Come back. Watch with me.”

“Oh. Okay! I’ll be right back.”

Kirishima rushes to throw on pajamas and runs back to Bakugou’s room. When he re-enters, Bakugou is already watching an All Might documentary. He pats the spot next to him on his bed. Kirishima walks over and carefully sits next to him, making sure they’re not touching. “Is this okay?”

Bakugou just throws an arm across his chest and pulls him closer. His arm leaves for a few seconds as Bakugou takes his hearing aids out and places them in the charger behind him before falling back into its place on Kirishima. “Well I guess that answers my question.”

Midoriya is right, and Bakugou falls asleep only ten minutes into the documentary. Kirishima carefully removes the dog tags from around his neck and places them behind him. He continues watching the documentary when the lamp on the dresser starts flashing. Midoriya must be here.

“Kirishima. You’re still here,” Midoriya says quietly, surprised. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, but stays standing at the entrance.

“Yeah. He sort of pulled me in and I didn’t want to wake him up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. He sleeps like the dead after meltdowns.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll go then.” Kirishima starts to shift to make his way off the bed with little disturbance.

“No, it’s fine! You don’t have to leave, but you also don’t have to worry about waking him up.” Kirishima only nods before settling back down. “I see that he was using his tablet. I’m actually surprised he was communicating that much, if at all.”

The redhead smiles. “That thing is really cool! He mostly used it to insult me, though. Did you know that he has the name ‘Shitty Hair’ pre-set on there?”

Midoriya lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. I did. You’d be surprised how many names are on there, albeit most of them are nicknames.”

A beat of silence passes again before Kirishima speaks up. “That was pretty scary, if I’m being honest. I had no idea what to do. I’m really glad you were able to help.”

“It was your first time. I remember the first time I saw it happen. It was scary. Well, I was three. But I was lucky enough to have my mom there with us.”

“Three, huh? So this has been happening for a long time, then.”

“For as long as I can remember.”

“Did something happen when he was younger?”

“No. At least nothing that would cause this. He was just born this way.”

“Oh.”

Midoriya sighs before walking further into the room and sitting in the desk chair. He swivels around to face Kirishima. “Look, Kirishima. I know you have questions. I’ll be happy to answer, but you have to swear that what I say won’t change your view of him.”

“Of course! He will always be the smartest, coolest, manliest guy I know. He will always be my best friend. Nothing will change that.” Midoriya nods. “So. What happened tonight? Both of you said something about sensory overload and meltdown, but I don’t really know what that means. How did you know what to do?”

“I’ve been taking care of Kacchan my whole life. Me and my mom. His parents were never there, so we had to step up. Kacchan was diagnosed with autism when he was three. The doctors actually thought that he would never talk. But he did. His parents missed his first words, but me and my mom were there. He finally spoke, and then he never stopped.” Midoriya chuckles to himself at the memory of the precocious child he loved so much before taking on a more stoic expression.

“He… he had a lot of needs as a child. There was a lot of research, a lot of trial and error. My mom was - is - a saint. Of course she had to raise me, too. When I was finally old enough to help out, I was more than happy to. He was like my brother. Kacchan didn’t know anything was ‘different’ at first. But, as you know, he’s very smart. A genius through and through. So I guess it was just a matter of time. He was so upset when he found out. Got angry at me and my mom for ‘treating him like he was weak’. Kacchan became dead set on being independent.

And he was successful. He’s basically self-sufficient. But he’s still autistic, and always will be. There will be times that are more difficult than others, like tonight, where he will need more support. I plan on being by his side as long as life will allow, but I can’t guarantee that I will be. Especially with the line of work we’re going into. He’s family. And I’m glad that there are more people who care about him.”

Kirishima takes in the information. “So he’s autistic.”

“Yes.”

“And tonight’s… event… was because of that?”

“Yeah. People on the spectrum tend to have sensory sensitivities, and I guess today he was more sensitive than usual. Meltdowns happen when they’re overwhelmed, so that’s probably what happened at the cafe.”

“Huh.” Kirishima looks down pensively at the boy sleeping in his arms and frowns.

“What are you thinking about? I can see the gears turning in your head.”

“I was just thinking… life hasn’t been very kind to Bakugou, has it? I mean, I know a little about his parents, then there was the sludge villain, the Sports Festival, getting kidnapped. I know there’s nothing wrong or bad about being autistic. It’s just that… the world we live in isn’t made for people who are wired differently. I’ve seen Kaminari struggle a lot with his ADHD. And I know what assholes say about autistic people. It’s just so unfair because he’s so amazing.”

Midoriya smiles softly. “You’re a really good friend, Kirishima.” He laughs at the baffled expression he gets from the other boy. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re his best friend. Actually, you were his first real friend.”

“Really? I know I call him my best friend but I never thought…”

“I know Kacchan isn’t very vocal about his feelings, but I can tell that he really values your relationship. You make him so happy. And it makes me happy to know that he has a friend like you.”

Kirishima brushes the bangs from Bakugou’s face to the side. “Thank you again, Midoriya. For your help earlier and your explanations. I definitely have my research cut out for me, but it’ll be worth it. Like I said to Bakugou earlier, I will always help him through anything. I will always be there for him. And now I can do it better.”

“I really appreciate you Kirishima. Text me if either of you need anything.” Midoriya gets up from where he is and walks to the door.

“Goodnight, bro,” Kirishima calls out to him.

“Goodnight.”

Even though it was only 20:10, it only took another seven minutes for Kirishima to fall asleep.

A blaring alarm and a vibrating bed was not what Kirishima expected to be waking up to. He burrows his face further into a pillow before getting smacked by another pillow. “What the hell..?”

“Get up, Shitty Hair!” a rough voice demands.

And he’s back. “Bakugou, it’s like 05:00,” Kirishima groans out.

“Yeah, I know. It’s time for my morning run. You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just hold on a second,” Kirishima, turning around to close his eyes. Bakugou smacks him with a pillow again. “Dude!”

“I’m leaving in ten minutes and I will leave you behind if you’re not ready. I don’t want you jacking up my morning routine.”

“Alright, alright. I’m up.” Kirishima sits up and stretches, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Meet me in the common room in ten,” Bakugou states before exiting abruptly.

“Yup. Got it.” Kirishima swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits in the silence for a minute before going next door to his room to change into running clothes.

He makes his way down to the common room with five minutes to spare and is greeted by Bakugou setting out dry ingredients to make breakfast when they get back. Kirishima watches with his back against the counter as Bakugou sorts ingredients out on the island in order of when they need to be used. The sun is barely peeking past the horizon, providing a dim but warm glow to the common area. From where Kirishima is standing, it makes Bakugou look like he has a halo.

Once he’s satisfied with the placement, Bakugou huffs out a ‘let’s go’ while he speed walks to the door, leaving Kirishima to scramble after him. Immediately upon getting outside, Bakugou drops to the ground to start stretching. He doesn’t notice Kirishima’s wide eyes as he practically folds himself in half before switching into side split. Kirishima tries in vain to touch his toes and instead settles on leaning back to watch the sun slowly rise.

“It’s beautiful. The sunrise.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou responds, half distracted by the way the early morning sun compliments Kirishima’s tanned skin. He quickly looks away when the other boy turns towards him.

“Is this why you come out so early?”

“It’s part of the reason. I wake up at 05:00 because we’re heroes in training and we need a strict regimen if we want to succeed. It’s also quieter and there usually isn’t anybody else out here. But yes, the sunrise is beautiful.” Bakugou looks down and fiddles with the zipper of his windbreaker. “Thank you, Kirishima. For yesterday.”

“Hm? Oh. Don’t worry about it! Just trying to help out my bro,” Kirishima says with his ever sunny smile.

Bakugou frowns. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“Seriously. Don’t worry about it. I understand that the cafe was overwhelming. And you shouldn’t have to go through that alone.”

Bakugou runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just hate my brain. I wish I didn’t freak out over stupid things like crowded cafes. I wish I was normal.”

Kirishima turns so his whole body is facing Bakugou. “Hey. Don’t say that. Honestly, there is no such thing as normal. Sure, your brain is different from most other people, but that’s not a bad thing. Your brain makes you who you are. And to me, you’re perfect the way you are.”

“Thanks,” Bakugou says quietly, ducking his head in an attempt to hide his blush. “I assume you know, then.”

“Midoriya explained to me what was going on. I sort of had no idea what to do yesterday.”

“I vaguely remember Deku being involved through a phone. Did he sing something?”

“Yeah, he did! He said something about Greta and how she cheers you up.”

Bakugou laughs and stands, starting his arm stretches. “Greta Van Fleet is an American band from a hundred years ago. He was probably singing Light My Love. It’s one of my favorites from them.”

Kirishima follows him up. “You’ll have to play it for me sometime.”

“I think you’d like them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bakugou takes in the sun for a few more seconds before checking his watch. “Fuck. We just wasted five minutes. I guess we’re starting with a sprint. I’ll race you!” Bakugou calls out after he takes off.

“Wha- Hey! You can’t declare a race after you’ve started running!” Kirishima stumbles before breaking into a sprint.

“You’re just mad because you’re losing!” Bakugou calls over his shoulder.

“Dick!”

#MHA #My Hero Academia #BNHA #boku no hero academia #mha fic #mha fanfiction #bakugou katsuki #autistic bakugou katsuki #autism #Kirishima Eijirou #midoriya izuku #bakusquad #bakugou katsuki fic

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papercherries · 25 days

Text

Brazil, Love Songs, an offensively long side note and grief.

I watched two films today, both very pessimistic about two separate things. Arguably opposite things, though I won't try to do that. Brazil and Les Chansons d'amour (Love Songs or The Songs Of Love). The former by Terry Gilliam and the latter by Christophe Honoré. Brazil is about a nepo daydreamer in an 1984-esque society, where bureaucracy and capitalism rules.

(As a side note, I hate when author names are used as terms, Orwellian, Kafkaesque, etc. I think it undermines the multiple themes these authors could tackle. But if something is similar to Metamorphosis it must be Kafkaesque or if something is like 1984 or Animal Farm people call it Orwellian. It especially annoys me when used incorrectly (at least in my terms). This is mostly done with Animal Farm due to it's mass misinterpretation. Mostly due to respective education systems failing to teach context, decent literacy and lack of modern history about communism. At least in the UK, no mention was made about Stalin's rise to power as most of it was focused on Nazi Germany. Though I will note our lessons weren't about Nazi Germany themselves but the rise of the NSWP. Souring the term socialism for the foreseeable future whilst Stalin ruins communisms reputation. Idiots who believe in either of these leaders missed the footnotes in history, where these leaders were abusing their power for their own gains, as well as their friends. It sounds familiar in a modern sense.

Most of our history was pre 20th century. The evolution of medicine was the major one for us. This has gone further than a side note, however I am on a roll now. I was never very good with dates so I did fail my history gcse. However, what I do know was Stalin was just as bad a leader as Hitler. They were both genocidal but history is written by the victors. Can't forget about Britain's bombings, slavery and general genocide.

Animal Farm is clearly very critical of "communism" and capitalism, but most importantly, it is critical of Stalinism and trusting your leaders. The pigs take over and everyone thinks, "ah things will be better because we have 'communism'". Things are better for a short while, but the true communists are kicked out or killed. And eventually, the "communist leaders" become (and say it with my folks) Capitalist Pigs! Historically, Orwell fought on the communist side in the Spanish Civil War and hated Dali for siding with the monarchy. So remember, Stalin's communism is Stalinism and actual communism is a lot closer to Marxism, but that's a whole other conversation for another side note. Back to the point, I try to refrain from using terms like Orwellian and Kafkaesque because I think it's better to give a more specific idea of what you mean. Like when you say Kafkaesque, what do you mean? Do you mean Metamorphosis or Eleven Sons? Anyway, back to the main text).

Our main character has these fanciful dreams of being a hero! A man who flies through the sky with heavenly wings. Valiantly fights monsters with his silver sword. Saves the angelic woman he loves. When in truth, he is a coward, a lazy desk jockey with no ambition nor drive. One day, he sees the girl of his dreams and does everything he can to get to her. She's a rough, tower block girl. A very far stretch from his angelic dreams. I won't spoil anything but I will make a point later that references the end, so if you've read Twain's Mysterious Stranger (I think they teach it in American schools) then you'll probably get the point I mean. If you don't want to be spoiled. Fair warning.

Les Chansons D'amour is a French musical romance. (I didn't realise it was a musical). It's about a couple and their polyamorous relationship with a third party. Tragedy occurs and drama ensues. I can't talk about this film without spoiling it a little, so if u plan to watch it. You have been warned.

Their relationship is a little hard to explain. The main couple (M+F), seem monogamous. However, their third (M's co-worker) seems to be more of a free spirit. Refusing to believe in such concepts as romance and perhaps even monogamy. Within the first chapter of the film, F dies of a random heart attack. The rest of the film is the characters dealing with their grief in different ways. M deals with it sexually, he feels morbidly depressed about it but sleeps with other partners whilst still mourning. The third, seems to want to carry on. Being very concerned for M. Though I wasn't sure if she was attracted to him or not. Point being, the film is about grief and being quite pessimistic toward love after the death of a partner.

So why do I call them opposites? They seems like completely different films on all fronts. Tonally, politically, emotionally and even linguistically! But to be opposite, one must share similarity. They must connect in some way. (Bad doesn't exist without good, silence doesn't exist without cacophony and death doesn't exist without life). Whilst opposites are completely different, they must share a space. Both of these films, in the end, are about love. Or more specifically, how we deal with it.

(Endings being spoiled here, ignore the Twain warning earlier. That point will be here but I realised I can't talk about it without mentioning the build up).

I'll start with Les Chansons D'amour. Our main character is dealing with the loss of his girlfriend. He is deeply sad and frustrated, but through it, he has remained as himself. He is still funny and silly. By the end, he has found a partner (though that relationship is particularly strange considering he's a grown adult who seems to be having a relationship with someone still attending school. Though I don't know what age they leave school there). He consoles his dead girlfriends grave, as if to ask for permission or to let go. So he can allow himself to be happy with someone else. "Love me less but for a long time". Perhaps he wants to be smothered less or he resents the amount of love that was given to him in such a short time as having ripped away hurt more. Speculation is beside the point however.

On the other hand, Brazil. Our main characters "girlfriend" dies after they spend their first night together. "Resisting arrest". He is the fall guy for everything that went wrong. Just when he is about to be tortured, just when he's about to be forced to confess. Tortured by his own friend! He is saved! By a miraculous task force sent by none other than Robert De Niro (who was a reoccurring character in the film). They escape and blow up the nightmarish bureaucratic building. When suddenly, Robert De Niro disappears and our main character is on his own. He runs into a funeral and falls into the casket whilst being pursued. He falls into his dream world and only escapes when he opens a door. Poof! He is in the back of a truck, driven by none other than his girlfriend! They move out to the country side, get a small farm, a cow is even present. SNAP! Back to reality, our main character is still sat in the torturers chair. Humming to himself. Twain's mad emperor. Better to be mad and happy. Than free and depressed. Our main character here has rejected all loss, completely chucked it out of his mind. In favour of his dreams and illusions. A complete rejection of reality.

I call these films opposite because their endings show a common theme. Grief, the dealing with and the rejection of it. They occupy the same space, just on opposite sides of the padded room.

Any of the historical facts, literary references and such. Should be taken with a grain of salt as I write these off the cuff. Most of the facts are opinionated. If you wish to further reading and prove me wrong, please do. I am always excited to learn, especially when I am told I am wrong. Though if you exclaim that my opinions are wrong, I'd like to see your reasons as to why. As I also like hearing different opinions on matters. It is always best to keep a pair of eyes in your pocket, just to test if the sky is truly blue.

I also suggest you watch these films for yourself. Maybe not right next to each other, you'd give yourself whiplash but it'd be interesting to get someone else's opinion on this. So maybe do match my wounds. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Edit: Brazil is also quite funny. I noticed one of the Monty Python actors and was amazed. Same guy from Hot Fuzz.

#creative writing #spilled thoughts #writing #filmmaking #film #cinema

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lolacouldnotcareless · 2 years

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tagged by @ambivartence, thanks siyuan :3 <3

Put your music library on shuffle and list the first 10 songs

all human beings (voiceless mix) pt.3 - max richter, mari samuelsen, robert ziegler

why me? - yerin baek

andromeda - weyes blood

lesson one (tablo's world) - epik high

king - you'lllee

fox tracks (day 3) - ludovico einaudi

namae wo yobu yo (名前を呼ぶよ; call my name) - ラックライフ(luck life)

where the sea sleeps - day6 (even of day)

1440 - ólafur arnalds

love talk (eng ver) - wayv

tagging: @zeesqueere, @ivy-lavender, @isthisatlantis, @jazthespazz, @aquietkindofthunder, @chillycookies, @onearthasitis, @avizou, @tootiredtoosadtooangry, @myriad-of-colors

#there's a lot of. instrumental music. i know and i love it <3 #and probably my fave from even of day. idk this song just stirs something inside of me.#i have the sticker of the lyrics of that song on my laptop keyboard #i have a love-hate relationship with love talk. it sounds like. the french songs from 70-90's on which i was raised on #but gone dark #which is not a bad thing! i smile each time i hear this!#but also those are sounds i personally find. very corny and very aggravating. so i'm enjoying and cringing at the same time #relistening to love talk rn: the chorus painfully sounds like a 90's boyband but the dark version. i enjoy it.#IT'S BC OF THE SYNTH I THINK the t-t-ttt-tttt-breaking glass sound doesn't help their case either god idk what i'm saying anyway #and the last rap part. idk why. more precisely everything during and after that part when the synth shines #and the beginning before the first verse #ANYWAY #yes for the japanese song i had to google it to get the kanji bc spotify is a jerk like that so i just added everything #this is always fun to do and it gives me the opportunity to think about why i listen to some songs and why i enjoy them #i often think about it but. i should learn more about music. like music theory. and listen to more genres to help me define/illustrate them #but also music is so vast idk where to begin #Spotify

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folkloreguk · 3 years

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French Class [7]

A/N: AAAH I apologize in advance for this part bc I feel like it's kinda messy :/ I hope you still like it though?? Lmk what you think! x

genre: optional bias (m) x reader (f), fwb, f2l?, college!au, fuckboy!bias, nerd!reader, angst, H/N is a jealous and drunk fool :/

words: ~ 3.7 k

✽series masterlist✽

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!): @lovely-ateez, @runaway-fics, @mainexiii, @awfullytiredbuthealing, @erikyoong, @etherealuv, @yeostars, @staysuki, @justcuz-ican, @hyuckthangs, @teenloves, @mexious18-blog, @sunghoonied, @mailobjaeyoon, @tr-wemoon, @prismwon

couldn’t tag: @chorizoek, @r-eadings

H/N’s POV:

Maybe I’ll come ‘round, your text had said. How did you expect him to enjoy the party if you wouldn’t be there? H/N used to make fun of guys who ran after girls like lap dogs. And yet, over time he had become one of them, if not worse. Every text, every possibility of seeing you had him on the edge of his seat in excitement. There was nothing he cared about more than spending time with you. When at first it had been sexual attraction – an obsession with your body and the way you turned him on with the most subtle words and touches – it had changed into something entirely different. The relentless hunger was now occasional, ever so often interrupted by a dire wish to see you smile. A wish to hold you, and to kiss you out of the blue – something he wasn’t allowed to do if it wasn’t for the two of you hooking up. The stupid agreement you had made was starting to feel like torture instead of heaven. He was lucky his poker face was professional, and he had years of practice in flirting and sounding casual even if his heart was beating up to his neck. There was no other way he could have concealed how infatuated he was with you, otherwise.

“H/N, come help me set up the snacks!” Korain shouted from the kitchen. H/N’s friends were throwing a party at their place, and he had shown up early to assist them in preparing everything. With you on his mind – as always – he trotted into the kitchen where a row of bowls was standing out on the counter.

“Just open and pour the bags into the bowls, will you? I still need to get ready,” Korain said. “Chohee said she might be here a bit earlier, and I don’t want to look like this when she’s going to look amazing.”

Korain gestured to his bed hair he probably hadn’t brushed once since getting up and then tweaked the fabric of his sweatpants and his old, baggy tee. H/N wanted to argue that if Chohee really liked Korain, she wouldn’t mind seeing him this way. H/N, for one, couldn’t care less what you wore tonight. As long as you showed up at all, he would be beaming. Strictly speaking, at times when he got to see you wake up, sleep in your eyes and your clothes in a disarray, it spun his head in ways no little black dress could ever do. When he saw you make breakfast in his kitchen, in his shirt, he could barely contain himself.

His daydreams of you were once naughty and gave him boners at random times of the day – and don’t get me wrong, they still were, sometimes – but it was when the domestic dreams had begun, that he realized he was screwed. He didn’t need anybody to tell him how he felt, nor did he have some crazy moment of clarity. There came a point in his days where he didn’t just notice his non-sexual daydreams of you, he invited them. His brain was imagining things like setting up a shared table for dinner or kissing the back of your hand in the dark of a movie theater or playing you a cheesy song that reminded him of you. He wanted to hold your hands from across the library table and have his arm around your shoulders to show you off to the entire campus. But none of it could be real. It all went against the rules.

“Will Y/N be here too?” Korain asked and pulled H/N out of his daydreams. God, I hope so, he thought.

“She said she might be here,” H/N answered.

“Chohee’s always talking about her. And you. About how she thinks Y/N has a crush on you, but she always denies it, saying you’re just friends. Maybe you could try and bring that up tonight?” Korain said, as if discussing your feelings for someone was as easy at conversing about the weather. “Alright, I really have to go get ready now.”

“I’ve been thinking, I might- “ said H/N, but Korain only pat his shoulder.

“Let’s talk later, at the party, okay?” he said, and walked out the kitchen. I might like her, H/N had been meaning to say. I might like Y/N. No. I’m in love with her. No maybes. He could bet all his money on it, that’s how sure he was. But his friend had disappeared and now it was on him to wait until the party began. Left alone with his thoughts.

Of course, you would deny having a crush on him. Because you probably didn’t, he thought. Wouldn’t you search for a smart guy, someone your mother would approve of, and someone who understood your endless talks of nerdy topics? Although sometimes he had no idea what you were on about, H/N was captivated whenever you gave him a lecture about something you had learned. And when he asked you to explain something one more time, you never hesitated, or judged him for it. Your kindness made his heart swell, and only when the first crowd of party guests arrived did he realize he had spent half an hour daydreaming about you. Again.

With the way he kept the front door in his sight at all times, one could have wondered if he was a highly wanted criminal on the run, afraid the cops could barge in at any moment. Some of the girls who tried to flirt with him even asked him about it, but he wasn’t going to confess he was waiting for the love of his life to walk through that very door. With little conviction he returned their flirting. He hated himself for the thoughts he had. Thinking that should you not arrive, he could console himself by taking one of the other girls home instead. They didn’t deserve to be used like that, but he was bitter and so, so in love with you. It was hard to pay any attention to the other girls at all, no matter how sweet they were being.

Flirting back at them, however, came to him as easily as the words to his favorite songs. It posed no challenge, like it did with you. When he had to try hard to make your cheeks heat up, or to lure out a shy smile instead of your genius, quick-witted remarks. There was nothing more exciting to him than to invent new ways in which he could make you flustered.

Right now, it was his turn to be flustered. Because his ex had approached him and was reciting some of her favorite memories she had of their relationship. “Remember our third date…the one that ended with us squished in that tiny dressing room at Victoria’s Secret?” she asked and blinked at him expectantly. He went along with her words and replied something not too direct, but still enough to make her giggle like a little girl.

It was his own fault she was so intent on talking to him. While you had been on your date with the economy-major-guy, H/N had tried to contact his ex again. In hindsight, he thought it pathetic and extremely stupid at that. Nothing would have come of it, anyway. Not while he felt the way he did about you. So it was only lucky his ex hadn’t been free that night. Then he had gotten dangerously close to drowning his feelings in the vodka in his kitchen. Thankfully he had refrained from this, too, because you had shown up afterwards and you had ended up having mind-blowing sex, and he knew for a fact that had he been drunk, he would have blurted out some crazy sentiments he would have regretted saying in the morning.

Sometimes he tried to signal you his emotions, ever so subtly. Waving off your claims when you called him the campus fuckboy or telling you he wasn’t really hooking up with anyone else besides you, it all was an attempt at making you see what he felt for you. He would tell you that you looked pretty, not just so you would understand he liked you, but simply because it had to be said. When he regarded you fixing your hair in the mirror with a frown, he could barely believe you didn’t know how beautiful you were. And he had gotten closer to you during sex. Whether it was voluntary or an instinct that came with being in love, he wasn’t certain. There was nothing like kissing away your moans while he fucked you into a mattress.

He was about to text you – the urge to see you getting unbearable – but didn’t want to sound clingy when you strut through the door. No slow motion or fan blowing your hair around dramatically would have made you look more perfect. The ridiculous pang he felt in his heart when he saw you hug another guy only reminded him of how whipped he was. He reminded himself that he had no right to be jealous. You weren’t his girlfriend, after all. When you then made eye contact with him and made a beeline for him, he was worried he’d be short of words. He needed to pull himself together.

“Hi,” you said, and your smile was magical enough to stir up the butterflies in H/N’s stomach. You pointed at the empty spot on the sofa between H/N and another guy you didn’t know. “Is this seat taken?”

“No,” the guy said, before H/N had time to speak, and the stranger smiled at you in a way that could only mean he wanted to get to know you. But H/N caught your attention by swiftly putting his arm around your shoulder, making the stranger back up and divert his eyes the other way. He had never meant to be the jealous type. It was just that you were finally here, and he was so happy to see you, he couldn’t bare the thought of you running off again. Only when you gave him a funny look H/N realized he needed to calm down if he didn’t want you to get annoyed.

“So, what did I miss?” you asked.

His ex was approaching from across the room again, and before he could have stopped his mouth, he said the stupidest thing. “Kiss me.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, but he was intent on it. “Please. Kiss me. Quick.”

There was a strange emotion that crept over your face, and you seemed to have no clue why he was so set on it. Nevertheless, you did as he asked. Your mouth tasted of watermelon bubblegum, so sweet, so perfect, and he was flying on cloud nine for the short while it lasted. It wasn’t real, though. The thought stabbed his brain like a dagger. When you pulled apart you were grinning, and his ex wasn’t in the room anymore.

“Care to explain why we just did that?” you asked. “You’re diminishing your chances with the ladies in the room.”

He rolled his eyes. “My ex has been trying to get with me again, and I hoped she’d let off if she saw us kiss. And she did.” Then his eyebrows raised. “What do you mean by my chances with the ladies? I was hoping we could go home together.”

“I can’t tonight,” you said, and he had to fight to keep his face straight. “I’ve got to get back to studying first thing tomorrow morning. I just came here to hang out, for a while.”

“Oh,” was all he could muster without sounding like you were ripping out his heart. It wasn’t even your fault. He would never try and get between you and your studies. But what if he could be there? What if he could be the one staying in bed, watching as you climbed up early to bury your head in books? He’d watch you through tired eyelashes, and you’d ridicule him for being so starry-eyed when looking at you. Later he’d bring you tea or coffee and remind you to take a break to eat. Was it ludicrous to obsess over something so domestic? He didn’t feel guilty for it.

All at once, your laugh pulled him out of his daydream, and into a funny story you told him. Over-consciously, he noted how your arm went around his shoulder lazily. And for a while you sat and talked. Occasionally a flirty remark slipped over your lips, and he would always return it. It was idiotic, but he was already worrying about how much he would miss you once you went home. Perhaps his plan of consoling himself with another girl hadn’t been so bad, after all. Just as he had finished the thought, a familiar face walked by and noticed him. The alcohol in his veins made her seem perfectly inviting as a distraction, for later.

“Oh, hey. Y/N, this is Minji,” he said, pointing at the girl. “Minji, this is Y/N. She’s…just a friend.”

Instantly, you removed your arm from his shoulder. There was hidden pain in your gesture, or was it merely wishful thinking on his side? Minji nodded and greeted you, but you only waved her off with a polite smile.

“I’m going to get a drink from the kitchen,” you announced, and before he could have stopped you, you had walked off. For a while he chatted with Minji, because he had no good reason to run after you that wouldn’t create awkwardness. His patience lasted approximately ten minutes. Luckily, a friend waved at Minji from across the room and she excused herself. Although he would never wish her ill, he was glad she was leaving.

Quickly, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found you talking to a guy. Without thinking, H/N smiled at you as he came up to you and wrapped his arm around your waist. He hadn’t meant to look so intimidating, and he hadn’t meant to be an asshole either. Yet, the guy across from you appeared scared and when you turned your attention to H/N, the guy slowly retracted into another circle of chatting people. Guilt crept in on H/N. He was tipsy, and although he knew his drunkenness wasn’t an excuse, it made him want you so much more. Perhaps it was also insecurity making him act crazy. There was always a glimmer of hope in the back of his mind, that you might just like him back. So long as you hadn’t confirmed the opposite, he would live in constant terror that someone else could steal your attention and make you theirs before he could.

“Come with me,” you muttered in his ear. Your hand was around his wrist, and he had no choice but to trot after you like a child. At first, he thought you were going to take him out the front door, but then you made a turn for the stairs. He didn’t need to be a fuckboy to know what it meant when a girl walked him up the stairs. From one second to the other, his mood changed into gleefulness. Had you changed your mind? The mere thoughts of what could happen upstairs could have given him a boner, had he pondered on them for longer. You said nothing, only driving him more insane by the second. The first open door was good enough for you, so you pulled him inside and closed it behind you. Smirking, he reached for your waist, ready to pull you into a kiss.

“Don’t,” you hissed, and he flinched at your angry tone. He kept his hands to himself, kneading them nervously. Shit. This was the clear opposite of what he had anticipated. The two of you had never fought, and hearing your voice, sounding so deeply upset, scared him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked.

“I’m sorry, I thought you wanted to make out- “ he said.

“I don’t mean just now. I mean…what is it you’re trying to achieve by acting all possessive over me in front of random guys? Pretending I belong to you? But the second a pretty girl is in front of you I’m just a friend, aren’t I? What’s that about?”

There was no explaining this, and he knew it. Yet, he would try, pathetically. “I just thought you didn’t want those guys bothering you.”

“I can handle a guy by myself, thank you,” you snapped. “If I needed help, I’d ask. Like you did. Apparently, I’m good enough to be used as an escape from your ex, but when hot Minji came around you wouldn’t even blink when I got up and left.”

“Usedas an escape?” he asked in disbelief. “You didn’t have to kiss me, but you did anyway.”

“That’s because I was trying to be a good fucking friend!” you yelled now, sounding over the music from the party.

“You used me too, don’t you remember?” he countered. “Or did you not show up on my doorstep after your terrible date so I would fuck you and make you feel better?”

You looked taken aback for a moment, knowing he was right, in a way.

“It’s like you’re always trying to get away from me, but you can’t,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you!” you said, every trace of guilt washed away. “Get off your high horse! Isn’t that the whole point of us? That we’re using each other for sex? Nothing more than that, right? If I walked out now, you could go and find the next girl in line to take over instead of me. Didn’t you try to see someone while I was chatting to the guy I went on a date with? It’s all about using people, isn’t it? If things with the guy had gotten more serious for me, you’d have her, ready for you. Don’t you think that’s a little messed up? Leading someone on like that?”

There was truth to your words. He had tried to find someone to date, should you have found someone too and your friends-with-benefits relationship had been over. But he hadn’t led her on. He had been honest in letting the girl know he wasn’t sure if he wanted anything serious. His chest was hurting, and the pain was only making him more furious.

“Yeah, I could have switched you for her,” he said coldly. Was he only trying to hurt you now? Perhaps, but you had hurt him first.

“Right, because that’s all I am to you,” you said, quieter than before.

“That was our plan! You’re my fuck buddy, nothing more!” he raised his voice now, tired of your empty words and signs. “You have no right to accuse me of anything when I’m playing by the rules. The rules you made. Maybe we should go back to the beginning. Start the game over. I don’t even know what we’re arguing about right now.”

“Start over?”

“Go back to when we were just horny for each other and nothing else,” he said, as if that would be possible. As if he could ignore the way your eyes shined, even in the dim light coming from the streetlamps outside. Like he could pretend he didn’t want to hold you and make you forget all about this terrible fight.

“Fine, let’s try,” you said, and he watched in astonishment, as you closed the gap between the two of you. When you tilted your head, he gave you permission by doing the same. When you kissed, with teeth clashing and exhausted sighs mixing up, he swore there were bombs going off somewhere in his head. Alarm bells, too. This was by no means a great idea. But what could have stopped him and his hungry mouth? He backed you against the wall and pressed you into it, hard. Before he had registered it, his hands were pushing up the fabric of your dress and you moaned, sounding so beautiful he could barely believe it. One of his thighs forced its way between your legs while he gripped your waist like his life depended on it.

But then, just as rapidly you had begun to kiss him, you pushed him away. His lungs felt tight when he noticed the affliction and confusion on your face. He wished he could make it go away. But he had caused it, so now his presence only made things worse.

“No- no, I change my mind. This is fucking stupid,” you said. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Y/N,” he said in a gentle tone. Somehow, it seemed that his careful voice hurt you most of all.

“I think we should stop. All of this,” you said. He was beginning to shake his head in disbelief, but you cut him off. “We said there wouldn’t be jealousy, but there obviously is. We should have stopped long ago.”

“But what about starting the game again, from the beginning?” he asked, too afraid of what you would say to even look at you. If you were going to rip out his heart you should have done so quickly, when he wasn’t paying too close attention.

“The game’s over. This is going over both of our heads,” you said. “I- I’m going to go home now.”

So this was heartbreak. H/N had never considered that it could be meant so literally. But he could swear that the muscle inside his chest was convulsing and shriveling as if you had stolen the blood that kept him alive right from his arteries. The pain was sharp like a thousand cuts had been inflicted on his skin, and he struggled for words like your words had taken every of his most elemental abilities.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“No,” you said. “You’re drunk. You’re the one who could need someone to walk you home. And I don’t want you around me right now. Get home safely.”

That was it. No hug. No last, longing look. Just your words stabbing like knives and your ethereal beauty as you turned on your heel and walked from the room, leaving him behind, bleeding out by himself. What had he done?

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julemmaes · 3 years

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Not Enough

Rowaelin Month, Day Three

A/N: guess what? French is still not a priority:) This is a continuation of yesterday's prompt actually, but there's no need to read it to understand the story, I just think it'd hurt more if you did tho. So it's up to you, enjoy!

Word Count: 2,646

Aelin had been awake long before her fiancé's alarm went off.

She had been awake when the sun had begun to shine through the blinds and she had been awake when he had rolled over in bed, holding her one last time before getting up to go to the bathroom.

She had vividly felt the kiss he had left on her forehead and the whispered words of each morning.

Go back to sleep, love.

The sound of water falling in the shower and the soft humming of Rowan preparing for yet another day in the Senators. The song of the birds beginning to fly out of their flat wasn't giving her the fairy-tale awakening it did every morning. And the Ottawa traffic that increased with the ticking of the clock was no longer giving her the sense of life it had given her over the past few months.

And then a hint of hope as Rowan walked into their room and began to change, slipping on his shoes and giving her another kiss, this time on the lips.

The sound of his duffle bag being lifted off the ground, the sticks banging into each other.

The jacket being put on.

She heard the front door open and closed her eyes, a smile so slight that few would be able to see it for what was perhaps finally happening.

Aelin began to hope as she had never before in her life.

That Rowan hadn't just forgotten to take off the ring he wore on his finger, but had deliberately decided to leave the house with the silver band on his hand. To show it to the world.

She heard the soft click of the door shutting and brought her hands to her face, trying to hide the clear happiness etched on her features, trying to hold back the shriek of victory.

She pulled herself up in her seat, her head snapping to his bedside table to make sure it wasn't just a dream. That Rowan had actually gone outside, shouting to the world that he was getting married. When she didn't see anything shiny on the countertop, she fell forward onto the bed, a dazzling smile now beyond her control on her lips.

They had talked about it for a long time, arguing for days, weeks, each time deciding to leave things as they were.

Rowan Whitethorn, professional athlete, rookie for his dream team, was climbing the ranks of every chart that existed. New recruit with most goals scored in the last ten years. Player with the fastest shot ever. Most handsome man of the year.

Aelin was proud. She was so proud.

But she wasn't happy.

It had been more than two years since they got together. Two of the best years of Aelin's life, in spite of everything.

They'd spent the last year of college breaking up and getting back together, constantly, amidst the rumors from others and the insults from every person who insinuated that she was only dating him for his title, for what he would become in a few months. They'd broken up for good the summer Rowan had been called up to play for one of the top teams in the country, after she'd been pushed to the ground by an overly agitated fan outside a club during one of their friends' birthdays.

Rowan had lost his temper, lashed out, and the team had threatened to cut him off before he even got in. Aelin would have never allowed such a thing and had left him, saying there was no hope for them anyway. Either way, he would travel for six months non-stop and she would stay home, alone.

He had looked at her, his eyes wet with tears that Aelin had never seen him cry, and thanked her, for putting up with everything he had subjected her to.

When it was confirmed that Rowan had made it onto the Ottawa Senators, Aelin, who hadn't spoken to him in months, had texted him, congratulating him on achieving his dream.

He hadn't texted her back, and Aelin had known that whatever hope they had had was dead.

Surely she wouldn't have imagined Rowan turning up at her house, asking her to go with him, the day before the move. Desperate, opening his heart to her, his every thought, his every worry. But showing how far he would be willing to go if it meant spending even one more night with her.

And that was how Aelin found herself in their home, in their new city. Promised to the only man she would ever love, to the only man who would know her so well that he understood what was going on in her head even before she did.

And until now she had been a secret.

They had kept their relationship a secret.

Only their closest friends, their families had known of their comeback.

And they'd been so painfully good at keeping a low profile, despite Rowan being all over the headlines of every sports magazine. So good, in fact, that Aelin felt as if she didn't exist.

Every interview in which Rowan said he had no one, that he was single. Every picture of him and one of their friends in the magazines hinting at a possible relationship. Whether it was Lysandra, Nehemia, Manon - she didn't care, she knew he'd come home to her. But every little thing was just another splinter added to the spike that was piercing her heart.

But today, she thought, smiling, today Rowan had gone out with the ring.

The promise he had made to her, that he would be hers one day.

The promise he'd been afraid to show to anyone, and that he'd slipped off every day to keep the reporters from talking.

She was still floating on clouds, her breath short, ready to burst into tears with happiness the second her brain too had really understood what was going on. It was at that moment that she heard it.

The front door opening.

Rowan walking quickly towards their room. The heavy footsteps in the hallway.

He opened the door, giving her a half smile.

Aelin felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

He greeted her with a quick kiss. Something he had once been allowed to do even in public. Something that had given her the strongest emotions he was now afraid to do.

She stopped seeing. Hearing. Feeling.

She got out of bed with slow, almost robotic movements, heading for the bathroom. She clung to the sink, her grip so tight her knuckles turned white, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes that had once been cheerful, happy, looked back at her empty, dull.

And Aelin knew, even without looking, that on the bedside table lay his ring.

***

Rowan had never been so tired in his life.

Today's training had exhausted him so much that he'd almost called Aelin to come and pick him up, worried that if he got behind the wheel in this condition he'd have an accident.

Then he remembered that he couldn't.

That Aelin couldn't come and get him, because to let her leave the house, to let others know of her links to him would put her in danger.

So he'd gotten into his car and driven with the radio volume too loud, to keep him awake, and pinched himself every time he changed songs, to stay alert on the road.

He walked up the stairs to his house with hurried steps, wanting to reach Aelin as soon as possible. Telling her that he had missed her and the crap Lorcan had said during practice. Warning her that Fenrys would be coming to town in the next few days and they would have to arrange a dinner at their house.

He liked being able to talk about their friends, it gave him a sense of normalcy. Something that playing hockey didn't give him.

He would never say he was unhappy with his sporting career. He couldn't even if he wanted to. Hockey had been his final destination since the first time his father had put skates on his feet and pushed him on the ice.

And now, after winning the championship, with record-breaking results, his first year as a professional, he couldn't complain too much.

But staying away from Aelin during games. The hotel rooms, the flights, the girls throwing themselves at him at every party thinking he wasn't taken... it had been taxing. And he couldn't help but imagine that it would only get harder over the years.

The only thing that would keep him sane was the idea of coming home to her.

He opened the door, calling her name and expecting the smell of whatever she had decided to cook that night to fill his nose, but it didn't. Aelin didn't answer, all the lights were off, and he lent an ear to the hallway, hoping to hear the shower going - maybe he'd even be able to join her if he moved fast enough - but the house was shrouded in stark silence.

He closed his eyes with a sigh.

He hated coming home when she was out.

Whether she was at the gym or shopping, it was like a torture that only he had to endure.

He carried his duffel bag into the bedroom, leaving everything by the wardrobe, slipping off his shoes slowly and letting himself fall onto the mattress.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to get some of the sleep out of his body, and turned to the bedside table, ready to wear the ring she had gotten him. A promise he'd be able to keep once things were settled with his agent.

He snatched the ring from the bedside table and found himself taking a second look at it.

His breath caught in his throat.

Aelin's ring sat there, next to a slip of paper.

And Rowan knew. Even without having read what she had written, what it meant.

He snapped out of bed, opening her wardrobe violently, the dressers, finding them completely empty. He cursed aloud, running to the bathroom, opening every goddamn drawer, every shelf, finding them bare of all her possessions.

The living room, her reading nook, empty of everything that had belonged to her.

He grew short of breath and the more air he tried to gulp down, the more panic assailed him, closing his lungs.

He ran back into their bedroom, grabbing the letter and running his eyes over the words, looking for a clue, a name that would give her away and make him know where she was.

Lysandra.

He grabbed the phone from his jacket, fingers too fast on the screen as he searched for his friend's number.

She picked it up after three rings.

"Rowan! Hey, what's up?" she replied cheerfully.

He did not even waste any time in answering, "Where's Aelin?" he asked in short breath.

"Aelin?" asked Lysandra, then in a more concerned tone. "Why don't you know where she is? Something happened?"

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends until he felt pain, "She left a letter, saying she was leaving and you'd know-"

"Rowan, she didn't call me. She didn't leave me any message," she stopped him.

A choked sound escaped his control. "Fuck."

"Wait." she said suddenly. "Yeah, here, I got a message from her a couple of hours ago. She-"

She froze suddenly and Rowan knew immediately what was about to happen.

"Please." he begged her.

Lysandra remained silent.

"Rowan, I can't tell you-"

"Please, Lys. Please." his voice broke.

He heard his friend take a deep breath, "Let me talk to her. And I'll let you know," and then a pause, "but if she asks me not to tell you anything, Rowan, I won't betray her trust like that."

He knew that. And he was glad that Aelin had friends she could still trust blindly.

"In the meantime, try to rest. I'll let you know if she's okay."

The call ended, Rowan didn't even say goodbye. He stood in front of the bed, a bed he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep in tonight without her. He picked up the letter with trembling hands and headed for the kitchen.

He set it down on the table, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his eyes.

He needed something to drink if he was going to go through with this.

He poured himself half a glass of whiskey and began to read.

Hi Rowan

when you’ll read this, I’ll be on a plane over the ocean already. I don’t know where I’m going yet and I’m not gonna tell you, cause I don’t want you knowing and leaving everything behind to follow me.

Cause I know you would, baby, I know you’d let it all go for me in a second if I asked you to. But I’m not letting you. What kind of person would that make me if I did?

You worked your entire life for this. You woke up at unholy hours of the day just to train for half of your life. You had your body slammed into those plastic barriers for fun for years, cause you love the feeling you get after a good game. I know you always complain about the bruises and the pain, but we all know you like that cause it makes you feel like you did enough. You ate shit food that tastes like cardboard so you could have that amazing body and play for your dream team. Skate on the ice whenever you want.

And you did it, Rowan. You made you dream come true.

And I’m not gonna be the one person to take it from you.

I won’t ask you to give up on something this big, not for me.

I’m just a person.

Someone you love, that used to love you.

But I can’t do this anymore, because I’m losing myself. And losing this part of me will make me hate you. And I don’t want that to happen.

I don’t want to be your secret anymore. And I don’t want to have to protect myself when I go out if I’m not. I want to be able to walk next to you, holding your hand without risking being shoved aside or hurt. I don’t want you to be worried all the time, whenever I’m not with you. I don’t want people talking about us.

And I’m weak, Rowan. I’m not like you, and I’m so tired. I can’t put on a mask, an armor, and pretend like the words don’t hurt, cause they do. They slice through my heart and they taint my love for you.

This isn’t the life I wanted for us, but it’s the one fate gave us, so maybe we’re not meant to be. I hoped with everything I am that we were, that I deserved you – that one day people would stop caring about others’ lives and mind their own fucking business.

It broke us back in college and I’m not willing to have them do that again on their terms, so I’m doing it on mine.

I wish I could be your “till death do us apart”, but I can’t.

I hope you find someone who will love you as much as you deserve and I’m sorry I couldn’t be that person.

I’m sorry my love was not enough.

Please, for my own sanity, don’t ask Lysandra where I am.

I’m not coming back,

Aelin

Rowan sat there, tears streaming down his face, as he read and reread the paper in his hands, finding hard to breathe as his world collapsed on him.

And the only thing he wished, was for him to be able to hold her one last time.

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#rowaelin month #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin month day three #tog #throne of glass #rowaelin fic

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songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

white wedding.

summary: your estranged aunt leaves you her estate in her will with the stipulation that you have to be married to receive your inheritance. luckily, harry is more than willing to help.

pairing: best friend!harry styles x reader

warnings: fluff, smut, angst if you squint.

song inspo.: white wedding - billy idol

word count: 13.4k

You weren’t too close to your Aunt Alice for the entirety of your life - there’s a picture, you think, hung in your parents’ house of her and some of your other family members, crowding around your bassinet when you were just a baby, her face turned up into a scowl amid everyone else’s gleaming grins, and it was a lovely foreshadow into your relationship with her. She sent you $10 on your birthdays and Christmas (an amount that your father had always scoffed at when he thought you weren’t listening - ‘she’s a goddamn millionaire,’ he’d hiss to your mother, ‘and the most she can spare her only niece is $10?’) and you could remember, when you were 9, seeing her at a family reunion where she sat at a table pressed into a back corner and nursed glasses of wine during the entire event.

It goes without saying, you suppose, that she wasn’t the kindest lady. Your mother had told you how Aunt Alice cut off your father for some reason nobody could quite discern and, so, she never held a much larger place in your life than a mere branch on your second grade family tree project -

But, still. It’s rather difficult to regard the dead in such a negative manner so you try and focus on the good parts of your late aunt. Twice, she wrote ‘love u’ in your Christmas card. And, at said family reunion, when you walked over to her table to say goodbye before you left, she delivered a sloppy, strangely wet kiss to the side of your face that smelled distinctly of chardonnay (a scent you hadn’t quite been able to place until years later.) And -

“Are you alright?”

Harry’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, gazing out the rain-streaked car window at the night sky with an odd air of sadness surrounding you. You had been trying to hide the slight dash of sadness you feel at the memory of your aunt by disguising it with a mask of sleepiness that has you leaning your forehead against the cold window, eyes squeezed shut. But Harry can read you like a goddamn book - like the back of his hand. It’s what best friends are for, you suppose.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, tilting your head away from the window to glance at him in the driver’s seat. And, the truth is, you are fine. It’s not as though you’re entirely too saddened with the news of Aunt Alice’s passing. She’d always had health issues, according to your parents, and you’re not sure what, exactly, has sealed her fate - you’re simply more confused by it all. “Well - when we were leaving the movies, I got a call from my dad. My aunt died.”

You can hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath and there’s a brief hesitation where you know he’s trying to gauge how you feel about it. “Oh,” he settles on, turning to look at you in the eye when the car rolls to a stop at a red light. “M’sorry, love.”

You shrug, glancing down to squint at your fingernails in the darkness of Harry’s car. You’d begun to pick at the baby blue nail polish he’d delicately applied the night before (they matched his, naturally) and it really is a nervous habit you should work on, but you can’t be bothered right now. “We weren’t close,” you admit, leaning back against the headrest. “It’s just weird, is all.”

“Are y’sad about it?”

“Not quite,” and it’s the truth. “She was wealthy, though. I think she wrote novels or plays or something - I’m not sure. And I was, apparently, her closest living relative that she didn’t despise.”

He clicks his tongue softly, making a left when the light finally switches to green, and his eyes shift back towards the road. “Left y’somethin’ in her will, did she?”

“Her countryside estate,” you confess, voice soft - it’s not the climax of your story but it certainly sounds like it should be, and you can see the confused crease in Harry’s eyebrows when you look up at him. “I looked the address up online, Har - it’s gorgeous, 6 beds and 7 bathrooms. I guess we had similar tastes in that regard.”

“Y’don’t sound too thrilled, for someone who jus’ got their dream house handed to ‘em on a platter.”

“There’s a stipulation in the will.”

“Ah.”

You smile tightly. “I’ll only inherit the house if I’m married.”

It’s something you’ll never understand. Aunt Alice never married and lived in that grand old house (your dream house) all by herself, and if you’d known about your role in her will perhaps you’d have argued it with her in person - the hypocrisy of it all, how goddamn unfair it was. And it’ll kill you - truly kill you - to see that house go to whoever her next closest living relative is who she doesn’t hate. Probably some third cousin twice removed, considering how great she was at cutting people off.

And Harry sits for a moment in silence, considering it. “Seems very - very - can’t think of the word.”

“Sexist? Unfair? Dumb?”

“All true,” he agrees, giving you a sympathetic smile, and it makes you feel the tiniest bit better, even if it’s just for a moment. “Barbaric, maybe.”

“I hate her,” you declare, crossing your arms over your hoodie-clad chest, and you most certainly don’t, but you’re angry enough to mean it in the moment. When your father had told you, you hadn’t thought about it too much - besides being confused by the entire thing, being left a house by a relative you hardly knew - but saying it out loud makes you angrier, squeezing your eyes shut. “Would you know she never married? How does that make sense?” “It doesn’t,” Harry repeats, and you glance out the window, lifting your palm to wipe at the cloudy stain your forehead had made against the glass - you’re just less a minute away from your apartment building, and you rip your phone from Harry’s charger and shove it into the pocket of your hoodie. “She left you time, right? T’get married? Tha’ seems only fair.”

You snort, ignoring the way his lips turn up into a smile at the noise. “She gave me a year. I mean, I’m 23 - I wasn’t intending on settling down for another couple of years.”

If you were less distracted, perhaps you’d see his responding silence for what it is - time to think, gears grinding in his head, as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building and leans over the center console to wrap you in a hug. Harry’s a talkative person and he’s only really quiet when he’s got something on his mind, but you’ve got something on yours too (probably more than he does) so you ignore it. And his soft murmur into your hair of ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow for breakfast’ sounds every bit as distracted as you feel so you simply pay it no mind.

It’s easier that way, for now.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about your situation.”

You raise your eyebrows at Harry, bent over his plate of French toast as though he hadn’t spoken at all. His sunglasses are perched at the end of his nose so you can see his eyes - which, in your opinion, defeats the purpose of even wearing the stupid things in public. But, whenever you two go out together, he insists on wearing them, along with a grey beanie protecting his infamous head of curls from any wandering eyes, and the bizarre attempt at a disguise always makes you feel like you’re having breakfast with a burglar.

“Not much to think about,” you shrug, popping a forkful of omelet into your mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I was just mad about it last night, you know. Heat of the moment, sort of thing.”

“I’d be mad, too,” Harry tells you, and it’s getting more difficult to ignore the way his words send heat creeping up your neck, and you glance down at your plate of eggs with a small smile gracing your face. “Not jus’ heat of the moment, either. Really mad. S’bullshit.”

A second of silence passes, and you let his reassurance settle over you - simply having him agree with you on the stupidity of the entire situation makes you feel a thousand times better. Even if you don’t get the house (and you’ve already progressed into the last stage of grief over almost certainly losing it - acceptance) at least you’ll always have Harry, and maybe that’s enough.

But the house would be nice, too.

“What were you thinking about?” You question, lifting your eyes back up to meet his through his tinted glasses, and if there wasn’t the barrier between your gazes you’d be able to note the nearly shameful glint in his eyes as he digs into his stack of sugary sweet toast, doused with maple syrup and towered high with fruit. “About the situation, I mean.”

Harry begins to speak once more just as you reach over with your fork to nab a piece of banana, and he swats at your wrist as you pop the slice of fruit into your mouth. “Don’ steal my banana, babe,” he tells you, eyes narrowing in mock anger, and you roll your eyes at the name. “Anyway. S’not totally crazy, that you could get married in less than a year.”

Yes, it is, you want to reply back, but you can tell he’s ramping up to something important, so you rest your fork on your plate and furrow your eyebrows at him pointedly. Truthfully, even if the love of your life happened to be sitting in front of you, you’re not sure you could go through with marrying them, anyway. It’s such a heavy commitment and, God, you thought you’d have more time. Time to explore and experiment and not settle down (in your dream house) just for the sake of it.

“What if we got married?”

And that - is not what you were expecting him to say.

You’re not sure if he’s kidding or not so you give it a minute before responding in any capacity. Just stare at him, and he makes a point of hooking his pinkie in the center of his sunglasses and tugging them down his nose just a bit so you can see the absolute lack of amusement in his eyes. He’s all business, goddammit, as if he hadn’t just basically proposed to you in the middle of eating your fucking omelet.

But you can’t be sure he’s serious, and you also can’t be sure that the way your stomach flipped wasn’t because of a particularly egregious sip of chocolate milk and not the prospect of marrying your best friend. So you lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you kidding?”

Harry just shakes his head, grey beanie sliding up just a bit for one chocolate coloured lock of hair to escape the confines of the dumb hat. “M’being dead serious, babe. I’ll get down on one knee an’ prove it, too.”

“Don’t do that,” you beg him, reaching out to grab at his wrist when he makes to push himself out of his chair, and his wide grin only sends your stomach into another set of somersaults. “Jesus, Har.”

“Horrible idea?”

You don’t respond right away, grabbing your glass of chocolate milk and wrapping your lips around the straw. It’s a few seconds to process the request in all its glory - marrying your best friend, even if it’s just for show, is a lot. Sure, all you’d really have to do is head down to a courthouse (you could do it today, even - if you wanted to, and you’re not sure you do.) It’d be easier than searching hopelessly for the love of your life and arrange a wedding in less than a year, and you’d be able to walk the halls of your aunt’s gorgeous estate, decorate it how you please, and - ideally - your relationship with Harry wouldn’t quiver in the slightest.

Well, maybe that’s why you’re hesitant to begin with. Because it would quiver - or because it wouldn’t - or because it’s plain weird to marry your best friend. Even if it’s for a good cause (your dream home) and even if he suggested it in the first place, because he cares about you and wants you to be happy.

That’s sweet.

Maybe it would be a glorious fuck you to Aunt Alice in death. It isn’t as though anyone would know about the inauthenticity of the union but you would, and that’s all the revenge you need for her adding such a silly stipulation to her will, anyway. A marriage born not out of love, but out of need - sure, it’s not exactly how you wanted your life to go, but it’s better than watching the estate go to someone you’d never met before. You could get married and get divorced in the time frame she’d given you to find love in the first place and it would hardly be a blip in your life plans, and certainly not in Harry’s. It isn’t as though he’d suggest it if the marriage would ruin anything for him.

Sure, you’d prance around family parties with him on your arm to sell your faux romance to your family. Only one or two, though, his arm around your waist, and it wasn’t as if your parents hadn’t already begun to question whether your close friendship with Harry ventured into something further. And, when it’s all said and done, when the house is officially in your name and you can begin shopping for furniture to make it your own, it’ll be easy to sell the divorce - he’s touring, you’d tearfully proclaim, and the stress was just too much on our relationship. And then you’d both be happy, right? For the most part, anyway. Still best friends with no hassle at all, and you get your house and he gets the popstar life without the settling down part.

When you’ve swallowed your gulp of chocolate milk, it’s nearly worrying how much you’ve thought about the proposal.

“It’s not a horrible idea,” you begin, eyes diverting downward to where Harry’s fingers are fiddling with a straw wrapper. “I mean, it could be pretty easy.”

“Very easy.”

“We just elope -”

“Could do it today, even -”

“I haven’t agreed yet, Mr. Styles - but we would elope, and then I’d get the house, and maybe I’d bring you to a family reunion, just to sell it, and then we’re divorced.”

He raises his eyebrows, glasses sliding further down the bridge of his nose until their purpose has been completely obliterated, and his eyes are on display for the goddamn world to see. “Unless we fall in love an’ live happily ever after - no divorce necessary, m’love.”

Bastard. Your stomach flips again but you just roll your eyes, picking up your fork and lifting a shaky bite of eggs up to your mouth. “Shut up.”

You’re almost certain you’ve made up your mind but you still make a show of thinking about it, slowly chewing on your omelet and focusing your gaze on a paper napkin resting on the ground beside Harry’s chair. It’s almost too easy, the entire process, and maybe that should make you nervous, just a little bit, that the idea of marrying him feels so relaxing. But - well - if you had to choose anyone in the world to marry in order to fulfill a stipulation in your aunt’s will, it would have to be Harry.

He’s looking at you eagerly when you look back up at him, and you’re not sure why he’s so excited about it - not like there’s anything in it for him - but it’s something you’ll think about later.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” you tell him, watching the way his grin spreads across his face like wildfire, and you can’t help yourself from smiling, too, “but I am.”

In seconds, Harry’s reaching across the table, grabbing your hand in his larger one, and just the way your heart jumps at the feeling of your palms pressed together should certainly have you rethinking your enthusiastic yes. But then he’s picking up the straw wrapper he’d been fiddling with, and it’s twisted into a makeshift wedding ring, and he’s sliding it onto your ring finger with a wide smile like a fucking puppy -

God. You’re in too deep already, and you’ve only just agreed.

For the record, you’d rethought your decision many, many times since agreeing.

You’d drafted out the text for Harry for when you inevitably will change your mind - a block of words confessing to him that you’d reacted too quickly and you think it would be best if you simply forfeit your inheritance, but you can never quite gather the guts to do it. And every time you copy and paste the note from your notes to your text thread with your best friend, something always stops you -

The photos of the house from the real estate website you’d seen it on.

Harry’s wide grin as you accepted his offer.

FIngers delicately sliding on an engagement ring made of a paper straw wrapper, and the next day when he’d shown up at your door with an actual, real engagement ring.

Naturally, you hadn’t sent it. You’d deleted the note entirely, too, embarrassed with even looking at your words of defeat sprawled on your phone screen. Sometimes, though, you wish you had fucking sent it. Nearly two weeks after accepting the proposal that still hasn’t progressed from feeling like an absolute fever dream, you’re sitting with Harry at Aunt Alice’s funeral, his arm hooked around the back of your chair and the other clutching a glass of wine that he’s hardly taken two sips of.

You’re on your second glass already, and it’s barely been an hour. You’d signed the guestbook and hooked your arm with Harry’s and introduced him as your fiance to exactly one of your great-aunts, and you’d been so nervous that Aunt Shirley could see right through your faux-engagement that you’d practically downed your glass the second her back turned.

“This is so weird,” you confess to Harry, shifting closer to him so no one else around you can hear. Not that there is, per se, anyone else around you - not many other people are sitting down, but you and Harry were one of the first people to arrive, so you’ve given yourselves a pass to sit down for a while. “Isn’t it weird, Har?”

“S’only weird if you make it weird,” he murmurs back, and you would roll your eyes at how maddeningly calm he is if you weren’t desperate to keep up your pretense as loving fiance to the funeral goers whose wandering eyes may turn to you two. “And, babe, you’re makin’ it weird.”

Your lips spread into a smile and you lift your glass of wine to your lips, taking a small sip before bringing it back down to your lap. No matter how many times you scream at yourself, internally, that nobody knows you’re not engaged and to calm the fuck down, you can’t stop your leg from bouncing up and down, showcasing your nerves in the most outward way you possibly could. “Wonder when my parents are getting here - should’ve texted them and told them separately. Did you tell your mum?”

“Told her the truth,” Harry tells you, tilting his head into yours in a way that feels so natural you swear you could stay this way forever. “You’re not tellin’ your parents the truth?”

“Bless my mum,” you sigh, “but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Harry exhales a soft laugh, eyes darting around the room full of people before landing back on yours, and your gazes lock for just the briefest of seconds before he’s glancing down at your lap. “Y’don’t have t’do this if you’re uncomfortable, y’know. We can jus’ say - the pressure of m’job was too much.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you tell him, which is true. You’re nervous, for sure, but he could never make you uncomfortable. “And, ironically enough, that’s my excuse for when we divorce.”

Your voice drops to a near breath on the last word and Harry’s head drops back with a bark of laughter that’s entirely too loud for the setting you’re at but you can’t bring yourself to reprimand him. “Always talkin’ ‘bout our divorce,” Harry breathes, tilting his head closer to yours so his mouth is close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath, hot against your skin. “What if we fall in love, babe? No divorce then. Don’ y’want us t’live happily ever after?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” you roll your eyes, even if you’re almost positive you will (or already have) and shake your head at Harry’s resulting chuckle. “Been best friends for nearly five years, haven’t we? If we were going to fall in love, I reckon it would’ve happened already, Har.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, voice oddly soft and sounding just sentimental enough for you to narrow your eyes suspiciously at him - but before you can question him further, his eyes dart down to where your leg is still frantically bouncing up and down. “Bloody hell, love - bouncin’ your leg so much. Y’look like a nervous wreck.”

“Thanks,” you begin, and whatever else you’d been meaning to say dies in your throat as Harry’s arm shifts from around the back of your chair and his hand comes down firm on your leg. His fingertips brush your knee and his palm lays soft against your thigh, just high enough to gently brush the end of your black dress and you wish you could control the way your stomach flips again and again like a fucking gymnast.

It’s to keep up appearances, you tell yourself. So people don’t think I’m so nervous. But it feels so nice, so natural in a way you hadn’t expected, feeling his hand resting on your thigh like it belongs there, fingertips drumming against your knee which most certainly isn’t bouncing anymore.

Your eyes flit up to his, narrowing them ever so slightly as if to sniff out his intentions, and out of the corner of your eye you can see two familiar figures walking in the high arched doors of Aunt Alice’s service. Your parents break off from each other nearly the second they enter, your father skirting off to greet some of his cousins and your mother’s eyes scan the room filled with relatives before landing on you and Harry.

“Mum’s here,” you tell Harry, pushing yourself to stand, and the feeling of his hand dropping off your thigh is a sensation you absolutely despise. He stands soon after you, adjusting the cuffs of his black button down shirt, and for the first time since the funeral began, you can see the beginnings of nervousness creeping upon him. A light pink flush works its way up his neck to his cheeks and he brings his hand up to run through his hair, inhaling a shaky breath. “You look nervous, Har. You’ve met my mum before.”

“S’different. Now we’re engaged.”

“Not too different.” You hook your arm with Harry’s, patting his hand with yours, and he gives you one grateful fleeting grin before you begin walking over to your mother. She’s bent over the guestbook, scribbling her name with the feather pen resting beside the log. You stop walking when you’re just a couple paces behind her, waiting for her to turn around and see you two - and your voice drops to a hushed tone as you reassure Harry. “I think she already sort of thought we were dating anyway - so she won’t care too much.”

“Wait - she did?”

“Hey, mum!”

You’re getting married in a week.

And, sure, you’d known that the entire process would move quicker than you could imagine but it still feels surreal and you still reckon you haven’t thought it through enough. It’s worsened (or, in some way, bettered) by the absolute adoration your family had immediately adopted towards Harry after meeting him just a few days ago, your aunts pulling you aside at the funeral and the repast that occurred after and whispering in your ear about what a handsome man he is!

Well, they’ll certainly be disappointed when, in a month or two, you pop in to the next family gathering and announce that you two had gotten divorced as quickly as you’d been wed. Harry will be your ex husband and, at that point, surely people would be suspicious at the speed of which everything had happened but - hey - you’ll have your house and your best friend and that’s all you really need, isn’t it.

Yeah.

Slowly but surely, you’re coming to peace with it, and Harry’s certainly making it easier by being so zen about it all. His nerves at the funeral had been just about eradicated because your mum loves him, which you knew, and your father had seemed positively overjoyed at the news of your engagement, but they’d both seemed rather disappointed at your decision to elope instead of spending the time planning a big white wedding. And you’d expected that, but you figure that, by the time your second marriage inevitably rolls around, it’ll be real (realer than whatever you’re feeling for Harry, because you’re still not sure) and your father will walk you down the aisle and you’ll be able to go shopping for a big gorgeous wedding dress like you’d always dreamt of wearing.

You haven't even bought a dress. The one you’re wearing now, staring at yourself in the floor length mirror propped against your bedroom wall, is one you’d purchased for your college graduation to wear beneath your gown - simple and flowy, falling to just about your mid-thigh, and the only redeeming quality for even being considered a wedding dress is its white color. Still - it isn’t as though it’s a real wedding, in the traditional sense, so it doesn’t make sense for you to spend too much on a gown you’ll don for a trip to the courthouse and then get sad whenever you look at it again, post-divorce.

No, you don’t think you like it. You’d liked it for your graduation but for a wedding (your wedding) you wish you had something just a bit nicer, and you want to strip out of it and change back into your jeans but Harry’s sitting in your living room, waiting for you to model the stupid thing for him, and you’d hate to disappoint him. So you inhale softly, run your hand down the fabric, soft beneath your fingers, and reach for the door.

Harry’s on his phone when you step out of your bedroom, slowly shutting the door behind you, his body looking strangely large where he’s perched on the small loveseat in your living room. Everything in your apartment seems too small for him - or just too small in general - and it’ll be a nice change to live in a house where you can hold gatherings of more than 5 people without feeling like sardines in a can.

“Har,” you call, reaching down to tug the ends of your dress just a bit further down your thighs as you step further into the living room, bare feet padding against the plush rug your parents had gotten you as a Christmas gift the year prior. “What do you think of the dress?” You can hear the click of his phone as he turns it off, dropping it on the cushion beside him, and heat creeps up your cheeks as his gaze turns to you - you should feel self conscious, the way his eyes roll up and down your body, drinking in every bit of your dress, but you fucking love it. Love the way his lips part into a small o and upturn into a grin, how he pushes himself to stand and close the distance between you two until he’s hardly two inches away from you, how he reaches down to pick up the end of your dress as though examining the fabric.

“Do you like it?” You question as Harry drops your dress, letting the fabric fall back down around your thighs. “Wasn’t sure if I did.”

“I love it,” he tells you, immediate and forceful and you can tell he means it with his whole chest - maybe you love it, too. “Y’look beautiful.”

“You don’t think it’s too simple, do you?” Maybe you’re fishing for more compliments but you allow yourself to do it shamelessly. “It was my graduation dress - remember?”

“I do remember,” Harry grins, tugging at the bottom of your dress, and keeping his hands busy is a nervous habit of his that you’ve grown to recognize from a hundred miles away, but you can’t think of why, exactly, he’d be nervous now. “Looked so pretty, walkin’ across tha’ stage. I was so proud.”

You smile, gaze dropping down to where his fingers are fiddling with the skirt of your dress, and you think you’ll wear this dress every single goddamn day if he reacts as positively to it as he is now. “You sound like my dad.”

His nose scrunches when you look back up at him, and your heart twists inside your chest. “Don’ make it gross.” You simply shrug, bringing your fingers up to drum against his shoulders through the fabric of his Fleetwood Mac shirt, his muscles flexing ever so slightly beneath your touch. “M’being serious, though. I love the dress. Y’make the prettiest bride on the planet - m’a lucky man, aren’t I.”

From the moment you walked out of your room you’ve been feeling heat burning your cheeks but it doesn’t stop you from gently smacking his shoulder. “Stop it - you’re gonna make me blush.”

“Looks like y’already are, Mrs. Styles.”

Should that name make your stomach as topsy-turvy as it does?

You shake your head, smoothing your palms over the front of your dress to both eradicate the wrinkles that adorn the fabric and to wipe off the sweat cropping up on your hands. You don’t think you’ve ever been so nervous around Harry before and you can’t quite place your finger on why, but it’s getting more difficult to look him in the eye with your heart pounding as fast as it is. “I’m not gonna be Mrs. Styles for another week.”

Harry exhales softly, fingertips tapping against your hip and you hadn’t even realized how close his hands were to that spot of your body - but it feels comforting, his touch on an oddly intimate part of you. “I can’t wait,” he says, and you can’t, either. “Makin’ me a very lucky groom, babe.”

Hearing him call you babe could make you go crazy if you focus on it for too long, so you don’t - and it’s hard to focus on much other than Harry himself as his head drops down, forehead pressed to yours, and oh God you can smell his fucking gum, and if you tilt your head up ever so slightly -

Is he going to kiss you? You think your heart will explode but you’ve never wanted anything more so you tilt your head up, just a bit, grip tightening on his shoulder, and you can feel his breath growing warmer against your face -

The sound of Harry’s phone ringing in his pocket snaps you out of your haze.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands dropping off your hips, and your head drops downwards with a soft groan. It was so close. You could feel his breath against your face and how did that fucking opportunity pass you by? - “S’my mum. Fuck - m’sorry.” And you’re not sure if he’s apologizing for the call or what had (or, rather, had not) happened but it doesn’t matter.

One glance at the phone he’s tugged out of his pocket shows that he’s right - Anne’s contact photo smiles up at you and you give Harry a small nod, faking the smile you’re not feeling, before taking a step back against your plush carpet as he turns around, back to you, phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m gonna change,” you whisper to no one in particular. Harry’s head turns just a bit so you can catch the apologetic look on his face before he’s loudly greeting Anne, and you’ve never liked eavesdropping on their calls. So you turn and head to your bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you and turning to stare at yourself, wide-eyed, in your mirror.

He almost kissed you.

He didn’t - but would he have? If Anne hadn’t rung him - would he have leaned down, breathing shaky, like how it always is when he’s nervous, and ever so gently pressed his lips to yours? And you would’ve known exactly how it feels to be kissed by him, whether it would be as dream-like as all the times you’ve dreamt of it. His hands on your hips, yours on his shoulders, bodies slotted together until your hands are roaming and you’re pushing him on to the couch, sliding into his lap and his hands would roam to your thighs -

It doesn’t do well to think about it now. You don’t want to get yourself too worked up about it - that doesn’t do anyone much good - and you don’t want to take too long to change. So you inhale a soft breath, smooth your clammy palms back over the front of your wedding dress, and you allow yourself one final glance in the mirror at the attire you’ll be donning in a week’s time before reaching around to your back, fiddling with the zipper until you can begin to tug it down.

You and Harry haven’t talked too much since you showed him your dress, and it’s probably not very great etiquette for an engaged couple, but you two have never been normal anyway.

He sent you a picture of the suit he’s wearing and it’s as every bit unconventional as your excuse of a wedding dress, and you told him that - how you would be a pair for the books, the opposite of what a regular married couple looks like. And you texted him just yesterday and asked if he would make you two a reservation at your favourite restaurant for dinner after the elopement (he always tended to get the nicer tables, and you don’t pretend not to know why) and he sent you back two thumbs-up emojis in response.

You’re getting married in three days, though. It would probably be best to talk about it with him before you cross that bridge but it’s never been one of your stronger areas, so you leave it be for now.

“Are you alright?” Your friend questions, tilting her head in so you can hear her against the thumping music of the club. Your friends had insisted on dragging you out for a bachelorette party the second they hard of your engagement and it would be out of character for you to refuse a night of drinks on them - even if you’d rather stay home and think about Harry and all the things you should’ve done when he was at your apartment. Getting drunk out of your mind does seem preferable to wallowing, though, now that you’re out and about and well on your way to getting smashed - so you turn to Olivia and nod once, a simple jerk of your head.

“I’m fine,” you tell her, reaching over to grab the cocktail Amy had gotten for you and bringing the straw to your lips. “Just thinking about Harry.”

Amy snorts from her spot across the booth, dipping her finger into her empty shot glass and licking up the droplet she collected. “Can’t believe it took you two so long to get together.”

“And I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” interjects Olivia, reaching over to grab your glass out of your hand and taking a sip of your drink. “How long have you two been together again?”

Fuck. You’re in the grey area between being tipsy and being drunk and you can’t remember how long you and Harry had claimed to be together. Was it a year or two years? You think it’s a year - you’d wanted to go as low as possible with your answer. Did we say six months? That seems too low. “I’ve liked him since I’ve known him,” you answer instead, which is absolutely the truth, and Amy and Olivia are both too drunk to ponder about your evasion of the question. “Loved him, even.”

Your fingers brush against your phone, sitting on the table face down, as your friends playfully swoon - the last time you’d texted Harry was to tell him you were going to the club, and you hadn’t checked to see if he responded. It’s always been a habit between the two of you to text where you’re going, in case something happens, which seems oddly barbaric at times but you’ve always appreciated it.

“You’re so lucky,” Amy informs you, reaching across the booth to intertwine your fingers. She gets sappy when she’s drunk and you can tell from the distinct crack in her voice that she’s mere seconds away from bursting into tears and professing how much she loves you and Olivia - you don’t ever quite enjoy being around to see that. “I mean, really. You and Harry - we always knew it would happen -”

“I should call him real quick,” you mumble, watching as her eyes water over, and Olivia rolls her eyes with a grin as she scoots around the other side of the booth so Amy can throw her arms around her. You grab your phone and push yourself out of the booth, maneuvering through the crowd of people until you’ve reached the bathroom.

It's a single stall and the club is small enough that you only have to wait a minute or two before a thoroughly shitfaced woman stumbles out of the bathroom, a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoes, but she’s gone before you can point it out to her. You brush it off with a shrug and shut the door behind you once you’re inside the bathroom - it smells like Febreze and mint soap, and the scent of the mint reminds you of Harry’s breath and you really need to call him, don’t you.

You’re scrolling through your call log before you can wonder if calling your best friend who you’re in love with while you may be quite drunk is a bad idea - the phone is ringing just as you begin to - and he’s picked it up just when you realize you’ve made a mistake.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says from the other end, voice crackling with the poor reception in the club. He sounds groggy and raspy and you can tell you’ve either woken him up or he’s trying to go to sleep, and you don’t actually know what time it is, you realize. “What’re you up to?”

“I’m at a club,” you tell him, and you can hear his soft exhale of air and you can practically picture the slow smile spreading across his lips. “I’m out with Amy and Olivia - they wanted to take me out for a bachelorette party or something - s’kinda dumb, I dunno -”

“Are y’drunk? S’just, you’re slurrin’ a lot -”

“I’m tipsy,” as you sit back on the closed toilet seat, fingernails digging into your thigh. You don’t actually know what you’d called him to say but four days without talking to Harry seems like it’s setting some sort of record and you hate it. “Just wanted to call because - um - well, I miss you.”

For a second you think the call may have broken up - you can’t hear much beside his soft breathing, and you pull the phone away to check if it’s still connected. But then he sighs softly, and you’re quick to press your phone back to your ear. “I miss y’too, m’love - ‘course I do.”

“That’s sweet.” You hum softly, kicking your toes against the tiled bathroom floor. “I thought you might be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno,” you shrug. “That’s why I was confused. But you haven’t texted me much.”

You can fucking sense him rolling his eyes. “Well, y’didn’t text me either. I thought you were mad at me -”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what happened the other day,” you interject, and you know you wouldn’t be telling him this if you weren’t teetering more towards being drunk instead of tipsy, “and I really wanted to kiss you, you know. I mean, I thought you were going to - and then it didn’t happen.”

“Well, m’mum called.”

“Would you have done it if she didn’t?”

There’s a pause for only the briefest of seconds before Harry says, “‘Course I would have.”

Your heart flutters inside your chest and you lean your head back against the wall, nails digging further into your thigh and it’s difficult to hold back the grin that threatens to split your goddamn face in two. God, he would have. He would have kissed you - does he love you like how you love him? It seems fucking unreal, like something you’d dream up in your deepest sleep. You’d never thought Harry would ever feel the same way, even as you got a fucking marriage license together and planned out the dinner you’d eat after your elopement and -

You can’t think of a single other one of your friends who would fucking marry you for any reason, house or no house, life or death. And who would you do it for? Not Amy, not Olivia, even if they asked you nicely. It’s a commitment - a huge one - one that you wouldn’t be willing to do for anyone.

But you’d do it for Harry, in a heartbeat. You know you would. You’d have the fucking dress on before he could finish asking, and isn’t that what you had done, really? He hadn’t had to convince you much at all. You’d been willing from the get-go.

“Really?” Your voice is barely a breath, a soft exhale of air, reeking of the giddy joy you’re feeling at his proclamation. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Y’know I never lie to you.” Harry sounds nearly offended at the mere idea. “You are m’fiance. Comes with a code of conduct.”

You roll your eyes, and just then there’s a loud knock against the door - you jump violently, phone nearly slipping from your grasp. For a minute you’d forgotten you’re in a club bathroom and you know you’ve been here far too long to be appropriate - you’ll give yourself just one more minute to talk to Harry. “What about when we get divorced? Gonna lie to me then?”

“Always talkin’ about the divorce,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds so full of adoration that you’re nearly overwhelmed by it. “D’you have such little confidence about the strength of our relationship?”

If it were up to you, you’d be with Harry forever - but you can’t tell him that, not yet. “It’s not as though it’s a traditional relationship, you know. I don’t think most marriages that began for the sake of a house inheritance last too long,” you smile, feeling heat burning up your face even if he can’t see you. “Just generally speaking.”

“Hope y’got the statistics t’back that one up -”

Another louder knock shakes you again, and you jump up as though someone had set you aflame. Your phone nearly slips out of your clammy grasp once more and you clear your throat, lowering the device to your shoulder and calling, “Just a second!” to whoever’s waiting impatiently outside. You raise your phone back to your ear and clear your throat again. “I’ve gotta go, Har. I’m in the bathroom at the club - been in here a bit too long.”

“Aright,” Harry says, and you can hear soft shuffling from the other end, audio still crackled by the reception. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

You tilt your head to the side, scrunching your nose up before remembering he can’t see you. “I think it’s tradition for the bride and groom not to see each other before the wedding, isn’t it?”

“Now you’re a stickler for tradition?”

“I’ll see you at the courthouse, Har,” you tell him, before pulling the phone from your ear and hanging up. For a second you can’t move, staring down at Harry’s contact in your phone with a giddy grin that surely makes you look like some child in a candy store - and, in a way, you are - and it’s only a third knock at the bathroom door that has you scrambling out the door, giving an apologetic grin to the girl waiting impatiently.

Being married - for the record - doesn’t feel too much different than before.

There’s a shiny ring on your finger that Harry had bought, and when you glance across the table where he’s sitting, clutching his menu, you can see the similar wedding ring on his left hand - it’s simplistic and small and contrasts with the rest of his clunky rings and it makes you feel strangely warm inside when you spend too long looking at it. And, even after you and Harry had talked at the club, your ‘post-elopement’ dinner doesn’t feel entirely different than all of the other dinner dates you’d shared before the entire situation began. It’s familiar and sweet and his ankle is hooked around yours under the table, forcing a permanent heat onto your cheeks.

Harry rests his menu on the table, fingertips drumming against the laminated paper, and you similarly drop yours to look at him. “Think m’gonna get the spaghetti.”

It’s a testament to the slight air of awkwardness surrounding you both that the only thing he can think to talk about is the food he’s getting - but you’ll play along. “I like the raviolis,” you tell him. “Think I’ll get those.”

He hums softly, pushing his menu further into the table. “Can y’believe tha’ we’re married? I can’t. Seems so weird.”

“Doesn’t feel that different,” you disagree, toes tapping against his ankle beneath the table. “It’s not like we didn’t go out for dinner together before we got hitched.”

“We’re playin’ footsies under the table, babe.”

You grin down at your napkin, resting on your lap on top of your wedding dress. “Be careful or I’ll kick you, Har.”

His ankle tightens just a bit around yours beneath the table and you could watch that small smile spreading across his face for the rest of your life. “Y’wouldn’t dare - don’t y’love me?”

Yes, you do, so you resist the urge to unhook your ankle from around his and deliver a swift kick to his calf - just rest your palms on the table, scratching lightly at the rustic wood of the table. It’s hard for you to even pretend to be mad at him when all you can think about is how much you want to climb over the table and straddle him - as his wife you suppose it isn’t an insane thought, and you’re nearly certain he’s feeling the same way. Hadn’t he told you he would have kissed you if he hadn’t been called by Anne? Maybe you’ll get a chance to do it again - later. You’ll never give up the opportunity again.

“When d’you get t’move into the house?” Harry questions, leaning in just a bit in his seat.

“A few months, I think.” You shrug. “Reckon I’ll start redecorating before then, though. I’m already looking at furniture - I’ve gotta save up for most of it, though. Might sell my apartment before then.” There’s a pause, and then you shrug once more, picking at a crack in the table. “I’ll probably move back in with my parents.”

Harry’s eyebrows are raised when you glance up at him, fingers paused in their drumming on the menu. “Are y’kidding? We’re married. You can move in wit’ me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that -”

“Not asking, are you? Even if we didn’t just elope at a courthouse, you’re still m’best friend. Can’t have you moving in t’your mum’s basement.”

You smile softly, flattening your palms against the table and craning your neck to examine the ring - proof that it had really happened, that you’re really married. It still doesn’t feel quite real, no matter how many times you and Harry casually talk about it. “Was gonna live in her attic, actually.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay f’the furniture, too. Don’t look at me like tha’ - s’our house. Needs t’be ready f’when we move in.”

You hesitate, trying poorly to conceal the way your grin is arching further upwards at the mere prospect of what he’s hinting at. Living with Harry? Jesus, even if you weren’t in love with him, living with him sounds like an absolute dream, only made better by your feelings for him. And picturing walking through an Ikea, searching for furniture, feeling his arm around your shoulders as you two look online for decorations - if heaven were a place on Earth, it would be your Aunt Alice’s estate, soon inhabited by you and your husband. “Well, we’ll talk about it, alright?” you land on as your response.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, and the silence isn’t as stifling with awkwardness as it had been before. Then Harry reaches over, resting his hand overtop of yours, fingers instinctively intertwining, and your heart nearly splits itself in two - he initiated it, holding your hand, and maybe you shouldn’t feel so surprised but you can’t fucking help it. Your scalp is tingling and you swear your eyes are going to bubble over and his hand feels just as soft and beautiful as you’d expected - as you’d always dreamed of.

You’re not sure when, exactly, there would ever be a better time to tell him than now, so you clear your throat and squeeze his hand and confess, “I’ve liked you for a really long time, Har.”

Sharing your feelings isn’t necessarily your strongest spot but you’re feeling egged on by absolutely everything, and the way Harry brushes his thumb against your palm encourages you to continue. “I mean - since we met, basically - but I never told you. Never thought you would like me back.”

“I did,” he interjects, and you look up at him with furrowed brows. “Liked you back, I mean. Clearly - hope y’didn’t think I’d run off an’ marry anybody this fast.”

“I just thought you were being nice.”

“You’re silly, then.”

“A real idiot,” you proclaim, rubbing soft circles into the back of Harry’s hand, and you swear you’ll never let go unless someone fucking rips you away. “Guess I should’ve figured it out, then - seems like we did everything in the wrong order, right?”

Harry snorts, a noise that draws the slightest attention from an older couple sitting at a table beside you, but neither of you pay them any attention. “Get married first, fall in love second.”

“I was already in love,” and you’re not sure why, exactly, you had said that but it feels right and true falling off your tongue so you decide, pointedly, not to regret it.

There’s no hesitation when Harry responds, voice laced with the authenticity you’re so desperately craving - “Reckon I was, too.” You barely get a minute to process that and how it’s making your stomach do flips and turns like an Olympic medalist before he’s standing up, fingers still interlocked with yours to pull you up with him. “How d’you feel ‘bout a sleepover tonight?”

“A sleepover?”

He barely looks at you as he fishes through the pocket of his dress pants to pull out his wallet. “Not like we haven’t had them before.”

That’s true - you’ve slept over at Harry’s house so many times, it’s like a second home to you - but you have a distinct idea that, based off of your previous conversation and the wedding rings shining on both of your fingers, this sleepover will be just a bit different.

“Skipping out on the reservation, then?” you question, squeezing Harry’s hand as he tosses a $50 onto the table - a significant overkill for your lemonade and his Coke but you suppose he’s feeling rather generous today. “I am rather hungry.”

“We’ll eat at my house,” he insists, leading you through the maze of tables with a grip that’s so tight, you wonder if he’s having the same qualms as you are about never letting go. “Y’like pizza, don’t you?”

You’ve been in Harry’s house more times than you can count, but it’s never been like this.

His hand is still firm in yours and it’s a feeling you adore - even if his palm has gotten clammier with every second, every step you took closer to his front door, and you can practically smell the nervousness rolling off of him. It’s not unlike the worry that’s overtaken you because you’re not quite sure what he’s expecting - only know what you want to happen and you pray to any god above that your desires align with his.

The sound of Harry shutting the door is the only crack of noise burning through the otherwise thick silence surrounding you. Neither of you had known what to say and the car ride was taken in comfortable silence, hands clasped and heads bobbing to soft music playing on the radio, but being in his house is different - there’s no music, no excuse for Harry to keep his eyes off of you, nowhere to lean your head and pretend to be resting your eyes while your heart uncontrollably thumps against your chest.

In ways, it’s better. Most ways, in fact.

Slowly, you turn to face Harry, fingers drumming against the back of his hand. His breathing is heavy and his eyes never leave yours, and you’re reminded remarkably of trying on your dress for the first time in front of him and your position hadn’t been too unlike this one - maybe now you can do it right.

It feels entirely natural, tilting your head up until you can easily slot your lips to Harry’s. They’re soft and plump and he kisses you back with a vigor you hadn’t quite expected - deepening it before you have the chance to react, his free hand that’s not clutching yours roaming to your neck and you can’t ignore the way your stomach flips at the feeling of his hand on your throat. But then his hand keeps moving up, palm pressing to your cheek in such a sweet gesture that doesn’t at all match the intensity with which he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth - your hand lands on his waist, gripping the flowy material of his dress shirt, pulling his body as close to yours as you can get.

You only pull away to catch your breath, grip tightening on his shirt to ensure he won’t move away - you need him close to you, need to feel his body against yours - the bulge near his thigh that you can feel against your pelvis, hardening with every second that passes.

“Why’d you move?” Harry questions, voice soft and vulnerable and you can’t help but lean up and land another kiss to his mouth.

“Had to breathe, Har,” you murmur, smoothing your hands against his waist and the wrinkles you’ve surely created in the fabric. His fingers brush the edge of your jawline and you can feel your skin growing goosebumps beneath his touch.

He simply hums in response, ducking his head down to kiss you again. It’s sweeter this time, soft and fluffy but you don’t want that now - God, you want his hand around your neck and his knee between your thighs but perhaps that’ll have to wait for another time. You’re needy for just about anything you can get and if that’s sugary sweet kisses, a touch so gentle you could trick yourself into believing it isn’t there, then you’re more than grateful.

Harry’s teeth dig into your bottom lip, hard enough to have you moaning into his mouth and your nails dig into his through his shirt - the resulting whine into your mouth has you smirking against his lips, pushing your hips further into his. It’s the clearest way you can think of to tell him that you need him beyond kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” he breathes and you can feel his cock, twitching against your thigh and it’s a sensation you never thought you’d be able to experience outside of your deepest dreams - it feels twice as good as you’d imagined. “Gonna make me go crazy, babe.”

That’s exactly what you want.

“Hey,” and you pull away from him, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath still hot on your face, “don’t we have to fulfill the tradition of consummating the marriage?”

He laughs, a loud exhalation of air rather than his true barking laugh, but you smile anyway at the sound. “S’not the middle ages - no one’s expecting us to, if y’don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Harry’s hand slides backwards into your hair, pulling the strands into a ponytail and tugging and your resulting moan has him smirking like a smug bastard against your lips. “God, Har. I really want to.”

It seems that that was the exact response he’d wanted - you get one last lingering kiss to your lips before Harry’s pulling away, hand falling away from your hair and other still interlocked with your own. You don’t have a second to question where, exactly, he’s leading you but then he’s tugging you through the foyer and down the halls and up the staircase you’ve grown to know so well - the trek to his bedroom has never seemed so viciously long until now, but by the time Harry swings open the door, you feel as though you’ve been walking for hours instead of barely a minute.

“On the bed, babe,” he directs you, all raspy tone and dominance lacing every last syllable and you can’t ignore the gush of arousal you can feel rushing straight to your core. It’s the stuff that makes up dreams, really, his fucking voice, and you know just the four simple words would be enough to get you off for years from now. “C’mon.”

You wouldn’t dream of disobeying - your footsteps are nearly completely silent on the carpet as you walk over to the end of Harry’s bed, pushing yourself up to sit on the plush duvet, sinking into the mattress that feels like an absolute cloud compared to the rock you’re used to sleeping on. For a brief second, he doesn’t move - just stands and stares at you, chest heaving through the baby blue dress shirt that your needy grasp had wrinkled. Then he moves, shutting the door with a barely perceptible click before making his way over to you, gazing up at him with heat blazing in your eyes.

Perhaps you’re expecting him to push you onto the bed, to fulfill the dominant tone he’d held before, so it is a bit of a surprise to see your best friend (your husband) dropping to his knees before you, fingertips ever so gently trailing up and down your calves.

The bedroom is so silent, save for your panting breaths and Harry’s shaky ones and you reckon he may be more nervous than you are - you’d expected him to handle all of the confidence between you two but his fingers are shaking as he pulls off your heels, resting them side by side on the carpet at the end of the bed. Chills crop up over your skin as his gentle touch roams up your legs, landing on your knee, and your breath hitches in your throat as the man you’ve loved for nearly 5 years leans in, lips landing a soft kiss to the top of your calf.

This isn’t what you had expected - him fucking worshipping you, on his knees - you’d never pictured it in a million years. And maybe it’s proof of the difference between him and the other guys you’d been with - your ex-boyfriends and flings had always been worried about their pleasure, never paying you any attention, and Harry couldn’t be closer to the end of the spectrum. Your entire body feels warm beneath his watchful gaze and touch, how he brings one hand up to snap firmly when your eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me,” Harry directs, and despite the slight strain in his actions, his words still hold a never-faltering dominance that he’d had before. “C’mon, babe. I don’ want you to look away from me - can y’do that?”

It’s a task that’s easier said than done, but you nod anyway, swallowing thickly as Harry redirects his attention back to your legs. His hand, resting delicately on your left knee as though you’d break if he put too much pressure, slides down the length of your leg until he’s grasping your ankle, kneading the soft skin in his grasp while his lips linger at the top of your knee.

Using his grip on your ankle, Harry hoists your leg up onto the bed without warning, your toes digging into the end of the bed - uses his other hand to push your thigh outward so you’re on display for him like a goddamn feast and his smug grin proves that he can see just how wet you are, soaking through the white lace panties you’d chosen for the occasion. Heat blooms up your cheeks as he presses an open mouthed kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing your soft skin, and then he gives a dramatic inhale and - that’s -

You reach down, bracing both palms on the side of his face and forcing your husband (husband!) to look at you in the eye. He looks confused by your interjection and apologetic and that isn’t what you were going for but you hadn’t expected him to want to eat you out - most guys didn’t.

“You don’t have to do that, Har,” you murmur, giving a pointed glance to your lap that he’s been eyeing like it’s his dessert. “I won’t be mad.”

And Harry looks almost offended by the prospect of not wanting to, like you’d insulted him - “I want to. D’you not want me to?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice hardly above a breath, and when he begins to pull away you continue. “No! I mean - yes, I want you to.”

He grins, wide and toothy and reminding you of exactly why you’d fallen for him in the first place, and you settle back into your spot on the bed with your nerves almost completely eradicated. He wants to - he’s not doing it because he feels obligated - it’s already a step up from any other guy you’d ever been with.

Fingers trail up your thighs as Harry’s lips close around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, cheeks hollowing as he sucks a deep purple hickey, and you lift your hips just a bit so he can hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties and begin to tug them down. The crotch area is practically dripping with your arousal and it takes a bit more force to tug it away from your cunt but once they’re gone, Harry grabs your ankle again and straightens out your leg, making it easier for him to tug the offending material down your body and toss them away from the bed before resting your foot back on the edge.

You can hear his shaky breathing as he pulls his lips away from your thigh, thumb smoothing over the mark he’d left as if to prove it exists. You’d get it fucking tattooed if you could - to forever commemorate this experience - his mark in such a secretive place, just a breath away from where you need him most.

“Jus’ - jus’ tell me if y’want me t’stop,” Harry tells you, eyes interlocking with yours once more, and you jerk your head up and down once. “Lean back f’me, then - not too far, jus’ a bit - still need t’see you.”

So you lean back, propping yourself up on your arms, a barely reclined position from how you’d been sitting before. It’s easier to see him as he grabs the hem of your dress, tugs it up just a bit, but when you lift your hips so he can pull it out from under your ass he doesn’t comply - well, perhaps he has other plans with it, doesn’t want the dress to come off just yet, and you can respect that.

The time it takes for Harry to duck his head beneath your dress, tongue flicking against your overly sensitive folds, seems like fucking years even if it’s hardly a second, but when he does your hips instinctively jerk forward into his mouth. His eyes are flashing when he looks up at you and you breathe out a stream of apologies, heart thumping in your chest, fingernails digging into the comforter beneath you. “Don’ move,” he directs, and you nod again and again and you don’t stop until his lips close in around your clit.

Your head drops back with a low moan as Harry’s teeth graze your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the sensitive nub like it’s what he was born to do. The bottom of your dress covers the top of his head so you can’t see what he’s doing - you have no idea what his next move is and it makes the pleasure rolling through your body that much better.

“Fuck - fuck, Har -” the only two words you can think to moan roll off your tongue like a mantra, your back arching upwards despite his warning not to move but he doesn’t mention it - just drags one hand up, fingertips light and dancing on your thighs until he can splay his forearm across your lower stomach, effectively pinning you to the bed. Your hand moves from digging into the sheets to digging into his scalp, tugging at the loose strands of hair that smell ever so slightly of gel and it makes your heart swell to imagine him putting product in his hair for the elopement - but before you have time to dwell on the sweetness of the sentiment, that talented tongue is licking a thin stripe up your folds before flicking your clit and you’re brought back to reality. “Fuck.”

“Feel good?” Harry mumbles, muffled where his face is pressed firm to your pussy and the vibrations of his words reverberate against your clit, sending a chill up your spine, and you let out a low whine at the sensation.

“Yes,” you breathe in return, tugging at his hair just a bit, the strands forming a makeshift ponytail like he’d done to you before. “Feels so good, Harry, god -”

His head pulls back just a bit, hem of your dress dropping to just the tip of his nose so you can see his eyes - smug and glinting and you’re sure that, if you could see his mouth, those lips would be upturned into a smirk and practically dripping with your arousal - but he goes back in just as soon as he’d pulled out, burying his face in the apex of your thighs and you collapse back against the bed with a shout.

Whatever order he’d given you to maintain eye contact disappears. It isn’t as though you can see his eyes anyway, and you couldn’t stop yours from rolling back into your head if you tried. Ecstasy rolls through your body and, God, you know you’re close already, thighs tensing under where Harry’s palm kneads the soft skin, hard enough that you’re sure you’ll see bruises tomorrow. Your cunt clenches and flutters around the emptiness you’re yearning to get rid of and your back arches up again, Harry’s restraint on your torso not enough to stop it now, and you’re so fucking close.

“Harry -” you moan, digging your fingernails into Harry’s scalp and relishing in his responding moan to your clit - “gonna cum, Har -”

He doesn’t say anything - but you can feel his tongue continuing its work, up and down your folds and circling your clit and that’s response enough. Your hips jerk into his face, back arching as you grasp his hair tight enough that it has to fucking hurt but then you’re cumming and -

“Oh, fuck!”

Your voice is high pitched, cracked with a desperate sob right in the middle of your words before you’re holding Harry’s head to your pussy, his tongue working your clit like he was born for it, his low moans muffled against you. The hand previously holding down your torso slides up your body until he can shove his hand into the top of your dress, tugging it down so your chest is. He plucks at your nipple before grasping your tit, full in his palm, and the added stimulation prolongs your orgasm, hips rolling against Harry’s working mouth.

You can’t see straight when Harry pulls his head out from the bottom of your chest but when your vision focuses you’re beyond thankful. His chin is glistening with your arousal, tongue poking out to lap at the moisture on his lips and he dons that shit-eating grin you’ve grown to know so well. You usually see it when he wins a board game or when you’re celebrating something - seeing it on his face after he’s finished giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever gotten is certainly different but not unwelcome by anyone’s standards.

There’s a second where all you do is lie back and catch your breath - staring up at the ceiling above you, chest heaving as the aftershocks race through your body. Harry, meanwhile, pushes himself to his feet, muttering a small groan about God, m’fuckin knees and gettin’ too old for this, aren’t I?

Lazily you hold your hand out towards him, wiggling your fingers, and he reaches out to interlock your fingers again. “How was that?” he questions, voice soft and almost insecure and it’s a sharp contrast from the dominance he held before, but you know it’ll come back.

“I think you’re a natural at that, Mr. Styles,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in reassurance as you pull him closer to you until his knees hit the bed and he’s forced to collapse on top of you, grin cracking onto his face. “Gonna undress me?”

“‘Course,” Harry murmurs, leaning down to place a brief kiss to your lips, but before you can lift your head to deepen it he’s rolling off of you, shifting onto his side and shuffling upwards so his head rests on the stack of pillows. You raise your eyebrows at him - it isn’t as though he can take your dress off from that position - but, as though he can read your mind, he raises his hand and pats his lower stomach pointedly. “Climb up, babe.”

For what seems like the millionth time today, you can feel heat pulsing in your cheeks but you hope it doesn’t show - just sit up, swing your legs around so you’re straddling Harry, hands on his chest and gazing down at him like the God he seems to be. His hair is splayed out on the pillows beneath him, bottom lip tugged between his teeth, and you can’t help yourself - lean down to land your lips to his again, and this time both of you allow it to deepen. His hand starts at your cheek like it had before but you reach for it, fingers wrapping around his wrist and maneuvering it downwards until his palm is wrapped around the column of your throat, and he squeezes once experimentally.

You moan softly, hips rolling against the pointed bulge in his dress pants, and Harry’s eyebrows raise. “No fuckin’ way,” he breathes, squeezing again just to hear the way your breath catches. “Gonna be th’fuckin’ death f’me.”

You’re fine with that, and you reckon he is too.

You reach behind you, tapping along your back until you can reach the zipper. You’ve only tugged it down an inch or two before Harry’s free hand replaces yours, dragging the zipper down as far as it can go before reaching for the bottom of the dress. It’s gone in an instant - tossed off the edge of the bed, to be worried about later - and you can feel his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it comes undone, and then you’re naked.

You’d expected yourself to feel more embarrassed, or perhaps just nervous, and maybe it’s the effects of your previous orgasm but you’re feeling surprisingly calm - or maybe it’s how Harry looks up at you like you’re some sort of goddess sent from above, as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

It does wonders for your self esteem, truthfully.

“Gonna undress me, then?” Harry questions, hands smoothing up and down your thighs, eyes drinking in every bit of your exposed body on top of him.

You hum softly, pinching at the soft material of his shirt. “I don’t think so - want you to fuck me in your fancy clothes.”

“Well, if I’d known tha’ was an option -”

“Do you want me to put the dress back on?”

“No!”

You grin down at him before rolling your hips over his again, and it’s the last thing you manage to do before his grip lands on your hips and he’s flipping you over - your head lands dangerously close to hitting the headboard but it’s worth it, seeing him above you, fully clothed, pupils lust-blown and wide.

It hardly takes a second for Harry to undo the button to his pants and the sound of the zipper being undone is like music to your fucking ears - you spread your legs, letting him slot his body between them and oh, you can feel the tip of his fucking cock it’s right there and -

The first movement, Harry pushing himself inside of you, has you throwing your head back against the pillow, the moan coming from your throat mixing with a cry. He’s big - certainly bigger than you’d ever expected and bigger than any guy you’d been with - feels like he could split you in half if he wanted to but he stops, hands smoothing up and down your body, and you make a point of reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers.

You’ll never grow tired of holding his hand, you think. Not for a while, anyway.

“How’re you doin’?” he questions, voice strained, and when your eyes shift back to him you can see the droplets of sweat beaded on his face. “Jus’ - jus’ tell me when, alright?”

“When,” you breathe almost immediately. You hadn’t needed too much time to adjust but you need him to move - you’re so pent up and you know it won’t take long to take you to your second orgasm but, God, he needs to fucking move. “Please, Har - please, fuck me.”

It doesn’t seem he needed much more encouragement than that. With one final move of wrapping his free hand firm around your neck and giving another small squeeze, Harry pulls out agonizingly slowly until just the tip of his cock remains in your heat. Just as you open your mouth to beg him to move again he slams back in with a force you hadn’t anticipated, your body rocking backwards of its own accord with the weight behind the thrust.

It’s exactly what you’d needed, though - fast and rough and his hand, cutting off your airflow just a bit, just enough to have you quivering beneath him. The low groan that rips out of his throat, reverberating through the humid bedroom has you pushing your hips up to his, trying to deepen where he’s buried inside of you to the hilt but you’re not sure how much deeper he could get. Feels like he could split you in half with every desperate thrust, every rut of his hips into yours and yours back into his.

“Oh - god - m’fuckin’ good girl, so tight around m’cock -”

Another rush of arousal gushes straight to your core with his filthy words and your head falls back into the pillow with a high whine, nails digging into the back of his hand as his other one tightens grip around your neck. It makes every desperate moan and cry that much airier and you can tell Harry likes it, staring down at you as his hips pound yours with absolutely no mercy and you don’t want any, anyway. It’s the subject of every single fantasy you’ve ever had about him, rough and hard and the sound of skin slapping skin overpowering your needy noises.

You’d never dreamt it would feel so good.

“Oh god, Harry!” Your eyes are rolling back into your head as your free hand trails down your stomach, shaking fingers focusing on your ignored clit and beginning tight circles around the nub. The jolts of pleasure that run through your body are - god, fucking amazing and you know you’re close, hardly need anything else to tip you over the edge. “Gonna - gonna cum, Har -”

It’s a testament to, perhaps, the long-growing tension between the two of you that his head drops backwards with a cry of me, too in a tone that’s so desperately vulnerable and it’s exactly what you’d needed - the reminder, in the midst of the rough thrusts and desperate moans, that this isn’t a one time thing. If you both allow it, it’s the rest of your life, just like this - and, God, you’ll allow it.

Your cunt clenches around your cock as you cum, eyes rolling back into your head and body spasming beneath him. In the midst of it Harry pulls out and you don’t get a second to question the sudden emptiness before you feel a familiar warmth hitting your lower stomach, and you open your eyes in time to see your husband, hand working at his cock as ribbons of cum spurt onto your stomach.

(You think you could cum again just from the sight but - well, you’ll hold back.)

His breathing is choppy and desperate, broken occasionally by a needy moan until he’s finished and he collapses on his back beside you, hands still intertwined with no intention of letting go. Nothing needs to be said - not yet - not for a little while, where you’ll talk about it more.

A little while ends up merely being a minute or two before Harry swings his legs over the edge of the bed, hand still clasped in yours, and makes to stand up - it’s only your tightening grasp on his hand that forces him to stop, glancing behind him to look at you.

“Don’t,” you plead, throat already feeling sore and voice raspy. “Just - another minute, alright? Then clean up.”

He hums softly but you know he won’t resist the prospect of just a brief cuddle - one of the few things you hadn’t done often when you were just friends, because you knew that, if Harry held you as close to him as he is now, lips pressed to your forehead, you wouldn’t be able to resist telling him how you felt about him.

Doesn’t matter now, though. And his arms feel so warm around you, clammy palm still pressed to yours like a fucking couple in middle school but you wouldn’t dream of letting go. It’s all so - so peaceful, lying with him and listening to his heartbeat as you rest your head to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thumping as fast and hard as yours is.

And - well. Barely a month ago you were convinced your Aunt Alice was the worst woman in the world - a hypocrite and an asshole, set out to taunt you by lording your dream home over you and snatching it away when you couldn’t find a husband in time. But now? Feeling Harry, landing soft kisses again and again to your forehead, you figure she’s not so bad, after all.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #best friend!harry styles #loose ankles #lol #one of my fav things ive written #i got carried away during the smut.... sorry

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

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Day 55: Music

One afternoon Harry returned from work earlier than his boyfriend anticipated.

When he came into the flat, the sound of piano music drifted through the doorway and wrapped itself around him. The notes flowed together, floating around him and tugging at his gut, and Harry followed the music into the other room, imagining that Draco probably had the wireless on the old classical station that he liked to listen to when he got into a blue mood.

He was not prepared for his lovely partner to be sitting at a piano (that hadn't been in their living room that morning) with his back straight and fingers dancing over the keys.

He played with his whole body, and Harry was mesmerized by the way his hair long, blond hair swayed with his movement; by the way his long, elegant fingers stretched across the keys; by the way his hands seemed to move effortlessly over the keyboard.

He watched as Draco's body curved in on itself as the music got quieter, sadder; watched the way his presence seemed to expand with the music as it rose to it's climax. And he felt it all the way down his toes as Draco slowed the last few bars, his fingers drifting over the keys with great care, before landing on the final chord.

The last notes hung shimmering in the air and Harry's breath caught and held until Draco released the chord, lifting his fingers from the keys and foot from the pedal, leaving the room in silence.

"That was amazing," Harry breathed when he could finally call words to mind again.

Draco startled so badly that Harry feared he was about to fall off of the piano bench, "Merlin, Harry," he gasped, a hand clenched over his heart. "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked as he stood up from the bench.

"I live here," Harry replied.

"But you're early," Draco informed him, before casting a quick 'finite'.

Harry watched as the piano rearranged itself into the writing desk it had been earlier once more. "You play beautifully," he said.

Draco shook his head, "It's nothing."

"No seriously," Harry pressed, "You're so talented! I had no idea-"

"Yes, for a reason," Draco snapped.

(Read more below the cut)

Harry blinked, Draco didn't often use that tone with him anymore. They'd both worked hard to sand down all of their rough edges so they could stop carelessly cutting each other. They'd worked hard at communicating, at infusing the love they felt for each other into their words. He exhaled slowly.

"Sorry," Draco finally said, running his fingers through his hair, "It's nothing. Really. Can we please just drop it?"

Harry looked at him, looked at the desperate look on his face, and he knew what that felt like. When you weren't ready to talk about something that still cut you up inside. "Okay," he said with a nod. "But maybe not forever?" he asked.

Draco nodded once, "Maybe not forever," he whispered.

Harry gave him a little smile, "What are you thinking for dinner? I was thinking on my way home that I could go for some Thai."

-----------

It was six months before Harry managed to hear Draco play again, and not for lack of trying. As often as he could, he'd sneak out of work a bit early and head home, hoping to catch his boyfriend playing piano again but he didn't manage it.

Until the day that he forgot his lunch at home and decided to go home to grab it. He stopped dead when he opened the door because there was music drifting through the rooms again. Softer this time, sadder somehow. He tiptoed through the kitchen and into the living room, watching as Draco moved with the music and he was entranced once more.

Something must have given him away, because Draco's head shot up and he looked over at Harry. The notes faltered for a moment and Harry feared he was about to stop.

But he didn't, after a moment, he turned back and started playing once more, fingers drifting over the keys.

When the song ended, Harry couldn't help but whisper, "You're incredible."

Draco didn't turn to look at him, he stared straight ahead as he said, "When I was young, my parents insisted I learn an instrument." His pale fingers stroked lovingly over the keys. "All respectable, pureblood children learn an instrument. Even Greg learned how to play the french horn." He shook his head, "I hated it at first. The hours of practice, the lessons with the old woman who always smelled like mothballs."

An image of Mrs. Figg teaching piano sprang to mind but Harry didn't share it. Whatever Draco was trying to tell him was difficult for him and he didn't want to distract him.

"Eventually, I got quite good at it," he continued, and Harry could see that it was true. "I once told my parents that I might like to pursue music. They told me I was being ridiculous. My father said if I was going to play piano for a living, I might as well have been a squib and they might as well disown me."

"That's horrible," Harry murmured stepping closer and lightly resting a hand on Draco's shoulder in a sign of support.

Draco shrugged, "Not as bad as Auntie Bella," he confessed. "She heard me playing once and whatever it was, must not have struck her fancy because she came in and cast a spell that broke all of the bones in my fingers."

"Circe, Draco," he gasped, his hands unconsciously reaching for Draco's. He sat down beside him on the piano bench and carefully took his hands then pressed a kiss to each finger.

"My mother heard me screaming and came and fixed them immediately," he said, voice calm and steady as though this was all the most reasonable thing in the world. "But I didn't play again. Not for a long, long time. Not until we moved in here, actually," he added with a little smile.

"Why here?" Harry asked, looking around at the tiny flat they'd moved into together.

He cupped Harry's cheek and traced his cheekbone with his thumb, "Because there's so much of you here," he murmured. "Because you are music. I spend every moment I'm with you composing in the back of my mind. Songs for when we cook together, songs for when you wash the dishes, songs for when we clean the flat, for when you wake me up in the mornings just as the sun's rising. Songs for our nights together, for our fights with each other. Songs for the way you kiss me, the way you hold me, for the way you make love to me." He shook his head helplessly, "You are music, Harry."

Harry's hands cupped his face and he drew Draco's lips to his, kissing him breathless because he didn't know what he was meant to say. He didn't know it was even possible to feel this much, to love someone this much. "It's completely unfair," Harry murmured against his mouth.

"What is?" Draco asked, drawing back slightly to look at Harry.

"You have your beautiful music, and your beautiful words, and then I'm just completely awful at this."

Draco laughed, "What do you mean?"

"Just," he huffed, "I think that I made out a lot better than you in this relationship."

He shook his head and leaned in to brush his nose over Harry's, "Don't be ridiculous. I see it on your face and feel it in your touch; in the way you cast warming charms on my side of the bed before we get in. I feel it whenever you hold my hand when we're walking down the street, like you're proud to have me by your side."

"I am," Harry grumbled.

"I know," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's lips.

When Draco pulled back, Harry asked, "Does this mean I can hear you play more often?"

"Only if you get me a real piano," Draco replied. "The weight of the keys is always wrong when I transfigure it."

Harry called out sick from work and went out to buy a piano that afternoon.

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

Day 54: There Was Only One Bed | Day 56: Phone Call

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #my writing #day 55 #thanks for the prompt!#Enjoy!

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moonsquaremars · 3 years

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11th house thoughts

Hi everybody.

I have an 11th house stellium, and I love it. Probably because my venus is in there, der planet of luv, as well as mars, lust et aggression, and mercury, th’ intellect.

My sun missed it shy of 1° ; had i been born just a few minutes earlier, I would have been an 11th house sun. But I’m a twelfer. Why, might you ask? My mother has an 11th house stellium afterall, so did my ex-boyfriend. Well, if you ask, my father is a twelfth house sun.

And I’m learning to live with that.

Just kidding. Anyways, I love my 11th house stellium. If you’re unfamiliar, the eleventh house is ruled by aquarius. Each of the twelve houses in astrology corelate to each of the twelve signs of the zodiac. The planet which governs both this house and sign is the planet of Uranus, which is my favorite one in our solar system :) I did a random generator a guy posted on reddit to find out which planet is dominant in your chart, and when I plugged everything in, I got Uranus. I was actually quite surprised by this, but overjoyed. I love everything uranus represents. Eccentricity, humanitarianism, chaos.

I am a cancer sun, though, and virgo moon. Cancer rules the moon, so wouldn’t that be my dominant planet? Or is it just my chart ruler? I don’t know. But the moon is so fleeting. Kind of chaotic, actually. Since the moon passes each sign every few days, that’s what makes us cancers so moody. We feel the energy of all the signs within a months time. Can you imagine how that feels? constantly knowing what other people are feeling and thinking? Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I am crazy, after all :p

I digress. The 11th house is fabulous. It rules the finer things in life. My ex-boyfriend was a dandy man, took me to fancy restaurants and hotels, the works. I need that sort of thing, I admire and crave it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very in tune with income inequality and the social issues that plague the world. But I still love dressing up in fancy clothes for a decadent night out. I suppose this is attributed to my stellium, but I’ll take it. A stellium by the way is when you have three or more planets in one house.

It’s kind of odd that my mom has an eleventh house stellium because we grew up quite poor. Nothing about her really screams fancy besides the fact that she adores drinking wine, is beautiful, and we live fancier only if you put us in to comparison with poorer people around us. We did grow up wearing nice clothes though. My mom would buy us second hand designer brand clothes like tommy hilfiger. Maybe that’s not designer, maybe that’s just brand name. I’m from Kentucky, give me a break. But we Kentucky fancy, baby.

Uranus being my dominant and favorite planet, is in my 7th house, the house of libra and relationships. Perhaps someone could pull up my chart {in the tags] and enlighten me on why it might be my dominant planet. I might also add that my draconic moon is in aquarius, which is supposely what your ‘soul’ truly is. I don’t quite believe that, because I think the soul is larger and smaller than the twelve signs of our universe. Or maybe just our solar system. At least of our conscience understanding of things at this time. Astrology is just a bunch of symbols made of our world to organize and communicate ieas n information. It’s not much more than that.

I recall being very internet savvy in middle and high school. My north node and chiron are in my third house, house of gemini and communication. All of my 11th house stellium planets are also in gemini. I see this being accurate because I am rather small in frame, standing at 5 foot 9 and weighing 125 pounds since I was thirteen years old. My mouth gets me in trouble, whether it’s from accidentally offending or just not being able to shut up! I would constantly be editing my myspace profile, using html codes, messing with the layout and how it interacted with my profile picture and song, and anything else I added to it. I loved it, and then that transitioned to my tumblr blog which I did in high school. Hopefully tumblr doesn’t die out, it’s definitely not what it used to be. Later when stumbleupon was something, I would look up things about futurism, humanism, design. I loved reading about the future. It made me so freaking excited. Like what will life be like in 2040? So cool! Or 2600? Then it made me sad once I accounted my age into the picture. I don’t wanna be 40! and that’s so far away! I hate waiting.

I’ll end this post on something interesting I noticed. My boyfriend of a year had an eleventh house stellium. After we broke up, I had two guys I was interested in. I was actually quite torn, because they were both so amazing, but so different. One was elegant and familiar with astrology and addiction issues and had money. He was like this worldly man with fantastic package hehe helped cure this mundane “what’s the point?” feeling I had about learning languages and stuff. He made me feel like there was in fact a point to all of it. He’s a scorpio just like me mum and we just had great chemistry. But I was already seeing a nother guy, who was this gentle, down the earth, all around manly man’s man. I loved him, but in a different way. He was simple, but the first time I slept over at his house, he picked me up in this kinda old but kinda new like beat up stick shift hyudai sedan. He reminded me of Wario. But he had an amazing package as well. we mostly just slept though ,and when I slept with him, I felt like I was back in bed with my father when I was like five or seven years old. I already know how that sounds, and I know the childish bunch of you or dommage who lack a healthy relationship with your father if y’ar, are going to come for me and say that’s gross or messed up or perverted or weird. It’s not. I don’t want to fuck my father, I never have, and I never will. I really don’t want to open this can of worms because I could go on about people I’ve met who have been sexually assaulted by their fathers or who have an incest fetish and I’m not trying to shame any of those people. But, I felt like I was back in bed with my father like i was when i was a kid while I was laying with him, and that was a really, really, really good feeling. I never forgot it. He had an aries sun, which I used to hate aries. It was my least favorite sign, and probably still is tbh, along with aquarius LOL. Oh and his moon was in taurus which explained everything. My dad is a taurus sun, as are my two sisters, my grandpa, and one of my good friends, Chelsea. My moon is in virgo in the second house, which is the house of taurus.

Well, mr. fancy pants had an 11th house stellium, and my down to earth sweet S had a third house stellium. Finding these things out did nothing to absolve my confusion, only added to the ache of not knowing which to choose. Talk about love triangle though. It did make me realize why I was in this predicament though, and I suppose it worked out because I don’t really talk to either guy anymore. But The seventh and third houses are also air houses, just like the 11th.

11th house - Aquarius/uranus,

7th house - libra/venus,

3rd house - gemini/mercury

That’s all for tonight. I’m ever behind on french homework, so I oughtta go take care of that. I want to write on the twelfth house, since my sun is in there as well as my father’s, and why I don’t appreciate its doom and gloom persona. If each house correlates to a sign, then the twelfth’s would be house of pisces. Pisces is the last sign with a bad stereotype. At least from my perception, it’s one of the best. So humanistic and kind. So why is its house the house of prison and addictions and psych wards and have all this hubbub, this &thatt?

Au revoir! -K ý ll

#astronotes #11th house #astrology #aquarius #stellium #uranus #eleventh house #astro notes #uranus astrology #11th house stellium #gemini stellium #libra #Mercury in Gemini #gemini #sun in 12th #12th house #sun in cancer #7th house #3rd house

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migilini · 3 years

Text

Roadtrip - Charlie Gillespie

a/n: just a daydream I had when I saw this GIF. It’s not proofread. I’m open to requests.

Words: 2k

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You and Charlie were on a road trip from LA to Oklahoma and last to Chigaco. Your boyfriend had to move there due to the fact that he got cast in a movie and you were fortunate enough to move with him, being able to work from home. It wasn't your idea to drive all those miles via car, but Charlie doesn't like flying so he avoided it at all cost and because you love him, you accompanied him for those dreadful hours.

It was way too early for your liking, of course Charlie knew that and put up with your grumpy, nontalkative mood, simply shoving a large cup of coffee into your hands. “Ma cœur, how much longer until you're more awake to talk to me?” Charlie asked after a while, as he glanced over to you on the passenger side, his free hand tracing little hearts on your thigh. You yawned and took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee. “About this much.” You measured the amount still in the cup, making him chuckle.

You and Charlie have been dating for nearly one and a half years now, however it feels like it's been much longer. From the start, the two of you were attached at the hip, instantly comfortable around each other. Everybody said that you two moved too fast because you moved in with each other after only three months of dating, but because of Covid you didn't want to risk being apart. Even though objectively speaking, you and Charlie were not the same, you were more daydreaming than actually paying attention and you didn't need the adrenaline in your life, you completed him in a magical way.

Right now you two were two hours in, the coffee was empty and you ass already sore from all the sitting. It was something you always despided about yourself, you could spend all day laying in bed, but you couldn't sit still, changing position every now and then. Tapping your foot to the beat of the song streaming from the radio. Charlie calmly hummed along to the song, his fingers also tapping along. You looked over at him and couldn't love him more.

“Are you excited to see Owen and Jer?” You asked him, breaking the silence. A breathtaking smile overtook his face “You know it! How about you?” You nodded, also excited to see the boys again. “Mhm. I missed them a lot.” The song on the radio changed and you huffed in annoyance, you hated that song. Sensing that, Charlie took out his phone and connected it to the car.

“Charlie! Don't drive and be on your phone!” You snapped it out of his hand, giving him a displeased look. Scrolling through Spotify you eventually choose a song to your liking. 18 by OneDirection blared through the speakers, while you put the volume higher you turned in your seat. “I have loved you since we were 18. Well technically 20 but that's a detail.” You whispered the last part. He scrunched his nose in amusement, a quirk you loved dearly.

The two of you screamed lyrics at the top of your lungs, the car driving on an empty highway. The rest of the world fading away, leaving the two of you in a cozy little bubble of your own. The day continued just like that, the two of you singing to songs and just enjoying the company. You loved seeing him drive, something about it was just so attractive to you, maybe it was the way his arms flexed when he moved the wheel, or the fact that you yourself were unable to drive. Even with your 21 years of life, you refused to sit behind the steering wheel and Charlie had tried several times, it always ended with you in tears.

“Do you want to stop somewhere to sleep? It's getting kinda late and you have been driving the whole day.” you questioned, looking at the horizon as the last beams of yellow and red vanished slowly. “Yes please. Can you search for a hotel around here?” Nodding, you took his phone and went onto google maps.

“There's one about two hours away in New Mexico. Reviews look good and the price isn't too high. Sadly no breakfast included, so we're gonna get you something on the road, not gonna let you starve, otherwise I will be stranded here.” He gave your thigh a playful slap and a squeeze “Yeah, yeah love you too, Char. I will look it up… Ah perfect! There's a Dunkin Donuts five miles from the hotel. Does that sound good babe?” He hummed in approval.

“Ah a man of words!” he took one of your hands and gave it a light kiss. “You know me. I always wanted to be a Mime.” he joked.

Before you knew it, the car came to a stop in the pitch black. Only a little yellow neon sign lighting up the hotel parking spot.

“This looks like this one Teen Wolf episode…” you murmured, not feeling the best about this place. “You’re just saying that because you're scared of the dark ma cœur. I'm here to protect you. No Monsters are harming you tonight.” he teased, getting out of the car. In typical Charlie fashion, he walked around the car and opened your door and held out a hand for you, immediately intertwining your fingers.

You smiled up at him, squeezing his hand. “Ha ha…”

The two of you were happy to finally walk off the stiffness of your legs, as you walked over to the reception.

“Hello. We would have a room please.”

The receptionist was in his late 30s, his greying hair falling messily in his eyes and a big smile sat on his thin lips. “No Problem. Is a king bed alright with the two of you?” he didn't want to assume anything. You and Charlie chuckled, nodding slightly “Preferred actually.”

Five minutes later, you waited in the room 345 while Charlie insisted on getting your bags. Stretching, you tried to get rid of the soreness in your back, your eyes nearly falling shut.

Charlie opened the doors, giving you a tired smile. “Let's get to bed. Tomorrow we rise early!” you groaned, making him chuckle. Standing up, you walked over to him, your arms wrapping around his familiar frame. He was stroking your head, giving it a kiss before walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

In the meanwhile you changed your clothes, changing from some jeans and one of his hoodies to sweatpants and an oversized shirt.

You gave him a hasty kiss as he came out of the bathroom, smelling the mint of the toothpaste still lingering on his lips. After you washed your face and brushed your teeth, you let yourself fall into the bed. His arms sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer into him.

“Thank you.” Turning around to face him, you traced his features with your fingertips “For what?”

“Coming on this drive with me. You could have easily convinced me to fly, you know.”

“I know mon amour.” you said, looking into his eyes, as you tried your best to keep yours open. You left several kisses on his bare shoulders until your lips met his. He smiled into the kiss and then nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, pecking it several times before stopping.

“Good night. I love you.”

“Good night babe. Love you more.”

The next morning came way too fast and you didn't want to move out of his comfortable and safe arms into the cold car, but you had to. The sunrise hadn't even begun, the sky still a dark blue, when the two of you drove into the Dunkin drive through, to get you a coffee and a donut. You had to have something sweet in the mornings.

“Actually, I saw a little restaurant on the way here that should have takeaway, do you mind if we take a quick stop?” you shook your head, trying hard not to fall asleep again. An idea ignited in your head and you sat up straighter. “What if we go live while you drive? Maybe I'll be more awake or I'll have stuff to read.” you requested, looking at your boyfriend with a slight pout.

“Sure thing. I'll bet they'll love it.” Smiling, you grabbed his phone from his hand and went into Instagram.

“Hey Char and y/n here.” you introduced while trying to balance the phone on the dashboard “Its freaking early and I’m nearly falling asleep so I thought you guys could entertain me a bit. Mister Gillespie over here isn't as interesting as you guys.” he pouted into the camera, you leaned forward quickly and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The chat was already flooding with hey’s and questions about your relationship and where you were going.

“Is it true that you sometimes talk french to Charlie?” you read from the chat, your eyes widening a little in surprise.

“Sometimes. I mean my french isn't the best but growing up in Europe, I picked up some stuff.”

“She’s just being humble, she understands a lot and her accent is hella cute.” Charlie piped in, pulling into the drive through he mentioned earlier. “Je vois que tu comprends." He said to you, a slight smile playing on his lips. You got lost in his eyes for a second before responding. “Of course I understand babe!” he grabbed your hand and kissed it softly while chuckling.

“OMG that was just so cute!” you read out loud from the chat. Blushing slightly, you giggled, “He loves to do stuff like that when he’s driving. Always showing affection in one way or the other.”

“Uhm next question...What are you two doing so early? Someone asks.” with an raised eyebrow you look over to your boyfriend “I think you can answer this.” you turned the camera a bit so he was more in frame. “We're going to Chicoago, Chigacoooo.” he quoted the iconic Victorious scene, his eyes scanning the road before him.

He got himself a cheese thing of some sort, you couldn't quite make out what it was and parked on the side of the road, getting his food ready in front of him.

He bit into his cheese thing while you sipped on your coffee conversing with the chat. Just earlier you had begged for music suggestions, telling them to send their best road trip songs. Charlie looked really good right now, his hair was pulled together in a bun and he was wearing a blue shirt. You on the other hand had your hair in a top bun and the same hoodie from yesterday, a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. You just wanted to ask if you could have a bite, when he got cheese all over his chin.

He laughed as he looked over to you. Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned forward in your seat. Your face mere inches away from his, you could feel his breath on your face. You stuck out your tongue and licked the cheese away, your eyes never leaving his.

Without giving it a second thought, you settled back into a comfortable position and took a sip from your coffee with a prominent smirk on your face. Leaving a dumbfounded Charlie and a screaming chat.

Not even an hour later the clip of you licking his chin, in maybe a bit of a too sexual way, went viral in the community.

#charlie gillespie #charlie gillespie fanfiction #charlie gillespie imagine #charlie gillespie x reader #charlie gillespie fluff #charlie gillespie fic #charlie gillespie images #charlie gillespie fanfic #charlie gillespie x y/n #charlie gillespie x oc #jatp

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downtonabbeyrevisited · 3 years

Text

Season Two Episode Four

A 1918 timestamp ushers us into one of Downton’s more slow moving episodes where three parts painful banality has been mixed with one part life-or-death peril.

Providing more interesting political and cultural conflict than WW1 (at least at Downton) is Isobel’s ongoing grating at Cora’s very soul. Cora has had the temerity to ensure that the staff don’t collapse on their feet and has done something with the linen that I can’t quite fathom which, of course, Isobel takes as a slight upon her medical knowledge. Isobel makes the fatal error of calling Cora’s bluff threatening to ‘seek some other place’ if she is not appreciated at Downton. Major Clarkson also takes sides with Cora and Isobel now has no choice but to throw herself and her messiah complex upon the Red Cross in Northern France. I am sure they will be thrilled.

With Isobel’s departure, Moseley and Mrs Bird find themselves at a loss having deep cleaned the house and moaned about their employer’s eating habits. Turns out that one thing they forgot to do was deploy any semblance of a security system as a random man with a drama school limp wanders into the house looking for food. In a manner that would make the current Conservative front bench recoil with horror, Mrs Bird starts up a soup kitchen out of her own (presumably rather small) pocket. In her latest attempt to not do her job, Mrs Patmore drags Daisy out for some fresh air and in the process uncovers this particular bit of well meaning but financially unsustainable charity. Mrs Patmore scales up the operation, creating a “special storage area” to squirrel away surplus from the army’s stock, which O’Brien conveniently overhears (but to be honest, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I imagine most of the kitchen heard it considering that Mrs Patmore practically yelled it). In an effort to try and inject a bit of actual drama into this episode, O’Brien reports this to Mrs Hughes but (un)fortunately, Mrs Hughes could not care less. But after watching the world’s most appalling secret handover of goods in the village, O’Brien rallies and this time is successful in bringing Cora to the nefariously compassionate Bird-Patmore coalition. To absolutely everyone’s surprise (viewers included) Cora orders food to be taken from the house stock rather than army and with all the over-confidence of a consultant sets about re-arranging tables and streamlining the workflow.

Feeling much less charitable than Mrs Bird, Moseley heads to the Abbey and attempts to make himself indispensable and reach the dizzying heights of ‘Valet to the Earl of Grantham’. But not long after the peels of laughter that such a notion invites have died down, Bates returns and takes Mr Molesley’s shoehorn which one can’t help but think is emblematic of something. The return of Mr Bates is, naturally, a painfully protracted process that involves key protagonists not talking to each other, Thomas smoking on a wall, and the obligatory invocation of Kamal Pamuk. Robert invites Bates back to help him through the ‘veil of shadow’ and as such I was intrigued to learn that he is a World of Warcraft devotee. Bates reappearance downstairs also allows for the return of two other key Downton Abbey tropes: Anna and (John)Bates having a heart to heart under the cover of darkness, and Thomas and O’Brien’s irrational loathing/scapegoating of Britain’s most infuriatingly lovelorn character (outside of Thomas Thorne) to resume with aplomb.

Less happy to be within the confines of the Abbey is Edith who continues to signal that all of this is really a bit beneath her (certain elements quite literally). Ever the teacher’s pet, Mr Molesley reports the sighting of an Officer by the maid’s staircase to Mrs Hughes who hears that there have been lots of rumours on the timeline tonight and comes out to say that she does not live in a sack. Unfortunately, Major Bryant does not live in one but definitely frequents one and, as such, it is of course Ethel is dismissed. As she rapidly packs all her belongings, Anna pleas to Mrs Hughes on her behalf confirming that she is indeed the friend we all want but probably don’t deserve. But Mrs Hughes can’t get rid of her that easily as Edith (and passenger) skulk back to liven up the end of the episode with news of an oncoming baby *Eastenders drums intensify*.

Talking of undeserving relationships, Sybil and Branson receive more air-time than usual, providing the latter the opportunity to demonstrate that at times he really can be a muppet. And a slightly malevolent one at that. Sybil is firmly under the cosh this week with Violet making thinly veiled references to inappropriate alliances and Mary asking probing questions whilst she tries to get on with her job. Mary thinks that she has spotted her sister and Branson having some kind of romantic exchange but in reality, all that she has seen from afar is Branson telling Sybil that she is in love with him which when you think about it, is all kinds of awful and hardly the basis for a healthy relationship. After a long walk through the grounds where I am half expecting Branson to appear on a horse Willoughby-style, Sybil eventually caves and confesses to Mary that she doesn’t know if she likes Branson despite his eminently creepy voice over. Sybil then relays her sororal confidence and rather than taking this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Branson for whatever reason attempts to coerce Sybil into a relationship but not before he belittles her job. Sybil looks rightfully outraged as some equally emotionally manipulative strings wail in the background in an attempt to try and make us think that anything that has just happened was evenly slightly dreamy.

Threaded through this glacially paced episode has been the looming threat of a both a concert and the death of Matthew and (to a much lesser extent because that is how class works) William. In an effort to break the monotony of walking around the exact same bit of French trench (see previous re-caps for further details), William and Matthew take to wandering across some largely unadulterated land and into the path of some nonchalant Germans. Daisy’s lack of (presumably fawning) letters from William starts off a chain of enquiry which confirms that the War Office has declared Matthew and William missing enabling Mary to once again deploy her signature move: weeping into her gloves. But only one hand this time because she needs to keep a bit of composure for the show must go on! Apparently. Following some abysmal piano playing (I grew up in an appallingly musical household and we all had to endure the torture of other people at the early stages of learning an instrument. It was of course blissful when we got good but, heck, I was thrown straight back to the horror of it all with that ‘accompaniment’ and had an odd sort of stress response which I won’t describe here), Mary and Edith do a rendition of If You Were the Only Girl (In the World) as everyone looks on stony-faced before participating in the millenia’s most morose sing-a-long. With a very good sense of drama, Matthew and (to a much lesser extent) William make their return. Matthew takes his place at Mary’s side and joins in the signing to what is now presumably quite a bewildered audience. Ah, Downton.

Romantic declaration of the moment

Violet raises reasonable concerns about Richard Carlisle but Mary is more interested in expanding her real estate portfolio and agrees to throw her lot in with a fiscal agreement disguised as a marriage. Upon his ‘miraculous’ return, Matthew gives the union his blessing on the condition that Richard remains deserving. Not that he ever really was. But the sentiment is what matters here and what is more loving* than putting another’s presumed happiness before your own.

*there are actually a lot of other more loving things but in the interest of formatting, we’re going to sweep those under a very large rug for now.

Expressive eyebrow of the week

Rather than training as a nurse or being actually pretty useful in a convalescent home, Mary’s contribution to the war effort is being amicable with Edith. Violet declares that she has now “seen everything” as the spirit of Mrs Adelman moves on.

Wait, what?

“I wish we had a man” Presented without comment

“If I am not appreciated here, I will seek some other place” Yes. PLEASE.

“What must he do to persuade you he is in love with Lavinia? Open his chest and carve her name on his heart” No, Mary. Matthew merely needs to carve her name with a compass on his forehead to prove that…

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“I hate the word ‘missing’. It leaves so much room for optimism.” Robert is a bit emotionally weird isn’t he?

“We haven't kissed or anything. I don't think we've shaken hands. I'm not even sure if I like him like that. He says I do, but I'm still not sure.” And lo, another red flag is raised. But because Branson is Downton’s version of a Bolshevik, both Mary and Sybil view this not as a warning about the boy’s behaviour but rather a symbol of his political leanings and such signals are duly ignored.

“He always seems a romantic figure to me” Daisy Robinson writes fanfic. Pass it on.

“Sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it.” Once again, Violet, tell us more!

Bates says that he has returned to “Downton at war” which sounds like a lucrative exhibition name if I ever did hear one.

Despite Mary’s most valiant efforts, no musical performance had ever gone out to such an impassive audience until Rosalind came along

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Matthew of course is used to a much better quality sing-, sorry, song-a-long

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#Downton #downton abbey #downton rewatch #Mary Crawley #Matthew Crawley #thomas barrow #thomas branson #mrs o'brien #Mrs Patmore #daisy mason #william mason #Cora Crawley #Lady Grantham #lord grantham #john bates #Joseph Molseley #anna bates #Youtube

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feralthoughtdump · 3 years

Text

Arsonist’s Lullaby

Part One: Kiss With A Fist

Part Two: Only Angel

Bucky and his Angel’s relationship grow closer.

Word Count: 6.8K

CW: violence, Bucky and his nightmares, John Walker being an ass, a little bit of fluff, smut, brief shower sex, Bucky steps on the reader with his boots, spitting, choking, spanking, Bucky using his metal arm, crying, FATWS ep. 3&4 spoilers

The cold air of the cargo container was strange, given that they were in a southeast Asian island. It sent a chill down Angel’s spine. Like something would go very wrong. They survey the empty space, searching for Nagel.

Sharon was certain Nagel was here, but there was no sight of him.

But Angel could hear the slight vibrations of music coming from… somewhere.

She approaches the back of the container and feels around the rough metal wall.

“Hey, I think he may be in here.” She beckons them over.

Pressing a gloved hand onto the metal, she pushed, revealing a small laboratory in front of them.

“You three go ahead.” She mutters. “I’ll keep an eye out with Sharon.”

Before they can say anything, she strides out of the container.

“You don’t need to worry about them.” Sharon crosses her arms as the door closes. “I know them well. They can hold their own.”

“Oh, I know.” Angel chuckles.

“Bucky likes to call you Angel, huh. Seems like you two bonded pretty quickly.”

She gives Sharon a humored look as they stroll around the dock.

“I thought psychopaths couldn’t form bonds.”

“You know I didn’t mean it.”

Their eyes dart all over the place, looking for any oncoming bounty hunters.

“How’d you get my photo anyways?”

“Heavy analysis of CCTV footage, a few phone calls, and a lot of digging. The photo was shit quality, but it was enough for me to go off of.”

“Was it enough to catch me?”

“I guess so. Then Zemo blew up the UN so we tabled the case.”

“Interesting. Maybe that UN bombing was a blessing in disguise. Saved me a life sentence in a high-security prison.”

They turned a corner.

“You wouldn’t have gone to jail. MI6 would’ve given you a job instead.”

“Hmph. I’d rather die than be a servant.”

From the corner of her eye, Angel spots a passing black shadow.

“Guys,” she presses a finger onto her earpiece. “Someone’s here.”

A gunshot rings out from the container and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. Sharon gives her a knowing look and they turn the safety off of their guns.

“Here.” Angel whispers, handing Sharon a knife. “It’ll come in handy.”

Three bounty hunters transverse on them and they open fire, taking them down one by one.

“We don’t have much time, hurry up!” Sharon yells into the earpiece.

A bounty hunter wraps their arms around Angel and she grabs a knife, jamming it into their arm.

Adrenaline floods her system, dialing her senses up to ten. A swift roundhouse kick sends another hunter tumbling to the ground.

From behind her, she hears Sam and Bucky yelling and she runs towards them.

“It’s in every action movie!” She hears Sam yell.

If her life wasn’t on the line, she would’ve laughed.

“You okay?” She pants.

“No! We’re not!” Sam yells. “Zemo shot Nagel!”

“What? Where is he?”

Her question was answered when a container set fire and exploded. She spots Zemo standing atop another, donning a purple mask. Before she can point him out, he sprints away.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Gunshots ring from her right and Bucky wraps a protective arm around her. In her peripheral she sees a bounty hunter riding towards her on a motorcycle, guns blazing. She quickly wriggles out of Bucky’s grasp and sends a knife into the tire, throwing the hunter off of the vehicle and into the fire.

“Good aim.” He says, mouth agape in surprise.

“You just threw that dude into a fire!” Sam exclaims.

“Yeah, well, he was going to kill us.”

They continue to run through the maze of crates, turning corner after corner, dodging bullet after bullet.

As much as he hates to admit it, the sight of Angel in action, when her violence wasn’t directed towards him, sends a rush through his system.

Zemo speeds towards them in a convertible, signaling them to get in. Sam jumps in the passenger seat while Bucky and Angel sit in the back.

Her pupils are blown wide and Bucky swears he can feel the electricity radiating off of her. Without stopping to calm down, he grabs her face in his hand and presses a passionate kiss on her lips.

His heart skips a beat when she kisses him back, and in the corner of his eye, he spots Sharon giving either him or Angel, a thumbs up.

…

Bucky makes it a habit to call her Angel all the time. He likes the way it slips off his tongue. He likes the way her eyes seem to glimmer when he calls her that. It’s as if the more he calls her Angel, she seems to glow more and more.

He calls her Angel when they board the jet on the way to Latvia.

He calls her Angel when she sits down to change the gauze on her thigh.

He calls her Angel when they get to the Riga safe house.

The more time he spends with her, the more he notices the little things about her. He notices how her tongue sticks out a little when she does her eye makeup.

He notices how her head would bop along to music in her earbuds

He notices how she’ll curl up on the couch, tucking her knees close to her body, while she sketches.

He notices how she’ll mutter curses in different languages. Mandarin, French, Russian, Spanish just to name a few.

He notices how she took off her jewelry when she showers with the exception of a gold chain. A gold chain with a dangling pendant. A pendant of a little angel.

He notices how she uses apple cinnamon body wash. It made her smell warm. It made her smell like home.

She gets along with Sam. Even Zemo.

She talks about philosophy with Zemo and when she converses with Sam, they talk about music.

She’s a force to be reckoned with. Fiery. Just like Selby had said. A firebird.

And despite her cool, hardened front, there was a gentleness to her.

The jet had touched down in Latvia late and night and they collectively decided to get a good night’s rest before finding Karli.

He had woken up from a nightmare. Reliving the memory of killing Yori’s son.

He didn’t know what compelled him to do it, but he padded over to Angel, reading Anna Karenina. Glasses perched on her nose, hair loose and resting past her shoulders.

She looks up at him.

“Nightmare?”

Bucky nods, tears pricking are his eyes.

She places the book on the floor and stretches out on the couch.

“Come here.” She whispers arms open wider

She let him lay his head on her chest, nose pressed against her sternum. With gentle hands, she runs her fingers through his hair, slowing his rapid heartbeat.

The serum had made his hearing sharper and from his position between her breasts, he could hear the soft thumping of her heart. It calmed him.

“Can you sing to me?” He mumbles.

The hand playing with his hair stops.

“Sing to you?” She asks.

“Mhm.”

“I-“ she pauses “I don’t really-“

“Please.” He begs.

She’s quiet, just calmly stroking his hair, then she sighs.

“What do you want me to sing?”

“Anything. Just… please, I want you to sing for me.”

She ponders for a moment before she parts her lips, voice shaky and quiet.

When I was a child, I heard voices

Some would sing and some would scream

You soon find you have few choices

I learned the voices died with me

He closes his eyes and noses at her sternum.

When I was a child, I'd sit for hours

Staring into open flame

Something in it had a power

Could barely tear my eyes away

The song is unfamiliar. He didn’t listen to music all that much anymore. And even when he listens to music, it was mostly from the 40s.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

Her voice, still soft and quiet, is haunting. The way it wraps around the lyrics, warms his heart. He breathes in the smell of her apple cinnamon body wash.

When I was 16, my senses fooled me

Thought gasoline was on my clothes

I knew that something would always rule me

I knew the scent was mine alone

He loves the way he can feel her chest move up and down. The way her voice sounds so rich with his ear pressed against her chest, the music echoing within her ribs.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

He reaches his hand to play with the angel pendant on her necklace. Finger running over the grooves.

When I was a man I thought it ended

When I knew love's perfect ache

But my peace has always depended

On all the ashes in my wake

As he drifts off to sleep, he can hear the last lines of the song lingering on her lips. The images from war. The torture he endured, the people he’s killed, the amends he has yet to make, all temporarily fade from his mind.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

And for the first time since Steve left, Bucky was able to sleep without disturbance.

…

“You have a lovely voice.”

Angel was pulled from her sleep when she hears Zemo’s voice.

She glares at him and places a finger on her lips, shushing him. Bucky was still lying on top of her, still asleep and she didn’t want to wake him.

“My apologies.” He smiles.

“Were you watching us last night?” She interrogates quietly.

“No, but I do have a keen sense of hearing. I heard you singing to James.”

She turns her head to meet his eyes.

“He had a nightmare. It was the least I could do for him.”

“Understandable.” He nods. “My son used to have nightmares and my wife’s voice was the only thing that could put him to sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” She mumbles sympathetically. “About your family, I mean. I know you lost them a while ago.”

Her hand combs through Bucky’s hair.

“I understand how vengeance and anger overtook you. You needed your revenge. But don’t hurt him.”

“Hurt who? James?”

“Yes.” Her voice darkens. “If you lay a finger on him, I won’t hesitate to bury you.”

Zemo sighs.

“I have no intention of harming him. I see the way you look at him. It’s the same look I used to give my wife. You care for him dearly and given your line of work, I know you’d do anything to avenge the people who harm the ones you love.” He walks towards her and offers her a cookie. Angel takes it with a wary hand.

“You’ve got anything else you want to say?”

“I do have a question about that song. I knew that something would always rule me.” He quotes. “Was that about yourself, or James?”

She narrows her eyes.

“It was just a song.”

“Yet it implies that something will always have power, control, over the songwriter.” He tilts his head.

“What are you implying, Baron?”

“It’s not an implication. It’s an observation. You two share a common trait. For James, it’s his past. His time as the Winter Soldier looms over him. As for you, you seem to have this, how do I say it, a compulsion to kill. It will always stick to you.”

“Baron, I suggest you pick your next words very carefully.”

Bucky stirs and she lifts her hand from his head.

“Mmm. Good morning.” He mumbles, voice rough and heavy.

“Good morning to you too sleepyhead.” She coos, rubbing his cheek with her thumb. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm.” He hums.

She gives Zemo a look that says ‘get out.’

Zemo gives her a smirk and walks away, leaving the two of them alone.

Bucky opens his eyes and Angel can feel her heart melt. He balances himself on his arm to press a kiss to her nose.

“You look cute with bed head.” He chuckles. “So pretty. I could just eat you up.”

“You look quite pretty when you sleep.” She giggles and rubs her nose against his.

He places his head back on her chest and they lie there for a while, listening to the sounds of the city.

Finally, she sighs.

“Alright, Bucky, I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He whines and wraps his arms around her.

“No, stay.”

“Bucky,” she says sternly, “I have to wash my hair, let go.”

With a huff, he sits up and lets her get off of the couch. As she stands she turns around spotting Bucky, arms crossed and a pout on his face.

“I never said you couldn’t join.”

Bucky jumps up and runs to her. He places his hands on her waist and turns her around, pressing a kiss to her lips. She links her fingers with his and he follows behind her towards the bathroom.

While they wait for the water to heat up, she reaches into her bag to pull out bottles of product.

He spots the shimmering bottle of apple cinnamon body wash and smiles.

“Apple cinnamon body wash.” He notes.

“Mhm. It's inexpensive but it smells nice.”

“It does.”

She places her hand under the stream of water and gets a feel for the temperature. The water is hot, just how she likes it. Her hands pull the t-shirt over her head and then her cotton underwear.

Bucky waits for her to step into the shower before he strips down and joins her.

A content smile crosses her face when the hot water hits her body but her peace is broken when she hears Bucky yelp.

“Why is the water so hot?”

“I like it hot.” She turns to face him and playfully pokes at his navel. “It’s relaxing.”

“You’re going to boil me alive.” He grumbles.

“If you don’t like the hot water,” She bluntly states, “then get out.”

She shampoos her hair, letting the bubbles froth around her fingers, and then she pours a bit into her hand and reaches up to massage it into Bucky’s hair.

He runs a metal finger down her sternum, collecting a bit of the bubbles that run down her body. When his finger reaches her scar, his touch lingers.

Seeing the guilt in his eyes, Angel places a finger underneath his chin and has him look into her eyes instead.

“Don’t.” She murmurs. “You’ll only torture yourself reminiscing on the past.” She pulls him under the stream, letting the water wash away the shampoo in their hair.

She’s got a meticulous shower routine, one that she likes to perform herself, yet she’s okay with Bucky standing next to her. When she combs the conditioner through her hair, she does the same for Bucky, knowing it would soften his hair even more and make it smell like vanilla and pomegranate.

She places a bit of the apple cinnamon body wash in her hands and rubs it onto his body. Her hands pay extra attention to the scar on his shoulder.

“It’s got vitamin E in it. Helps with scars.”

Bucky turns her around, making her face away from him.

She can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but she hums with relaxation when she feels his strong hands rub the body wash into her skin.

“You’ve got some knots in your shoulders.” He notes.

“I’m aware of that.”

“You’re stressed.”

“I am.”

When the water washes away the body wash, the shower is filled with the scent of apple cinnamon.

She’s surprised when she feels a kiss on the back of her shoulder but nevertheless, she enjoys it.

Bucky presses another kiss in the center of her shoulders and kisses her along the line of her back. He sinks to his knees and places a kiss onto the dimples of her back.

“Buck, what are you doing?” She smirks, turning around.

“I just wanna love on you.” He murmurs against her skin. “Can I?”

She blinks owlishly, then slowly nods her head.

“Y-yeah” she breathes.

Bucky places a kiss on her scar and runs his tongue over it, sending a fire through her.

“Open your legs for me, doll.”

She shyly parts her legs and Bucky smiles up at her.

He grabs her waist, hoisting her knees over his shoulders, pressing her back against the wall.

She lets out gaspy whines when he kisses and nips at her thighs, letting his stubble rub against the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” she whimpers “we- we’re going to waste water.”

“Don’t worry about that, doll.” He murmurs. “Just let me make you feel good.”

He licks a stripe up her folds, causing her to gasp. She grabs onto his hair, pulling him closer.

“So sweet, baby. You taste so sweet.”

She doesn’t reply. She couldn’t. Not when he was making her feel so good.

She slaps her other hand onto the wall, trying to hold herself up. Bucky tightens his grip on her and leans in closer, continuously licking into her, making her head spin.

She tries to say something, tell him she’s close, tell him she’s going to cum quicker than she thought, but the only sounds that leave her mouth are breathy moans.

When he pulls away, she whines. He gives her a cocky grin.

“Wanna cum?”

She vigorously nods her head.

“That’s a shame.” He lets go of her legs, almost dropping her onto the tile, and wraps an arm around her waist to keep her steady. “We’ve got a big day ahead.” His tone is teasing, almost mean. “I’ll let you cum later.”

She’s left on the edge, and she’s angry. No, not angry. Frustrated. Frustrated and desperate.

“You’re mean.” She grumbles, shutting off the water.

“If you give me attitude, I won’t let you cum at all.” He chuckles.

She pushes him away and wraps a towel around her body.

“I don’t need you to cum anyways.” She grumbles under her breath.

As she walks away, he grabs her by the back of her neck and pulls her into his chest.

“If I were you,” He lowers his lips to her ear, “I’d behave. Now,” he releases his grip and gives her ass a smack. “Get dressed, we’ve got a lot to do today.”

She digs through her duffel to find a simple red jumpsuit. The neckline is low enough to be teasing, but it had enough support and pockets to be practical.

“Sounds like someone had a good morning.”

She turns around, a big grin stretching across her face when she sees Sam.

“Sam! Good morning!” She cheers.

“No need to good morning me when I woke up to the sound of fucking.” he grumbles, annoyance in his voice.

She chuckles as she buttons the front of her jumpsuit.

“So, Bucky tells me we have a lot going on today. What’s on the itinerary?”

“Hopefully, we can track down Karli and convince her to stop. At least that’s my plan.”

“Sounds good.”

He grabs his jacket from the chair. “I’m headed out to get something to eat. Do you want anything?”

“I’m okay.” She smiles at him. “Thanks for asking.”

Sam reaches the door and turns around.

“One more thing, you’ve got a great voice.”

“Was I that loud or did no one sleep at all last night?”

Sam chuckles.

“I think after the past few days, it’s hard for anyone to get a good night's sleep.” He looks down, fiddling with his fingers. “What you did… what you did for Bucky in Madripoor, when we were undercover…”

“What did I do?” She asks curiously.

“When Zemo had him go all Winter Soldier, you fought alongside him, you got to that first guy before Bucky did.”

Angel is quiet. She says nothing, looking down at her hands and picking at her cuticles.

“He might not say this to your face, but I’ve been around him long enough to know that he’s thankful. And so am I.”

She doesn’t know what to say. What would she even say?

“I can see now why he likes calling you Angel.”

With that, the door closes.

She walks over to the kitchen, looking through the cabinets. The shelves were fairly empty, mostly just tins of cookies and candy, and a box of cherry blossom tea. She huffs in frustration when her fingers brush over the tin of candy, barely moving it.

“Need some help, doll?”

Bucky grabs the tin and places it on the counter.

Her frustration is reignited at the sight of him in a tight, black t-shirt. She wants him to bend her over, fuck her until she sobs.

But she knows he won’t give her that.

Before she can grab it, Bucky holds it above his head.

“You’re evil.” She mutters. “Come on, give me it.”

“Nope!” He smirks.

“Go fu-“

She yelps when Bucky loops his thumb through the belt loop of her jumpsuit and pulls her close to him.

“Remember what I told you? Watch your language.”

“Give me the candy or you’re not getting head for a week.”

Bucky’s eyes widen and he hands her the box.

“Thank you.”

She presses a kiss to his nose and walks away with the box.

She knows what Bucky’s doing. He’s riling her up, teasing her.

But two can play that game.

She sits up on the counter and opens the tin.

Turkish Delight. Candy she used to eat as a child.

He’s staring at her. She can feel it. Her fingers pluck a candy from the box and hold it up.

“Want one?”

Bucky walks over to her and wedges himself between her thighs.

“Sure.”

She unwraps the candy and places a finger on his chin, beckoning him to open his mouth.

Her fingers place the treat on his tongue.

“Sweet, isn’t it?”

He kisses her and she can taste the sugar on his lips.

“Almost as sweet as you.”

She grabs another and hops off of the counter, humored by Bucky’s frustrated look.

“Sam probably wants everyone ready by the time he gets back. So, I don’t know.” She eyes him up and down, ready to drool at the sight of his arms. “Get dressed.”

“Oh doll, I’m already dressed.” He chuckles.

“Good. Then help me out.” Her fingers deftly unbutton the top of her jumpsuit, exposing her black sports bra. She reaches for her harness and shoves it in Bucky’s hands. “Buckle me in.”

…

Sex was the last thing on her mind when she’s face to face with the new Captain America.

“Karli Morganthau is too dangerous for you to be pulling this shit.” He yells.

Angel rolls her eyes at the sight of John Walker.

“How’d you find us now?” Bucky replies, voice full of annoyance.

“You think two Avengers can walk around Latvia without drawing attention?”

Angel’s seen his face in the news. Lemar, the better of America’s new dynamic duo.

“No more keeping us in the dark, and you can tell us why you broke him” John points to Zemo “out of prison.”

“He did that himself, technically.” Bucky answers.

“That is an unbelievable explanation! And who the hell are you?” He points to Angel.

“I’m a friend.” She grumbles, eyes narrowed.

“You have no business being here. And whatever you’re wearing, all you’re going to do is draw attention.”

“And your little Mr. America getup isn’t?”

“Why don’t you go back to working in European intelligence or whatever it is you do.”

“You better watch your mouth, Mr. Walker.” She snarls. “Is that really how you speak to a lady?”

“I know where Karli is.” Zemo interrupts their feud.

“Well, where?”

“All we know is,” Sam answers, “It’s a memorial. We’ll intercept her there.”

“That means civilians, high risk of casualties.” Lemar states.

“Alright good.” John schemes. “We’ll move in fast, take her by surprise.”

“Not a good idea, John.” Angel retorts. He halts in his steps and turns to her.

“You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into. This is an American situation.”

She leans in until she’s staring into his eyes. Rage broils inside of her.

“Let me tell you something John, I don’t care about your medals of honor. I don’t care that you’re wearing that red and blue suit. So I’ll tell you this once, and only once. If you dare speak to me like this again, I won’t hesitate to-“

Bucky pulls her back, giving her a stern look.

“Hey,” he rubs her shoulder, trying to settle her anger. “He’s not worth it.”

“Oh, so she’s your little girlfriend huh?”

Angel presses the tip of her knife against his chin and backs him into a wall.

“You stay out of Bucky’s business.” She seethes.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

This time, both Sam and Bucky had to pull her away, but she keeps her murderous glare trained on him.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes. Keep your little psycho under control.” John spits.

“Hey, don’t speak to her like that,” Sam demands. “Just because you don’t know her doesn’t give you an excuse to be rude.”

“Either you show her some respect,” Bucky says “or all of the help we have to offer is off of the table.”

Sam nods in agreement and eventually so does Zemo, who adds a small shrug.

“I wasn't actually going to kill him.” She mutters under her breath.

“We know.” Sam pulls her into a side hug. He directs his words back to John. “I want to talk to her alone.”

“I’m not losing her again.”

“Look, the person closest to her died. She’s vulnerable. If there’s any time to reason with her, it’s now.”

“What?” John halts in his steps. “No, wait stop. We are way past reasoning with her.”

“Sam,” Lemar states. “If you walk in there cold, you could die.”

“But if you walk in guns blazing, you could have the blood of hundreds of civilians on your hands.” Angel folds her arms. “Besides, if things go wrong, I’m trained in mixed martial arts.”

“You think a black belt will save you from a super-soldier?”

Angel snorts.

“It has before.”

Bucky looks down and stifles a laugh.

“I used to counsel soldiers dealing with trauma, okay?” Sam argues with John. “This is in my wheelhouse.”

They’re all silent, staring daggers at each other.

“John,” Lemar breaks the silence “If he can talk her down, it might be worth a try.” He gives Angel a kind smile. “And I think we give this girl a chance to show us what she’s got.”

“Thank you.” She smiles back.

“I’m sure this can all come to an agreeable conclusion.” Zemo points forward. “My associate is just up ahead.”

They watch as Zemo approaches a young girl, handing her some money. She beckons them to follow her down a cobblestone path, into a building, and through the boiler room.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” John states while handcuffing Zemo to a pipe. “Then we’re doing things my way.”

While they wait, Angel spends her time playing with her butterfly knife, spinning the handle around her fingers.

“How do you not cut yourself doing that?” Lemar asks.

She spins the knife closed.

“I have before, it’s just about practice and being careful. Here, I’ll show you.”

Bucky observes Angel showing off her knife tricks to Lemar.

Despite the stressful situation, he still felt a pang of possessiveness. She was his Angel. He gave her that name and when she said she’d accepted it. In a way, she was his and he was hers.

“What’s your name? I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

He hears Lemar ask.

Angel giggles.

“It’s Artemis. Like the goddess.”

Artemis. It’s fitting, Bucky thinks. The goddess of the hunt.

“That’s really cool. Let me guess, your parents were huge mythology fans?”

“You can say that.” She chuckles.

His eyes narrow when she smiles at Lemar.

Their conversation continues and Bucky’s jealousy burns brighter when she places her fingers on the fabric of Lemar’s suit, giving him a comment on how she’s got an eye for fashion and how nice the fabric was. From his position by the door, he sees her turn to him and give him a wink.

Bucky scowls. That little minx.

John crosses his arms and stares daggers into her.

“What exactly do you do, anyway?” He scoffs. “Are you some kind of spy?”

Angel raises a brow.

“I’m not a spy. I’m just a problem solver.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John shakes his head and secures the shield on his arm. “Nevermind. I’m going in.”

“Oh, come on John, it’s only been eight minutes.”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not-” Angel sighs and turns away, focusing her attention on pulling her hair back.

Bucky stops him before John can get through the doorway.

“It must be so easy for you.” John’s voice is full of malice. “All that serum running through your veins. Barnes, your partner needs backup. Do you really want his blood on your hands?”

Bucky can see Angel slowly shake her head, telling him not to give in to John’s words. But he can’t. He’s already done so much harm. He’s responsible for the deaths of so many people, he can’t let Sam become another.

So, he lets John walk past him, Lemar following along.

Angel runs up to him.

“Bucky, why’d you do that?”

“I can’t… I can’t risk it. I can’t risk losing him.”

She sighs and places a gentle hand on his cheek.

“I understand.” Her lips land a gentle kiss on his nose. “But don’t let his words get to you. Now,” She grins and lightly smacks his ass. “Go make sure he doesn’t kill anyone.”

With one final kiss, Bucky runs off.

She turns around to see the handcuffs dangling from the pole. Her blood runs cold. Zemo escaped and who knows what he’ll do.

She runs through the halls, boots quietly slapping on the concrete floors. From her left, she hears a series of loud gunshots and crunching glass.

Her feet lightly tread next to the walls, ears picking up every little sound.

She jumps, heartbeat pounding when the thump of a body falling to the ground meets her ears.

Did Zemo kill someone? Was it Karli? Another Flag-Smasher?

She runs through the door closest to her. From behind a table, she spots John staring at a small vial. A small vial of the serum. Before she can say anything, he runs away.

As she quietly walks into the room, she spots Zemo, lying on the ground, unconscious. No one else was here.

She crouches down next to him and gently shakes his shoulder.

“Baron? Zemo? Come on, wake up.”

He doesn’t move.

She picks up his wrist, pressing her pointer and middle fingers on the vein. A sigh of relief passes her lips at the feeling of a pulse.

Her hands shake his shoulder again, this time, with more vigor.

“Zemo!” She shouts.

His eyes snap open and he groans in pain.

“You passed out Baron.”

“I’m aware.” He grumbles. “John Walker threw the shield at me.”

“Of course he did.”

She offers him a hand and helps him stand up.

“Can you walk?” She asks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”

The two make their way through the city until they reach Zemo’s apartment. Sam was already there, typing away on his computer.

Angel wets a towel in the kitchen and hands it to Zemo.

“Go, lie down. Put this over your eyes.”

She walks down the hall towards Bucky’s room. With a tired sigh, she removes her shoes, jumpsuit, and harness.

Her eyes close as she lies on the bed in her underwear. The sports bra felt much too tight but she didn’t care. She was tired. Her morning sexual frustration had caught up to her but she didn’t feel like doing anything about it.

Even though it was only seven in the evening, she just wanted to sleep.

Right when she’s drifting off to sleep, the slam of the bedroom door jolts her awake.

Bucky is standing in front of her, arms crossed, eyes filled with rage.

“Get off the bed.” He snarls.

She laughs and rolls over onto her stomach.

“No. If sex is what you want, let’s do it on the bed.”

She hears a sigh behind her and her eyes widen when she feels Bucky’s hands wrap around her ankles.

“Buck, what are you-”

Her words come to a halt when he pulls her off of the bed and onto her knees.

“You wanted me to fuck you?” He seethes. “Fuck you rough until you can’t speak?”

“That was the plan.” She smirks.

He twists a hand in her hair and pulls her head back. Her breath is shallow as she looks up, meeting Bucky’s angry eyes.

He’s mad. At the entire Karli situation, and maybe with her. But his anger towards her, she assumes, is fiery, lustful anger. Anger that she can have a lot of fun with.

“If you had let me cum earlier,” She snaps, “ maybe I wouldn’t have been such a brat.”

She rubs her thighs together, trying to alleviate the arousal burning through her. A whine leaves her lips when he kicks her legs apart.

He tightens his grip on her hair.

“You really need to learn some respect.”

Bucky places the toe of his boot on her back and pushes her face down onto the floor. She doesn’t resist, giving in to his dominance.

“Aww, look at you,” he mocks, “You were so bold earlier, my Angel. Where did that fire go?”

Her heart swells. He’s no longer calling her Angel. He’s called her his Angel. She was his.

Footsteps echo around her and she takes a shaky breath when his black boots come into view.

“Look at me, doll. I wanna see those pretty eyes.”

His voice is commanding, authoritative. It drew her in, made her head spin.

She looks up at him with wide eyes as he bends down on a knee.

“Were you trying to rile me up? Trying to make me angry?”

She nods.

Bucky roughly grabs her chin, cold metal digging into her cheeks.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes Sergeant.” She squeaks.

He stares down at her, anger and lust in his eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

Her lips part and Bucky spits, letting his saliva pool on her tongue.

His fingers press on her chin, closing her mouth. She swallows, heat burning in her tummy.

“So now, you want to be a good girl, huh?”

He picks her up by her neck and shoves her face into the soft mattress. His fingers loop around the elastic waistband of her panties and pull, the fabric digging into her cunt.

“Yes, I’m your good girl.” She whines. “I’ll be good. Promise.”

He leans in close, his warm breath brushing over her ear.

“I don’t believe you.”

He rears his metal hand against her ass, leaving a red handprint of her skin.

A choked breath leaves her lips. She relishes in the pain and gives him a cocky smile.

“Is that all you got Sarge?”

He lands another hard smack, this time on her thigh. A whimper escapes her lips.

“Oh, you’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

He shifts his hand on her neck, wrapping it around the front of her neck. She squeezes at the sides, slowing the circulation of blood to her head.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the hand on her throat stops the words from leaving her lips.

The clinking of his belt buckle sends a wave of lust through her.

She was finally getting what she wanted.

His hand on her neck is released and she takes in a sharp breath.

He pulls her panties down her legs and throws them to the side.

She gasps at the feeling of cold metal rubbing between her folds. Her fingers dig into the sheets, grabbing at the fabric.

“You’re practically dripping.” He muses, “Who knew you were such a masochist?”

“Only for you.” She keens.

“Only for me? Not for anyone else?”

“Yes! Yes! Only you!”

Bucky hums and lands another smack on her ass. She yelps and tears threaten to spill from her eyes.

He shoves two fingers inside of her and she gasps at the cool feeling of the metal.

She squirms around as he twists his fingers, pressing against that spot inside of her.

Hunger swarms her brain. She wanted, no, needed more.

What he’s doing is sadistic, she thinks. Constantly bringing her to the edge, but never letting her tip over.

He lets his thumb press against her clit and the tears she’s been trying to hold back spill over. She lets out a quiet sob into the sheets but Bucky doesn’t stop his movements.

“I need more.” She quietly whimpers.

“You think you have the right to beg?” He asks nonchalantly. “After that little show?”

“I’m sorry.” She cries.

Her eyes squeeze shut and she turns her head, letting her cheek rest on the bedsheets. When she glances up, she can see Bucky’s amused smirk.

She feels the tip of his cock pressing against her entrance and she holds her breath.

“Oh doll,” he coos, thumbing away her tears, “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

A sudden thrust of his hips buries his cock inside of her. Bucky clamps his hand over her lips, muffling her desperate cries.

“Shh, shh,” He whispers gently. “It’s okay, love. Be a good girl and take it.”

He starts moving, his hips slowly thrusting into her. The fire inside of her burns, hotter and hotter. Her head is reeling as she feels herself come closer to her impending orgasm. Despite how rough he is with her, she feels safe. Safe with him. She feels safe enough to fall into submission, open and pliant for him.

Her sobs against his hand become louder, more intense and he bends down to nip at her neck.

“Are you gonna cum, angel? Cum all over my cock?”

She nods, eyes squeezed shut.

“Do you think you deserve it?” He asks.

“No,” she mumbles against his hand. “But I want to.”

He brushes his fingers down the length of her back and she shivers.

“You wanna cum, doll? Ask nicely.”

He releases his hand and grabs her hip, pulling her deeper onto his cock.

“Please.” She gasps. “Please, let me cum!”

“You have to do better than that.”

“Please, I’ll be so good for you! I’ll never flirt with anyone again! Just please! Please, I wanna cum.”

He picks up his pace, and she finds it harder to stave off her orgasm.

“So polite.” He hums, “But not yet.”

She lets out a pathetic sob.

“Please.” She whimpers.

“Be patient. You’ll get to cum soon.”

Her breaths are shallow as she tries to keep herself from cumming. She bites down on her lower lip but the pain does little to help.

Relief washes over her when Bucky speaks again.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me. Come on angel, cum for me.”

Her teeth bite down on the sheets as she’s hurtles over the edge, her orgasm sending shockwaves through her body.

As her chest heaves and her mind becomes foggy, she can barely feel Bucky pull out and releases him cum on her back.

She lies there, upper half sprawled over the mattress, a dopey smile on her face. A hum of pleasure slips past her lips when Bucky wipes his cum away with a warm washcloth.

“You okay, doll?” He asks.

She nods her head.

The bed shifts as he sits on the bed and pulls her towards him.

“Come on,” He lies down and pulls her close to him. He noses at the back of her shoulder. “Get some rest.”

The sun was about to set, bathing their bodies in a golden glow. He runs his metal fingers over her bicep, cooling down her heated skin.

She’s tired, so tired. Yet she’s happy. The first time in a long time that she’s actually felt happy.

“Bucky?” She asks in a fucked out daze.

“Yes my angel?”

A moment of silence passes.

“You’re the only one who’s made me feel human.”

...

Once again, tysm @sojournmichael for reading over my little snippets of writing!

#bucky x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #tfatws #bucky fanfic

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