#just pure longing and yearning between a dad and son | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelisverba · 3 years

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thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!” She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 3 years

Text

late night calls

Summary: It all started with a phone call to the DEA office to tell Javier about the surgery of his father. You had insisted to take care of him after Chucho told you about the surgery. That you would fall in love with his son you had never met before? Just as surprising to you as it was to Javier.

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Plus size reader

Wordcount: 4.1k+

Warnings: fluff, phone sex, mentions of bomb attacks, sexism, self doubt, yearning?

A/N: I know that probably more time passed between the bombing and Javier being send back to the states but I chose to ignore it. For the plot. Hope you enjoy it :)

Masterlist

*taglist in reblog

You still weren’t used to the heat. Yes, you did move to Texas because you wanted a fresh start. But the fucking heat would take some time to get used to. Nothing was holding you back in Maine. You had spent the last years taking care of your sick mother. She had died just before Christmas and with her all the family you had left.

So coming with the new year you took a leap of faith, packed your things, and moved to a little town close to the Mexican border. You got a job at the local police station as a secretary that made a decent sum of money each month. Life was good. At least you told yourself so.

You had made a couple of friends. Mostly the older generation of the town. You weren’t big on going out, nor had the town a big nightlife in the first place. That’s why you insisted on taking care of Chucho after he told you one day at the diner that he had to get a hip replacement. His wife had died a long time ago and his son wasn’t able to leave work.

“Don’t you have some better stuff to do cariño?” He had asked.

“What better way to start your day than on your Farm, Senior Peña.” You had winked at him.

Chucho might have been a stubborn old man, but once he got out of surgery and was in pain he was thankful that he accepted your help. That was also the first time you heard him talk about his son. Javier.

“Be a dear and call him to tell him I’m okay?” He had mumbled before he dozed off again. You had chuckled, kissed his cheek before you left him for the day to went over to his farm. Once you had taken care of everything for the day you sat down on his kitchen island and grabbed the phone, dialing the first number he had written down.

You had suggested moving into his place in his recovery time. It was a beautiful place. Mexico was just on the other side of the river down the property. But the best part about this place was the air conditioning. Okay… You really loved this place and it definitely was an upgrade to the small apartment you were renting in the city.

Waiting for his son to pick up the phone you wondered what kind of job he would have that he wasn’t able to take care of his father. You didn’t judge him, okay maybe a little, you were more curious. You had seen some pictures of him spread through the house. But you had never asked about him.

“DEA Office, how may I help you?” A woman answered your call.

“Uhm… Is Javier Peña available? It’s about his father,” you tried.

“Oh of course. Agent Peña just got in. Please hold.”

Agent Peña? DEA? You had so many questions but they died on your tongue when the call connected again.

“This is Peña.” A deep voice said. He reminded you of his father.

“Hello Mr. Peña. I’m only calling to let you know that your father’s surgery went fine. He wanted me to forward this to you.”

“Javier, please. Not even my father likes to be called Mr. Peña.”

“Oh I noticed that,” you chuckled.

“He’s fine yeah?” You heard something shuffle on the other end of the line.

“Yeah. Already made some jokes and told me to make sure I feed the horses in the right order.”

“You’re taking care of the horses?”

“Yeah. I’m temporarily moving in to help your father.”

“That’s very nice of you. He never told me about you.”

“There’s not much to tell.” You got up and took out a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’m only here for the air conditioning.” You joked. He laughed.

“Fuck I miss air conditioning. Hold on.” You sat down again, hearing only damp voices.

“Fuck. I need to go. Please call me if something comes up. Dad has my home number too, right?” He was speaking quickly and you wondered what was happening.

“Yes, he wrote it down for me. Everything okay?”

“Yeah hopefully. Just some work stuff. Keep in touch, yeah?”

“Will do Javier.”

Chucho got home a week later and he was the worst at listening to doctors’ orders. You still had to go into the station to work, but you spend your whole time worrying about him. It was funny to you how he seemingly had become a father figure to you in less than a couple of weeks.

Of course you found him standing at the kitchen counter when you got to the ranch, the phone tugged between his shoulder and his ear, making himself a sandwich.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” You asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“I was. Then Javi called and I got hungry.”

“Stubborn old man,” you grumbled and he rolled his eyes.

“Come on, I brought dinner.”

“Fine. Here. Javi wants to say Hello,” he handed you the phone before he slowly trotted towards the couch. Shaking your head you put the phone to your ear.

“You are really strict with him,” Javier said.

“Someone has to. Are all you Peña men this stubborn?”

He chuckled. “You have no idea. How is he doing?”

“Overall good. Not complaining as much as in the beginning but then again I am bribing him with my delicious cooking.”

Javier and you had spoken to each other at least two times per week since the first time you called to tell him about his father’s surgery. You learned that he was a DEA agent on the hunt for Pablo Escobar. You learned that he was feeling guilty about not being there for his father and to take care of the ranch. You learned lots of things about Javier Peña.

“Ah... Delicious cooking. Maybe one day you get to cook for me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You teased, hearing him take a sip of his drink. Whiskey probably.

“Just that my father is praising your cooking so much I wonder if it really is that good.”

“Oh, it is, Peña.” You found yourself smiling. You heard him sigh.

“Everything’s okay over there?” You asked.

“Yeah,” he said too quickly. Definitely a lie. You nodded.

“You wanna stay on the phone while I prepare dinner?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

The better Chucho got, the longer the phone calls between Javier and you seem to get. It was mostly at night after he got home from whatever he had been doing at work that day intending to check in on his father. But after a few sentences, he asked about your day. About how you felt. What your plans for the coming weekend were.

“You sound exhausted Hermosa,” he sighed. It had been a long day at work and all you wanted was to grab a pint of ice cream and drown your sorrows.

“Just the usual sexist bullshit at the PD,” you groaned.

“Want me to kill them?” Javier joked.

“You take care of your nemesis, I take care of mine. But I appreciate the help.” You sat down on your bed, knowing that this was usually the room he occupied when he was here to visit his father.

“Noted. But if it’s any help, I had a shit day too. They seem to get more frequent the longer I stay in this shithole.”

“Maybe you have to focus on the good things of being in this country. There have to be some. The food probably. I always enjoy new food. Maybe go to a museum? I don’t want to intrude but you don’t seem like you do anything besides work and well…”

It was pure accident that you had heard the voice of a woman one night when you had called him for a change. You knew that he looked good, you had seen the pictures, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to you, that he did have a girlfriend. He clarified that he didn’t, that this was just a woman he got intel from. You didn’t ask any more questions, it wasn’t your right. That it hurt to think of him and another woman was something you chose to ignore.

“I never thanked you,” Javier said. You let yourself fall back into bed, staring at the stars outside the window.

“What for?” you asked quietly.

“Thanking care of Dad and the ranch. Listening to my drunken ramblings. You’re a good friend,” he said. You smiled, a warm feeling spreading in your chest.

“You’re a good friend too, Javi.”

Chucho didn’t need anyone to take care of him. Not when he was back to his old health after a couple of months. But he had asked you to move in with him anyway. And you loved to live with the old man. Enjoying not being on your own all the time. And you loved helping him out at the ranch. The PD was still getting on your nerves and you were seriously considering just quitting.

“I hate it. I fucking hate it. I get one dumb line after another, just because I’m a woman. That I helped to get together the evidence to put that fucker away that killed all those women last year is not even of interest. FUCK!” you complained to Chucho. He knew about all of this already. Yet he jumped from his seat when he saw that you did cut yourself while making dinner.

“Careful.” He took your hand in his, leading you over to the sink to look at your wound. It didn’t hurt that much.

“What about if I take care of dinner today, and you go and take a bath? Javier is probably gonna call in a bit…” Chucho winked, putting a bandaid on your finger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you frowned.

“Just that I see the way you smile every time my son calls.”

“Two whole days off? What are you gonna do with yourself?” You joked. You were laying in the bathtub, the phone in your hand as you talked to Javier.

“Don’t know. I feel like I need a home-cooked meal so I’m gonna nag Connie to cook one.”

You chuckled, crossing your legs.

“Is that water I hear?” he asked and you blushed. Why? You didn’t know. You had undressed numerous times while on the phone with him, but being completely naked and him knowing about it…

“I’m in the bathtub. Chucho’s orders. He’s making dinner before I kill myself doing it.”

You were met with silence.

“You okay, Javi?” You sucked your bottom lip in. “I did only cut my finger,” you joked.

“Just trying to get the picture of you naked in the bathtub out of my head.”

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Doesn’t matter. All I need is to hear your voice and I’m hard…”

“Javi…” you whispered, feeling hot all of the sudden.

“Will you tell me?” he asked.

“Tell you what?”

“If you think about me? Because you are on my mind all the time. I keep picturing how you look. If you have long hair or short hair. What color your eyes have. If your smile is only half as beautiful as your laugh. Fuck… I just wanna see you. I wanna feel you. I wanna taste you Hermosa.”

Unintentionally your unoccupied hand had made its way down your body, your breath coming in short pants.

“Keep talking Javier…” you whispered, your hand slipping in between your legs.

“I want to touch you. Fuck I bet your skin is so soft. I’d worship you. I stay up at night wondering if I could fit your boobs in my hands. What sound you would make when I close my mouth around your nipple…”

“Shit Javi…” You moaned.

“I wonder how you taste. Are you wet for me baby?” he asked and you heard a zipper being undone on his end of the line.

“So wet. You always make me wet. I touch myself when we get off the phone, wondering how it would feel to have you here…” you whimpered.

“I would have fucked you on every flat surface in the house if I was there. The thought of you sleeping in my bed is making me lose my mind.”

You circled your clit with your fingers, a low moan coming from your lips.

“I wonder how you feel wrapped around my cock. I wonder how you sound when I make you cum. I want to hear it so badly…” You were sure he was fucking his hand and you whimpered at the thought.

“I wish it was my hand wrapped around your big cock right now. God, I wish it was your hand between my legs and not mine…” You bit your lips, keeping yourself quiet.

“Put two fingers into that cunt and make yourself cum. I wanna hear you…” he groaned on the phone.

“Fuck Javi…” you cried quietly, two fingers inside your cunt. “I wish it was your cock and not my fingers.”

“Me too… Me too babe.” he moaned. “Circle that clit for me. Cum for me.”

Circling your clit you almost let the phone fall into the tub when you came with a low moan. You heard him cry out your name on the other end of the line before all that was heard was both of your heavy breathing.

“Javi…?” you asked after a while, still high from one of the best orgasms you ever had. You heard the familiar sound of him lighting a cigarette.

“I meant every single word Hermosa. I want you.” You never thought you would hear these words from him or any man for that matter. You weren’t a typical beauty. You weren’t skinny, you loved food and your curves showed it. On most days you were happy with the way you looked. But you also knew how Javier looked. He was an attractive man and you knew he did indeed have a new woman every other night if he felt like it. He might be interested now, but once he would meet you, there was no way he would make true to all the things he said.

“You’re quiet.” he noticed.

“Yeah. Just coming down from the best orgasm I’ve had in a while,” you joked and he sighed.

“I might not see you, but I know that you’re lying.”

“Okay, it was the best orgasm I ever had.”

“Hermosa…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just let me enjoy the illusion of a handsome DEA Agent being interested in little ol’ me.”

“I’ll make sure you believe that it isn’t an illusion until we do see each other.”

Months went by and by now you were pretty sure you were in love with Javier Peña. The phone bill was taking dimensions you were almost guilty about, but Chucho only smiled not taking your money, telling you to make his boy happy. Safe to say he approved.

You had told him about your insecurities and Javier made sure to tell you every time you talked to each other that it didn’t matter how you looked. He told you that you could be green and he’d still go down on you the first time he would meet you.

And you wanted to believe him, you really did. You had told him how you looked after he tried to talk you into sending pictures of yourself “with or without clothes, I don’t care. Though you can guess what I prefer.” he had teased. Javier never made a secret about how much he liked you. Enjoyed talking to you. He told you he had stopped sleeping around for god’s sake.

He was supposed to visit his father in a couple of weeks and the more time passed, the more nervous you became. You didn’t doubt that he meant every single word he said to you. It was years of being on the receiving end of jokes and being the ugly friend that automatically let you feel like you weren’t good enough.

The worst part was that you knew, deep down, that you were beautiful. You loved how you looked. But there still was this voice inside your head, telling you that you would never be good enough for anyone. That there was no way someone would ever fall in love with you.

It was a typical morning at work. You had your coffee and all the files you had to update. Javier had talked to you until you fell asleep, telling you that he felt like he was failing in taking Escobar down. He didn’t tell you much, not wanting you to worry or to risk someone listening, but you could tell that he was exhausted. “I fucked up, Hermosa. I really fucked up and I have no idea how to fix this,” were the words that he had whispered to you in the middle of the night.

You didn’t ask what he meant, just telling him that you’d be there for him, no matter what.

Typing as usual you stopped as the song on the radio was, interrupted by a news report of a bombing in Bogota, Colombia. You knew that there were bombings all the time over there, and Javier always assured you that he was perfectly fine. But with how he was last night, you had a bad feeling.

“Fuck. When are they going to stop that shit over there? If I was there I’d caught Escobar years ago,” one of the officers said. You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply.

“Isn’t Chucho’s son over there pretty face?” The officer stopped in front of your desk and you opened your eyes.

“Yeah he is,” you said.

“Maybe if he would know how to do his job, shit like that wouldn’t go down like that,” he grinned and you wanted to stop, but your hand was faster. Slapping his cheek you got off your seat.

“And maybe if you would know how to use your dick your wife wouldn’t fuck your colleague over there, but you’ll never know, right?” You grinned, picking your purse and walking out.

“I’m taking today off.” You yelled over your shoulder as you walked to your car.

Javier didn’t pick up the phone. Which wasn’t what concerned you on the first day. He would have to deal with the shit that had happened over there. But when three days passed and you could see Chucho getting nervous as well you became restless. The ranch had never been so spotless. The horses had been fed in record time, and you took long rides along the river. If something had happened to him someone would have called, right? You couldn’t even reach his partner Murphy who you had talked to occasionally when Javier wasn’t at his desk.

When a week passed and you hadn’t heard anything you were close to making your way to the airport to just fly down there. What if he died? What if he was gone and you hadn’t told him that you loved him? That you fell in love with a man you had never met before? Getting off the horse you sat down at the tree closest to the river. It was quiet here. This was the outer area of Chucho’s ranch, your favorite spot. You had joked about building a house here once when you were out with the old man and he had agreed that it would be the perfect spot. Sighing you drank from the bottle of water you brought.

Where the fuck are you Javier?

Another week went by without any sign of life from him. You had called the DEA office again but no one seemed to be able to give you an answer. You were growing restless. Working seemed to be the only thing that could get you off the spiraling thoughts of what if? You really had it bad for the man. Shaking your head to yourself you sighed as you parked your car on the usual spot in front of the ranch. Chucho’s truck was gone, he had a doctor's appointment to check on his hip and would meet his lady friend for dinner afterward. You had met her, Estella, once. She was a beautiful woman and Chucho seemed very happy with her. With a sad smile you killed the engine, getting out of the car. On your way to the house you groaned, turning around because you forgot your take out. You weren’t in the mood to cook and the pizza from that place that Javier had told you about was the best you had ever had. While you opened the passenger door of your car you heard the front door of the house open.

Shit. Burglars? You didn’t have anything on you, you could use as a gun. You knew you could probably make it to the horse stable to find something, but not in these fucking heels. Why did you wear these fucking heels? Maybe you could make them choke on the pizza? But then again you were looking forward to eating it.

“Just take what you want, I won’t look.” You called over your shoulder, hoping to just be spared for the day. Closing your eyes you sighed when you were met with no reaction. You heard footsteps on the porch that stopped.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood for this bullshit today. So either take whatever the fuck you want or kill me….” you turned around and all the words died on your lips.

Standing there, leaning against the porch was no other than Javier fucking Peña. Alive. And looking even better than on the various pictures hanging in the house. He was bare feet, wearing tight jeans and a green shirt that was half undone. Opening your mouth to talk, all that came out was a gasp. He looked at you, his eyes mirroring the million emotions inside of you. Looking down at yourself you felt shy all of the sudden. This isn’t how you imagined meeting him for the first time. You wanted to be pretty. To wear some spanx. To have some make-up on. Closing your eyes you breathed in deep. You were happy to see him, you really were. But the ride of emotions you had gone through in the last couple of days took hold of you. Walking quickly towards him, you pushed against his chest, the air leaving his lungs in a puff.

“You fucking idiot. I thought you died.” You pushed him again.

“Do you have any idea how awful I felt since I heard the news of the bombing? You…” You pushed against his chest again, but this time he was faster, grabbing your wrists as he looked down at you. You felt the tears in your eyes as you finally looked up at him. Almost a year of phone calls and now he was standing here in front of you. Alive and warm. And smelling so fucking good.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding both of your wrists against his chest as he looked at you.

“I should have called but I told you I fucked up. Badly. And I had to fix it and…” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m here and fuck… you’re even more beautiful than I pictured you,” he smiled a little.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” You huffed, still annoyed.

“No?” he asked teasingly, smirking at you as he leaned down. You shook your head, biting your lip. God, you wanted to kiss him.

“Can I at least try?” he asked, his lips brushing over your temple. You swallowed, shivering when you felt his cheek against yours. Fuck. Why did he smell so good?

“You may try, but I’m really, really mad at you Javier.”

You closed your eyes when he released your wrists and put one of his hands on your back to push you closer against him. He kissed your cheek before he straightened to his full height and looked down at you, his other hand coming to rest on your cheek.

“You’re really sexy when you’re angry,” he teased before he leaned down to kiss you. You melted against him, your hands running up his chest, holding on to the back of his neck as one hand ran through his hair, to pull him down. Kissing him didn’t come close to anything you could have imagined, his tongue parting your lips and you couldn’t help the moan against his lips.

“Still angry?” he whispered out of breath against your lips.

“Slightly less angry,” you whispered back before you found yourself in his arms as he carried you into the house.

#my writing #Javier Peña #Javier Pena x reader #Javier Pena x you #pedro pascal #javier pena x plus size reader #fanfic #fanfiction

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potatoqueensays · 3 years

Text

Okay okay so I may have wrote an Irondad drabble. It's kinda like a character study or something, idk I just came up with it and was like yeah let's do this. I hope you enjoy!!

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My World Isn't Perfect Without You In It

3,004 words

It started as a simple feeling.

Tony was in his lab with Peter on one of their lab days, as they always were on Fridays. He would work with the kid after Happy picked him up and they would work on whatever their genius hearts desired.

Tony didn't really find himself looking at Peter with pride until Pepper pointed it out to him, she would comment on how he seemed like a Dad all of a sudden with the kid hanging around more.

He would always deny it with that Stark charm of his of course, deflecting was one of his main traits when it came to his feelings.

"Pep, motherhood may look nice on you, but fatherhood isn't kind for me you know." Flattery was said to get you places, but Pepper was known for never taking his BS.

"Tony, I can tell the way you look at him, you love him, whether you want to face it or not." She grinned at him, she was always right, even if he didn't like to admit it sometimes.

He thought back to her words frequently, picking up on how his heart swelled with pride and warmth when Peter looked at him for approval, or whenever he would get a question right, or even when Tony himself was having a bit of trouble with an equation, and he was Tony Stark, he could do anything!

The kid wormed his way into Tony's cold heart, thawed down his icy walls with a flamethrower and melted his heart into a puddle of goo.

The billionaire could never understand how he became so fond of the kid so quickly, but he always knew the reasons he liked the kid. He was so selfless, kind, and brave. A true hero at heart and much better than Tony even thought he would be, he was everything Tony wasn't and more.

He wasn't even jealous at the kid when he would steal the light, his own best friend becoming fond of the kid and mentioning how he was practically his kid.

"Platypus, he's not a Stark, in any way shape or form."

"He may not be blood related to you Tones, but he's your son in everything else, he has your brains even, maybe even smarter than you!" Rhodey teased.

"I'm wounded, Honey-Bear." He placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

"Oh hush, you know it better than anyone else."

And if he did, he would never say it up front.

He was proud of the kid even in his worst moments. He would try to console the kid when he came to him for help when close to a panic attack (which broke the hero's heart, the poor kid didn't deserve any of the unfair treatment the world had, it was too cruel for such a pure hearted kid like Peter.) or when he had a nightmare when staying over at the tower.

Tony wasn't always the most physically affectionate, he would give pats on the shoulder or back, arms around shoulders to keep the person close, and side hugs, even if he didn't do full ones.

When it came to Peter however, he slowly broke out of his shell of that. He kept a hand gently over the back of the boy's neck, sometimes playing with the curls that rested there, occasionally giving a reassuring squeeze when Peter seemed a bit nervous or highstrung. It always got rid of a little of his own stress when the boy would lean into his touch, side hugs and pats on the shoulder were gladly accepted.

Even the occasional hand holding when the kid was kept in the med-bay after a stressful mission or patrol, he would keep his hand over the boy's pulse point to reassure himself that the kid was alive and well. He would keep one hand over the kid's wrist while he worked on his suit, improving how he could make sure the current problems never happened again, whether it be even a scratch or a stab wound, he wouldn't let Peter get hurt on his watch.

He would always keep an eye on the kid, letting Peter know that he could call whenever he felt he needed something, maybe even just to chat, the billionaire found himself even endeared to the chatter that came from the spider-kid, it was a nice comforting constant to fill the silence in his life, even if he worked in his suits with FRIDAY blasting AC/DC, he seemed to have a better preference for the chatty kid. He would invest himself in listening to what happened in his day, to what him and Ted did over the week, and even hearing about how Aunt May burned water when trying to boil pasta.

He was fond of the kid, the feeling that was so simple at the start but steadily increasing over time and getting fiercer and stronger with each visit to the med-bay or after every movie night that eventually had the boy cuddled up to him. It grew into a surge of protectiveness, a very parental feeling and yearning to make his the kid happy.

So yeah, he was fond.

He was in too deep, as he wanted the kid by his side for as long as he could have him in fact, he begun to realize that yeah, he liked the kid and was fond of his company, but even more so.

He loved the kid.

He loved Peter.

Tony had a crisis when he was having a revelation about his feelings towards the younger hero.

He felt parental, even if he kept denying the fact when everybody knew how he felt before himself. Even if he tried to hide his grin whenever the kid's smile lit up a room, even if he kept rolling his eyes affectionately and ruffled the kid's curls when they bantered.

So yeah, he loved him.

Loving was dangerous however, loving got you in difficult situations where you don't think and sometimes your actions get out of hand with how much you care.

He cared about Peter with his iron heart, he cared about the boy so loudly in fact it would almost creep those three words up into his throat when he loved too fiercely with kid.

That's how he found himself in a very dangerous situation.

Peter was hurt, badly.

And it was his fault because he loved him, he was someone he got too close to and now it was his fault.

He stayed too close even when he should have remained at arms length, but the kid had to get close.

The bullet was supposed to be for Tony, not Peter, but the kid saw it coming from a mile away and pushed the iron clad man away from the aim of fire and taking the punishment with all the confidence of a self sacrificing idiot.

Peter was laid up in the med-bay as Cho and her helpers ran around to try and nurse the kid, while Tony was trapped in his own mind with how much he let Peter get too close, how he didn't notice that the kid obviously loved him too, so much in fact that he took a bullet for him, when Tony specifically told him not to if something like that happened.

He couldn't find it in his heart to be angry at the kid, no matter how much he wanted to be, he wanted to scream and shout and punch the walls, blame the universe for giving him someone so precious and kind that he would ruin completely, to rip apart a kid's life. It was his fault that the kid was by his side now, wanting to be an avenger because he took him to Germany just to win a fight against his own team, his own family. Or what he thought was.

He was pushed out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, Rhodey's comforting voice making it's way to the man in armor, ridding him of the terrible thoughts and guilt that went through him.

"He'll be okay Tones, he's tough, he can handle it, he always does." Rhodey reasoned, trying to take Tony down from his tower of guilt.

"But he shouldn't have to."

"He did what he did because he cares, I know you would do it in a heartbeat if he was the one about to be shot."

"Because that's how it should be, I'm the adult, and he's the kid. He's just a child, Rhodey, a child." The older hero sighed, his face visible as his helmet was open, anyone could easily see his terror and distress. He tried to tear his eyes away from the frittering med staff, but he could only think of Peter. His Peter. His self sacrificing kid that he loved too much, and now it had gotten him hurt, the panic gripping his chest like a vice and not letting go as he feared what worse could have happened to his kid.

"Listen, he'll be okay, I know it." There was no room for argument with his tone, even if Tony wanted to, he needed to be at Peter's bedside, he was always there no matter what, even if he was mad or trying not to think about his guilt, the boy's presence always seemed to calm him.

The hero sighed softly, nodding even though panic rested comfortably in his chest.

He had cleaned himself up after the fight, after seeing Peter taken away from his side as he bled out and was in pain, even under the mask for the spider-suit, Tony could tell by the way the white eyes of the mask were pinched. It haunted him how he thought of Peter's bambi eyes shining with unshed tears and pain under that mask, those bright doe eyes filled with innocence and brilliance.

He remained stationary by the kid's bedside as he was finally left alone in his room, his accelerated healing luckily used in this moment. Helen had said the bullet hadn't hit any major arteries or organs, so that was a plus, but it still was agonizing to think of the boy in any sort of pain, or to even think of Peter leaving his side. If that happened, he didn't know what he would do. If he didn't have Pepper he would certainly lose it.

He just loved the kid too much to let him suffer.

He had his Stark-Pad resting in his lap as he held onto Peter's wrist, the feeling of the pulse underneath his fingers much more reassuring than the beep of the heart monitor. He kept his eyes focusing back between the notes he had down for what he could improve on Peter's suit and on the kid himself, eyeing his chest to check his breathing and checking the face of the boy in case he was going to wake up anytime soon.

He looked at the features of the boy, taking in the curls swept over his forehead, they were always gelled back no matter how much Tony joked about it. He never had a problem with it, but it was always pleasing to know how the boy liked a hand combing through his curls, whether it be his aunt to Tony himself. His face always bright with a smile that reached to his chocolate doe eyes, shining with talent and excitement for everything and anything. From Star Wars to how the Iron Man suit worked, he was always so smart and inquisitive. The boy was a ray of sunshine in Tony's bleak life. Yes he had Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy, he loved them all to bits and they made his life so much better, but loving Peter was different. He was his son in everything but blood, and that didn't even matter. He was a bright light that warmed up even the coldest of hearts, thawing right through to make anyone wrapped around his little finger.

Tony loved him.

He realized he was looking too much at the boy and swiftly changed to reading the schematics of the spider-suit, although he didn't read far when he heard a small sigh coming from in front of him. He looked up to see those bright and beautiful doe eyes looking up at him with that same amount of adoration that made Tony's heart want to burst, he didn't deserve the kid in the slightest, but here he was with him.

"Good afternoon, bambi." He said softly, aware of how Peter was sensitive his surroundings after waking up in the med-bay, the lights always at a dimmer power than normal to accustom to the spider-boy.

"Hi Mstr' Strk'." The boy slurred, still tired from just waking up and having pain reducing drugs in his system. The man carefully let go of the boy's wrist to hit the button that alerted Helen that her patient was awake, he almost missed the small whine that came from the younger hero at the loss of contact, it cut right through his heart.

"I'm here kiddo, don't worry." He held onto the boy's wrist again, fingers resting over the pulse point with quick muscle memory at this point.

"M' srry.." The boy mumbled, relaxing slightly as he registered the touch again, wide bambi eyes drooping sightly in relief.

"What are you sorry for, kiddo?" The man wondered. Peter always apologized, whether it be for something as small as dropping a pencil or bumping into a dog. He had such good manners.

"Ar' you mad a' me?" The boy's speech improving only a little as his enhanced metabolism burned through the painkillers.

Ah, so that explains it, he was worried the billionaire was mad at him. He gently rubbed a circle into the boy's wrist with his hand, comforting the kid into relaxing and not stressing when he needed to heal and get rest.

The man softly sighed and put the Stark-Pad away on the side table, scooting a little closer to the cot as he could look the kid better in the eye.

"No bud, I'm not mad, anymore. But you worried me a lot, I have a heart condition you know." He moved his free hand to go over the boy's front curls that hung in front of his eyes, getting to see those baby browns even better as the kid leaned into the soft touch.

"I knda' had to, you'd do it too.." The kid had a point, as it was similar to Rhodey's, even Pepper would say something like that, and she was always right, so that had to mean that Rhodey and Peter were too.

"That's different Pete. You're a kid and I'm an adult, we seniors kinda have to take the bullet. Figuratively and literally." He chided gently.

The boy let out a small huff of frustrated air, which was absolutely adorable as his nose scrunched up and he eyed Tony with what was presumably a glare that equalled the look of a puppy.

"But we gotta prtect' each other, otherwise you'd get hurt much worse." He brought up matter of factly.

"Well, maybe that's a risk I gotta take for spider-babies like you." Tony provided ruefully.

"Nt' a baby."

Well you're my spider-baby. He almost wanted to say.

Luckily he was saved by Helen Cho coming in to do a small checkup on Peter, looking over his vitals and smiling softly at her patient.

"Hello Peter, how are you feeling? Any pain?" She eyed over her clipboard presumably to check over his vitals and wounds again, being very perceptive to how Peter responded.

"M' fine, jus' a little sore." At that, Helen nodded and worked on administering a little medicine into his system, making the boy sigh gratefully at that. Both Cho and Tony knew when Peter said he felt a little pain it meant more than he played it as.

"I'll be back in a couple more hours, get some rest okay?"

Peter nodded at that and watched as she left the room, now alone with his father figure mentor once again. He looked over at Tony with a dopey smile, looking very tired now, he was bound to fall asleep. He sightly tugged on the man's arm, they both know that was to invite the man to cuddle, which they never brought up out loud, but they both knew the other enjoyed it greatly. It helped assure Tony that Peter was safe and there, while Peter got comfort and protection.

The man sighted good-naturedly as he stood up to get beside Peter.

"Alright alright, scoot over, this isn't gonna be nice on my back later." He joked. Although he said that, he would gladly take a little pain if it meant having Peter safe in his arms.

The boy obeyed and scooted over quickly, allowing Tony to climb in and get comfy, then let out a small "oof" as the kid rested his head on his shoulder and clung like a koala.

The man chuckled, a hand coming up to cradle the boy's head and play with his curls, knowing that helped Peter sleep much faster.

"Okay cuddle-bug, you heard her. It's nap time."

"Nt' a bug." Peter mumbled, blissfully unaware how Tony's heart practically melted with how easy Peter fit in his arms. He was so small. They were like two pieces of a puzzle, father and son, mentor and mentee. They belonged together and they wouldn't have it any other way as they needed the other.

"Right, arachnid." Tony corrected himself, hiding his grin in the kid's hair as Peter let out a pleased hum, slowly drifting off to sleep.

"Night." Peter mumbled, slowly lulled to sleep by the soft rumbling of the older hero's chest as he responded in kind.

"Goodnight bambino." He mumbled, pressing a small kiss to the boy's hair as they soon both drifted off to sleep.

Yeah, Tony loved him, and he needed him in his life like Peter needed him.

Thank you to @polaroid15 for reading this before hand and your lovely comments!! 🥺♥️

#irondad #irondad and spiderson #irondad fanfiction #mine #honestly this is my first ever attempt at writing fanfiction #i normally write for classes or drabbles of my own characters #but i have never done other characters #also im not that good with dialogue but I tried #i hope you enjoy 🥺♥️#tony stark #peter parker #pepperpotts #but only like quickly #james rhodes #quickly as well

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stargazing-enby · 4 years

Note

I had a dream that harry and draco were both aurors and they were married to ginny and astoria and then got sent to a mission and they had to do a steak out????? But ofc there was tension so they were like uuuuhhhhh we should bring our wives bc uuuuhhh we cant be away from them too long ya know and they all spend a month or two in a house and shit and ginny and astoria fall in love and bc theyre badass ladies they are upfront about it and then harry and draco are like.... Guess we should a dress

our thing too huh?? And then albus and scorpious have 2 moms and 2 dads (ginny and astoria were both pregnant btw, dont know if i already said that) and it was weirdly amazing and i didnt know who else to tell so yea

***

Anon, your mind. First of all, thanks so much for sharing your dream with me because it's honestly amazing. Second of all, I was re-reading your asks the other day wondering if I should try to write this, and soon after that I took the (ill-advised) decision to take a nap and started dreaming about your prompt. Now I feel like I share a special, oneiric connection with you! Anyway, I hope you enjoy :)

Thanks @april-thelightfury115 for betaing!

Drarry | 2.3k | Teen and Up | Falling in Love, Break Up, Getting Together, Kid Fic, Pregnancy | Read on AO3

At first, Ginny had been mad. Offended, even, that her husband had thought it a great idea to make her share a house with Astoria Malfoy for Merlin knew how long while he and Draco ran off to chase some suspect.

“The only thing that woman and I have in common is that we're pregnant,” Ginny had argued, “and that we're both married to bloody idiots!”

Three weeks into the stakeout, however, Ginny had to admit she’d been wrong. Although wrong wasn't perhaps the most accurate of word choices, since she and Astoria were, like she’d suspected, completely different kinds of people. Where Ginny was passionate and intense, Astoria was quiet, an aura of serenity always surrounding her. Where Ginny bickered and joked and threw jibes around with her husband whenever she had the chance, Astoria was all subtle touches; a small caress to Draco's shoulder before they left home in the morning, a careful take care whispered in his ear.

Where Ginny was fire, Astoria was water: cleansing and soothing and calm.

But she had been utterly, dangerously wrong in that she couldn’t help but find Astoria Malfoy intoxicating.

“Darling.” Astoria had recently taken to calling her that when they were on their own, in a tone that Ginny could not bring herself to believe to be purely neutral. “Are you sure you're not tired? I sincerely doubt they'll arrive before dawn this morning—we don't have to stay awake if you don't want to.”

“No, no—” Ginny couldn’t help but shiver as the small realisation washed over her for seemingly the hundredth time that night: the realisation that Harry, as much as she adored him, could not have had any less to do with her wanting to stay awake. “I don't want to give up the chance to beat you one more time.”

Astoria smiled at her, cheeky.

“Very well,” she said, and, after a moment, moved one of her knights on the board. She didn't take her eyes off Ginny as the Knight destroyed one of Ginny's pawns; her eyes sparkled with naughty mirth, and Ginny's breath caught.

A moment later, a wave of guilt drowned the butterflies in her stomach, and Ginny looked down at the chess board and told herself that she was in love with her husband. Utterly, helplessly in love.

Except you aren't, a little voice said. You love him. You love him more than anything. You’ve loved him since forever; you'll love him for forever, because he'll always be the person who gave you your son. But you are not in love with him anymore. You haven't been for a while now.

“Ginny.”

She raised her head.

“You're not thinking about the game.”

It wasn't a question.

Astoria knew. She wasn't stupid. She knew she wasn't meant to be calling Ginny darling, knew of the emotions—deep, fierce, raging—that ran under Ginny's skin whenever they shared a smile, a look; whenever one's fingertips found the other's knuckles and their knees brushed and bumped almost on their own accord in the middle of their nightly conversations.

“I'm not,” Ginny said. “I'm thinking about us.”

Astoria let out a breath, shoulders sagging. She looked down, but Ginny waited, gaze steady, for Astoria to look back up at her.

“It's late,” Astoria said after a moment.

“I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Astoria closed her eyes, a slow frown twisting her sharp features.

“I know.” It was barely a murmur.

“I know you know,” Ginny said, a challenge.

Astoria met her gaze, then, and Ginny's resolve wavered when she realised just how terrified Astoria was.

“Hey,” Ginny murmured, standing up. Astoria, lips trembling, buckled over to make room for her in the settee. “Hey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry—”

“It's not your fault.” Even though her head was turned away from Ginny, Astoria leaned into her touch. “None of this is your fault. Draco is—” Her voice broke, and Ginny held her hand with both of hers, aching, yearning to hold Astoria in her arms and take the pain away. But she couldn't. “Draco is a wonderful man. He's attentive, and loving, and he's funny, and…”

A tear fell into Astoria's shirt over her tummy.

“And he's my best friend. But he and I are not in love. We never have been.”

That caught Ginny off-guard.

“Never?”

Astoria laughed, a broken, pathetic sound.

“Never. Our parents planned our union soon after I left Hogwarts. I was horrified at first, but after getting to know him, there was a time when I really thought I would fall in love with him in time. That he'd fall in love with me. And we did end up loving each other, mind you: he will always be my closest friend. It's just not…”

“Yeah,” Ginny said softly. “I understand.”

Astoria turned to look at her, then. Seeing her teared up made something inside Ginny snap, and she reached out, held Astoria's cheeks in her hands, thumbing at her messy tears.

“Harry and I were in love for a long time, but… I think he knows just as well as I do that the love we feel now is purely platonic.” She smiled—chuckled. “In fact, a small part of me suspects whatever he feels for Draco right now is more intense than what he ever felt for me.”

That tore a laugh out of Astoria.

“I would not be surprised if that was the case. Those two…” She shook her head. “They're incorrigible.”

Ginny groaned in agreement. A moment later, though, her smile faded away and she was left with Astoria's face cradled in her hands. Their legs pressed together, their eyes searching the other's face. Scared, but hopeful.

Sliding her hands down Astoria's neck and shoulders, and then squeezing her arms, Ginny let out a slow, deep breath.

“I think we need to have a conversation with our husbands.”

***

“You… What?”

To Harry's credit, he looked more baffled than anything else.

“We're in love,” Astoria repeated, voice steady, but gaze pleading with Draco to understand.

“I… Okay. Okay. Give me one second.” Harry turned around and sat down on the nearest chair.

Draco remained still. As far as Ginny was aware, he’d barely even blinked since they'd started explaining the situation to them.

“Are you going to say anything?” Harry asked after a moment, turning to Draco. When Draco shook his head, gaze still fixed in some distant point in space, Harry stood again, leaning his weight against the table. “Okay, so first of all, this is all extremely awkward.”

“We were aware of that much, thank you,” Astoria said.

“I mean, both of you are pregnant. With our babies.” He gestured between him and Draco. “Not to mention that we're married, although that's slightly less permanent…”

Draco huffed, and the three of them turned to him. When he didn't say anything, Harry continued.

“But I guess it… makes sense? I mean—you two are sort of like… the perfect opposites, you know. I always knew you would get on well. I didn't suspect you'd get on this well, but, hey—”

“Have you—” Draco's head seemed to be stuck mid-shake, eyes scrunched closed. “Have you done anything? With one another?”

“No, darling.” The word sounded different, Ginny thought, when Astoria used it for Draco. “We were waiting to tell you.”

He nodded, but didn't say anything else. When Astoria approached him, Ginny took a step back to give them some space and leaned into the table with Harry.

“I love you,” she told him.

“And I you,” Harry said, eyes low. Gulping, he took Ginny's hand in his. “But… I mean, I think both of us had noticed that something was… that something wasn't…”

“I know.” She squeezed his hand. “I know.”

He looked up at her, and Merlin, he looked so, so vulnerable in that moment that Ginny wished more than ever that she could love him the way he deserved to be loved. But that simply wasn’t for her to do.

“I still would like for us to raise our son together,” he murmured.

“We will. Harry, I don't care what happens from now on. You're still my best friend, and you're still the father of my kid. Nothing is going to change that. Okay?”

Harry nodded, and, biting his lip, turned his gaze to Draco and Astoria. After a moment, Ginny did too.

Draco was crying.

“Come on, let's give them some space,” she said, pushing herself off the table. Harry followed her out of the room.

***

“Draco…”

No reply came. Harry looked at him, but Draco's gaze was fixed somewhere outside the car window.

They'd spent countless hours inside that car, in that very watch post. Hours chatting, and bickering, and taking turns to sleep while the other watched the house for any signs of activity.

It had never been awkward before now.

“Look, we need to talk,” Harry said. Draco huffed, unamused. “We need to talk because we both know our wives are not the only ones who’d noticed something wasn’t right before yesterday’s conversation. They were just the only ones brave enough to be upfront about it.”

In the moment it took Draco to turn around, Harry thought of Draco's head on his shoulder; of the way it had felt when Draco had fallen asleep there, of the way he'd been so careful not to let it fall so Draco wouldn't wake up. He thought of the way their arms brushed whenever they walked, wands in hand, toward a dangerous location. Thought of the very reason they'd been so adamant that their wives should come with them on this mission: a truth they'd refused to confront, and that had gone and slapped them in the face anyway.

“Do you understand how terrifying this is for me?” Draco finally said, body turned to Harry, but gaze fixed on his knees. “To know that my life as I know it, as I always expected it to be, is over? Do you think”—he looked up at Harry, and Merlin, he looked so scared Harry had to hold back from reaching out to him—“that I haven't noticed that I'm in love with Harry Potter, and not with the woman I'm about to have a baby with?”

Harry held his breath. Searched in Malfoy's eyes, desperately, for any hint that he was about to take back his words. Then, almost out of breath:

“I'm in love with you too.”

Draco let out a desperate laugh.

“I know that, you bloody idiot,” he choked out. “Fuck, I know.”

Harry bit his lip. Reached out, rested a hand over Draco's trembling, fisted own.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

“I'm sorry,” Harry murmured eventually. “I'm sorry things can't be different.”

Draco started playing with Harry's fingers, and Harry closed his eyes—marvelled in how warm Draco's hands felt. How careful they were even as he fidgeted.

“I'm glad they told us,” Draco said. “I want Astoria to be happy, and I know she'd never be completely happy with me.” A sigh. “I wouldn't, either. Not with her. I just… I need some time to come to terms with it.”

Harry's fingers turned and turned between Draco's nervous own.

“That's okay. I don't mind waiting for you.”

Their eyes met.

“Okay,” Draco said.

Harry squeezed his hand. Smiled.

“Okay.”

***

The whoosh of the hearth letting someone through was quickly followed by two high-pitched squeals. By two very excited cries of, “Daddy!”

Harry smiled to himself when he heard Draco's laughter coming from the living room as he—presumably—was tackled to the floor by Albus and Scorpius.

“Boooys,” Harry called after a moment. “Come grab some cookies from the kitchen!”

A few seconds later, the two five-year-old tornadoes were rushing toward the tray, barely sparing Harry a glance. Harry shook his head, grinning.

“Where's my hug?”

“Daddy!” Albus, face already full of crumbs, ran toward Harry's arms. “Your cookies are the best!”

“Mmh!” Scorpius agreed.

“I'm glad you like them.” Harry ruffled Al's hair. “Do save some for later, though!”

Draco walked in, grabbed a cookie. “How are your mums?” he asked while he gave Harry a sonorous kiss on the cheek, the crumbs on Draco’s mouth scratching against his stubble.

Harry was about to complain when Albus stretched his arms out, asking to be picked up.

“They have a date today,” he—quite loudly—whispered in Harry's ear.

“Do they, now!”

“A date in a restawant with candles and a lot of different forks,” Albus explained. “And—and they were wearing really pretty dresses!”

“Really? What colour?” Draco asked, picking Scorpius up too.

“Mum's was red,” Scorpius said. “And mummy's was, uh, it was really pretty, and—”

“And sparkly!” Albus squealed. “Black and sparkly!”

“Wow! I don’t think Draco and I own anything so pretty!” Harry turned to Draco. “What do you think?”

“Hmmm…” Draco dragged the sound out, sharing a mischievous look with Scorpius. “I’m not sure… I think we might have some sparkly garments hidden in the back of our wardrobe, but I’m sure Al and Scorp won’t be interested in—”

“We want to see!” Scorpius screamed, wiggling in his father’s arms.

“We want to see, we want to see!” Albus chanted.

Harry and Draco shared a smile.

“Very well, then,” Draco said solemnly, setting Scorpius down. “Let’s see which of you can find the prettiest clothes in our bedroom for us to wear today.”

The kids darted upstairs, and, before following them, Harry took Draco’s hand in his and kissed his husband’s cheek in return.

#OTPshipper98 #Drarry #Drarry fic #Drarry squad #Harry Potter #Draco x Harry #Astoria x Ginny #how would you call this ship?#Astinny #that doesn't sound right XD #Pregnancy tw #chess players plase don't murder me if I got chess wrong #I have literally never played it aslkjglks

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zer0pm · 4 years

Text

Imagine if Alucard‘s heart beats loudly only for you.

A/N: WARNING!! This be long!!

Alright, I think it’s safe to say that we all agree that Alucard effin’ deserved better in S3, dammit. I don’t know what the writers were thinking, but if they aimed to place him on his dad’s path, there were better ways to do it. Just saying. Here’s some fluff to give our boy the love he needs.

Alucard has been awake for some time now, his golden eyes gaze upon the serene look on your face as you slept. He wore a look of longing and adoration as his fingers brush gently across your skin, caressing your back in long strokes. The sensation of his touch stirred you pleasantly in your sleep and you released a familiar and satisfied sigh. The sound made the dhampir’s heart swell along with his ego. Gently, he pulls you further into his embrace with the intent to feel your soothing heartbeat against his chest and allow your warmth to envelop him.

As if out of instinct, you wrap your arms around his slender waist and angle your head to slightly face him. Your ear presses against his chest and he watches you smile at the sound of his heart. Beating only for you.

In that moment, Alucard was in awe. There were very few moments where he had ever felt his own heart pulse within. Although he is half-vampire and therefore possesses a biology that functions differently from humans, that mortal side of him kept his beat faint, even almost non-existent. His father, an age-defining genius, argued that a beating heart has no function within an immortal. His mother, on the other hand, claims that it was his body’s way of telling him that it yearns still for a warmth that only human life can give. Of course, there was a scientific explanation for it; however, his mother, a doctor, an individual of medicine and science, suggests that the secret behind her son’s heartbeats stems from a hidden desire for something...romantic. One that defies rational reason. After nearly choking on his wine listening to her outlandish implication, Alucard outwardly denied such a theory to which she chuckled off humorously along with his father. Despite how the he felt, the idea was firmly planted within Alucard’s mind. It certainly puzzled him, but in time he did not care to waste any further thoughts to understand it then. Until he met you.

After his parents were gone from this world, you stumbled into his life. Or rather, you had picked a fight right outside his castle. He was mourning for both his mother and father, missing the company of his friends Trevor and Sypha, and was slowly slipping into the madness of loneliness and depression until his acute hearing picked up the clashing of swords at his front door. He wasted no time in checking out the commotion, wary that his domain may be under attack and saw you fighting what appears to be two foreign warriors. You seemed to hold your own rather well, but Alucard did not dwell on this and instead shouted at you three to cease your battle.

He demanded an explanation with teeth bared, clearly angered to have his peace disturbed. You were the first to speak up, claimed the two you cross blades with were vampire hunters trying to pass themselves off as hapless travelers in search for training and guidance. You added that, in reality, they take advantage of the hosts who accommodate them and kill them for their own gain. The foreigners denied the accusations and called you a petty highwayman, trying to kill them and take their belongings, fabricating stories with a silver tongue to sway favor.

Alucard looked back and forth between the two parties. He didn’t know who to trust. If it was in his nature, he would have killed you all and get back to wallowing. But he is not that kind of man. The foreigners appeared sincere, a brother-sister pair wandering the world with wide-eyes in pursuit of a greater purpose. Meanwhile, there was you. You, he honestly could not place. But there was something about you that drew him in, and while your story compared to the foreigners seemed incredibly outlandish, he could not find it within himself to immediately conclude that you were lying. You were a curious thing to him.

Alucard somehow felt responsible for the ordeal and thus the burden of resolving it fell on him. He offered the ultimatum, leave or die. It was such a simple plan that could easily unravel the true intentions you and the two foreigners held. And like a fish on a hook, the bait was taken. The foreigners apparently thought they no longer needed to uphold their charade and moved to strike down both you and him with bow and sword raised.

A stupid mistake. And as quickly as they moved, Alucard was faster. With a single thought, his blade answered the unspoken call. A swing, and two bodies fell to the ground with their throats slit. He did not even bother to watch the two foreigners bleed out as he noticed you collapse to your knees. Without showing any reservation, and on pure instinct, he lifts you into his arms and carried you inside his castle towards his mother and father’s laboratory.

He placed you atop one of the cushioned seats and analyzed your injuries. Several cuts and gashes here and there, but nothing severe and you were visibly exhausted. Apparently you were fighting for an extended period of time. Even though Alucard defeated them with ease, you did not have the same combative advantages. He noted first a particularly nasty gash atop your forehead to which he then swiftly proceeded to clean and apply salve on much to your protest.

“It is not as bad as it looks,” you said with a wince.

He ignored you, “When you stop bleeding, I’ll take your word for it.”

You released an indignant huff, but otherwise allowed him to do his work. He felt you watch him from the corner of your eye and wondered then what you were thinking. After a moment of silence, you relaxed before letting out a meek “thank you.”

“It is nothing,” shrugged the dhampir. There was another shortlived pause before curiosity got the best of him. “How did you know of their true nature?” He already had an idea, but wanted to ask regardless if not to have a better understanding of you.

With a deep breath, you regaled your tale. Apparently, the foreigners were taken in by your kin, admitting that they seemed a good, friendly pair of lost travelers just trying to find a place to belong. But one day under the cover of night, they hid away into your kin’s sleeping quarters, seduced them, and slew them before taking off with their valuables. The next day, you returned from the market in time for one of your loved ones to reveal all of this to you before dying in your arms. When you had finished, Alucard could see that tears threatened to spill from your eyes but you managed to restrain through sheer will. He knew you did not want him to see your pain, it was a sentiment he was all too familiar with.

The dhampir spoke before he could stop himself, “Forgive me.”

You shook your head. “It is not your fault, nor was it your burden to bear. I did not want other poor souls to suffer the same fate. Which is why I had to find them and punish them for their crimes before they had the chance to strike again.”

“It seems I am lucky, then. You have my utmost gratitude for coming to my aid.”

“Ha,” you huffed lightly. “You looked like you could have handled them yourself, see past their deception.”

“How do you know I am not simply that naive?”

“Are you?”

Alucard responds, “I confess, I do not know. At the moment, my situation is delicate. I probably would have welcomed any friendly face to my company should they present themselves.”

You seemed surprised by his honesty, even he did not know why he would confess such a thing, but at the moment, he felt that he could trust you. You offered an amicable smile. “In that case, you, sir, owe me. Big.” There was an unmissable, playful glint in your eyes when you said this.

The dhampir laughs, a rumble deep within his chest that resonated in his voice. He has not laughed like that since his adventure with his speaker and hunter. And even then it felt like such a long time ago. “Undoubtedly,” he added with a smirk.

There was a comfortable moment between you two before you casted a glance to one of the open windows that led to the outside. The day was still young. “I should get going, then. Pay my final respects to my kin at home before leaving Wallachia.”

“Leave Wallachia?”, his brow raises. “Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure, really. Anywhere that will allow me to...heal my wounds, I suppose.”

It was in that moment that Alucard was assured of this blooming and unspoken kinship between you and he. He already admitted to himself that he rather liked you and would like to get to know you better, perhaps even allow you to help him combat his loneliness. For this reason, his next words flowed effortlessly.

“You shall stay here.”

You were shocked, clearly taken aback by this unexpected offer and was stumbling with your words of protest, “I-I can’t possibly- You don’t know me, sir.”

“I know that you are selfless, possess a strong moral compass, and went out of your way from God-knows-where to spare me, a stranger, from the machinations of ingrates. You did not need to do so, let alone warn me, yet you did so, anyways.” Alucard closes his eyes for a brief moment in pensive thought before continuing, “I understand what it means to mourn for those you loved deeply. Please. This is the least I can offer, allow me to thank you and give you the space and time to mend your wounds. All of them.”

For a moment, he thought you would refuse and you did not immediately answer. Your brows furrow in deep thought, your lips in a thin line. He was about to apologize for speaking out of turn when you spoke first.

“Very well, then...”, you conceded with a grateful and almost saddened smile. Your eyes met his with sincere intent. “And perhaps you will not have to mend yours alone, as well.”

Ba-dump.

That was the first time Alucard had ever felt his heart do that. It was such a surprising feeling that, in his shock, he thought he was dying. But he was surely fine and became curious to learn what caused it, eyeing you from his peripheral vision. He was certain you did something.

Suddenly, your eyes widened and your body stiffened so fast that Alucard thought you would jump out of the chair. “I’m so sorry, I was so caught up with what happened earlier that I never asked for your name.”

Again, he steals another moment of careful consideration, his golden eyes bore deeply into your gaze before answering, “My friends call me Adrian.”

And thus how your agreement came to be. Some time has passed and during that time, you two have grown closer. Alucard found himself enjoying your company immensely and expressed genuine interest in learning everything about you and you to him. You never seemed bored in his company which pleased him greatly as once he overheard someone describe him as a “cold spot in the room.” He was certain that the person didn’t mean to harm him with these words, but it affected him, nonetheless and Alucard feared that he would be subjected to an eternal life alone. But your presence changed that thought, your kindness and genuity showed him that he did not need to face his depression on his own. He cannot remember a time when he has smiled so much and has you to thank for that. Even as your wounds healed and you had plenty of opportunity to leave, you stayed by his side and continued to be his light. And he did not question you one bit.

Ba-dump.

That alien sensation began to feel familiar to him the longer he is with you. His heart remained still in the beginning yet now every once in awhile, it would pound for a single pulse in your presence, growing in rhythm and intensity as time with you went on until he was certain he could dance to the beat. When you would look his way, it skipped. When you would look away when he caught you, it quickened. It was such a tortuous, wonderous sensation.

His heart stopped completely when you declared that you loved him and it began to pound instantly when he felt the sweet press of your lips against his. Never in his life did he felt the need to breathe until he tasted you. It became too much, too blissfully suffocating that he feared that he could drown within you forever and never rise up again. As if sensing the intensity of his growing addiction to you, you pulled from him and placed your head atop his chest, your ear above his pounding heart.

“I can hear your heartbeat. Is this the human side of you?”

“It is a side only you know.”

It went on like this for some time. As your affection for one another grew intensely, your innocent intimacy turned into a needy hunger. He felt like a starved man each time you two touched each other desperately but had no idea how to sate the burning inside until you gave him his answer by lifting his nightshirt and-

“Adrian?”

The drowsy sound of your voice pulled him from his wonderful reminiscing and his golden eyes met you.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, but...did you sleep at all?” you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with a hint of worry in your voice

He replied reassuringly, “A little bit.”

“Was it that bad?”

He raises his brow at the subtle teasing under your tone. “Actually, I’ve been waiting for you to wake for another round.”

You laughed and would have continued to laugh before your voice was choked by a yawn. Your eyes were beginning to droop again. “I’m sorry, Adrian. As tempting as that sounds-”

He silences you with a chaste kiss upon your lips.

“Shh. I only slightly jest,” he smiles. “Go back to sleep.”

“Only slightly jest,” you teased again.

Alucard lifts you effortlessly to place your body atop his. “It will be a long morning when you wake.”

You looked at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes and a sly curve to your lips. “Promise?” challenged you.

Badump.

When Alucard finally regains himself, he grins at you with a lecherous flash of his fangs and squeezes your bottom generously before pressing you against his hips. The dhampir now has a newfound restlessness and was making you aware of you of it. His smirk curved with pride at your blush from the feel of him.

“Sleep, you idiot,” he commands lowly before placing a final and firm kiss upon your lips then tucking the top of your head beneath his chin. Although you huffed in slight frustration yourself, you listened to your love and fell back to sleep with a content and impatient sigh.

It was moments like these before the break of dawn when nothing else in the world mattered but the two of you lying together in complete peace, your hearts beating in blissful harmony- did he find happiness renewed.

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herrandomnesss · 3 years

Text

There's a bipolar worm in my coffee and she has long suicidal shower thoughts

There's a bipolar worm in my coffee and she has long suicidal shower thoughts that make no sense, yet are the epitome of wisdom.

She quotes my son "Oh, my cunt! I have a great idea" and goes on a rollercoaster ride from the silliest of thoughts to the secret behind our existence. But every time she starts to burp out an idea, it slips, and she gets mad and begins the longest of rants; all in my head.

The other day, she threw it all in my face: It's not that you want to die that's making you suffer, quite the contrary; it's that you want to live. It hurt so much to hear the truth put out this bluntly that I almost slit my throat immediately. Next, I was giving this massive it's-not-freedom-from;-it's-freedom-to and we-shouldn't-be-victims-even-when-victimized trends a chance, reading one too long article about how we shouldn't care about what holds us captive and instead, focus on what we yearn to do.

I finish my white-man-status pursuit with an article about how we linger to the victim status, which holds us back from healing. The bitch worm then slapped me in the face, "Oh my fucking cunt, are you trying to be a Karen now, Sarah?! Go meet them deadlines so that you don't lose your living."

Why is the warm so mean? Why can't she let me buy white-man thoughts designed for my consumption?

“And what's with all that macho 'You're strong and brave' put out as feminist whatever? Why is your value judged by some misogynistic standard? And why do you keep on buying in?"

Silenced, I shake my head, hoping she'd leave. But the worm has super powers, she insists "You're no chicken for not wanting to tell your story." I let out a sigh of relief.

But this is one diabolical sly worm, she shits on my parade, "You're still a chicken though. You can't voice out your anger that all you want to do is say how what happened to you made you feel; how despite the fact that it doesn't define you, it made things different, thus making you different."

Ugh, I'm getting homicidal now.

She interrupts, "But it's OK to be a chicken anyways. Now go make me an omelette, you useless bitch."

I spill my coffee in the sink. The silly worm leaves my coffee as I do. And jumps into my brain. "Did you know that some woman made her husband a sandwich, served it to him, then killed him before he could eat it?"

I feel scared. This worm is insane. And I could really lose her help; I'm insane enough on my own. I reason with her. She says "Fine, you're stupid anyways. I'm going to sleep."

I count to 10, take a deep breath, fix my kid some food, then start to sob uncontrollably. I go to the bathroom to have some privacy. I watch some porn and detachedly cum. I'm not sure if that's because I'm on a full bipolar low or if the porn was a lot like all the awkwardly bad sex hetero humans have. And all the good sex hetero humans have doesn't seem to make up for the bad that sometimes, with triggers all around, I just don't want to be touched.

I feel queerer these days; contemplating on whether things would have been different for me if I had had the chance to better connect with my queer side earlier in my life.

"Hahaha, are you coming out now?" The evil bitch woke up and she's back to sodomise. Joke's on you, stupid worm. I came out a long time ago.

"You're quite funny. I'm glad you believe that. Tell me, Karen-wanna-be, wasn't this one good example of the freedom-from/the freedom-to fake dilemma?"

My heart is now burning with hatred for this worm.

My kid cries for help and saves me. It's something silly, but I comfort him anyways. He feels better. Then he starts fake crying. I ask him why he's being overdramatic in the most understanding tone I could summon. It's fun to be overdramatic, he says. The nasty worm interrupts again, "now we know who he takes after."

I jump to my defense. I'm grieving, you evil bitch. "What is it exactly that you're grieving?" She interrogates. The cynical tone could not be missed.

My mom, my dad, life as I know it, my ability to work, to have good sex, to be fun to be around. I'm not fun anymore, not even for me. And my hypomania, that too I grieve."

The worm tears my brain as she grows in size, but for some reason lowers her voice whispering "Take your meds."

I have nothing to say. I have nothing to think. My brain is now void. There's nothing there but a rusty shade of grey. "I guess you're searching for that old 'the meds will make you fat' excuse in your vacant head," she eyes me with a disgusted look that screams "How pathetic, really!"

I find myself defensive again. Do you know how people react to weight gain? My whole adult life can be summed up in two poles "Why did you let yourself gain so much weight? and "Why are you crazy? Take your meds, psycho."

And those are the kindly concerned friends.

I just need to fuck up, worm. Why can't I fuck up anymore? I'm dwelling under pressure. I'm buried under heaps of responsibilities and I can't catch a breath. Why can't you just give me a break? After all, you're only a fragment of my imagination. I made you. Please don't make me kill you. I have enough guilt. The cross on my back is already too heavy to bear.

She weeps. I feel awkward. Why do I always end up in the comforting shoes?

I'm not sure why you're crying now, worm, but it's ok not to be ok, I say, trying to end the situation as fast as I could.

She senses my discomfort. It pleases her. "It's because you already fucked up but you don't know yet that I'm crying," she murmurs with a half smile. "But it's ok not to be ok, Sarah. You lost a lot and are shackled by a lot. Fucking up is the human thing to do."

She grows big arms. She hugs me. She warns me what an evil place for me this country is. She finds it very distasteful how a purely pedophilic crime was turned into a conversation about sexual harassment between adults. "I can understand how this shit is scary. I'm just a worm and I don't even exist, but I find it horrifying, too."

I feel calmer that someone understands. But I'm now all jaded and weary. Then something unexpectedly sad occurs. The worm leaves with no goodbyes. My brain cells are back and fully functioning. I feel electric waves running all over the place. I need to shut it down again. Where did all the grey blank walls go?

I keep rushing around my brain, searching for the turn-off button, to no avail.

I finally find a goodbye note from my foe and friend saying "It's OK not to be OK."

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chilling-seavey · 3 years

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Passchendaele WW2 Extension - When the Angels Cry

T/W Descriptions of death and bodies, grief, funerals, child loss/loss, war trauma, etc.

September 30, 1945

Corbyn paid for Richard’s body to be brought back home. He was returned home to England on a cloudy autumn Sunday. Most of the fallen soldiers – especially those who were unrecognizable or unnamed – were simply buried in rows just off the battlefields but when the war was over, families could either allow their sons and brothers to be buried in a British cemetery overseas or brought home for an official funeral and burial. Corbyn wanted his boy home.

Richard’s body was brought back to England on a ship with dozens of other fallen men all in simply wooden caskets nailed shut after almost a year of the bodies being buried. The families were not permitted to open them – most likely to avoid seeing their son or brother or loved one’s decomposing. The loss was painful enough. Corbyn and Christine went to the harbour to meet the ship along with the other parents or relatives of the fallen.

The sky was grey. The crowd was donned in black.

As the ship anchored and the gangplank was set up for the crew to start to empty the coffins onto the tarmac, mother’s shed tears. Each wooden box looked the same and, in a way, Corbyn felt guilty he couldn’t tell which one was his son. He was always so good at picking Richie out of a crowd – especially since he was always a little smaller than his peers during elementary school. He held onto Christine’s gloved hand tightly and she kept her head bowed as the crew worked quietly. The weeping mothers around them didn’t make it any easier.

The officer of the ship had the list of the fallen in his hand that corresponded with plates on the coffins and stepped up on the end of the gangplank to address the crowd. He offered brief general sympathies but got right to work, calling out each soldier’s name alphabetically by last name. One of the first couples to be called to retrieve their son was in near hysterics and the mother threw herself on the coffin and sobbed until she nearly fainted. Corbyn looked away flatly.

“Lance Corporal Richard Z. Besson.”

Corbyn glanced at his wife who held her handkerchief over her mouth and he set a hand on her back, “Come on.”

They walked quietly across the dock to the rows of wooden coffins and a few of the crewmen offered their quiet condolences. Corbyn set a gentle hand on the edge of the box and swallowed back his tears but anyone could see them shimmering in his light eyes. Four crewmen helped to carry the body to the motorcar waiting in the parking lot behind one of the buildings and Corbyn and Christine walked silently behind it, the quietest of the couples that day.

They were finally able to welcome their son home…to meet him at the docks…but not in the way they had hoped.

It wasn’t until the crewmen offered well-wishes to the couple and blandly told them that their son died a hero and walked back off towards the ship that Christine broke into tears. With the wooden coffin resting in the back of their family car to head right to the church for the funeral, it felt much more real now. Corbyn held his wife for a moment, each of his breaths shuttering in his chest as he tried to breathe.

When they finally got themselves into the front seat, they took a moment to just stare out the windshield in the grey weather surrounding them. It was a lot to take in. It wasn’t raining yet – although the clouds seriously threatened it – but Corbyn’s silent tears that fell down his cheeks made up for it, streaking down his flushed skin and dripping onto the black fabric of his dress pants and suit jacket. He turned slowly over his shoulder to the backseat, the wooden box blurred slightly through his tears.

September 2, 1923

Corbyn glanced over his shoulder to the backseat, catching a glimpse of his son sitting there quietly and staring out the window at the rain. It had been a quiet few moments at the beginning of the car ride…usually five-year-old Richard was quite talkative to his father, going on about whatever little stories were playing in his head. He held a small toy plane in his hands, rolling it against his thigh lazily although his wide eyes followed each tree they passed.

“What are you thinking about, Richie?” Corbyn asked, looking back to the road.

“Why does it rain, Daddy?” Richard asked quietly, leaning closer to the window to look up to the grey sky.

Corbyn cracked a small smile at the sweet innocence of his son, “Because an angel’s crying.”

“Crying?” Richie gasped, looking to his father in concern. “Why?”

“Not sure, little man. That’s just what my Mama used to tell me when I was a boy. Why do you think they’re crying?”

Richie hummed quietly in thought and leaned his head against the window, bumping slightly against the glass as they navigated over the bumpy roads of their town. Corbyn glanced back at him again, watching as he traced a raindrop down the window with a small finger.

“Maybe they’re crying happy tears, Daddy.” Richie mumbled.

“Maybe so, Rich.” Corbyn agreed.

“Maybe God made a chocolate cake for them and they were so happy.”

“With ice cream?”

“Yes.” Richard smiled, resting back against the seat.

There was a pause in conversation and Corbyn drove on over the dirt road, the two Besson boys just listening to the rain pattering down on the roof and windows of the car. Richard looked so cute in his school uniform and he kicked his little lace up boots against the seat in front of him lazily. His chubby cheek that was still proof of his youth was squished up against the window and he puffed out a bit of air to steam up the glass and he ran his finger through it in a squiggle.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Will God make me a chocolate cake one day?”

Corbyn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, and he replied with a gentle but serious, “Don’t say that, Richie.”

“Why?” Richie pouted. “I’m a good boy.”

“You’re a very good boy, Rich. But you do not have to worry about God’s baking skills for a long, long time, alright?”

“Alright.” Richard nodded with a sigh and raised his eyes back up to the grey clouds. His hand pressed flatly against the window and he tapped his fingers there gently, “They sure are cryin’ up there, Dad.”

He held up his toy plane and closed one eye so it could look like his plane was flying through the grey skies along with the car. Corbyn took a second to admire his son and his pure innocence that always made his heart warm. It was refreshing. He was born near the end of the Great War, Corbyn’s very own peace offering after months and years of hell, and there was no one gentler than Richard. No one who deserved a life of happiness more than Richard.

Corbyn didn’t know how he got to the church but soon he was staring up at the white paneled chapel with his once little boy laying in a box in the backseat. The funeral was to be a small event for just the Besson’s and the Seavey’s – including Corbyn’s brother and sister and a bit of their extended family.

They all wore black. The grey sky held off the rain.

The first while was a bit hazy as Corbyn and Christine got out of the car and greeted their family with hugs and kisses and handshakes and the priest joined the group in his robes with a bible in hand. He offered the usual condolences and invited the procession to follow him to the cemetery where the grave had been dug early that morning.

The plain wooden coffin was taken from the Besson’s car and carried slowly to the cemetery by Charlie, Daniel, Corbyn’s brother, Jordan, and Christine’s brother, James. Corbyn walked behind it with his wife and daughter followed by the rest of their family. When they reached the plot, the two gravediggers helped to lower the coffin into the six-foot-deep hole and the priest began the funeral.

Daniel found his spot beside Elizabeth and she tucked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder gently. Evelyn did the same with Charlie.

Corbyn didn’t process anything the priest said although he tried to pay attention the best he could. He stood between his wife and his daughter and stared at the sealed wooden box laying underground. Part of him yearned to open it. Part of him dreaded the thought of opening it.

The last time he saw his son was six-and-a-half years prior. The last time he looked at him Richie was barely twenty-one. He left as barely more than a boy and he was now laying underground as a man. Corbyn never got to see his son grow into a man. He didn’t even have a good photograph of him from his time in the air force. He felt like he was burying a stranger but it also felt like the sickening exaggerated reality that he was buying his infant son.

When the prayers coming to a conclusion, the immediate family was given the opportunity to throw in the first handfuls of soil. Christine went first with Corbyn’s protective hand on her back, tossing down a sprinkle of dark soil onto the top of the casket. Frances was next and she had tears streaking down her cheeks as she threw in her handful. Corbyn hesitated a moment, staring down at the two small piles of dirt sprinkled on top of the wooden box below ground and he turned behind him slightly and locked eyes with Charlie.

Corbyn nodded him over.

“Have your closure.” Corbyn whispered just to him.

Charlie nodded thankfully and bent down to take a handful of soil from the pile beside the grave. He stayed crouched, eyeing the unfamiliar wooden coffin below him, still hearing the agonizing cries of Richard’s final minutes as he tried to pull him from the plane. He was now silent. Charlie stumbled over his breath as he tried to keep himself from crying and held out his hand over the deep hole that now housed his brother.

“Alright, Richie.” he breathed and let the soil fall.

Then it was Corbyn’s turn. He took his handful of soil and stood at the side of the grave, staring down at the last of his son. He said a quiet prayer, kissed his hand, and then tossed the handful onto the top of the wooden coffin.

Corbyn stood a few metres away as the family members started to leave and the gravediggers filled in the hole. The sound of the metal shovels in the mound of dirt and the sound of it dropping dully onto the wood almost made Corbyn sick. But still, he stood and watched his son be buried until the grey sky finally opened up and angles wept down onto them.

Corbyn only hoped Richie got his chocolate cake.

#✉#corbyn besson #daniel seavey #why dont we

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illeee-girl · 3 years

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La La(chimolala) Land Chapter Thirteen: The Confession from Your Lips

jimin x reader genre: fluff (but it gets pretty dang meaningful here, sorry not sorry) word count: 2.25k warnings: none

[Inspired by La La Land]

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

You’d hung up your apron at the coffee shop that Monday morning for the last time.

Production on Red Writer began almost immediately. The independent film studio who'd bought it was new, but had plenty of resources, and wanted to get the film out within the next year. Casting went by smoothly—you found the perfect Marianne, and the perfect Sam—and filming began just two months after your pitch. You’d perfected the screenplay with a table of the studio’s on-hand writers, and nothing had been so exhilarating. Those days of revising and reworking scene after scene . . . they’d been the stuff of dreams. The first installment for the screenplay came in sooner than you’d hoped, and you moved up to Burbank to be closer to the set. Sad as you were to leave Jess, Rachel, and Diana for a tiny studio apartment of your own, they constantly came to visit, so it felt like you’d never stopped being roommates.

You and Jimin hadn’t stopped talking, per say, since your late-night, poolside, deep conversation. (For the record, you would never let go of anyone who would have a late-night, poolside, deep conversation with you.) But you’d been busy—busier than you’d ever been—and he’d left for Seoul to a round of promotional interviews and TV spots for the band’s latest album. After that, he’d be in Tokyo for a few weeks to do the same. Those sweet six months he’d promised to you that day on the pier had gone by in the blink of an eye. More and more, it began to seem like your schedule wasn’t the only wrench in Jimin’s dream of domestic bliss. BTS was only getting bigger—and there was no way he could leave.

October came. You were caught in the pressure-filled realm of wrapping up filming, and Jimin was still in Asia. FaceTimes turned into phone calls, phone calls into texts. “Good morning” and “Good night” turned into “How has the past week been?” It’s just the time difference, you told yourself. That, and he’s so impossibly busy. You’d message the boys whenever you thought of them, and they’d message back. “How’s Jimi?” You’d ask. “He’s doing fine,” they'd respond. “Just exhausted. In love with you as much as ever, I promise.”

But doubts crept in, deadlines piled up, and before you knew it, you were about ready to give up.

_________________________

“Hey, it’s me,” you leave a message on his phone one evening. “I’m walking through Little Tokyo. We just finished one of the last scenes on our list. It’s all going really well. But I’m exhausted. At least I have a car now, so I don’t have to take the metro. But now I have to sit in LA traffic all the time. I don’t know which is worse. I’ve heard the traffic in Seoul is pretty bad too . . . I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I miss you. Call me when you get this. If you even bother to listen to it. At this point, I’m not sure I care anymore.”

You climb in your Prius, sit in traffic on the 101, and spend the entire drive wishing that you could have the past summer back. Those days with warm breezes and frozen treats . . . holding his hand, listening to his voice . . .

But now, you assure yourself, I’m more successful. I have some money. I have a much better job—the one I’d been dreaming about for ages. My movie is finally being made. Something I wrote is going to make it on screen. People are going to see it. Some are going to like it. A few are going to love it. When I go home for Thanksgiving this year, I won’t have more disappointing news for Mom and Dad. Not anymore.

So why do I yearn for the past?

After a quick shower and some leftover Thai takeout for dinner, you sit down to watch your next episode of Crash Landing on You.

“There’s an old Indian proverb,” says Son Ye-jin, in the form of character Yoon Se-ri, “that says, ‘Sometimes, the wrong train takes you to the right station.’”

I’ve got to jot that down. That’s good stuff. You grab your notebook from your side table. It’s already littered with quotes and notes and ideas. You find a clean page and write down the k-drama heroine’s words—but not before you flip through your notes from that day in the hills. The day you’d gone up to watch BTS film that music video for “research.” The first day you’d heard Jimin sing.

I can’t imagine a sound clearer, a voice more beautiful, you’d written. It’s a voice with the power to caress you gently, to bring you to tears, to take you to places unexplored. The pure emotion he puts into it is unparalleled.

Your fingers dig into the fibers of your couch. You have to pause the TV—tears are starting to gather in the bottoms of your eyes, and you can’t read the subtitles.

You miss hearing him sing. He was always singing, always dancing, no matter where you went. You lean back into the couch, and a memory appears behind your eyelids. Jimin taking you to Urban Light, humming “I Could Have Danced All Night” from My Fair Lady while weaving between the lampposts. “Come ‘ere, my Eliza,” he’d begged, goofy as ever. “Dance with me.” “We both know very well that I’m the Henry Higgins in this relationship,” you’d said, but you’d spun into his arms anyway. “I could have danced all night,” he’d begun singing, “I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more.” “Shh, Jimin, we’re out in public. Someone might recognize your voice.” “I could have spread my wings, and done a thousand things, I’ve never done before.” He’d continued, unabashed, light of every variety gathering in his dark eyes.

You’d fussed at him then. You’d tried to get him to shut up. Getting caught dancing with a girl—well, the fans would’ve been talking about it for months on end. But now, sitting alone in your little apartment . . .

“I’ll never know what made it so exciting,” you begin, your voice raspy, vocal chords raw from the tears you’d shed, “Why all at once my heart took flight.” The words come out slowly, painfully. “I only know when he began to dance with me . . .”

“I could have danced, danced, danced, all night.”

It takes you a few moments to realize that you did not sing that last line alone.

You stand up.

You wipe your eyes.

You look around.

You cross over to your front door.

Behind it stands a tear-stained face (complete with puffy lips and eyelids), a messy head full of hair, and, as ever, an impeccably dressed body.

“Jagi, I’m so sorry—” he begins to weep.

But his apology isn’t able to come to fruition. You stop it with a kiss: deeper and firmer and stronger than ever before. You grab the fibers of his sweater and breathe him in. It’s like coming up for air after spending months underwater.

“Shh, shhh,” you soothe him, smoothing his unkempt hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here now.”

“But I just can’t—”

You kiss him again, right there in the hallway, refusing to listen to him berate himself.

“So I take it you missed me.”

“I take it you haven’t lost your cheekiness.”

“Never.”

You pull him inside, and when the door closes behind you, he slaps his hand against it in full kabedon style, trapping you against it. You expect a kiss, but he just says:

“This is so stupid.”

You begin to worry. “What is?”

“This. Us. Our lives keeping us apart,” he laments, hanging his head. “I mean, I’m grateful that the band grew to be so successful. I will always be grateful for that. I wouldn’t trade my hyungs, or our fans, for the world.” Now, he brings his forehead to rest on yours. “But I want to be with you,” he murmurs, big tears beginning to roll down his round cheeks.

You wipe them away as they fall. “I want to be with you, too,” you say. “Things are just . . . complicated right now. For both of us.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty for pursuing your dream, Jagiya,” he holds your hand in his. “You’re not the one who left LA. You’re not the one who grew to be so bad at communicating. That’s all on me.” More tears fall. “It’s all on me.”

“It absolutely isn’t. I knew you’d have to leave sometime.”

“And I knew that, too.” He rubs his eyes. “It just frustrates me to no end.”

“I know, baby.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “You’ve never called me that before.”

You shrug. “I thought I’d add it to the already extensive list of your nicknames.”

He hugs you tight. “I’ve missed you so much.” He lets you go after a few minutes and starts pacing the room, a look of intensity painted on his face. “Jagi.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“You’ve seen La La Land, right?”

“We’ve watched it together eight times, Jiminie. It’s kind of our thing.”

“Right. Well, you know when Mia walks in to the apartment and Sebastian’s there and he’s cooking her dinner and she’s so glad to see him but then they sit down and realize everything’s falling apart because their dreams are pulling them apart and long distance is just too hard and so even though they both get what they wanted they don’t get what they wanted?”

He’s rambling—which means he’s nervous. But I am, too. “You mean, they prioritize their dreams over each other, so they end up apart?” You respond as calmly as you can.

“Yes. Gosh, you’re so much better with words than I am.”

“And you’re so much better at singing than I am, as evinced by our impromptu duet a minute ago—which I loved, by the way.”

He smiles. “Don’t distract me with compliments. Don’t get all cute on me now. I’m on the cusp of something good.” His mind is clearly hard at work.

Yours is too. “Something that’ll fix our problem?”

“Yes. I think so. Anyway, so you know how they both get what they want in the end but they don’t get each other even though they really wanted each other?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I’ve always thought that was so stupid. I mean, good writing, to be sure. It’s realistic—I’m sure it happens to people all the time. It’s a common thing: having to choose between the person you love and the thing you love to do. But I refuse to choose between you and the band.”

A million thoughts race through your head. “Do you . . .” it’s as if the kitchen lights begin to dim around him—as if he is the only thing illuminated in your vision. “Do you love me, Jimin?” You ask, wringing your hands nervously.

Finally, he stops pacing. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The vignette around him intensifies as you respond, “Well, it’s just, you’ve never said it in so many words.”

“Neither have you, and you’re actually good at words.”

You laugh. “Fair. But I’m usually not too good at them when it comes to this.”

Silence ensues for a few moments.

Then he speaks: “Wait, do you . . . do you not love me? Because if you don’t, then the plan I’ve been forming in my head all falls apart.”

You giggle, burying your face in your oversized t-shirt.

“What is it?" A look of worry attaches to his face. “What’s so funny?”

“I just . . .” more laughter comes out. Why are you like this? Stop giggling so much! “I love that you’re creating a plan in your head right now. And I love that you flew all the way here to see me. I love that, instead of simply knocking on my door, you heard me singing and decided to join in for the last line. I love that you’ve treated me like a queen, even though we both know I’m—as Henry Higgins would say—a ‘guttersnipe,’ compared to you. I love that you get concerned over every little thing, and that nothing—not even all this time we’ve spent apart—has killed your feelings for me. I love you, Jiminie. I love, love, love you. As Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing would say, ‘I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.’”

He crosses the room with the eagerness and speed of a famished fire eager to expand. His lips are on yours before you can take a breath to prepare yourself, and the kiss only leaves you more bewitched than you were before. His hands hold your head as if it were the most valuable diamond in all the world; his enchanting softness and brazen attention make you feel priceless. The ground beneath your feet seems to melt, but he catches you.

This kiss says, genuinely and shamelessly: I love you, Y/N. There can be no doubt of that. You are worth the world to me, success or no success. Your productivity, your popularity—your being loved by others—does nothing to impact your value in my eyes. And there is nothing in this world that can ever change my love for you. It’s everlasting.

You break away suddenly.

“What?” He asks. “Is something wrong?”

“That’s good stuff,” you say, crossing over to the couch and fumbling around for your notebook. “I’m sorry, Jiminie. I’ve just got to write that down.”

“Write what down? I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, yes you did. You most certainly did.” You finish scribbling down your thoughts. “Now get over here and talk to me some more.”

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts jimin #bts park jimin #park jimin #park jimin x reader #park jimin fanfiction #park jimin fanfic #park jimin fic #jimin x reader #jimin fanfiction #jimin fanfic #jimin fic #jimin fluff #inspired by La La Land #La La(chimolala) Land

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papers4me · 4 years

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Fruits Basket SE02, Ep16

i believe there are more than one foolish traveler in Furuba with varying degrees of altruism, kindness & selflessness. The core idea of the foolish traveler story wasn’t to encourage kindness but as a somber warning that such kind souls are taken advantage of by others due to their altruism. The story don’t teach you to stop foolish travelers (you can’t), but take from their kindness without “killing” them in the process. So far three foolish travelers:

Haru is healthiest example. already discussed in past posts.

Momiji: stands in the middle. His story is cruel yet he tried to find the balance between giving too much vs caring for his own self. (more on how/why in his dad’s section).

Tohru is the prime example & the real version of foolish traveler story. We’re watching her collapse under the pressure of always giving too much of herself. We saw too much in SE01, now she’s entering the lion’s den on behalf of Arisa’s lost love. Many examples with many emotional scars after each reckless decision.

Will Tohru meet the same end as the traveler in the story? Will she give everything, gains nothing & say thank you? or will she acknowledge her own needs as rightful, stand up for her desires, not for altruistic reasons, but cuz SHE wants sth for herself & SHE acknowledges that SHE deserves to get what she selfishly wants!

The Villagers/demons in the foolish traveler story:

In the story the villagers/demons took advantage of the traveler’s kindness & killed her. In real life, these villagers aren’t strangers, they’re family & friends. They aren’t demons, they’re loved ones who truly love you. Still some take advantage of you. How many times have you seen someone kind be content with so little as long as others happy? they ask politely, the person feels obligated or too kind to say no. Until one day. they ask for too much & if the person refuses. They’re shocked/offended & hurt. All while feeling the person is okay cuz he/she never asked for more. That’s momiji’s dad. He loves his son dearly but wants his wife & daughter more. Momiji understands. He always does. He’s a mature boy. Asking momiji to pretend he isn’t his son, to live apart, to quit his hobby. Every time momiji said yes. How could he not? he loves his mom/dad, wants his sister to enjoy the family he never had (selfless desires). But he also wants his sister to know him! to perform for his family exclusively. (selfish desires). Two desires clash. Momiji is sad & broken.

How is momiji different from tohru then?

Momiji acknowledges his selfish desires. He knows he deserves them. He openly speaks when tohru asks him. Hence, he’s rewarded. His sister wants him as big brother regardless of blood relations, She seeks him thro tohru. Momiji will get his sister sooner or later despite the cruse/trauma.

What abt tohru?

Tohru embarks on a reckless adventure using Arisa as a front. She convinces herself that’s it’s purely for a friend. It isn’t. she knows it, ashamed of it, denies it. hides it. Doesn’t open up to momiji .Keeps it all inside. She breaks down seeing all these living ppl yearning for each other yet choose to stay apart. Thoru would do everything she can for one extra moment with her mom. hear her voice once more. just once. grief returns full force a year later to tohru, cuz it was never giving a chance to be acknowledged!. “my mom is with me” was the mantra she lived by. As tohru refused to acknowledge her mom’s absence, the pain grows & the loss intensifies. The void in her heart where her mom used to be while alive, is no longer filled by her mom’s memory. Why? cuz it’s been a year!!!!! it gets harder & harder living after a loved one leaves the longer time passes cuz you can no longer deceive yourself, cuz yearning becomes harder, cuz their voice, laughter, smell, presence fades as time passes & it hurts! like million knives stabbing you. How dare you feel they’re fading? How dare you NOT remember them each & every moment. How dare you let them go~ oh tohru~ I feel you. I know this feeling very well, unfortunately.

The tears of yearning & loss fall again:

The rooftop scene is another example of brilliant writing. The writer sweeps stealthily into our minds duplicating another roof scene as early SE01, Ep 4! This time the writer switches places to showcase growth! brilliant!!. The two scenes parallel each other to the smallest detail of one crawling/walking towards the other. Ep.4 rooftop scene marked the beginning of tohru breaking thro kyo’s harsh exterior, getting him to open up abt his precious master, she earned his awkward trusting smile. This time kyo broke through tohru’s mask once again, noticing the tiniest details of her dirty clothes & down spirit. He doesn’t push her too much. He gives her enough space to talk & keep the parts that she wants hidden. However, this time they’re both different ppl than when they were in Se01, ep.4.

tohru is openly down, sitting more comfortably in her pajama. She’s the one who escaped to his quiet rooftop. She didn’t apologize for taking his spot, didn’t fret abt annoying him. She was at ease in his space/place. She let her guards down & altho she kept her secrets, she tried to convey her feelings of sadness. This is a New Tohru. A tohru much more comfortable with herself around kyo to start complaining without much urging.

Kyo’s entire demeanor is relaxed & chill. from the way he walks, until how he sits so close to her to the way he extended his hand & wiped her tears. While kyo initially misunderstood that tohru had boyfriend, he wasn’t wrong at all in associating her words with romantic love. “you want to be with someone you like, want to be near them” That’s him!! despite deciding to not pursue tohru, being near her is the entire purpose of him still existing in this house. The uneasiness he feels with time running fast before graduation/confinement is all due to him feeling not enough time to be near her! Altho kyo believed tohrun not having a boyfriend, realizing that tohru might have one eventually hurt him deep. Yet, he’s determined to be The New Foolish Traveler in Tohru’s Story. I’ll give my life in return for your happiness. I don’t mind dying in a cell if you you could smile. even if you love another man. I don’t matter. I’ll wish for YOUR tears to stop. He tells her that but with kinder words. “i’ll support u if you have one”. Tohru got it. She got the true meaning mixed with a hint of misunderstanding that stems from her inferiority complex: (I won’t be with you. You’ll loose me. I’ll soon disappear from your life. This quiet moment together will soon be a memory. I’ll die in a cell & you won’t be with me = truth). Misunderstanding: (I don’t love you romantically, I’m just kind to you = tohru’s low self worth will hinder her from seeing the obvious that could be seen from the moon! this boy is melting for her). ~~Tow foolish travelers on the rooftop~~

Side Notes:

The anime disappoints me again with the tohru’s over-dramatic animation.I wanna ask the director: are we reading the same story? Tohru’s pain breaks thro my laptop screen & suffocates me. You don’t need to add this over exaggerated convulsive movement to her. Why only her?? You can’t extract extra tears from us with such addition. it backfires. it makes us laugh/go wth! be annoyed. Am i the only one who feels weirded out by tohru’s animation during emotional moments? Take out tohru’s convulsive 5sec movement & you’ll get 10 out of 10 heartbreaking scene!.

Kureno.. i duno.. sth is off abt him & i can’t figure out what! like.. i don’t feel he’s bad/evil or anything.. he feels like nothing, which is the weirdest feeling I’ve ever had abt a character. I’ll hold on talking more abt him for now until I see more of him.

Who is this blind lady? Her red bright nail polish reminded me of kyoko’s.

Tohru’s voice over on top of shots of momo/momiji/ kureno is epic! cuz her words have already been established in the scenes we saw in the ep. It didn’t ruin or foretell anything we haven’t explored within the ep. Add violin music that is actually played by a character within the ep, add moonlight light that all characters look at now, add the fact that her words describe her current situation with kyo & add kyo’s response! Brilliant! I’ll give the Director the credit he deserves in this scene. It was one of the best visual scenes in furuba & it works more cuz it was given space to play out naturally. nothing seems forced or consciously inserted or inconsistent or overplayed. slowly moving the camera to the sky above shigure’s rooftop & close the ep with one last callback to ep, 4. old scene ended with kyo smiling, now we hear tohru’s small laugh, . subtly telling you~hey, we went full circle with these two & you didn’t even realized when & how~10 out of 10!

#Fruits Basket #Anime Only #satisfied paper #sad paper #I miss you #SE02 #Tohru Honda #momiji sohma #kyo sohma

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theresnosuchthingasmonsters · 4 years

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(((Combo Prompt!)))

(((“Look, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to say I love you,” with Martin and Ainsley, sent in by Anonymous.)))

(((“If you go anywhere near them, you’ll have to deal with me!” with Martin and Nicholas, sent in by Anonymous (Modified) )))

-----

An echoing, electronic buzz unlocked the door to The Surgeon’s cell. But Martin Whitly remained lying on his back, glaring at the ceiling above his cot with mild irritation in his eyes, irked that he’d been disturbed from his nap.

Mr. David poked his head into the cell, announcing, “Call for you.” He held the hallway phone in one hand, the pig-tail cord extended to its maximum reach.

“Is it another set-up?” Martin grumbled with a dash of spite. “Like last time, when I quote ‘tried to escape?’” What bullshit. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been hauled off to Riker’s. That was what Endicott was going for, he just knew it.

“It’s your daughter.”

Martin glanced over, hesitated only a second longer, then heaved himself to his feet and padded to the entryway. Mr. David moved back toward the phone’s base on the wall, giving the cord some mercy.

“I expect you’re going to piledrive me the second I step foot outside this door,” Martin mumbled with sarcasm, glancing outside the cell to ensure that no other untrustworthy guards were lying in wait for an ambush. The crotchety inmate was still bruised from yesterday’s ‘misunderstanding.’ He continued griping, “Or try to kill me when I turn my back.”

Mr. David gave him a deadpan look. Evidently, the guard did not think that the nefarious incidents which occurred during his absence were funny. Toting a grumpy, miserable look, Dr. Whitly ventured into the hall and finished his jokes with a bitter, “No? Good. I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome,” Mr. David muttered. Dr. Whitly came to stand beside the guard and lifted his cuffed hands to accept the handset from him. Mr. David remained close by, and although he’d repeatedly assured his patient that everything was going to be fine, the guard did glance at the red door down the hall.

Things were tense lately, to say the least. There was no telling what surprises would pop up next. Mr. David didn’t know exactly what The Surgeon had done, but he had apparently pissed off some pretty powerful people.

Martin held the phone to his ear and forced a cheerful tone through his voice box. “Hello sweetheart!” No one would have been able to guess that mere seconds ago, he was as cranky as a drenched cat. “How is my girl? Any news on--?”

Ainsley wasn't in the mood for chit-chat. “Dad, shut up,” she urgently hissed.

Martin shut up. Before he could ask what was wrong (because something was clearly wrong,) Ainsley rushed through what she needed to say. “Look, I don’t have much time, but I-- I wanted to say, I love you.”

Dr. Whitly didn’t know which part of that sentence caused him more confusion and surprise. His expression shifted indecisively between a smile and a concerned grimace. “W-- Ah, Ains... what d’you mean you... ‘don’t have much time?’” he laughed nervously.

She didn’t answer him, but he could hear her breath. “Ains?” he repeated expectantly, listening as hard as he could to try to translate her subtle sounds. His half-smile abandoned his facade, which was no longer a facade, but a genuine look of worry. He could hear her suffering through a silent sob. Crying.

“I love you,” her voice croaked. “I love you, dad.”

That didn’t matter to him at that moment. His daughter was wasting her breath, and wasting whatever amount of time she claimed she had. Martin wanted to know what was going on. “Ainsley, what’s wrong?” he demanded. Alarm congregated on the cusp of his stern voice, as if his words were preparing for an attack. But he employed what was left of his calm, patient reserves.

She didn’t answer.

Martin stared at the wall in front of him, his eyes searching through the detail of the painted bricks as if they displayed a map of encrypted answers. Mr. David warily watched his patient, and they both held their breath.

Dr. Whitly heard a muffled rattle on the opposite end of the line as the other phone was roughly handled. Ainsley cried out in the distance that had been placed between her and their call. “Ainsley?” he raised his voice so she could hear him, wherever she was.

Again, she didn’t answer him. But someone else did. “Hello, Martin.”

It was Endicott.

Endicott was what was wrong.

“Nicholas,” Dr. Whitly hissed, his fury boiling in an instant. “You leave her the fuck alone!”

“Sorry, I can’t quite hear you over the sound of your daughter screaming.”

Ainsley screamed.

Martin had heard too many screams in his lifetime not to know the difference between them. It was a language that only those familiar with them could translate, like how only a parent was able to immediately identify the cause of the various cries of their own infant. Hunger, fear, emotional anguish, or physical pain. Ainsley’s scream was born from a prolonged, invasive, searing kind of pain --the purpose of which was clearly to rip the sound out of her. Thanks to all of his experience, Martin could easily imagine the many inflictions that could elicit such a scream from his daughter.

Martin’s own scream was born from pure rage. “NICHOLAS!” he roared, his blood vessels swelling with heat and strength as an angered adrenaline surged through him. The phone felt like a pistol being pressed to his head, but he leaned into it, yearning to get to the other side of that weapon and turn it on his assaulter.

Endicott chuckled. “But don’t worry, she’s not going to be ‘alone,’” he promised with an audible grin. “Your son’s gonna join her soon.”

Fire burned in Martin’s eyes. It was nearly tangible enough to char the wall in front of him, yet he was frozen in place and struggled to breathe.

Mr. David stepped closer and raised a hand to take the phone. “Martin--”

The Surgeon took a large step away and bore his teeth, displaying a deep, silent snarl like that of a feral beast. He held up a finger of his free hand, which was chained beside the other. It was a reaction that warned, ‘do not fuck with me right now.’ Mr. David didn’t need to be told twice, and he heeded the warning. The guard gave the man his space, then moved to grab the wheeled cart with the other phone on it. He used it to dial the NYPD.

“Nicholas, if you harm them--” Martin seethed, returning his acidic attention to the wall.

“Already did,” Endicott interrupted, enjoying this.

“--You are going to swallow a KNIFE, I swear to God--” Wrath poured from Martin’s cavernous lungs, which in that moment were endlessly deep and entirely filled with hatred. “--I’m gonna shove a blade so deep down your throat--!”

“I warned you, Martin. You didn’t listen,” Endicott’s honey smooth voice smiled. “You brought this on them.”

“I--!” Martin’s rage shattered. He was unable to argue against or deny that. He flipped a switch, transitioning from detestation to desperation. “I lied, Nick, I lied.” There must have been a short in the circuitry of that switch, because his anger resurfaced in bursts. “I LIED, Goddamn it, I don’t know anything! Sophie didn’t tell me ANYTHING!”

“Too late, Martin. You can’t beg your way out of this, though I do love hearing it.”

The Surgeon’s fire extinguished. His passionate wrath could not stop Nicholas, no matter how fiercely it burned.

Behind him, he heard Mr. David talking to the NYPD on the other phone, explaining that they’d received a threatening call at Claremont and ordering the police to find Ainsley, now. It was no use. The police weren’t going to stop Nicholas either. There was nothing Martin could do to regain control of the situation. Nothing could wake him from this nightmare.

He’d never felt so helpless.

Endicott continued to taunt him. “I hope you love hearing them scream as much as I love hearing you begging for th--HHGK-!”

The Surgeon stared at the wall, wide eyed as he listened to Nicholas’ choked cry. It was a cry that he recognized all too well. Thanks to all of his experience, Martin could easily imagine the many inflictions that could elicit such sounds from his enemy. Endicott’s garbled sounds were those of a dying man.

A rattle accompanied the constricted sounds as the phone was dropped. Martin waited, studying the brick in front of him with bated disbelief.

Finally, he heard, “Dad?”

In the form of a relieved gasp, he answered, “Ains?”

“Hey,” she greeted plainly. Her voice was slightly trembling, but also calm, and emotionless. Numb. Her shock conflicted with her adrenaline.

He knew the feeling. “Hey,” he echoed.

They breathed together for a moment, each processing what had happened. After a long exhale, Martin hesitantly smiled. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah,” she answered hollowly. “I got him.”

Martin closed his eyes and grinned before hissing a violent, “Good.”

“Thanks for distracting him,” she huffed with faint humor. Dr. Whitly could hear her smile.

That was the true reason why she’d called him. The Surgeon’s grin spread. He couldn’t be more proud of her, even if her plan had given him a heart attack. “Anything for my girl,” he joked. But it wasn’t really a joke. He was still beaming when he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she answered in the same emotionless tone. “Better than him.”

Martin chuckled.

It was then that he heard a door slam in the environment of Ainsley’s call. Malcolm’s distant, muffled voice cried, “Oh my God, Ains, what happened!?”

“Gotta go.” Ainsley hung up.

Martin removed the phone from his head and fondly smirked at it.

“The police are on their way,” Mr. David informed him, also ending up his own call to the cops.

Martin turned over his shoulder and delivered a pleasant smile to the guard. There was no need for him to be concerned any longer. “Oh, it’s fine now. She took care of it.” His happy expression remained on his face as he tenderly placed the handset back on the switchhook on the wall. “Everything’s alright.”

Mr. David cautiously stared at his patient as he walked back into his cell, knowing that everything was not alright. It was far from alright by any ordinary, sane standards. But in Martin’s mind, everything was bliss. The Surgeon settled himself on his cot and grinned at the ceiling above it.

He closed his eyes and imagined.

---------

Hope you enjoyed it, Anon(s)! Want me to write a short scene? Send me a prompt with a pair of characters! Check out my #starter and #prompt tags for more ideas and responses!

#martin whitly #dr. martin whitly #ainsley whitly #prodigal son #prodigal son fanfic #fanfic #martin #ainsley #my writing #mine #starters #starter #prompt #prompts #ficlet #Mr. David #murder

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its-chelisey-stuff · 4 years

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The tale of Nokdu: final thoughts

(SPOILERS AHEAD!)

I really fell in love with this drama for a variety of reasons. But I would say the main one is the two leads. Nokdu and Dongjoo. Separately and together. Man, did I had it bad for these two. I fell hard for Nokdu in the first episode, without any sort of resistence. He just gets to you instantly. And while Dongjoo was a bit of a question mark in the beggining, by the end of episode 7 she finally made her way into my heart and is now one of my favorite female leads of all time. She was just such a badass.

If I had to choose one thing this drama did perfectly, it has to be the way it treated her female characters. There was not one woman on this drama that wasn’t brave, empowering and confident. Oh, jeez. How I loved that. We had our fantastic heroine, but also female warriors, brave widows who wanted a better life and defended their right of getting just that, a wonderful queen and mother, and a little sassy girl who wasn’t afraid of anyone and always spoke her mind. It was such a blessing and a fresh breath of air amid the typical patriarchy we see often in kdramas (or tv shows in general).

The parental drama (and a crazy man’s battle for power)

I’m not one to cry while watching... anything, really. It’s not easy to move me to the point of tears. For instance, I don’t cry for romance (I love it, don’t get me wrong. Almost every story I consume has at least, a bit of it). I cry for definitive and sad goodbyes, for the deaths of loving parents or siblings and for injustice. But with the story of Nokdu, and his desire to find out who he was, who were his biological parents and finding out exactly why he had been parted from them... oooff. It always made me teary eyed. And I have to thank, not only the writer, the script and the director, but also Jang Dongyoon for such performance.

That relationship Nokdu had with the King, his biological father, started out normal, when they met for the first time. Although neither had any idea of who the other was, they created a sort of friendship anyway. And it was so heartbreakingly warming, and the King seemed so human that for a couple of episodes I deluded myself into believing that maybe they could be father and son for real, once they knew their true identities. But yeah, I was so wrong. The King was so crazy, corrupted by power and the throne. And for a moment, Nokdu hated him for being blinded by that. But he was better than his father and he wanted to protect him and the mother effing throne in the end! He fought a whole day inside the palace because of that. And yet, the King believed he just wanted to kill him and take his place. Disgusting.

I enjoyed so much that last scene of the King when he finally realized that the shaman was right, but she was not talking about his own son. And when Yul Mu told him the prophecy was about him. Wow. The years he wasted, the life he could of have and the people he killed and how he was never able to trust anyone, all because of his greed for power and for a throne that wasn’t even rightfully his. What a bitch. I was so glad to see him go down with tears in his eyes.

In the finale, when Nokdu learns that he was indeed dethroned and killed, he say he wants to cry but at the same time he doesn’t want to. And his father, the real one, who raised him with love and kindness, tells him it’s okay to do whatever he choses to. So Nokdu ends up crying in his dad’s arms.

And then we have his mom. His first encounter with the queen, knowing exactly who she was to him, but her not knowing she was right in front of his son (who she believed was dead for 20 years) was heartbreaking. The relationship between these two characters was pure love, the kind only a mother and son can have, and you don’t know how happy I was in the end, when the queen and Nokdu finally saw each other after 9 long years and were now free to be together and be the family they always wanted to be. Especially the queen, who had to lose him as soon as he got him. And then, 20 years later, after finding out he was alive and finally being able to embrace him, lost him again without knowing if she would see him again. All to save him.

(This scene was so hard to watch...)

The blood-thirsty and child murderer second lead

Let’s talk now about a certain second lead who served as a villain too, imo, the best one, hahahaha. Yul Mu. I knew when I started this drama that the sweet and caring persona he presented in the first episodes was just a facade, because I did saw spoilers while it was being aired and the whole drama community lost its chill and went bananas when that plot twist happened. I never shipped him with Dongjoo, thank God, but I did not hate his character. He was crazy and hungry for power in a way that fascinated me and and greatly entertained me. I guess you can say that I loved him as a villain and when it came to pick a side between him and the King, I rooted for Yul Mu.

The actor was just great. Specially with those crazy eyes. And he made me believe that the vulnerability he had when he was with Dongjoo was real. Even if he is true self was a bastard, I think he was really in love.

The OTP

The romance was delightful. I did not go crazy for their chemistry (sorry!) but I did love their relationship. In the end, they saved each other because they were in love. Thanks to Nokdu, Dongjoo realized she could have another chance at being happy and that there was more to life than her revenge. After all, that’s why her mom saved her when she was little. She wanted her lo live. And what better way to feel alive than being loved and find meaning again?

And because of Dongjoo’s love, Nokdu’s life was saved more than once in the drama. Seriously, I think in the last two episodes she saved him at least 3 or 4 times, be it with words or with actions. How refreshing is it that the female lead gets to save his man time and time again?

Their happy ending was so well deserved and it truly felt like clousure. Well done, drama!

I’m really not a fan of saeguks (I have watched quite a few, though) but this one gave me everything I wanted and I adored it when it went the dark route, something that actually made me enjoy less these kind of dramas in the past. I think it was because Nokdu and Dongjoo, but if I’m being honest, mostly because of our main lead. He was not perfect but he made you feel with him and yearn for his happiness because he really was an innocent in all these games and battles for power. He was a genuinely good young man who just wanted to know who he was and where he came from.

I loved this one. And I think I did it as much because I binged it. I finished it in just a few days and it was just the right way for me, to see it.

Definitely a favorite of the year and a close second to another drama that took my heart away this year. Thanks for the memories, Nokdu-ah! Now be happy forever with your wife Dongjoo and the rest of your family at the island, you deserve it.

#the tale of nokdu #tale of nokdu #jang dong yoon #kim so hyun #kang tae oh #jung joon ho #kdrama #spoilers

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chipper9906 · 4 years

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And Then You Were Gone, In A Rush Of Colors

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6105

WARNINGS: Major Character Death (Temporarily), Violence, Blood

Status: Oneshot- Complete

Summary: He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiels body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realising with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention.

'This is red.'

Set during Episode 3 of Season 9, "I'm No Angel", in an alternate universe where you see colors the first time you touch your soulmate.

* * *

Dean never really liked the concept of having a soulmate. Except, that wasn't entirely true. He ate that shit up as a kid, seeing the happiness that radiated off his parents whenever they were together, his mom ensuring him that "Someday, you'll have that with your soulmate. And you'll be so happy to have found them, that you probably won't even notice the colors."

The colors...

How could he not notice them, if they were to appear? Nearly forty years of living on an Earth that consisted solely of different shades of a muted gray, he was fairly certain he'd take notice of seeing everything in a completely different way, no matter how happy he was feeling.

When he had asked a hunter that had found his soulmate what it was like out of plain curiosity, it was hard not to get frustrated at his attempts at explaining it. It wasn't his fault, of course. How do you describe something that the other person has never seen?

Obviously, it's not all about the colors. No, that was just a side part of what was really happening.

Meeting your soulmate, for the very first time.

Two souls destined to become entwined, finally being joined together. Like the final piece of a puzzle, where everything falls into place.

In his teenage years, the idea didn't appeal to him all that much. Despite being told countless times how his soulmate would be the perfect person for him, the idea that the person he is to spend the rest of his whole life with was already chosen for him seemed completely unfair. It would become such a huge part of his life, shouldn't he get to decide who he loves?

That wasn't the biggest problem, though. The problem was, as much as he hated to admit it, the thought of having a soulmate was terrifying to him. Not when he finds them, but when he loses them.

Because in their line of work, it's inevitable. Getting close to someone is a risky game that almost always ends in death and suffering.

The first time he had seen the effects of losing your soulmate was with his dad. He barely has any memories of his father before Mary was so untimely ripped away from him. He does remember how different his dad felt after. It became a rarity to see him smile, and he became cold and distant, even to his own sons. He no longer had the comforting touch of a loving wife, and now the only respite he found was at the bottom of a bottle.

Dean has already lost people he cared about, was keenly aware of the pain that brought on. But he knew that it wouldn't even begin to compare to the pain he would feel in losing his soulmate, and he just doesn't think he would have the emotional capacity to deal with it. He would fall right into the steps of his father; a bitter, ageing man who no longer had a purpose in his life than that of revenge.

Sometimes, he isn't sure whether seeing what happened to Sam with Jess validated his opinion more, or made him see the other side to having a soulmate. After all, he'd be blind not to see just how happy Jessica made Sam. He could feel it radiating off of his little brother the second he introduced him to Jess, and it had pained Dean slightly to see how happy Sam had been without him.

Once, and only once, when they had both had a bit too much to drink, Dean had asked Sam what it was like to have a soulmate.

"It was kind of like... I don't know, like being with them was as natural as breathing. Like you had already known them your whole life."

Dean had never regretted asking a question as much as when he asked Sam if he had a favorite color, as the smile on his face as he reminisced about his time with Jess dropped from his face.

"Yellow. It was the first color I noticed. It was bright and just... there. Screaming at you to notice. It was..." Sam trailed off slightly, bringing the bottle of beer up to his lips and drinking deeply from it. "It was the last color to go, faded with all the others not long after..."

Dean didn't need to hear the rest.

Seeing other people, strangers, out on the streets with their soulmate, seeing how blissfully happy they were would always ignite a deeply buried part of Dean that yearned for that kind of connection. But it was buried down for a reason, as he had come to accept that the negatives far outweighed the positives, especially for a hunter.

Now, every fleeting touch from a stranger that passed by, every accidental brush of a hand from a witness or an officer, every person he fell into bed with, he hoped that there would be no flash of color, no sudden spark of realization. He hoped that he would live the rest of his life in gray.

Then again, he is Dean Winchester. It seemed that God himself had it out for him, because his worst nightmare came true in the cruelest way that even he couldn't have seen coming.

To say that the past few weeks had been an emotional roller-coaster would be an understatement. First, finding out that the trials of heaven were going to kill Sammy, trying to stop Sam before he finished the last trial, only to realize the damage had already been done. And all at the same time, seeing the angels be cast down from heaven onto earth, feeling the dread in the pit of his stomach that one of them could be Cas.

As it turned out, it would have been easier. It felt like he was being pulled apart by fear. The fear of knowing that without some sort of miracle, that Sam wasn't going to make it. Then there was the other overwhelming fear, the fear that there was a reason that Castiel wasn't responding to his prayers.

Just... Not the reason he was expecting. Human. Castiel was human now. Human, and very alone. He wouldn't be able to zap on over to them in a millisecond as he once did. Metatron had spat him out in the middle of nowhere, and it killed Dean that he couldn't just drop everything to go find him and bring him home. No, he couldn't do that to Sammy. Not when he was hanging onto life by a thread.

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure why he was praying to Castiel in the first place. It had become a sort of reflex to him how, whenever facing something that seemed out of his control.

Castiel was an angel. A soldier of God. He had fought tooth and nail through hell, to drag Dean's soul out of there. He had patched Dean's soul back together, knitted his ripped apart body back together, and placed his soul back where it belonged.

Castiel was pure power. Almost like a 'fix it' button, where having him nearby automatically made him feel safer, knowing that an angel had his back.

Then again, even if Castiel was still an angel, would he have been able to heal Sam? Castiel had said it himself, the trials were damaging Sam in a way that even he couldn't fix. So if that was the case, what was there left to do? What could he possibly do, to save the life of his little brother?

As he had said, only a miracle could save Sam now. Praying to the other angels was a risky move, considering he had managed to single-handedly piss nearly all of them off by putting a stop to the apocalypse. Who knew that putting a wrench in God's plan would anger a bunch of all-mighty beings whose only purpose was to serve God?

But then, the miracle was received, his prayer had been answered. An angel; Ezekiel, had taken pity on him. Knowing how angels actually were (Especially when he thought back to the way Castiel was the first few months he knew him), having an angel willing to help was... Very un-angel like.

Still, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this angel said he would be able to save Sam, he had to take that chance, right? Even if it meant tricking his little brother into letting Ezekiel in, that was just a sacrifice that had to be made. He would take a pissed off Sam over a dead Sam any day.

For the first time in a long time, things were looking up. There was still the stress and worry in the back of his mind that Castiel had yet to find his way to the bunker, especially considering he had no way of contacting Cas. Despite that, Sam was getting better. Sam's coughing fits were now far and few between, and he no longer saw that dark stain on Sam's tissues that he knew to be blood. Once Sam was well enough again, they'd finally be able to go and find Cas, no problem.

Except, it doesn't work that way. Not when Ezekiel is telling him that Castiel is now a wanted man. That now the angels on earth, filled with fury at being kicked from their home, are pinning the blame solely on Castiel. They want their revenge, and Dean would be scared for him even if he was still an angel.

But he's not. Castiel is out God knows where, as mortal as they are, possibly with no idea that there are a group of seriously ruffled angels after him.

So that's how they find themselves where they are now, racing towards the room they had been told where Castiel is, with no clue if they were too late. If the reaper had gotten to him before they could.

There's no time to lose. The two of them come to a skidding halt in front of the door, and Dean brings up a foot to kick harshly at the weak spot beside the handle to the door. The wood splinters and shrieks from the force, flinging open and nearly rebounding into the both of them as they charge through.

Dean was certain he had never had a feeling of relief taken from him as quickly as he had. The few seconds he caught a glimpse of Castiel, admittedly looking a little worse for wear, but alive. Then, his gaze had slipped over to the red-headed reaper crouched over him, angel-blade still firmly grasped in her hand.

"Cas?!"

The relief was yanked away before the blade had even pierced Castiel’s abdomen.

Charging at her doesn't get him far. Well, not towards her, anyway. Her hand is in the air, and then so is he, catching himself on the top of the kitchen counter before slamming into the wall, sliding back down to the floor. Through his disorientation, he sees a flash of movement where Sam tries the exact same thing as him, only to get the same treatment. Sam sails through the air, crashing into the closet on the other side and disappearing into a pile of neatly hung clothes and shattered wood panels.

The reaper kicks away the angel blade he had dropped, and he knows she's saying something, but he isn't listening. He's solely focused on being as quiet as he can, sneaking closer and closer and as she moves towards Sam.

Something shiny glints out of the corner of his eye, and he sees the handle of the angel blade sticking out from Cas. His heart constricts painfully at the sight, but now is not the time.

Now, this bitch has to die.

He yanks the blade out of Cas, holding it tightly in his hand as he approaches. Watching her strike Sam in the face once he struggles to his feet only adds fuel to the fire, making it all too satisfying to see the shock in her face when he pushes that blade right through her stomach, watching the bright flash of light pour from her entire slowly fade away.

He can barely hear anything through the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, staring down at the reaper's body with complete disdain. It's like a painful electric shock when he remembers why they're there, head snapping over to Castiel, hanging onto the foolish hope that he might have survived.

"Cas?" Dean asks, the blade slipping from his fingers and dropping to the floor, racing over to Castiel’s side.

"Cas?" He tries again, this time louder, as if calling his name louder might wake him up. He lifts his arms up, splaying out his hands on Castiel’s shoulders before moving them up to grasp desperately at his face, searching for any sign of life. A twitch of a muscle, the rise and fall of his chest, anything.

"Cas!"

His voice breaks as his throat tightens, the realization he had tried so hard to force away beginning to sink in.

That's when it happens.

He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiel’s body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realizing with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention. 'This is red' his mind helpfully supplies as he stared down at Castiel, dumbstruck by what he was seeing.

Castiel’s skin was no longer a light shade of white, now replaced by a tan color that, as he looks down at his own hands in shock, realizes it is nearly the same as his own, if not slightly darker.

In normal circumstances, he would be taking in his surroundings, drinking in all the new pleasing visuals, matching names to colors for the first time in his life.

That's not what he's thinking about right now. Right now, it's the gut-wrenching, heart punching fact that for the past five years, his soulmate was standing right in front of him, unbeknownst to the both of them.

Angels were never assigned a soulmate because, well, they don't have souls. But then Cas became human, and he must have developed his own soul. Or perhaps this was God's plan all along, for Cas to be the exception? The one angel to be given a soul.

After all this time, it was his best friend he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.

And now, Cas was gone.

He had always told himself that he didn't want a soulmate. That it simply wasn't worth the pain. Now, he wished he had known sooner. He wished the world had bloomed into color the second he pushed that blade into Castiel’s heart, the first time they met. Even if it made losing him all the more painful, what hurt more was knowing that all this time, he could have been with his soulmate.

It was too cruel, for him to find out the truth after Castiel had already been taken away from him.

"No..." Dean whispers in disbelief, standing up and taking a few unsteady steps backwards.

Already, the colors were beginning to fade. He hadn't had them for long, and yet, he could still see that his vision had begun to change. They were still there, but not as... Demanding. Not as there, in your face. They were beginning to dull, and Dean knew it wouldn't be long before everything returned to the murky shades of gray, black and white.

Something shuffles around over to the side, and he glances over to see that Sam had managed to get to his feet, staring down at Castiel’s body, laid out on the armchair. Dean's vision is brought back to Castiel, such a painful thing to see, yet he can't find it in himself to look away.

"Sam, he's gone," Dean tells him, and saying it out loud only seems to make it feel all the more real, does nothing but make the heartache in his chest grow stronger.

Sam moves forward, towards Castiel’s body, and drops down to his knees as Dean had, earlier before. Dean briefly wonders if Sam needs the time to mourn as he does, but then looks to Sam in utter confusion when he gently holds a hand over Castiel’s body.

In the commotion of everything, he had somehow almost forgotten that there was an angel taking shelter inside his brother. Watching an angel heal is still such a miraculous sight as it was the first time he saw it, the cuts and open stab wounds seemingly being erased, replaced by smooth, untouched skin.

As the last of the cuts disappear from Castiel’s body, Sam suddenly bolts up to his feet, stumbling backward at the movement and crashing back into the wall, collapsing down to the floor. There's a few seconds where he watches Sam in complete bewilderment before the concern for his brother wins out, taking a few steps towards him with his arms outstretched.

"Dean..."

So many times he had heard that deep, gravelly voice calling his name. He had heard it yelled in fury or in panic, heard it muttered in frustration, and heard it spoken in the most uninterested, monotone angel tone, back when Cas still followed the rules to a tee.

Hearing Cas his soulmate call his name now, had never sounded better.

"Hey... Hey! Yeah..." He spluttered out, rushing back over to Cas side and placing his hand on Cas side once again, letting it slide down to his leg as he takes in Castiel’s confused expression.

Castiel’s eyes go wide as he stares up at Dean, then snapping over to Sam's unconscious form on the floor nearby.

"And Sam." Castiel finishes, looking back to Dean, still with the wide-eyed expression on his face.

It suddenly hits Dean that maybe, Castiel was seeing everything in color for the first time, and he can't even begin to imagine how confused Castiel must be feeling right now, not only having no idea why he's suddenly seeing in color, but also how in the hell he's even alive right now.

Though, judging by the way he's looking at Dean, eyes darting down to the hand resting on his leg, he seems to be starting to figure the former out.

"Cas...? " Sam says in confusion, his expression matching his voice. "You're okay?"

Castiel doesn't seem to know how to answer that, remaining silent as he looks up to Dean, trying to figure out how he was okay after being stabbed through the stomach by April. It happened, he knew it had happened. He felt the agonizing, fiery pain as it pierced through his body, and within seconds, it was gone. Everything was gone.

Castiel couldn't help but feel slightly puzzled when Dean pushes up and away from him, his worried expression changing into a hardened, much more familiar guarded expression he was used to seeing from Dean.

As it turns out, Dean was right. Losing his soulmate had been one of the more incredibly painful moments of his life. And now that he had gone through it, he never, ever wanted to experience it again.

"Never do that again!" He demands, keeping his voice low and scratchy as not to reveal how vulnerable he was feeling right now.

Castiel blinks up at him in bewilderment before answering with a somewhat unsure sounding "Alright."

Not exactly the answer Dean was hoping for, but at this point, he was way too relieved to care all that much. He takes a slight step back, wiping a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the leftover adrenaline with it. There was a lot they were going to have to talk about, especially considering Castiel might not even know that he is his soulmate. It must be quite a shock to Castiel, both coming back to life and suddenly seeing everything in color, especially since no angel had ever had a soulmate before.

Once he drops his hand back down from his face, Dean notices that Castiel is still staring at him, as if he's seeing him for the first time in his life. It was starting to make Dean feel uncomfortable, seeing the way Castiel seemed to be analyzing every inch of him, his eyes frequently darting back to study his face.

"Cas, you... Stupid question, but you alright buddy?"

Castiel keeps staring at him for a few more seconds before he opens his mouth to answer. He doesn't speak right away, instead closing his mouth again and swallowing deeply, not taking his eyes off Dean's face as he finally responds.

"Your eyes..." Castiel murmurs in amazement, the faintest of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "They're green..."

A bark of laughter escapes Dean, relief bubbling from him after all that tension, all that terror. He shakes his head slightly, chuckling fondly at the gobsmacked sounding tone of Castiel’s voice.

His laughter slowly begins to die off, though he still has a small smile on his face, matching the one Castiel was giving him in return. At the same time, he racked his brain to figure out a way to bring up, well, this.

He wasn't sure if it had always been there between the two of them, if he had never noticed or perhaps, pretended not to notice it. But now, knowing that Castiel was his soulmate, it felt impossible to ignore. He wondered if Castiel felt it too, struggling to imagine any kind of situation where Castiel had felt it in the past.

But now, seeing the way Castiel was looking at him, he knew something had changed.

"Dean..."

'Screw words' is what briefly flutters through his mind as he drops back down in front of Castiel, grasping the sides of his face in his hands and kissing him for all he's got. He's well aware of the fact that Sam is still in the room, having seen him struggle back to his feet a few moments before.

Castiel’s eyes briefly widen at this as his hands shoot up to grab at Dean's arms that were still holding his face, feeling quite dumbstruck by what was happening. Something that he never thought could happen between him and Dean.

His fingers loosen their death grip in Dean's jacket, knuckles no longer as tight and wound up, relaxing into a softer hold. He can feel the slight tremor of Dean's muscles under his skin, still shaking from everything that had happened.

A somewhat awkward-sounding cough breaks them apart, and they both look over to a red-faced Sam, who is staring down at the floor as if there was nothing more important right now than the state of his shoes.

"Apologies, Sam." Castiel is first to break the silence, seeing that Dean was trying his best not to laugh at the unapologetic sounding apology, even though he was feeling a little bit embarrassed himself.

"Yeah, uh, sorry Sammy." Dean adds onto the apology.

"It's just uh..." Dean looks out to the window, a new color catching his eye. Almost immediately, he realizes which one it is, and turns back to his brother with a grin. "I can see why yellow was your favorite color"

Dean wished he had a camera on him right at that time to record Sam's reaction. First, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion along with his tilted head, and Dean could physically see the gears turning in his head. Better yet was when it all clicked into place, mouth dropping open slightly, eyebrows no longer furrowed but instead raised up near to his hairline, eyes following his own finger which was switching between pointing at Dean, and then Castiel.

"You... Cas... Is he your..."

"You know Sam, it quite interesting how similar, yet also so different your eyes are to Dean’s. The base color is the same, and yet... I can see Dean’s in them, but at the same time, they're very much your own." Castiel notes, always the observant one.

"Huh," is all Sam can say to that, huffing out a laugh, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Guess I owe Charlie twenty bucks now."

Before Dean even has a chance to ask what that even meant, Sam began to sway on the spot, quickly shooting a hand to steady himself on the wall behind. Dean was up from his crouched position in a flash, holding out his own arm for support if Sam needed it. It's only a few seconds before Castiel is by his side, concern on his face as he watches Sam try to blink away his incoming unconsciousness.

"Sammy?" Dean asks worriedly, ready to catch Sam if he was to drop to the floor.

"I'm okay. I'm okay... Just... A little wiped out. Think I hit my head pretty hard when that reaper threw me." Sam reassured them, raising a hand to his throbbing head as he spoke.

"C'mon, shake it off man. Cas got stabbed and he walked it off." Dean attempted to joke, though fails to deliver the line as well as he usually would through his concern.

"Yeah... How did you walk that off?" Sam asked, pushing himself back up and away from the wall, keeping one arm pressed against the wall, just in case. "We both saw it. You looked... You looked pretty dead to me."

"I don't know what happened," Castiel answered honestly, glancing down at his own bare chest and stomach, which was no longer littered with cuts.

"I felt April stab me, and then... Then I was awake."

"Hey, as long as you're alive, and you're you, I'm not going to question it too much," Dean deflected their questions, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulders and giving it a fond squeeze. "You have no idea how glad I am to have you back."

Sam's pained groan snaps the two of them out of their gaze, gentle smiles replaced with worried frowns as Sam rubs at his painful head.

"I think... I think I need to go lie down for a while. I'm not feeling too hot." Sam mumbles to them, already stumbling past them and towards the door.

"Sammy," Dean calls after him, pulling Baby's keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Sam, who had stopped and turned in the doorway.

"Get yourself settled. Me 'n Cas need to talk for a bit." Dean instructs, gesturing at the dead body of April and the mess they had made in the scuffle.

Sam gives him a thankful, but weak smile in response, tucking the keys away in his pocket before making his way out of the room, heavy footsteps leading away through the hall before becoming too quiet to hear.

Now, it was just the two of them. Castiel has a hand on his own arm as he shuffled somewhat awkwardly on his feet, trying to figure out how best to approach the subject and break the silence they had found themselves in. Dean meanwhile was stuck between looking at Castiel and the dead reaper on the ground, a million questions in his head, no idea which one he should ask first.

"So, uh... We gonna talk about this?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

"We probably should."

"You're gonna have to give me a minute here. It’s... A lot to take in."

"I don't really understand what's happening myself. Angels were never supposed to have soulmates."

"But you're not-"

"Not an angel anymore. But Dean, I'm not the first angel to lose their grace and turn mortal. It’s rare, and usually kept quiet, but it's happened. Never, in any of those times, has the angel been given a soulmate. It just... Doesn't happen."

"So, what does this mean? Do you have a soul now? Can that even happen?"

"I... I suppose I do. After all, it's not possible to have a soulmate without one." Cas summarised, placing a hand on his chest as if he might be able to feel his soul residing inside him.

"Wow. First angel to have a soulmate," Dean said with a small huff of laughter, giving Castiel a teasing shove on his shoulder. "Sorry I was the one chosen for you."

Castiel looked up to Dean with a confused frown, rearing his head back slightly at the insult Dean had just given to himself.

"Why would you be sorry?" Castiel asked

"Eh, well," Dean began awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's not exactly like you were expecting a soulmate, y'know? Must be kinda disappointing to find out it's me."

"Dean... What are you talking about?" Castiel asked, stepping slightly closer to Dean. "I wish you could see your soul as I once could. To see how bright it shines, how beautiful it is. If you could see it, you would know you’re wrong. You're a good man, Dean. I couldn't have asked for a better soulmate."

Dean looked taken aback by Castiel’s words, head snapping up from the ground to lock eyes with Castiel, looking to see how sincere Castiel was being with his words.

"If anything, I should be the one apologizing." Castiel added.

"What?"

"Dean, we both know you never wanted a soulmate. You were quite vocal about it. I'm not an idiot Dean, I know I don't fit into the category of your usual romantic endeavors, so I'm sure I wasn't what you were expecting. Besides, I..."

Castiel trailed off, an ashamed and infuriated look appearing on his face.

"I'm no use to you now. To either of you. My powers are gone, and now... I can barely take care of myself. I've only been human for a few weeks, and I already managed to get tricked and tortured by a reaper.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is... I understand. If you're not interested in... If you don't want me as your soulmate, I'll understand."

Castiel was expecting Dean to look relieved at this, perhaps even happy to hear he didn't have to be pressured into anything. To his surprise, Dean actually looked pained at his words. He could see his jaw shifting in place, and wondered if he was trying to work up the courage to say something, or if he was perhaps grinding his teeth.

The last thing he was expecting was for Dean to tug at his arms, pulling him forward into his chest. Dean wrapped his arms tight around Castiel’s back, knowing he wouldn't be ready to let go for a while. Castiel was warm against him, and he could feel the faint beat of his heart through his chest. A heart that, not too long ago, had stopped beating. The thought makes him tighten his hold.

It takes Castiel a few shell shocked moments to remember it was customary in these kinds of moments to hug back. He uncertainty lifts his arms up, deciding to match Dean's position and wrap them around Dean's back. He can feel the tightness of Dean's back muscles under his fingers, but they seem to soften a little once Castiel places his hands over them. Cas can't help but smile a little at this, feeling as if he still had a bit of the healing touch he once had as an angel.

"I don't care if you're an angel, or if you're human. I don't care if you can't do all the things you did for us before. That's not what I care about. I care about you, Cas. Not what you can do for us." Dean tells him, letting his hands slide from Castiel’s back to his arms as he pulls away from the hug, keeping a light hold on his hands. "I don't need you because of your power. I need you. I need you in that stupid trench coat and tie. I need you and your crazy obsession with bees. I need you and your compassion for humans. I need you and your rebellious nature. I need my best friend. I need my soulmate."

And before Castiel can get anything out in response, Dean gives him a warm smile, tugging him towards the door of the room.

"C'mon, Cas. Let's go home."

- - -

It wasn't all smooth sailing from there, as it never is. Dean knew the angels were still out there, still angry, searching high and low for Cas. Ezekiel knew it too, and it wasn't all that surprising that he brought it up one morning, demanding that Castiel had to leave for all of their safety.

Dean knew there was a time when he would have caved in. Ezekiel may have been the only thing holding his brother together right now, and there was no way he was going to gamble on his brother's life.

Things were different now, though. Dean had a soulmate now, how could he possibly abandon Cas to face the angels on his own? Ezekiel always sort of seemed like a no-nonsense kind of angel, so Dean had thought the best approach would be to present as much evidence as possible in Cas' defense. Even Ezekiel couldn't deny that it had been impossible for him to locate Castiel with his Enochian warding tattoo, and Dean brought up how impossible it would be to find Castiel, combining that with, not only how difficult it was to find the bunker, but also how damn near impenetrable the thing was.

That wasn't what swayed him, though. He had never really thought to bring up the whole soulmate thing with Ezekiel, and Ezekiel looked just as confused as they did when they found out, citing that it was impossible and that it had never happened before.

But as Dean began to explain further, he could have sworn he could see a flash of hope in Sam’s Ezekiel's eyes, the first sort of emotion he had ever seen from the angel. He wasn't too sure why until Ezekiel began talking about how it must have been a sign of God, how else would an angel have miraculously developed their own soul, then been given a soulmate?

Dean wasn't all that sold on the idea, finding it hard to believe that the big man upstairs had any interest in the two of them, let alone the fact that he was fairly certain God wasn't even home anymore.

Then again, Ezekiel had a point. If God is the only being that can create a soul, as the angels claimed, then how else did Cas get his soul? And if God did, how far back did this go? If he had been destined a soulmate since birth, was he also Castiel’s since creation? Did God pair them together, billions of years before he was even born? Was it part of God's plan all along, for Castiel to lose his grace, and to become human?

He didn't really know what to think. It was almost too much to think, and quite frankly, he didn't want to argue with Ezekiel about it. Not if it meant that Cas got to stay, here, at home, with Dean, where he should be.

One of the reasons why Dean was so unsure about having a soul mate was that he feared everything would change. He thought that the moment he saw his soulmate, he would be desperate to get out of the hunter's life and settle down like all the others, to go and find that white picket fence, apple pie slice of domestic life.

It's not what happened, however. Everything is pretty much as it was. But now, now there's one more addition to the bunker. Now, he has a second person to help fret over Sam with. Now, there's another voice, this one much gravelier, humming along to whatever song is playing on the old, crackly radio in the kitchen as he cooks. Now, there are warm touches and fond smiles whenever they see each other. Life is as it always is, but now, he has his soulmate. Now, he's happier.

One night, after a filling meal of burgers, as they lazed around the bunkers table with beers in their hands and their stomachs, Sam had asked him that now he could see them, what his favorite color was.

There was barely any hesitation for him, barely any time he needed to think. He simply looked over to Castiel, reaching out for his hand under the table, smiling affectionately at the man next to him before answering.

"Blue."

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fanfiction #castiel/dean winchester

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torn-gold · 5 years

Text

Smoke and Mirrors AU

Chapter 1- Sandman

Katsuki is a child of dominance. Proud, brave and prideful, a smile that emits superiority in a grip of iron. But at night he kneels next to his bed stares at the stars and prays.

Sandman, I want to meet a boy, a beautiful boy, a boy that is not like the others. Someone strong and courageous, someone I can be with.

Between his prideful smile and that vicious growl lies a sad and lonely child that yearns for comfort outside from just his family. He wants someone who can hold him, whisper sweet-tasting words that he will forever willingly hear. Someone who can tell him that he can rest, that he can finally release all the shackles that forced him to fit in this super society. One who could say that "Everything will be okay".

So he lays in bed and drifts to the promises that his dreams hold.

_________

"Oi, brat wake up!", He sat up at the sounds of his screaming mom, accompanied by screeching tires. Wait, tires?

He rushes out of bed swirling back to life. He reaches in front of his window and saw trucks, specifically those used for moving stuff, and some were those used in the military.

How odd.

"Oi!", Right he has to deal with this first. Why does he have to wake so early?

"Shut up old hag!", He screams, like he does normally on a daily basis. But today was Saturday, so clearly it's not about school. "Have some respect you-" and there she goes, babbling about how he was alive because of her or something. "Get dressed, were meeting our new neighbors, and don't scare them away this time!" Yeah, like the last 5 times right, he only did that because they were boring. That, and they hate his guts as much as he hates theirs. He goes to shower and does what every grumpy and possibly psychotic child does in the morning.

Finally he goes down stairs wearing long sleeved black shirt under a white one with an x written on it, accompanied with his brown shorts. His mom tried to tame his explosive blond hairstyle – whilst he glared at her– but ultimately gives up. His mom, dad and him went out and headed to their new neighbors, who were currently busy talking to one of the suited men. "Yes... I know... Then tell your men to... I understand but..", both adults argue a bit.

Besides the men in black, there were two green-haired and freckled people. One being the lady talking to the suited man and one being the kid who was arguably taller and older than him. He looked rather calm and collected, considering that everything around them was unusual. From the moving thing to the whole military trucks and men. Katsuki also noticed that the kid was writing in his journal rather than listening to the conversation that rang on around him.

Strange.

The lady wore dress shirt and office skirt, green and white respectively. She looks fitting to be an attorney and had a sense of authority no matter how unnoticeable to others it is. He stares at the kid and he was wearing dark green sweater and ivory shorts accompanied by red framed glasses. His bespectacled eyes glint with subtle treats, as if the kid could breakdown every little information about you with just one glance, planning ways to dispose you at any given second. And with Katsuki, he wouldn't even doubt it. He learned that everyone isn't just what they seem, that this kid can easily take him down without even trying, and that intrigued him.

So he made it his own personal mission to befriend the seemingly terrifying child (not that he'd ever admit it).

He casts his usual arrogant smile and sharps his eyes. Stalking up to the new kid that's gonna be his new neighbor, and possibly his new friend. Once he was Infront of him, Katsuki did what any other prideful brat would do.

He poked him in the chest.

"Hey! I'm Bakugou Katsuki, and I'm gonna be a hero! What's your name?", Although he poke the older kid offensively, all he received was a very and I mean VERY confused look. And Katsuki's mom had a huge urge to slap both her son and herself for the most bluntly weird first impression thanks to her idiotic boy.

The greenette's mother was equally confused as her son was that she stopped discussing with the man before she continued with her chat. But all seems well when the boy slowly but surely took interest with the blond child, he closed his notebook, his emerald eyes pierced through red orbs. " I'm Midoriya Izuku and I will to be a chemist" he spoke blank and firm, completely sure of what he would achieve, no doubts or second thoughts just pure confidence. If Katsuki was intrigued before, he is certainly interested by now.

He just need to hook Midoriya's interest as well.

#bnha #deku midoriya #mha #midoriya izuku #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #smoke and mirrors au #wip au #bnha deku #bnha izuku #deku #mha deku #bakugou katsuki #this is literally going to kill me

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driftinglightofthewoods · 4 years

Note

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

Send me a “🖊+an OC“ and I will talk about that OC! It can be a headcanon, a fun fact, a small paragraph of backstory- anything!Alternatively, send in just a “🖊“ and I will talk about any one of my OCs at random!

You sendin’ 20 pencils? you gettin’ 20 ocs. You asked for this.

1. Sileves

I love Sileves, I love her big generous heart and how eagerly she accepts friends of her children and her husband as honorary family members. I wish I could talk more about her job as a healer because she takes such immense pride in it and she is what I would want any nurse or doctor to be; so caring and patient and kind.

2. Methenor

Methenor is a soft boi hidden under layers of icy indifference, sarcasm and dry etiquette and I love it. He cares for his family so much ;-; And like I feel incredibly bad for him because no wonder he’s cold as ice when pretty much his entire family left him in Rivendell; His parents sailed, his older sister is who knows where, his younger brother ran for Lothlorien and now his only son left him too.

3. Malgelir

Chirpy social butterfly with a small bit of a “ME FIRST” complex towards her siblings. Malgelir always wanted to get married and have a child, and the fact that she did so before her siblings does make her prouder than she probably should be. Thankfully this isnt out of pure malicious intent because I don’t think she ever had an evil thought in her life.

She also cares so much about her hubby and her son ;-; i cry

4. Rhoscthel

Fun fact I aint got a single clue about what goes into fashion design and yet here Rhoscthel is being a tailor. Send help. Plz. I’m making this up as I go and I just hope nobody notices I’m bluffing my way through anything that takes half a glance at her skill as a tailor.

I also wish I knew how people Actually Flirt TM because Rhos is supposed to be a charming she-elf with bargaining powers that could almost rival Caranthir’s but idk anything about either flirting or haggling. The woes of an introvert trying to play a socially savvy extrovert TM

5. Amathel

With Amathel I’ve been contemplating switching her social status of engaged to married but Amathel kind of has concerns and worries about the act of getting married so idk how to really.. change her status? Like should I just change it or drabble it or..

Like it’s not that she doesnt want to be married to Lagoron, she loves him very dearly, but there’s certain expectations that comes with having a wedding especially as a highly valued member of the Rivendell guard.

Idk I kinda want to dive more into the complex nature of her always wanting to be on top and number one in her class despite the fact that she has a lot of… performance anxiety, I guess you could call it?

She doesnt like to be put on the spot or even necessarily in the spotlight even though she has an ambitious drive and is always looking to improve as a guard.

6. Innith

With Innith I’m kinda having the opposite problem I do with Rhoscthel. I don’t get to use her much because she’s a shy, introverted scholar who would really only want to interact with coworkers and patrons of the library in Rivendell; and unfortunately there’s not a lot of those muses around.

this is very much me asking you to throw Pan at her sometimes I think they could be fun together plz

I’m also a bit sad the one ship I had for her has long since sailed away. F/F ships are so hard to come by.

7. Nethel

You would think I have a similar problem with Nethel like I do with Innith but since Nethel is such a drastically different character I actually dont find it hard to find interactions for her lol. People seem to be rather drawn to her even though she’s brutally blunt. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Nethel is a lot like Feanor just minus the genius linguistic part.

Plus while Nethel is cooped up in her workshop most of the time she does need to come out and tend to her biological needs like eating, bathing, sleeping, much to her dismay as she has little patience for small talk.

Aside from that I think most of the muns I toss her at are aware that she’s a deeply insecure person under all that brutal facade, and people generally seem to have a little more patience with a character like that? like idk, just something I noticed.

8. Miston

Honestly without Miston this blog wouldnt exist and I wouldn’t be here to gush about all my characters, so needless to say Miston is incredibly important to me. I feel like he has grown as a character a lot since the beginning of this blog but that he has also remained true to the description I give him in his about section. He is still a character who doesn’t like sharing his feelings and rather deflect them, ignore them entirely or distract you with conversations about literally anything else.

Miston is very near and dear to my heart.

9. Eredhon

Baby. Precious soft child. Eredhon is such a sweetheart and it’s truly thanks to a lot of brainstorming with @legolasgoldy that he has been crawling out of his shell because for quite a while I myself didnt even know all that much about Eredhon.

He is a soft, gentle soul with a lot of deep running emotions and his social anxiety can definitely play cruel tricks on him, but with the right support system he blossoms into a very sweet and devoted friend who will always try to help you through any emotional problems. He’s also a lot more emotionally intelligent than I originally gave him credit for. He’s usually paired with social butterflies (see Malgelir) because he does get those type of characters to kind of.. relent the walls they build around themselves and let him see the emotional struggles they tend to ignore

He’ll also never apologises for feeling his emotions. He’ll apologize for snapping, for raising his voice, for letting his anxiety drive him up a wall and for anything that deserves an apology, but he won’t apologize for feeling sad or anxious or happy or in need of comfort.

10. Calithilon

I’ve been thinking about aging canon Cali up to at least a talkative elfling because honestly because he is so young in canon I haven’t really gotten a chance to use him all that effectively in the main storyline.

Most of Cali’s development comes from modern aus with @hclliish where he’s a teen, dating her Sleipnir (another precious child, just not one of mine lol)Cali takes after his mom in looks and unfortunately for him after his dad in personality, making him a rather shy and quiet person with a lot of insecurities. Being born to two singers makes him a natural singer as well, and his voice is higher in tone than that of his father.

Despite being an anxious teen (because when is puberty ever kind) he does find a lot of comfort in his parents unconditional love for him. They’re a very solid parents-child unit tbh.

11. Lagoron

Another character that I don’t get to use all that much, which is unfortunate because I find Lagoron an incredibly funny and interesting character. He’s a very un-elvish elf, in fact he’s more a hobbit in an elven disguise. While also being a guard, he is an entirely different type than Amathel; where Amathel yearns to be the best and the strongest, Lagoron is a team player who believes in the strength of numbers and strong bonds between guards to drag them through the most difficult situations; and that hasn’t exactly made him the top performer of the class.

He is however truly the kind of person you want on your team, and in a fight he’s surprisingly endurant and likely to exhaust his opponent by focusing on dodging their power attacks rather than wasting his energy in fighting back.

Always has food on him and will offer it to anyone he feels like stricking up a friendly conversation with. 10/10 good friend.

12. Hinnoron

Hinnoron is definitely more of the tradtional elf. He’s radiant, and ethereal, and pleasant to be around. He also has a natural calmness about him and a certain kind of wisdom. Y’know, typical Tolkien Elf TM stuff.

Hinnoron gets interesting when you dive into his deeper relationships. His relationship with his eldest sister is on a very low pit, and the one he has with Methenor has definitely taken some blows. When Gelwenil left to follow the stars, Methenor got rather clingy towards Hinnoron, who felt suffocated in return.

Hinnoron left for Lothlorien, and to this day regrets that he abandoned Methenor when Methenor was clearly struggling with the departure of their parents and their sister. While they have mended their bond since, this kind of guilt does seem to creep into his relationships with Haldir ( @thehiddenhero ) and Oropher ( @oropherrrrr ) He often doesn’t tell them when things about the relationship upset him and bottles his emotions up to an unhealthy degree, all because he fears of upsetting their feelings or even damaging the image they have of him if he’s not the perfect, ethereal and unconditionally supportive partner. For someone who gives love so easily and unconditionally, he seems to have a hard time believing that the love he receives doesn’t come with the condition that he has to be a perfect lover or it’ll be revoked.

Someone plz teach him that he’s allowed to have needs and that he’s allowed to have those needs tended to.

13. Gelwenil

Ah yes. The lost one. Well no, not lost, she knows exactly where she’s going but nobody else does. Gelwenil honestly never meant to upset Methenor or Hinnoron when she left to follow the stars. Like Methenor was definitely struggling when his parents left for Valinor, but in retrospect Gelwenil left several years after that. Maybe not enough for him to have healed and moved on, but I don’t blame her for thinking that with his wife, children and their youngest brother Methenor would have enough of a support net to justify her wanting to explore the skies.

Gelwenil is an avid believer in the power of Varda, and also deeply respects Tilion and Arien. Any type of celestial Maia can be expected to be treated with the deepest respect from her.

Out of all my characters Gelwenil deserves the most TLC tbh I feel like she’s underdeveloped compared to everyone else because I dont use her a lot.

14. Faerveren

Uuuugh I miss Faerveren so much. Mistons second cousin twice removed, and probably the only person to ever leave him flabbergasted and when Miston is the voice of reason in a duo, you know somethings up.

Faerveren is also an interesting character because with her I wanted to present the idea of people assuming you’re always emotionally fine as long as you’re physically strong enough to be virtually invincible.

15. Nengelon

Local edition of the “I’m so fucking done with this shit I don’t get paid enough to deal with” club, together with Feren and Lindir. Nengelon tends to fall into an elven variety of Welsh when he runs upset with the leader of the Sabaid elves, and just about no one knows what he’s saying.

There’s also the implication that he basically ran away from the Riunnag (waterelves, maybe related to the Teleri through distant blood but sources (ie me) dont confirm that yet so its just rumors) tribe he belonged to because of his secret romantic ties to said leader, but Nengelon doesn’t speak of his romantic outings to anyone so it’s just a rumor.

16. Braigon

Ah, big, bulky, burly, 7 foot something Sabaid leader Braigon. Rides a grizzly bear as a warmount, wields a gigantic twohanded battle axe, and is an absolute terror on the battlefield… when he bothers to get his tribe of warrior travelers involved. Braigon tends to stroll around like he owns the place, because not many dare to defy this mountain of an elf.

Maybe thats why people are so bewildered when 5′9 sized Nengelon curses him out on his bullshit in some incomprehensible tongue they don’t know.

Braigon is actually a pretty solid leader of a tribe where elves can pretty much do as they please as long as they do their job as either warrior or provider (finding food and other supplies) outstandingly. The Sabaids aren’t a big tribe, there’s only a couple hundred of them, but they make for fantastic allies… but only if you can manage to convince Braigon to risk any of his people in any given war; and he usually isn’t concerned with fighting the battles of others for them without a good reason.

17. Bereneth

Bereneth is an interesting case. An accident between a Sinda lady and a Noldo refugee, at a time when those relationships weren’t exactly accepted after the reign of destruction left by the line of Finwe. (I like to believe thats something that took a generation or two for elves to get over dont @ me.)

Because of this, Bereneth was relentlessly bullied to the point where as soon as the oppertunity rose, her mother left for then newly settled Rivendell. Being under the rule of Elrond, she figured her daughter would be safe there. Bereneth remained there and bore three children to Carandolon and sailed to Valinor when their daughter in law was pregnant with her first child

18. Carandolon

Chieftain of a squadron while Greenwood was under the rule of Oropher, Carandolon was a bright eyed and wanderlust filled soul, born to two fullblooded Silvan elves. When on a mission to Rivendell, where he had to accompany a diplomat, he saw Bereneth and for him it was love at first sight.

When the mission was over and he returned to Greenwood, he immediately requested to be dismissed from his chieftain status and to be allowed to move and live to Rivendell.

A reckless and bold move, and it did take him a while to woo Bereneth, but they ultimately fell in love, got married, and had three children. He sailed with his wife when their daughter in law was pregnant with her first child

19. Nemiron

The missing link that connects Miston to the line of Finwe. Nemiron is the bastard son of Írimë and an unknown father of Vanyarin descent. Nemiron lost complete vision in his right eye when the healer tent he worked at got raided by the enemy in that war; and he threw himself as a shield between the blade and the wounded soldier it was aiming for.

During the war, he was usually found in the company of either Finrod or Edrahil, as he needed help to adjust to his new lack of depth perception. Sometimes during that same war, he left to settle in Lothlorien, where he met the weaver apprentice Dillothés. They married and moved to Rivendell as a position for an experienced healer was open there, and they had their family there.

Nemiron remained in Rivendell, despite yearning to sail, for the sake of his only daughter, and he ultimately sailed for Valinor when she was pregnant with her third child.

I havent decided if the power of Valinor heals Nemiron’s injury, but if it does (and I doubt it), it would do so only partially. His right eye will never be 100% functional.

20. Dillothés

The third and last born daughter of her parents, Dillothés worked as a weaver’s apprentice in Lothlorien before moving up to becoming a weaver of her own, selling her selfmade fabrics to tailors and others interested and making a comfortable living out of it

She became infatuated with Nemiron, who was often found in the library studying Lothlorien native herbs to aid in his small healer practice. After she learned of his injury she never backed away from him once, and helps and supports him to the best of her ability. This remains the case when they went to Valinor and whether or not he partially heals from his injury

#cuilpantielthesleepyscribe #THERE. I DID IT #-flops-#all my bbys

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eddiespagheti · 5 years

Text

ashes denote that fire was

a fire has different stages and so does jake and amy's relationship

stage one: incipient. heat, oxygen and a source combine resulting in a fire. if a fire is sensed within this stage, it has a greater chance of being extinguished.

Amy stares into the night, trying to spot one of the three perps they’re waiting out for. It’s not a big case, nothing but a couple of tax evaders, but her heart beats loudly in her ears. This is not an effect of the case, however, but the heat of the person next to her. There are exactly one foot and eight inches separating them, nothing but the thick console from their undercover car and an old half-eaten pretzel Scully had forgotten. And still, Amy feels his heat as if his skin is touching hers.

This is the first case they've worked on since he's been back; the first time it's been just the two of them in nearly months. It's a strange feeling being so close to him and it's even more bizarre just how quiet and still the air is between them. The thick air billowing like a fog that takes over the car.

She swallows thickly and gazes at him from the corner of her eye, trying not to move a muscle, so he doesn’t realize that she’s not-so-casually gazing at him. It’s been three weeks since he’s returned from being undercover and she still can't believe he’s back. She’s still struggling to get used to living in a world in which Jake Peralta told her he likes her (twice). She tried to get used to it before, when he was deep in the mob, but her thoughts quickly went from his confession, to Teddy, to Jake, to thinking of Jake in trouble, to thinking of Jake before he left, to the confession, and so on and so forth.

So, she never got to directly address the tornado that was churning in her heart.

They haven’t spoken of that night two weeks prior, when he told her that his feelings towards her hadn’t faded in the months he's been gone. And Amy hasn't told him that it's been a week since she's seen Teddy. Not that they spoke much about him before, but now, now that she knows just how he feels, she knows that speaking of Teddy would be like pushing upon a bruise. His bruise.

There is no need for her to tell him why she hasn’t spoken to Teddy or about the last time she’s pushed him away like now. Or how in both instances, this confusion that rejected Teddy was likely fueled by him.

She yearns for the time when she didn’t think of Jake without remembering his hopeful eyes outside the precinct. When she didn’t feel his eyes following after her as she walked to Captain Holt’s office. Much less the fact, that she noticed that her eyes followed him, too.

She spots some movement from the corner of her eye and her eyes quickly dart back out the window. It turns out to be nothing but a stray cat making its away and Amy lets out a little sigh, the only sound in the almost thirty minutes of their shared silence.

“So, how did your date with Katie go?” she asks, hoping to fill the empty space. Only cringing when she realizes that her attempt of not talking about this thing between them is foiled by her speaking of his attempt at moving on. She knew Rosa had given Jake Katie’s number, had found out when Boyle had very loudly wished Jake luck on his date yesterday.

Jake makes no acknowledgement of her fumble, however, and he merely shrugs. “Not what I expected. She’s very Rosa-like. I am eighty percent sure her real name isn’t even 'Katie'.”

Amy laughs and Jake joins in after a second. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says and grins at him. Jake pauses for a second, the laughter dying in his throat and the her laughter quickly follows.

“Amy,” he begins and her heart stops. She knows that voice; she knows it’s a voice void of joking and void of anything but that sincerity that makes her heart heavy. It’s like a train is barreling towards her, but she’s unable to stop it. She wants to cover her ears, but can't.

Or maybe, she won’t.

The look and the sound of his voice remind her so much of that time outside the precinct. It reeks of that confession that he handed to her and that she carried like heavy rocks in her pockets since that day. She wants to hear what he has to say, and the thought of this scares her.

There’s a lull as he awaits her response and it’s as if the world has stopped; time and every molecule paused for that second that stretches for hours. They stare at one another, hesitating. It’s as if they’re standing at the edge of a building and the only parachute that can save them is the other.

Amy wants to look away, but she’s entranced by the look on his face. It's more shy than hesitant, his eyes downturned and brows furrowed, lining his face with worry. She wonders what he wants to say and urges him to speak, so she replies. "Yeah?" Her voice carries no strength despite her trying to fill it so, and it betrays her true emotions. The vowels and consonants fly out the window with the wind, too light to stand on their own.

Jake pauses, something hidden in his eyes that Amy struggles to define, then says, “Never mind.” He lets out a nearly silent sigh and goes back to staring out into the night.

With that, Amy looks down at her lap and plays with her fingers. She struggles to make sense of what that was, of the look on his face, the tone of his voice, and the stuttering of her heart.

But, she knows what it was-another heavy confession she was to carry like Atlas and it makes absolutely no sense that she actually wishes she had heard it.

When Amy looks up for a second, she meets his eyes and she sees that spark that lay in his eyes before. It's a mere spark, a twinkle, but it leaves as quickly as she spots it. So, she looks a back down to her hands and picks at her cuticles.

That's when she starts to feel the flames starting to build, but she refuses to pay attention to it, ignores it as the flames begin to spark. It’s been heating up for a moment now, has been for nearly years now, but it is the first time she feels the growing heat.

There is not enough water to douse this fire; nothing left to stop it from growing and turning her beating heart to ash.

And the fire grows.

And in him, it does, too.

stage two: growth. the stage in which all the structures load with fire and the oxygen is used as fuel. the flashover is what quickly follows.

Maybe Amy should've called her mother earlier, seeing as it's almost midnight and since she was young her parents have been steadily going to bed at nine. But, she has to do this. This is her big romantic gesture. If she did this tomorrow, it wouldn't carry the same weight. She has to tell her mother that she no longer wants to be set up with colleagues of her brothers or with the sons of the dog sitter for her friend Linda's cousin.

Not anymore because she has someone to call her own. Someone who makes the blood inside her sing a loud symphony and someone that Amy is more than sure has owned her heart for a really long time.

Just as she's owned his.

Amy listens as the phone rings yet again and though part of her wants her mother's voicemail to greet her, she wishes that her mother would pick up her phone. She doesn't want to brag about Jake, not really, no, but she wants to tell her of every single part of her heart that he owns.

And okay, she does want to brag about him a little.

Because how rare is it to find something such as this? To have the fireworks of pure joy burst within you whenever you see this special someone? To look at someone the same way that your parents use to do daily?

Amy remembers being nine and ignoring her brothers pretending to barf as her dad kissed her mother before leaving for work. And even after her father turned and wished them all a good day, her mother's eyes did not stray from his retreating figure until every single piece of him was out of her eyesight.

Even at that young age, she understood what that was. It was love.

And now, maybe, she has that.

That love. That cloying, everlasting, much-too-strong, hard to contain love. Though it is such a heavy word that comes with the full on weight that strikes a minor chord of fright. It's not the first time she's thought it, but it is the first time she hasn't pushed away such thought.

She never told Teddy she loved him, and even if she did, she would've been lying. She didn't love Teddy, at least not this way. It was if being with Teddy was nothing but ashes pretending to be fire. The flames nothing but cheap plastic alit with a bulbing light. The little embers not comparable to the forest fire that Jake has lit up.

And then, her mom answers, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” she begins and she curls up deeper into her bed, ready to tell her mother of the glowing fire and just how she doesn't want to extinguish it. She can't wait to tell her just how much she loves Jake Peralta.

And soon, she thinks, she will tell him, too.

the flashover. though not an official stage, this is the sudden burst of flame caused by intense heat. uncertain and surprising, this stage is deadly.

Amy awakes at once, hands blindly searching towards the empty space beside her, but she knows it's empty.The bed sheets are cold, as they've been for weeks now. Still, she clutches the white sheet, balling it up in her palm for a moment and then letting her hand go limp. The cotton wrinkles from the strength of her hand, leaving the imprint of her nails.

Her hand stretches again, this time more calmly as strokes the cold beside her and she sighs.

She rolls over, facing the empty space. The nightmare that woke her from her sleep is long gone and what replaces it is an intense sadness as she stares at the empty space.

Jake has been gone for five weeks now, and she still hasn’t gotten used to the cold beside her.

Despite him being gone for a few weeks, she doesn't stray from her side of the bed, her body so used to him being near her and occupying that space with his heat. The bed seems bigger now, wider, as if it's been stretched out into a massive landscape. Before, she almost rolled onto the floor as his lanky limbs took ownership but now, there's too much space and not nearly enough bodies to occupy it. She wonders how she ever slept alone.

She remembers that nightmare of an afternoon in the courthouse and the verdict that felt like a guillotine to her neck. The flashing reality that almost crushed her. It was over. All of it was over.

Fifteen years for a crime he hadn't committed.

You see things like these happen on television or in films, but it's something so trivialized that you never think it would ever happen to you. She wants to laugh at the irony of it all. Here they are, making a career out of putting criminals in jail and here was Jake, being put away for a crime he didn't commit.

It was a crazy twist of fate; one trick to show just how unfunny life was.

And just when things were settling down between them, her singular apartment turned into a home. Their home.

The fire that burned between them quickly setting everything ablaze around them and leaving Amy alone to struggle through the flaming rubble. The all-too-familiar fire no longer safe or comforting, but a strange phenomenon that made her weak. The intense heat threatening to topple the foundation of their relationship.

In the stillness of the room, Amy sighs as she remembers waking up at three a.m. just a month ago on a night such as tonight. She remembers reaching over and feeling him next to her, so whole and warm. Jake being her only her comfort. And despite the fire that nearly incapacitates her, she misses the heat of his body.

stage three: fully developed. the growth stage has reached the max capacity. the hottest phase of a fire.

There's a minuscule lull in their wedding after-party that gives Amy just enough time to step away. The bar is packed with the people they invited to their impromptu reception, like their parents, Kylie, and some of Amy's officers. She's beelines her way to the closet, not paying attention to any of the beckoning waves or calls. She's a girl on a mission, and that mission is meeting up with her new husband.

The closet that is their meeting space is loosely hidden by the restrooms, an old closet that Hank stores expired food in. Their actual after-wedding meetup was not a dingy closet, but an empty room adjacent to the venue decorated by vanilla candles and bundles of roses. But, like everything having to do with her wedding so far, it fell apart.

She steps into the room, not pausing by the door or knocking. She's desperate to see Jake and to be alone with him for the first time in hours. She craves being next to her husband without the heat of other bodies around them.

She closes the door quickly after her, turning and coming face-to-face with Jake, who sits atop an old dusty box of expired pretzels. He's missing his suit jacket, and his tie is loose around his neck, making him look relaxed and soft. She stares at him for a second, drinking him in, and despite their current setting, this is one of the romantic experiences of her life.

He's staring lovingly, holding two glasses of crappy off-brand champagne and a smile on his face. Amy's entire body relaxes when he reaches over to hand her the champagne and their hands touch. This is what she's been looking forward to. Not the party or the dances or even the dress, but just being alone with him. Just the two of them, as now they're bound to be forever.

She sits on the box he arranged next to him, smile not fading.

"We really haven't had time to be alone, huh?" He asks.

"Yeah," she sighs and tips her champagne glass with his, making the glass clink. "But now we do. All thanks to you."

She was surprised when he suggested it before, though it was something so in character for him. His idea of a simple moment after their wedding, where they could toast silently and could spend a moment away from all the noise. A moment in which they could share their love for one another without any interruptions.

Just the two of them. As it was now and forever supposed to be.

"Do you remember that Roland case?" he asks after a moment.

"The one where the man murdered the woman he said was his soulmate because she was dating someone else?"

"Yep," he says. "Do you remember what I said?"

She scours her mind for a second and smiles as she remembers. "That you didn't understand why he had murdered her because soulmates weren't real."

"Let's not gloss over that fact that the whole soulmates thing bothered me more than the murder itself," she interrupts him with a laugh, and he grins. "Do you remember your reaction?"

"Yeah," she grins, remembering her shocked reaction to his words and how she had argued that her parents were soulmates and how wrong he was. He had blown a raspberry at her and had said that every person on Earth thought that.

"Even I used to think that," he had said. "But now I have two divorced parents." With that, he had walked away and at his retreating back Amy had said,"You think that now, Jake, but one day you're going to meet someone who will make you eat your words."

"Doubt it," he had said, throwing a teasing look at her over his shoulder. This was before them, before Holt, before Sophia, or Teddy. This was when the mere thought of being with Jake seemed unfathomable and downright ridiculous.

"I was very wrong," He says now with a small laugh. Amy squeezes his hand, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "I was so wrong." he pauses. "But....time passed by and I've changed my tune. And now, our kids are going to be those kids that argue that their parents really are soulmates."

"And they'll be right." She closes her eyes against his shoulder, losing herself in the warmth of him.

“I can't believe it actually happened,” He says after a moment. “It seemed so impossible earlier today.” She picks up her head from his shoulder, finding Jake's eyes looking so deeply into hers.

Something burns bright every time that she looks at him and every time that she looks at him, that fire is reignited again and again. This isn't the eye of any storm, but the rising violence of a fire roaring around them and there isn't any place she'd rather be than here with him.

"That soulmates thing was part of my vows I cut out. I didn’t want to tell you in front of everybody. This is just something that I wanted us to know," he says, leaning his head down against hers and Amy leans in, kisses him. If you told her that one day she'd be sitting in an old stuffy closet with Jake Peralta, her new husband, listening to him recite vows that he didn't copy from Yahoo!Answers, she'd wonder when she had gone crazy.

They say that the day of your wedding you don't even get to taste your own wedding cake with everything going on. She doesn't care if she doesn't eat or drink anything other than this crappy champagne she's still holding, because this, here, is what really matters. .

As they separate, they share a smile and Amy is glad for this moment alone. Glad she married him.

And, okay, maybe she really is a little crazy. For him.

stage four: decay. the longest stage of a fire in which the oxygen is decreased and thus ends the fire. though, if not properly extinguished this fire could be relit.

Alicia has been sick for a few days; it is not too serious, nothing but an ear infection. Alicia is one and a half however, and far too young to articulate what hurts correctly. The only way she can express her emotions are with piercing cries. Piercing cries to awake Amy in the middle of the night, just as they do now. Amy wakes with a start, almost tripping over her own feet as she runs down the hall to her daughter's room.

Alicia is already standing, facing the door, holding out her chubby arms for her mother. Amy carries her into her arms at once, pushing her sweaty hair down until her cries quiet down to little hiccups.

"Is she okay?" Jake asks from the door, surprising Amy.

Amy nods and turns away from the door, and from him. "Yeah, she's fine."

Jake stands at the door for a moment more, staring after her and then he leaves, his footsteps quiet in the night. Amy relaxes, pressing her daughter closer to her chest. Things have been awkward between them for about a month now. It's all started with a fight about who was to pick up dinner that should've ended right then and there but with neither of them giving in, it never ended.

Now, Amy didn't know what to do anymore, and it seemed too late to bring it up, so it became a blaring thing in the corner of the room neither of them could avoid or speak about.

After a few minutes, Amy feels the gentle breathing of her daughter on her neck and slowly lowers her down to her crib.

She covers her with her pink blankie and watches her for a moment, silently tracing her sleeping features with her eyes. Alicia looked so much like Jake when she slept that it almost made her heart burst. She remembered the first time she held her daughter and looked into her eyes. Even then, she knew that she would be the spitting image of her father and that she would do anything in this world to protect her.

When Amy had her first daughter, Fiona, she would spend hours staring at her over her crib. Jake would wake up and find her gone in the middle of the night and would continually find her in Fiona’s room. He would join her and wrap his arms around her and silently they would watch as their daughter slept. When Alicia was born, they would do the same thing, just stare as she dreamt.

But that was some time ago. Now, Fiona is seven, no longer the sleeping baby with the big, brown eyes.

And now, things are strange between her and Jake and it’s just her who watches Alicia sleep. It scares her to wonder where all of this will lead.

Alicia lets out a little hum and turns over her in her crib. Amy takes this as her cue to leave and tiptoes out the room. She crawls back into bed, trying not to make any noise as to not wake Jake, but he says, "She asleep?"

"Yes," she answers, bringing the sheet up to her neck. She faces the wall, giving him her back and the sheet rustles as Jake jostles to find a good spot in bed. She closes her eyes when he stops, ready to sleep, but he starts up again.

“Jake.”

"Sorry." The room quiets then, with Jake's jostling of the bed over and the only sound that remains is the distant ticktock of the clock in the living room. Amy is so near to sleep when Jake shifts, awaking her. She sighs in annoyance, ready to tell him to quit it when she feels the weight of his arm wrapping itself around her waist. It slithers until his warmth wraps her like a cocoon.

She opens her eyes then, confused by this sudden movement, but freezes, not wanting to disrupt the feeling that she'd almost forgotten. It's been so long that he's held her like this and warmed her up from head to toe.

She closes her eyes, hoping that he doesn't remove himself from her and only opens them at the feel of his breath on his hair. She feels him hesitate them, hears the loud swallow of nervousness.

"Jake, what-"

"I'm sorry," he interrupts. "I know we've been having a rough time and I know I should've apologized sooner but-"

"Jake-" She says and turns towards him, but stops, startled by his nearness. He's closer than she'd anticipated and it lights those fireworks deep inside her. He's so close that she can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and she swallows thickly now, taken aback for a moment. "It's nobody's fault," she says weakly after a moment. "It was a stupid fight. We both could've resolved it sooner."

"Yeah," he agrees and they still like this for a moment, both not wanting to move. He purses his lips and says, "It just grew and you kept getting more distant and I was so scared-"

"Shh," she presses her finger to his lips, quieting him. "I know. Me, too." He takes her finger and presses a light kiss to it, as if testing the heat of the water. Amy doesn't react, hoping not to scare him away. The truth is, she wants more than a simple kiss to her finger. So much more.

He slowly leans in and kisses her. Amy's a little struck by it, but then, she quickly comes back to Earth and kisses him back. It's been a little while since they've had sex, not very long, but long enough for her to feel the familiar urge prickling her skin very quickly. She deepens the kiss, bringing him closer, hoping to burn with him. Jake resists, however, and pulls away. Amy licks her lips, staring at him hungrily as he stares down at her.

"What?"

"You want to hear what Fiona told me?"

"Sure," she says, one hand falling from Jake's cheek to his shoulder. She squeezes once and he smiles.

"She says that there are five stages of a fire. Well, four official stages, but she counts five. Something about a flashover or whatever. She says that it's important to know all five so you know how to extinguish them and don't die."

"Is that what they're teaching them in elementary school now?"

"She said she learned that on her own. Borrowed some book from the library or something."

"That kid," she says with a smile. "She's so much like you."

"Like me? She's so much like you," he retorts and Amy snorts. "I didn't even know where the library was when I was a kid."

"As long as we can agree that Alicia is you personified."

"Oh, most definitely." He strokes the side of her face slowly, Amy leans into it like a cat. “In the end, she says the fire dwells, and the decay of its destruction is left.”

Amy’s taken aback by his words, and stays quiet for a second, then, "What happens if a fire isn’t put out?”

He shrugs, "Fire always goes out on its own, unless you keep feeding it and keeping it alive.”

“Mhmm,” theshe says and Jake leans in, kisses her slowly. This time, she’s the one who pulls away. “There’s a waterfall in Pennsylvania we went when I was a kid and there’s a fire hidden behind the water that never goes out. Nobody knows how it stays lit, but it’s been there for hundreds of years. Maybe thousands.”

He smiles down at her, and they share a brief kiss. “Behind the waterfall?”

“Yes. How ironic, huh? A fire protected by a thick sheet of water.”

“Yeah."

Amy sees the familiar look on his face and leans in to kiss him. There are no more conversations started anymore, just the familiar feeling of being in each other’s arms. And Amy remembers their wedding ten years ago, the first time she told him that she loved him, the day she realized that she didn’t just see him as her partner, and she thinks of that fire in Pennsylvania. How it burned and how her father had told her the name of the falls.

”Eternal Flame Falls,” he had said and Amy wondered how something could burn for so long. But now, she knew. She had a love that would burn longer than that waterfall and though sometimes it can grow smaller, it will never go out. It doesn’t have a water curtain to preserve it, but it has Amy and Jake, and they’re more than enough.

the relighting. after the decay, any heat leftover may once again be relit by the source of a simple backdraft. sometimes, even the smallest of smoldering embers could relight the harshest of fires.

#b99 #jake peralta #amy santiago #peraltiago #peraltiago fic #b99 fic #idlewheelposts

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