#laying dramatically half on the floor half on the carpet and just think about this life that is a constant stream while i'm a leaf

[theapangea]

Hanging on the Telephone

Lip Gallagher x innocent!reader

Part of the Every Little Touch Series

Summary: Phone sex with Lip Gallagher

W/C: 2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI!!! Male and female masturbation

A/N: I know I've been MIA but here is a little Lip smut for making you wait so long you little pervs ;). This was a fun one to write and maybe there will be a part two to this story! This is part of my Every Little Touch Series with Lip x innocent!reader. My requests is currently closed but when it does open please feel free to suggest any ideas you have for this story or another one. Love you cuties!! <3

Finally you murmur, shuffling your snow covered boots through the carpeted floor. Struggling to strip your coat and shoes off at the same time. Trying to work quickly as the stale air of the house makes you start to sweat under your several layers.

Eyes sleepy, heavy, ready to collapse onto themselves as the coat and boots are soon forgotten about, taking the last several steps to your bed before plopping face first into the mattress. The plush blanket muffling your scream as you release all the built up stress from the stupid little day you are having. Though the scream seems not to be working.

Rolling over onto your back, arms laying delicately over your mid section. Eyes fixated on the ceiling, the weight on your shoulders grows heavy as the strain builds behind your eyes making it tougher to breathe. Cursing silently at your stupid, sad, pathetic fucking life. A small stream of tears trickle down your temples, squeezing your eyes sharply together, wishing everything and everyone away. 

Just need a little peace.

Just need a little release.

Taking a deep, slow breath as you let your mind wander. Rubbing your thighs together, the buzzing runs through your thoughts, suddenly landing on Lip. His causoled fingers running down your delicate skin. Absentmindedly touching the same spots he did while you continue to let your mind run wild. 

Breath hitches as your fingers grace the lining of your jeans. Arching your back as you imagine Lip placing small kisses down the side of your neck, a trail of wet warmth and deep bruising. Not really thinking much into what you are actually doing. But you missed his touch, even if you have only felt it once. Missed the way he made you feel, wanting to feel that way every single day of your life. Desperately wanting to feel that release again, wanting him to send you over the edge. 

The vibrating in your back pocket makes you jump from your skin. Almost as if someone has caught you in the act of thinking about the shared moment with Lip and what that would ultimately lead to. 

Lifting your hips in the air, your toes digging into the carpet as your hand struggles to grip the small device from the bottom of your pocket. The vibration is still buzzing, sending a quivering through your body. Finally pulling the device free, flipping the phone open to see Lip’s name displayed on the small screen and behind it a blurry picture you took of him on last year’s school trip to Cloud Gate (the big shiny bean in Chicago).

Instantly pushing the answer button and placing the phone to your ear. A half-whisper greeting escapes you as you wiggle your way to the top of your bed. Feeling a little embarrassed to be talking to Lip after you almost let yourself get off on the thought of him.

“Whatcha doing?’ Lip questions from the other end, you can hear the brush of smoke that hits the receiver.

“Currently,” Pausing for dramatic effect, “Succumbing to my self loathing, waiting for the universe to end it all.” You force out a life to make light of the situation.

His low chuckle as a response sends a shiver through your body, igniting the fire that grows between your legs. 

A smile lamenting itself firming onto your face. Lip has that effect on you, making this life feel a little less lonely. “And what might the famous Lip Gallagher be doing right now?” You ask, picking at the dirt underneath your nails. 

“Ya’know, just been thinking.”

“About what?” You inquire, hoping you already know the answer.

Stuttering over his words as he tries to form them into sentences, feeling a bump in his throat as he doesn’t know exactly how to say it, “Ab-about the other d-day…about you.”

Heat rises immediately to your cheeks, a full breath filling your lungs until they burn. A huge smile engulfing your features as you silently giggle to yourself. Happy beyond belief that he was thinking about you. 

“Yeah?” Is all you can muster to say as the air has fully exited your chest, leaving you laying there, basking in the bliss.

Carding a hand through his messy hair as he takes another drag of his cigarette. Lip’s body sprawled out over his bed as his voice hitches, “Can’t stop thinking about it.”

The words are music to your ears as you happily tap your feets against the soft comforter. He’s been thinking about you, thinking about what you both did together and he’s talking to you about it. 

“Have you been thinking about it?” He speaks softly into the phone, finally realizing that you have been silent a little too long.

“Maybe…” You’re a little embarrassed to admit it. Not because you didn’t want it to happen or that you are embarrassed of Lip in any way. You’ve just never been comfortable talking about any form of sex or pleasure before, especially talking about it with someone else. 

Another puff of smoke hits the receiver as you can hear Lip shift on the other end, “Any particular part?” He hums.

You’re hesitant at first, doing this stuff in person is one thing but having to talk about it is a whole other beast you’d never thought you’d have to overcome. But you want to talk about it with Lip, he makes you feel comfortable and wanted. He makes this experience way less scary than you had originally thought.

“Your hands,” You finally confess, the heat rising rapidly to your cheeks as you pull your legs to your chest, doing anything to hide.

He purrs against the receiver. “Where? Deep inside of you?”

“Lip.” You whine, embarrassed that he just said that out loud. He speaks about this stuff so plainly and bluntly that you almost don’t know how to act. Almost as if he gets a kick out of seeing you embarrassed.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about.” The words are heaven, laced in pure silk running perfectly over your body as the thought of Lip thinking about the way you felt under his grasp, the way his fingers curled expertly inside of you, the way you tasted, all innocent and pure. He can’t help not thinking about the way you relaxed under his touch and how he desperately wants to do it again. “Do you still feel that itch?”

The heat has not subsided yet from your cheeks as he keeps talking about it and you have to admit that the itch has truly never gone away. It was just in a deep little part of your brain, eagerly waiting for Lip to let it out. 

You hum as you stretch your legs out in front of you, squeezing your thighs together again.

“Like right now?”

Especially now.

“Are you going to do anything about it?” He questions. 

You huff, “I’m not really sure what to do.” You have to admit out loud which seems so silly at the moment. 

“It’s okay,” his tone is subtle, “‘member what I showed you?” 

Closing your eyes as his words whisper your mind into the amazing memory that you two share together. You could swear that you are currently there now, wrapped in Lip’s arms as he rubs your core into ecstasy. 

You hum against the phone, your tone is whiny as your other hand grabs at the rough fabric of your jeans. 

“Just touch yourself like that, tell me what you’re doing, how you’re feeling.” His voice calms you down.

Shaking your head as you murmur over the line, “Ok.”

Stumbling over your words as you struggle to take off your jeans while laying in bed, “I-I’m taking off m-my je-jeans…come on.” You angrily whisper to your jeans as you push them off.

Lip laughs on the other end at your struggle, able to picture you perfectly as the sounds of muffling come over the receiver. 

“I’m in my panties now.” You say to him.

He laughs again, this time more from the chest.

“Don’t laugh at me.” You whine, “I’m new to this.”

“Do you want me to talk instead?” He suggests.

“Yes, please,” You breathe a sigh of relief. Blessing that you won’t embarrass yourself any further. 

“One sec then,” Lip says before the phone goes silent. Jumping up quickly to rip off his shirt and jeans before grabbing the phone again, relaxing into the mattress. Lip’s hand is instantly on his cock when he gets back on the phone with you. “Ready.” He’s barely able to get out his words as his touch sends electricity through his body.

The pre-cum dripping slightly from his pulsing tip onto his stomach. He doesn't know how long he will last, his imagination has been getting him through the days, desperately wanting to touch every part of you, know every single detail.

You lightly breath out the word yeah, biting your lip in anticipation of what's to come next. 

“Slip your hand under your panties.” His almost demanding tone falls delicately on your ears. 

Your hand slips underneath your white, cotton panties. Fingers trailing over your mound, hesitant to touch too close to your burning center. A single whimper escapes you as you stop just short on meeting your needs.

“Good girl. Now touch that pretty little clit of yours for me.” Lip’s voice is paradise, guiding you on this journey of self-discovery. Begging, pleading for you to just slip your finger between your folds. 

The electric jolt of pleasure bursts through your body as your middle finger grazes over your sensitive nub. You whine heavily into the phone. Lip returns with a groan of his own, happily pleasuring himself, your whimpers are addicting as he strokes his aching cock. 

“How does it feel?” He purrs.

“Amazing.” Your chest falls as you sink a finger deeper between your folds, delicately teasing your entrance like Lip did before. Imagining that it’s his finger dipping graciously into your burning core. 

“But not as good as when I do it?” He questions, his words teasing you.

“Definitely not.” Grinding against your fingers, the confidence begins to trickle in as you try to talk dirty to him, “I wish it was you…touching me, your fingers deep inside of me.” Curling a finger into your dripping hole, struggling to accommodate your own finger this time. 

Adding more pressure to his grip as Lip’s hand falls down his length. Buckling his hips as he groans when you call his name, knowing that your holes are filled because of him. 

Lip’s name whispers from your mouth, between moans, whimper after whimper as he tells you to pick up speed, pumping your fingers deeper inside of your burning core. Back arching, fingers losing rhythm as you gasp one final time. White, hot flames filling your bloodstream as you scream Lip’s name into your empty room, cumming intensely onto your soaked fingers.

Lip follows you as he pumps faster and more rapidly as you say you’re picking up speed, face contorting into pure pleasure as one last pump sends him over the edge. The perfect white liquid shooting from his cock, landing onto his stomach. Stroking a couple more times as his breathes even out and a small laugh departs his lips

Your chest is heavy when the world starts to fall into place again. Cumming with you was absolutely the best sexual experience Lip has ever had.

The phone is quiet for a couple beats, neither of you knowing what to say or how to continue. 

And before either of you can continue a conversation, banging on the door from Lip’s end pulls you back to reality, “Lip, you're wastin’ all the minutes.” Fiona loudly calls from the other side of his locked door.

“Shit,” Lip curses from the other end, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, ‘kay?” 

He hangs up with a quick goodbye.

And then it was reality staring you right in the face when you realized that you’d have to face Lip at school tomorrow. Fuck. 

~~~

Let me know what you think!! My replies don't work but I am more than happy to talk to you in my inbox or messages. Thank you for supporting me !! I LOVE YOU!!!

#lip gallagher imagine #lip gallagher smut #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher #shameless x reader #lip gallagher fanfic #lip gallagher x you #every little touch series #theapangea

[morganski-19]

Things I Won't Say When I'm Sober: Part Two

part 1, part 3

“Ok, dingus I’m back from the bathroom so Eddie can get out and you can tell me your- Why are you two sitting so close?” 

Steve sits up abruptly, breaking the bubble he and Eddie had. “We weren’t.”

He feels the need to scoot away, to hide the fact that he and Eddie were close. As if someone walked into the room and found them cuddling, or kissing. Needing to not be associated with whatever moment they were just having before. 

Disgust fills Steve with the thought. He’s never had that reaction to anyone he’s dated before. If anything, he would purposely make it seem like they were having a moment, make it clear that he was interested. But now that seems to be the last thing that he wants. Like he is ashamed of his feelings for Eddie. 

Which he isn’t, most of the time at least. There are moments were he thinks that he’s wrong. Moments where he is so sure that he’s just making it all up. That is definitely straight and this is all just something else that Steve can’t quite explain. Even though the only explanation that would explain this is that he has a crush. Now it’s become less of a reaction, but sometimes the fear slinks back in. 

So he runs away sometimes, because of the fear. The fear that this is the thing that will finally break him. That these feelings will destroy the friendship that he and Eddie have built over the last few months. He’d never thought they’d get close to begin with. But what started with sitting in the hospital room for days on end, needing to make sure that Eddie made it turned into one of the best friendships of his life, only behind Robin. He’d hate to ruin that because of some stupid feelings. 

Except they weren’t stupid. They were probably the most real thing that Steve’s felt for a long time. 

Robin squints her eyes suspiciously at Steve. “Ok,” she drags out. “Just looked closer than when I left or something.” She walks back over to Steve, stumbling a bit as she sits down. “I’m tired,” she mumbles as she slumps onto Steve’s shoulder. 

“We can go if you want,” Steve responds. 

Eddie laughs. “Like I’m letting you drive right now. You’re staying here.”

“No, it’s fine I can drive us home.”

“Steve you just spent the last ten minutes giggling over some secret that you can’t tell me. Tell me that you’re in a state to drive right now.”

“Don’t forget about the hair,” Robin mutters, half asleep already.

Eddie springs up, leaning into Steve’s space. “And you played with my hair and called it soft.”

“You only have one bed,” Steve says anyway, very poorly trying to fight his way out of this. 

Eddie dramatically rolls his eyes. “So, one of you shares it with me, and the other sleeps on the couch. Or you both take the bed and boot me to the couch.”

“Like I’m ever laying a hand on that bed without a comforter over it. We all saw the stains,” Robin states. Steve’s fate is sealed, and there’s no getting out of it. 

“It’s a new mattress,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “The old one got destroyed in the quake.”

“My point still stands.”

“So me and Stevie take the bed and you go sleep on the couch then.”

Steve looks at the ground, playing with the carpet again. “I could just sleep on the floor,” he suggests as a last line of hope. 

“No, you won’t. My bed is big enough for two people, I’m not letting you ruin your back by sleeping on the floor.”

“But it’s soft,” he says without thinking. 

Robin snorts. “Like Eddie’s hair?”

Steve bursts out into giggles again. “His hair was very soft.”

“And this is why I’m not letting you drive. Come on Buckley, I’ll get you set up on the couch.” Eddie stands and extends a hand to help Robin up. She takes it and the two leave the room. 

Steve groans, falling back onto the floor and covering his face with his hands. He can’t believe that he’s about to do this. He wishes that him and Robin were the ones sharing the bed, it’s not like they’ve done it a million times before. Both too ridden from nightmares to sleep alone and it became so much easier to share a bed to calm the other of a nightmare. But now it’s different. Now it isn’t his best friend that is next to him, but the one person he wishes it were the most. 

He won’t lie to himself and say he hasn’t thought about this before. About what it would be like if he and Eddie shared a bed. Under what circumstances, that changed depending on the scenario. But sometimes it was like this. Just laying next to each other, slowly falling asleep. Sometimes in each other's arms, sometimes just comfortable knowing the other person is there. What would it be like in real life?

It would be figured out tonight, he guesses. He only hoped that it wouldn’t make things worse. That he wouldn’t act on all of the things he tried so hard to keep hidden. That they would wake up in the positions that they fell asleep in and not in each other's arms. Not that he thinks his sleep self would be able to do that, but more that his arms and legs wouldn’t become entangled in Eddie’s.

Just one night. He could survive that. Then he could return to normal and forget that this ever existed. That he never even let it slip that he had something to tell Robin and that he never shared a bed with Eddie at all. 

Eddie comes back into the room and opens a drawer, rustling around until he throws a pair of sweats at Steve’s face. “So you don’t have to sleep in jeans,” he muttered before pulling out another pair for himself. 

“Thanks,” Steve says, getting up and heading for the door, sweatpants in hand. Normally he’d be comfortable changing with someone else in the room, but he can’t trust himself to catch himself staring. He’d barely been able to do it all night. 

“Where’re you going,” Eddie yawns.

“Bathroom.” Eddie nods in response and Steve closes the door. 

He wanders down the hallway to the bathroom. Quickly changing, he looks at himself in the mirror. The high is starting to wear off but the signs still linger. His hair is a mess from laying on the floor but he doesn’t care to fix it, it’s just going to get messed up anyway. Rinsing his mouth out with water, he makes his way out of the bathroom. 

Peaking into the living room, he finds Robin all curled up on the couch. “Steve,” she mutters, blinded by the bathroom light. 

He patters over to the couch, “Yeah it’s me.”

“What’d you need to tell me, we’re alone now,” she slurs out, trying to fight off sleep. 

Steve doesn’t even know why he said anything. He had planned on telling her, sure. But now, when Eddie was in the room, that was stupid. But there was something about the moment and just seeing her there and feeling safe that made him want to tell her. Even if he regretted it as soon as the words came out of his mouth. 

“I’ll tell you in the morning, it’s not that important.”

Robin glares at him in the dark. “Then why couldn’t Eddie know about it then?”

“It was sort of about him,” he sighs, promising to tell her more when his mind is clearer. 

“Oh,” Robin responds, giving him a strange look he can’t decipher. 

“Yeah, oh. Just get some sleep, I’ll tell you about it later. Promise.”

He turns around and starts to head back to the room when Robin calls out, “Love you, dingus.”

“Love you too, Rob,” he whispers over his shoulder. 

Walking into the room he finds Eddie pulling down the sheets of the bed, changed into his pajamas. Without saying anything, he crawls into bed, gesturing to the empty space beside him for Steve. He left the side not pressed up against the wall, knowing that Steve likes to have easy access out of the bed. It was something that Steve never had to say, Eddie just noticed. 

He takes one last breath before crawling in bed next to Eddie, and tried to fall asleep.

another part coming soon!!

tag list: @imfinereallyy @estrellami-1 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @overhillunderhill @renaissan-vvitch @ashwagandalf @sirsnacksalot @lorelei724 @emly03 @super-cosmic-library @rozzieroos @dolphincliffs @henderdads @abyssal808 @evergreenprose @demolvr @steddiehyperfixation @stedumpsterfire @ent-is-indecisive @steddierthings @makeadealwithdean @kas-eddie-munson @extra-transitional @lunaticmarunatic @steveharringtonmilf @cardboardqueen @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

(i tagged anyone who asked or seemed interested in the first part. if you would like to be added or deleted for the next part lmk and I will do so.)

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #stranger things #ficlet #smoking #getting together #but not yet #angst #pining #things i wont say when i’m sober

[petersbaby]

Pervy Eddie x (f) Neighbor

Warnings: SOMNOPHILIA please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with that. Consent is not outright expressed but is still there regardless. Male masturbation, fingering. I think that’s it <3

-

You hear tapping on you window, it makes you jump slightly as you were laying down, relaxing. You walk over to it, pulling back the curtains to reveal a curly haired boy standing there, waiting.

Eddie Munson, your annoying neighbor and friend that you may or may not have had a little crush on.

You open the window. “What?? You scared the fuck out of me.”

“Sorry, but let me in.”

You step back and he climbs into your room.

“I’m home alone and I keep hearing noises, and I smoked so now I’m incredibly paranoid and watching a scary movie did not help.

“Why the fuck would a scary movie help you be less scared?” You ask, incredulously.

“Listen, I didn’t think it through. Can I sleep in your room? I’ll be gone before morning so you won’t get in trouble or anything.”

“Fine. I have to go get some stuff from the hall closet, I’ll be right back.”

You turn and head out your door, returning seconds later with a pillow and a quilt to make a pallet on the floor.

He frowns as you spread it out on your carpeted floor beside your bed, and you notice.

“I never told you this was gonna be a five star hotel experience.” You muttered, half annoyed but half joking.

“No, no it’s okay. At least it’s not hardwood floor I guess.”

You roll your eyes and climb back into your bed, opening back up the book you were reading before he intruded.

The only light in the room was your nightstand lamp, an off-white almost yellowish glow. He kicks off his shoes and sits down in the floor, noticing something’s missing.

“Wait, I don’t get a blanket?” He asked with a dramatic hurt look on his face.

“Ugh, you’re so high maintenance. Hold on.” You go back to the closet and pull out a clean white comforter for him to cover up with.

When you get back to your room, you toss it to him and he immediately starts to take off his shirt.

You blush and look away, but you really really wanted to stare. The pale skin of his torso was practically glowing around the black ink scattered about.

“Always so shy. You know me, why are you nervous?”

“Not nervous. Not at all, in fact.”

“Mhm.”

You lay down once again, turning to face your back to him and get into your book.

“No more requests. I’m officially relaxing.”

He nods, and you read some more. Before the next chapter, he started again.

“Wait but-“

“What??”

“Can we like… watch a movie? Like maybe a happy one?”

“Yes, *you* can. Go crazy, pick one from my collection.”

He gets a little sad that you didn’t wanna watch a movie with him but regardless he crawled over to your little entertainment center that had a shelf where you stored your movies.

He sat in his place on the floor for a while, a good 3 hours.

He entertained himself with stupid comedies and cheesy chick flicks. Eventually, he had turned the TV off and attempted to go to sleep.

He could only toss and turn, and despite your efforts to make it comfortable, he just couldn’t sleep.

He smoked a few cigarettes from the window of your bedroom to relax, knowing if you were awake, you’d scream at him for doing so.

-

1:00am

You stir awake from your slumber, sensing some kind of movement near you as well as some rustling sounds.

You sleepily look over and Eddie is in your bed, not on his place in the floor.

“Wha- eds” you grumble.

“Sorry, didn’t want to scare you but I’m so lonelyyy down there.”

“Fine but don’t be weird.”

He settles in beside you. You already drifted back off. As the minutes pass by and he still can’t sleep, he gets a little closer, so close you’re nearly spooning.

He relishes in the feeling, and the sight of your pretty sleeping face. He gives a kiss to your shoulder and drapes an arm around you.

You feel safe in his grasp, enveloped by the heat from his body.

In your sleep, you scoot backwards to get closer to the cozy feeling and he squeezed you tight, making you feel secure.

At this, though, he couldn’t help but notice the feeling in his stomach, the butterflies mixed in with want.

He slides his hand down your waist and leaves it to rest on your hips where some skin was exposed as your shirt had ridden up. Soon he realized that this was not enough.

He continues lower, lightly squeezing your ass over your thin pajama shorts. He felt bad, exploring your body while you were asleep, but then he heard it.

“Hmm” you grunted in your sleep, feeling his touch even while you were sleeping, and pushing back once again.

His cock is absolutely hard by now, not able to ignore the way you responded to his roaming hands.

You roll over to your back, half awake now, and grab his hand. He freezes- he’s been caught and you were gonna chew him out for being creepy.

However, you take the hand and guide it between your legs, leaving it there and closing your eyes again.

He starts to rub your heated core over your shorts and panties. You let out little moans, enjoying every bit of the touch.

When he had pulled your panties to the side and slipped a finger in was when you fully woke up. You gasp. “Fuck”, you comment tiredly.

You spread your legs farther apart, and he adds a second finger while watching the expressions on your face when he pumped them in and out of you, curling them occasionally.

You reach to him, where you’re facing each other now, and run your fingers over his lower stomach, tracing the happy trail down to end up at his crotch where you lightly squeezed at and stroked his erection over his sweatpants.

“Jesus christ.” He whispers.

“Now get yourself off, you weirdo. I’m tired.” You tease, removing your hand from him and he slightly whines. You turn back over, and his eyes immediately go to your ass.

“Wait.” He stops you. “Could you take these off?” He asks, tugging at your shorts.

“Mhm” you shimmy out of your shorts and undies, hiking one leg up into a comfortable position which also conveniently gave him a little peek at your pussy.

Truly a sight to behold, he takes a moment to just look at you, so bare and vulnerable right in front of him.

He pulls his boner out, spitting in his hand before starting to stroke it. He wanted to touch you so bad, and you’d said “get yourself off.” Did that mean just looking at you or touching you too?

Your pussy glistened with wetness in the dim light and he figured that was a more than adequate answer. One hand continued to jerk his dick, and the other went to that place between your legs.

Running his fingers up and down your slit, collecting liquid as he does. He takes those same fingers to his mouth and cleans them off, having to fight off groaning.

Unable to hold off for long, he scooted even closer to you so that your ass was touching his cock as he pumped it in his hand.

The warmth of your skin rubbing on his sensitive tip was more than enough. He almost chokes trying to hold in a moan, as he spent himself all over your ass as you slept.

“Fuck”, he comments quietly after coming down, scanning the room for something he could use to clean you off. “Uhhh” he moves to go to your dirty laundry basket, pulling out the t shirt from the top of the pile.

He smelled it, and immediately knew you had just worn this earlier today.

Coming back to you, he uses the shirt to wipe the cum off of your backside and tosses it back to the basket.

He reaches down and grabs at your shorts and panties that were gathered still at your ankle and tried to pull them up again, waking you in the process.

“Hm?” You question.

“Here, put these back on, sweet girl.”

“Okay”, you mumble, doing just that before turning to him, resting a hand on his chest and falling back asleep.

#eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #tw somnophilia #stranger things smut #perv!eddie #perv eddie

[tatesdiary]

hey babe!! ur work is totally awesome!! could i please get a james march fluff? thank you smm

After dark

James Patrick March x f!reader

summary He was a cruel, cruel man to everyone - but you.

word count 433

tags mentions of violence, maybe inaccurate jpm (haven't finishes the season yet oops)

a/n thanks for the compliment <3 as stated before I actually haven't finished the season yet, so this could be a little inaccurate in terms of his character! Just a heads up. I hope what I have seen is enough to make this to your likings 🙏🏻 and yes it is quite short but I think it's good like this :)

You'd spent all day lazing around, drinking and people watching. It got more boring every day to wait until your partner would be back from whatever he was doing (half of the time you don't even want to know).

Sighing you fall back on your bed and fiddle with the tie he'd discarded upon it last night. It didn't have any special patterns, it was a simple and plain black. But you've learned to love the simple things about him - his murderous doings cast aside - which included his never wavering crisp, white dress shirts with matching pants, shoes and ties.

His hair was always slicked down, no hair out of place, and his mustache was perfectly groomed as well. Over time you'd learnt he appreciates a good exterior as much as a good glass of whiskey after a long day.

Dramatically groaning you drop the piece of cloth and sit up, supporting your weight through leaning on your hands. He'd be there in no less than twenty minutes but there was nothing you had left to do and you were bored. The TV was running on some random talk show that you'd lost interest in long ago, serving as background noise and defeating the silence lingering in this suite.

You decide to get up and pour yourself a drink instead of continuing to lounge around, the tie now in the laundry basket with some other bloodied shirts and pants.

You hum something to yourself as you watch through the window as the busy people hurry by, not one glance spared at the ominous building looming over the street.

You don't hear as the door opens and closes, his steps silenced by the carpeted floor. "What are you doing, darling?" He hums and wraps an arm around your waist, standing next to you.

There's a smile on your face as you set the drink down and wrap your arms around his neck, "Welcome back, my love."

He chuckles and lays his other arm around you too. "I have not been gone that long, have I?"

Making a thinking face you shrug, "Every second you're gone is too long." You settle on. It makes him smile and he cocks his head to the side, "Perhaps you should seek out other people to be around than just me? It will do you good," he jokes.

"I think you're enough for me. I don't need anyone else." Humming he gazes at you lovingly, his warm brown eyes showing no sign of harboring a hobby as dark as his.

"Let's end the day with a drink, my beloved."

#american horror story #evan peters #evan peters x reader #james patrick march #ahs #ahs hotel #american horror story hotel #james patrick march x reader

[kyoongboxi]

You Shouldn't —

[Baekhyun AU]

Summary; Marriage is not just a tied up promise to live together until death is the only reason to separate. Marriage is something really complex. You can't say you want to separate as easily as when you were dating. Communication is one of the keys to make a harmonious relationship long lasting, but the lack of communication also would lead into a split up. And that is what currently happened to you and your husband.

Pairing; Baekhyun x Reader

Genre; angst, fluff

——

The week has finally come to an end. It was a late Friday night when Baekhyun stepped into his quiet apartment. Work was hectic with reports, meeting and all the dramatics event followed by. The man has not spoken to his wife for around two weeks. He was left alone in the apartment ever since, meanwhile his wife fled to her mother's house to avoid any possible bigger fights.

Its not like he was a dirty person but tonight, his mind was hazy. There is too much to think about at one time. Several bottles and snacks scattered on the floor, littering the carpet he bought with his first salary years ago. The man is now laying on the edge of the couch, his feet touching the ground.

His gaze was blank, staring at the white ceiling. He let the room illuminated by the darkness. Only the lights from his old analog television which is now airing a static show becomes his only friend to talk to. Baekhyun's arm sprawled into the side, fingers tightly clutching another bottle of alcohol.

The man seemed so lost wandering inside his mind alone until he didn't notice his apartment door being unlocked. Someone clearly made its way inside but he doesn't give a fuck at all because it didn't caught his interest until a familiar voice he hadn't heard in a long time pulled him out of his muddled thoughts.

"You promised you won't torturing yourself by drinking before I left" It was a voice that belongs to a woman, it was a voice he had been dying to hear in the past few days. It was a voice that belongs to you.

Knowing his medical records and fully aware of it, it makes you mad seeing him torturing himself for the things that might pull him back into the ICU. Without thinking twice, you crouched down on the carpet, collecting the bottles and snacks to throw it away.

Baekhyun's reaction was kinda late. He sat up on the couch, zoned out with his mouth half parted before realizing his wife had returned. "Min?"

You turned your head into his direction and noticed how he was actually fucked up. His hair was messy, it seems like he was pulling his hair out with his fingers. His face was also flushed in a deep shade of red. You know the man's got a very low alcohol tolerance.

Baekhyun was still in his work attire. The sleeves rolled up into his elbow in a messy roll, not forgetting his three unbuttoned dress shirts that reveal his chest a bit. "You cut your hair?"

You could tell he was clearly drunk. You decided to ignore him but he managed to catch your hand when you were about to leave to the kitchen, to throw all of the shits he just caused. "You're drunk. You realize that?"

His wife, you, let out a sigh in defeat. He was now standing in front of you. Hell, you could even smell the alcohol from him. Your eyes were actually filled with worry, but the drunk man seems like he didn't notice. Instead, he let out a laugh. "I deserved it, anyway. You actually love to see me torturing myself, aren't you?"

You shut your eyes together, taking a deep breath before deciding to speak again. "Please don't start. I don't want to start this conversation again with your currently drunken ass. Let's get you cleaned up"

You took his hand but he was fast to slap your hand away. "You said you didn't care about me anymore but you're here now. What a surprise"

He put the bottle on the table before he made a sound with several claps. "This is not what I expected to see when I come home" You shook your head slowly.

"Then what? What are you expecting to see? You expect me to bring that woman here? I asked Jung to mutate her. And now she's gone. Are you satisfied? I'm all yours now" His lips tugged into a broken smile, and its matched with your broken heart too.

"I'm— I'm not asking you to mutate her I'm just asking for both of you to know your position as an acquaintance only. Nothing more than work matters" You were still in your work attire as well. You decided to come to check on him before you went back home to your mother's house but guess you will be back staying the night here, seeing the man you love is clearly a mess.

"Like I said its all just a work matter—" Baekhyun defends himself. Drunk or not, his answer was still the same. Its only makes you to feel guilty, its only makes you to think maybe you're just overreacting all this time.

"But what she did is otherwise! And you" But the woman still took his bait for arguing anyway. Your head is a mess too. A thoughts for a divorce flashed in your vision, afraid that it would surely happening.

You pointing out into him, your fingers hitting his chest every time you spoke. "You let it happen because you aren't aware that it was crossing the line" You speak with an accentuation on every word, delivering your point loud and clear.

"Yeah but all I did—"

"She should have stayed in her lane and you should at least be bold to her, showing that you are a married man" You raised your hand in front of him, pointed to the ring he gave you on your finger. It was a matched one with him. And you were relieved when your eyes shifted into his fingers, seeing the ring is still wrapped around perfectly.

"And maybe you should also stop dragging other people into our relationship. Asking for their opinion and letting you be stirred up!" His words suddenly caused you to freeze. It hits you right in the chest as the realization is washed over you. You still have your eyes locked with his droopy one, your lips half parted inhaling the air that mixed with the smell of the alcohol.

"Are you talking about Sunny?" Your tone softened, having no energy left to raise your voice anymore. "Baekhyun—" Maybe he was right. You should stop seeking for her opinion related to your marriage because she was already interfering too deep.

You let out a tired sigh, "I'm sorry but I need someone to talk to and she is my current bestfriend. And she worked on the same roof as you. Without her, I wouldn't know that you were crossing the line at work. I trusted you but you broke my trust" You spoke softly, meanwhile Baekhyun just watched you with a tired gaze, aware that you haven't finished your sentences.

"Even that bitch dares to call you when you get home only for saying goodnight. But you, you never learn. You always pick the phone up with 'It might be related to work matters be we're currently aiming something at work'" You continued as you lifted your arms below your chest.

"I asked you the same, what will you do if you're in my position? Seeing me accidentally or purposely falling asleep on the couch with my head in another man's lap, inside the house that belongs to a married couple. What will you do, Baekhyun?" You asked, challenging him. You will surely have a tear falling to your cheeks one week ago when you talked about this but now, you were also surprised because your eyes are dry.

The man on the other side, didn't answer. His gaze seems empty and dull when it meets her tired one. The alcohol that runs in his bloodstream stops him from thinking rationally. But one thing for sure, he didn't want to see her falling for other men. He didn't want to see her turning her back to him. He didn't want to lose her.

Baekhyun suddenly broke his stare with her. His fingers were about to snatch the alcohol he put on the table earlier but you were faster to snatch it first. "How many bottles did you drink?"

You finally managed to go to the kitchen. Throwing the half-emptied snacks and bottles into the trash can. Baekhyun is silent now. He was watching you from the living room and still stood on his feet when you were back walking to him with a glass of water.

"Here, drink this instead. Drink slowly" You brought the glass into his mouth and he gladly accepted it. One gulp, two, three— five was fine until he pushed your hand away abruptly. You saw him running towards the bathroom before the sound of him vomiting followed right after.

It was 456317th times your mouth let out a sigh while your feet automatically carried you to him. The man was motionless on the floor, with the bathroom wall supporting his tired body. "Baekhyun—" You called out again, softly reaching for both of his arms to get him on his feet.

His eyes fluttered open, noticing that it was his wife still following him around. "Min— I'm sorry— I'm sorry please don't leave me" Like a drunk man he is, which he's still clearly still in his drunken state, broke into sobs.

You nodded in response, still trying to pull him to stand on his feet. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave. Please don't leave me sweetheart— I don't want to see you falling for other men. I'm sorry— I'm sorry I was a dick—" He shook his head and babbled between his broken sobs.

"Shh— Baekhyun— Baekhyun!" You called his name loudly. "I won't leave if you follow me to the shower" You spoke, trying a simple trick for the drunken man and surprisingly it worked.

He nodded, standing up on his feet quickly and letting him get dragged behind the shower stall. You unbuttoned his shirt off and let it fall to the floor in just a soft pull. Baekhyun stays still. He was watching you bend over to pull him out of his pants behind those heavy eyelids.

Now that he is completely bare, you turned the shower on. Warm water greeted his head down to his bare shoulder softly. "I'll wait outside. Call me if you need help"

It was supposed to be the last sentence you spoke before getting out of the bathroom but Baekhyun caught your hand when you were about to step out from the stall. "Join me"

There was a moment of silence for several seconds when he held his gaze against yours. Your mind will surely be cursing you if you fall into his sweet talk. But your heart can't deny the feeling that you were longing for the man. You missed him, you missed his touch, his kisses, his presence, all of him.

So here you are standing so close in front of him with the water already hitting your head. You were still very much clothed until Baekhyun started to unbutton your shirt one by one. When you finally bare, his arm slips against your waist to pull you closer.

The man lets out a satisfied hum when your body flushes together with him. Its feels like its been a very long time since you made a skin to skin contact with your husband because of the current situation. You missed the feeling of his body flushing against yours, you missed all the warmth he radiates so you closed your eyes, finally giving in.

You leaned your head into his shoulder as the water continued to stream down your and his body. You lose it on the next second when his lips come in contact with your neck and your shoulder to softly peppering sweet little kisses and repeating that he is completely sorry, regretting what he did in a quiet murmur.

You didn't respond, instead, you shut your eyes tightly to hold back the tears that wanted to come out. And he'd probably noticed how your body shook along with your chest vibrated when you can no longer hold your sorrow because his hold on your body tightened followed by his fingers went to your hair to calm you down.

You finally broke out into painful sobs. Your quiet sobs mixed with the sound of water streams down into the floor but it doesn't mean he can't hear you. Marriage is hard indeed. Its not easy to unite two different heads, its not easy to respect each other's opinions when it comes to which is wrong or which is right.

You loved this man so much and you let this man tie you up in a vows witnessed by many people. It's only been one year but he is already behaving like this even though maybe this whole mess was just a misunderstanding and a different point of view. But this is what scares you. You were afraid that one day he will choose another woman over you, he will finally turn his back to you, and then you will witness his wedding ring finally slipping away from his finger.

Kyoongboxi's works 🐾

#baekhyun scenarios #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun scenario #baekhyun fanfic #baekhyun fanfiction #baekhyun oneshot #baekhyun au #baekhyun angst

[owmylasagna-blog]

InkED

Eddy gets a tattoo.

I imagine this takes place in their senior year of high school.

“What fresh hell are you two up to?”

The lanky teen in the beanie stood in the doorway of his best friend and boyfriend’s bedroom to find him lying face down on the floor, ass bare, with their other best friend hovering a hand at the ready with a needle. A small jar of black India ink sat open on the carpet.

“Oh hiya Double Dee,” Ed smiled innocently.

“This most certainly doesn’t look like your history presentation.”

“Very perceptive, babe. What does it look like?” Eddy sarcastically taunted as he got up on his elbows and dramatically batted his eyelashes.

“Don’t get funny with me, mister,” huffed Edd as he dropped his book bag on the floor, “and it looks like a mistake waiting to happen.”

Beside their slapdash tattooing setup was smoking paraphernalia, evidently already put to use from the acrid smell that clung to the air in spite of a paper-towel sploof thrown in the mix.

“Actually it’s a hot cherry.”

“Pardon?” Edd barked in response to Ed not so politely.

“Spicy on the outside sweet on the inside,” Ed clarified as he raised a crumbled page of sketch pad with a simple line drawing of a pair of cherries set ablaze. Edd’s eyes shifted from the page to Eddy’s buttocks where the image had been transferred with red marker. It appeared that he arrived in the knick of time: no punctures or pricks had been made yet.

“Stop reading into it so much, Lumpy. I picked it ‘cause it’s sexy.”

Every nerve in Edd’s body was still screaming as his vision bounced from the open ink jar sitting precariously on the exposed carpet, Ed’s bare hands smudged with drawing media, Eddy’s exposed buttocks, two open bags of chips and a half eaten jar of room-temperature queso, the subpar lighting…

No. This wasn’t happening, not like this. Edd took a few steps back towards the door.

“Stay! Don’t you - either of you - move a single muscle until I get back. You hear me?”

The seriousness of Edd’s tone seemed to sober up his friends just enough for Ed to complacently nod in agreement.

“Whereya goin’?” Eddy wined, turning onto his side.

“Five minutes, Eddy. Can you do that?” Edd pleaded through a clenched jaw. Eddy just blinked slowly as he tried to make sense of Edd’s behavior. He was at a loss.

“Sure. Whatever.”

And he was out the back door, zipping past the window in a flash as he broke into a run through Eddy’s yard. As Eddy and Ed waited for Double Dee to return, Eddy drew figure eights in the carpet with his finger and Ed watched mesmerized.

“Ya think Double Dee would wanna see the Sheldon and Sheldon Jr. tattoos I put on my foot?”

“Based on that response, I think you’d give him a coronary.”

“Like royalty?”

“Yeah, and you’re the jester.”

The two were startled when the door clicked and swung open. Standing in it was Double Dee, his hot breath condensing from the cold air, with a doctor bag grasped in his right hand. Closing the door, kicking his shoes off, Edd trudged over to his friends and got down on his knees. Opening the bag he produced a box of nitrile gloves, single use packets of antiseptic wipes, ointments, bandages, sanitary towels, a headlamp, and a rectangular enamel tray.

He layed a sheet of bench liner that came from his long forgotten “Dissection for Gifted Children” kit down on the carpet, placed the tray on it, and then arranged the ink bottle, unopened needle packets, and some of his own supplies inside in perfectly pristine order. As he worked, he silently huffed, hummed, and sighed. When he finally spoke, it came as a firm command.

“Wash your hands, Ed. With soap and hot water, please.”

Not wasting time, fully at attention, Ed hurried to Eddy’s bathroom.

“Ah I see. So you’re not gonna stop me.”

“Please, Eddy, I know you. If you want to do something there is no stopping you. I don’t care about the tattoo, I’m worried about you getting an infection. Now turn over onto your stomach.”

“Yes, sir,” Eddy replied eagerly, sort of liking Edd’s domineering tone, and did as he was told. He hadn’t bothered to pull his pants back over his left cheek anyway. As Eddy talked, Edd yanked at the waistband of his shorts, “Jeez, if you wanted me out of my pants so bad you could just a- AAH COLD!”

“Stop wiggling,” Edd grinned despite himself after swiping the alcohol wipe against his boyfriend’s ass cheek.

“Stop icing me!”

“You’re good,” a hand playfully smacked down on Eddy’s backside and both teens chuckled.

“You're better,” Eddy smirked at Double Dee. Through his semi-stoned heavy eyelids, Eddy gave him a look that Edd could recognize as genuine admiration. Edd’s body filled with warmth as he smiled back.

“I’m the best.”

He leaned in and caught Eddy’s lips in a kiss. Ed opened the door to the bathroom and chuckled.

“Ew. Cooties.”

“Here, Ed. Quick! Put these gloves on. We wouldn’t want you catching any of the highly infectious Cootie virus.”

“Glove me, Doc!”

Once the gloves were snapped onto his hands, the headlamp put on his head and turned on, Edd continued to instruct the next steps in the procedure. With a new, completely sanitized needle prepared it was time to start putting ink to skin.

Edd first felt the tickle of Eddy’s fingertips skim his arms, wrist, and then go to envelope his hand. He happily took the larger and somewhat rougher hand with its tiny scars into his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Eddy squeezed back even harder as Ed jabbed the first few pokes into his posterior.

“Now, Eddy, can you summarize for me the landmark Supreme Court decisions of the 20th century?”

#eene #ed edd n eddy #eddeddy #lasagnawords

[7-wonders]

Hi! Could you write about mad love!Michael with prompts 128 and 133 from the random writing prompts list? If you're not able to do both could u do 128 by itself? Hope you're having a good day! 💗 :)

In Act I of Mad Love, I mention that you manage to get Michael drunk one time, and that he's a very affectionate drunk. This prompt takes place before the poison apple plot.

128. “you’re pretty.” - “you’re drunk.”

133. “please never stop smiling.”

At this point in your forced marriage, you really shouldn't be surprised by anything. But for some reason, the Antichrist getting drunk off of a few hard seltzers is more surprising than the first time you saw his demonic face, and almost as surprising as the forced marriage in the first place.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but it's still surprising. You and Michael had both thought that his DNA being half-supernatural meant that he would have an extremely high alcohol tolerance, if he could even get drunk at all. That's the main reason why he had agreed to your silly game of Truth or Drink, which you had suggested as a way to get to know the man that you're married to better. The other reason that he had agreed was because he surely wouldn't defer to drinking enough to even test the theory of how high his alcohol tolerance was.

He had grossly miscalculated the types of questions that you would ask, and how uncomfortable he would be answering them. As the night continued, he found that he couldn't even answer questions that you considered mundane, let alone questions about who he truly is.

"What do you see when you do your Satan rituals?" Drink.

"Do you see the future?" Drink.

"Did you graduate from Hawthorne?" Drink.

"When's your birthday?" Drink.

After two seltzers, his face was red and he couldn't stop giggling. After three? He's laying on the floor as though he's unable to get up, and you can't get enough of it. As it turns out, the Antichrist doesn't have a supernatural alcohol tolerance. You don't want to admit it, but he's really cute like this, all happy and not feeling the need to keep up any of the stoic pretenses he usually carries.

(He's cute all the time, but you'll only think that thought when it's late at night and there's nobody but the stars to hear you)

Michael's been quiet for a couple of minutes now, just staring up at the ceiling fan and following it with his eyes. You're laying next to him on the floor, running a hand through his hair after he admitted that he loves when you do that. You're not as drunk as he is, having actually had alcohol before, but you're definitely feeling the couple of cans you've drank.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" you ask, turning your head to look at him. His head falls to the side, and he grins.

"Right now, I'm thinking about how you're really, really pretty."

It's the alcohol, you try to convince yourself when you feel your cheeks heat up even more. It's certainly not because of how earnestly Michael compliments you, and how sweet it is to hear him saying it.

You sigh dramatically and lay a hand against your forehead. "You're drunk, mister."

He shakes his head, his curls surely getting mussed from inadvertently rubbing them on the carpet. "Not that drunk."

He's right, your subconscious knows. But still, you refuse to acknowledge that fact. Instead, you notice the way that Michael's eyes cross as he tries to look at you, your face inches away from his, and break out into laughter at the sight. Michael's quick to follow, spurred on by the sound of your laughter, until you're both just laughing for no reason other than you've started and can't stop.

Michael's genuinely fun to be around, and you've enjoyed getting to see a side of him that he's kept hidden from you so far. The difference between this Michael and the Michael who the Cooperative sees is so markedly different. You almost hope that you'll remain the only one who gets this Michael, because this Michael is your Michael.

"I know you have to be all," you pull a stern face, "serious and shit, but you have to promise me that you'll never stop smiling for me."

"I promise." You're thrilled when Michael holds his pinky up, your tendency to make him pinky promise finally rubbing off on him.

You lock your pinky with his, both of you holding on for longer than what's necessary before finally pulling away. "Mkay, I'm thinking it's time to go to bed."

"You're probably right." Michael sits up quickly and makes it approximately one second before falling onto his back again. "Whoa, the room's spinning."

You're both laughing again, and as you grab Michael's arms and slowly help him into a sitting position, you concede that it might be a while before you actually make it to your own bed.

#mad love #mad love musings #michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #prompt games

[bramblequill]

No More Running: Chapter 7 - Prisoner of Your Eyes

Weeks had passed and what had started out as nervous car rides to and from school, now were energetic “discussions” on who the best musicians were, best solo riffs, or just random Hellfire campaign ideas back and forth until you ultimately arrived at the dreaded place called school. I mean I guess it wasn't TOO bad when Eddie thought about it. He got to see you in the halls, and during lunch. He stuck to your side as if glued, as much as he possibly could.

The end of the year was coming quickly and while he was elated that he was finally going to graduate (as long as he didn't suddenly get complacent and let everything slip away from him). He thought that everything he'd ever wanted was within his grasp. He had been so completely sure of it. That is, until he met you that night in the woods. He had never met someone as radiant as you are before. You drew him in without intention. When faced with the thoughts of going forward into the world, without you? Holy fuck his whole world looked so much less colorful. You were his best friend. The sunlight breaking through the darkness. The thought of leaving you behind made his heart in a way that it hadn't since that night that he'd found his mama. With everything he knew about your home life, he wanted nothing more than to whisk you away from it all. He was no hero, but he could be a safety bubble at least.

A familiar routine had settled upon your days together. Go to school, come home, you would go home and make dinner and hide out until your father ultimately passed out, and then you'd sneak over to his trailer where the real dinner would happen, and then usually after that it was time to knock out any homework due. You were definitely keeping him accountable. You knew that he'd never forgive himself if he flunked out a third time, especially with a mere month left. You usually had to rush back home shortly after midnight, just to be sure that your father wouldn't find out you'd left... but on weekends he usually spent his entire weekends in various bars or passed out in his car somewhere, so those were Eddie's favorite. Those were when you stayed. Tonight, was one of those nights.

You were laying on your stomach on the floor, chemistry textbook and notebook open as you tried to finish the brutal study guide that'd been assigned for the final. You were chewing on the eraser of your pencil, brows knitted together and legs / feet kicking back and forth in the air slowly. Eddie was leaning against the wood of his headboard, his Sweetheart in his lap as he played random chords, humming softly. His own chemistry textbook and notebooks scattered across the bedding – forgotten.

You sighed heaving and let both your pencil and forehead hit your book in a dramatic fashion. Eddie looked up from the guitar in his lap with a half grin “I gave up a while ago. I was wondering when you would too.” he chuckled

“Listen, I'm not giving up but if I don't take a break my brain is going to melt out of my ears and all over your carpet.”

“Eww. I most certainly do not want that.” laughed Eddie

He couldn't help but watch as you stood up off of the floor, stretching your body long. He watched as your top peeked little glimpses of skin as your hands reached for the ceiling. He could have choked on his own pulse as he watched those beautiful muscles right where the thigh met your ass flex with your stretch. The desire to leap from the bed and dig his fingertips into that fleshy muscle … Eddie blinked rapidly looking away from you and back to his frets. His eyes were no longer lingering, but his dammed thoughts sure were.

Suddenly you were flopping onto his bed next to him, sending his textbooks to the floor with a loud thump. “I'm hungry. Let's go out.”

“What are you thinking you'd like to eat?” Eddie knew what he wanted to eat.

“I'd say the diner for a burger but... it'll be busy.... pizza?”

“We could order in?” Eddie suggested

“Eddie, we literally do that all the time. I want to go OUT.”

In his own way Eddie was thinking of you. It was one thing to be seen at school together, the fact that you two were friends no secret... but to see you together outside of school... well that held other implications. He didn't want to damage your reputation further than had already been done.

“Besides, we need to return our tapes.”

Eddie groaned then, knowing that meant seeing Steve. He didn't hate Steve, not by any means... in fact after everything that had happened in the Upside Down he had quite a soft spot for The Hair... but no one needed to know that. Including Steve.

“Alright, alright... whatever the lady wishes” he grinned as he moved off of the bed, returning Sweetheart to her peg and grabbing his jacket from the dresser.

“DIBS ON THE RADIO” you shouted, giggling as you ran out the door. Eddie rolled his eyes but smirked knowing he was probably about to be tortured the whole way to Family Video... but also not entirely caring. He grabbed the tapes from the top of the TV, briefly checking to make sure they were all in there cases and rewound before following you out.”

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He couldn't help but laugh. It was one of those laughs that rolls up all the way from the depths of his belly and warmed his entire body. He found that he did that a lot with you... You were so animated in the seat beside him, hands switching between drums or air guitar as you thrashed your head around singing at the top of your lungs to whatever Scorpions song was blasting through the vans speakers. Sometimes he wondered how in moments like these, you could be so carefree, with everything you'd been through and were going through. You always seemed to find ways to just keep moving forward, and he envied you of that. So often he would find himself back in the upside down, those dammed bats thrashing around him, tearing into him, thinking he was going to die... so many times the panic and fear would creep up into him and takeover his entire body... he wouldn't even be able to find the drive to get out of bed in those moments... and he couldn't count how many times he'd woken Wayne screaming his terrors in the middle of the night. Maybe that was the reason he was so enamored with you... when you were around... peace would settle over his brain and body. His mind wandered on less dark routes. You were like... you were like a good blunt. Peace and calm wrapped up into one neat package. So very easy to enjoy.

Family Video was the first stop. You were perusing the shelves while he lingered near the checkout desk. His eyes tracking couldn't help but track you while Steve carried on about his flavor of the week and forever evolving Nancy woes. It'd been ages now... he still didn't get how this man whose ego was as big as his hair still hadn't managed to pick his balls up off the floor and make a move to get his woman back. Maybe it's because Eddie hadn't been in that situation himself. Confidence wasn't exactly his strong suit, especially now that he was littered with scars. Once the freak, now the scarred freak. Now that, was his strong suit.

You came bouncing up to the desk carrying a small stack of tapes with a megawatt grin, effectively pulling him out of his spiral.

“Did you find anything good? No girly flicks right?” he teased

You rolled your eyes at him but your grin didn't slip “Actually, I'll have you knnooooowwwww, not ALL girl flicks.” you teased as you passed him the tapes: Legend, Fright Night, Teen Wolf, and Cat's Eye. Eddie was also surprised to find at the bottom of the stack The Hobbit. Shit. He didn't take you for a Tolkien girl... or did you just see the books in his room? Good god you really knew how to hit a nerd in the heart.

“I guess these will work.” He grinned and teased back passing them to Steve

Steve took the tapes as he looked between the two of you quickly a grin curling his lips “Munson, when did you get yourself a girlfriend? You're too pretty for the likes of him ya know it?”

Eddie groaned and flashed him a look preparing a rebuttal. You however, surprised them both by quipping up first.

“Actually I think he's too pretty for me.” and grinned, eyes flashing with mischief

Eddie licked his lips quickly and then chewed his lower lip nervously, his mind running as fast as his heart. She thinks I'm pretty? Wait... She didn't dispute the girlfriend comment? Oh god. Wait... Shit Munson say something!

“Earth to Munssonnnnn” Steve's voice broke through his thoughts chuckling with a giggling you as Eddie felt himself turn about 30 shades of red

“Have a good trip?” you asked

“Yep! I'll take you along with me next time. What was the total HAIRington?”

“$4.80 freak.” Steve said grinning

Eddie roughly slapped a five in Steve's open palm, grinning back “Keep the change, I know you must need it working here.”

“Ohhhh Eddie” Steve moaned “How very generous of you sir!”

“Alright you two, as much as I'm enjoying watching this flirting dance here Eddie and I have places to be today.” you giggled, grin lighting up your entire face as you raced out the door, the bell twinkling as you exited

“Sorry Stevie, the ladies right! Gotta go! But thank you!" he blurted out, racing after you. 

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Ronnie's POV

Back in the van, a fresh cassette selected Eddie turned his face towards you, elbow poised on the rolled down window, other hand resting on the steering wheel. God be dammed, how did he always look so dammed beautiful. You had noticed that he didn't dispute Steve's comment about you being his girlfriend. She had found that incredibly interesting but chose to file it away for later... chalking it up to wishful thinking? She'd never had a boyfriend before. Not a real one at least. There had been boys that used her for their needs, there had been boys who she had met at camp, who existed purely through letters that came a week at a time... but a boy who actually took interest in her for HER? That was a foreign concept. She played it off well but truthfully her self-esteem was pretty shit. She thought herself a freak and hated the idea of anyone seeing her bare scar kissed skin. She'd first started cutting on herself when was 9? or was she 10? It didn't matter... she had been much too young to even be thinking the way she did then. That had been the very first time someone had touched her wrongly. She always wondered why she attracted them... the men who just wanted to touch her... to use her up and forget about her. Toss her out like yesterday's garbage. Everyone. From her babysitter to her dad. Maybe it was what she deserved. Maybe it was all she was good for.

Eddie snapped his fingers and clapped his hands “Sweetheart? Dio? Ronnie HELLLOOOO?”

She blinked away the mist that had started to form in her eyes and flashed him a smile “Hi Eds, Sorry, got lost in my brain there for a moment...”

He flashed her a worried look “Are you okay? Did I do something or say something?”

She smiled again, reaching out a hand to touch his knee “No no... it wasn't you, I promise. I just space out sometimes. I don't think I slept well last night? What were you saying? I'm sorry...” Shit. I hope he isn't mad at me

Eddie smiled softly “It's okay, I know how it goes. I do it too sometimes.” he says tapping on his own curly mane. “I was asking if you wanted to go for a drive with me, I have some place I'd like to show you... but if you're too tired or you need to head home, we can take a rain check.”

She shook her head rapidly “No I'd honestly love that. I'm in no hurry. I'm not expecting dad to be home until tomorrow morning honestly. It's poker night at the bar.”

Eddie grinned and bounced a little in his seat. “Great! Pitstop first!”

Within 10 minutes of driving, and an encore of air guitar and drum solos from you they pulled up at their second to last destination (family video had been the first.) A pizza joint but not the one she was used to? It looked incredibly shady... run down even... the white and green canopy that spread across the front of the joint that read “Greeks Pizzeria” was ripped and dirty.

“Uhh... Eddie? Are you sure this place is even in business?”

“Yep! Wait here sweetheart! I'll be right back!” Eddie said grinning as he hopped from the van.

It must have been 10 minutes, maybe 15 but fuck it felt like forever. Finally Eddie had returned with a brown cardboard box that looked positively wet with, sodden with grease when he passed it to you through your window.

“Eddie...” you started to protest, cringing at the wet box... but then the smell hit your nose. “Holy shit... that smells actually GOOD.”

Eddie grinned at you before running to his side, and hopping back into the van. “I KNOW! TRY it before you DENY it babbbbbyyyyyy. It's seriously the best pizza here in town... I try to keep it a secret but like you're special soooo you get to be in the know.”

You lifted the lid slightly, peeking into the box and your mouth instantly watered. He had gotten a large pepperoni and mushroom with what appeared to be EXTRA EXTRA cheese. There were pepperoni grease pockets glistening on top of the bubbled cheese. It truly looked like a divine pie. She closed the box back and looked over to Eddie who had resumed their drive.

 “Where are we going Eds?”

“That's for me to know, and you to find out. We're just about there though so close your eyes and keep them shut until I say.

“Ok bossy britches.” you teased but leaned back in your seat, shifting the hot box to your other leg and closing your eyes.

You felt the van begin to shake and jolt as the tires went over what was obviously uneven terrain. You squeezed your eyes shut tighter against the urge to peek. You knew you had been close to a wooded area but you still weren't really familiar with Hawkins. Especially since Eddie had swooped into your life so suddenly and your already small world had abruptly became centered around your time with him. That wasn't a complaint by any means. You had come to treasure your time with Eddie. You couldn't help but think back to Steve's tormenting at the video shop. You had thoroughly enjoyed watching Eddies reaction. Watching his face change through just about every imaginable shade of red. You felt the van stop, and then some shifting was done... then stop again.

“Keep your eyes shut still!!” Eddie said as he turned the van off and hopped out. You heard his feet crunching over gravel as he hurried around to the back of the van. The back doors were opened, and you heard rustling from behind you. You wanted to peek so badly... but you truly didn't want to ruin the surprise. Finally, after a lot of chaotic rummaging: “Okay you can open them but don't look this way please, eyes forward only! Go ahead and pick another tape for us?”

You slid the pizza box onto the dashboard of the van and popped open the glove box rummaging around until you found what you were had seen earlier. Judas Priest – Screaming for Vengeance. Turning up the volume slightly as The Hellion began playing and Eddie had reached your door again. He opened the door and grabbed the pizza box with one hand while holding out his other to you “Keep your eyes closed still.” he reminded

You scoffed in faux annoyance and took his hand, hopping down from the passenger seat. Standing awkwardly as you waited to be guided. You knew he was just going to have you climb in the back of the van, so you didn't quite understand all the mystery. Hyper focusing on Eddie's hand in yours... it was soft but also not? It was hard to describe the texture of his calloused fingers. Obviously, he played guitar, you knew that... but somehow you figured they'd be a lot rougher to touch than this. His palm was slightly sweaty... was he nervous?

“Alright, open em.”

Opening your eyes, you couldn't help but gasp. In front of you was a vast lake, its waters glistening like blue beryl gems kissed by white diamonds where the waves kissed into each other. Along the shoreline ran just about every kind of tree Indiana could imagine...douglas firs, maples, majestic oaks... you name it. Hugging the feet of the trees were wildflowers of variety, streaks of different vibrancy. You didn't know such a beautiful place existed in this tiny crap shit of a town.

“Oh... wow....” you squeaked out “Eddie where are we?”

“Well...I didn't name the place...” he chuckled lightly “but welcome to Lover's Lake. I thought we could eat our pizza and enjoy the sunset... if that's not stupid I mean.” he said rubbing his face and picking at his lower lip

“I love the idea Eds.” You flashed him the biggest smile, trying to reassure him and calm the nerves he clearly wasn't hiding well. You had noticed then that he had lay down a faded flannel blanket in the back of the van. The pizza box sat untouched. You also noticed he had his acoustic guitar laying behind the van seats. He'd clearly put a little thought into this and the thought of that made every inch of your body vibrate with gaiety. “Eddie... if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to make this into a date.” you teased softly and smiled as you watched his face instantly transition into a vibrant cerise. You climbed up into the back of the van and settled against the side, dangling your legs over the edge and swinging them back and forth as you patted beside you, inviting the nervous nelly of a man to join you.

Eddie crawled in next to you, assuming a similar position and opening the pizza box between the two of you. Grabbing a slice, he shoved it into his face clearly trying to distract you. You two sat in silence, watching the waves lap against the shoreline. Fever had come over the speakers. You were shifting to the musics' beat as you took a slice for yourself, the silence between you two only slightly thick with the awkward tension of unspoken words. Well, this is new? you thought to yourself. Eddie wasn't normally the quiet type. He almost always was carrying on about something. You loved it honestly. Watching him become animated over something he was passionate about. His hands ALWAYS got involved in the conversation... it was endearing when anyone would get so passionate about something... but with Eddie... fuck it was downright adorable.

She was still a little self conscience of the fact that it had been barely just shy of two months since they had met, but in that short time they had become borderline inseparable. Most of the Hellfire club already assumed they were dating, but they hadn't had that conversation yet themselves. For her it was simply because she didn't want to burden him with the mess that was her life, her emotions, and honestly... her very existence. After all, she was reminded nearly every day what a waste of oxygen she was. Burdens didn't deserve to find love... right?

“Ronnie?” Eddie's voice was soft... he had shifted into a cross legged position, leaning back against the wall of the van and facing her where she sat. She couldn't meet his eyes just yet... still treading in the water of her doubts. “Did you hear me what I had asked?”

She shook her head. “No, Sorry Ed's, I kind of got lost in the lake out there” she said forcing a smile and chuckle...hoping to stem off any doubt or questions further. She knew he knew better. She knew he'd figured her out enough to know that lake was code for her own brain... but she also knew he wouldn't ever press her to talk unless she truly wanted to talk about it.

“I said I'm sorry for what Steve said back there. He's always been a bit of a presumptuous butt head.” Eddies voice was still low, soft. She noticed he was twisting the rings on his fingers, one at a time, over and over. He was nervous about something.

“It's okay, honestly it didn't bother me.” she smiled at him softly, meeting his gaze as she shifted into a position that mirrored his.

“Luckily it was just him in there... no one from school had to hear...”

“Eddie. Stop. I really don't mind if people assume that we're dating.”

“I just... I know that I'm not exactly the ideal person to be with. You could do so much better than the town freak.” he said, spitting the last word as if it were a bad taste in his mouth

She scooted to sit next to him, shifting so that she was facing him, knees hitting the side of his thigh “Eddie. Stop. Seriously. It hurts me to hear you talk about yourself like that. Let people assume what they will about you, or hell even me... but you're so much better than you give yourself credit for. They don't know you like I've grown to know you.”

Eddie was now toying with the frayed strands of his jeans, picking at the fibers as he glanced sideways to meet her gaze, his other hand reaching up to hide half of his face with his hair. She giggled then and gripped his elbow, stroking fingertips over the scarred skin. She had never asked about them... she had learned from her own experiences that you don't usually want to ask about a person's scars. They'll tell you if they want to share. Don't ask, and don't stare. The tune on the radio shifted behind them. Prisoner of Your Eyes coming over the speakers as she found herself drowning into the brown pools, as dark and rich and comforting as a warm cup of cocoa on a winter's day. She often found herself drifting into them, but never for this length of time. Never when their bodies so close together...their faces hovering inches apart. She moved both hands onto his thigh. “Hey Eds?” she said, her own voice soft

“Hmm?” he said back quietly, moving to press his forehead against hers. This was the closest they'd been... I mean they had slept in the same bed, back-to-back... but this was different. The air between them charged with a different energy. Something new. Something neither of them felt they deserved, but both longed for.

“Would it be strange... if I asked you to kiss me?”

Eddie stuttered and stumbled over his reply. “Why, why would that be weird? Is that... is that something you want?” his breath came hot and shallow against her face.

All she could do in response was nod once and bite her lower lip. That was all it took. That was the tipping point he'd been waiting for. The invitation he needed. His lips were on hers as soon as she gave the silent green light. She clutched at his thigh, gripping at the rough fabric as she pressed her lips back against his, he flicked his tongue against her lips, a silent ask for permission. She was more than happy to give him access, tilting her head slightly and opening her own mouth, deepening their kiss. God, she didn't realize how hungry she'd been for this. A soft whine escaped her lips, swallowed by his as quickly as it came. She shifted to side saddle sit in his lap, she felt his fingertips grasp and dig into the supple flesh of her hips. His mouth still fed at hers, soft, but so ravenous at the same time. Tongues tangling in a war, the only battle cries were intermittent soft moans and gasps. She pulled away slightly, pressing her forehead back against his “Eddie.” she breathed quietly “Eddie.”

One of his hands was now stroking along her lower back, the other making its way up to her hair, tangling his fingers in her long locks as he placed soft kisses all over her face, taking the time to kiss every part of it. Her cheeks, her chin, forehead, and the tip of her nose. She was a puddle in his hands... as liquid as the chocolate of his eyes. “Eddie.” she sighed softly again.

“My name sounds absolutely heavenly on your lips baby girl.” he replied hushed, voice low and thick

She giggled quietly, stroking her hands through his curls, beginning to mimic his kissing of her face. A soft smile danced on his face as he closed his eyes to receive them. “Eddie. Munson.” she said pausing in between words, to lay another gentle kiss. “Will you be MY freak?” she tittered softly.

His eyes shot open then and his grip tightened on her, clutching her even tighter to him. “You want me?” he whispered

“Yes.” she replied, voice warm

 “Oh Dio-baby. I already am and have been.” he kissed her again. She knew then...in this moment she felt it blossom deep within her core. She was in danger alright, of being absolutely spellbound. She felt from the start. She was so very at peace around him, always... but in this moment. In this moment, encased in his arms, for the first time in her entire life... she felt like the keys had turned in the lock of her heart. The keys to her home. Her safe place. Her future and her hope. There was a part of her who was scared, it was only reasonable... but for the most part she was just really fucking glad to be alive. To be IN her body. To be breathing in his breath and drinking down the taste of his lips. She knew she would never, ever, get enough. Yep. Danger. She was in danger of falling in love with the town freak, and there wasn't a fiber in her body that gave a shit what anyone thought. She knew him. She knew his heart. His softness. His beautiful personality. This man...he was so different from everyone else she'd met in Hawkins, or hell, even her life. But fuck that's what made him so goddamn endearing. 

Next Chapter - Chapter 8

[lunapwrites]

Ch 16.5 - Moon-flu

This scene was part of the original opening to Ch 17, which I cut for being in some respects eerily similar to Ch 15's opening. However, I was really pleased with the way that Remus was portrayed in this scene (and the moment itself is still mentioned in the chapter) so I am instead sharing this with my Tumblr followers as a wee little bonus.

May I present: Remus Lupin, being The Most Pathetic and feeling safe enough to be dramatic about it.

content warnings: Please take the use of the word flu in the title very literally. He is quite ill. :(

-

The sky was painted in scarlet and gold when Remus woke, frost leaving intricate patterns on the window panes. It was bright and crisp, the perfect morning to nip down to the coffee shop down the road and pick up one of those fancy little flavoured drinks Sirius loved so much.

Unfortunately, his body had other plans.

The covers rustled as Sirius shifted behind him, no doubt sitting up to check on him. Remus dearly wanted to sink into the carpet – only it was currently covered in sick, so perhaps not.

“Remus, what are you doing – Ah.”

The bed shook and creaked, followed by bare feet padding against the floor. Round the end of the bed, moving closer.

“Don’t,” Remus groaned, and the footsteps stopped.

“Head?”

“Na.”

“Remus.”

He sighed; it was never a good sign when Sirius didn’t laugh at a dick joke.

“Dunno… five?”

“So a nine, you bloody martyr.” A drawer opened, pill bottles rattling about. “Reckon you could get this down?”

“Sure,” Remus said without any confidence. “Is my wand over by there? I need to clean this up.”

“You need to lay down.”

“I am laying down.”

“No you’re not, you’re hanging half off the bed.”

“...I was waylaid.”

“Right. Well, I can take care of it–”

“I’ve got it,” Remus ground out.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only trying to help. Here.”

The familiar length of cypress pressed into his outstretched hand, handle first. He gripped it, giving it a vague wave as he blearily opened his eyes and focused on cleaning the mess he’d made. The curtains turned a rather putrid green colour, the mess on the floor untouched. Remus grunted, jabbing his wand at it more forcefully.

Half of the sick disappeared, the remainder stubbornly clinging to existence. Mocking him.

“Remus, can I just–”

“Oh for fuck's sake, Sirius, I can clean a bloody carpet!” he snarled, and fired off another attempt that vanished the entire rug instead.

(He’d never been much good at cleaning charms, which they were both perfectly well aware of. It was the principle of the thing.)

Remus kicked himself loose from the sheets, falling to the newly bare floor in an undignified heap as he swore viciously under his breath. Sirius hovered at the end of the bed with a bemused expression that Remus knew translated roughly to whenever you're finished being a twat.

(Which he was, a little.)

“It's fine," said Sirius airily, "I hated that rug anyway.”

“Oh, don’t,” Remus moaned as he staggered to his feet, all but dragging himself to the window to slam the curtains shut with great prejudice. Even that amount of physical exertion was a mistake; his muscles ached and burned, his migraine worsening and rendering him near-blind. He slumped against the wall miserably.

Sirius approached and pressed a capsule against Remus' lips; he swallowed it dutifully. Paracetamol wasn't going to touch the headache most likely, but it certainly couldn't hurt with everything else.

And anyway, it was his own damn fault he couldn't take anything heavier.

“Can I at least help you back to bed, or are you going to bite my hand off?”

“M’not an invalid.”

The effect was rather ruined by his head flopping onto Sirius’ shoulder. It was difficult to be intimidating when one could scarcely move.

“Of course you’re not.”

“Can’t go back to bed. V'got things to do.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, love, but I don’t think you’re going to be much use today.”

Remus growled; Sirius laughed, wrapping his arm around him as he led him carefully off to what Remus could only assume was the bath.

Suppose I’ll allow it… sounds nice.

“What do you think you’re getting done anyway, hm?”

"I want to check the thing I put on the, erm…." Remus trailed off, miming running his free hand over a flat surface as the word eluded him. "The fuckin'... yr silf bin tân, but that's not the word, innit? It's, erm–"

"The mantlepiece?" Sirius supplied, and Remus simply snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "What's up there?"

"Monitoring charm… thing."

"Ah. Still on about that poltergeist theory?"

"Mmm."

“It’s nothing that can’t keep til tomorrow,” Sirius assured him, but Remus groaned.

“Guard duty tomorrow.”

“No you haven’t; Arthur's traded with you.” There was a squeak of knobs turning, the hiss of water. “You’ll be taking his shift later this month before you start whinging about charity.”

“Wasn’t going to whinge,” lied Remus, pulling his shirt over his head and getting stuck in it.

“Were. I know you, Lupin."

Remus pretended not to hear him as he worked on extricating himself – with no small amount of difficulty, which Sirius gamely pretended not to notice. Once freed, there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

Well, Remus thought, picking up his toothbrush, almost nothing.

-

(after that part, this section got kinda squidgy so we're gonna leave it there.)

The mention of the poltergeist was repurposed for use in the actual chapter, and therefore changed.

#ltl #deleted scene #remus lupin #sirius black #sick fic #technically #sirius is such a pro at this #and remus knows it #even if he's also being a big baby rn #he's allowed #in this chapter remus is baby #hp #writing #my writing #outtake

[peachyteabuck]

faking it // lucifer morningstar x reader

summary: sticking it to your ex is the number one thing on your mind. luckily for you, lucifer is always willing to help. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: lucifer morningstar x reader

words: 5020

trigger warnings: fake dating au, bisexual reader, reader has an unspecified disability that causes chronic pain, shitty exes, mentions of bad therapists

note: the divider used is from the lovely @firefly-graphics​ !

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

When you see the letter in your mailbox, you ponder for a moment if dropping to the floor dramatically is appropriate for a grown adult woman. Certainly, if it was improper for you to drop onto the grass of your front lawn and grown into the dirt you’d go inside and stage fall onto your couch, or bed, or futon, or carpeted living room; but goodness, it would feel amazing just to faceplant into the soft grass as the cardstock envelope lays heavy in your hand.

You knew this day was coming – you’d known about the exhibition for a year, known you’d be invited for months, known he was going to be there for weeks. But decades of preparation wouldn’t quell the anxiety that bubbles in your stomach, or the dread that you can feel in your fingertips and toes. You stand there, in the street, in front of your mailbox for so long you worry your neighbors think you’ve turned to stone. It’s only when your phone rings obnoxiously in your other hand that you snap out of it, your entire body flinching as if your subconscious was attempting to protect you from grave danger.

When you’re finally able to read the name that flashes across the screen, you immediately sigh as you swipe across the screen to answer. “Maze, this really isn’t a good time-“

“What, why?” her signature frustrated groan-slash-scream grates on your ears, causing you to flinch once more. “I keep trying to join those stupid groups with that stupid website you made me join and they keep kicking me out!”

Another sigh, longer and deeper, slips from your throat (to be fair, you made no effort to hide it). “Maze, you cannot threaten people whose DND group you want to join and expect them to be nice to you! We’ve talked about this!”

“But they’re to beat me!”

“That is part of the game,” you explain again. “Sometimes in the game they’re going to beat you at something. It’s not personal,” she starts to talk again, but you immediately cut her off with a harsher tone. “Maze, I’m serious. This isn’t a good time, please.”

Your direct pleading shocks her in a moment of silence; you’re never one to cut her off like this, let alone to be annoyed with her. “Alright,” she eventually says – you can practically hear her shrug. “Whatever. What’s going on with you anyway?”

She really isn’t on to let up, is she?

“It’s just,” you try not to throw yourself dramatically against a throw couch that doesn’t exist. You take another peak at the unopened envelope – closed with a wax seal because of course – before speaking again. “I don’t know, I just…about a year and a half ago I was dating this guy, and-“

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me you were having boy trouble,” you can hear her readjusting wherever it is she’s sitting – a large bag of what you’re pretty sure is chips her snack of choice as she lounges. “Who is it? What happened? And, most important, why haven’t I heard about it?”

It takes all of you not to hang up the phone in that moment. You love Maze, but dear Lucifer’s Dad could she irritate your already-sensitive nerves. “It was a long time ago,” you try to explain vaguely. “And it’s not like I’m going around telling everyone I’ve ever met about every unsuccessful relationship I’ve ever had. I just need some help but it’s not that big of a deal.”

Mazikeen hmms, the sound of her readjusting the phone and then digging into the bottom of the loud bag nearly throwing you over the edge. “Well, regardless, I bet Lucifer can help you. Have you talked to him at all about it?”

You rub at your temples, wincing at the mention. She’s not wrong, per se, but bringing Lucifer into this could very likely make things more complicated than they already are, and it’s not like your life can handle one more thing thrown out of balance.

“Not yet,” you place your palm over your eyes, rubbing into your brow. “Listen, I do really have to go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“’Kay,” she says without much frivolity, the line disconnecting before you can even process her reply.

You collect the rest of your mail without much fuss, ignoring the one neighbor watering her fake grass and the other combing his bald husband’s hair.

As you finally collapse onto your couch, Maze’s words bounce around in your skull. It’s not the worst idea (both contextually and in the grand scheme of her ridiculous suggestions) …plus, you hadn’t seen Lucifer in a long while, and you miss him. What’s the worst that can happen? Once, on a day he was consulting, Dan had arrested the leader of a drug smuggling ring who were using a sex toy shop to cover the flow of goods. Certainly dealing with Lucifer that day would be much worse than this…right?

Right?

In a moment that you choose to call “brave” but your shaking hands call “terrifying,” you ask him if he has time to meet at a local coffee shop within the next few days. You figure this would be easier in person; and even if it wasn’t, Lucifer always paid for your overpriced coffee and pastries. If there’s anything you value above all else, it’s free coffee – and who could give up free coffee? And also possible baked goods?

Certainly not you.

It’s less than ten deliriously agonizing minutes before you here the PING! of your phone, the screen lighting up with Lucifer’s name (along with the purple devil emoji, because duh).

Happy to help! The message says. I can meet you at the coffee shop on the corner at two?

You reply in the affirmative before even checking your calendar – nothing is as important as getting that man on board with your hastily concocted plan.

The rest of the night is spent wringing your hands, staring at your closet, scrolling through various luxury clothing websites (and then resale ones), and pacing around with a glass of red wine in your hand. You’re sure the ex-lover at the center of your anxieties would not only be dressed fabulously, but you get he’s going to have some…fox on his arm (he sure as anything did when you saw him at the club the night after you wrote him at note saying it was over). You need to look good, sinfully good – and you can only hope that Lucifer is the best man for the job.

But when you wake up the next day filled with a type of dread you haven’t felt with you were waiting for a boy to ask you to junior prom…you question your own ability to gauge Lucifer’s helpfulness. Regardless of your own self-doubt, though, it’s much too late to cancel, and even if it wasn’t you don’t have a back up plan…so you try to suppress the boulder of fear in your chest and throw on a semi-presentable outfit before heading out to the coffee shop.

You’re early, very early – whether that’s on purpose or not you can’t tell. Either way you sit in the far corner of the shop at one of the two person tables, waiting for awhile before watching as Lucifer enters, peacefully skips the line, and sits down in front of you with the largest size of each of your orders.

“I saw you already were drinking something but,” he explains as he hands you the disposable cup. “An abundance of caffeine never seems to be an issue for you.”

You can’t defend yourself against the truth, so you just murmur a thank you and take a sip of the new(er) coffee.

“So,” Lucifer says after a moment, clapping his hands together. “What is it you called me here for? What did you want to talk about

You avoid eye contact as you speak, staring down at your cheese Danish. “This is going to sound super weird,” you take a moment to breathe deeply, a desperate attempt to settle your nerves. It doesn’t work. “But, uh, I need a favor.”

After a beat or so you look up, only to see Lucifer’s signature impish grin and waggling eyebrows. Truly, if you could kill him – you’d do it in front of all these coffee shop patrons if it meant you never had to see that facial expression again.

“Not that kind of favor you idiot,” you whisper angrily, trying to keep anyone from hearing (Murder? Who cares. Sexual promiscuity? Now that’s scandalous). “I need you to, uh…”

You’ve been thinking about how to pop this question since you texted Lucifer, and yet you find yourself at a loss for words. Certainly Lucifer’s been asked weirder favors, right? He’s literally the Devil, certainly some powerful aristocrat or oligarch at some point in history needed a handsome man on their arm at a fancy party, dinner, coronation, or execution. Even if no one had, there must have been some weirder requests – regardless of context.

Or at least, you hope so.

With that in mind, you begin your question again. “An old coworker and current friend of mine is having an exhibition she curated at The Getty; the night before is the donor function and since I worked on the beginning stages she wants me to be there to help chat up all the donors, but…” you try not to sound too desperate, even though you’re this close to walking out and living in the woods as a wench. “But I don’t want to go alone. I need a date.”

He furrows his brow. “Why do you even need to go if they’re requiring a plus one?”

“Because a bunch of good friends of mine are going to be there, and I care about them, and…” you pause, sighing deeply. “And…and…it’s just important I go, okay?”

Lucifer gives you a sage nod, leaning forward to place his large hand over yours. It’s comforting, in a way. “Sweetie…is there a boy we need to talk about?”

You don’t reply.

The smile that spreads across Lucifer’s face is, for lack of better words, truly devilish, sinister (and, worse) conniving. “You need me to pretend to be your paramour to…fake out an ex-lover?”

You nod, a tad ashamed. Lucifer, in his accent and fanciful language, never fails to make any task a tad more humiliating than normal. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds bad.”

Now it’s he who blushes just a bit. Lucifer coughs in surprise before taking a sip of his fancy latte, licking the foamed milk from his lips before meeting your eyes once again. “Well, regardless, any particularities you need me to know about?”

The stress immediately dissipates from your body, shedding from you like fur from a husky after a bath. What a relief. “Just that a lot of my colleagues in the field will be there – and I’d like some semblance of upward mobility in my job, so if you could be on your best behavior, I’d really appreciate it.”

He gives a small scoff, ready to defend himself against allegations of misconduct, but you cut him off before he can get very far.

“Lucifer, Chloe tells me everything. I know you once snorted coke at a crime scene while insulting an armed suspect surrounded by other armed accomplices.”

Can’t really defend himself against that one, can he? Accordingly, he softs his stance just a bit and takes another sip of coffee. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Oh, and you need to dress…” you look at his typical suit – shrugging just a bit. “I was going to say nicely, but I think your usual dress up will do. But either way, it’s a really nice exhibition pre-opening, and a lot of very rich and very fancy people are going to be there.”

“Well then, dearest,” he readjusts his suit jacket, straightening his posture just as a bit as he inhales deeply. “We’ll have to be sure to be the best dressed ones there, won’t we?”

A heat rises in your stomach and suddenly you understand what it means to simmer rather than boil. You give a small nod, too shy to say more.

“Do you know the theme?” he asks after a moment, the gears already obviously turning.

You nod, pulling out your phone to grab a picture of the invite. You hand it to Lucifer, who reads aloud. “The Sun King and His Shadows: An Exhibition of the Frivolity of French Royals and their Lasting Impact on Modern Elite Fashion. Quite a mouthful, but the French were a special type of hedonists, weren’t they? You know, food, sex, food during sex. d’Orléans, really, had these wild ide-“

“Lucifer!” you whisper-yell, glaring at him. “We are in a public coffee shop. This is not the time to talk about orgies!”

The man across from you just rolls his eyes but does indeed cease the talk of promiscuous sexual escapades. Small victories are still victories, you tell yourself.

“Well, no matter,” he says with a small hmmph. “What’s important is that you know I have a plethora of personal experience in both flattery and gluttony, and I intend to use both to help you in any way I can.”

“Yes, can I speak to Stefano, please?” Lucifer says to the assistant on the phone in the signature “I am a very important person” tone.

Chloe looks up from where she’s reading some police report at the kitchen island, her brow furrowed. “Is that…Stefano Gabbana? As in Stefano Gabbana? As in Stefano Gabbana, the lead designer for Dolce and Gabbana? One of the largest designer labels in the world?”

“He owes me a favor,” the all-too-familiar excuse doesn’t grate at Chloe’s ears quite like it used to, but it still elicits a strong eye roll. Lucifer continues, unphased. “I helped him get out of a little tiff with some European countries when he and his partner decided tax laws were mere suggestions rather than mandates.”

Chloe hms, mulling over the response. “And you’re cashing in the favor for this?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes ever so slightly, angling the phone so that the microphone was away from his mouth, but the speaker remained positioned at his ear. “Listen, if I’m going to help her with this, I want to do this right. Is that so hard to understand?”

Chloe holds up her hands defensively. “I’m not trying to impede or anything…”

“Good, because-“

“I’m just saying that it seems like you’re doing quite a lot for an exhibition opening – a favor from someone like that could probably do a whole lot more than just a dress.”

He sighs at Chloe’s inherent incompetence. “Well first, it’s a donor function. Second, there’s no such things as doing too much to help a friend.”

She looks at him with a blank, knowing stare that she gives Trixie when she knows her daughter’s fibbing. “You know she likes you, too, right?”

Immediately Lucifer begins to sputter, flabbergasted as he continues to wait on the phone for one of the world’s top designers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective! I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.”

It’s then that the assistant passes the phone to the man Lucifer’s looking for and he walks into the other room to talk specifics. It’s also then that Chloe smiles just a bit, wondering if said man would also design a dress for her to wear at your and Lucifer’s wedding.

It’s the morning of the donor event when Lucifer texts you, saying he’ll pick you up at ten sharp to get ready – he’s gotten a few cosmetologists who owes him a favor to come do your hair and makeup, and what he got you to wear is also waiting for you. It makes another wave of nervousness roll through your abdomen, the feeling familiar only in the realm of big exams, first dates, and submitting your taxes every year (what if you forget something and the government throws you in jail!).

Fear aside, you still have to find something to wear in the meantime. Hopefully a t shirt two sizes too big and leggings you’re sure have a hole in the thigh are good enough, because as soon as the tea in your travel mug is cool enough to drink you hear a very familiar car horn being honked in your driveway.

“Yoo-hoo!” he calls out, standing up in the convertible with his trademark suit and sunglasses. “I believe we have a date?”

You can’t help but laugh as you hop in the passenger seat, just barely putting on your seatbelt before he's speeding out of the driveway and taking you to some unknown location. Before long he’s escorting you out of his vehicle towards an admittedly creepy warehouse.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” you ask, kicking a bit of loose asphalt.

Lucifer just chuckles. “My dear, I’d never willingly be here if I didn’t know for sure it was where I was supposed to be.”

You laugh at him, following him to the door where he places his large hands over your eyes.

“Are you ready to see?” he asks.

You take a second to feel the warmth from his hands, or the way his chest presses against your back. “Yes.”

Carefully the two of you step inside, small beams of light sneak between Lucifer’s fingers.

“Three,” he says, the anticipation building.

“Two,” he tells you a little quiet, your heart pounding in your ears.

“One,” he whispers. It takes a minute for your eyes to readjust to the florescent lights, but even when you do…

You’re speechless for a long while, mouth agape as you take in the clothes in front of you. In your career you’ve worked with textiles from all around the world from across historical periods and class structures and religions; you’ve worked with designers and artists and curators and sewists that pioneer within their fields, whose names are stitched into handbags and taught in college course and hounded by scalpers.

But nothing, nothing you’ve ever seen or taught or handled with starched white gloves could come close to the clothes draped on the mannequin in front of you.

It’s velvet – not velour, velvet. Deep, forest green; you’re afraid to touch it, convinced that it would leave a dewy residue on your fingertips like grass in the morning. The dress is long, with a small amount of body to the skirt; enough to make it look as if you were floating. The bodice is smooth, tight, with a high neckline – hugging in all the right places and accentuating your waist, the bust highlighted with a V-shaped neckline.

Attached are sleeves that are long, made of see-through fabric with golden stars interspersed across the dark-tinted fabric. They shine in the light, glimmering as you begin to circle it. On the head of the mannequin is a headpiece with a large golden arch like a halo.

And the cherry on top: a cape, of faux furs that seem to mimic wolf, held on the shoulders of the mannequin with ornate gold lapel pins, connected with a matching gold chain.

“Holy shit,” is all you can really say, your eyes tracing every stitch, every fiber. You marvel at the way the fabric falls on the mannequin (and how the mannequin’s body looks exactly like yours, holy shit), how well it fits. You’re scared to touch it but can’t resist the temptation, the pads of your fingers dusting ever-so-slightly over the garment. “Lucifer…I-“

You almost turn to face him, but at the last second notice the shoes that rest on their own pedestal just to the side of the jaw-dropping dress. For a second, you’re worried, almost disappointed, because the angle the shoes are propped on makes them seem higher than you can walk in. But then you walk closer and realize…

No heels.

You really could cry, and honestly…you think you already are.

“Lucifer, I-“

He sweeps up behind you, wringing his hands, while his eyes dart across your face. He’s jittery, too, watching you the same way you watch the gown in front of you. “Do you like it?” he asks.

It takes you a minute to quell the screams of joy in your brain, for coherent language to make it past the knot in your chest. But somehow, eventually, you find the power of speech needed to express your gratitude.

“Lucifer,” you tell him, his eyes wide and waiting. “I don’t think I could’ve dreamed something more beautiful.”

You truly haven’t seen a smile as bright and genuine as the one that spreads across the face of the man in front of you.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” he gestures to another corner of room.

When you look to the side, you see a fucking matching suit. The fabric is the same, with golden stars up the side seams of the pants, golden buttons and cufflinks. The lapels are a slightly darker matte green, with a black shirt underneath the jacket.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

Lucifer just smiles wider.

“Now, let’s get ourselves dressed and ready.”

Hours of hair and make up (along with admiring yourselves in the large mirror that’s set up specifically for selfies) all culminate in, in all honesty, the most dramatic entrance in your life. At the museum there’s a red carpet (of course there is), with journalists and paparazzi trying to nab pictures of philanthropic celebrities. You hear several audible gasps and curious whispers as you enter, and even though you’re walking behind a cryptocurrency billionaire and in front of an Emmy award winning actress – somehow, you’re sure all of them are about you.

As you enter, you realize the exhibition is can most accurately be described as a dreamscape; swaths with golden accents are draped everywhere, fabulous paintings with recreations of what the subjects are wearing next to them. Music from the period plays is performed by live musicians, even the waitstaff part of the art – wearing livery as they carry hor d’oeuvres and drinks to everyone. Every square inch provides a new detail for you to obsess over. You feel like you could look around for hours and still miss something, like an embroidered date or calligraphy placard or a bejeweled recreation. Modern images are peppered in, linking fashion and even legislation to the infamous Sun King.

Even though you can’t see your friend (you’re sure she’s chatting it up with some of the donors), you make a mental note to tell her you’re proud of her, and that you and Lucifer both love the work she’s done.

You two eat, drink, mingle, eventually finding a table to sit down for a second. But then…you spot him.

“He’s here,” you whisper, attempting to be as discreet as possible as people swarm around you. You can only see the back of his head – but you’ve seen all of him enough to identify him from 500 yards by his gait alone. “He’s here, over there to the right.”

Something seems to overcome Lucifer as he turns, his goofy demeanor melting into something more…refined, serious, targeted. You ignore what it stirs inside of you as he turns back to you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he strikes up a fake conversation.

“Funny seeing you here,” your ex says in a way that makes your skin crawl. When you turn to face him, prepared to look at a man you haven’t seen in years – you come to realize you’re a little underwhelmed. He's in a plain suit, one a quarter as nice as the ones Lucifer wears on a daily basis, His hair looks rumbled, with shoes that have a very obvious scuff on the top of the left one. His date looks nicer, but not by much. While her hair and make up are done, the dress is nothing to write home about; plain, black, thigh length with a neckline that goes straight across to the sleeves. She could be anywhere, as could he.

In short, they look…bland. Underdressed. Stuffy. Another burst of pride explodes just under your skin as he (and his date) introduce themselves to Lucifer.

Lucifer, in the fabulous suit that matches your fabulous dress, the two of you just as much on display as the art on the walls. It feels good, you admit to yourself. To look this great.

“Lovely to meet you,” your date says, moving to shake his hand. Your ex looks Lucifer up and down like a prey animal decided whether fight or flight is the path to victory. His date does the same, but the way her eyes focus rather than flit make you believe she wishes to be the predator – pursuing, conquering, devouring. You try (and nearly fail) to suppress a laugh while they converse. “You’re her...”

“Boyfriend,” Lucifer says with glee, pulling you closer. “Together for awhile and the spark’s still there!”

You laugh with him, watching the fake excitement in your ex die down into nothingness. “Oh, you know how it is. Years go by and you figure eventually it’ll get boring,” you turn to look up at him. “But if you really love someone the spark never really leaves, does it dear?”

Lucifer smiles. “No, it does not. And how long have you two been together?”

The smile on the woman’s face falters for just a bit, her porcelain white teeth nearly hidden by ruby red lips. “We, uh,” she turns to your ex as if confirming a story.

“Oh, you know,” he laughs nervously. “Monogamy has never been my thing-“ the woman on his arm raises a disappointed, knowing brow at Lucifer, who does not return the favor. “So, we’re more tertiary partners than primary ones.”

“Sure…” Lucifer says, watching the both of them in their horrifically mismatched energies and equally horrific fashion choices.

After a few seconds of silence so awkward it’d rival a middle school dance, your ex speaks once more.

“Well, it was nice seeing you,” he says.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You as well.”

It’s indescribable, the feeling that floods your veins as you walk away with Lucifer’s hand holding you close in a way you’d describe as “possessive” if you were together. Something sweet, with a fire that licks at the bones in your limbs. It’s not joy, per say, but maybe its cousin; a concoction of celebration and triumph and success. Regardless of your inability to name the feeling flooding your veins, a smirk you can’t control emerges just so as you head back to your table by the bar.

“I really enjoyed that,” you whisper as you take a sip of champagne.

Lucifer gives you a small smile, looking between you and your ex’s date who stares at him across the room. “Oh trust me, I did too.”

And when you find your way back to the car, that feeling is still there. Warmth under your skin and a skip in your step. Even the frigid night air can’t bring you down.

As he drives you back home it’s silent, for a long time. Lucifer is the first one to speak, hesitant to make to uncomfortable.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” he turns to you, careful with his choice of words. “What happened between you and that…interesting character?”

Shit, you think.

The way you tense is palpable, every muscle in your body tightening as you attempt to compress and compile a dumpster fire full of memories you knew you’d have to unearth eventually – but wished it was because you finally found a therapist that could work with your issues without giving you weird, unsolicited advice about which essential oils were “known” to cure your aches and pains or asking you why your paternal figure was so bad it made you attracted to women (not only women, which is another thing so many struggled to understand. Just also women. All of the people you saw had at least a master’s degree – and yet nowhere had the word “bisexual” ever seemed to enter their lexicon).

“It’s a long story,” you tell him. It’s not a lie, but certainly isn’t the entire truth. “I really loved him, and I thought he really loved me. Turns out I was wrong, because he dumped me two weeks before our three-year anniversary when he found out I wasn’t just attracted to men.”

There’s a heavy silence that fills the space between the two of you as Lucifer attempts the best way to respond. On one hand, he’s deeply saddened. Obviously there’s more you’re not telling him, and the omitted details provide the greatest insight.

On the other hand, he’s pissed. Angry in a way he hasn’t felt since his father cast him into Hell. How could anyone treat someone like that, especially someone as intelligent and beautiful and sharp and…everything you are. You are, to put it bluntly, the entire package. Any person (or non-human entity) would be lucky to have you; that man was given a gift and he crushed it in his hands like a child holding a cicada shell. To think someone cast you aside like that makes his blood boil, and it takes all of him not to turn the car around to go tell him off.

You ignore the way his knuckles have become white as they clutch the steering wheel. “Thanks again for doing this, by the way. I can’t imagine getting through this without you.”

“Of course,” Lucifer tells you earnestly. “Anything you need, really, anything – I’m here for you,” as he arrives at a red light, he turns to face you. “Seriously, anything.”

You give him a soft smile, not responding until the light turns green and he’s back to facing the road. “Thanks, Lucifer. You too.”

Neither of you says anything else on the ride back, the cold night air a comfort even if it chills the conversation. When he drops you off, he watches you go inside – hoping that you understand how deeply he means it.

#lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #lukis writes stuff #lukis does commissions

[allyouneedisbuck]

i don’t wanna do this (i don’t wanna lose this)

eighteen plus blog minors dni

summary -> it’s all fake, every piece of it scripted and perfected for the camera, even the upcoming break-up you pretend doesn’t break your heart.

words -> 2.5k

warnings -> fake relationship, use of name (bucky calls the reader by her character’s name, lucia, once) nickname uses (baby, sweetheart) co-workers/friends to lovers, no smut, not beta’d

notes -> this is for the lovely maera’s ( @ambrosiase ) hotel indigo writing challenge i absolutely love this idea mae and am so appreciative that you created this challenge, it really pushed me out of my comfort zone and i got to explore an entirely new au.  

room & service -> business meets pleasure with celebrity bucky barnes -> bucky and reader are co-stars in a fake relationship in a hotel for their final comic-con together.

— ➶ —

Bucky has been doing interviews with Sam all day today. 

You’ve been working together for six seasons and have both been to too many comic-cons to count. Every single one of them you and Bucky had been paired up to do interviews and photo-ops together. 

A scripted piece of a scripted relationship. Agreed upon when your characters romance began to pick up popularity and designed to look perfect until the end.

Tomorrow an article with be released ‘leaking’ the details of your perfect break-up too. A source close to the both of you will comment that wrapping of the show and being forced to go long distance just wasn’t working for you two. The writer will supply photos of today, the two of you avoiding sitting near one another and not speaking. They’ll write that their source confirmed this convention is actually the first time you’ve seen each other in months. 

Even more articles have already been planted periodically questioning whether the two of you were still together, generating buzz around the show and what happens between your characters. It’s a brilliant job, honestly.

Except, you and Bucky had been in a fake relationship for so long, it had begun to feel real. This distance between you two felt purposeful in a way that hurt you more than it ever should have. 

Your assistant is supposed to go through your instagram soon and begin archiving posts and pieces of your fake life with Bucky. He’s been glaringly absent from your social media recently and it makes your heart ache at the idea of him being nonexistent.

Your fans have noticed too. You read comment after comment all asking the same thing; What happened to you and Bucky? 

“Oh, Lucia! My dear, Lucia.” You bite down a grin at the sound of Bucky’s voice through your door. His words were filtered by the wall between you and a little slurred from the drinks he had no doubt consumed at the hotel bar. “Open the door, please.” 

You lock your phone and lay it on the bed beside you. “I’m busy, Bucky! Go bother Sam.” You call back despite already walking towards the door. 

“Bother Sam? On our last night together?” You can see Bucky smile teasingly though the peephole. Despite his joking tone the words hurt. “Four years together and this is how things end? Through a hotel room door?” 

His fist comes up to bang against the door and a hand comes up to his heart. He’s putting on a show for you, fully away of your eye watching carefully through the peephole. “How much have you had to drink, Bucky Barnes?” You ask as the door remains closed. 

Bucky holds his fingers up in a pinch too small to be true. “Not much.” When his hand falls back to his side he smiles up at the peephole. “Let me in, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.” 

You melt, becoming putty in his hand as you quickly move to unlatch the door. “I’ve missed you too.” You admit to him, face to face, as you lean against the door jam. 

A smirk replaces Bucky’s sweet smile as his hands reach out to grip your hips. “This break-up is tough on me, baby.” He pushes you into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. “One more night. One last time. You and me.” 

“Shut up!” You force his hands off of you and turn towards the mini bar in your room. “You’re such a dweeb. I’m glad we’re breaking up.” You pull out the miniature bottle of wine and twist the top off. 

Bucky’s hand slams across his chest as he falls against the wall in dramatic fashion. “You’re… Glad? My frail heart can’t take it,” he falls to his knees, “Please. Tell my mother, I loved her.”

You watch, unamused, as Bucky falls to the floor in front of you. “You’re obnoxious.” A beaming smile breaks out onto Bucky’s face that makes you grin.

“I was serious, about missing you.” Bucky moves to sit up with his back against the edge of your bed. You move to sit beside him on the floor. “These junkets and photos just aren’t the same without you by my side, cracking jokes in my ear.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “Me too. I love Wanda, but it’s just not the same.” You admit quietly.

There’s so much that you want to say to him. What if this wasn’t fake? What if we didn’t go through with the break-up plan? “Did they send you our social media plan?” Bucky asks quietly.

“Yeah,” You swallow thickly, “I have my assistant going through my account for me soon. We’re supposed to start untagging and deleting photos of each other this week.”

Bucky snorts. “How fucking sweet. Four years together and they have us untag each other to confirm a break up.” His fingers tap against his thigh as the two of you sit on the carpeted floor together.

“Has it really been four years?” You ask quietly. It’s more of a question to yourself, but Bucky answers it with a nod anyways.

“My longest relationship ever and it was fake.” Bucky’s awkward laugh makes the air tense as he stares down at his hands. “I’ve wasted so much of my life. So many chances gone.”

You know the words aren’t said with ill intent, but that doesn’t stop the crack from forming in your heart. You can’t fathom the idea of all your time together, fake or not, being a waste.

Your eyes cut away from him in embarrassment. “Was it really all a waste?” You ask quietly. The words are unintentional, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re out in the air.

“What?” You can feel his eyes settle on you in an attempt to read your face or body language, but a career in acting comes in handy. Your back is ramrod straight and your face turned away perfectly to hide the emotions in your eyes. “It was fake when we could have had something real with people we actually cared about.”

It’s a knife to your broken heart. “People we actually care about?”

“You know, like, other girls and guys who we wanted to pursue but couldn’t because of the contract.” Bucky reaches out to wrap a hand around yours, but you pull away. “I don’t understand what’s wrong here.”

You shake your head, the regret of your words settling over you. “Nothing. I’m just… It’s been a long day.” You use the edge of the bed to help you stand while Bucky remains on the floor, watching you in confusion. “I’m tired, you should go.”

“Woah. What’s this one-eighty?” Bucky stands too and follows you as you move around to gather your toothbrush and skincare. “Two seconds ago we were joking about a fake break-up and now you’re all quiet and weird? You expect me to just leave?”

“Please.” You plead. The last thing you want to do is dump all your feelings out to Bucky, on the last day you two were officially contracted to each other, and make him feel guilty for feeling free. “I just need to be alone, Buck.”

You move to push past him towards your bathroom, but Bucky’s hand wraps around your wrist. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this closing yourself off thing.”

“I’m not.” You say stubbornly. “I’m tired.” You try again to move past him, but his grip only tightens as he forces you to actually face him. “Buck-“

“You can tell me, you know?” He says quietly as his grip slackens. Your eyes meet his, pools of blue staring back at you with something akin to hurt. “You can trust me. We’re best friends, right? You’re my-“

“You don’t have to lie to me, Bucky. Pretend to care. You can go back to the bar and…” You pull your hand from him and cross your arms over your chest. “And tomorrow we can start being with people we actually care about.”

Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as his own words are repeated back and left out in the open between you two. “That’s not what I…”

“What did you mean then?” You cut him off. You want to sound angry, but your tone is sad and tired. “Enlighten me, please.”

“I just meant… I meant we could date who we wanted to date, I didn’t mean for it to sound so awful.” He answers quietly. “I care about you a lot. We’ve been friends for over half a decade, of course I care about you.”

You swallow thickly. “What if I don’t want to date anyone else?” You force yourself to ask. If not now, then when? Ten years from now at a reunion of your show? You couldn’t live with this what if.

“What?” Bucky’s hand falls from your wrist as he takes a step back like your words have burned him.

You push through the thundering of your heart and ringing in your ears to ask, “haven’t you ever thought about it? I mean, four years of just us, all those dates and premieres, was it really all just work for you?”

“I don’t know… I mean…” Bucky rubs a hand over his jaw as you stare at him expectantly. “Have you?”

“I asked the question I think that would imply…” You trail off as his answer weighs down on your mind. It feels like a no. No. No. No. It’s on repeat in your mind as you move to sit down on your bed. “After a while the dates and photos and sappy posts didn’t feel all that forced anymore.” You admit quietly.

Bucky paces silently in front of you. You’re unsure of what’s going through his mind as he does it and it’s all you can do to not tap anxiously as you watch.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He finally asks when he finally pauses in front of you. You look up at him unsure of what to say. “I mean… When did you start…” He trails off like he doesn’t want the answer.

You look down at your hands in your lap. Despite your worries in telling Bucky you guess you had never truly thought of this conversation ending up this way. All these questions felt like Bucky preparing for a gentle rejection.

“I don’t know. After our second anniversary?” You keep your answer to him vague despite you being fully aware of when you started seeing Bucky differently. “That post you wrote for me that day. All the ones after. All of those words were fake?”

Your mind drifts to his words that day. The sweet and short caption had made butterflies erupt as you scrolled through the photos he had posted with it. Despite you both being required to post something, the photos he had chosen had been entirely genuine.

Pictures the two of you had taken together on set, selfies during your fake dates, and even a sweet set of photo booth pictures from your first premiere together.

You had stared at the post far too long as emotions rushed through you. Your heart raced at the idea of Bucky taking his time to pick photos that meant something to the both of you.

“I think that..” You shake your head in an attempt to rid yourself of the painful reminders. “I think you should go.” You stand up suddenly, your hands pushing gently at his chest.

Bucky’s eyes widen as his hands come up grip your arms in an attempt to stop you. “Woah. Let’s talk about this. I’m just trying to figure everything out.”

“Figure it out? What is there to figure out, Bucky?” You cry out, shoving harder. “If you don’t know how you feel then you should figure it out on your own.” You move past him to open the door.

Bucky follows after you hastily. “Sweetheart, wait, please. I just need a moment.” You grip his forearms tightly using Bucky’s own momentum against him as you guide him to the hallway outside your room. “I wasn’t expecting this. We have articles and photos and interviews planned about a break-up tomorrow.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything, Bucky.” The two of you are back where your night began. Opposite sides of the door as you stare, unsure of what to say. “Let’s just pretend this never happened, okay? The article will be published and we’ll confirm it and life will move on.”

The door slams shut in his face without warning, not giving him a chance to say anything else. You stare blankly at the ugly, green shade its painted in silence as you remind yourself; It was all fake. A script you had been given and followed to a tee. One you had gotten too caught up in.

You’re feelings don’t change the ending.

There’s a slow knock on your door. You suck in a breath as you move to open it an apology on the tip of your tongue.

“Bucky.” You’re cut off as his hands come up to rest on your cheeks and he pulls you towards him. Anything you had to say dissipates as his lips meet yours in a bruising kiss.

Your hands come up to grip his t-shirt tightly as you kiss him back your tongue slipping into his mouth while he pulls you flush against his body.

An arm wraps around your waist and Bucky pushes you back into your room, his foot kicking your door closed harshly.

The back of your knees hit the edge of your bed and you finally pull away to look at Bucky, but he speaks before you can say anything.

“Of course I’ve thought about it.” He breathes out. His eyes are wide with nerves and his cheeks flushed red. The sight of it mixed with his kiss makes your heart pound. “I’ve thought about kissing you for real, not in a room filled with crew and cameras. About what it would be like to be on a date where paparazzi hasn’t been tipped off. Baby,” his hands rest on your cheeks again as he forces your eyes to meet his, “I’ve thought about it all. What it would be like to be with you, to really be with you in every way. Sometimes it’s all I think about when we’re together.”

You take pause, your eyes widening and hands freezing in place as you listen to what he’s saying. “Why didn’t you say anything then? Why’d you just pace and ask me all those questions?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” He smiles brightly when you giggle. “Because I couldn’t believe you actually felt the same way. I was in shock.” He presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

You smile up at him softly. “What do we do about the article tomorrow?” You whisper your question.

You feel giddy with excitement as Bucky’s hands land on your hips to hold you in place, flush against him. “We deny it.”

“What about our managers?” Your smile doesn’t fade even as stress over the situation arises. “And…And our separate interviews tomorrow?”

“What are they gonna do? Fire us?” Bucky smiles. “We’ll tell them all about how in love we still are. That the source in the article was a dud and we’ve just been private recently as the show wraps.”

“We will?” You ask quietly. Your heart racing at his words. “You want to say all that?”

Bucky nods his head. “I do.”

You don’t say anything else he leans in for another kiss, you could worry tomorrow.

Bonus -> The Next Day

liked by buckybarnes, samwilson and 134,759 others

yourinstagram the final season of our show premieres this weekend and we’re so excited for you all to see how it ends. the first photo is from tonight and the second from our first season! the past six years has brought me so much joy and i’m so grateful for everything this show has given me. most importantly though, i’m thankful for you, bucky barnes. my adrian to my lucia. my best friend. my lover. thanks for making this show so fun.

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samwilson we made a great show. love you guys.

buckyfan thought y’all were a pr stunt lmao

yourinstagram apparently you’re not supposed to really fall in love for those to work…

buckybarnes i am most grateful for you. you made work worth it every god damn day.

yourfan my favorite couple on and off the screen.

— ➶ —

notes -> this is my first ever time joining a writing challenge, it really pushed me to work through block and focus on this instead of letting is die out like i have with other projects despite liking them so much!

(hoping you guys don’t hate the extra instagram idea, i just felt it fit in!)

hopefully you enjoyed and if you did, reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#the hotel indigo writing challenge #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x f!reader

[you-can-call-me-wanda]

Morning Run

Pairing: Dave Grohl x Reader

A/N: Thank you to the Anon who requested this! It was really fun to write...

“Alright, just about a quarter mile up that hill and we’re halfway there,” you informed your boyfriend cheerfully, looking back over your shoulder to make sure he had heard you.

“Uphill?” he groaned, gazing at the steep path you would be jogging up.

You chuckled a bit and nodded your head, biting your lip to stop yourself from mocking his whining.

This was Dave’s first ever time joining you on one of your morning jogs and he was handling it pretty much how you expected him to. Let’s just say, there was a reason you had never invited him before and you weren’t likely to invite him again after today.

It’s not that Dave was unfit. The opposite was true really, he was actually pretty athletic. His drumming gave him quite the workout every day too, but your daily jog was a rather grueling task. You, yourself, had spent years building up your endurance to get to this point in your fitness routine. It wasn’t something you expected everyone to be able to accomplish and do with pleasure like you did right off the bat, but Dave had insisted on joining you while he was staying over at your house, saying it would be good for him and that he’d enjoy it.

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

After the first mile and a half, he’d done nothing but complain through his tired panting. You weren’t bothered much, you had expected it from him. You almost felt a little bad even. Almost.

“Wait, did you say halfway?” Dave asked you when you’d both reached the top of the hill, your previous words only just now fully sinking in.

This time you couldn’t help but laugh at his exasperated expression as he stopped running for a moment, taking a break to catch his breath.

“I told you it was a long route,” you said, stopping as well and giving him some reassuring pats on the back.

“You didn’t tell me it was a marathon!” he exclaimed. “How long do you run for?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“About five miles in total,” you replied, chuckling again when Dave’s mouth practically dropped open.

“Five miles? And you do this every morning?”

“I try to,” you said. “And don’t worry. I know a shortcut that will take us home faster. It shaves about two miles off the run.”

“Oh, thank god,” was Dave’s quick response before a guilty expression washed across his face.

“I mean, are you okay with that?” he asked. “I don’t want you to miss out on whatever you gain from all this physical torture.”

You elbowed him playfully and rolled your eyes.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have said anything if it wasn’t okay,” you said. “Now, c’mon.”

Dave tried his best to keep his moaning and groaning to a minimum for the short remainder of your morning jog, but that didn’t stop him from complaining endlessly about how tired he was when you finally reached your house. The shortcut, as promised, had made the run substantially shorter but Dave was still feeling wrought with exhaustion. You, on the other hand, were feeling more energetic than usual given the shorter mileage.

“I think I’m dying,” Dave said, voice muffled from where he lay on your living floor, face pressed into the carpet.

You kicked at one of his feet as you walked past him, headed to the kitchen to get the both of you some much deserved cold water. Dave had all his limbs stretched out like a starfish, so you were careful not to trip on him as you moved past.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” you called out from the room over as you filled two glasses full of water.

“Not in the slightest,” Dave replied, propping himself up onto his elbows when you returned back to the living room.

He took the water you offered him gratefully and made a show of gulping down the whole thing and wiping away the stray droplets that fell down his chin with his hand.

You just shook your head and giggled while Dave grinned, proud to have made you laugh.

“So, I take it you’re pretty tired, huh?” you asked him, sitting down on the floor beside him and running a hand through his hair.

“Mhm,” he hummed, pleased with the feeling of your fingers along his scalp. “Exhausted. I just want to lay here for the rest of my life.”

You smiled to yourself. You had a trick up your sleeve that you knew would have Dave up instantly.

“That’s too bad. Guess that means you aren’t up to taking a shower with me,” you sighed, feigning disappointment.

You stopped moving your fingers through his hair as you waited expectantly for any sort of reaction from him. Beneath your hand, your boyfriend stilled.

It took him less than a moment to spring up from the floor and pluck you off the ground, tossing you over his shoulder. It was a less than delicate maneuver, and a rather surprising one, that left you letting out an embarrassingly loud squeal, but he was successful in picking you up nonetheless.

“Okay, fine,” he grunted, shifting you on his shoulder as he began to walk towards your bathroom. “Shower first, and then we can lay on the floor for the rest of our lives.”

You giggled again on account of your boyfriend as you swung your head around to plant a loving kiss on his cheek as he paraded you over to the shower.

“Deal.”

#nirvana imagine #foo fighters imagine #nirvana x reader #foo fighters x reader #wanda writes #dave grohl imagine #dave grohl x reader

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

#Jily #Part 1 #Of 3? #Honestly I just wanted to give you guys a treat

[fruitcoops]

So my finger is actually broken and it made me think about the series where Remus took a stick to the face and Sirius took care of him if you’re willing to do another part to that so I can live vicariously that’d be great

Hey lovely! I’m so sorry for the massive delay on this fic--hopefully, your finger feels better soon <3 Coops and O’Knutzy credit goes to @lumosinlove!

This fic also includes Cap and Logan being brothers, O’Knutzy fluff, and my personal favorite ask of all time:

Anon: We have seen protective Leo in action and he is an absolute badass, but what about the other 2/3 of O’Knutzy. Because gods know they would all protect their fairy gay mother if anyone were to mess with him in the slightest

TW for bruising, swelling, injury

Read the rest of the series here!

“Where is he?” Leo demanded as soon as the door opened. His mother would have been appalled by his lack of manners, but he was too worried to bother with pleasantries. “Is he alright?”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Hello to you, too, Knut. Harzy, Lo, how’s it going?”

“Depends,” Finn said. “How’s our favorite rookie doing?”

Logan took a more direct approach and kicked Sirius lightly on the shin. “Move, I want to see my future beau-frère.”

“Are they here?” a rough voice called from the living room.

“Don’t get up, Loops!” Leo shouted down the hall, making a beeline for the kitchen. “Are you feeling okay?”

There was a muffled curse from the other room, followed by footsteps; Leo scowled. “I’m not made of glass,” Remus huffed as he shuffled into the room with an ice pack in his hand.

All three of them hissed in sympathy and Leo felt phantom pain in his nose at the wide bruise across Remus’ cheekbones. “You should go lay down again, dude.”

“You made me soup?”

“You can only have it if you promise to rest.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“Your face looks like someone biked over it.”

“Rude. I’ll call your mother.”

“You don’t have her number.”

Remus shot him a look and turned to the others, who were watching in clear amusement. “Tremzy, a hand?”

“Can’t tell you. I want soup.” Logan ruffled his hair as he walked past; Remus batted him away, but he was smiling. It was even more crooked than usual with the latent swelling, and Leo felt a pang in his chest when he noticed the missing dimples. He looked so…not Loops. “Où sont les casseroles?”

Finn frowned and glanced in the Tupperware. “That’s not casserole, Lo.”

Sirius reached up and pulled a large pot down from the cupboard. “Pots, Harz. You’ve been dating these two for almost a year and you still don’t know French?”

Finn hopped up on the counter. “Keeps things interesting.”

Leo blew him a kiss and received a wink in return, making them both laugh. “Thanks again for bringing this over,” Remus said as Leo turned the stove on and grabbed a wooden spoon.

“Anything for the rookie, right? You look better than last night.”

“Yeah?” Hope lit in Remus’ less-swollen eye; he was still bruised to hell and back, but the puffiness had gone own significantly and a good night’s sleep seemed to have done him good.

“No thanks to the captain,” Finn snorted, swinging his legs until Sirius whacked him on the thigh with a spoon. “I swear to god he was just fucking with us in the groupchat.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “What did you do?”

“I told the truth!” Sirius protested. “I don’t know why they’re all pissy.”

“You were so vague,” Logan groaned. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and scrolled through the texts, then cleared his throat. “Home safe. Re is fine—"

“Get over here—”

“—getting lots of cuddles from Hattie,” Logan continued, ducking out of Sirius’ reach as he read aloud. Leo stepped closer to the stove to let them both run past. “Thanks for the messages. Thanks for the messages? Thanks for the fucking messages?”

“That was pretty vague,” Remus agreed, hiding a smile behind his hand when Sirius finally snatched Logan’s phone away.  

“I’m keeping this,” he threatened. “And I sent messages to people who reached out individually with questions, including your boyfriend.”

“Which one?” Logan asked with a smirk.

Sirius shook his head. “Knutty, will you be offended if I kick him out of the house?”

“Eh.” Leo shrugged, still stirring. “He could use some fresh air. Maybe put a bowl of water out with him.”

Logan grabbed a towel and rolled it up, snapping it at Leo’s ass; it connected with a sharp smack and he dodged the second attack by less than an inch. “Hey, cut it out!” Remus laughed. “He’s making me soup!”

“Yeah, Lo, we don’t want to leave the invalid in the hands of Cap’s cooking,” Finn drawled.

Sirius heaved a sigh. “You are all so mean to me.”

“I love you!” Remus said, putting a hand over his heart in mock-offense.

“You don’t trust my cooking either.”

He hesitated for half a second and Sirius spread his hands. “I trust most of your cooking. And all of your baking.”

Leo perked up. “Will you make cookies for us?”

“No.”

“Come on,” he wheedled as bubbles began forming around the edges of the soup. “You know you want to.”

“He made some for the block party two weeks ago,” Remus said with a grin, leaning over to smell the thick steam. “I’m domesticating him.”

“He’s like a feral cat. Once you let him in and feed him, he starts making cookies and never leaves.” Logan slotted himself between Finn’s knees for a cuddle with a devious glance at Sirius.

“I regret knowing you,” Sirius muttered; the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away, and Leo smiled to himself as he pulled a few bowls out of the nearest cabinet. “Soup’s ready?”

“Soup’s ready. Where are we eating?”

“Well, Loops is eating on the couch so he can rest,” Logan said, ignoring Remus’ eye roll.

“I’m fine.” All four of them gave him a skeptical look and he threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “Alright, we’ll eat in the living room and pretend I’m on my deathbed. Jesus Christ.”

Leo gave him a playful nudge as he handed him a bowl. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Remus’ face softened and he bumped him back. “This was really sweet of you, Knutty.”

“What was I supposed to do, leave you here alone with only your fiancé and your dog for company?” He looked behind the kitchen island and paused. “Speaking of, where’s my baby?”

“I’ll get her.” Sirius wandered out of the room and they heard the back door open a moment later; after a few seconds of muffled noise, Hattie came barreling into the room in all her long-legged glory. One side of her fur was mussed into bedhead, but Finn dropped down and immediately smoothed it out again as he smothered her with affection.

“Oh, was somebody taking a nap on the deck?” Remus cooed, grabbing a handful of spoons from a drawer.

“I missed you so much!” Finn said, laughing as she licked his face. “So much, precious girl! It’s been too long!”

Hattie wiggled out of his hold and galloped toward Leo—she tripped over her too-big paws and rolled to a stop at his feet with a lolling tongue. “Oh, my munchkin,” he groaned, lifting her into a cradle hold. “Do you think your dads would be sad if I took you home with me?”

“Yes,” Sirius and Remus chorused.

“But I made them soup!” He stuck his lower lip out in a pout and held her closer to his chest. “It’s only fair.”

Logan turned a pleading look on Sirius. “You can’t say no to that face, can you?”

“Someday, you can have a sleepover. For right now, we’re going to eat soup and then make Remus take a nap.”

Leo declined to mention the fact that he had not answered the question and filed that particular information away for later use. For all his bluster and grumbling, Sirius was a softie for puppy eyes of any sort.

They gathered in the living room and carefully balanced their bowls so nobody spilled on the carpet. Remus curled up to make space for Sirius on the couch, while Logan perched on the armrest of Leo’s chair and Finn took the floor; Hattie made the rounds with a roving nose and tried to steal bites wherever possible, to little avail.

“This is really good,” Sirius said after a few minutes of hungry silence, shoving another spoonful of broth in his mouth. “Mon dieu, what is this?”

“Italian wedding soup,” Leo said, breaking a meatball in half. “Mom’s recipe.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Italian.”

“Not even a little.”

“You guys are the best, by the way,” Remus said. “This is exactly what I needed.”

“We would’ve beat the rookie up if you asked,” Finn informed him with a casual bite of soup. “Say the word, it’s done.”

Remus shook his head. “It was an accident. He tripped, I came up too fast, and it snowballed from there. Kid’s lucky he didn’t get a skate to the face when we fell.”

Logan blinked at him for a second. “You’ve seen your face recently, right?”

“No, actually, it’s a bit difficult to see my own face,” Remus said drily. “I’m sure it looks worse than it feels.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows, but made no comment. Leo wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know that story or not; seeing Loops in any amount of pain was hard enough. “Kind of ironic, right?” he said instead. “After all that time spent fixing us, you’re the one we get to take care of.”

Remus snorted. “How the turntables. Hestia did all the heavy lifting.”

“That Tupperware was heavy.”

“Do you want to tape me back together next time?”

“Don’t try me, Loops, I’ll do it and give you a moustache.”

They bickered and teased for the next half hour, long after their bowls were empty and Hattie laid down with a dramatic huff after her unsuccessful quest. Finally, Remus dozed off on Sirius’ shoulder, which they took as their cue to leave.

“Thank you again, guys,” Sirius said as they pulled their coats on. “This really meant a lot to both of us.”

“No problem,” Finn said with a shrug. “We were worried, and bringing over a little soup was easy.”

“It was good to talk to you both outside of practice,” Logan added, giving him a one-armed hug. “Keep us updated?”

“Bien sûr.”

“See you around, Capsicle.” Leo mock-saluted and Sirius laughed under his breath. “Take care of our rookie.”

“Will do, Knutty.”

Leo maneuvered his container around his seatbelt as Finn turned the car on, trying not to lose another lid down the crack between the console. “I’m glad we did that,” he said after a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“Me, too. Loops still looked pretty rough, though,” Logan said quietly.

The side of Finn’s mouth turned down a tick. “Next time we play the Ravens, that rookie is getting checked like he’s never been checked before.”

Leo’s back cracked as he stretched his arms over his head. “Oh, yeah, Kasey and I already have a plan. That kid is never even going to see the net.”

[outofsstyles]

AU | Famous!Reader x Fashion student!Harry

☁️ FIC PAGE ☁️

word count: 22.9k

warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol

//

Time, mystical time

Cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine

Were there clues I didn't see?

- Invisible String, Taylor Swift

//

Harry huffs a sigh of relief as he stumbles his way up the last steps of the staircase, being greeted with the familiar sight of the front door to his flat. His shoulders are hunched from the stress of a long day, still getting used to the hectic routine after coming back from the holiday season. Eyelids blinking slower with each step, he sniffs as he reaches for his set of keys in the side pocket of his backpack. Cold drops of rain slide down his neck from his hair and his face feels cold from the whisks of wind that whipped around him in the short jog from the tube station to his building. His feet are sore from standing around for so long, and the beginning of a headache sparking under his temple, making him frown as he takes a beat too long to unlock the door. To say he’s tired would be an understatement, and as much as the warm scent of the vanilla candles welcomed him are soothing, he can’t help but ache for a hot shower.

His bag drops to the floor with a faint thump. The sound of the television takes over the small space, and not long after he shrugs himself out of his coat he catches the sight of a recognizable set of  curls from Julia’s spot in the couch across the room, snuggling against the cushions with a bright pink blanket wrapped around her and a big bowl of popcorn popped in her lap. Harry envies her for a moment, for getting the chance to work as she’s cozied up inside their warm apartment. From where he stands, he can still feel Julia’s gaze taking in his undoubtedly drained appearance, her expression softening a bit.

“Rough day?”

“Jus’ tired.” He reaches up to pull out the hair tie that keeps part of his locks from his eyes, massaging his scalp as he does so. “S’raining a lot.”

“You should’ve taken my umbrella.”

“I’m not going out in public with that.” He scrunches his nose, a hand resting on the wall for support as he reaches down to take off his vans, the shoes suddenly becoming too tight on his feet.

He’s referring to the umbrella she got  roughly a year ago. She had bought it for her mom at a souvenir store and forgot to take it with her on her flight back home for the holidays, so when she came back she’d made the decision to keep it. The top of it is filled with all sorts of typical figures related to London, big red cabins illustrated on the material, surrounded by matching busses and marching soldiers, and of course, an image of a couple Big Bens standing tall next to it. It’s nothing too bad, Harry reckons there’s many uglier gifts she could’ve gotten, but it’s far too touristy for him not to cringe at the thought of parading it around.

Julia scoffs at him, rolling her eyes with a shake of her head. “Buy your own then!” She brings her attention back to the screen in front of her. “Or just catch a cold from walking around in the rain, see if I care.”

He breathes out a laugh at her dramatics, scratching his nose slightly and feeling his icy skin as he makes his way to the bathroom, not indulging further in the banter with his flatmate. Once he’s locked in, Harry can’t help but shrug out of his clothes in an almost impatient manner, eager to finally wash the tension and sweat off of his body.

He takes his time when he finally gets under the hot jet of his showerhead, not holding back a relieved sigh  as the water hits his skin with a hard pressure that’s just as painful as it is satisfying.

When he sees Julia again, stepping out of his room clad in an all grey sweats set (except from a couple paint stains decorating the sweatshirt, result of an art course he attended a few months ago), she’s sitting straighter against the cushions, her hair now up in a ponytail, a small computer propped on her lap taking the place of the popcorn bowl, that’s now by her side. She peeks at Harry for a second from under her glasses before focusing again on typing something he assumes must be work related.

“You know, for someone who’s a fashion major you sure have a questionable taste in clothes.” She doesn’t look up from her screen as she teases.

“When I have money for Gucci I’ll make sure to parade it around the flat.” His steps are still lazy as he reaches the messy counter that separates the kitchen area from where Julia sits on the living room couch. Not paying any mind to the stacks of course books and loose papers on top of it, he leans to rest his hands over the mess. “Until then, you're stuck with my paint-stained sweats. Tea?”

“I’m good.”

Harry’s hand hits the countertop with a faint thump as he turns. The wooden cabinets creek as he opens them in order to locate a hand painted blue mug with colorful little chicks dancing around it. He rests it on the counter as he reaches for the kettle to fill it with water. A woman’s voice takes over the space, her tone pitching louder in enthusiasm as she comments on the name of a couple artists. He recognizes some from scrolling around Spotify playlists or seeing it written on magazines before.  Glancing over his shoulder, Harry catches an image of a red carpet of sorts being transmitted on the screen. An awards show.

It’s the kind of program Harry’s gotten quite used to seeing by now. From the moment Julia landed an internship at a music magazine, there had been enough occasions in which she had to write a piece regarding an award show. Usually, though, those evenings are prompted with the presence of her girlfriend, Blake, (who happens to be Harry’s classmate -- and he still prides himself in his matchmaking skills for introducing them to each other)  who enjoys making snarky comments about people’s outfits as Julia gushes over their performances. Harry’s even joined them a couple times when those nights are held at their flat and not over at Blake’s, not much so for the content -- actually finding most of it boring -- but more for the company. It’s about listening to the two girls bicker as he steals a handful of Julia’s popcorn.

The odd setting of that night doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, though, and once the kettle’s set on the stove he turns to her, leaning back on the counter,  “Is Blake not coming tonight?”

“She left early ‘cause she promised to babysit for her neighbors. Oh! You got mail, by the way.” She doesn’t look up from her computer as she motions with her head to the spot on the counter in front of him where a couple letters sat, some with their seals already ripped.  “Quite fancy if you ask me.”

Harry frowns slightly, not expecting any mail, much less anything fancy. sure enough, it doesn’t take him long to spot the one she’s talking about, as the black envelope easily stands out amongst the regular ones as well as his name written in cursive letters on top of it. When he picks it up, turning it around, he notices a small leaf branch with a golden ribbon attached to the front by a wax seal matching its color (it’s the first time Harry’s actually seen anyone seal a letter like this outside period tv shows and satisfying video compilations on his instagram explore page, and it only helps to deepen the crease between his brows). He can make out the figure of a fern engraved on the seal, but no other indication of the content inside of it.

With a quick motion, Harry breaks the seal, barely catching the tiny branch mid-air as it falls to the ground. He leans forward, resting his arms on the counter as he retrieves the card resting inside. It takes a single read of the words printed on it  for him to realize what's it all about. A wedding invitation. One he’d completely let slip from his memory that was even happening in the first place. Not that he could be blamed for it, considering the last time he’d chatted with the bride and groom he was seventeen living under his mum’s roof a good four-hour drive away. It’s still nice of them to have him in mind, Harry thinks, setting the letter down once he hears the whistling sound of the kettle behind him.

Not thinking much more of the mail, he moves around the small space of the kitchen, humming along to an overplayed song that comes up on the telly, as he finishes preparing his cuppa. Once he’s done, he walks to the couch, making himself comfortable on the opposite end to where Julia sits. His eyes set on the screen in front of them just as an older woman, with her hair pulled back and a silver gown cascading down her body, speaks into a microphone.

“So, what are we watching?” Harry asks with a sip of his tea.

“The Grammys.”

Harry’s brows shoot up. “Is it today already?”

“Yup.” Julia says, not looking up from her computer as she keeps typing. “Have to write an article about it.”

“Look at you!” Harry stretches his arm to bump on his friend’s shoulder. “Getting that permanent spot, I see.”

“Trying to.” She glances at him, motioning with her head to the counter where the mail now lays open. “What have you got there?”

He reaches for the half empty popcorn bowl resting by her side, stealing a few pieces and quickly tossing them into his mouth. “A wedding invitation.”

“Ew, who eats popcorn with tea.” His friend states, moving the bowl to her other side, out of his reach  “A wedding? Since when do you have friends who have their lives together?”

“It’s an old mate, back from school days and all that.” Harry shrugs. “Haven’t spoken to him in a bit, though.”

“Are you going?”

“Think so.” He takes another sip, unpocketing his phone from his sweats. “Will be good to see everyone again.”

Julia simply hums in response, and, as Harry focuses his attention on his phone, he can hear her typing resume. For a while they stay like this, as he scrolls mindlessly through his social media feeds, even answering a text or two --which is rare for Harry since he often left messages unopened for days - except for a comment or two coming from her side of the couch. Every now and then he glances up to the bigger screen, either when he’s asked for his opinion on someone’s outfit or when Julia wants to know whose designer is behind it -- and Harry prides himself on recognizing most of them, having studied their collection campaigns for his marketing class in his last term. What calls his full attention, however, is the mention of a particular name, making his ears perk up and his eyes glue themselves to the screen.

It’s not unusual for him to hear your name, of course it isn’t, as you have settled on  top of several radio spots for the past year or two. He’s grown used to hearing your name plenty, but it doesn’t get any less odd for him, to have what once was such a familiar face  become such a distant yet still reocurring figure.

Going through a breakup, especially when it’s your first relationship, is already hard enough as it is. Harry reckons most people probably do their best to distance themselves in order to heal and move on, try not to think of the person who hurt them. But it’s not like he had much of a choice with you. He could delete all your pictures from his computer, wipe it all , hide the letters and polaroids in a box under his bed and he still wouldn’t be able to run away from you. It’s as if the moment he was out of your life you’d grown bigger than either of you could’ve imagined as you lied together on his bedroom floor. In a matter of a year or so your name was up in lights, your face greeted him everywhere he went; that being printed in the front of the gossip magazines lined together as he checked out his groceries, or at an editorial cover as he studied for his design theory class. There wasn’t much of an escape.

It was hard in the beginning, of course it was. Mainly  when he inevitably had to read the scandalous headlines about you being all over some big haired bloke from a boyband at some extravagant party in West Hollywood. Yeah, that was a hard one. But as most things in life, Harry had to get over it eventually. And with you quickly becoming more and more out of his reach, your image being just as sweet as it is strange of a memory to him, he  learned how to desensitize himself.

That  doesn’t mean he’s not curious, though, which is what shifts his focus to the tvonce he hears your name. Sure enough, there you are, the most familiar stranger he’s ever known. Your smile is discreet, but still charming in a way that makes whoever’s watching you want to know what kind of secrets you’re keeping, and Harry can’t help but wonder as well. He doesn’t recognize the emerald sequined dress you have on (and makes a mental note to check later who it from) and he figures it was probably custom made for you, as it hugs your body perfectly. He doesn’t mean to notice that, he really doesn’t, but as the camera zooms in, panning from your golden heels, up your leg that appears from the side slit of your skirt as you walk down the carpet, and stopping at your face, still sporting a smirk as you divide your attention between different photographers screaming your name, he can’t help but notice how good you look.

“Look at her.” Julia sighs, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. That's when he realizes he’s slouched forward.. Relaxing back into the cushions, he takes another gulp of his tea, which has gotten considerably cooler as it rests forgotten on his lap. “Don’t blame you for being her groupie, I would too, if I had the chance.”

“Wasn’t a fucking groupie, I told you that.” Harry rolls his eyes at his friend, knowing her love for torturing him since she’s learned the information of his past relationship.  “We dated before she even set foot in America.”

“So?” She looks at him, eyebrows shooting towards her hairline as she keeps nudging. “You were her first groupie before she even had them.”

He shakes his head. “Enough with the groupie talk, please, not in front of my tea.”

“I’ll never fully process the fact that you dated her.” Julia pushes the topic, her hand motioning to your image still being shown on the telly. “You got to kiss her and everything! Wild.”

“Julia, can you stop talking about my ex and write whatever it is that you have to.”

“Not when your ex is one of the biggest names in the music industry, no.” Julia pauses and, for a moment, Harry thinks she might’ve finally dropped the subject. However, once he doesn’t hear the sound of her fingers going back to typing on her computer he looks back at her, catching  her eyes still glued to the screen, her brows set in a frown.  He can almost hear the wheels inside her head turning. He focuses back on his phone, saying a silent prayer that whatever it is she’s thinking, she’ll just drop.. His wishes are futile, however, when she speaks up again, her words coming out slow but full of intention, “Is she friends with this dude that invited you to his wedding?”

“Julia…”

“I’m serious! Imagine if you bump into her at their wedding!” She fully turns to him, her voice pitching in excitement at the scenario.

“Even if she did get invited.” Harry starts, refusing to meet her eyes. “I doubt she’d go.”

“Why not?”

“Cause she’s one of the biggest names in the music industry? Haven’t you just said that?”

“Right.” The girl sits back on the couch, gnawing at her bottom lip before bursting again, “But what if?”

“She won’t.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“And you’ve been reading too many romance novels.” He scoffs. “It’s starting to affect your perception of reality. It’s worrisome, really.”

“As if you didn’t watch The Notebook every day religiously before going to sleep.”

“Not everyday.”

The two friends keep pestering each other for a bit,  until the opening performance starts, signaling the beginning of the award show, and Julia had to focus back on her work . as the silence set in the room, except for Highway To Hell stretching around the walls, Harry let his mind zoom out, his flatmate’s words painting every inch of his brain.

He’d never let his mind wonder what it would be like to see you again. Would you even recognize him? No. And even if you did, , he’d probably become as much of a far-off memory like you have to him. One of those people you think about once or twice after it happened and greets the nostalgic feeling as it embraces you in a brief moment, quickly moving on to more important things. Surely, you have plenty more important things to worry  about than your ex boyfriend that you left in your hometown  four years ago.

Shaking his head, Harry scolds himself for letting his mind wander. It has been five years, for god’s sake! He’s moved on. He has! But there’s still the tiny voice, whispering annoyingly in the back of his head, like an insistent child trying to get him to listen to them, saying it over and over. What if?

//

Golden specks of sunlight peeked from the cracks of the bricked buildings outside, shining through his window as a silent reminder of the sun setting in the horizon, and you knew it was almost time for you to go home. You ignored it, though. Only snuggling back on the arm resting behind your head as you laid on the ground next to him, focusing on the feeling of his fingers playing with yours that rest on top of your stomach, and the soothing voice of Joni Mitchell singing softly in the background.

Harry was adorably excited to show you the vinyl he got from the weekend getaway with his father and stepmum, pulling you up the stairs before you could even properly greet his mother in the kitchen. You sat on his bed as he went through all the relics he managed to snatch at the local fair he had visited. Barely holding back a smile, you bit your lip as you watched him ramble about a vintage camera he got from a dutch lady. His hair had grown a bit, you’d noticed, messy curls poking out of his head, dancing slightly as he talked. Once he got to the record, you didn’t shy away from placing a peck on his cheek, right next to the dimple the deepened after your action, asking him to play it for you, as you reached for his pillow and placed it on the usual spot you’d hangout right under his window.

He was telling you about some new paint set he wanted, lying on his back looking mindlessly at the ceiling. You closed your eyes, listening to the sound of the words slipping easily out of his lips along with the sound of his breath as you moved your head closer to his chest. What made you blink your eyelids open again was when he stopped talking, a new song starting with gentle strokes of an acoustic guitar.

Looking up at him, you met his gaze already staring back at you, and you adjusted your position, turning on your side so you could take a better look. He was wearing his favorite navy blue Fleetwood Mac tee, one you’d gifted him on his sixteenth. You loved how it enhanced the color of his eyes, and you were reminded of it once again when you looked into his jade irises, almost forgetting to take a breath as you did so.

“What’s this one called?” You broke the silence, softening your voice as you were afraid to speak too loudly, almost feeling as if you were interrupting Mitchell’s declaration of love.

“A Case of You.” Harry answered, turning his body to face yours.

You didn’t say anything back, instead, you took a minute to pay attention to the lyrics that painted the four walls of his room at that moment.

I remember that time you told me / You said, “Love is touching souls.” / Surely you touched mine / Cause it pours out of me

“It’s beautiful.” You whispered, not daring to look away from him.

Harry hummed in agreement, his hand reaching up to move a strand of your hair away from your face. Smiling softly, he said, “‘S my favourite.” You watch him chew on his bottom lip, hesitating for a second before whispering, “I got something for you.”

Your smile  widens. “Really?” He nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged, looking down to where his fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Didn’t know if you’d like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it, H.” You sit up, crossing your legs under your bum, a spark of excitement and curiosity shooting through your body as you rush him, “Go get it!”

“Okay, okay, calm down, love.” He laughs, sitting up from his position and reaching back for his backpack resting on top of the bed.

You watched as he retrieved a small pale pink box, wrapped with a silver ribbon, tied in a pretty bow on top. There was a nervous hesitance to him as he handed you the gift, you noticed a reddish tone painting his cheeks, it was subtle, you could’ve easily missed it if the light wasn’t shining on his face, still, you couldn’t help but reach forward, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose. It’s quick, but you still earned a giggle that escaped his throat, mumbling afterwards, urging you to unwrap the box as he bit down his lip.

Wrapping your fingers on the ribbon that sealed the package, you swiftly untied it, allowing it to fall on the carpet next to you. A gasp eased out of your lips as soon as you opened the lid, revealing a heart-shaped gold pendant hanging on a delicate chain.

“‘S a locket.” He revealed quietly, eyes jumping from the jewelry in your hands to your face, watching your reaction. “It’s empty now, can put whatever you want in it.”

You touched the piece gently, feeling the texture of the engraved flowers under your fingertips, there’s a knot threatening to tighten your throat at the tenderness of his action but you swallow it back in order to speak, even though your words tremble out of your lips,

“I love it.”

You reach your free hand to touch the necklace being presented to you, craning your neck the slightest bit - as to not disturb Amie’s work on your brows - to get a better look at the piece. It’s a short golden chain, white crystal stones placed carefully around it. As you hold it in your palm you can tell how delicate it is, and you guess it’ll probably barely be noticeable as you strut your way down the red carpet in a couple of hours, but you assume the simple jewelry will make the whole difference in your headshots. With a final look you give a small nod to the short brunette still watching you closely, reaffirming your approval as you gently hand the necklace back to her.

She disappears from your sight in a beat and you relax back on your seat, not bothering to say anything else. It’s clear that everyone else has realized by now that you’re in a mood (if your unusual silence isn’t a big indication, you’re sure your face says it all), as they’re mostly speaking with each other and leaving you be. Acting like a stuck up egocentric diva was never in your plans to start the day of your first attendance at the Grammy Awards. It’s not like you can help it, though, but you try your hardest to make up for it. You force a smile for a bit too long, say please and thank you way too many times in a voice that makes you cringe to yourself. When they ask how you’re doing, you simply brush it off as a bad night of sleep.

Well, that isn’t entirely a lie, you are tired. The routine of staying out until dawn to catch a nap for maybe two or three hours everyday seems to have finally taken a toll on you. And of course it would all hit you like a brick in what feels like one of the most important nights of your career. Because why the fuck wouldn’t it?

Still, you know the main reason for your sour mood has got to do with much more than just a burnout due to a thread of poor sleep nights. You know the reason lies deep within the prior months that led to where you are now. But it’s not like you’re ready to unravel any of that.

So, with barely three hours of sleep under your belt, you woke up with your eyes still sticky from the previous night (due to the poor job you did on taking off your mascara before slipping under the covers) to be met with the high ceiling of the penthouse suite you booked for the week. Most times, when waking up after a night out, mind still buzzing and tongue slightly numb from the alcohol, it’s a slow rise. It starts with lazy blinks and a slow recollection of your surroundings, a lethargic way your head has to process the fact that it needs to start working again. But this morning you didn’t have that privilege of easing your way into consciousness. No. Your eyes snapped open with the sudden invasion of sunlight into your room, the chirping sound of voices coming muffled from the living room.

It’s almost noon, a voice lets you know, coming into your eyesight with a long floral dress flowing all the way down her calves, the sleeves tight on her elbows as she types something on her phone. Sonia, your manager, knows you too well as to not coarse you into waking up, but rather doing the most efficient way, that being not to give an option unless getting out of bed. She doesn’t waste a second before pulling you covers back, the action causing a whine to escape from your lips as the cool air of the AC embraces your body like a bucket of cold water.

“There’s breakfast waiting for you outside.” She gazed up at you, her eyes nudging into a motherly glare at your state.

“Coffee?” Is all you mumbled, sitting up.

“Later. Right now caffeine is not ideal for your headache.”

“I don’t—“

“There’s ibuprofen.” She motioned with her head to the nightstand right next to you, her attention back to the phone in her hand as it started to buzz. “And water. Lots of it. I’m sending in hair and makeup in ten.”

In reality, you had just about five minutes to wash away the night before you heard a commotion outside the bathroom door. There was just enough time for you to swallow back the painkiller that was settled in the nightstand as a good morning gift and to strip out of your clothes when people started knocking on the door. You ignored it, though, as your head pulsed with the continuous streak of sleepless nights and strong drinks and the cold rush of water from the waterfall shower did very little to lighten up your mood. And it doesn’t help that those five minutes were the last relaxing moment of the day before people started rushing in like a violent stream of water.

So, yes, to say you’re moody can be an understatement.

Right now you’ve been munching on an apple for the past half hour, using it as an excuse to not barge into conversations. The leather of the chair you’ve been on for what feels like forever now (which is code for about a full hour) is starting to stick to your thighs as your robe has ridden up your body. There’re what feels like hundreds of hands on you. Pulling at your hair, swiping products on your face, poking onto your nails. Their voices every minute or so smoothing in request as if you’re one of those voice controlled dolls of sorts — turn your head, stay still, close your eyes, don’t move.

This is a process you’ve always found near excessive, and probably your least favorite part of going to an event of such importance. Recalling the first time you had this many people in charge of helping you get ready, you remember the excitement. It was easy, being the center of attention without having to lift a single finger. However, it did lose its glamour rather quickly. You like your independence way too much. That ranges from being able to get ready by yourself to going alone to a cocktail party.

Though you know there’s not much you can do about it, so you just relax back, knowing the less you think about it, the quicker it’ll be over.

The moment you let your eyes fall closed, feeling the smooth brush color your eyelids, you hear it. It’s faint, and you have to focus on the low sound of the speaker in the background, under the rushed voices of what feels like too many people in the room, to really hear it. But once you do, your ears perk up as the oh so familiar voice starts to sing, and you can’t help but let your eyes snap back open at the opening verse of A Case of You. This earns a small scolding from Amie but you don’t register it, instead, you turn your head to the side to listen to it better.

“Whose playlist is this?” You ask, lips twitching upwards as the first chorus comes up.

“Think it’s Mia’s.” Someone from behind you answers it with a slight pull to your hair.

It takes you a second too long to answer her at first, the melody embracing you like a nostalgic hug, “‘S a good one.” You nod, not knowing who Mia is but still appreciating her choice.  “I love this song.”

“I remember, back in college, when my ex broke up with me as he was dropping me off from my cousin’s birthday party,” Amie starts, interrupting your moment as she holds your chin between her fingers, gently positioning you to face her and you let your eyes fall closed again. “I sat down in my dorm, put on Joni Mitchell and cried for the rest of the night.”

“Ouch, that must’ve been harsh.” You breathe out a laugh, the action worsening the throb in your head and you immediately fall sober again, recalling your own experience of crying listening to her disks.  “Good choice, though. It’s a good song to cry to.”

“Sure is.”

Amie quickly strikes another conversation with the girls in charge of your hair and you fall silent again. The song still plays softly in the background, but as much as you try to focus on it, to let the comforting words of the familiar song detach you from the position you’re in, make you forget about the suffocating feeling of having this many people so up on your personal space, you can barely hear it under their voices. A loud laugh disrupts your attempt and you have to refrain from cringing in frustration.

Suddenly, you feel yourself become too aware of the tangle of noises swiping around the place. The door to the hotel room opens and closes a couple of times. Muffled sounds of steps rushing around on the carpeted floor. Someone calls a name from the living room area. The woman in charge of your nails chats with the one doing your hair as she finishes her work (giving you at least one bit of relief). The overwhelming feeling comes back, hitting you like a brick, and you start feeling too hot under the ring light. You’re about to speak up, excuse yourself for a moment so you can walk to the balcony and feel the outdoor air untangle the knot in your chest. But before you do, you hear a familiar voice coming from behind you.

“How are we feeling here?” Sonia appears in front of you as you blink your eyes open (slowly, as to not mess up Amie’s work on your eyeshadow). She holds up a cup of coffee in your direction and you accept it gladly, holding it carefully with your freshly manicured nails.

“We’re certainly feeling.” You take a sip, wincing slightly at the hot beverage. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Nervous?”

The question makes you suddenly become too aware of the nerves tugging at your belly, like when you only feel the sting of a scratch one someone points it out. The reminder of your first time attending the ceremony as an official Grammy nominee gives your stomach a funny twist. However, it’s not your anxiousness that’s bugging you as you feel another gentle tug at your hair. But you choose not to voice your annoyance, afraid of sounding too much of a diva (something you’ve been policing yourself closely not to do for the past few months), only letting out a slight wince. “A bit.”

“It’ll be alright.” She places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not that different from other award shows, you’ll see.”

“I guess.”

“Oh!” Sonia exclaims, unlocking her phone on her other hand. “I’ve changed your flight back home like you asked.” She scrolls for a bit before stopping with a sip of her own coffee.  “You’ll be leaving on the twenty first, is that good?”

“It’s alright.” You sigh, knowing it’s not the ideal scenario you had planned, to catch an early flight the day after your birthday, but being used to the hectic agenda and the sudden change of plans.

“The driver will pick you up at five.” She gives you a look. “In the morning.”

“I know. I know.”

“That’s sorted, then.” She locks her phone again, turning her attention to Amie, who’s brushing a product gently against your cheekbone. “How much longer do you think?”

“Give me fifteen and she’s all yours.” Amie peeks up at the older woman.

“Perfect.” She smiles back at you. “You look beautiful, and you’ll do great tonight.”

“Thanks, Sunny.” You grin at the brim of your cup, addressing her by the nickname you’d given the first week she started working for you.

True to her word, Amie finishes off her work not much longer after Sonia disappears from the room after turning around the threshold leading into the living room area. And, just as you take the last sip of your coffee, while scrolling mindlessly through your phone in an attempt to keep your mind distracted, you hear a commotion coming from the other side of the walls.

It takes another minute for you to get up from the spot you’ve been sitting for what feels like hours now to go investigate. You enter the living room being greeted with a trail of croissants, and you take one, biting carefully before letting out a satisfied hum.

From this moment on, time moves relatively quickly. Soon enough, you’re standing in front of a full body mirror, feeling the poke of the last few adjustments in your gown. It’s a sequined emerald gown, one you’d find a bit too much of a safe choice upon seeing it at first, but as you see how it hugs perfectly at your curves, you’re sold.

You arrive at the red carpet with twenty minutes to spare before the show starts — not too early to be quickly forgotten by the ones that arrive after you, but also not too late to be glazed over. The Los Angeles January sky is cloudless, but despite being in the peak of wintertime the air surrounding you is warm, almost too warm, even.

The screams quickly swallow you, some coming from people on the other side of the street, waiting for a glance of whoever’s stepping out of their cars at the entrance, others are hidden behind bright flashes that you can force yourself to look at for too long. You wave, giving the same smile you’ve perfected over the years, the one that Amie says makes it look like you hold all the secrets of the world, but still friendly enough to avoid headlines about being too pretentious.

A girl, not much younger than you it seems, directs you further down the carpet. You pay little mind to her, only directing a small smile as you blindly follow her steps. Scanning your eyes through the crowd gathered before the entrance, you manage to catch familiar faces all around. Everyone’s at their most presentable, and you feel like, even if you didn’t know any of them, you would’ve easily been able to pick out the stars as they parade around the place like sore thumbs. It’s the Hollywood glow, one that can easily be spotted on their stuffed chests and their cheshire cat smiles, bodies clad in thousand dollar fabric as they spill out the big names behind it. You’re not different from any of them, you’re aware.

It takes longer than you’d expected to finally walk inside the Staples Center, following behind the same girl that greeted you when you made your entrance. Once she directs you to your seat, you hold back a relieved sigh to find Ayame standing right next to it -- you had requested to be seated next to her but considering her tendencies of skipping red carpet for the sake of arriving fashionably late (her words) you’d been scared you’d have to sit through your anxiety by yourself for a good chunk of the show.

Your brows shoot towards your hairline to the sight of her newly dyed bright orange hair, the locks gelled back, allowing her neon colored eye makeup to stand out on her face. She’s in a black latex dress, the silhouette mimicking a classical 50s gown with an off shoulder neckline. The top part of it seems to be clad so tightly to her body that you mindlessly hold your breath for a moment as you approach her.

It takes a while for her to notice you as she chats excitedly with someone you recognize as the lead singer of some pop punk band you haven’t really tried to learn the name of (but you do know is nominated with you for Best Pop Group/Duo Performance). The second her eyes meet yours, however, she’s rushing the couple steps to close the distance between you two, pulling you into a hug as she squeals your name. Her excitement is one of the first things to bring a genuine smile to your face all day, truth to be told.

“Hi, Aya.” You mutter over her shoulder, minding where you place your hands to hug her back so as to not mess with her hair.

“Hey you.” She pulls away, taking a step back to take in your appearance. You’re aware you two probably look like quite the duo together, her out of the box choice of a look certainly contrasting with your safe option (one that can look quite plain as you stand next to her, you realize.) But she doesn’t pay any mind to the antithesis, instead, only clapping her hands together as she moves her gaze down your body. “You look so beautiful! Oh my god, your dress even matches my eye!”

“That’s true.” You giggle (a real one) at her observation, taking notice of the way her thick green eyeliner curls down her cheekbone. “Guess we coordinated even without meaning to.”

“Oh god!” Her shoulders lump, eyes softening, and her lips plumping into a small pout. “Please, will you ever be able to forgive me for not coming with you?”

“Aya, it’s fine.” You reassure her.

From the moment your name started circling around different magazines as one of the favorite’s for snatching a couple nominations, Aya told you how she wanted to be with you for your first official attendance at the awards. You chatted over glasses of wine and endless bowls of oyakodon (on those rare nights that’s just the two of you in her New York apartment and she’d decide to try teaching you yet another japanese dish), making plans for today, daydreaming about getting ready together and walking down the carpet with linked arms and matching smiles. But this was before Aya signed for her Chanel campaign, and before you stopped feeling excited about mingling outside your comfort zone.  

“Nothing I’ve never done before.”

“I know but it’s your first Grammy Awards!” She sighs, her voice on the verge of a whine. “You’re the star of the night!”

There’s a sound announcement that the show is merely five minutes away from starting that cuts you as your lips part. As you two move to take your seats by the center-left of the main stage, you say, “Not sure about that one.”

You feel her gaze from the corner of your vision as you glance around the space, watching the biggest names in the industry pacing around just an arm reach away from you. After a second, you meet her concerned eyes, and when she speaks up again her voice is gentle, verging on cautious. “How are you?”

You look away from her, picking at your nails for a moment before you realize you’re ruining the fresh manicure. With a shrug, you try to dodge from the real answer she’s looking for with her question. “Good. Nervous. Tired.”

“Grumpy.” A teasing smile tugs at your friend’s lips.

“Tired.” You repeat.  “Didn’t really get any sleep, if I’m honest. Think I might actually pass out this time around.”

“Were you out last night?” She hesitates before continuing, her voice lowering an octave. “With Dora?”

“We just went to a cocktail party, nothing too crazy.”

A photographer stops by, interrupting you to take a picture of the two of you next to each other. As soon as he’s gone you look back at Aya, she’s the one not meeting your eye this time.“I don’t like her.”

You sigh. “I know.”

“I don’t.” She shifts in her seat, looking down at her lap before gazing up at you. “I just don’t think she has your best interests in mind.”

“And I don’t think this is the best place for us to discuss this. Again.”

“You’re right.” Aya nods, more to herself than to you. “Tonight is about you. Screw Dora and screw--”

The music playing around the arena pauses, and you both know this means the ad break is over. Cameras start moving around you and that’s enough for Aya to drop the subject and relax back on her seat. With the lights dimmed and the attention set on stage, it’s much easier for you to let your frown deepen for a moment as you take in the words she was about to say.

It takes just a minute for you to go back to your alert state, however, as a camera dances its way in front of you. A silent reminder of the eyes watching you all around.

The greater half of the show drags by and you find yourself zooming out more times than you wish. You know that Aya notices, giving you the same concerned look when you take a beat too long to clap for someone’s speech, or when you keep repeating the same robotic movements during someone’s performance. Award shows are known for crawling their way to the end, but most times than not, you can easily carry yourself through it with not much yawning. But right now that’s shown to be a harder task than you thought, and you find yourself urging for something to keep you at ease (it’s why you like the Brits so much, at least there you could down a glass of tequila and let its warmth drown the nerves in your belly.)

What bugs you even more is the fact that this was supposed to be the best night of your life. The weight of its importance should be translated into flaps of butterflies in your stomach not a tangle of thoughts clouding your brain. And the pressure you put on yourself to force some enjoyment out of you only helps make it harder for you to fight a crease to form between your brows.

The first time you let go of living inside your head is when the sound announcement for your first category echoes around the arena during -- yet another -- commercial break. You’re talking with Dua Lipa, exchanging the formality of compliments on each other's work (in your weak attempt at networking when you don’t feel like talking), when you hear it. There’s an electric spark that shoots down your spine, and you’re sure it's evident in your face as she comments on your nomination, earning a nervous laugh in return. It jolts you like a flip of a switch, and you have to hold back from bouncing on your feet at the prospect of finally allowing yourself to enjoy the night. Your night, you correct yourself, hopeful.

Around you, cameras come alive again as you reach your seat. It’s like your whole body feels numb, every cell electrified with anticipation in a way that the only thing you can focus on is the speed of your heartbeat. The rush of your bloodstream spreads warmth from the apple of your cheeks to the tip of your toes. You realize Aya’s hand is in yours when she squeezes it tightly, forcing you to share a quick glance at her to find an expectant smile adorning her face.

It’s only when they call the nominees for Best New Artist that you realize you never really thought you had a chance of snatching it. Maybe in a way you tried to keep your expectations low, knowing the set of talents that share the category nominations with you. So you wait for them to call someone else’s name. You prepare to put on your best smile, to clap politely for the winner. But that’s not what happens.

Because they call out your name.

Aya hugs you so tightly it brings tears to your eyes, your mind suddenly snapping back into reality and you realize that yes, this is really happening. You’re sure you float all the way upstage, you mind blank and your hands shaky as you accept the statuette. In a few days, people are gonna ask you about this moment, how it was looking back at the arena with your new Grammy in hands to give your acceptance speech, and you’re just gonna laugh it off charmingly about how you had it at the tip of your tongue. In reality, the moment you gaze back at the ocean of people, all in their black tuxedos and extravagant gowns, the only thing you focus is to fight back the knot in your throat, keeping your voice surprisingly steady as you barely register a single word that leaves your mouth.

Still shaking, you walk backstage, accepting congratulatory words and receiving a couple hugs along the way. You talk to reporters and take pictures, words coming a bit throaty as you allow yourself to feel a bit teary. The award feels heavy in your hand, the golden record player glimmering back at you, the shot of adrenaline waving off as you stare at the blank spot waiting to be engraved with your name.

Once you’re back on your seat, the buzz in your body starts to wear off. You feel your phone going off in your clutch and, when the familiar signal for the commercial break goes off, you reach for it. The screen lights up immediately, showing a thread of messages coming up at the second. You unlock it, feeling the urge to call someone as you let your thumb glaze over it before tapping the phone app. It opens up, showing a couple of missed calls from when you were backstage that you make a mental reminder to check back on it later. You look at the screen expectantly, as if waiting for something to happen when it hits you. You have no one to call.

Looking up, you try desperately to catch some friendly eyes, but you come back empty handed. Aya has gone backstage to get ready for her performance, and Sunny, along with other people from your team, have taken this time to celebrate, mingling around the place.

The messages are still lighting up on your screen as you blink back the tears that now threaten to fall down your cheeks, your chest heaving when the knot gets tighter. It’s a bit ironic, you think, the amount of people reaching out to you and yet you’ve never felt this alone. This was all you wanted, right here in your hands. All you focused on. Your life has never been better. Climb all the way to the mountaintop, isn’t that what they say? Then why does it feel so lonely?

There’s all these people, smiling at you, offering their kind words. Celebrating your achievement. But none of them feel like someone you can rely on, and you can’t help but wonder:

Shouldn't you have someone that you could call?

//

Harry’s not having a good day.

He’s not having a good week, actually.  Just as he’s stuck on a hectic routine in the middle of arranging costumes for the next musical (they’re doing Beauty and the Beast which requires a lot of layering that, as pretty as he finds the final result, can be a pain to sew) he managed to come down with a cold. So, whereas he wanted nothing more than to take a couple days off to snuggle under his newly acquired electric blankets while binging the new season of How To Get Away With Murder, the dress rehersal dates are just around the corner, so he just had to ignore his runny nose and throbbing head in order to rush into the final tailoring of the costumes. And if being sick wasn’t enough to throw him off a curve, he’s been having an special difficult time with Lumière’s full-skirted coat, his hazed mind causing him to misplace the golden laser cut detailing twice, as well as poke himself with the needle enough times to leave the skin of his finger red and sore. All of this also warranted him three scoldings from Lisa, who’s the head costume designer and whom Harry had prided himself on never getting on her bad side, so to say he’s been grouchy all week is an understatement.

On top of it all, like the bright red cherry on top of the shit cake that was his week, he’s late. He’s late to a wedding he’d all but forgotten about, and if it wasn’t for the annoyingly loud alarm reminder he’d set on his phone (that rang conventionally just a minute after he finally got to lay back on his bed after getting home from work -- he doesn’t usually work on saturdays but Lisa messaged him about an emergency with Belle’s dress, so he’d spent the entire morning hopping around fabric stores) he’d have probably slept right through it.  Harry thought about rain checking it, literally, as he hit the snooze button just as gentle raindrops started tapping against his window. He actually considered it. But as soon as he let his eyes fall closed the guilt started settling in. He had confirmed his presence directly with the groom when he called to send his congratulations after receiving the invitation. He gave him his word, and he’ll stick by it.

But it still doesn’t help the fact that he’s late. Which is why he’s rushing up the escalator on the tube station. The rain hasn’t gotten any better from the moment he’d jumped out of bed, still showering from the sky much like a last goodbye from winter as it blends into spring. This time he took Julia on her offer, grabbing her umbrella before leaving home -- and making sure to avert his eyes from the tacky imprints on the fabric to keep himself from cringing, as the only reason for him to be taking it in the first place is to keep his hair and his clothes as intact as possible (at times like this is when he’s the most thankful for the degree chose, because he’s not quite sure how else he’d be able to get his hand on a suit at the last minute if he hadn’t had one he’d tailored himself on his first year.)

He gets a few looks as he stumbles on the last step, a line of apologies rushing out of his lips while he struggles to open the umbrella. When it finally flings open with a thud, the gush of wind prepares to take it away but is prevented from doing so as Harry tightens his grip on the handle, he checks his phone again for the time. The screen lights up with the indication that he’s got five minutes for the ceremony and Harry mutters a cuss as he remembers the venue is a ten minute walk from the station, so he picks up his pace, the sound of the heels of his boots against the cobblestone blending with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the ground.

He knows he’s arrived as soon as he turns around the corner. The 18th-century building takes over most of the block, its stoned walls take a camel tone contrasting with the black of the iron railing that hugs its front--only giving space to two dark oak wooden columns located on each side of the front entrance. There’s a small group stepping out of a black taxi, a suited-clad man helps a woman out of the vehicle as she holds onto the skirt of her navy blue gown to prevent it from dragging it into the damp concrete sidewalk. They’ve clearly just arrived for the ceremony that’s set to happen in just a couple minutes now, and Harry can’t help but let out a relieved sigh as he realises he’s just about made it in time.

Letting his pace slow down to a jog, his shoulders relax as he tries to even out his breathing as he approaches the group in an attempt to not give away the fact that he was properly running for the past five blocks. But just as he does so, as a stronger gust of wind whips against his face. Harry barely has time to process it as the umbrella in his hand inverts its shape, the wires holding the fabric together snapping broken. It’s so sudden that it takes him backwards a couple steps, a high pitched yelp falling from his lips as the raindrops start to hit his face like needles, quickly sinking through the fabric of his suit.

“Fucking--”

His struggle catches the attention of the group standing outside the building, and he can feel their heads turning in his direction from the corner of his vision. There're a few repressed laughs that still make their way to his ears, and one of the men speaks up, his eyes lit in amusement, “Alright, mate?”

Harry glances down at the broken umbrella in his hand, his other arm coming up in a weak attempt to shield him from the drops now sliding down his cheeks. He looks up, clicking his tongue. “I’m good.”

There’s a shame in his walk as he makes his way to a trash can right next to the group, giving them a small nod before throwing the now-useless tool inside of it. He tries not to think about how perfect it would be for the earth to swallow him whole as he jogs again the few steps towards the entrance of the house.

At least now he’ll never have to look again at that tasteless thing every time he enters his flat, he tries to reason.

Thankfully, the weather consists mostly of sporadic gusts of wind, rather than a proper rainstorm. So, by the time he reaches the covered white-painted entrance, the thin droplets of water were only good for dampening his hair and shoulders (and tangling a few knots into his strands that he feels once he runs his hand through it), but not powerful enough to soak through his clothes.

“Good afternoon, sir.” A lady greets him as he steps inside the venue, she holds a cream clipboard on the crook of her arm, hugging it against her body. Her freshly dyed red locks contrast with the beige tone of the ambient, matching with her earth-brown dress. A smile stretches in her face, accentuating her age lines, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, brows shooting up in surprise as if she didn’t expect him to walk in.

“Afternoon.” Harry reaches his hand to push back his hair, nose scrunching as he feels a few droplets slide down his neck. The lady looks up at him expectantly, her eyes moving down not so subtly, smile tightening as she takes in his appearance. He clears his throat, speaking up when she doesn’t offer any response, “Uhm… I’m here for Michael and Elise… For their wedding, I mean.”

“Right!” She nods, and Harry notices the way her eyes glance down at his blazer one more time before she focuses on the clipboard, moving it so it stands on her eyesight. She opens her mouth but before any word can leave her lips her hand reaches up to press her finger against the ear device, brows furrowing in concentration as she listens in. He stands there awkwardly for a moment,waiting for her instructions as she nods along to whatever’s being said. “I just have one more guest coming in.” She mumbles into the device, shooting a quick glance to down the hallway, before she focuses back on him, her voice coming a bit rushed. “May I have your name, please?”

“Uh, course, yeah. Styles.”

She gazes down at the list in her hand, flipping the pages as her eyes scan through the names. “Harry Styles?” He offers a hum in agreement as he watches her check his name. She looks back up, motioning towards the end of the long hallway, where there are double glass doors, only one of them open, leading to what seems like an outdoor area. “You can just head  straight ahead to the courtyard for the ceremony. The reception afterwards will be upstairs.”

“Alright, thanks.” He has half a mind to ask her for the men’s room so he can at least fix his undoubtedly rumpled appearance but, before he even thinks of doing so, she already has her back to him, taking long strides towards a closed door located to the side and disappearing inside of it. He huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly as he mumbles to himself. “Okay, then.”

Harry walks through a threshold leading to a second part of the hallway, this one with a darker cast to it, thanks to the walnut tone of the wooden walls, passing by a number of ash grey armchairs set neatly on each side of the corridor -- looking so sleek that Harry wonders if anyone has ever used them for anything other than a decoration piece. The low mesh of voices invades the indoor space, getting just slightly louder once he enters the courtyard area.

The glass door he enters from leads to the right side of the seating plan, all the white wooden chairs with their backs turned to him (thankfully, as he doesn’t really feel like making a grand entrance to announce how late he is). He notices another set of double glass doors to his left that are set right at the center, a tan colored carpet stretching from it all the way to the altar, and, opposite to where he stands, a white piano is being played, the soft melody serving as background noise. The last few rolls of seats near him are mostly empty, apart from a few people that chose the ones closest to the aisle, so Harry manages to sneak his way to a chair by the far end without catching anyone’s attention.

Once he’s finally able to relax back into the -- not so comfortable -- seat, there’s a relieved sigh that escapes his lips unintentionaly, and he finally allows himself to take a better look at his surroundings. The first thing that he notices as he stretches his neck (in an attempt to relieve some tension he’s been holding throughout the entire day) is a glass roof serving as a shield from the raindrops that still fall stubbornly from the sky. It’s definitely a semi-new addition to the construction, Harry reckons, as it gives a modern touch to the historical building. It’s almost transfixing the way the metal structure bends in the shape of a simple mandala, one that’s now being colored with easing streaks of water running down its dome-esque build.

From where he chose to sit there’s not much of the rest room he can really make out, most of his vision being obstructed by a wall of heads. What he is able to catch sight of is the waterfall fountain standing tall right behind the altar, the blanket of water falling along the stoned wall is so clear that one could easily miss it if it wasn’t for the lights located right above of it, bright and shimmering in contrast to the dim lighting of the rest of the room. The sound of it is soothing, like an indoor drizzle, and it blends so perfectly with the melody of the piano that Harry wonders if the man playing it is even aware of himself doing it. Right next to it, at the opposite far end of the space, is large light up letters spelling the word LOVE in a yellowed light. It’s something that he’s certain he could easily find corny if he didn’t consider himself a hopeless romantic of sorts.

Which also can justify why he’s not able to keep his eyes dry throughout most of the ceremony.

It starts just about a minute after he’s settled on his seat, barely having time to sit back before he finds himself standing up again with the rest of the crowd. And, from the moment Harry caught sight of the groom's face as the bride finally made her entrance, he’s a goner. He remembers as a young boy, being forced by his mum to attend a handful of weddings during his childhood, how boring he used to find them. Funny how time changes things, he feels like, as now he finds himself paying close attention to the whole thing, not being able to help the warmth that grows in his chest all the way to the tip of his nose as he feels his eyes getting glossier at every word being spoken. By the time the vows come up, the intimate declamations of love being spoken in teary voices and shaky hands, he gives up on trying to brush away the tears that tickle their way down his cheeks.

Once the newlywed couple strut their way back the aisle, rings now hugging their fingers and paired smiles stretching their cheeks, Harry’s managed to control his emotions to some degree. When they pass through him, just before disappearing inside the building hand in hand, the groom, Michael, meets his gaze, throwing his hand up in a wave-like gesture. Harry wonders for a second if he’d recognized his face amongst the certain euphoric feeling he’s in right now, or if it was just a blind gesture that he barely registered before disappearing inside the double doors. Regardless, he still brings his finger to his mouth to let out a sharp whistle in felicitation.

The second they’re out the door, everyone starts moving, and that’s when Harry realizes his seat also allows him to be the first out the door. Following the crowd that makes their way back into the building, it comes to him that he never really got the chance to find a toilet so he could check the damage left by the rain-- and he’s sure his emotional state throughout the last hour or so did very little to help him in that department.

So he keeps an eye out as he steps inside the same hallway he came from, this time being directed to an open door by the left that leads him to a staircase. His boots click against the marble steps as Harry climbs up along with the rest of the guests that make their way towards the reception, a light chatter taking over the building as the talk amongst themselves. All the doors along the way are closed, all except the one at the very front of the stairs as he reaches the third floor.

Harry looks around as he waits for the elderly couple in front of him to finish talking with the lady that’s standing in front of the open doors. All the rest of the floor is shut tight, and none of the double white painted doors really seem like they would lead to a bathroom. Soon enough, though, he’s being greeted by the receptionist of sorts.

Like the one when he first walked into the building, she also holds a clipboard close to her arm, and, with her hair being pulled up in a tight ponytail, he catches sight of a matching earpiece poking at the side of her face. He gives her his names and, once she starts directing him to his designated seat, he finds himself scanning the room for what he’s been looking for. He’s not planning on staying long enough to need to know which table he’s in, anyway, only wanting to express his felicitations to the couple before rushing back to his warm covers that call for his name.

“I’m sorry, which way is the toilet?” He interrupts the lady, who only raises her brows for a moment before shooting him a polite smile, gesturing to a set of doors not too far from where he stands. “Thank you.”

Upon entering further inside he notices, the space is much smaller than the courtyard. The room takes an ‘L’ shape, the turn of the place being a small platform to which he assumes must be the dance floor, considering the few musicians tucked in the far corner. Thanks to its shape the place is as narrow as it is long, not giving him much space to walk between the perfectly set tables. Harry doesn’t dwell on it too much, though, only rushing towards where he was directed, and quickly locking himself inside where it's indicated to be the men’s room.

Turning to the circular mirror to his side, Harry takes in his appearance with a sharp inhale. It’s not too bad, he thinks, more or less what he was expecting to find. His tearful state earlier has definitely enhanced the puffiness in his eyes that are still slightly glossy. There’s a reddish tone to his cheeks and at the tip of his nose, light circles under his eyes displaying his poor sleep schedule. He looks like someone who’s still recovering from a cold, if he’s honest. Which was to be expected. His hair, however, took most of the damage of the rain. What once were his neatly locks curling around his jawline, now sits a frizzy nest of strands tangled on each other.

It’s still damp when he runs his fingers through it, trying to undo the knots he finds on the way but, somehow he only makes it worse. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head at his reflection as he lets out a chuckle, thinking of a Friends reference.

He sighs in frustration at the stubborn mop of his hair refusing to stay in place, surrendering to its rebellion as he fetches the hair tie wrapped around his wrist. Maybe he should’ve just listened to his mum’s wishes and just cut it all out when he had the chance, it surely would’ve saved him the embarrassment of walking around a wedding reception with a fucking man bun. But Harry is as stubborn as he is proud, sticking to his statement of allowing his curls to run wild down his neck. So he might just have to suck it up to his knock off hipster image for the night, at least he’ll probably won’t see these people again until the next baby shower, he figures.

What Harry doesn’t expect as he walks out the foamy white restroom after his inner head monologue was to be met with the one person he was not expecting to encounter in a million years. Standing just a few steps away from him, hair neatly wrapped on top of your head, body clad in a pearly green cocktail dress, the top crossing tightly around your chest and its skirt drapes beautifully down your body. It’s Dior, Harry recognizes, and on any other occasion he would’ve been too transfixed on the piece to even notice the person sporting it. But not right now, no, there’s not a chance that the hiccup on his heartbeat and the sweat on his palms are due to the article of clothing.

He freezes on his spot, his eyes shutting tightly for a moment, hoping that when he opens up it’s all just a fragment of his -- very vivid -- imagination. Perhaps he’s falling ill again, and his fever is acting up, creating mirages to trick his mind. But as he opens his eyes that possibility seems to dissolve as quickly as it was created, and Harry’s convinced that this must be some twisted sick joke the universe is pulling on him. Not satisfied on making him walk in the rain after breaking his friend’s tacky umbrella, or having him attend a wedding reception with a fucking manbun of all things as well as a face that’s most likely resembling a dried apple. No, that didn’t seem to be enough of a punishment for him. Because on top of it all, here you are, standing just a few steps away from him, this time not through a screen of a printed paper but in flesh and bone.

It takes him a second to realize he’s been frozen on his spot for quite a while now, and as panic starts to zip through every cell of his body his gaze flickers around the room. He’s not sure what he’s looking for exactly, just trying to find a way out. But how, when he’s not even sure where he’s supposed to sit? His eyes find the lady that greeted him at the entrance and he cusses himself for not paying attention to her instructions during his rush, because now she’s standing on the other side of the room speaking with the musicians and there’s no way he can reach her without bumping into you first.

Why does this place have to be so fucking small?

His foot stops midstep, almost too afraid to move and catch your attention. Frowning to himself, Harry  He dares to look in your direction again. You’re turned towards him, but thankfully you’re too caught up in your conversation with a blonde lady, nodding along to whatever it is that she’s saying, that you don’t catch the way he lets his eyes linger in you for a beat too long.

Long enough that you undoubtedly feel the weight of his eyes on you as your gaze meets his, and Harry’s sure he could dig a hole for himself right through this perfectly waxed lightwood floor. But he can’t because you’re looking at him. You’re looking at him and your eyes widen just slightly with recognition, mouth agape as your lips form the shape of his name, your voice standing out amongst the mixture of others chatting around the room.

The girl talking to you turns around as she realizes your focus has gone elsewhere. Melanie. He remembers her from his chem class -- she dropped a whole beaker of hydrogen peroxide on her arm and had a skin burn, her round face is still the same but now she’s a blonde. He barely pays any attention to her, however, letting his eyes bounce back to yours just as quickly as they left, only to find you’re already making your way towards him.

“Harry?” You say again, this time he hears it loud and clear as you get closer, the sound of your voice saying his name again causing an electric spark to shoot down his spine. You stop just before him, as if you’re also unsure on how to properly greet him.

His lips part, taking a sharp breath as he tries to learn how to speak all over again, “H-hi.”

“Hi.” Your smile grows. “I didn’t know you’d be here, didn’t see you at the ceremony.”

“Yeah I-- I got rained on.” He lets out a nervous laugh, hand coming up instinctively to run through his hair but he stops it midair as he realizes his locks are tied back. Clearing his throat he speaks up in an attempt to cover the awkward gesture, “I mean, didn’t know you’d be here as well, you know? Figured you’d be busy and stuff.” He wants to punch himself.

“I made it just fine.” You throw him a playful wink, shooting a look over your shoulder to where Melanie now stands talking to someone else, her eyes still stealing a few curious glances in your direction. “Where are you seated? Figure it can’t be that far from where they seated me.”

“Uhm… To be honest, I’m not quite sure.” His eyes scan the room for a second before meeting yours again. “Was in a bit of a rush when I walked in, actually.”

You laugh, “Well that’s perfect, then, you can just sit with us!” You motion back to the table where you came from. “I’m sure you remember everyone from back in the day.”

“Sounds nice, yeah.” He looks back to where you’re pointing, trying to spot any other familiar face.

“Great! C’mon I’ll get you some champagne.” You catch him by surprise as you lock your arm around his, leading the short way towards the table.

True to your word, you hand him a flute of champagne just a beat after directing him to a seat that seems to be right next to yours. He doesn’t miss the way you’re able to do so with a simple smile shot towards one of the caterers, making him find his way to you in barely a second, handing you another flute without even questioning the fact that you already have one in your hand. Harry doesn’t really blame him, a smile from you would be enough to have him rushing to you, too.

As he figured, you take the seat right next to his, raising your glass briefly in a cheers with him before both of you relax back into your seats. The table is entirely decorated in different shades of white and gold, as well as the rest of the space. Honey orange plates are set in front of each of the seven seats, their tone matching perfectly the color of the fancy patterned curtains around the room that block the outside view. A full bouquet of flowers is set at the center, pale pink roses contrasting with bright red dahlias as they bloom proudly amongst the green leaves. Two other empty glasses are set in front of him, they shimmer under the light coming from two high-hanged chandeliers that illuminate the room, and Harry wonders what they could be for, as their shapes differ only so slightly from each other.

His thoughts are cut shortly as the empty seats quickly begin to fill, and he notices how your attention has gone back to Melanie who now takes the chair on your other side. She seems to have taken a liking to having your attention on herself, Harry notes. Soon enough, though, his own focus is called elsewhere, once he’s greeted by the other people that have taken the rest of the seats. You were right when you told him he’d recognize most of them, and Harry’s thankful that it mostly consists of people he actually used to be relatively close to back on his school days (not close enough to have survived the graduation mark, but still, most of them he still follows on a couple social media platforms, getting sporadic updates on their lives).

Jamie is the first of them to arrive, who takes the chair right next to Harry’s, startling him with a strong grip on his shoulder. “Styles?” His voice chirps in the air, and as recognition comes to him, Harry gets up, greeting him as he’s pulled in a side hug. “Almost didn’t recognize you, mate, are you wearing heels?” The man jokes at the clear height difference between them, earning a polite laugh from Harry.

“Kind of, actually.” He looks down at his foot as he bends his ankle, showing off the black leather boot that has a bit of a heel to it.

“Oh, there he is! Always the stylish one, it’s in the name, innit?” Harry huffs out a chuckle. “With the hair too, right? Heard those buns work wonders with the ladies.” The shorter man motions to Harry’s hair, giving him a playful shove as he laughs, looking back to catch the gaze of a woman that’s standing behind him. She gives Jamie a tight smile and a raise of brows, her eyes flickering from him to Harry. His laugh hauters, arm reaching back to grasp her waist,  “Yeah, yeah, H, this is my wife, Faye.”

At the mention of his spouse, Harry’s brows shoot toward his hairline for a second, lips parting before quickly recovering his shocked expression as he leans to greet her. It’s not that he’s surprised that Jamie has gotten himself a wife, somehow (well, a bit of that too) but it always comes like a bit of a jolt to find people his age settling with their life partner. Part of the shock comes mostly to Harry as he thinks back to himself, and he can’t help the comparison that comes as he’s never found himself nearly close to having someone so dearly close to his heart that he can think of such commitment.Well, he had you. But people always talk about how puppy love is usually supposed to be like that anyway. That first love, in which you’re still taking baby steps with the new found feeling of sharing your heart with someone else. The one when you’re too young to really know anything.

Harry still cherishes that feeling, which can also explain the effect you hold on him. But there’s something in him that wonders if he’ll ever have what he saw on Michael’s eyes when they locked gazes at the end of the ceremony. The bliss that comes with the knowledge that you don’t have to take those baby steps anymore. You don’t have to hold on to them in fear of what path they’ll take. If they’ll decide that where they need to go is no longer next to yours. He wonders what it feels like to learn that love doesn’t come with dread, and watching people around him find that so easily, it comes to him that maybe he’s the one doing something wrong.

It doesn’t really help that, after Jamie and Faye have settled in their seats, all the others that follow after come with similar introductions. Harry never expected coming here that he’d hear the words “fiancée” and “wife” being thrown around so often, and, quickly, he comes to the realization that he is the only one without a date.

As much as those thoughts keep bothering him, they become dulled as time starts going by and he nurses his second flute of champagne. The conversations that make their way to the table mostly consist of the recollection of times when each other’s faces felt like more than just a “used to be”. They make rounds with digging up old inside jokes, and Harry finds himself stealing glances in your direction more often than he’d like. He tries not to, of course, but you seem to be the only place his eyes want to travel to. With your voice so close to him, more than he ever thought it would be again, it’s like someone’s lighting a candle at the deep of his chest (those nice vanilla ones you used to have in your room, giving the whole place a scent that still sticks to him as yours to this day). It’s nearly scary to him, how easily he falls again to the sound of your laugh.

His nose scrunches in a laugh at a joke Chris blurts out from the other side of the table about their old math teacher the moment there’s a tap in the microphone that echoes through the walls of the small space. A woman stands in the far side of the room, standing on a small platform that was settled for the musicians. She’s the same one that greeted him at the entrance, her hair now pulled up in a tight bun exposing a thin layer of sweat on her forehead that shimmers under the lighting directly above her.

“Good evening, everyone.” Her voice chirps a bit too loud and she throws a look over her shoulder to a man standing next to a speaker, before testing a word again to see it come out now in a more composed tone.

She proceeds to go into a short speech that Harry, in all honesty, zooms out for a great part of it. His body has twisted on his seat to have a better look at the center of the room where she speaks into the mic, but as a result of that, he’s now facing you. From this angle, he has a better look at the side of your face, as you find yourself turned in your seat in order to look at the woman as well. Your makeup is light and most of it falls into a natural tone, and Harry wonders if you’ve made any effort at all into looking this beautiful.

The familiarity of your features tugs at his heartstrings, you’ve grown into them over the years, the lines in your face having matured with time. Still, he can pinpoint reminders of when he last got to gaze at you this closely. A scar just below your eyebrow, now faded, but still very much present, from when your sister scratched you with a branch at the first barbecue he attended at your family’s home. A few beauty marks painting your skin, that he used to press his lips or trace his finger over as if connecting them. Even the tiny golden ball poking through your second ear hole that he held your hand through when you got it pierced, afraid it would hurt too bad. Those details he thought he’d all but forgotten about, now staring right back at him.

Once again, it’s like he’s lost track of how long he’s been looking at you, and surely you can feel him watching, as you turn your head to meet his gaze. Harry blinks a few times, lips parting as he realizes he just got caught staring. There’s barely enough time for him to try and avert his eyes to pretend nothing ever happened, however, as your lips twitch in a gentle smile. The action causes a matching one to poke on his face almost immediately, a reaction Harry himself barely has time to register, a warmth deepening along with his dimples on his cheeks. You let out a slight laugh, bringing the brim of your glass up to your lips before gazing back over your shoulder at the lady that now seems to be wrapping up her speech.

“And with that being said, it’s now an honor to introduce for the first time, mister and missus Michael and Elise Browne!” She gestures to the entrance at the couple that appears through the doors, smiles still stretching their faces as they make their way to the far end of the room where there’s a space reserved for the dance floor.

With everyone’s attention being called towards the two newlyweds, Harry lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Biting into his lip he claps along with the rest of the guests, trying to relax his shoulders to ease the nerves that still tickle deep in his stomach.

Quickly, though, the atmosphere of the place turns into more of a cheerful one.

After the couple’s first dance (which, this time, Harry has to blink away the tears that threaten to spill, knowing he’s much  more exposed to someone’s wandering eyes here) there’s a round of short speeches, mostly thanking everyone’s presence, before they start to serve dinner.

During most of the course, however, it’s like you’ve become the main attraction of the table. And it’s not that Harry’s surprised by it, even before you’ve gotten this big in your career, you’ve always held this magnetic aura within you. Something about you draws people’s attention, and you’re good at holding it to you. It’s not something you do consciously, he knows, but as soon as you’re in a room no one else holds a chance at stealing the spotlight.

It’s always been like this, even all those years ago. But now it’s like it’s intensified by tenfold. Harry doesn’t know how you manage to split your attention into so many conversations, and still remain your charming demeanour after hearing the same celebrity joke for the third time in a row. You don’t seem bothered by the amount of questions thrown your way (and he’s sure this is probably the most amount of times he’s heard Beyonce being mentioned in a conversation), in fact, he’s sure you’ve grown more than used to it by now.

Harry, on the other hand, is the one that grows slightly annoyed with time passing. Oddly enough, from the moment he sat next to you, something in him urged to be alone with you. He wants to be the one to hold your attention, your full attention. He wants to talk to you, to really have an actual conversation with you-- none of those ‘what does Adele smells like’ type of questions.

It took him seeing you again to make him realize, he’s missed you.

The chance presents itself, though, just as the empty plates for the main dish get collected by the caterers. Chris mentions something about one of Jamie’s school flings, causing a tension as his wife -Faye- storms out of the table with the man following close behind after shooting a dirty look towards his old friend. Melanie, who had been the main one to be on your shoulder throughout the night, excuses herself to the toilet right after. And, as soon as she’s out of her seat, Harry sees you let out a sigh, reaching for your wine glass before you turn to him for the first time in the night.

“I love your suit, by the way!” You exclaim, eyes moving down his jacket briefly. “Never seen anything like it.”

Harry clears his throat, feeling a heat raise at the back of his neck now that your focus is entirely on him. The suit in question, the same one that got an odd look from the lady at the front door, is actually one he’d firstly tailored on his first year of uni. It’s mostly made with a royal blue fabric, except the lapels that take the same material, but in a deep blood tone (initially, his first plan was to make the entire suit in this tone, but as he realized he barely had enough fabric of the same shade to finish the jacket, he settled on using it only as a detail on the lapels and at the bend of his elbows and knees). His favorite part of it, though, was actually added semi recently. Lisa had ordered some flower detailing to sew to Belle’s dress, but the girl in charge of it embroidered them a shade too dark and, before she got the chance to throw the work away, Harry asked to have them. Now, they’re bound to the lapels of his jacket, twin garden roses on each side, their blooming petals matching beautifully with the darker tone of the fabric. From the moment he added them on, he was in love with it, and now he’s even more glad he did so, because it also caught your attention.

“Thanks, I-” He looks down at his attire, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times before, scratching his nose with the side of his finger as his voice comes out lower than he intended, a shy smile taking over his face. “I designed it myself, actually.”

“Oh my god!” You gasp as the realization hits you. “Really? Wait how-- I mean, I didn’t-- Well, it looks incredible!”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t know you…” You trail off, motioning vaguely down at his attire.

“Uhm, yeah.” He breathes out a laugh, rubbing his nose with the side of his finger in a nervous tick. “I dropped out of art school, actually, to get into fashion.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, blinking back at him a couple times, lips parting. “How did I not know that?” You ask in a mumble, seemingly more to yourself than to him.

“It was just uhm…” Harry looks down at his lap, not knowing how to finish the sentence without making it awkward. “It was right after we…”

“Oh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah…”

“You must be almost done, right?” You change the subject as you bring the brim of your glass up to your lips, barely taking a sip before adding, “With your degree, I mean.”

Harry nods. “Got a year left, yeah.”

You take a full sip of your wine, setting it back to its place on the table before leaning to rest your elbow on top of it so it can support your cheek as you lean forward, turning your body so to show how he has your full attention. “And how’s that going? Do you have any idea of the path you want to take? I know fashion has so many possibilities, it must be exciting.”

“It is.” He nods just as a certerer comes to settle the deserts in front of each of you. After muttering a quick ‘thank you’, he continues, “I had some internships last year, actually. Worked with a couple designers in London, it was pretty cool.”

“That’s sick.” Your eyes still haven’t left him. “Any names I might recognize?”

He uses his fork to play around with a strawberry, focusing on the way it falls from the small piece of tart painted with white ganache, using it as a silent excuse to himself as to not meet your eyes. Truth to be told, it’s a rather strange feeling to him, having someone’s full attention like this, being asked about his life with a genuine curiosity behind your words. Harry’s used to being backstage, is what most of his career choice consists of, anyway. He stays behind the stage lights, doing the work no one cares for when they see the final product; even when working on runway pieces, people weren’t thinking of whoever did the stitching of the tule or the embroidery over the bustier. But the way you’re watching him, eyes glimmering under the warm lights, it’s the closest he’s felt to being thrown under the spotlight.

Which could explain why he feels this nervous.

“Maybe, yeah, I was with Christopher Kane for a semester.” He lowers his voice without meaning to, a rush of shyness tinting his face. “Also worked on a campaign with Molly Goddard.”

“Holy shit, Harry, that’s, like, huge!” You gasp, hand coming to hold onto his shoulder, pushing him back gently as to bring his eyes to meet yours. It’s sweet, really, how you most likely have accomplishments much bigger than he could ever dream of achieving, still, your smile grows as if it’s the most impressive thing you’ve ever heard. It brings a small giggle to escape from his lips. Letting your hand fall from his shoulder, you relax back into your seat. “One of my favorite dresses is Christopher Kane, he works with his sister, right?”

“They’re both creative directors, yeah.”

“I love their work.” You say, a smile still present and he hopes it never fades. “Are you doing any other intership right now?

“Yeah…” He starts. “I’m working right now, actually, doing some costume design for theatre.”

“Really? Now that’s an interesting path.” You point, fingers fiddling with the hem of the tablecloth. “Where are you working?”

“Uhm…” He knew this question was coming, still, he’s not sure how to present you with the information. His voice lowers, eyes falling to his lap before he looks up at you through his lashes. “Act One.”

He hears your hand fall to your lap, eyes widening just barely before you let out a chuckle, “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Act One?” Your lips part in disbelief.  “With my mum?”

The thing is, Harry was only aware about Act One opening a London unit when he saw the job advertisement stuck to the wall of his university’s building about five months ago. He recognized the name, of course, knowing your mother worked as the music director while you two were together, and also knowing you had been part of a fair amount of productions before your career started growing as it is now (having even attended a handful of them himself, back in the day). What he didn’t know was that your family moved to London with the company and that your mother was still part of the crew when he joined for the spring production. So, the news came with a surprise to him as much as it is to you.

He thought maybe she would have mentioned it to you-- and maybe she has and you just brushed past the information, not caring much for it. But the way your face is still hung in shock, blinking at him as you try to process what he just told you, he figures that’s not the case.

“The same one, yeah.”

“I can’t believe it!” You reach for your glass, twirling it in your hand to watch the dark liquid swirl inside, still shaking your head slightly. “She never- She never…”

“To be fair, I don’t see her that often.” He tries to reason, and it’s true, they work in two different spaces. “I’m usually at the atelier.”

“Still, that’s…”

“Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment, please?” Someone cuts you off before you can even process how to finish the sentence you started. Everyone’s attention is called back to the makeshift stage, to a woman with the mic in her hand-- she’s in one of the bridesmaid’s navy blue gown, holding up a flute of champagne on her free hand. Once all eyes are on her, she continues. “For those who don’t know me, my name’s Lara, the bride’s best friend...”

The rounds of speeches start with her, then. Halfway through her second childhood story, that you’re only paying half mind to, you realize your mouth’s still parted in shock from your conversation with Harry. You try to subtly cover it, taking a sip of your wine, before you let yourself zoom out completely for the rest of the toasts.

How come he’s been working with your mum for months now, and you’ve only now become aware of it? It’s what keeps bugging you. The possibility of her mentioning the fact comes to you, but you brush it off as quickly as you think of it. You surely would’ve remembered it. There haven't been many mentions of Harry’s name since your breakup, really, and those become less frequent as the years go by. But you hold on to each one of them, trying to grasp the smallest piece of information about his life as you can.

Truth to be told, you’ve missed him. Before you started a relationship, he had been the closest friend you had. And the fact that the worst possible scenario of turning a friendship into something more came true tore you apart.

After you distanced from each other there was very little contact. Your mother would mention every few months something about him moving out how his family had adopted a new kitten. Those informations were received by you with single word answers or a simple nod, even though on the inside you were desperate to ask for more. Harry’s never really been very in touch with social media, so those updates from your mum were pretty much all the glimpse you had on his life without you.

That is, until they all moved two years ago. Then those small comments stopped all together.

So you tried to turn your mind off of it. Off of him. But every now and then something would happen. You’d listen to a song that you used to dance to in his bedroom, or you’d find one of his necklaces lost deep in your drawer and it would all go back to him. How was he doing? Where has his life gone? Who is he friends with? Who’s loving him?

The only time you ever vocalized those thoughts was once during a wine night with Aya. People often compliment you on how good you are with your words, but every time they do, you can’t help but think they’ve probably never got the chance to meet her. She was the first person to reassure you how normal it is to hang on to an old feeling. Harry was your first love, after all, and he’d always hold a place in your heart, no matter how hard you try to mask it.

After that, you stopped trying to bury something that was so valuable to you.

And living in harmony with your feelings, old and new, is something that you found to be so tranquil. Or, well, at least you were able to say that once.

Still, the conversation with Harry only helped to enhance that curiosity that used to consume you. It was a short one-- due to the circumstances you’re in, you can’t really catch a break to have much of a profound chat; but it still was enough for you to realize how little you know of him. There are still many cues that showed you that he’s still the Harry you once knew with the fullness of your heart. His quiet demeanor, and the shy smile that stretches his lips when the attention is on him. His dimples that you used to poke and kiss just to feel them deepen under your touch. His eyes that you always could get lost in every shade they take.

Those traces that make you want to explore each new one that you don’t know about anymore. The curls in his head, that even being pushed back in a bun, you can still tell are much longer than the last time you ran our finger through them. The tattoos that peak under the sleeve of his jacket, and you can’t help but wonder how many more are hidden under the material. The rings hugging his fingers or the necklaces set on his chest. There’s so much you want to ask him about.

And the next time you get the chance to do that is hours later.

The party is starting to feel like it could die out at any moment, when the children have fallen asleep on the armchairs and the early risers start to bid their goodbyes. There’s still a fair amount of people stumbling their way on the dance floor and making the last few rounds on the free cocktails that are being served. Your table is still pretty much filled, except for Chris that got his way around with one of the bridesmaids, which is why you haven’t managed to catch another time to be alone with Harry.

Throughout the night, as the alcohol started to make its way on people’s bloodstreams, you’ve probably been approached by every person within your age group. And, as much as you’ve gotten used to being the main attraction of those types of gatherings, being thrown around and pointed at like an animal in a cage. At this stage in your career, you know you have to suck it up and smile through it. But this night in particular, you find it especially hard not to roll your eyes in annoyance or let out a frustrated sigh when someone interrupts your eighth attempt at trying to talk to Harry.

But your freedom comes when Melanie -fucking Melanie- finally announces she and her boyfriend (Dan, Dave, Don - something like that) are calling it a night. And when she leaves, it’s just you and him.

You glance over your shoulder, making sure no one’s making their way towards you, but, thankfully, everyone else is pretty occupied with the karaoke machine that was introduced an hour ago.

“I’m sneaking out for a smoke.” You reach for your clutch, eyes hopeful as you glance back at Harry. “Wanna come with?”

To your relief, he nods. “Sure.”

You guide him towards a door you had peeked at when you were taking pictures with the bride’s family.

Just like you’d reckoned, it leads to a terrace of sorts, looking out into the courtyard where the ceremony was held from above the glass ceiling. You shoot Harry a short smile as he holds the door open for you, following just behind into the breezy night.

The sky is clear, the way it is after a rainfall, but a few clouds indicate that it might not be just done yet. The first whisk of wind makes you regret not bringing your coat, but you quickly brush away the idea of going back inside, afraid someone might notice you sneaking out a second time. So you two settle in a place right by the railing, turning to the party so you can relax back into the metal.

Reaching inside your clutch, you retrieve a package of cigarettes, pulling one out before offering it to Harry, who shakes his head in a  quick decline. You hold it between your lips as you grab a small lighter that it’s almost lost inside the tiny purse. There’s still a gust of wind dancing around the air, a chill that comes with the aftermath of rainfall. You find it nice, though, the way it brings goosebumps to rise on your skin. It’s a nice balance with the warmth of the flame as you flicker the lighter awake, bringing the flame to the butt of the cigarette that’s propped between your lips. You inhale the smoke, holding it for a moment as you appreciate the peace and quiet of the night, something you haven’t had in a while now.

For a while, both of you just stay quiet, enjoying the other’s presence.

It’s almost funny to you, how people compare meeting again with someone from your past, especially an ex, to seeing a ghost. Because right now, spending this night with Harry after years of being apart, you feel like that couldn’t be further away from the truth. Being in his presence again is everything but haunting. Feels like how it is to go back to your hometown, to walk the streets you memorized growing up, knowing you still know your way around them by heart. Like seeing the places you would go to when you were younger change over time, but still never quite lose the nostalgic feeling they’ve always held. Something that time is not powerful enough to change. The feeling of coming home.

Being with Harry is like that. Still the same, but different.

Harry speaks up first, he could’ve startled you if his voice hadn’t come out as soft as the brush of the wind against the tree branches a couple floors down from where you stand. Nearly shy, as he says it while gazing down at his boots, “Congratulations on your Grammy, by the way.”

“Did you know?” You ask, genuinely surprised.

He’s the only person that hasn’t brought up the elephant you bring to the room every time you walk in a gathering like this. A shadow of your status that people glaze at before even attempting on making a normal conversation. You knew it was coming sooner or later, and you appreciate the fact that he chose the latter.

Somehow, you had convinced yourself that maybe he hadn’t cared about you enough to know anything about your career throughout the years, especially knowing how much he had going on for himself. So to have him mention it, to congratulate you on top of it all, comes as a bit of a shock.

Harry seems oblivious of your surprise, however, as his words come out nearing a nonchalant tone. “Of course, hard not to.”

“Were you…” You start, suddenly feeling oddly shy about the prospect of him knowing this information about you. You wonder what else he knows about, what kind of assumptions he’s made about the person you’ve become. “Were you watching it?”

He nods, looking up at you. “I was, yeah.”

Your chest warms at his confession and it almost unsettles you how he’s got you flustered so easily. Usually, if it were anyone else, you wouldn’t hold back a snarky reply, knowing most people wouldn’t bat an eye before showering with compliments.

You blink at yourself with this thought, hating how truthful it is.

But with Harry there’s something in you that wants to impress him, to show him you still have the girl that he knew so well still somewhere inside of you. It makes you want to question him, desperate to know his impressions of this life you portray for the public. But you hold back, almost scared of the answer you could receive. So instead, you simply offer a vague response,  “Seems like so long ago.” You let out a dry laugh. “It’s been barely three months.”

He offers you a small grin. “‘S what they say, time rushes by when you’re having fun, and all that?”

“I guess that’s it, yeah.”

There’s a sudden urge inside of you to tell him the truth. Tell him how miserable you felt throughout most of that day. That you weren’t having fun at all, in fact, you were so preoccupied over the fact that you were supposed to be having the best night of your life that it only made your nerves swallow you in an avalanche. You want to tell him why that entire week was close to miserable, fuck, that entire month, actually. You wish you could cry on his shoulder about all you’ve been bottling up inside of you. You want to open up to him in a way you haven’t opened up to anyone.

You shake your head. What is wrong with you?

You have to remind yourself you barely know him anymore. This is the first time you’ve spoken in years and your first instinct is to throw all your baggage on him. To scare him away before you even get the chance to let a word out.

Instead of letting your big mouth say more than you’d be willing to share, you try to lighten up, thinking of the one part of that night that you actually enjoyed yourself, “I chipped my tooth with it, you know.”

“What?”

“The Grammy.” You reply, taking a short drag of the cigarette as you ponder how much information you want to pour on him of that night. “Chipped my tooth. I was jumping on the bed with it.” He chuckles, causing a loose strand to curl against his forehead. You want to brush it off, folding your arm under your elbow as you avert your eyes from his. “God, that night feels like a blur now. I think I pretty much convinced myself I dreamed a good portion of it.”  

You let out a chuckle, watching the way the smoke blends with the air. Harry doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes looking at you from the corner of your vision. You meet his gaze, sensing a silent question from his jade irises, as if they’re waiting for you to keep talking.

“It just-- I don’t know, took a while to click, you know? To realize what had happened.” You elaborate, looking down at the skirt of your dress dancing along with the breeze as you grin to yourself at the memory. “ I got home that night, downed half an old bottle of whiskey that I found in my cellar.”

Harry’s brows shoot up, his voice coming with the verge of a teasing tone. “A cellar?”

“Shit, uh-- yeah it kinda-- I don’t know, came with the house.” There’s the warmth again, you feel it at the tip of your nose and you almost want to facepalm yourself for the slipup. “But yeah, after the ceremony, I went home by myself and just… Well, got drunk.”

“That’s understandable.” He giggles, and the sound makes you glance up at him again. “So you jumped in your bed with it?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how the story ends.” You click your tongue, giving him an exaggerated nod that turns into a shake. “Was so gone I didn’t even notice I chipped my tooth until I woke up a few hours later.”

He lets out a full laugh now, his eyes squinting and you can’t help but join him. “Sounds like you had fun.”

“Uhm.., I did, yeah.”

Harry falls silent, his smile toning down slowly. He puckers his lips, as if pondering what to say next. When he does speak, his words are slow, “How is it to like…” His words trail off, and you have to bite back a smile when he starts gesturing, remembering how he used to do that before. “I mean, talking to you now, even with this whole fame thing, you’re still so… Shit, I don’t want this to come off the wrong way.”

“It’s fine.” You let your cigarette fall to the floor before crashing it with your boot, the only reason you lit it was to have an excuse to leave the party with him. “Can guarantee you I had worse questions asked.”

“It’s just you’re still so… Well I wouldn’t say the same cause none of us really are the same person we were, like, five years ago.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “But you’re still so… grounded, I guess is the best word to describe it.”

You allow a grin to tuck at your lips, hoping he doesn’t sense the sincere apprehension that comes with your tease. “Were you expecting me to be a stuck up diva, is that it?”

His eyes bulge out. “No! No, of course not! Is just-- I think, well, most people think...And it’s not a you thing but more of a, I don’t know, celebrity thing? Fuck, I really dug myself a hole, haven’t I?”

“Harry, relax. I was just teasing.” You interrupt as he starts to ramble. “But I know what you mean, yeah.”

You ponder his question for a moment. The answer for it being far from a simple one, but, once again, the last thing you want is to overwhelm him with your problems. So you choose your words carefully, chewing at your bottom lip as you feel him watching you patiently.

“It’s not easy, I’ll tell you that.” You start, you voice slowing to an almost cautious tone. “I had… Worse times dealing with it, you know? I…”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s fine, I trust you.” The words leave your mouth before you can register. You try not to show your surprise at them, and you do a better job than Harry, who audibly holds a breath. “Having so many people loving you, being praised for everything you do… It’s easy to let it go to your head, and I can’t say I’ve always been the best at managing it, but--” You regret your next words before you can even stop them from spilling from your lips. “I had a breakup a couple months ago that was uhm… A bit hard, but looking back at it I feel like it was like a bucket of cold water, in that sense.”

His eyes soften, and you have to look away because the last thing you want is to catch his reaction. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be! Really, I’m fine-- I’ll be fine.” You reassure quickly, shaking your head in hopes to shake the subject away.

It seems to work, as silence takes over the space once again, and both your eyes glance towards the party mindlessly.

You two watch Jamie appear in front of the glass doors leading to where you stand. He has his back to you, and from what you see it’s like he’s trying to pull Faye in the direction of the dance floor. She has a frown adorning her face, not giving into her husband’s attempt on pulling her with him. It’s clear, even from where you are, that he’s far off his mind now, his hips swaying with the muffled sounds of an attempt of a Céline Dion cover, still persisting even though it’s clear his wife wants nothing to do with his drunken ideas.

Faye gently pushes his hands away with a roll of her eyes, causing him to give a couple steps back, walking backwards into a chair before crumbling down with it. Neither of you can contain your laughs at the scene, even when you bring your hand up to muffle the sound, it’s too late. Jamie’s eyes look up from where he lies on the floor, catching sight of the two of you, he mumbles something you don’t understand, gesturing for you to come inside. You answer it with a small wave, and, thankfully, his attention is brought to his wife as she tries to help him stand.

You exhale a small laugh, moving so you’re no longer leaning back into the railing. “I think this is my cue to go before they try to convince me to try out that karaoke machine.”

“Yeah, I told myself I’d be out right after the toasts.”

You stop, pondering for a moment before looking back at him. “How are you going home?”

“I took the tube here.”

“Let me drive you back.”

“You don’t have--”

“It’s fine! I--” You pause, chewing down your bottom lip as you glance around him, feeling oddly embarrassed.  “I got a driver waiting for me, you can just tell him your address, won’t be a problem to drop you off.”

He hesitates, waiting a beat before nodding. “If it’s not a bother.”

“It’s not.” You say a bit too quickly. “I’m suggesting it, after all.”

“Okay, then.”

//

As soon as you dropped Harry home, when the sky was awaking lazily with an orange bloom of dawn, he started to wonder if the entire night had even been real. By the time he woke up, just a couple hours later, he was sure it had been a spur of his imagination. He must’ve fallen asleep while getting dressed, yeah, that must’ve been it, he got ready and decided to lay down for a bit, which led him to fall asleep and dream of the whole thing.

That night feels like a blur now. I think I pretty much convinced myself I dreamed a good portion of it.

You said that to him. But how convenient is it, that describes perfectly how he feels about that night? Of course, you were talking about the night you won your first Grammy, and he’s merely thinking about how it was to meet you again. The two reasons for each of you to feel this way are so polar apart, Harry can’t help but feel like it translates well into the time in your lives you two are in. After all, you’re out there winning prestigious awards, wearing Dior to go out for groceries (do you even go out for your own groceries?), and having a whole cellar in your house, for christ's sake. Meanwhile, Harry’s still a full year away from getting his degree, wearing the same mismatched vans as a fashion statement, and having cheap bottles of wine tucked in the back of his creaky wooden cabinet.

It’s not that he hates the life he has, of course not. But it’s clear to him how distant you are from each other, even when he got the closest he had been to you in years.

So it doesn’t come as a surprise to him when he doesn’t hear from you for the next couple days. It’s what was expected, even. It doesn’t take away the fact that he’s a bit disappointed, though, but there’s no one else to blame for that but himself. What did he expect? That after spending one night together after five years you’d suddenly get close again as if nothing happened?

But it’s not his fault that he’s hopeful, not when you’d been so friendly that night, seeming so eager to catch up with him. So, yeah, you can’t really blame him for the hiccup on his heart every time he phone vibrated-- only to be left with a frustrated crease marking his features and a slight pout.

The day after was the worst one. It was a Sunday, after all, and Julia had left early in the morning to spend the week at Blake’s, which meant Harry had spent the entire day alone, dwelling on his confusion about what had been the night prior. He almost felt a bit stupid about how sure he had been that you’d text him, as that was the reason for you to exchange phone number with him, wasn’t it? As hours went by, however, and the loneliness of the tiny apartment got louder than the Friends’ rerun he was binging, he started to question it.

Maybe he got too nosy, asking too much about something you clearly weren’t comfortable answering. Maybe his question had offended you, and that’s why you wanted to leave early. Maybe you only gave him your number to be polite. Maybe that’s not even your actual phone number, he reckons, how many do you probably have?

He slept with the telly on that night, trying to muffle the maybes that kept nagging him.

It got better once the week started. Between classes and work, he barely had enough time to let his thoughts wander off. He was still going back to an empty home, but this time he brought back work with him. As a result of his late night on the weekend, Harry’s sleep schedule got completely spoiled. So he resorts into spending the wee hours of the morning perfecting a detailing he wasn’t all that satisfied with, or working on a draft for his fashion sketching class a week before it’s due (he even tries to cook for himself some recipes Julia sent him to try and keep his mind occupied).

Once Wednesday night rolls around, he has all but swept it out of his mind completely. And that’s when he finally hears from you.

Seems like you’ve taken a fancy on catching him off guard.

He’s on the couch when it happens, snuggled under his heated blanket as he tries to fix the embroidery at the hem of an extra’s jacket. The pilot of Stranger Things makes for background noise, and he pays half a mind to it while humming a tune that’s been stuck on his head throughout the whole day-- they started tuning in on the radio at the atelier and now he gets the privilege to listen to the same four songs about ten times a day. His alarm for a meditation app he’s trying out has just gone off on top of the side table - indicating it would be around time for his regular night routine - and just as he reaches for it to turn it off, the screen lights up again. This time for a phone call.

When he catches sight of the name displayed on the screen he almost chokes on his own saliva, the hoop in his hand falling to his lap as he rushes to catch the device. Harry blinks twice at the screen, thinking his eyes might be tricking him into seeing your name shine at the caller id. And for a moment he just stays like this, mind blank before realizing he should pick up before it goes to voicemail.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to even the thumping on his chest as he clears his throat, quickly pressing the accept button before bringing the phone to his ear. “‘Lo?”

“Harry?” Your voice comes in a higher pitch.

“Hi.”

“Are you home right now?”

His brows furrow at the question. “I-Uh- Well, yeah, Wh-”

“That’s perfect! I’m at your front door now…”

“What-” He just about jumps from his spot, tripping over the blanket as it falls around his ankles.

“And I’ve just realized I don’t know which flat to ring!” You continue, oblivious to the hectic man on the other side of the line.

“You’re outside?” Rushing to the window just a couple steps away, he pushes back the curtains to get a view of the street right below. And there you are, leaning back against a black car, similar to the one that gave him a ride, one hand holding the phone to your ear as the other is occupied with something he can’t quite figure out from where he stands. What calls his attention, though, is the gown you’re dressed in, definitely something way too lavish for a wednesday night.

“Yup.” You say simply, and he catches how your gaze moves up, meeting his. “Oh! Hey you!”

“Right. I’ll- I’ll be down in a minute.”

Harry’s not sure how he doesn’t break an ankle on the way down the steps of his building, flying three floors down at a near record speed. Once he reaches the ground floor, he takes a second to catch his breath, leaning with a hand against a wall as he cusses himself out for forgetting about his asthma in the midst of his rush. He manages to ease his breathing, but is still unable to calm the speed of his heartbeats, that now send an electric flow on his bloodstream, and he suddenly feels too warm.

He opens the door to find you just as you were when he saw you from the window. A smile stretches your face when you see him, giving him a wave. You turn back to say something on the driver's window he doesn’t quite catch, but just as you lean away from the vehicle, he watches as it drives away.

From this distance, he has a better look at you, and he’s sure now that your wednesday evening has most definitely played out much different than his. You’re wearing the new Valentino collection, a strapless navy blue dress with golden sparks detailing resembling a firework explosion right at your waist and going all the way down the skirt and up the top. Your hair is done in an updo, leaving your shoulders bare to the night breeze and he wonders if you’re not cold.

Harry barely has time to notice the silver statuete in your hand before you’re stepping towards him, embracing him into a hug. “Hey!”

“Hi.” He tries not to focus on how you smell like fresh roses, or how soft your skin feels when you nuzzle against his neck for a second before pulling back.

“I was around and decided to stop by for a bit!” You grin up at him. “So, are you not gonna invite me up?”

The last few words come out just a bit slurred from your mouth, and that’s when he realizes.

Oh.

You’re drunk.

“Uh, sure, of course.” He holds the door open, waiting for you to step inside before closing it behind him.

You don’t say anything on the way up, and Harry’s got his head going way too fast at once to try to wrap his mind at what’s happening. There’s too many questions he wants to ask, more than he can really make out at the moment. And on top of it all, he’s just started to worry about the state of his tiny little undergrad flat and how he’s about to receive someone who probably has a house with a washroom the size of the whole thing.

His lips part to try to apologize for the mess you’re about to walk in when you two reach his front door, but before he can let a word out, you beat him to it. “Do you have a loo I could use?”

He blinks. “Yeah, it’s just to your right.”

You step out of your heels once you walk in, quickly making a beeline to where he directed, not bothering to glance around the place.

Harry darts towards the living room, trying his best to tidy the mess he left before you step out. He throws the blanket that’s lying limply on the floor over the couch, gathering his embroidery tools that fell to the side of the couch and making his best attempt at folding them. The screen has gone to the second episode now, and he quickly shuts it off. Pondering for a moment if he should put on some music, he decides against it. Instead, he decides on pouring you a glass of water, now that he understands you’re still at least a bit tipsy, he finds it that his best option is to help you get on your best mind so he can figure out why, out of all places, you’ve decided to come here.

Because that’s the thing.

He still doesn’t know why on earth you’ve decided to show up on his flat unprompted, and all he can do is thank every outer force for Julia being out tonight. She would probably fall dead if she knew about this.

A minute too long passes as Harry waits for you, leaning on his kitchen counter with the glass of water sat in front of him. He feels as if he can’t keep still, leg bouncing nervously and fingers tapping against the countertop as he bites into his inner cheek. It’s only when he finally glances in the direction of the toilet that he notices. The door is wide open.

He strides towards the room, stopping just as he reaches the doorway. “Is everything alright in there?”

“Oh! Yeah! You can come in!” Your voice echoes from inside.

Peeking in slowly, his brows shoot up as he sees you sitting at the edge of the bathtub, phone in hands and the statute lying on your lap. You shoot him a smile.

He gestures back vaguely to the kitchen behind him. “Got you some water.”

“There’s no need for that, tonight it’s to celebrate! --Oop” You try to straighten your back, but you end up falling back into the tub, the tulle of the skirt almost swallowing you in the process.

“Fuck-” He rushes towards you, reaching from your arms to try to help you as you burst into giggles. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great!” You assure, waving his hands off as you adjust yourself to sit more comfortably. “Do you have any wine you can pop?”

“I--” The question takes him back, and he racks his brain to think if there’s still a bottle he’d purchased a couple weeks ago.  “I think so.”

“Bring it, then, let's make this our little after-party.” You throw your arms around dramatically. “A very exclusive one, as you can see.”

“Right.” He chuckles. “Give me a minute.”

“I’ll be right here!”

Turns up there’s just about half a bottle left sitting inside the creaky cabinet. He chooses the glass with the smallest crack at the base-- the glasses are very cheap and Harry’s not very careful with them.

He decides to leave the bottle at the counter, grabbing the filled glass of water as well before heading back where he left you sitting inside his bathtub.  

“There he is!” You exclaim when he walks in, handing you the glass of wine and setting the other next to the sink. “You didn’t pour one for yourself?”

He closes the lid of the toilet, sitting on top of it. “Uhm… Not really a drinking kind of night for me.”

“Oh god!” You gasp. “Of course, how could I be so stupid? I’ll leave you be--”

“No!” Harry quickly asserts,  “No, I mean- It’s fine, really. I was just surprised, is all.”

When you speak, your voice comes out softer, “I don’t mean to disturb.”

“You aren’t!”He assures. “Really, stay I-- It’s nice to see you again.”

You smile up at him, he can tell from this close how your eyes are a bit glossy, and he wonders if he should’ve told you he didn’t have any wine. But still, it’s live you have him at the palm of your hand. “It’s nice to see you again, too.”You scoop a bit to the side, tapping the space next to you. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“Come join me here.”

“I don’t think it fits us both.”

“Of course it does! Here,” You attempt to pull at your skirt with one hand, barely budging the tulle from where it spreads inside the tub. “See?”

He chuckles as you look back up at him. “I’ll ruin your dress.”

“It’s okay, it’s not like I’ll wear it again.” Your eyes widen. “Oh my god, I sounded like a bitch, I didn’t mean it like that just--” Trying again, you do a better job at containing the skirt, giving it enough space for him to sit. “There. Now we can both sit inside, my dress will be intact!”

He laughs, dropping next to you inside the empty bathtub. The hem of your skirt tickles his skin, and he mindlessly reaches to hold the fabric between his fingers. His eyes fall to your lap as he does so, the silver of the statuete catching his eye, he taps the base of it, “What is it for?”

“Huh?” You stop midsip, brows creasing slightly before gazing down to where he’s pointing. “Oh! It’s a Brit. Best New Artist.” Picking it up, you offer it to Harry. The award feels heavier than he thought it would as he holds it, the shape of it resembling a woman’s shape, her body curving in an ‘S’. You sigh next to him, taking a small sip. “Funny, innit? Been doing this for so long, it feels like, but I’m still being treated as if I’m new blood.”

“That’s true.” He turns the award in his hand before handing it back to you, and you simply let it fall back to your lap. There’s a moment of silence as he mulls over the question he’s been wanting to ask since you showed up at his doorstep. “Why didn’t you go to an after-party?”

“Not really in the mood.” You shrug. “Needed a familiar face, I guess.”

He hums in response. Surely, you’ve got plenty of familiar faces in London, ones that you probably see more often than you’ve ever seen him. Friends. Family. So why was it your first instinct to go to his building? You didn’t even text him after you parted ways after the wedding, he was sure you had even forgotten about him once again.

It’s all much too confusing to him.

“H?” You speak up first, your tone is gentle, even a bit uncertain.

The sound of his nickname falling from your lips causes a stutter on his heartbeat.

“Yeah?”

You’re looking down at your lap, watching the liquid inside your glass twirl as you move it slowly. “Is it… Is it too weird that I came here today?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not weird, no.” He comforts. “Was just surprised, is all.”

“I just-” You sigh, a soft frown set between your brows. “Seeing you again, it was really nice, you know?”

“I do.”

“Really.” You meet his eyes with a nod, trying to show how truthful your words are. “Felt like I could let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding for so long.”

He relaxes his shoulders. “I know.” Harry nods. “Yeah I-- I know what you mean.”

When you speak up again, it’s barely above a whisper. The words so sweet it brings the prettiest butterflies to flutter on his belly. “I missed you.”

Harry’s lips part, he wants to say the words back, he can feel them at the tip of his tongue. Because he’s missed you, too. He’s so sure of it. But nothing comes out, his mind going numb as he blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, this was weird, It’s just--” You shake your head to yourself, letting out a nervous laugh. “What I mean is that… I don’t know, I wish we could’ve still talked, you know? After…”

“Yeah.”

You grin. “At the reception, when we chatted, and you told me all those things you’ve been up to, it just… I don’t know, I just wished I could’ve been there with you.” Your eyes look between his, searching for something he can’t quite put his finger on before you take a breath. “And I don’t mean that, like, in a weird way! But as a friend, you know? Wish I could’ve been there with you.”

He clears his throat, forcing himself to speak. “I didn’t…” He opens his mouth, closing it before finally saying. “I never thought you felt that way.”

“I don’t think I realized how much I needed someone close to me that knows me until I saw you again, really.”The words spill out of your mouth, adorably switching from a gentle tone to a rushed one. “And I mean, I have friends that I love and that I trust but… Having someone that’s like…”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Normal?”

“Don’t say it like that!” You shove him playfully. “But, yeah, someone that knows me without the lights, and the expensive clothes, and the big houses.” Your lips frown as you shrug.  “That just wouldn’t care if I didn’t have all that, that would still like me regardless.”

“You can still have that.” He tries to reassure you, the confession making him want to comfort you. “It’s not too late.”

Looking down at your lap, he sees your breathing halter for a second. “Have we become strangers?” You meet his gaze, chewing down at your bottom lip. “It’s what I kept thinking after I dropped you off, I don’t think I want you to be a stranger.”

Then, he reaches up, brushing a strand out of your forehead. “I don’t think I want that, either.”

Your smile grows. “It’s settled, then.” You nod. “I’m officially promoting you from distant ex to the close friend position.”

Harry lets out a full laugh. “That’s a very sudden rise of positions.”

“We’ll make it slow, then.” You reason, your words starting to stumble out of your mouth again. “Get to know each other again, we can do it when I’m not drunk inside your bathtub. Do you like coffee now?”

“I do, actually.” He replies with a grin. “Hard not to when you’re a uni student.”

“Lovely! We’ll have a coffee and chat.”

“Sounds great.”

You hold up your almost empty wine glass.“To caffeine and friendship.” Tilting it. “Cheers.”

He lets a moment of silence settle, before smirking down at you. “Now, what you said about the expensive clothes…”

“Oh my god, cut the deal.” Rolling your eyes, you try to make it as if you’re about to get up. “We don’t need to get to know each other again, I can tell you’re still a pest.”

“Don’t know what you mean, pet.” He giggles, brushing his hair off his shoulder in dramatics. “I’ve always been a dream.”

//

A/N: I’ve been so excited to share this one with you all!! Thank you so much for reading it :D I’m so curious to know what you all will think about it so please, if you enjoyed it, reblog it or send some feedback to support!! Also, make sure to check the fic page where I keep all my inspo for Curious Time :)

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing

[rainbowtransform]

The first part is right here!

Techno is laughing when he sees the house. The lights are on, and Niki’s cheeks are red with the cold; Ranboo’s slushing his way through, brushing off some of the snow Techno had thrown at him, while Phil raises his wing (the uninjured one) to shield them all.

Techno stops, turning around and then says dramatically, “Syndicate, we’ve got our toughest mission here.” He says. “The first person to enter the house gets Harpocrates’ hot chocolate. The last person will end up without it, and you’ll be banned forever from the Syndicate.”

“That’s a fucking lie.” Phil pipes up and Techno shushes him.

“Ready,” Niki gets into a running stance, and Ranboo mimics her while Phil lets the wing fold back. Techno raises his own hand.

“Set,” Phil’s expression doesn’t stray from the light. There’s something that Techno can’t quite read from this far out.

“Go!”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

“Mate,” Phil says late that night. Techno’s nursing a cup of coffee, staring at the note left behind. Niki and Ranboo are at the edge of the living room, hovering.

Thanks for taking care of him

Techno’s lip curls up. “They took him,” he says. “Quackity and Sam.”

Phil sits down heavily in the seat across from Techno. “We knew they would try,” he reminds him. “We didn’t think it would be this late though.”

There’s little droplets of blood on the carpet, and Niki examines it. “Dream put up a fight,” she said. Techno takes in the books that have fallen off the shelf, remembers how Steve was straining his leash (which should have been Number one on Techno’s radar). Looks at the broken chairs, and hums.

“We know where he is.” Techno says.

Phil huffs a sigh. “Break in again.” He says.

Techno could almost laugh, but he doesn’t. “Harpocrates is part of us now. And I won’t leave him alone with that again.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Technoblade Whispers to You: are you okay

You Whisper to Technoblade: I’m okay

Technoblade whispers to you: we’re coming

You whisper to Technoblade: you shouldn’t come Sam and Quackity ARENT playing techno

And he squints. Dream doesn’t call the Warden by their name.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Techno fights with half the server, eyes blazing and the Voices chanting in his ears. (He sees a glimpse of green on Sam’s waist, something with stickers, and Techno sees it light up with something as someone sends text after text.

And Techno smiles.

Of course they’d take his communicator. Techno twirls the pickaxe, showing off, before going back to fighting Puffy.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Niki runs. She’s got ten minutes and counting before the entire prison shuts down and they’re forced to retreat.

She opens all the doors, and the prison protests. It’s not meant to keep everything open, it’s always meant to shut but Niki doesn’t care.

She’ll burn the place to ground. Anyone in the Syndicate could end up here, not just Dream now. She tosses water breathing and fire Resistance on herself, saves the healing potion for Dream.

And she comes to the cell’s door, lava gone and sees Dream curled up in the corner of his tiny cell. Sees Quackity watching her with dark eyes in front, and Niki readies her weapon.

“I’m taking him home,” she says.

“He’s staying here.” Quackity says, almost lazily

Her foot crunches something, and she risks a look down.

Oh. The bracelet she’d given Dream. She looks up, and Quackity shrugs.

And she pulls out her bow, and shoots him.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Niki drags Dream out, holding onto her side and a life gone. Ranboo’s lost one, and Techno was on the verge of losing his, and he made Phil retreat.

They end up retreating quicker than they’d started this fight, and Techno tosses them all cloaks. Niki and Techno mount a horse Ranboo and Phil mount another and Dream’s left to get Carl. He’s the fastest, and can get Dream home the quickest.

Plus, they’ll be expecting Techno on Carl. And they wouldn’t expect Dream to be able to ride a horse (where they’re half right, but Carl let’s Dream thread his fingers into his mane and lets Dream whisper something into his ears.

Techno swears he sees Dream’s eyes glow greener and Carl snorts. They all pull up the cloak’s hoodies and split off.

(Techno will hear Sam’s scream of anger for months, and feel giddy for it. His team have broken in and out of the prison, twice.)

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Carl is the last horse to arrive, and Dream slides off. Techno watches as he shields himself of, and looks up with a blank expression.

Techno notes how tightly he’s holding onto the feather Phil gave him. It’s bent, and the chain Is looking worse for wear. Almost like he was too close to something hot enough.

Phil gently takes the feather from Dream’s hand, tried to smooth it out and Dream opens his mouth to say something before falling silent. Techno just as quickly unclasps his cape to wrap it around Dream’s shoulder.

He flinchs underneath Techno’s move, and He thinks Niki and Ranboo look at each other from behind him. Techno just puts the cape on, and says, quietly “I’m sorry.”

There’s a hand on his arm and Dream doesn’t let go before his hand falling to cradle Techno’s. Dream swallows, and Techno is reminded of months ago when Dream barely spoke a word, wouldn’t even leave the house in fear of them tracking him down; the one who didn’t talk to Ranboo for weeks until he’d come knocking at the door, angry and wanting answers.

He remembers the struggle of getting Dream to eat something, to drink water. How Dream had stayed underneath the bed he was supposed to be sleeping in for days. Techno remembers the struggle of waking up in the middle of the night to Dream’s scream and sitting at the edge of the bed for countless hours.

Dream is walking toward home, and Techno can’t help but think that they’ve just been set back.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Niki ends up dragging them all into the living room blankets and pillows in her arms as she makes a little fort. Ranboo and Phil help her while Dream and Techno watch.

“You don’t have to,” Techno tells him. Dream shrugs and Techno hums. Ranboo ends up sandwiched between Niki and Techno who has Dream next to Phil.

They watch movies, and two dogs end up inside the house, curling in front of Dream with flicking tails and sad eyes. Dream pets them, and Techno watches as Dream stops short of kissing them on their head.

Ranboo says his goodbyes quietly, antsy to get home and get to Michael. Techno grumbles a soft “be careful” and Ranboo takes a breath and nods.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dream has nightmares that night, pleas and tears pouring out of him. Techno switches with Phil, and manages to lay a hand on Dream’s arm, and tries to fall asleep again. (Dream doesn’t wake up, but he does calm down.)

He feels Niki move to the other side, and he opens his eyes a crack to see her link her pinkie with Dream’s. Phil just leans closer, and Dream has one more nightmare that night before it falls silent.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dream manages to untangle himself from the cuddle pile he’s been put in early that morning, and Techno knows where he is. The room that’s been deemed his, and underneath the bed. Dream doesn’t move when Techno comes in, but Techno just sits on the floor and takes it back.

“So, me and Phil go back a long way remember? And did I ever tell you about how Phil’s wings almost got us into massive trouble?”

#dreamwastaken #Technoblade #niki nihachu #Ranboo #philza #rain’s writing #they’re rivals your honor #c!dream positive #dream smp #:)) #they saved him guys!! #he’s going to be okay! #:DD #tw: implied/referenced violence #queue’d and ready to go