#look at him trying to be all affronted to begin with only to end up looking smug when ds calls him a prince

[tiredalwayss]

Lee Dong Sik and his perfectly successful attempts to flirt with get under Han Joo Won’s skin

+bonus Joo Won flirting back

#beyond evil #jwds #beyond evil edit #kdramaedit #beyondeviledit #jtbc beyond evil #there are so many examples of them flirting i struggled to pick just a few #look at them #ds knows exactly what he’s doing and jw loves it #also the progression of jw’s reaction is so good #look at him trying to be all affronted to begin with only to end up looking smug when ds calls him a prince #I haven’t had any time to make gifs recently so this was a lot of fun!!!

[funnylittlelad]

What's your favorite color? - steddie blurb

It comes as a shock, frankly. No, more like an affront. Maybe both. Either way, Steve finds himself wondering for the first time since they started dating if Eddie is lying to him. The whole conversation started over something stupid. Really, the whole conversation is stupid. Steve is the only one of them with a wrinkle between his brow and a twist on his lips. Eddie is looking at him all soft eyes and easy smiles. They're in their tiny kitchen. Steve has his arms crossed as he leans against the wall next to the landline. Eddie is bracing himself on the little table they got to use as an island for some desperately needed extra counter space.

"You're not being serious," Steve decides out loud.

Eddie laughs, only a little in disbelief. Mostly it's amusement at Steve's current childlike behavior. Eddie thinks he's endlessly cute and endearing when he gets like this. Especially because it's never about anything serious so Eddie never have to worry about it devolving into a real fight. It's just another flavor of conversation.

"I'm being serious!" Eddie insists.

"There's no way, Eds. I mean, have you seen your wardrobe?"

"Yeah, I see it on a pretty regular basis, believe it or not."

Steve levels him with an overly serious, analytical stare.

"Are you seriously telling me that you- Eddie Munson, metalhead extraordinaire- your favorite color isn't black?"

Steve's head shakes a bit in what Eddie would consider a bitchy move. That's okay, Eddie likes when Steve gets bitchy too. Hell, Eddie just likes Steve.

"It's not!" He laughs defensively.

"It's all you wear!"

"So, your favorite color is yellow," Eddie states matter-of-factly.

Steve squints, shaking his head a little more. Steve's hands can't stay still for too long while he's talking, no matter how hard he may try. Eddie has insisted he loves how expressive Steve can get. Even if Steve's parents didn't. Especially because they didn't. One hand breaks free of the opposite arm and begins to fly around as he speaks.

"Since when is my favorite color yellow?" he asks.

Eddie rolls his eyes, but his smile never leaves his face.

"It's all you wear!" he throws Steve's words back at him.

Steve pouts. He knows it's true. There has been a lot of yellow spotted in his wardrobe lately. That's just because he thinks he looks good in it... because Eddie told him once he looks good in it.

"Alright, fine, point taken. What is it then?"

Eddie's face softens. His smile becomes something warm and sweet like chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. He walks around the makeshift island to invade Steve's space. Steve isn't phased in the slightest. Eddie places a quick kiss to the tip of Steve's nose. The act earns him a smile that Steve works hard to fight off.

"Funnily enough, my favorite color is yellow," he answers easily.

Steve's face goes from bitch mode to genuine surprise. Then some confusion trickles in via his eyebrows.

"You're not fucking with me right now? Dustin isn't going to jump out with a camera to catch the dumb look on my face?" Steve questions, playfully looking over Eddie's shoulder like he actually expects Dustin to be there.

Eddie breaths a chuckle across Steve's face. For a moment there's nothing but the scent of mint and cigarettes.

"First of all, your face never looks dumb. No, I'm not fucking with you. My favorite color is yellow," Eddie insists.

"But... why? I mean yellow is so- and you're so- why?" Steve struggles to understand a world where Eddie Munson's favorite color is yellow.

A light blush blooms across Eddie's face.

"Because you wear it a lot and you look really fuckin' good when you do. Now whenever I see it, it makes me think of you," he admits softly.

Steve absolutely melts. How can he not? His arms end up around Eddie's neck as he presses a gentle kiss to his lips. Their foreheads rest against each other when they part.

"You're so cheesy, y'know that?" Steve chuckles lightly.

"Yeah, but you love it," Eddie grins.

"Yeah, I do."

After that, Steve realized that his favorite color is black.

Masterlist

#idk what made me think of this but once i did i needed it OUT of me #steddie brainrot #steddie blurb #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson

[thisisourlovestory]

Daylight

part 3- the chronicles of a stargirl and her sun masterlist

Luke Castellan x reader

Summary- Sometimes you’ve just gotta get up and watch the sun

Word count- 2.8k

Taglist:

@abbersreads @tenshis-cake @lol6sposts if you want to be added just let me know!!

“That the best you've got?” You laughed as you sidestepped the jab of a sword. “C’mon I know you can do so much better. What happened to best swordmaster in three hundred years?” You changed your voice slightly and grinned at the affronted look on Luke's face.

“I do not sound like that.”

“Yeah you do, don't lie to yourself meus sol. You have a baby voice and that's okay.” You twirled out of the way of another stab.

“But seriously you're going easy on me.” He opened his mouth but you continued without thinking. “And don't even try to say you aren’t because I’m actually breathing this time and not lying on the floor trying to get my heart rate down from a million beats a minute so I didn't die.” Luke grinned and lowered his sword.

“Now that was funny and you can't even deny it. You looked like a living, barely breathing tomato.” You glared at him, trying to hide the smile threatening to break out on your face.

“Of course you would take pleasure in my pain. Just like Annabeth you are.” Luke smiled and rolled his eyes.

“So dramatic stargirl. And if you really don't want me to go easy on you then who am I to deny your request.” His smile morphed into a full blown grin, mischief danced in his brown eyes and you immediately regretted your words but held your sword in front of you with one hand, waiting for him to make the first move.

He darted towards you, bringing his sword down as you raised your own up to meet him and they clashed with a loud clang. His eyes met your own as you twisted your wrist to fling his sword away from you. There was a sort of approval in them as he muttered quietly.

“Not bad stargirl. Not bad at all.” Then they were alight with determination as he swung his sword in a wide arc that had you springing back to avoid the sharp end sinking into the skin of your stomach. You retaliated quickly, thrusting your weapon forward only for him to block the blow and kick you back gently. You both continued like this for a while, trading blows one after the other. Strike, block, repeat. Beads of sweat were dripping down your face, pieces of hair coming loose from the plait you had tied it up in earlier sticking to your forehead and cheeks. You couldn't help the way your eyes strayed from Lukes movements to his face, idly taking in the way his eyes sparked with fire, his hair beginning to stick to his own forehead and the grin stretched across his lips as he said something that didn't quite reach your ears. And because you were distracted by looking at Luke, you didn't quite notice in time when his eyes lit with a quiet triumph and he lunged forward.

Pain shot through your arm and you dropped your sword in shock. You lifted your arm up only to see a river of red flowing down, pooling in your bent elbow and spilling over onto the sawdust. You winced as the cut throbbed, the ebb and flow of blood gathering at the surface of your skin and dripping down was quite disconcerting as you scrambled to understand what had actually happened. You blinked, feeling slightly nauseous at the sight of the blood, it wasn't that you were afraid of blood or anything per se, it was just the sheer amount that could come out of your body from the slightest cut that had you feeling sick. You swayed ever so slightly on the spot and suddenly Luke was beside you, wrapping an arm around you and leading you over to take a seat on the steps. You vaguely heard him say something about going to get some bandages but your mind was elsewhere, focused on the pain in your arm.

You felt warm hands on either side of your face, a voice, fuzzy in the darkness of your mind.

“Girl- star- stargirl,” The voice insisted, “Stargirl look at me. Y/N look at me.” You snapped out of it at the use of your name, your eyes finding Lukes immediately. His eyes were filled with worry and regret and something else that you can't quite put your finger on. “Hey, hey, you good?” He asked, keeping his gaze locked on yours as you nodded wordlessly in affirmation. “I need to wrap your arm up okay.” You held your arm out in front of you and he inhaled quickly at the sight before shaking it off and bringing out a wipe. “This might sting.” He warned as he started to clean the blood off your arm, eventually he dragged it over the cut and you hissed quietly at the burning sensation. As soon as the blood was cleared from the cut more started to well up and Luke cursed under his breath. He reached for a roll of gauze and began to wrap it around your forearm, it immediately stained red and he continued to wrap it until the red was covered and all you could see was the plain white of the bandage against your arm.

“I'm sorry,” Luke mumbled, his fingers tracing over the line where you knew his blade sank into your skin as if it were butter, “I'm so sorry stargirl, I didn't,” He sighed deeply, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face, “I'm sorry.” He finished lamely, sitting on his heels in front of you.

“S’alright meus sol.” You managed a smile. “It was an accident.” He shook his head.

“Doesn't matter, I still hurt you even if I didn't mean to and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, I swear to you that I didn't mean for it to happen and-” You cut him off abruptly, leaning forward to grab his hands and twine your fingers with his own.

“You didn't do it on purpose meus sol.” You whispered forcefully. “I'm fine, it was just a small cut and I'll be right as rain in a few days.” You smiled lightly. “You don't need to ask for forgiveness. You have it, always.” Luke looked up at you, his eyes dark.

“But I-”

“Stop being a drama queen Luke, I'm not going to die from a cut made in training. Although I'm not opposed to making you grovel a bit for forgiveness.” You mused, a grin spreading across your lips. “Wait actually if there's ever a next time you have to give up all your strawberry pie to me for a month.”

“A month!” He exclaimed. “No way. I am not giving up that pie to you for a full bloody month.” You pouted slightly, allowing your bottom lip to tremble a bit and your eyes to gloss over with tears.

“But meus sol-” Those three words combined with the look you gave him were all it took for him to fold.

“Okay, you can have my strawberry pie. You can have as much as you want just please don't hate me.” You beamed and threw yourself into him, hugging him tightly.

“Could never hate you meus sol. You're my best friend.” Luke let out a shuddering breath and hugged you tighter, his voice muffled as he spoke into your hair.

“Yeah, you're mine as well stargirl.” You hummed happily, inhaling deeply, the calming scent of what was just utterly Luke washed over you as he moved you both to sit down on the stone steps. He shifted you around in his arms so your head was tilted back onto his shoulder, your legs thrown over his own and his left hand still entwined with yours so you were both comfortably entangled in a jumble of limbs. It was silent for a moment as you sat peacefully, his right hand twisting the loose strands of your hair around his index finger and you tracing circles on his arm. Luke broke the silence first.

“Why do you call me meus sol?” You smiled slightly at the question, your eyes misting over at the memory.

You were dreaming, finally drifting through the realm of Morpheus like a feather on the wind. You settled down on an island filled with mythical creatures- pure white unicorns, golden dragons, grinning mermaids. The noise they made washed over you, screeches and neighs and hissing laughter suddenly interrupted by the whisper of your name, repeated insistently by a disembodied voice until the island faded and you woke up.

You blinked slowly awake as someone poked your cheek, repeatedly saying your name each time. You scrunched your nose and turned over in bed coming face to face with the grinning culprit who woke you up.

“Why?” You mumbled. “Just why?”

“I've got something to show you. So get up.” You turned back over and wrapped a blanket around yourself.

“Go away.” In response you immediately found yourself shivering as the warmth was ripped away from you.

“I’ll take you to pick strawberries later.” You shot up and rolled onto the floor with flailing arms and legs. You glared up at Luke from your new spot on the floor as he doubled over laughing quietly so he didn’t wake anyone else by accident.

“I’m sorry, you just- that.” You rolled your eyes and stood up, brushing dirt off your sleep shorts and tank top.

“Well what do you have to show me that you needed to wake me up at this ungodly hour?” Luke grinned and took your hand, dragging you out of the cabin and through the trees to the beach. He sat down on the cold sand at the shoreline, pulling you down next to him and pointed to the horizon.

“Just watch.” So you watched.

The sun rose slowly, casting a golden glow across the calm waves that sparkled like crystals in the light. Pink, purple, orange and yellow seemed to erupt from the sea, painting the deep blue of the sky in their bright colours as you watched transfixed by the patterns they seemed to form in the air. A small smile spread across your face as you leaned back on your arms, tilting your head up to look at Luke next to you. He was gazing out to sea, the sun hitting his face perfectly, lighting it up gold. He looked happy, free. All at once a surge of happiness hit you, you were happy at camp, you were happy with Annabeth and Luke and the chaos that occurred daily. More than that it made you happy. If you left it would be as if all the happiness was sucked out of your life. Luke turned his head and smiled at you.

“So what do you think?” He questioned softly. “Was it worth me waking you up at such an ungodly hour?” He raised his voice a pitch and you frowned.

“I don’t sound like that.” You protested, smacking him as he laughed.

“Sorry, sorry. But really, do you like it?” Your gaze softened as you looked out over the sea again, silver fish jumping out of the waves and hovering mid air for a second.

“Yeah, yeah I like it.”

“Cool, I hoped you would.” He coughed slightly. “Y’know I think you might be my best friend stargirl.” You hummed.

“Well that's a good thing because I think you might be mine Luke.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever had many friends before.” You shrugged.

“Ditto, the whole weirdo demigod thing always seems to scare people off.” He tilted his head back.

“Shame that.” You pushed his shoulder playfully, your breath catching slightly as he grinned back at you.

You gasped suddenly as a wave of cold sea water ran up your legs and you shuffled back on the sand.

“What stargirl, afraid of a little bit of water?” You gave him an incredulous look.

“No, it’s just cold.” He raised an eyebrow and reached out but you scooted further away shaking your head. “Nuh uh. No way are you making me go in there.”

“Who said I was gonna?” He asked innocently, tilting his head to the side like a puppy. You jumped to your feet and began to run up the beach. He caught up to you in seconds, wrapping his arms around your stomach and carrying your kicking form into the sea. You clung to him like a monkey, staring at him with pleading eyes before he dumped you into the water. You surfaced gasping, clothes stuck to your body and wet hair draped over your shoulders as you splashed water at him. Soon it was a full on battle, each of you drenching each other in water over and over again, ‘It doesn’t really matter if I get any wetter at this point’ you thought as you shrieked when he tacked you, pulling you both beneath the surface.

When you both finally dragged yourselves up the beach after the water fight you were breathless from laughter, salt sticking to your skin as it dried, white crystals appearing to light up under the warm rays of the sun. You collapsed onto the sand, the sun having heated it up slightly sending a tingle up your spine and you shivered as a sudden gust of wind swept across the beach. Luke immediately handed you his sweater and you pulled it on, muttering your thanks as you tugged it over your legs and hugged your knees. He sat next to you, shaking his head so that he sprayed shining droplets of water everywhere and dark, damp curls stuck to his forehead. In that moment he looked so…pretty, you supposed. Eyes crinkled as his smile widened, skin glowing gold as the sun shone down brighter on him making it seem as if he was the one radiating the light. And the longer you looked at him the more you realised just how easily he had managed to worm his way into your life, you had gone from strangers to best friends in just under a month, hell he’d given you a nickname the second time you spoke to each other, you hadn’t allowed anyone to give you one of those since- well since ever. His eyes locked on you as you leaned into him for warmth, his sweater engulfing your shivering form. He wound an arm around your shoulders and realised much the same as you just had. You had carved a little piece out of his heart and inserted yourself in its place; he wouldn’t have it any other way, you just got him like nobody else had. He often found himself looking for you across the archery fields, seeking you out when Annabeth jabbered on about some new fixation and mouthing for help as you laughed at him only to glare when he directed Annabeths attention towards you.

Your voice interrupted his thoughts.

“We should probably go back now, people will be waking up.” He nodded slowly, both of you stood up in sync and began to walk back up the sand dunes, his arm still slung over your shoulder. “That was fun, despite the wake up call you gave me. We should do it more often meus sol.”

He didn’t bat an eye at the name you gave him.

“How does once a month sound?” You grinned and held out your pinky finger.

“Deal.” He linked his pinky with yours and you shook on it.

You shrugged.

“It suits you.”

“Well what does it mean?” You broke out into peals of laughter. “We don’t all have professors for parents stargirl, excuse me for not knowing how to speak a different language.” You nudged him.

“I could teach you.”

“I doubt you’d be a very good teacher stargirl.” You gasped in mock outrage.

“I would be a fantastic teacher thank you very much, it’s you who would be the terrible student.” Luke raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen you trying to teach kids archery. It doesn’t end well.” You went silent for a second.

“You might have a point there.” Luke pinched your arm lightly.

“You’ve diverted from the subject. Why do you call me that?”

“Well why do you call me stargirl?” He froze for a moment and brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“Like I said, it suits you.”

“That’s not a proper answer meus sol.” You craned your neck to look up at him.

“Neither was yours.” You huffed and pushed yourself to a standing position, crossing your arms and looking down at him.

“Let’s just say that it’s my way of saying you’re my best friend.” He grinned.

“And I’ll say the same.” You shook your head.

“You’re ridiculous meus sol.” His grin widened at your words as he stood up and slung an arm over your shoulders, starting to lead you over to where Annabeth was waving madly at you both.

“But you love it stargirl.”

I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you (I can never look away) I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you (Things will never be the same)

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan #pjotv x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #taylor swift lyrics

[the-kaedageist]

The inn is small and plain, the tables worn from years of patrons and the weight of beer steins. Essek touches his fingertips to the wood and thinks about how far his life has come. “Why are we here?” he asks after a long moment. Caleb looks up from where he had been spacing out, presumably lost in old memories as he glances around the room.

“Oh, ja,” he says, catching himself. “This is where we first met. The Mighty Nein, I mean.”

Essek’s eyes widen. The room takes on new hues, a history he hasn’t been able to read from the furniture and the beer spilt in the corner. He can see the ghosts of younger versions of his friends, set lightly upon this space like a memory - Jester laughing and carving a dick into one of the tables, Beau and Fjord drinking from steins and ribbing one another. Caleb sitting with Veth, who presumably would have been Nott then. Yasha by the bar, perhaps, with the infamous Mollymauk. They had started off with only seven, not having any idea that someday they would be the nine of their strange moniker.

“Ah,” says Essek, not sure how to put all of these impressions into words, especially not in Common. “An auspicious beginning, I see.”

Caleb shares a small grin with him. Essek knows that smile; it usually forecasts some statement that Caleb knows will horrify Essek’s delicate sensibilities, looking forward to how Essek will react.

“Yes, what is it, Caleb Widogast?” Essek asks, trying to keep the answering smile from his own lips and already planning to act as affronted as possible.

“I was covered in mud and shit, you know,” Caleb says conversationally, a gleam in his eye. “When we first met. You would not have come within five feet of me.”

Essek has heard tales of dirty Caleb, and privately been amused at the thought. “I would have Prestidigitated you clean long before you came close enough to be a problem,” he says confidently.

Caleb laughs openly; it’s good to see him comfortable and safe enough to do so. “Perhaps I should fall in the mud and see how cool you would act around me now,” he says with a straight face. His eyes gleam with mischief.

“We shall see then, who is faster on the draw,” says Essek smugly. “My Prestidigitation, or your determination to get dirt upon me first.”

Caleb laughs again and moves to the bar to order them trosts, while Essek sits at the table and waits for the others to arrive. It seems fitting, that Caleb chose this place for their first monthly reunion since Uk’otoa had been vanquished. A new beginning, in a place where a beginning had been forged once before.

Caleb returns, carrying two trosts and wearing a thoughtful smile. “Wishing you had been here to join us from the start?”

Essek is rarely surprised at how well Caleb knows him, these days. This comment still throws him, putting words to a yearning that Essek hadn’t even begun to understand himself. “Had I been here from the start,” Essek says, “the story would have turned out very different.”

Caleb hums and clinks their glasses together, sipping from his trost with a hum. “True,” he acknowledges. “And in the end, you found us assholes anyway.”

The door flies open. Beauregard and Yasha make their way inside, Fjord and Jester hot on their heels. “What did we miss?” Beau demands.

“Hey Trostenwald,” Jester shouts. “We’re back!” She proceeds to cast Thaumaturgy and blow out all the windows in the inn. The innkeeper glares at her in a way that implies she’s not at all surprised by this occurrence.

As the room fills with the shouts and laughter of the Mighty Nein, Essek sits back with a smile.

Yes, indeed. In the end, Essek found them all anyway.

#critical role #campaign 2 #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #cr fics #cr ficlets #found a prompt in my notes from 6/2021 that was just 'they take essek to trostenwald' #turns out I never wrote it #so here it is!!! #not sure where this came from but ah #enjoy #there are nine of them #my fics #oh also essek is in disguise in this fic lol totally did NOT even mention that detail #it’s fine! presumably most of you assumed so

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53

“You wish,” Steve teases, then looks wide-eyed at Robin. “What about all the pictures we have?”

“We’ll take new ones,” she assures him, then grins. “And hey, maybe Starcourt will be built, without the Russian base underneath.”

Steve hums. “Maybe then I could avoid one of the concussions from Billy.”

Robin freezes suddenly. “Steve,” she says, “is it a good idea for the party to meet Max? Because of the first concussion from Billy? That wasn’t Upside Down related, was it?”

Steve grimaces. “He’d been Flayed at that point, yeah. Even if he is a racist asshole, I can’t imagine him coming after us like that again.”

Robin hums. “But if he does-”

“Tell me,” Eddie says suddenly, “does he like Mary Jane? Because I can make sure he never sees her again if he goes after Steve.”

Robin blinks at him, then begins to grin. “Sorry, Stevie, Eddie’s my new favorite.”

Eddie laughs and fist-bumps her. “Likewise, Birdie.”

“Hey!” Steve says, faux-affronted. It’s ruined by the grin he can’t hide.

El pokes gently at Steve’s arm, then the waffle iron when he looks at her. “It’s done.”

“Ah,” he says, opening it. “Thank you, Ellie. Mind getting me a plate?” He grins at her. “Without grabbing it?”

El grins. Without moving, she opens a cabinet, floats a plate out to Steve, then shuts the cabinet again. She wipes underneath her nose, then grins at Steve. “No blood!”

“That’s great!” He celebrates with her, offering her a high-five. “You think you’re ready?”

“I’m still scared,” she tells him. “But yes. I do.”

“Y’know something else?” Steve asks. “Vecna needed four more years to be strong enough to do what he did. You needed two more days. I think you’re much stronger than he is right now.”

“Speaking of the big bad,” Eddie interjects, nibbling on a corner of his waffle, “shouldn’t we go over the plan?”

Steve sighs. “Probably,” he agrees.

“I think we should wait for everyone,” Alli says. “Let’s just have as normal a morning as we can for right now.”

Steve smiles at his sister. “Sure, Al,” he says, then rolls his eyes when she pulls him into a hug and ruffles his hair.

“Love you, Bubba,” she murmurs into his ear, and he can’t help but to melt into her hug.

“Love you too, Al,” he murmurs back, then grins at her. “How about grilled cheese when we all make it outta this intact?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” she nods, then steps away. “I’m gonna call Cass. Come and get me when everyone’s here?”

“Will do,” he nods, and she smiles in response as she walks off.

Eddie pulls his feet up onto the counter he’s sitting on, looping his arms around his knees. “So, Cassidy is Alli’s-?”

“Girlfriend,” Steve nods. He takes another waffle out of the iron and scrapes the last of the batter into it. “It makes me wonder how I would’ve ended up, if I had her the entire time, y’know? Cause I know I was an asshole. And I’m trying not to be anymore.”

“You’re succeeding,” both Robin and Eddie say at the same time, then excitedly point at each other.

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Thanks. But I wonder, if I’d had her the entire time, would I have ever gotten as bad as I did? Would I have ever worked at Scoops or Family Video and met you, Robin? Would any of his have ever happened in the first place?”

He only notices his hand is shaking when Robin gently takes his fork and puts it down, then grabs both his hands in hers. “Squeeze,” she requests, and he does, letting out a harsh breath and resting their foreheads together.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Shuddup,” Robin says. He laughs.

After a few seconds, he pulls away to look at her. “Am I being crazy?”

“I think you’re being exactly as sane as taking this mission in the first place makes either of us, Dingus, I don’t think either of us were all there in the first place.”

Steve giggles. “I think you may be right.”

“Maybe you would’ve been different,” Eddie says. He’s taking the last waffle out of the iron. “Maybe you wouldn’t have. Maybe all of this would’ve happened, and maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybes aren’t gonna change anything that’s currently happening. All we can do is our best to get through it.”

El slips between Steve and Robin and wraps her arms around Steve’s waist. “I can do things you can’t,” she says quietly. “But I can’t see the future. I don’t know what could’ve happened. But I know I’m glad that you’re here now.”

Steve sighs contentedly and wraps her in his arms. “Me too.”

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#stranger things #if I should stay #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #el hopper #platonic stobin #el and Steve are siblings #steve has a long-needed mental breakdown #he deserves it honestly #fix it #fix it fic #time travel #time travel fic #time travel fix it #time travel fix it fic #starambles

[sokkastyles]

New Zuko criticism just dropped, which suggests that Zuko is wrong for attacking Azula in Book 2 Episode 1 because "Azula had turned to walk away, and Zuko is the one who chased after her and escalated the situation to physical violence even though he could have turned and left." Also see "Azula was only slightly smirking when Zuko was getting burned (and Zuko stans are stupid for holding it against her when it's a non-issue ig), and it wasn't wrong for her to do so since getting burnt during an Agni Kai is tradition." Good for a laugh if nothing else lmao.

This isn't new, I've seen it before.

But omg, THIS shot of her walking away?

Right after her goons close in on him, shooting fire?

After she's already tricked him into walking into a trap and there are fire nation soldiers blocking them from leaving from behind, and we see them move to close ranks right after Iroh follows Zuko up the gangplank?

She walks away because they're surrounded and she thinks that's the end of it, not because she's innocent. That's why she smiles and waves and brushes it off when he confronts her about lying with "like I've never done that before." The only reason she's avoiding a confrontation is because she thinks she's already secured the win and already has them captured. Someone trying to escape imprisonment is not "escalating the violence," especially when Azula already made violent threats in their first confrontation, which Iroh picks up on but Zuko doesn't.

Iroh also notices that the guards are wearing full armor and closing in on them, an odd thing if this were merely a peaceful invite.

In fact, the only person who isn't walking into this confrontation ready for a fight is Zuko. Zuko is dressed the most casually that we've ever seen him be so far in the show, no trace of armor. Because he %100 thinks he's going home for the first time in three years. He thinks his father cares about him and his sister came to take him home. But Azula lied to him from the beginning, because she had no intention of taking him home as anything other than a prisoner, and she tells him so and gloats over it. Trying to have someone imprisoned under false pretenses IS violence. Just because Azula isn't the one getting her hands dirty doesn't mean she isn't the one responsible. You think these guards weren't attacking Zuko on her orders?

Azula is manipulative from the beginning, which she didn't have to be because Ozai didn't order her to lie to her brother. She plays some particularly nasty mind games with him, and despite him being mistrustful of her from the start, he WANTS to believe that his family actually cares about him, and is genuinely shocked and hurt when she lies to him. And Azula does not care, at all. In fact, she takes satisfaction in being able to hurt and trick her brother, and gloats about it.

Which is the exact same thing she does when she gloats over Zuko being burned by Ozai. The idea that even "slightly smirking" over that is somehow making it better is horrifying, but that's not what she's doing, either. She's smirking and holding up her fist with a determined look in her eye. She is enjoying seeing Zuko be hurt, and, in fact, treats it like it's a victory for her.

And it's funny how literally every time Azula hurts Zuko and is cruel to him, every time she plays on his emotional trauma, it's a "non-issue," but him fighting back against her and not passively letting himself be captured is just an unbearable affront to her. Even though she herself acts hardly bothered.

Zuko should be more angry than he is about these things. He should trust her much less than he does, he shouldn't be shocked that she's lying to him at this point, that she doesn't care about his feelings or safety. Zuko probably didn't see her expression when he was burned, but imagine if he did? Imagine if the last thing thirteen year old Zuko saw before his father brutally burned him was THAT expression on his sister's face, someone he played together with and grew up with and wanted to love.

I hope these people realize that if they want to claim that what Ozai did to Zuko was "tradition" to justify Azula cheering over it, they are also justifying Ozai's abusive actions. The reality, though, is that there is no precedent for what Ozai did and no justification. The wiki says that the fire lord rarely fought in duels, as he was among the most powerful firebender, and nobody would knowingly challenge him. Zuko sure didn't, he was tricked into it and thought he would be fighting a different person entirely. Ozai did this to his thirteen year old son because he wanted to hurt him. Zuko was, yet again, tricked into walking into a trap. By his father, a father who is the lord of his country, has all the power, and has made it clear that he considers Zuko worthless and positions him so that he's helpless against him, and takes advantage of his son's loyalty in the most brutal way.

I guess the people making these statements expected Zuko when Azula tries to capture him to cower and cry like he did when his father was abusing him, instead of fighting back? Is that what they're upset about, that Azula didn't get the easy win she was hoping for (in imitation of the abuser she so greatly admires) by defeating a disadvantaged, trusting opponent through manipulation and intimidation tactics?

This ask did make me realize just how closely Azula has modeled her behavior (especially towards her brother) off of Ozai, though.

#azula #zuko #ozai #abuse cw #the avatar state #the storm

[freesia-writes]

Chapter 7: Invitation

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance.

COVER ART BY @zaana!! And this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D

Master List of Chapters

Time passed, and missions blended together. Vel settled into her new position, contributing her skills to keep the ship running smoothly. She kept to herself as much as possible at the beginning, but throughout a variety of experiences, found small connections with each member of the crew. 

Wrecker was the one to teach her dejarik, with their hand-carved physical set, but Hunter was the one she couldn't beat. Crosshair refused to play, opting instead to make endless adjustments to his weapons kit from his seat in the corner, but still couldn't resist throwing out the occasional thought or strategy critique.

Her unease around Crosshair began to diminish as she stopped trying to earn his favor. As she contented herself with polite cohabitation instead of meaningful connection, she found him more peaceful to be around. His cynicism and scowly manner were simply his nature, as much as Wrecker's boisterous zest for life. 

Her initial attempt with Hunter did not go well. They were scouting along a ridge, on a dusty and dismal planet, when he crouched to the ground, tracing his fingers across the sand, picking some up and letting it sift through his fingers as he inspected it closely. 

"What is that?" she asked suddenly.

"A mix of decomposed granite and sandstone," Hunter replied.

"No, what is that thing you do, grabbing dirt and feeling it? What are you getting from that?" Vel continued. Behind her, Wrecker caught Crosshair's attention, throwing a toothy grin his way and jabbing his thumb toward Vel.

Hunter stared at her for a moment, visibly affronted. Every fiber of his being emanated an indignant air of how dare you. Even Tech looked up from his datapad with a bemused smirk.

That was where the conversation ended. Later, over another futile game of dejarik, Vel found herself thoroughly enthralled with Hunter's account of a mission on Hoth. She had never heard of the icy planet, and his description of the tauntauns was borderline unbelievable.

It was Tech that she found herself most at ease around. His curiosity was infectious, and the satisfaction he found from both learning and teaching was impossible to hide. She felt old parts of herself stirring, parts that had been dormant for years, as she would find herself three volumes deep in the astrological lore of some random system, read aloud by Tech as she sat across from him. 

"Man. All we had on Corellia was the Eye of the Pirate," Vel said, as he took a break between chapters. "A big red star that was impossible to miss. I made up some other constellations on my own, but there was nothing like this," she said, referring to the heroic mythological tales of the Yvara that he had been reading. 

"The Horns of Waryl are quite fascinating," Tech agreed, pointing to an illustration of the three stars forming an inverted pyramid, "But on Corellia you also had the Ronto and Drall's Hat."

"Seriously?" Vel asked, inwardly groaning that he knew more than she did about the planet she had spent her later childhood and young adult years on. 

"Yes! I shall show you, if our adventures ever take us there, or if you ever have any wish to visit," he volunteered. "But for now, I can show you the only constellation available to us at this location. If you will follow me?"

She rose from her seat, following him off the ship. It was parked on a platform atop a tower on Coruscant, and endless lines of traffic bustled in every direction. A steady hum of speeders and ships reverberated from the depths of the planet to the edge of its atmosphere, and the horizon was filled as far as the eye could see with twinkling lights, flashing billboards, and row after row of towering buildings. 

He walked to the edge of the platform, off to the side near the front of the ship, and tilted his head up at the sky, examining the stars scattered across the sky. "There," he said, pointing above, "Follow the edge of that green antenna upward until you see a tight cluster of three stars together."

Vel stood next to him, cocking her head in a similar manner and squinting to follow his direction. She wrinkled her nose, seeing the green antenna but following it upward, again and again, unable to find anything resembling a star cluster. 

"Look," Tech said, getting close behind her and putting his head right next to hers, over her shoulder. He reached an arm up again, next to her face, and pointed at the tower before drawing a line upward once again. 

But Vel was no longer focused on the stars, instead wildly preoccupied with his sudden closeness. She swallowed, forcing herself to keep her eyes toward the sky, but felt an odd squirming sensation in her stomach. 

"I see it... I think..." she said, positively lying through her teeth but not wanting to appear completely blind. 

"Excellent!" Tech exclaimed, oblivious to her internal turmoil. "That cluster makes the eye of a constellation known as Eryon, or the Burning Snake. If you trace the shape of an S, going to the right from the eye, you will see the rest of the snake." He moved his hand again, drawing the letter in the sky, tilting his face closer to hers so there was a hair's breadth between their cheeks.

She caught a whiff of something, a mix of things that took her a moment to sort out. Burnt metal, fresh soap, and a clean, almost woodsy scent that suddenly catapulted her back to the delight and wonder she felt on Kashyyyk. 

She felt a heat rising into her cheeks, and, almost irresistibly, leaned toward him a tiny bit to rest her cheek against his. Under the premise of stargazing, of course: "I see it," she said, truthfully this time, "All the way down to the tail there?" She hoped to draw his attention away from the touch, but it was a futile attempt.

"Oh, excuse me," he said, pulling away suddenly. "I apologize, I was unaware of my proximity."

"It's okay," she said softly, shuffling her feet. "I didn't mind."

"Anyway, there it is," Tech said, gesturing one last time toward Eryon.

They stood for a moment silently, so much unspoken, and regarded the stars.





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#the bad batch #tbb #star wars fanfiction #bad batch #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #tech fanfic #tech fanfiction #tech x oc #tech slow burn #tech romance #tech bad batch #slow burn romance #slow burn

[cilil]

I don't know if you take random prompts, but... Irmo inventing hallucination mushrooms with Melkor 😂❤️

AN: I do and I apologize for taking so long - TRSB and S&D kept me busy for a while. Anyway, this was a really fun idea and I hope you enjoy this silly little thing😂💜

๑ Characters/relationship(s): Melkor & Irmo ๑ Synopsis: Melkor shows off one of his favorite creations - mushrooms! Irmo, fascinated by these strange new things, has a few ideas. ๑ Warnings: I guess this falls under drug use (kind of)? XD ๑ Short oneshot

"And what can they do?" Irmo pokes the colourful mushroom in front of him, giggling when it bounces back. 

"A better question would be what mushrooms can't do," Melkor says proudly and places another pot on the ground, containing a decaying piece of wood and more mushrooms growing on it. 

"Oh?" Irmo resumes his tactile examination of the wondrous new things he has just discovered; it appears as though the squishy texture provides him with endless delight and entertainment, Melkor notices, pleased with himself. 

"Simply put, mushrooms can grow everywhere and eat everything," he explains. "All they need are a few adjustments depending on what their purpose is supposed to be." 

"Are they like plants?"

"No." Melkor's chest swells with pride; even though part of him despises this question, insinuating that he might depend on the works of Yavanna to make his own, he secretly hoped Irmo would ask - now he gets to explain the true ingeniousness of his creations. 

"They are neither plants nor animals, they are their own kind. It may appear as though they are similar to plants, but they feed on organic substances like animals do. Some help with decay, like the ones here... some may be parasites, some may be symbiotes... I have been experimenting with different types." 

Irmo nods along. "And what about us eating them?" 

Melkor grins. "Well... you can eat them, but some only once." 

"Are they that rare?" 

He has to stop himself from laughing in response to such a naive question, paired with the wide innocence of Irmo's bright purple eyes. 

"No, but some are poisonous." 

The younger Vala pouts. "Námo and Estë won't like that." 

"Námo and Estë will have to accept that not all of my mushrooms want to be eaten." 

The response seems to placate him for the moment, and Irmo picks a mushroom to nibble on it. Melkor stares at him in disbelief, wondering if he either instinctively knew which one to try or if he was just that unbothered by his previous statement. Vala or not, some of his prototypes could have made his fána quite sick. 

Irmo looks up at him, chewing thoughtfully. "But what if it was pink," he muses, "or purple. Or if it emitted glitter when it gets poked or if it made me see things or if it made me feel nice –"

"What are you talking about?" 

"I was just wondering..." 

Ignoring the older Vala's frown, he picks up one of the pots. "May I? Please?" 

Melkor hates being questioned. He usually isn't amenable to suggestions of others either – but Irmo's ideas are so odd and outlandish that he finds himself intrigued nevertheless. What a Fëantur could even want with living things such as his mushrooms is also a bit of a mystery to him; but then again, the younger of the two has always been known to find more delights in the physical world than his brother, his strange penchant for gardening and working as a healer alongside his wife being just two of many examples. 

And so Melkor sits down next to him and listens as he begins to hum a tune, cradling the pot to his chest. They remain like this for a while, one singing, one observing the change in his creations, until Irmo ends his song with a joyful squeal. 

"I am done!" he proclaims. "Our very own marvellous, magical, for-good-mood-only mushrooms!" 

Melkor is already in the process of opening his mouth to correct him when he realises that he said "our". Briefly, he wonders whether such a statement is still an affront to his claim of ownership, but he knows he has to concede that Irmo has put a lot of work into these. Today, he decides, he'll be generous.

The mushrooms Irmo is holding are now light purple, with a few pink and blue ones in-between, their caps have cute dots on them and Melkor is pretty sure their spores would glitter if he poked them.

Irmo offers him the pot. "Try eating one."

"Only if you tell me what they are supposed to do first."

"But I did! I told you I want them to make us feel good and see things." 

"Fine," Melkor grumbles and takes one, watching Irmo enthusiastically consume a handful. 

The first surprise is that they don't taste like cotton candy. The second surprise comes when he begins to feel dizzy, then light, then strangely euphoric. 

Has Irmo's and Estë's garden always been so bright and colourful? Melkor's musings are occasionally interrupted by the Fëantur's quiet giggles as he somehow manages to spin around while remaining seated, seemingly untethered from silly earthly things like gravity.

"See how pretty it looks?" Irmo exclaims, rejoicing. "Now everything can be like a dream, even if you are awake! Is it not lovely?" 

Amused and bemused alike, Melkor nods. Whatever these mushrooms are doing to his fána may not exactly be safe, but since when has being the voice of reason been his job? He'll leave that to Námo, should they end up incurring the ire of the elder Fëantur with their shenanigans – or Estë. 

For reasons inexplicable even to himself, he laughs at the thought. They may come if they so choose, but he's in such a good mood that he might be willing to share. After all, his mushrooms – their mushrooms – seem to be a success, one he will be delighted to relay in great detail the next time Yavanna and Vána complain to him about death and decay. 

Irmo has begun to roll around in the grass, and Melkor takes another purple mushroom. Surely even the other Valar would have to agree that something created in collaboration with one of them, something that contains such boundless joy could hardly be evil?

Thanks for reading!♡

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[leeannsparksauthor]

A Touch of Green

A/N: Hello all, I’ve been replaying the Spider-Man games and now have Peter Parker brainrot because he’s just too freaking adorable. Anywho I was inspired by the dead plant in the opening scene and immediately thought, ‘oh this poor boy, he’s trying.’

Also I wrote this with game Peter in mind but you can really imagine any Peter you prefer, hope you enjoy!

The plain truth is that Peter Parker couldn’t keep a plant alive to save his life.

It was a hard pill for him to swallow. For crying out loud the boy could make web bombs but couldn’t figure out how to keep a succulent thriving for more than a week. You couldn’t help but find it endearing, especially when he would text pictures of his poor neglected plants. Always captioned with ‘I don’t know what I did wrong!’ Usually followed with crying emoji, a pouting one if he was feeling super defeated. 

You remembered when he first moved into his apartment, he was so determined to brighten the place up. It’s just a tragedy that so many lives were lost in his endeavor. 

“Oooo Pete look at this one, it’s only two dollars,” you pointed to the Rattlesnake plant that had seen better days. It was a sad sight, brown leaves falling towards dry potted soil. 

“Uhm, yeah that’s a good price but it’s dead baby, don’t you want to get one of the greener ones?” He asked with his chin resting on your shoulder. One of the many things you loved about Peter was how openly affectionate he was. You sometimes wondered who was the more touch-starved out of the two of you. 

After placing a quick kiss on his cheek you leaned down to move away a few of the dying leaves to reveal healthy stems and the beginnings of new growth. “Well it’s not fully dead yet, it just needs some love and new soil. I think I could easily save this patient, Mr Parker.” Teasing each other came as naturally as breathing most days. 

“There’s not a doubt in my mind about that Doctor,” he said while picking up the pot to place it in your shared cart. You both still lived in separate apartments despite being together for almost two years now. It wasn’t like you hadn't discussed it before but the fear of change and the idea of sharing space caused the topic to be pushed to the back burner. You did ease his worries when you told him that there’s no one else you’d rather live with, it would just take some time, maybe once your lease was up for renewal this year you could both come back to it. “Ya know maybe I should pick up one too…”

His fingers were playfully slapped away from the potential victim. “No, no absolutely not, you are not killing another plant on my watch Pete.” 

“Awww now that’s just not fair babe, I swear I didn’t even miss a watering day on my last one!” You couldn’t help but laugh at the affronted look on his face. He’s just so naturally charming it hurts.

You pushed the cart over to where the bags of soil were placed before attempting to pick up the indoor plant mix. The action was immediately halted by Peter nudging you aside so that he could grab it instead, ever the gentleman, you thought wistfully. “Yeah and then you ended up overwatering it love. You drowned that poor plant!” 

“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to water it every day…”

“It was on the care card Pete, did you even read it?” You knew damn well that he didn’t but boy was it fun to mess with him.

His hand came up to scratch the back of his neck, “I…may or may not have lost the card on the way up to the apartment that day.”

You patted his cheek lovingly, slight stubble underneath your fingertips. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Love me, kiss me, smother me with affection. It’s honestly the only way I wanna go at this point.” You loved his smile, it was so boyish and warm and it just made everything seem right in the world.

“Oh I’ll smother you with something…”

“Oooo you promise?” His hand discreetly traced your ass, which if you could feel it was it really that discreet? He had always surprised you with how flirty he could be, you assumed that he was just full of blushing anxiety when you first met him.

“Head out of the gutter pretty boy, we still gotta do some grocery shopping for dinner.”

His long eyelashes batted themselves at you, “awww you think I’m pretty?”

You smiled at his ridiculousness, “yes, very pretty, now I’ve got chicken thawing in the fridge so what do you think? Should I do chicken fried rice, alfredo, or some chicken soup since it’s kinda chilly?” 

“Hmmm, decisions, decisions…” you could see him suddenly freeze, his spidey sense pumping the brakes on your outing. His phone dinged in his pocket and sirens could be heard in the distance. He gave you an extremely apologetic look, puppy dog eyes and everything. You would have hoped by now that he knew you understood. New York needed their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, even though they didn’t always deserve him. “I’m sorry baby…”

“It’s okay hero, but you still gotta choose which one I make cause I really don’t wanna decide.”

“Uhm, alfredo! I love you so much, I’ll call you later!” He smushed your cheeks together before placing a quick kiss on the fishlips he had created. He was such a goober, but you loved him for it. 

“I love you too.” Your eyes never left him as he weaved between the aisles before barreling out the door. Apologizing to multiple angry New Yorkers he bumped into along the way. You couldn’t help but laugh, thinking to yourself, there goes my boy, off to save the world.

Once you picked up some noodles, broccoli, mushrooms and ingredients to make the sauce you started to make the trek home. Paper bag in one arm and your new plant baby cradled in the other. 

The train was a little late, but what else was new honestly? Once you were seated you heard a notification ding on your phone automatically knowing that it was about Peter’s latest heroics. You told him a while ago that you had notifications set on your phone for all things Spider-Man. You just wanted to know that he was okay, and you were also amused by the ridiculous articles on Spider-Man’s love life. Apparently there was a robbery happening somewhere but there weren’t enough details released yet, you figured Pete would tell you about it later when he came by. Finally arriving at your apartment you leaned against the elevator wall, drained from the day but excited to work on the home tasks you had been mentally compiling throughout the afternoon. 

Your new plant was situated in front of the window. It was much shorter and greener then when it arrived due to cutting away all the dead leaves but now it was nestled in fresh soil and ready for another chance. You couldn’t help the smile that rested on your lips as you looked at all the green surrounding the window. Jeez I really have a problem don’t I, you thought to yourself. Currently the biggest plant in your apartment was your grandma’s pothos she gave you when you moved. Under her care it had thrived and you were heartbroken when it reacted badly on the trip to New York. Luckily she was a resilient one, and you think she could win first prize if she felt so inclined. 

As you gently traced the leaves your mind wandered to Peter which happened multiple times a day. It was like a light bulb went off in your head as you scrambled to reach the top of your fridge that housed multiple empty glass bottles. You knew exactly which one you were looking for and let out a pleased sigh when your fingers grabbed the neck of the bottle. After snipping off a stem from the pothos you gently placed it inside the glass that was now filled with water. The leaves rested over the lip and you couldn’t wait to give the small gift to Peter. I swear if he manages to kill this I’m going to have to take that boy to a botany class or something. 

You were letting the sauce simmer on the stove when Pete called you, his caller ID was a photo of him in his Spidey suit holding an armful of puppies that were up for adoption. He had swung by an event the agency had set up in central park and decided to stay to help all of the babies get adopted. He messaged you insisting that you had to come by and see all of the adorable dogs. Most of whom were adopted by the time you got there. You remembered having to play pretend and ask Spider-Man if you could take a picture of him with the puppies. 

“Yeah of course Ma’am!” He had said in his fake deep voice that he put on for show whenever he got nervous. 

“Hey baby everything okay,” you asked once the call was connected.

“Yup all good, just another bank robbery but it’s all cleaned up and I’m heading your way now.” You could hear the exertion in his voice, the tell-tale sign of him swinging through the city. 

The sauce spoon was tapped against the pan to get all of the excess off of it. “Let me guess it was the hamburglar again?”

“Yeah, the guy just doesn’t know when to quit.” The sounds of the city played in the background, cars honking and people calling out as Peter swung above them.

“Well it’s a good thing Spider-Man was there to save the day. I’m gonna start boiling the pasta so I’ll see you in a bit, we don’t need you hitting another building cause you were swinging on the phone.” You would never forget the day that he slammed into a fire escape because he was too excited to tell you about his promotion to pay attention.

“How dare you, I'm a safe swinger…wait no, that came out wrong.” You could practically hear the blush in his tone and it made you giggle.

“You better be safe while you’re swinging!” The declaration was said between laughter at his words. 

“Always am, love you bug!”

“Love you too baby.” You blew a quick kiss into the phone, waiting for his responding smooch before hanging up. 

He ended up climbing through your window about ten minutes later beating all of the rush traffic. As soon as his feet hit the floor he ripped off his mask and set it on the chair that was designated for his quick changes. “It smells amazing in here!” 

“It tastes even better!” You called over your shoulder as you scooped the noodles out of their pot to mix into the sauce. His chest was pressed against your back as he placed a total of three tiny kisses to your forehead. You turned your head so that you could meet his lips in a soft kiss, you were always so thankful when he came back unscathed, most nights weren’t like this.

“Mmmm, not as good as you though.” Ever the flatterer this guy.

You placed another quick peck on his lips, “that’s very true…oh I have a little something for you!”

“For me? You shouldn’t have!” He exclaimed with ten times the energy you would expect from someone who just stopped a bank robbery.

“It’s nothing too crazy but here…tada!” You showcased the little plant chilling in its water bath and you could see the confusion clear as day on Peter’s face.

He held up the bottle, inspecting the leaves like they were his greatest mystery. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to have plants anymore?”

“No, you're not allowed to kill any more plants, which should be incredibly hard to do with this one.”

“Oh I’m sure I’ll somehow find a way.” He seemed nervous, like he was actually afraid that he was gonna fuck this one up. 

You made a grand gesture towards the small plant. “No cause see, this, this right here, is your son Peter. You love him, you nurture him and best of all you leave him alone! He’s basically just propagating right now so he just stays in the water and he’ll keep growing. I will of course check on him everytime I come over to your place.”

He teasingly fanned himself like he was overcome by the news. “I really wasn’t expecting to become a dad today, this is just all so sudden…wait is this from your big guy in the corner?”

“Yes and kind of selfishly I hope that you think of me each time you look at it.”

“I’m already thinking of you all the time so no worries there. Hey, is this a bottle from Julia’s place down the street?” It was also the place where you guys had your first date and had since become your favorite shared restaurant.  

“What a keen eye you have there Mr Parker.”

His eyes seemed to gloss over with affection, adoration, admiration, and all of the a words that described love and happiness. “I love you.”

You gave that look right back to him tenfold. “I love you too, and because I love you I’m going to politely say that you stink and that you need a shower before dinner.”

“Yeah you can just feel the love in the room.”

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #no use of y/n #the amazing spider-man #spider-man game #one-shot #peter parker cant keep a plant alive #spider verse

[phyllisthefirst]

[This fic is entirely about the fictionalized representations of the men of Easy Company that we see on the show. I mean no disrespect to the real men by writing this.]

[Previous Part] [on ao3]

Donald Malarkey x OC

Summary: "Technical Advisor" for an Airborne exhibition in Paris - it’s a pity assignment, and Don doesn’t expect to actually have to put in any work. He’s going to enjoy the sights of Paris, do only as much as absolutely necessary, and wait out the end of the war. At least, that's the plan. He just hasn’t counted on Beatrice Mowbray - the historian determined to turn a pile of shot-up planes into an interesting exhibition. 

Tagging @next-autopsy. If anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know!

Babe, there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you - Part 5

Somehow, their one dinner outing turns into a habit: After spending the day sorting through interviews and debating how to use them, there inevitably comes a point where Beatrice's temper begins to shorten, which he has come to know means she's getting hungry. She never seems to make that same connection, always trying to ignore her body’s boundaries and push on, and it falls to him to coax her into taking a break. 

It's one observation on his growing list of things he notices about her with a certain fondness. 

There are other things, too: The way she frowns at her notes when she’s thinking, the way she tries to type more quietly when he's working nearby, the way she always makes sure to check at least three times that she's got everyone's names down correctly.

“It's not that important,” Don argues. “Most of the men only called each other by their nicknames anyway. I’d have to think real hard about what Babe Heffron’s real name is.”

“But it's important to be accurate, especially with historical details. And names are vital identifying markers later on. 200 years from now, no historian is going to be able to find “Babe Heffron” in official listings.”

“200 years from now, huh? I didn't realize we were looking to leave this much of an impact.”

She looks affronted at that, and Don knows before she starts speaking that a) he's in for a long rant on the importance of historical documentation and b) he's going to enjoy every second of it - not because he's that passionate about historical documentation but because she is, and when she gets into her little lectures her cheeks flush and her bun comes a little undone and she looks absolutely adorable. 

They bicker about the issue for a good half an hour longer before deciding to list both the men's names and their nicknames, an idea Don considered suggesting from the start. It's just more fun to do it this way. 

By the time they get to the restaurant, a tiny bistro a little ways down the street, she's still talking about work-related stuff, and once again it falls to him to all but force her to take her mind off it. 

“So, what are your plans after all this?” The moment the words are out, he feels a pang of regret - he’s been very good this far at not thinking about after, and now he’s the one who brought it up. But she only shrugs. 

“I don’t know. Go back to Harvard, try and get a job at the university again. Maybe with the exhibition under my belt, I have an actual shot at something worthwile.” 

He whistles through his teeth. 

“So if I ever feel myself missing your lectures, all I have to do is get into Harvard? That’s reassuring.” 

“Lectures?” She grimaces, her face falling. “I’ll be lucky if someone takes me on as their research assistant and lets me do some actual research instead of just secretarial work. Who knows if I’ll ever actually get to read at any university.” 

Don’s stomach sinks. He should have known not to bring it up - her career, much like his time on the front lines, is a sore topic, and one that never fails to make her a little bitter. It saddens him to see her like this, to witness the world try again and again to extinguish that spark that burns so brightly inside her. He's ashamed of himself whenever he thinks of their early time together, of the fact that he too tried to dull that fire.

“You could always write a book. We’re certainly collecting enough material.” 

For a moment, Beatrice squints at him with a look of mistrust, then her expression brightens. 

“You think?”

He nods. 

“Someone will probably do it eventually, right? Might as well be someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who knew us, not some history geek 200 years in the future.” 

She elbows him reproachfully, but she also hides a smile behind a slice of baguette, and Don feels very smug about that.

The clouds on her face don’t return for the entire meal. It feels like a victory.    

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey #donald malarkey/oc #donald malarkey x oc #this is so short it barely needs a read more. but if I don't get back into posting this I'll get stuck entirely.

[popjunkie42]

After many, many years, dipping a toe back into fanfiction writing with a short piece I’m working on from ACOMAF. Feyre has just come to the Townhouse in Velaris and the Inner Circle is curious about Rhysand’s motives. A Rhys POV.

Figuring out an ending and where I’ll be posting, but stay tuned. This has been fun.

“We are not going to war, unless Tamlin incites one. A possibility we should be prepared for but not provoke. Yes, he will rage, but Mor and I avoided the worst of affronts the other High Lords might feel the need to act upon. I didn’t set foot in that manor.” I grabbed a bowl of berries, hunger suddenly roaring awake inside me. I couldn’t remember my last meal. “The High Lord knows his own warbands are no match for the Illyrians. If Vanserra can make him see reason, he’ll turn to other methods. That’s what we’ll need to watch,” I looked at Azriel, who nodded.

Cassian had finished his second muffin and it unfortunately had allowed his mind to focus on something other than his growling stomach. “Hold on for a second, let’s back up here. We don’t all have shadow whisperers and chummy breakfasts with Prythian’s savior,” he cocked an eyebrow at Mor who smiled sweetly. “What happened? And why is Feyre here?”

“Yes, Rhys, it seems like quite a jump from your silly bargain at the Palace, to whisking her away from Spring to your spare bedroom in Velaris.” Oh, Amren was in a mood all right. And now she and Cassian could smell blood in the water.

I knew I should have been prepared for this conversation, knew even weeks ago it was one possibility out of many that would have to be faced with my family. Even last night, as I sat on the couch counting each of Feyre’s breaths, half waiting for Azriel to come and whisper in my ear that Tamlin’s forces were at the border, I knew I should have prepared some acceptable diplomatic version of the story. But here I was, at a loss for words. Or at least, the appropriate ones.

Why is Feyre here? Where to fucking begin. Because she’s my mate, because she was dying, because I’m terrified Amarantha and Tamlin had broken something essential in her that my stupid teasing and training couldn’t begin to touch. Because all my body was screaming at me to do was to hold her in my arms until she told me she was okay, that maybe I could help coax out just a little bit of her fierce spirit and that I would give anything to do it. Because doing such things were absolutely impossible, but I could get her out from Tamlin’s claws, maybe for just long enough to not let her sink any further inward.

These weeks of a thousand cuts and drops of blood, of her fear and anguish, her endless nightmares, her bones jutting through skin and even worse, the numb, growing void within her that seemed to expand in her mind each day - these weeks had finally crescendoed into unacceptable pain for Feyre and there was no other choice but to act. I was ashamed I had waited so long, had stood aside while she withered and starved. And she was here because she had looked at me, locked me in her desperate gaze, and begged for help, and I would never deny her anything.

My brother was getting none of those explanations. I sighed quietly and looked to Mor, trying to hide the pleading question in my eyes. Thank the Cauldron for my cousin.

She took a deep breath and sat down her tea. “I think we’ve shared that Feyre’s treatment by Tamlin has been…troublesome. And she’s struggled a great deal after Under the Mountain,” Mor’s eyes, along with the rest of my inner circle’s, drifted away from me and hovered in more neutral territory. Fine, assholes, I get it, she’s not the only one. “And also, that she seems rather unaware of her potential powers. All that coalesced yesterday when Tamlin confined her to the manor, and she…exploded.”

#acotar #feysand #acomaf #fanfic #work in progress

[spitfire-of-the-sea]

Into the Frying Pan

Work is kicking my ass (3 lectures to give next week...) and so I've been quiet for a bit. Here some random dummy Spade Pirates bit. :D Don't judge me. My brain is mush. Using this as my "freestyle" part of my BINGO card :D @onepiece-bingo

Spade Pirates scenario; Features Ace, Deuce, Saber and Saki. SFW IQ level -10. :D

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All she could do for a very long moment was stare, jaw slack and eyes wide.

She’d expected some mayhem – it had been awfully quiet, she hadn’t seen Ace, Saber, or Deuce anywhere on the ship and that usually spelled trouble. Ace and Saber both being quiet, that in itself was a sure way to know that something was about to go down; she never knew what it was, but sometimes it involved explosions and sometimes it involved a whole Marine squadron chasing them, and never in the history of the Spade Pirates had it ever ended in sunshine and peace.

However, it was the fact that Deuce had felt the need to leave his spot on deck and with it his notebook into which he’d been scribbling furiously only minutes ago that really worried her. So she’d already mentally prepared herself for worst-case scenarios. Missing fingers. A hole in the ship’s belly. An accidental duel challenge sent to one of the 7 Warlords of the Sea. Perhaps a body they had to dispose of – she had a plan for that at least, and it involved shark bait and a location not far from here.

She had not been prepared for this sight, though. All three of her boys stared at her. She stared back and then slowly took a step back. Then another. No questions, no lies. Her hand slid to the doorknob as she started to gently close the door again she’d ripped open only seconds earlier with enough nervous energy to almost unhinge it.

She made the mistake to look up briefly and eye Ace, who stood right in the middle of the room, his skin glistening with oil as if he’d stepped right out of one of those weirdly sexualized calendars featuring the Top Tier Pirates To Watch Out For. He was shirtless and hat-less. SadlyThankfully he still wore his shorts. A drop of oil slowly made its way down his chest, following the line of his pectorals down to his stomach.

She snapped her eyes back to his face, but not before she had caught sight of the cooking oil canister at his feet; and not before she had registered Saber’s and Deuce’s glistening hands, very clearly covered in oil and hovering just centimeters from Ace’s oil-slickened skin.

No questions, no lies, she told herself and gently pressed the door closed, turning around and taking a shaky step away from it. She needed to learn to knock. Even if it was the kitchen and she’d never in her life knocked on a kitchen door.

She hadn’t gotten further than three steps before the door burst open and three furiously blushing men tried to exit the kitchen and come after her at the same time. They got stuck for a moment but apparently, the oil helped a bit – Ace popped out onto deck like a slippery fish.

“It’s not what it looks like!” he assured her, quickly following her. She didn’t stop and tried to keep her mind from derailing completely. The thing was… she wasn’t even sure what it looked like. It had a positively pornous feeling to it.

“No question,” she told him and took a deep breath, “no lies.” She managed two more steps before they caught up to her, and a third one before a combination of shouts, pleas, and hands gripping her by the shirt made her tumble backward mid-step.

“We just wanted to try-…,” Ace started.

“Actually, I didn’t think it was a good idea to begin with but then they convinced me to at least give it a shot,” Deuce rattled off, his fingers tugging on her shirt.

“It’s anyways your fault!” Saber threw in and she reeled back.

“Excuse me?!” She was affronted. Utterly affronted! How was it her fault they were rubbing Ace all over with oil?! How was it her fault when she’d not put a single finger on him?!

“… because it seemed like a fun idea and the oven is broken…,” Ace continued.

“… and scientifically speaking, it’s interesting if he manages to get the oil to the correct temperature…,” Deuce had let go of her shirt and was pacing around her now.

“It was you who said that we could just use him instead of the oven to fry our food instead of having to eat it raw…!” Saber waved his arms, his face crimson. “It was your idea!”

She stared at them.

“…so if I control the temperature enough to not make the oil burn, then we can just fry the meat directly like this…,” Ace was still explaining.

“I was just really, really hungry, and I thought it was worth the shot, I mean, he’s gotten much better at controlling his fire…!” Deuce grabbed her hand again, gesturing toward their captain. “He can do it!”

“You need oil to fry stuff…! We just said we’ll help him with it, he can’t properly reach everywhere…!” Saber finished, huffing and puffing.

She stared some more and then delicately extracted herself from Deuce’s grip. “Have any of you,” she started and then paused for a moment. Any of you complete retards, she wanted to say but didn’t. Because she was a nice person. “Has any of you considered,” she tried again and stopped then. Her hand came up and she pinched the bridge of her nose. They looked at her and she watched Ace dribble oil onto the deck. She took a deep breath.

“Has any of you considered that he can literally just hold the pan in his hands and we don’t need to use him like a hot plate?” she asked, very quietly.

“Oh,” Ace said and nodded.

“Oh,” Saber echoed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, spreading oil all over it.

Deuce remained quiet and stared at his hands, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I can’t believe they got me to do this. It seemed so logical.”

She noticed that she was still staring at each. Standing out here in the sun he was glistening and it was fairly distracting. Swallowing heavily, she tried very hard not to think about eating anything off of him, and by virtue of trying not to think about it, she thought very hard about it. Especially considering Saber mentioned "everywhere".

#ace one piece #one piece #portgas d. ace #gol d. ace #portas d. ace #spade pirates #spade pirates saki #ace x oc #fire fist ace #masked deuce #one piece bingo

[heliads]

Onlookers

Based on this request: “Thomas x Reader: (this is when Gally shot chuck) The group is almost out, but Gally can’t help himself and holds y/n hostage (he has always been jealous of her and thomas’ relationship).”

masterlist

“He’s staring at us again.”

Thomas groans. “No he’s not. Tell me he’s not.” 

You laugh. “He very much is. Look by the Builders.” 

Thomas lifts his head from where it’s been leaning against yours. His eyes scan the Glade, taking in every nook and cranny of the place. At last, he grimaces. 

“He is. Why can’t Gally just mind his own business for once?”

You raise an eyebrow. “After you’ve been so kind to each other once you showed up here? Why would Gally ever have reason to bother you?” 

Thomas pokes you in the shoulder. “Rude. I have been nothing but kind to everyone-” 

You break into incredulous laughter, and although Thomas pretends to look affronted, he can’t keep a smile back for longer than a few seconds. “Okay, maybe not. But still- I feel like Gally can let us have this one moment, right?”

And what a moment it is. The sun is beginning to set on the Glade, draping the entire space with elegant swathes of gold and amber light. The walls of the Maze, which are usually so foreboding, seem warmer now, less inhospitable. Later, when the night begins to set in earnest, they’ll become imposing once more, and you’ll draw closer to Thomas when the creaks and groans of the Grievers drift out from the Doors.

For now, though, it’s nice. You can hear a low babble of chatter coming from deeper within the Glade, where many of the Gladers are spread out along tables and benches to talk through their days while eating whatever Frypan managed to come up with for dinner. Usually, you and Thomas would join their ranks, but tonight you’re content to just be here with him.

The two of you are a short distance away from the main crowd of Gladers, electing instead to sit together at the base of a few trees where you can be alone. You love spending time with your friends, of course, but sometimes you just want to be alone with your boyfriend. Besides, as Minho so kindly put it, the other Gladers don’t want to be reminded of the fact that they’re all terribly single, so you and Thomas take pity on them and go somewhere else, somewhere separate, when you want to be together.

The only problem with this is that not every Glader trapped within the walls of the Maze is so willing to accept your relationship with Thomas. Sure, it took a while to convince Alby that it was a good idea to not send Thomas permanently into the Slammer for daring to kiss your cheek, but ever since then, everyone has been pretty fine with it. There’s only one exception, of course, or at least one vocal exception, and that’s Gally.

You knew this would be an issue ever since Thomas came up from the Box and you fell in love with him the first time. Gally’s been not-so-secretly crushing on you for a while now, even if he tries to hide it, so when you went and set your heart on the Greenie, Gally was furious. He’s done his best to pretend that he only hates Thomas because he’s a Greenie, or because he keeps insisting on trying to figure out the Maze, but you and Thomas know the truth.

Take right now- although Gally is pretending for all to see that he’s locked into a conversation with a few of the other Builders, his gaze keeps flickering over to where you sit with Thomas. You can see the furrows in his brow deepen with every detail. When Thomas shifts to put an arm around your shoulders, you swear that Gally’s about to snap the handle of his mug in two.

However, you’ve learned to deal with Gally ever since you arrived in the Maze yourself, so you pay him no mind. In the end, why should you? You have everything you could want right here- your head leaning on Thomas’ shoulder, both of you pressed to the other’s side as you sit together in the gathering dusk of night. You’ll have to go in eventually, but for now, you can just stay here with him. What more could you want?

Well, you can think of one thing that would be nice: for the two of you to be safe. You don’t think that anyone could drag Thomas away from the Maze, as he’s been practically obsessed with it since the day he showed up here, but for once you’d like to know that he’ll be safe when he leaves you for the morning to go jog its twisting corridors. You can’t deny the grateful leap of your heart when you see him return each afternoon, and that one incident when he spent the night behind its walls nearly killed you.

Now, though, the one worrying about safety isn’t just you but Thomas as well. Teresa arrived a day or so ago, bearing a warning that she would be the only Greenie to show up again, and now the doors to the Maze refuse to close. Darkness is setting upon the Glade, and right now the only thing you can do is wait for the Grievers to show up. If they aren’t kept in by the walls, there’s nothing to stop them from coming inside and killing all of you.

Thomas stays close by your side. “It’s okay,” he says, “We’ll figure out a way to stay alive.” 

Neither of you say what’s really on your mind: there is no way of telling this, not at all. You don’t even know if they’ll leave when the morning comes. What is to stop the Grievers from staying until they kill all of you? You take Thomas’ hand when you start to hear the groans and roars drawing closer to the Doors. If you’re going to die here, at least you won’t be alone.

Thomas kisses your forehead as glints of steel start to appear. 

“Stay with me.” 

“Until the end.” 

Screams start to erupt around the Glade as the first of the Grievers start to appear. The only thing you can do now is survive; who knows how long. Just keep drawing breath until you can’t.

In the end, though, you find yourself alive. You emerge with shaking hands, Thomas by your side. The huts and structures of the Maze are practically rubble, and the bodies of friends you’d once known litter the ground. There’s an awful smell of smoke and copper that won’t seem to leave. What’s worse, Thomas decides to stab himself with a Griever’s stinger, thinking that it will help him understand how to leave. He kissed you once before he did it, just in case he didn’t make it out of the haze of being Stung. Should you have known by that look in his eyes that he was about to make a mistake? If you did, why didn’t you stop him?

He comes out of it eventually, although the sound of his screams echoing from the Med-Jack hut will haunt your nightmares for many days to come. Just when you’re about to go to him, though, you’re stopped by Gally. He orders his Builders to tie Thomas and Teresa to poles, something about how by getting rid of them the Glade will be safe again. Newt and Minho stop you from trying to free them and making a mistake by alienating Gally; they only talk you down by explaining a plan to free Thomas and Teresa a little later.

Reluctantly, you go with them, and offer Thomas a determined nod and smile when he meets your eyes to show that you won’t be giving up on him that easily. Gally, however, takes that as a sign that you’ll be walking away from Thomas forever, and laughs to see how easily you’ll be giving up on your supposed boyfriend.

This only makes it easier to knock him away from Thomas and cut your boyfriend down when Newt and Minho give the signal. Standing there, weapon in your hand and Thomas beside you once more, makes you feel like you could take on the world. The shocked look on Gally’s face doesn’t hurt either.

The Builder tries to convince you to stay, though, as he tries to convince the rest of the Glade. However, you know just as well as the others do that there’s no way you’ll survive another night when the Doors don’t close, and you say as much. Besides, even if you do die trying to fight your way out of the Maze, at least you’ll die fighting instead of fleeing. Thomas holds your hand as the two of you race through the corridors of the Maze. Isn’t this something worth dying for?

You don’t die, though, despite all of the odds stacked against you. Sure, you have to fight past what feels like countless waves of Grievers, but Thomas and the others manage to find their way through and get the survivors into the so-called Griever Hole. It hurts to see how few people you have left, and how many bodies you had to leave behind in the Maze, but you’re living for them now. The best thing you can do to honor their lives is to keep going forward.

You and Thomas walk side by side through the wreckage of a control room, taking in the flickering lights and shattered glass displays with wide eyes. When you see the final message from Ava Paige, you feel this awful emptiness come over you. Why did you do all of this, then? Where are the people ready to get you out, to help you be free? You might have been test subjects all along, but don’t you deserve something for passing their trials?

As it turns out, however, you are not alone. Gally finds his way to the group of surviving Gladers, and stands before you, gun in hand. He’s practically shaking, but you can’t tell why- fear, maybe? Horror at the lives lost? Guilt that he wasn’t one of them, or relief? His eyes catch on you before he goes too far, and he lunges towards you with almost inhuman speed.

Gally’s hand closes around your wrist and drags you over to him. There’s a metallic click and the barrel of the gun is pressed against your forehead. The Gladers all look terrified, but Thomas most of all. There’s a fear in his eyes so strong that you’re almost afraid for him, even though you’re the one whose life is at risk. 

Thomas speaks, voice firm. “Gally, let her go.”

Gally shakes his head wildly. “No, no. She stays. We all stay. The Glade is our home, we can’t leave. We were never meant to leave.” 

At last, something occurs to you. It’s a bad idea, especially for you, but it means the rest of your friends could live. Isn’t that enough? You turn to Gally, careful to keep your voice light. 

“I’ll stay, Gally. We can go back to the Glade. Just let them go.”

Gally’s eyes are bloodshot. They don’t even seem to belong to him. “You’ll stay?” 

You manage to nod. “Yeah. Just let them go, alright?” 

Gally seems to accept this. “Okay.” 

Thomas speaks again, his voice almost strangled. “Y/N, what are you doing?” 

You manage a smile. “I’m saving you, Thomas. You have to make it out.” 

He shakes his head, even as Newt and Minho start to drag him out. “No. No! I’m not leaving you!”

You feel a tear start to fall down your cheek. “I love you, Thomas. I always will. I just need you to make it out.” 

The rest of the Gladers have gone now, with Thomas being the last even as he tries to fight his way back. Is it better this way? Just as you’re about to turn to Gally and try to figure out your next step, though, you notice movement from a door behind you. Gally hasn’t noticed, because he’s still looking at you.

Seconds later, the door behind Gally flies open. He’d taken the gun away from you once everyone left, so he wasn’t prepared when the rest of the Gladers came back. Thomas races to you, and you run with the rest towards the door once more. Minho launches a spear at Gally to keep him back, and from there all you can see is Thomas beside you as you sprint back towards the relative safety of the exit. Newt slams the door shut once everyone is through and you stand there for a second, trying to get your breathing back to normal.

Thomas pulls you into his arms as if to check that you’re still there. “Don’t ever do that again.” He says, and you grin. 

“What, try to save your life?” 

He nods. “I don’t want to have to go through all this without you, Y/N.” 

You smile, taking his hand. “You don’t have to anymore. You got me out, right? We’re all here. All we have to do now is figure out where we want to go. We don’t have to be separated anymore.” 

For once, you don’t have any doubts.

maze runner tag list: gally wishes he had what we have @rogueanschel​, @ellobruv-blog​, @lxncelot​, @neewtmas​

#thomas #thomas imagines #thomas x reader #thomas oneshot #maze runner #maze runner imagines #maze runner x reader #maze runner oneshot #maze runner thomas #maze runner thomas imagines #maze runner thomas x reader #maze runner thomas oneshot #tmr #tmr imagines #tmr x reader #tmr oneshot #tmr thomas #tmr thomas imagines #tmr thomas x reader #tmr thomas oneshot

[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

“So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)

@nineteenfiftyone​ @harryslilkat​ @galacticferns​ @ficrecrry​ @morethanamelodyy​ @hoeeforstyles​ @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music​ @mintchipstyles​ @sstarkme​ @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l​

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #one direction smut #one direction writing #spyrry #holy shit #i can not believe how long this took to write i'm so glad to finally post it

[tinyyoungblood]

Did you see my Peter Parker request bestie of you coming through peters window and him helping you patch your wounds like you have done for him in the past. He was the only place you could think of with as much pain you were in on little to no time you almost faint when you get through his window. And he might kiss some of your wounds because he’s not really sure what else he can do to make you feel better ? 🥺👉🏻👈🏻🥰🥺🥺🥺🥺

ring pop | peter parker

pairing: peter parker x avenger!reader

warning: angst, mention of blood, fluff

a/n: writing headcanons for so long has literally butchered my ability to string proper sentences together so this is rough lol, but i loved this request! listen to “ring pop” by jax if you want the full fluff experience. enjoy x

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Before you say anything—” You held up your palms as Peter’s eyes widened in the dark, taking in your battered form from where he lied on his bed. A chill creeped through the opened window, making you shiver and grit your teeth. “I just want to let you know that if I don’t make it tonight, you have full permission to use my eulogy as a posthumous lecture.”

“A posthumous—” Peter cast his notebook to the side and got to his feet. “Y/N, you’re bleeding. What happened?”

“Is May home?” You asked quickly, ignoring his question.

“May?” Peter repeated, staring at you like he had never heard of that woman.

“Your aunt?” Your vision started to get patchy.

“My—” He shook his head. “May isn’t home, it’s just us. But you know that, it’s Wednesday, she always works late on Wednesdays.”

Peter was rambling now, talking to you like you weren’t dripping blood on the pillow on his floor. Or maybe he wasn’t, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the stabbing pain on your left shoulder, piercing into your arm like lightning.

At once, Peter stopped talking. “You’re not okay,” he pointed out, though he had said it to no one in particular.

“What gave it away?” You retorted half-heartedly. Narrowing his eyes at you, he stepped forward. Before you could protest, Peter was already in front of you, lifting your arms carefully as he raked your body.

You winced as his hand bumped into your waist and he immediately let go, flashing you an apologetic look. His voice was laced with concern. “What happened to you?”

Your neck ached a little from a muscular knot you’d hardly noticed before. It throbbed now with discomfort and strain. You offered him a crooked smile. “I slipped.”

“You did not slip,” Peter scoffed, ever the realist, and took your hand, lacing it with yours while guiding you to sit down on his bed. “You’re one sneeze away from death, Y/N. Tell me what happened.”

Peter kneeled on the carpet floor and retrieved the first aid kit from under his bed. It was covered in glow-in-the-dark cars stickers, which you recognised from a fair that you had once went to together. It was the only thing you had won that night and Peter had smiled so brightly when you gave them to him, but somehow, you still found yourself surprised to see them in his possession.

“I fell off a roof,” you said, tracing the lining of his blanket as Peter popped the lid open. His eyes flicked to yours before he went back to taking out some cotton balls. He stepped into the space framed by your knees and peeled off the remnants of your suit, rolling it to rest at your waist. A deep punctured wound glared at him.

“Did you fall into a thorn bush?” Peter asked drily. “Or was there a spear on the sidewalk that impaled you?”

You winced as he tapped the soaked cotton balls on your skin, the alcohol burning in a way that you weren’t used to. He was gentle and froze whenever you flinched before continuing, but you knew by his flat gaze that he wanted the real answer or nothing. You cleared your throat and fixed your eyes on his dishevelled curls. “Fine,” you murmured. “Someone pushed me off the roof.”

Peter glanced at you. Without saying a word, he pressed the bottle of rubbing alcohol into your hands. You watched as he picked up some gauze and signalled for you to lift your left arm. Cautiously, he draped the clean piece of cloth around your forearm. His knuckles brushed against your skin. You took a breath. “There were four guys trying to break into the flower shop across Delmar’s. One of them got ahold of my sheath and things got ugly. But I swear I’m fine,” you added as Peter worked on your other arm.

He tied the ends into a knot and nodded to the bandage that he had just secured on your left arm. “You’re already bleeding through your bandages. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

You glanced down. A faint red blossom of blood had spread on the bandage. You tugged awkwardly at the strip of gauze. “Subjectively fine,” you amended before looking up, turning your narrowed gaze to his. “This isn’t fair. I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this when you slip into my room nearly every night while bleeding to death.”

Peter looked affronted at that. “It’s not the same.”

“How is that not the same?” You asked incredulously.

“Because it’s me,” Peter snapped. “I’m the one bleeding. Not you. That’s what makes this not fine.”

“Oh, please.” Scorn dripped off your lips. “Don’t pull that white knight bullshit on me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”

You snatched the gauze out of his hands and fiddled with it. The next bandage had to be wrapped under your arm and around your shoulder. You knew how to take care of wounds—the task had become a vital skill in not only your life—but this was more challenging than you would ever admit. You simply couldn’t reach that way. Your limbs were still aching and you felt the beginning of an awful headache coming. Having Peter watch you intensely didn’t help your case either, especially when annoyance and pity flashed in those brown eyes that you normally sought out for comfort. There was no comfort in this.

But you weren’t going to be the one to ask for help, and Peter knew that. He loosened a breath and held out his open palm to you, waiting patiently for you to relent. You stared at his hand for a moment and dropped the gauze roll into it. Silently, Peter worked on your arm, leaning in to loop the bandage behind you. You were both aware of how close he was. His warm breath fanned over the shell of your ear.

Peter wrapped the strip around your arm twice and tied it near the joint. You expected him to step back, facing you with an expression that was most likely regret or spite or both. But he didn’t budge. Both of you had gone utterly still.

Your pulse picked up. You knew that Peter could hear it, probably see it too. You wondered if it matched his own beat. But before you even knew what his intentions were, Peter lowered his head.

His lips hovered just above the warm juncture between your shoulder and the column of your neck—a spot that Peter always seemed to gravitate to. You drew in a sharp breath. The barest movement and his lips brushed your skin. Desire and a sense of familiarity coursed through you.

“I don’t want to fight,” he mumbled. “I just…I don’t know what else to do.” He left a trail of warm, soft kisses down your slender neck. You exhaled slowly and let Peter say what he needed to say without uttering a single word. He pressed a kiss to the end of your jawline and moved smoothly up to your ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Then he stepped back and looked you in the eyes. “It’s fine,” you said, the beginning of a smile forming on your lips. “Just don’t give me a hard time when it’s uncalled for. You patched up my wounds. That is enough.”

Peter didn’t look convinced. He lifted an eyebrow as you pulled him forward, pushing him into the mattress so you were lying side by side. Comfortable silence fell. Your eyelids felt heavier with each second, memories of vivid city lights blurred inside your head as you slipped in and out of consciousness. You knew you had to change out of your suit, but the softness of his duvet was too alluring. Too peaceful.

You felt warm breath fanning over your arm, followed by the soft press of familiar lips.

“What are you doing?” You asked, opening your eyes and pushing Peter’s face gently away. His curls fell carelessly onto your cheek as he looked up at you with raised brows. You caught a whiff of his shampoo. You loved that smell.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m kissing your boo-boos better.” He made to lower his head again, and you laughed.

“Don’t call them boo-boos. I was literally stabbed with a knife.”

He growled against your collarbone. “Don’t remind me.” Again, those lips on your skin.

If you had thought that peace was the cosiness of Peter’s bed, then you stood corrected. You found peace in the careful and tender kisses Peter left on your skin. You found it in the way his thumb rubbed mindless circles into your waist—careful not to touch any bruises. Even the citrus smell of his shampoo, surrounding you like a daydream felt like peace to you.

Everything about Peter Parker brought you peace and comfort.

“I have something for you,” Peter said, grinning excitedly.

“Oh?”

You watched as Peter rose to his feet, almost tripping over the notebook he had tossed to the ground after you had climbed through his window. He stumbled to the desk and shuffled through his papers until he found what he was looking for and let out a pleased hum. He lied back down beside you, propping himself on his elbow before presenting you a small object.

“A ring pop?” You asked, amused. Peace, peace, peace.

Peter shrugged, eyes cast downward. “Yeah, is that okay?” He said. “I know it’s not enough but—”

“It’s perfect,” you cut in, the corners of your mouth began to hurt from how broadly you smiled.

“I…” Peter blinked at you. “You’re sure?”

You nodded and your mouth quirked to the side. “As long as this is not my engagement ring, it’s more than enough.”

Chuckling, Peter slipped the ring pop on your finger and gave the back of your hand a kiss. He then twisted and grabbed the water bottle standing on his night stand. He unscrewed the cap and took off the plastic ring that sat at the neck of the bottle, offering it to you.

“It’s just a promise,” he explained before shooting you a toothy grin. “So we can both be each other’s annoying white knights.”

“I like that,” you responded, mirroring his grin. You slipped the plastic ring on his finger and frowned. It was hardly big enough and sat awkwardly at his knuckle.

“It doesn’t fit,” you said uselessly, and Peter waved you off.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get me a ring pop when your organs work again.” He shot you a wink. “Everyone deserves an edible promise ring, don’t you think?”

You laughed.

Peace, peace, peace.

* * *

stay hydrated pals

#peter parker #peter parker x avenger!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker angst #peter parker fluff #peter parker one shot #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fandom #avenger!reader #spider man #mcu spiderman #peter parker oneshot

[tommyspeakycap]

Can I request some chilly fluff? Anything really, just some cute sweet chilly fluff with a little bit of angst maybe?

of course! here's an idea that's been swimming around my brain all day lol

helping hand

ben isn't coping with his newest responsibility and his best friend comes to save the day once again

It's honestly less about the news than it is about the fact that you didn’t here it from him. Texts have gone mostly unanswered since you read that online article you first believed was false, only for it to be confirmed by him. You offered a congratulations despite the pain it brought to you to hear that you had completely lost your chance.

You had probably called him about a million times, each time ringing out and some even being hung up after merely a few rings.

At first, you worried that something had happened. Then you managed to wrangle the news out of Mason that everything was well, you let yourself have those days of utter heartbreak that he had found a girl, started to settle down and then completely cut you out of the picture. This was the first time in all of your 23 years that you hadn't been able to speak to him about things that were going on. He seemed to have completely fogotten about you and you couldn't bring yourself to think of a reason why.

She never really did like you, his girlfriend. You could only imagine it had something to do with the fact that Ben was incredibly close with you. A lot of girls had been unhappy with the fact that while dating Ben, they were subject to teasing that everyone was surprised he was dating when they had thought he was so clearly in love with you. You understand that, it would be irritating but nothing had ever happened between you and Ben that might suggest you would ever get together. People just love a rumour.

What had really hit you, however was seeing her from the Instagram you followed. She didn't even appear to be in London, never mind with him and that made no sense by the timeline you had managed to figure out.

That's how you found yourself standing at his door with what felt like a million bags and a feeling of hurt you had never actually had before. You cornered Mason, refusing to leave until he told you what the hell was going on and when he did, you were gone like a flash with a broken heart to seek out the man who needed you now more than he ever did.

Your heart shatters even more when you step into his house, pushing it open and pulling out the key he gave you a few months ago as you head carefully to the kitchen. You can hear him trying to talk, his voice strained and croaky as he attempts to speak over the sound of the screaming baby girl.

"Come on sweetheart," he begs, "Please take your bottle, I promise you're just tired."

His house is messier than you've ever seen it with gifts unopened, blankets and bottles, baby toys and clothes strewn around everywhere you could see.

You're quick and quiet to get to work clearing the place up, clean clothes being folded and sat in his clean laundry hamper while sorting the dirty things and shoving them into the washing machine by colour before tidying away all the blankets into the baby boxes he had set up in his front room. The infant upstairs screams the entire time you whiz around, throwing an entire bin bag worth of rubbish out of his kitchen before restocking all the shelves and his empty fridge with food for him and milk powder for the little girl. The pizza you shoved in the oven the second you arrived was finished after 15 minutes, so you plated that and left it on the kitchen island before you decided to make you presence known to him.

"Need a helping hand?"

His head whips around rapidly, instinctively tucking his daughter closer into his chest before he recognised your voice and turned his face back away from you. "You shouldn't be here, (y/n)." He mumbles, bouncing his legs to try and get that screeching to stop before he starts crying again himself.

How had everything ended up so messy? He found a girl that he thought he loved, he had his best friends and he had you. She got pregnant and he was ecstatic until she told him she wasn't interested in having a baby. It was too late to do anything about it, so she gave birth to that baby and legally signed over parental rights wholly and fully to a destroyed Ben. You, of course, had to find this out half from the tabloids and half from Mason. Ben was absolutely affronted. He was mortified. How had he gotten himself in this position?

You were the first and only person he wanted to tell. He was desperate to seek out your arms and have an absolute sob to you so you could help him fix this like you do with everything else, but he couldn't bring himself to face you. He cut you off slowly and carefully without even noticing himself because she had coaxed him into it. She played him like a fiddle, let him grow her platform and fund her lifestyle until she had everything she wanted from him and left him with something that was supposed to be theirs to love forever.

As if things couldn't get worse, from the moment he found out she was having a baby he had realised he didn't want kids or a life with anyone but you and now here he is, with a baby that has no mother and he had lost you. How could he just go back crying to you now after all the hurt he had caused you? What kind of person does that? He made this mess and it was his to clean up.

"Mason told me what happened. You can fight me all you want, Ben but I'm not going to go anywhere so you may as well just let me help." You say firmly, not inviting a single space for him to actually contest your words. His shoulder deflate even further than they already are as he finally turns to meet your eyes.

There's bags and dark circles beneath his with greasy, messy hair and a shirt he probably hadn't changed in longer than he should.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, clamping down on his lip with his teeth so he doesn't immediately burst out crying at the sight of you standing there in his house. God, he's missed you so much he couldn't even begin to put it into words and his emotions are so messed up from the lack of sleep that he'll cry at just about anything right now. "It's forgotten about. We don't have to talk about it, I'm here to help."

The weight that lifts off of Ben's shoulder is the kind of immense relief that only really you can bring to him, honestly. There are few people that he has ever met that can ease him like you can and knowing he doesn't have to explain this whole situation really is something he's so thankful for.

"This is Lilly," he says weakly, nodding his head down at her whining. You smile immediately and without thought, stepping forward to get a closer look at the small baby, only two weeks old and already giving her dad a run for his money. "Hello Lilly," you coo softly, raising your hand to stroke her cheek with your finger in the most gentle manner he's ever seen. "Can I? I feel like I've missed out on two weeks worth of aunt (y/n) cuddles."

He tries not to think much into the fact you refer to yourself as her aunt because if he lets enough thought onto it, he'll find himself breaking his heart over you all over again. Ben nods, passing her into your arms carefully.

"I'll feed her, I made some pizza for you so you should go eat." You hold our your hand to take the bottle from him, but he frowns. "I-" Ben stutters, "I don't want to just lump you with her, plus she's upset so I shouldn't leave her y'know? It's not fair on-"

"Go and eat Ben, and have a shower while you're at it. We'll be fine in here, I've babysat a million times before." You shrug, taking the bottle from him as you step further into the nursery instead of standing in the doorway cradling the still whimpering little girl in her pink onesie. "But I-"

"Go."

"I should-"

"Ben go, now."

Ben sighs in defeat and turns on his heel, the rumbling of his stomach finally giving him away as he realises just how hungry and smelly he actually is. No wonder the infant was crying in his hold.

He trudges downstairs, hearing the sounds of those winging dying down as he does, half expecting to walk into the messy swamp he had left when he went upstairs earlier this morning, only to see the whole bottom floor of the house was basically as spotless as it had been the day he moved in, bar the baby variety adjustments he had made to welcome the new arrival.

He makes a mental note to thank you more and do some grovelling and apologising later on. He knows he has to do it and he knows he'll explain in more detail what really happened probably later today, but for now he will scoff that pizza down his throat faster than he has ever consumed a meal in all of his life before raining the cupboards that he discovered you had stocked. He is reminded with every step he takes around his house that this is you, again, here holding him up when the world around him feels like its completely crumbled.

This is what you do, you keep him together, fix him up after the heartbreaks and breakups preparing him for the next girl who's pieces you'll have to pick up when they hurt him. This time he doesn't want another girl, he wants you. This time, the one time that he would be miles too late. He's got a baby now that he needs to focus on and he can't imagine that you're going to want an instant family even if you could really see past the fact he had ghosted you for nearly five straight months from the moment he found out his girlfriend was pregnant. He can't forgive himself, so how on earth would you?

If he would ask, you would tell him you already had. Seeing how hurt he was, how genuinely sorry things had ended dup like this with everyone in his life he was was enough for you. It was enough to cause you actual physical pain. You never could hold a grudge considering the situation he had ended up in.

Ben had never ever once in his life being more thankful for his shower. He’s also pretty sure he fell asleep against the wall with the heat of the shower steam loosening his muscles and the fatigue of barely an hours sleep catching up to him. He towel dries off his hair, letting the towel hang around his neck as he rubs it against his head while he pads along the soft carpet of his hallway from the bedroom to his beautifully done pink nursery where he hears no crying, at all.

But he does here soft talking.

“Giving your daddy a hard time eh, pretty girl.” You hum softly, slowly swaying from side to side. She lays in your arms, looking up at you and stealing every bit of your heart with her daddies eyes. “He deserves it a little, you know. Just ‘cause he done me out of some adorable baby cuddles y’know?” Ben can hear the teasing smile on your lips as he leans against the doorframe out of your sight, keeping quiet so as not to be detected. “But he’s a good man, sweet girl. One of the best, actually. And i know he’s already such a good daddy to you, he loves you so so much. Do you know that, eh?” You say quietly. Ben catches the sight of you swaying that amazed little baby who coos up at you, reaching for your finger to hold. “Mhm, and i love you too. You have no idea how loved you are.” That’s one thing Ben can agree on.

“And you might not know it now because you’re little, but i do know one thing for absolute certain; I’m always gonna be here for you, and for your daddy even if he’s as stubborn about it as they come. You’ve got to help me out though, eh sweet girl? Be good to that daddy of yours. Yeah, sleepy baby? Mhm, my sweet girl.” The way you hum, bouncing her carefully and swaying in just the right way for her to fall asleep in your arms. Ben watches you for only a minute more, softly singing a little lullaby to her that makes Ben’s heart swell to ache so much that he has to take a small little video before he heads off downstairs with one last look.

When you finally greet him downstairs with a tight hug that he sinks into immediately, resting his cheek on your shoulder as your hands massage your fingers through his freshly cleaned hairs as his arms hug around your waist. “I’ve missed you.” He admits, words muffled by your sweatshirt. The feeling of your fingers at the nape of his neck makes him hum in content and sink into you peacefully just like his baby daughter did not half an hour ago. You’re just perfect for them both in every way and there is not one bone in his body that doesn’t wish he had started his family with you.

But with that realisation comes one more; that he will not settle until he has given everything he has, tried with every morsel of him to earn your forgiveness. He might not of started his family with you, but he is damn determined to make you part of it.

#ben chilwell imagine #ben chilwell x reader #ben chilwell imagines #ben chilwell #england national team imagine #chelsea imagine #footie fic #football fic #footballer fic