As always, this miniseries is dedicated to @stylesunchained. Thank you so much for reading the first two parts! I hope part three is just as enjoyable for you all.
Let me know what you think! Happy reading.
Although Harry had been disappointed to not receive your personal phone number, he still called “Megan” the next day to set up an appointment to see you. The earliest you can see him for a consulting appointment is in two weeks, and when Megan breaks the news to him, he nearly chokes on his morning tea.
There wasn’t a logical way to see you sooner. There wasn’t a way to spin it in order for him to pop into your shop, especially considering he still had to sign the final papers to make the house his. How could he explain to you that he hadn’t quite sealed the deal yet, so you’d be decorating a completely hypothetical space? He’d already felt like an idiot in front of you, getting caught snooping around your bookshelves, and he wasn’t too keen on feeling like that around you anytime soon.
So, he waits.
He busies himself with packing up the items he knew he wouldn’t need: small, decorative sculptures, a majority of his books, the picture frames that littered nearly every spare surface of his home, his summer clothing that he knew would be completely unnecessary for at least five more months. Once he gets news that the final papers are ready to sign and the house is his, he cleans every nook and cranny of his current house, figuring it might as well be good to spruce it up for the new owners. He meets old friends for lunch, he takes his mother out for dinner, and he begs his sister to come over for a movie night.
And, of course, he reads. He reads the book you spoke so highly of, immersing himself within the worlds of each character, wondering which one you connected with most. Did you cry at the same parts he did? Did you have the same pit in your stomach that he experienced whenever the subject matter turned particularly dark? He needed to know what happened next, reading late into the night, promising himself he would go to bed after he finished the page he was on, but knowing he wouldn’t stop until he could no longer open his eyes.
The two weeks pass, but they feel more like a month and a half than they do a fortnight.
When the day of the meeting comes around, he peeks into the storefront, smiling at your name on the door. He meanders around your shop after checking in with Megan. She nods when he states his presence - a meek little thing with big brown eyes and a nervous giggle - and notifies you that “Mr. Styles is here,” via the bulky black telephone on her desk. He can feel the girl’s eyes on him as he walks around, recognizing some of the pieces from your website.
“Hi!” your voice echoes from behind him, your heels clicking against the concrete floor.
Harry turns around, fully expecting a normal salutation to escape his lips, but instead, his voice catches in his throat. You’re wholly professional, the version of yourself he saw in the magazine shoots. Cropped black pants with pointed-toe heels, a blazer rolled up to your elbows.
You look like you run the place - which, of course you do.
“How are you?” you ask before kissing his cheek and bringing him in for a hug.
That’s a bit better, he thinks to himself, remembering how previously, you’d greeted Nick more lovingly than you had Harry.
“Good, good,” he takes a step back from you, hoping your perfume had transferred onto him so he could smell you on him later - so he could pretend that reality wasn’t against him and that your scent was stuck to him for reasons other than a professional greeting. “Yourself?”
“Excited!” you clap your hands together. “Before we go back, let’s walk around a bit so you can get a sense of where I’m coming from, design-wise.”
He nods, pretending not to have already extensively researched “where you’re coming from,” and follows you until you stop in front of the mock room setups, pointing out some of your favorite pieces.
“Marble is really in,” you explain, tapping a stone coffee table. “But I try not to overdo it. If you like the look of marble - if you like this exact table, even - this would be the only marble piece I’d choose for whatever room.”
Taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger, Harry nods, inspecting the table and picturing it in his new living room. He likes it. Come to think of it, he liked everything. And it wasn’t just to appease you - there was no reason to like a chair just because you liked it - but he could envision nearly every piece in his new home.
“Just got these lamps in,” you turn one on. “I’m obsessed with them. Might snag them for myself,” you smile, clicking the remaining lamp on.
“How often does that ‘appen?” Harry smirks, raising an eyebrow.
“More often than it should,” you laugh. “I’m on this kick of deep greens, navy blue, and gold. Realize it’s not everyone’s cuppa tea, but if you see anything you like, there will almost always be different colors available,” you fluff a throw pillow, adjusting its position next to another.
Harry nods, imagining what his new place would look like decorated with a darker color scheme. He’d never been one for bold rooms - white was his go-to, with him being more concerned about how comfortable the furniture was instead of the color of the walls. You’d done Nick’s living room in bold, dark colors, and Harry loved it. It was his home, he’d told Harry. It wasn’t just a place he stayed and passed the time until he found somewhere else to live. It somehow felt right, even in the summertime, which Harry had initially worried about after seeing it for the first time. The home had Nick Grimshaw written all over it, and Harry was envious of how easily his best friend’s personality was packaged within every room.
He’d wanted that for himself, and you would be the one to give that to him.
He relishes in watching you work the room. You’re completely in your element, answering a couple of questions from Megan when the girl timidly approaches, letting her know that she was free to take lunch just as soon as your meeting with Harry wrapped up. You thank a middle-aged man for his order when he stops in to retrieve a rug, running to hold the door open for him as he heaves the rolled-up carpet over his shoulder. You make a joke with him as he leaves, winking at him with a smile and a wave of your hand.
Were you always this beautiful, or had Harry neglected to see how effortless your charm was?
No, that couldn’t have been the case. He’d noticed right from the second he laid eyes on you that you were something special; something different.
You lead him to the back of the expansive store, asking him questions about his current living space, wondering what pieces of furniture he wanted to keep and which he wanted to ditch.
“Oh my gosh!” you stop abruptly in the doorway to your office, clutching Harry’s shoulder as your eyes widen. “I didn’t even ask you if you wanted anything to drink! Water, coffee, tea?” you shuffle to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room, opening it and then closing it again. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I jump the gun sometimes. Get excited over the idea of a new space to transform and all that,” you laugh, rolling your eyes at yourself.
“Water would be great, thanks,” Harry smiles. He tries not to touch a hand to where you’d touched his shoulder, but he was worried you’d burned a hole through his shirt, what with how hot the area felt to him now.
He notices the familiar smell when he walks into your office, nodding his head when he sees that you’ve got yet another Diptyque candle burning on top of a filing cabinet - he can tell it’s pomegranate without even reading the label. He inspects the decor, loving the juxtaposition of clean lines set against rustic elements which make the room feel comforting and clean.
You pull out a chair with brightly colored fabric across the cushions, offering it to Harry before placing a bottle of water in front of him and walking to the opposite side of your desk.
“Okay,” you wake your computer up, scooting your chair closer to the screen. “I normally take clients through my portfolio so they can see the spaces I’ve completed, before and after I’ve gotten my hands on them.” You adjust the large monitor so Harry can view the screen as well. “Does that sound alright?”
“Of course,” he rubs his hands on his knees. “Whatever you normally do.”
You click on a file, asking Harry if he could see the screen properly. You show him your bigger projects - cafes and restaurants, along with office buildings - as well as clients who had hired you to renovate their houses. You mention how you tend to be inspired by patterns and colors, along with custom fabric you use to reupholster vintage, antique furniture.
“Do you reupholster them yourself?” he asks.
“The smaller pieces, yeah,” you nod, taking a sip from the cup of tea in front of you. “Like that chair you’re sitting on. I usually spend my free time refurbishing the pieces I find. I’ve done chairs, side tables, desks - all that,” you go on, clicking open a picture of one of your completed pieces. “Stopped doing the big stuff when my schedule got busier. Now, I work with a father-and-son team and they do the couches and loveseats,” you click again, a picture of you and two men sitting on a couch in what seems to be a workshop. “There we are,” you chuckle, quickly moving on to the next picture.
Harry knows that he can’t ask you to go back - what would you think of him if he’d insisted upon you showing him the picture again, just so he could see the way your legs crossed one over the other at the knee; how you smiled so easily, your eyes bright and your arms wrapped around the shoulders of both men. You were happy - genuinely happy - and it was a look you wore well.
“So which pieces from your current place do you want to keep?” you ask, meeting Harry’s eyes when he looks up from his lap. “If any…”
“Thinkin’ maybe,” he pulls at his bottom lip. “I’d wanna start fresh? To keep consistent?”
“Perfect,” you nod, minimizing your portfolio and bringing up a calendar. “Okay then,” you begin, moving the monitor back to its original position. “I’ll need to see your new place before I do any work-ups for you. Is there a time this week I can come and see the space?”
Harry’s heart jumps at the thought, even though your intent is purely professional.
You’d said the words, though.
You wanted to come over to his house. To his place. To his home.
“All I ‘ave is time,” he smiles. “So whatever works for you.”
Two days later, Harry finds himself waiting for you at his new property, the wintery London rain keeping him indoors as he paces back and forth in front of the large window overlooking the drive. It was just like London to rain on such a day - a day that should’ve been filled with bright sun to match the occasion - but he was used to the drizzle, no matter how much he didn’t agree with it.
His phone rings, the vibration in his back pocket causing him to jump. An unknown number flashes on the screen, and when he picks up, he’s surprised to hear your voice on the other line.
“So sorry, Harry!” your plea causes him to smile. You sound different on the phone - your voice is less smooth, but he lets the sound of it was over him, regardless. “I promise I haven’t stood you up! My shoot on the other end of town ran long, but I swear ‘m on my way! The GPS says ten minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles. “I’ll be here. Drive safe, alright?”
You say you will and apologize again before hanging up. He grins as he looks out the window, biting his lower lip and furthering the dimples in his cheeks.
You’ve got his number saved in your phone.
He’s got your number now.
Whether it was your business phone or your personal phone didn’t matter. He had a direct line to you, and you to him. Knowing that he’d most likely never use it for reasons other than strictly professional, he felt nearly giddy as he saved your number, creating a new contact for you.
When you arrive, he’s surprised to see that it’s in a van with your logo on the side. Why - based on everything he knows about you thus far - is that the thing to make him hard? And why does his stomach flip so dramatically when he sees you step out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a worn-in flannel and jeans with paint splatters on them? You shuffle quickly over to the passenger’s side, shielding your eyes from the rain. When you emerge into sight again, you’ve got your arms full of materials like folders, tape measures, and a ruler. You laugh as you run up to the front door, shielding your papers beneath your plaid shirt.
How was Harry supposed to make it through the afternoon without a full-on stiffy with you looking like that?
“Hi,” he smiles when he opens the door, the security system beeping throughout the empty house.
“Hi!” you jump into the foyer, trying to catch your breath. “I’m so sorry - I hate being late!”
“Not a problem,” Harry assures you, noticing the pencil tucked behind your ear.
“And I’m sorry for looking suck a mess,” you peel your boots off with one hand, clutching your supplies close to your chest with the other. “Just set up a shoot and didn’t want to be even later in the name of looking presentable.”
Harry looks down at his hoodie and torn jeans, his hair flopping down onto his forehead, “Look more presentable than I do,” he chuckles.
You scoff, placing your boots neatly together, just as Harry did at your flat. He smiles at the unnecessary gesture, appreciative that you didn’t even bother ask whether or not he’d prefer you take your shoes off. Not that he’d have a problem either way - you could traipse mud and leaves all over his new home and he’d thank you for it.
“‘ve got the measurements and whatnot,” he explains as the two of you walk into the kitchen. “The original contractor has the blueprints and sent them over so we’d ‘ave ‘em.”
“Great,” you nod, inspecting the cabinetry from afar. “Think today’ll just be me scoping out the rooms, taking some measurements just to double-check,” you run your hands through your hair after setting down your armful of materials onto the counter. “Not that I don’t trust the contractor’s numbers. I’ve got my own system, though. Years of doing this makes me a creature of habit,” you smirk, flipping open a folder labeled STYLES, H. in bold letters. His heart jumps, thinking that you could’ve been the one to write it. “Wanna help me measure?”
“Of course,” he nods - maybe a bit too eagerly - as you reach for your tape measure and clip it onto the back pocket of your jeans.
The two of you walk through the empty house in your socked feet, Harry remaining quiet until you say something. You inspect each room, writing down how many windows are in each, commenting on where some crown molding will need to be replaced, recommending that the carpet be taken up and replaced with real hardwood to give it a more modern feel.
“Which colors are we thinking so far?” you inquire, unclipping the tape measure. Pulling out the free edge, you hand it to Harry, your fingertips touching his while you cock your head to the other side of the room with a smile. He’s frozen for a moment, willing you to reach out and grace your hand over his once more, but he’s snapped out of it by you walking away from him. He follows your lead, walking to the opposite wall from the one you’re standing against, holding the bulky measure down against the floorboard.
“Like the thought of a dark blue for this room,” he looks around, squatting on one knee when he reaches the wall. “Cozy livin’ room ‘n all that.”
“Good, good,” you grin. “Don’t want you to be swayed by my own likes and dislikes, but I promise you it’ll look good.” You make a quick chart with the ruler you’ve brought on the inside flap of the manila folder, muttering something about always needing to have straight lines, no matter if it was written in on an official document or the inside of a folder. It makes Harry smile, the admission of your quirk. “And if not, we can always change it. Paint is easy to change.”
“Don’t think’ll want t’ change it,” Harry assures, walking slowly backwards with the free end of the tape between his fingertips, crouching down once you’ve met him to measure the width of the room. “Whatever you’ve shown me so far, I’ve loved.”
You peek up through the hair that’s fallen down into your eyes as you scribble more numbers onto the folder, smiling at him in a way he forces himself to remember. His heart pounds in his chest - so much so that he hopes you can’t hear it - and he finds it difficult to swallow the lump that’s housed in his throat.
You work easily together as walk through each room, speaking vaguely about the initial ideas both of you had for the house. You don’t try to sell Harry on one idea or another - you offer a suggestion and if he doesn’t like it, you offer another until he’s comfortable. He feels relaxed, especially once you assure him that nothing is set in stone and that your feelings won’t be hurt if he doesn’t like something you suggest. This is his home, you remind him. It’s all up to him.
“What was the shoot about?” Harry asks as you measure the windows in what will eventually be his bedroom.
“Uneven decorating. Odd numbers look better,” you explain, sniffling slightly. “Always want to have one, three, or five of something, unless it’s like a side table or lamps. But anything on a wall - like framed art or pictures - and table decorations like figurines or candles look best when there’s an odd number of them.”
“You allowed to tell me which publication?” he smirks slyly, leaning up against the wall.
You twist your mouth, trying to conceal a smile. You think on it for a second, tucking your pencil back behind your ear. “Promise not to tell?” you reach out with your pinky, a pseudo-stern look on your face.
“Promise,” Harry links his pinky with yours, trying to conceal his smile by keeping his lips pressed tightly together. How could he say no to a pinky-promise imposed by a gorgeous woman? There were laws against it, he thinks.
“I’m serious!” you scoff, dropping your hand to your side. “I’ll know it was you if you say anything. If you even mention it to anyone - especially Nicholas Grimshaw - I’ll never speak to you again.”
He clears his throat, rubbing his nose twice. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to wear the same stern look you’re sporting. When he opens his eyes, you’re still staring at him intently.
“Swear,” he nods.
“And then you’ve gone and broken a pinky promise, too. Which in my books…” you raise your eyebrows and shake your head with a twitch of your pointer finger in front of you. “It’s HGTV Magazine. From the US.”
“That’s like a major TV channel there, innit?”
“Yeah,” you nod slowly, your eyes widening at the thought. “Now they’ve got magazines. And paint. And furniture. And decor. ‘ve got the market cornered over there. Huge, huge company. Like…massive.”
“And you’ve never been featured in the States, ‘ave you?”
“No,” you nearly whisper.
“That’s a big fuckin’ deal, then!”
“Guess so,” you chuckle, running your hands through your hair. “Thanks for that.”
“Absolutely,” Harry laughs, knocking your shoulder with his knuckles. “Congratulations. It really is a huge deal.”
He knew you were successful, but hearing about how you set up the studio to look like a living room today and would be going back tomorrow in order to get your portrait taken in the room makes him realize just how successful you are. A four-page spread, including an interview on how you’d taken London by storm and your influences would be seen within the American market soon. Their words, not yours, you assured Harry.
As the two of you walk through the rooms on the second floor, he asks how you started within the industry. You explain to him that you went to school to be a financial advisor and specialized in small business accounts. You were a pencil-pusher, you told Harry, and you were stuck in an office all day long. You’d spend your weekends refurbishing antique furniture, finding that you’d had a knack for it. It made you happy - so happy that it was the only thing that got you through the monotony of your work week. Although you loved your clients and always enjoyed the pride that came with their wins, you weren’t especially happy in your job. Something had to change.
After agreeing that all of the light fixtures upstairs would have to be replaced, you went on to talk about how even though you saw how much stress your clients were under running their own businesses, you couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to begin your own business.
“Put my life savings into my first shop,” you flick off the hallway bathroom’s light. “I was eating Ramen nearly every night. Went without electricity in my apartment for a week because I didn’t ‘ave enough money to pay for lights at the store and lights at home,” you laugh. “Feels like such a long time ago…”
You started out selling furniture and other decor items. It was tough, but little by little, you made progress. Eventually, one of your regular customers asked if you were interested in working with her as an interior design consultant for her company. It helped get your name out, and soon you were redesigning spaces for people you could’ve never imagined.
Harry admires how smart and brave you are - he can understand how scary it is to go it alone without knowing the results. He was going through it right now. He was in a more privileged position, sure, but he was still unsure of what the future held, and he could appreciate how much courage it took to start over. It made him look at you in a different light - a light that allowed him to see the struggle you’d gone through, working you way from nothing to one of the best in your field. He’d envied the confidence that you sported when it came to your work and wondered if he, himself, would ever feel that.
Once you’re finished taking down all of the information you need, you follow Harry back downstairs.
“Still raining,” you frown, gathering all of your materials. “Does wonders for the hair.” You pretend to flip it over your shoulders. The natural state of it brought out by the weather makes Harry want you all the more.
“Ye’ look great.”
You tut, rolling your eyes a bit, but thank him nonetheless. “So, ‘ve got to take off,” you state, your body language pulling you back to the foyer. “But I really am so excited to get started on the mockups,” you hop a little. “It’s a beautiful space and we can start from scratch, which is when I have most of my fun.”
“‘m excited too,” Harry smiles.
“‘ll have Megan call you when I’m done with the renderings,” you slip your boots back on. “Should take no longer than a week. So count on next Thursday?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And congratulations again on the magazine - really is a big deal.”
You tilt your head to the side, all of your features softening. “Thank you, Harry,” you smile coyly. You squeeze him a bit as you hug goodbye, the materials in your arms pressed between the two of you creating a barrier that Harry would rather be without. “I had fun today.”
“I did, too.”
He watches you run to your work van, leaping over a particularly large puddle. He laughs to himself as you struggle with your keys before unlocking the driver’s door, diving into the vehicle with a sigh that he can’t see. He watches as you push your mussed-up hair back, noticing him standing in the front window. You wave with a knowing smile before turning on the engine and backing out of the drive.
It’s that smile - that sly smirk - that pushes Harry over the edge that night.
He didn’t want to touch himself, but he’d been rock hard ever since he saw how beautiful your ass looked in your paint-splattered work jeans as you ran to the car. He didn’t want to defile you in his mind as he stroked himself in the shower, water running down his shoulders and back as he faced away from the spray. He didn’t want to moan your name as his balls tightened, the images of you naked and begging for him littering his mind to the point of no return.
But, he did.
He had to.
Nobody would know - it would be his secret - but if he didn’t jack off to the thought of you, he was sure he’d lose his damn mind.
He pictures you sporting the same upturn of your lips from earlier as you ride him, your flannel from that day still on, yet unbuttoned to reveal your breasts as you grind down against him. You know what you do to him, and your smile tells all. He imagines how beautiful you’d sound as he gripped your hips, slowing your movements to nearly a stop while he pushes up into you, groaning at the gasp you give him in return.
He’d never wanted to be inside someone as much as he wanted to be inside you. He wants to feel your breath against his ear, his name across your lips, your fingertips gripping his shoulders. He wants to know what you taste like - sweet, probably, like the candles you burn. He wants to know how warm you are; how wet he can make you by just the touch of his lips to yours. He wants to hear your moan - feel it vibrate down his cock while he’s in your mouth, that gorgeous pout of yours wrapped around the head of him.
He wants it all, but he can’t have it, so his hand will have to do.
A part of him feels guilty when he cums on the shower wall, his splotchy vision and ringing ears indicating that he gave in too quickly. But, fuck. What was a man supposed to do? You’d smelled so good; your stories never bored him; you were becoming a global success and you’d accepted to work with him.
And your ass? In those jeans?
He was done before he ever began, as far as that was concerned.
He walks out of the shower on shaky legs, a white bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he takes his head in his hands and grunts.
“Fuck’r you on, Styles?” he asks himself.
He leans back onto the covers, his feet dangling off the edge of his bed that he’ll soon replace with another one, based upon your recommendation. He falls asleep that way - sleeps deeply, too, his hair wet and his towel coming undone after he shifts slightly in his slumber. It’s a deep sleep, one that doesn’t produce a memory of a dream, and Harry is thankful for that.
He doesn’t think he could take another night of dreaming of you.
Not if he wasn’t able to turn those dreams into a reality so that his mind could stop wandering day in and day out…
Summary: You’re best friends with Peter Parker and you can feel yourself falling deeper and deeper in love with him, without his knowledge. What happens when you get rescued by Spider-Man and you happen to recognize his voice?
You mindlessly picked at the crust of your sandwich during lunch. You weren’t hungry, and you were mostly trying to ignore the gushing that was happening in front of you.
Your two best friends, Ned and Peter, were watching Liz Allan across the cafeteria with literal heart eyes. Usually you didn’t care, but lately you started to feel different around Peter…
Your chest would tighten and you would lose your breath in your throat and your heart would just try to beat right out of your chest. You found yourself admiring every small detail about him from the way his nose crinkled when he laughed to the enthusiasm in his eyes when he would talk about science and robotics.
Every time you looked at him you felt dizzy as if he was sucking the oxygen right out of your lungs. And when he smiled, that damn smile, it made you weak in the knees. You didn’t know how long it had been happening, but you found yourself falling deeper and deeper into the love-sick world that revolved around Peter Parker.
And he liked Liz.
Just the thought made your heart sink into the pit of your stomach, thus leading to your loss of appetite.
“(Y/N)? You alright?” Peter asked before taking a bite of his own sandwich.
You nodded with a weak smile.
Peter always met you at your locker after school to walk you home. You lived in the apartment complex a few blocks before his own so you always took the same train from school. Today, however, you were both going back to his house to work on a chemistry project.
Except when you shut your locker door and looked for Peter around the corner, you couldn’t find him anywhere.
“I swear, if he blows me off for that stupid Stark inter-”
“(Y/N)!” you saw Peter rushing over to you. He smiled from down the hallway, and just the sight made your heart leap out of your body.
You clutched your books to your chest and waited for him by the doors. He was breathing heavily from running over to you, but the look in his eyes instantly made you frown.
“You’re not coming with me, are you?” you asked sadly.
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. Mr. Stark-”
“I know,” you sighed. “It’s okay.”
Peter pursed his lips, and he looked at you with those damn puppy dog eyes, and you felt like you were melting despite the hurt in your heart. It made it difficult to be mad at him.
“I can start the project,” you offered. “Just come by after the internship, okay?”
“I feel terrible,” Peter sighed.
Sirens went off in the distance, and Peter looked out at the street in alarm as if a sudden switch had gone off in his head. He began to back away from you, looking from you to the street in a panic.
“I’ll see you later! I promise!”
You sighed and watched him run around the corner, disappearing into the crowd of students leaving the school for the day. You turned on your heel and headed home.
But Peter never showed up that night. You waited, and you got most of the project done out of boredom. But as you looked out the window, the sky got darker, and the city lights illuminated the sky, blocking out the stars.
You texted him and called him, and stared at your phone waiting for some sort of response, but it never came. You even texted Ned and asked if he had heard from Peter. He hadn’t.
You considered calling Peter’s aunt May because your nerves were just getting the best of you, but your parents ordered you to get some rest. You wanted to fight them, arguing that Peter could be hurt, but they were having none of it.
That night you fell asleep with your phone by your head, hoping for some sort of message from Peter.
“Parker!” you spat as you approached Peter and Ned at their lockers the next morning. You hadn’t slept well at all, as you had nightmares of Peter never coming home all night. You were exhausted and you had bags under your eyes and seeing Peter alive and well at school made your blood boil.
Peter turned, and looked horrified at the angry expression that was painted on your face. You glared at Ned as a silent order for him to leave, and he quickly grabbed his things before scrambling away.
“Hey (Y/N)…” Peter said nervously while scratching the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, I know I messed up, but-”
“I can’t believe you,” you snarled. “I was worried sick!”
Peter blinked and stared at you with wide eyes. “You were worried?”
“Yes! You idiot! I waited up for you and when you never answered my texts I started to assume the worst! I almost went over to your house but my parents wouldn’t let me. I can’t believe you- wait…why are you smiling?”
Peter was staring at you with a small smile dancing on his lips. There was a twinkle in his eye that made the anger melt away in seconds. You blinked in confusion, and cocked your head to the side.
“What is it?” you asked, your tone much softer and gentler now.
“Nothing,” Peter shook his head and looked down at the ground. “I just didn’t think you of all people would worry about me.”
You were taken aback by this. “Are you kidding me? You’re my best friend, Pete. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Peter looked up and smiled at you once again. This time, you returned it.
Peter promised that he would walk you home because he felt so bad for missing out on your chemistry project. He said he would make it up to you, but you didn’t think he would become so attached to you. He began walking you home everyday for the next week.
He rarely left your side. You’d be lying if you didn’t say he made you blush with almost every comment and remark that he made, and you wished you weren’t so transparent, but damn you were falling for this boy and you couldn’t stop yourself.
By the time school let out, it was pouring rain and you groaned as you looked outside. You didn’t bring an umbrella with you to school or a sweatshirt as it had been a cloudless morning. You should have checked the forecast.
“Here,” Peter said, placing his sweatshirt over your shoulders before you stepped outside.
“Peter, no,” you shook your head, trying to give it back, but Peter was relentless and he refused to take it back until you put it on your shoulders.
“You’ll freeze,” you pointed out.
Peter shrugged. “I’ll survive.”
Your heart fluttered as you looked at him. You wanted to thank him more, but you didn’t know how so instead you walked close to him as you two rushed through the rain towards the train station.
However, both of your apartment complexes were a few blocks away from the station, and it was quite a walk. You rushed through the streets, laughing like children as the water splashed your feet and legs. You ran ahead of Peter and turned around, breathing heavily with a smile on your face. The water was pelting down, and Peter’s sweatshirt was soaked. At least your hair was dry, but Peter’s was sticking to his forehead and he had to push it out of the way to see you.
You giggled when he approached you.
“Are you cold?” he asked, over the loud water.
You shook your head. “Are you?”
“I’m sorry!” you cried.
Peter laughed and shook his head before pulling you into a tight embrace. You hadn’t been expecting it, and your heart leaped into your throat as you hugged him back. Each of you were soaked to the bone as the rain fell around you, but you had never felt warmer in his arms.
When you reached your apartment, you went to unzip the jacket, but Peter stopped you with his hand.
“Keep it,” he said with a small smile.
He shook his head. “I have plenty of sweatshirts.”
You didn’t know what came over you, but you felt a surge of confidence, and you leaned forward and kissed Peter on the cheek. Instantly, his cheeks flared up with a bright blush and you smiled as you turned to walk up the stairs to your floor.
“I’ll see you later,” you said with a small wave.
Peter was standing in the lobby of your apartment complex with a red face and wide eyes, but he managed a wave back with a goofy smile planted on his lips.
The next day at school he didn’t even bat an eye at Liz.
Once again you waited for Peter by your locker, but he never showed up, only saddening you and causing your heart to sink. After last night, you felt like your heart was beating louder and faster all day. You had texted Peter and talked to him as you normally did, but he was acting different around you.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
His cheeks would flare up every time you talked to him, and when you bumped shoulders in the hallway you felt like sparks had run up your shoulders. You had hoped to talk to him more about it on your walk home, but instead you got a text from him that read:
Hey, I’m so sorry but I have to catch up with my internship. I’ll see you tomorrow xx
You sighed and began your lonely walk home. You had been walking with Peter every day for so long that you had to be lying if you hadn’t been accustomed to it. You missed walking by him with your arms brushing and his jokes to keep you entertained.
However, as you began to walk home from the train station you felt an unusual chill run down your spine. Something wasn’t right.
You glanced over your shoulder and saw a tall man dressed from head to toe in black with a hood over his head. He was walking briskly, as if he was trying to keep in pace with you. Your breathing became uneven as you struggled to think of a way to get away from him.
Quickly, you pulled out your phone and called Peter. It went to voicemail immediately so you whispered into the phone, hoping the man wouldn’t hear.
“Peter, I need you now. There’s a creepy guy following me and I’m scared. Please help,” you whispered-cried into the phone.
You sent him a few texts as well, but the man was getting closer to you so you began to pick up your pace. However, as soon as you started walking faster so did the man. Your heart was beating so fast that you felt light-headed, but you forced yourself to stay focused. You couldn’t let him know you were afraid.
You began to run, seeing it as your only option. You were a pretty solid runner, and you felt as though you could get away from the man. You began to outrun him, losing him a few feet behind. But as soon as you thought you were in the clear, you were tackled to the ground and dragged into the nearby alleyway.
“Let me go!” you screamed, trying to kick at the man, aiming for his balls. He held you down by your wrists and pulled out a knife.
“Scream again and I’ll kill you,” he growled.
“You don’t scare me,” you spat before spitting in his face.
“You bitch!” he cried before raising his knife. You closed your eyes, waiting for the impact when suddenly webbing covered the knife, and pulled it out of the man’s hands.
“Hey buddy I think you’re lost! The douche-bag convention is the next block over!”
You looked up in alarm at none other than Spider-Man clinging to the wall of the closest building. He held the webbed knife in his hands, before sticking it to the wall in a new webbing. He shot out two webs from his wrists, pulling back the man’s hands and lifting him into the air. He shot him over to the wall of the building, and the man groaned in pain as his back cracked against the bricks. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
Spider-Man jumped down from the wall and rushed over to you. He held out his hands and helped you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asked frantically.
You felt a little shaken, but other than that you were fine.
“I’m okay,” you said while rubbing your wrists. Spider-Man took one of them in his own hands and ran his fingers over it.
“Are you sure? I can bring you to a hospital. Or-”
You knew that voice.
How could you not know the voice of your best friend and probably the love of your life?
[Image Description: Photo of me dressed up and posed as Irma Vep (Musidora) from Les Vampires (1915-6). I’m wearing black from head to toe standing with a defiant posture in front a wall with floral wallpaper.]
Louis Feuillade’s Les Vampires (1915-6) serials were made at a time when the cinematic forms of genres were crystallizing into the conventions we know all too well today. Les Vampires is a macabre crime-drama serial, often retroactively labeled horror.
The film follows Philippe, a newspaper reporter, as he investigates a shadowy gang of criminals called The Vampires. Starting with a decapitated police inspector, each successive episode sees Philippe get closer to unraveling the labyrinthine world of The Vampires while alliances shift and the body count rises. Irma Vep (Musidora) is a member of the gang who moonlights as a cabaret singer. Over the course of the series, Irma emerges as the true lead, though she never repents or renounces her life of crime; a quintessential vamp.
Derided by contemporary critics, but beloved by audiences, Les Vampires is classic pulp. One film critic expressed his feelings toward Les Vampire thusly in a 1916 issue of Hebdo-Film:
“That a man of talent, an artist, as the director of most of the great films which have been the success and glory of Gaumont, starts again to deal with this unhealthy genre, obsolete and condemned by all people of taste, remains for me a real problem.”
It’s understandably divisive that Feuillade ignores accepted filmmaking “rules” here and there. But the reading that Feuillade’s rule-breaking is strategic is certainly valid. The viewing experience is destabilized to create tension but not in ways that sacrifice narrative clarity. Feuillade will subtly skirt the rules by making unexpected cuts or switch within a scene from sequences that follow (what would later be termed) “invisible editing” standards to flat tableaus. Taken together, the audience is unsettled without necessarily knowing why. (Yes, 1915 audiences were already accustomed to these standards of visual storytelling!) It’s a great companion to the macabre events depicted in the films. A century later, The Witch: A New England Folktale (2015), directed by Robert Eggers, employs some of the same strategies.
I know seven hours of silent-film viewing might seem daunting but, unlike other serials from the era, Les Vampires’ installments are fairly self-contained stories. (My favorite is the fifth episode “Dead Man’s Escape.”)
Musidora’s Irma Vep (yes, that is an anagram for vampire) is an archetypal vamp, in characterization and in aesthetic. Irma’s a master of disguise who can assume practically any role to further the aims of The Vampires and her loyalties change almost as often as her costumes.
The iconic Irma Vep look is her black catsuit, which is even referenced in a ballet about The Vampires within the film. Irma is a clear predecessor of Catwoman (not the only inspiration Batman pulls from Feuillade’s crime serials btw).
For the closet-cosplay (or work-appropriate version), I went for an all black outfit with lace-up dress shoes.
I don’t own a black catsuit, so I made do with black tights and a black turtleneck top. Planning ahead for the costume, black hoods are easily found on amazon. I, however, don’t have a hood in my closet, so I put another pair of (clean) black tights on my head and simply wrapped the legs around my neck and tucked the ends into the back of my sweater. Voila!
Musidora’s Irma makeup is only occasionally as dramatic as other film vamps. When Irma’s not performing on stage, her makeup is more muted, a great basis for a wearable closet-cosplay makeup look.
For the base, I applied an even layer of powder a shade slightly lighter than my skin tone and concealed under my eyes. (Obviously Musidora would’ve been wearing more face makeup and you can too! I stuck with powder to stay true to the era. ) I didn’t bother with blush or contouring since I didn’t find it necessary.
The eye makeup is dramatic and emphasizes the shape her eyes. Since this is meant to be a more wearable look, I used brown shadow create an elongated smoky eye, (1.) blending a light layer from the lashline to just below my eyebrows and smudging what’s left on the brush all along my lower lid. (2.) Then I built up the shading around the lashline by using a wet brush in the same shadow. (3.) Then I added a little extra darker brown shadow very close to the lashline. Since this look isn’t much about the lashes, I just painted on a layer of black mascara.
If you think this makes your eyes look too small, run liner in your lower waterline that’s either white (more striking) or a bit lighter than your skin-tone (more subtle).
Her eyebrows are slightly rounded without much of an arch, roughly mirroring the shape of her eyes. I used a brown pencil to get the shape and softened it a bit with a cooler brown powder.
As for lips, you may be tempted to go for a purple-y wine shade, but based on how contemporary cameras captured such detail around her lips, I’d wager Musidora used a medium shade. Just dark enough to create a definitive shape. Musidora’s lips are on the smaller side so, think underlining instead of overlining to make straight, sharp lines on both upper & lower lips. I carved out the lip shape with cream concealer then used a deep pink lipstick shade.
Shifting to the FULL COSTUME, you can follow the same basic steps but switch to dark gray and black for the eye makeup. I went into the waterline with black liner but, as with the daytime look, if you think it’s shrinks your eyes too much, line the waterline with white or a neutral shade just a bit lighter than your skin tone. Block the eyebrows out with a more solid line rather than keeping them natural. For the lips, I also went darker to match the high-contrast effect of the eye makeup.
Hope this inspires you all in putting together your costumes this year! The 1920s will be up in a few days.
thanks for you request anon! This was super cute to write but I don’t think I did the request justice :’) if you don’t like it give me a yell and i’ll try something else! I have another punk richie x pastel eddie requesting coming though so hopefully it’ll be better! But do tell me what ya’ll think !
Eddie played with the taller boy’s hair as they sat in the
grass of the quarry. Richie’s head was placed in Eddie’s lap, dark brown curls
cascade across Eddie’s white denim overalls as he threads his fingers though the
strands. Richie’s eyes were closed enjoying the feeling of Eddie’s fingers
lightly massaging his head. He could hear the rest of the Loser’s faintly
playing in the water, their loud laughter echoing the hills around them. The
sun hung low in sky, casting a light pink glow over the pair. Eddie hummed
under his breath as he admires the boy cladded in black from head to toe, he lays
quiet and relaxed in the grasp of his lover. Eddie trails his eyes down Richie’s
face, the boy still wearing this thick prescription glasses that covered the
thin layer of freckles which scattered across the bridge of his nose. A brand-new
ring laid within the skin of Richie’s pink lips. He’d since replaced the
brightly coloured Hawaiian shirts for dark red flannels and the graphic tees
for some loud grunge band t-shirts that Eddie had never heard of. Black ripped skinny
jeans seemed like a new skin to Richie, Eddie hardly ever saw him without them,
not that he cared. He quiet liked how they outlined the boy’s thighs.
A small smile made its way onto Eddie lips as he glanced over
Richie’s arm, the word LoSVer very permanently laid upon the boy’s skin.
Richie had somehow convinced Eddie to come with him when he got his very first
tattoo at the age of fourteen, claiming he got it to make Eddie feel better
about his cast. But four years later, the boy was covered head to toe with
shitty ink from random artists he found around their town of Derry and every
time since, Eddie would be there to hold Richie’s hand. Through the piercings and
the ink, the small fragile boy would cringe and tell his boyfriend that he
would never come again but a week later Eddie always found himself clutching
Richie’s hand as he watched the new needle pierce his skin.
Things had changed for the boys since they were thirteen,
after they defeated the evil clown and everything slowly went back to normal. Or
as normal as it could. Eddie embraced his love for the colour pink, wearing
soft, neat fabrics and his trademark shorts that drove Richie wild. Bev had
told Eddie she was quite glad that someone had developed a sense of style because
god forbid you leave any of the rest of the boys to make good fashion choices.
Eddie’s heart swelled with love for this idiot of a
boy. Leaning back onto his left hand, brushing an object with his palm he
smiled. Richie had saved up all his earnings from the small gig’s he had been playing
with his band to buy Eddie a polaroid camera for his eighteenth birthday. The
baby blue device sat in Eddie’s left hand, as he watched his boyfriends still face.
He removed his hand from Richie’s hair quickly, knowing it would be only a matter
of time before Richie opened his eyes noticing the absence of Eddie’s hand. He
starred down the lenses of the camera and focusing all his attention on Richie.
The way the setting sun seemed to cast a pink hue over his skin, the small refection
from his glasses and the glint from his lip ring. Eddie pressed his finger down
on the button and with a loud shutter of the camera, the film began to print.
Eddie felt the weight of Richie’s head shift in his lap. He
looked up from the developing film to the boy. Quickly, hiding the picture
behind his back. He was met with soft brown eyes open widely, staring up at him
with a small smirk playing on the corner of his lips. Eddie glanced away, biting
his bottom lip between his teeth. “Eddie?” Richie questioned staring
expectantly up at brunette teenager. Eddie hummed in foreign response. “Did I just
hear what I thought I thought I just heard?” Eddie shook his head. Richie
widened his eyes, sitting up slowly to meet Eddie gaze. He tucked his legs
underneath his large frame. “I told you to save the film just in case you ever
saw your Mom in the shower again, Eds.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, slapping Richie across the chest a
huff escapes his lips. “Shut up you idiot, that wasn’t even funny.“
“Let’s see the picture then.” Richie placed his hand out in
front of him, expectant of the small white piece of film. Eddie shakes his head
and moves back further. Richie feigns to be upset, bringing a hand to
rest over his heart. Eddie soften his gaze afraid he’s hurt his boyfriend feelings.
Eddie reaches his hand out to Richie’s shoulder, preparing to apologise. But by
no surprise Richie had taken his arm lightly and pulled his smaller body on top
of his larger one. Taking the polaroid picture
swiftly from Eddie’s hands as he tried to stabilize himself. Eddie let out a
loud groan as he hovered over Richie’s body, legs intertwined. He should have known. Richie let out a
loud boisterous laugh at the pout on his boyfriend’s lips.
Richie watched as the boy sat back against his thighs, with
his bottom lip puckered and a scowl between his brow. Richie leant up and
placed a chaste kiss on Eddie’s lips. Eddie tasted of strawberries like always,
just as Richie always had the lingering smell of cigarettes upon his own lips. Richie smiled up the boy, whom sat wearing a
pastel pink shirt underneath his stark white overalls with a rainbow patch sewn
in the middle of the pocket that laid upon his chest. Richie had a matching one
of his denim jacket and he also had one tattooed onto his left bicep.
looked down at the polaroid seeing nothing but what he deemed to be his overly
average looking face with the addition of his bulky glasses, but he figured
that there must be something redeemable in him if a boy as perfect as Eddie Kaspbrak
were to want anything to do with him. Richie adored the boy with all his heart.
He reached up to kiss the boys scrunched up nose, pulling away he leant on his
elbows and watched the smaller teenager force away a smile from his face. He
smiled up at Eddie, waiting for his favourite boy to beam a smile right back at
him. Richie raised his eyebrows when nothing came, poking the fragile boy in
Eddie looked Richie dead in the eye, struggling to keep up
his façade. “I love you, spaghetti.” Eddie let out a frustrated groan breaking his stoic expression with a loud laugh.
“Don’t call me that you douche!” Eddie exclaimed through a
laugh. Both boys starred back at one another with silly smiles on their faces and
the pure admiration sparkling in their eyes. Even though they were polar opposites
they found solace in each other and wouldn’t give it up for the world.
Oblivious to the two, the rest of the losers had begun
approach from the rear and watched the scene in ‘awe’ as both teenage boys starred
into each other’s eyes completely unaware to the world around them. Bev picked
up the discarded polaroid camera and brought it up to her face capturing the
pure love displayed upon both of the boys faces in a time where they all felt
GUYS THIS WAS SO FUCKING GAY I LEGIT CAN’T.I tried to keep the punk and pastel lowkey bc I hate when its like super in your face but it just turned to shit lmao, tell me what u think kiddos.
if you wanna be added to the reddie taglist lemme know!
I had a bunch of ppl in my ask box wanting to be added but they all deleted so idk who they were I’m sorry!