you handsome motherfucker

Apologia

AN: To my tumblr wife @flappyhappyhiddles / @frictionandfluff. I’m sorry I’ve been flaky lately. It’s for real reasons, but that hardly matters: you stuck by me in the worst of times, and I hope you’ll take this humble offering of porn as apology, and believe that one day soon I will be back. You’re one of the main reasons I made it through the past year, and there will never be enough nsfw fic to repay you, in the world. <3

Apologia (noun): In which the orator persuasively explains and defends his actions and himself against an accusation, and earns vindication from and re-acceptance to the polity.

The lights are all off when you get home, except for the one light under the range hood that you leave on in the kitchen, just to give a pool of light when you crash in, late, from your closing shifts at the wine bar, and you push the door shut behind you. Tonight you weren’t at the wine bar, you were at a book signing, to catch a glimpse and a signature from J.K. Rowling, to be the seven billionth person to tell her how much you loved her books, and he was supposed to be there–

Henry was supposed to be there–

It wasn’t often you had time to be normal, regular people together, and here in the far corner of town, twenty minutes from where he lives, he was going to pop in and out of the little creaky bookshop with you, and then maybe a coffee and a stroll by the inky river, and then to the pub for a few pints and watch a little football… Not much to ask, really, and he had seemed into the idea, and then you showed up, clutching your book, and nothing.

No call, no text, no Henry.

You sent one text, telling him where you were in the small crowd so he could quickly find you. And then, after craning your head over the crowd for the next twenty minutes to spot him, something hardened in you.

Fuck that guy. He didn’t have to promise to come if he wasn’t going to. I mean, not fuck him, exactly, but fuck all of this, like, fuck all the effort and the waiting. Fuck all the nights you wish he were there, with the rain on your windowpane, his big burly arm, tight around you, heavy warm hand on your bare hip as he sleeps, as you try to sleep…

You can’t sleep, and that’s half the problem.

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