Viennavortex - Tumblr Posts

ozymandias | w.s.

Pairing: college student au!Wilbur Soot x reader; no Y/N, gender-neutral (no pronouns mentioned)

Synopsis: In class, your eyes spot a handsome stranger. Distracted, you try to pay attention attention to Professor Technoblade and his teaching assistant Nihachu, but you can’t seem to focus on anything but that student.

Warnings: some cursing, cameos from Technoblade and Niki, oc friend called Jamie, failed attempted British slang terms from an American author

Word Count: 3.0k

────────────✧

Masterlist

────────────✧

Professor Technoblade begins the second lecture of the year for European Literature with an unwavering smile. His eyes wander across the room. Internally, he begins a psychoanalysis of his students. It’s only natural, really, since the young professor also teaches Intro to Psychology. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. Technoblade turns to his teaching assistant Nihachu, who goes by Niki, and says, “I was wrong. Remember my hypothesis about half of the students leaving by the second lesson? Only around a quarter of the original class left.”

Niki, who stands closer to the students sitting in the rows of the small auditorium, makes sure to keep her voice low as she replies, “You have too little faith. Besides, around half a dozen students are already watching you, waiting for class to start.”

When she scans through the students in the center of the seating area, she adds, “Look at the people in the middle row. They’re all staring at that one student with the beige tote bag.”

Technoblade stares at how the student in question waves their arms in the air to exaggerate whatever they are discussing. It's quite an animated gesture, but it gives him a little more information about their personality. Since not many college students take European Literature at the level he teaches, the classes are often small. And so, Technoblade finds himself making meaningful academic connections with his students every term; he’ll get to know his students’ individual behaviors long before exam season.

“They’re having quite the heated conversation,” the professor says, all the while observing how a student clad in a beanie has been staring non-stop at the one making overt hand gestures.

Suddenly, Niki corrects her previous hypothesis. Squinting her eyes at the students before them, she says, “You know what? I take back when I said that it's everyone in the middle row, because I think that the only person listening to the one making hand gestures is the other student sitting right next to them. You know, the one with the pink headband.”

“You’re right about that, but I think you’ve missed something,” Technoblade says, thinking back to his previous observations of the boy staring at the expressive student with the tote bag. “Look at that guy sitting in the row directly beneath them.”

“The beanie-clad student?”

Technoblade nods. “I wonder if the one making hand gestures knows that the one in the beanie is listening.”

It's a rhetorical question, so Niki doesn’t answer him. Instead, the teaching assistant glances at the large analog clock that hangs on the wall just to the left of the blackboard. It’s fifteen past two o’clock in the afternoon. Technoblade’s gaze follows Niki’s.

Niki asks, “Well then, should we start now or wait in the hopes that more people will walk through those doors?” 

She points to the doors, located a yard or two away from their spot of conversation by Technoblade’s desk.

“Thanks for keeping me in check,” Technoblade says with a laugh. “The school would put me under if they discovered that I people-watch more than I teach these college students,” he pauses, then renders the next phrase sarcastic as he inflates his voice, “the profound literature of Europe.” 

And so, before you can finish your harsh opinions regarding the five-page essay your Greek Mythology professor assigned the day before, Niki clears her throat. It’s a rather loud action, too, and so it has an immediate impact of piercing the noise of the room. 

You whisper to your friend from high school, Jamie, that you’ll fill her in later as Technoblade stands up from his desk. As the professor walks over to the large blackboard at the front of the room, you shove your phone into your beige tote bag and glance down at the professor and teaching assistant standing a few meters away from you.

“Good afternoon.”

You and the students before him echo the introduction in a monotone manner. 

He continues, “Last class was for introductions and the syllabus. From now on, we’ll delve into actual content. Today, it’ll be ‘Ozymandias,’ a poem which I’m sure you all are quite familiar with.”

The students in the rows above him groan. Your ears pick up on how a particularly deep voice is amongst the voices, but you decide to shove those thoughts away. Instead, you try to focus on analyzing the personality of Technoblade to see how you should behave in his class.

Unsurprised at the reaction, the professor says with a shrug, “Well, your responses sure aren’t unique, I hear this every year. I guess you know of the poem from high school?”

Most of the people in the room nod. Just as you attempt to nod as well, your attention is suddenly caught by a student sitting in the row below you, a mere three seats away. The angle that you’re sitting at is perfect to take in their side profile and attire.

They’re wearing a burgundy beanie and a pair of thin-framed, round glasses sits on their nose. And what a pretty nose it is, sloped at a straight angle that disappears under their mask. Oh, and their hair, wavy with a fringe that half-falls out of the front of the beanie, so long that it nearly covers their eyes. Their clothing matches an aesthetic that your brain can only label as academia, one that screams of all kinds of brown trench coats and beige button-ups. 

You close your eyes to avoid getting caught staring in the rare chance that they look up in your direction. You inhale rather sharply, muttering under your breath, “Christ, they’re fit.”

Before you can get infatuated, you rip your gaze away from whoever they are and drop your right elbow onto your lap, leaning over to press your cheek against your right hand so that your hand effectively blocks your view of the pretty stranger. Of course, you can still see them if you turn your head a few centimeters to the right, but you choose to ignore that by focusing on the lecture for once.

Technoblade is in the middle of a sentence when you redirect your attention to him, but you can gather that he’s recited the poem from how it is plastered over the wall that the projector to the left of his desk faces. 

“Now, from the nods I’ve received earlier, I can gather that most of you already know about what ‘Ozymandias’ means in terms of the words in the poem. But it’s probably to a very superficial extent, but that’s fine since that’s going to change after today. You see, ‘Ozymandias’ is a poem that describes the Egyptian pharaoh Ramesses II. Why, then, are the poems dubbed ‘Ozymandias’ and not ‘Ramesses II?’ Well, the name Ozymandias is Greek for Ramesses II, that’s why.”

Niki walks over to the computer that Technoblade is using to project “Ozymandias” and scrolls up. She highlights the name “Percy Bysshe Shelley” and then the year 1818, both facts displayed under the title. 

Once Niki’s finished, Technoblade adds, “In order to dissect a poem’s meaning, you cannot solely look at the words. Context, specifically historical context, is what you should all be focusing on. European Literature is a class involving studies of written works throughout history, and those works have been written by authors who drew upon the history known to them at the time of their writing and emulated opinions regarding those events in their writing, which we examine today.”

In your overflowing binder which you still haven’t cleaned out since last semester, you flip to a random page and write “Ozymandias” on the header. You draw a bullet point with the words “historical context” and nothing else.

You look at your paper with the slightest of smiles, amused by your lack of care. You send a silent thanks to your guidance counselor, whether it was an intentional move or not, for creating a schedule with many courses that reflect the timetable of your college friend, Jamie, who sits in the chair to your left. 

When Jamie looks up, you say, “Look at my half-assed attempt at notes.”

She shrugs and says, “It’s better than no notes.”

“Touché,” you say, staring at her lack of material. “Well, at least we’re here at all. I mean, if I’m paying nearly 30 grand for a college education, I might as well not skip.”

You and Jamie are startled out of your short side conversation when the horrendous sound of chalk scratching against the blackboard begins to ring throughout the classroom. Technoblade, whose handwriting is notably just as bad as the sound of the chalk, has written: Diodorus Siculus. 

With the name written down, the professor continues his lecture. He says, “I’ve written the spelling of Diodorus Siculus out for future reference. Who was he? A historian. An ancient Greek one who reported in his Bibliotheca historica that at the base of a statue of Ramesses II, there was an inscription. The engraved words stated: ‘King of Kings Ozymandias am I. If any want to know how great I am and where I lie, let him outdo me in my work.’”

Niki taps on the professor’s shoulder and begins to whisper something in his ear. You take the interruption in Technoblade’s lecture as a reminder to continue taking notes. 

As you jot down a few bullet points about Diodorus Siculus from Technoblade, your eyes can’t help but wander. It’s as if they have a mind of their own, honestly. But on second thought, you think that even if you did have firm control of your eyes, you would choose to ogle at the cute stranger anyway. 

Your center of attention, the pretty student, shifts out of the corner of your eye. Subsequently, your hand momentarily stops writing to stare at a particularly interesting piece of their wavy brown hair. It juts out of the beanie and obscures their vision. Although they move to shove the hair out of their eyes and back into the beanie, it falls back down again until they give up and let their hair win the battle. 

“Good grief,” you sigh. The sound is accompanied by a much stronger swear as you mull over your actions for a few more seconds. 

Jamie furrows her brows and tilts her head.

In response to her visible confusion, you say, “I’ve spent a good two minutes just staring at that hair.” 

You nod toward the student who has caught your affection attention. Jamie squints, then lets out a sigh as she shakes her head. 

Following the slightest of an exasperated smile, Jamie says, “Okay?”

“You have nothing else to add?”

“No.” 

“Really?”

“Mate, it’s good hair, but they look like every other white boy.”

You can’t deny it.

From Jamie’s tone of voice, you could tell that she is aware of your fascination with the handsome student. Unlike you, your crush seems to be paying proper attention to Technoblade. You follow their gaze back to Technoblade’s collared dress shirt and freshly pressed navy trousers. Although you’re not opposed to his professional attire, you can’t help but decide that the beanie-clad student below you is dressed far better. Unfortunately, Technoblade does not wait for you to finish your silent comparison of his clothing to the pretty stranger. 

The professor continues his speech, saying, “Shelley, the aforementioned author of ‘Ozymandias,’ was inspired by Siculus. Oh, and before I forget, I mentioned before that there were two Ozymandias poems. It’s true, since Shelley and his friend Horace Smith indulged in a writing competition together where they both described Ozymandias. Anyway, side note aside, Shelley was trying to convey a particular theme through his words. What was it, then?”

Technoblade pauses in his verbal explanations and picks up the chalk again, much to his students’ collective exaggerated despair. You copy what he’s written on the blackboard onto your notes without a verbal complaint this time, writing, “theme: all power is temporary, regardless of a ruler’s extensive ego or control.”

The professor drops the chalk down and returns to his initial spot by his laptop. He scrolls down to the bottom half of the poem and reads some lines aloud. “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains.” 

Technoblade gazes into the crowd of students before him, and asks, “Can someone take a shot at explaining the juxtaposition here?”

When no one offers to do so after 11 excruciatingly long seconds, you pity the professor and raise your hand. Technoblade’s sour expression turns grateful and he nods for you to state your opinion.

You say, “Well, Shelley paints Ramesses II out to be prideful. After all, Ramesses calls himself a ‘king of kings’ in the inscription described on the pedestal of the visage, and yet, the previous theme is reflected in that there is ‘nothing beside’ the visage to ‘despair’ as Ramesses claimed. So, the juxtaposition is that Ramesses brags about being great, yet his legacy gave way to nothing that has withstood the test of time. Additionally, the statue is described to be ‘half sunk’ and ‘shattered,’ and therefore ruined and forgotten, which is another set of contrasting qualities.”

Silence stretches across the classroom, and then slow applause comes from Niki. 

“Great interpretation,” Technoblade says, with nothing else to add.

“For lack of a better word, I think he got startled at my talented analysis,” you whisper to Jamie. 

“Talented, my foot,” she responds, and the two of you attempt to hold back your laughter with poorly-disguised coughs.

Suddenly, the deep voice from earlier says, “If I may add?”

Your brows furrow, as you have no idea who just spoke.

Technoblade replies, “Of course.”

“While the poem focuses on Ramesses II or Ozymandias, there lies a greater implication that it is all rulers who will undergo the same fate, including political authorities and monarchies. Like King George III, for example, who had a reputation for tyrannical behavior. I mean, it was around the end of George’s reign that this poem was written.”

The speaker trails off, glancing at Technoblade for approval to continue.

“Holy shit, the pretty stranger is the deep voice from earlier!” You swear under your breath, tracing the voice back to the beanie-clad student that you’ve been attempting to avoid looking at. You’ve been failing, of course, and this newfound discovery of their objectively nice voice stirs your impression of them further. 

When Technoblade nods for them to continue, they say, “At the time, George really could have been considered the most powerful man alive, with the 13 colonies spread across North America and other smatterings of colonies across the western hemisphere. Of course, his name was smeared by the ultimate success of the American Revolution by Americans who did not ‘despair’ in the face of his ‘works,’ thus rendering George’s legacy as nothing but a sign of failure.”

As if right on cue, smoke detectors begin to ring just as the pretty stranger’s response ends. There is nothing you wish more to do than get to know the well-dressed student who you’ve been obsessing over throughout the lesson. 

“Damn, must be that culinary class again.” Technoblade bites his tongue to avoid saying any stronger swears. “And with that, I’m taking that as a sign that our lesson is over. Nothing’s due for next class. Office hours are open today at 4, but don’t come unless you bring me a cup of earl grey. No sugar or milk or cream, just black. If the building burns down, there will be no office hours. Au revoir.”

With that, students around you stand up, lugging their bags over their shoulders for lunch. The attractive student is among them, and as you realize how tall they are, you fall even more for them. 

“Blimey,” you say, unable to hold yourself back as you turn toward Jamie. If you could inconspicuously fan yourself right now, you would. “The super low voice is the handsome stranger? And the handsome stranger is smart as hell? Intelligence has never looked this,” you pause, then settle for the word “delicious.”

“You’re so fuckin’ weird, you know that?” Jamie says with her back turned to you. She’s sorting the items in the chair to the left of her, where her jacket and other objects lay. After shrugging her jacket onto her shoulders, she grabs her backpack and faces you as she stands up.

“Oh, but you love me, Jamie. You’re my person, my best friend. Your only friend, really.” You do not pause to let her refute your claims and instead shove your notebook and laptop into your shoulder-destroying tote bag. “Besides, I’m hungry. Food is on my mind. Lunch in the city?”

“Lunch in the city,” she affirms with a nod, then with the slightest of smirks.

Your brows furrow at her expression, wondering why Jamie has such a dastardly smile plastered over her face. 

Suddenly, someone taps your shoulder, and you turn around. Your eyes meet chocolate brown ones. 

“Wilbur Soot, he/him.”

Your eyes widen at the pretty beanie-clad student, shocked by his forward behavior. Internally, you question why the cute stranger before you would want to talk to you. It would have taken you several classes in order for you to muster the courage to ask when an assignment was due. 

Spluttering due to your juvenile crush, all you can say after sharing your name and pronouns, is, “I thought you left.”

With a grin, he says, “Couldn’t leave you without your deep-voiced, intelligent, handsome stranger now, could I?”

When he steps forward, you can see his light brown eyes glitter, highlighted by the weak glow from the dull lights in the classroom. A gorgeous smattering of freckles lies across his cheeks like the stars in the night sky. His cheeks are reddening by the second and his lips are turning up at the corners. If a smile could melt you, it would be this one. 

Wilbur Soot is even prettier up close. 

“I know, love,” he says, with a cheeky smirk that causes your heart to spasm. “Go on a date with me?”

────────────✧

Next on the semi-related Wilbur Soot series: Perennial Pages

Masterlist

perennial pages | w.s.

Pairing: college student au!Wilbur Soot x bookstore employee/college student!reader; no Y/N, gender-neutral (no pronouns mentioned)

Synopsis: You’re working at a bookstore when your favorite British man bursts in with two plane tickets to travel the world. 

Warnings: one (1) passing ref. to prev. fic Ozymandias, some cursing, cameo from Tina except she’s an old woman, one (1) dirty joke from Wilbur but what did you expect, failed British slang from an American author

Word Count: 2.2k

────────────✧

Prev. on the semi-related Wilbur Soot series: Ozymandias

Masterlist

────────────✧

You’re working alone today, but you don’t mind. You have classical music to accompany you, playing from the cheap speakers around a meter above and to your left. 

When you move to lean back against the wooden stool you’re sitting on, multiple synthetic leaves fall onto your face. You scowl, splitting the part that got into your mouth. 

“Plastic does not taste good,” you mutter under your breath. 

You shake your head to force the leaves off. The ceiling and most of the surrounding walls of this shop are adorned with the fake vines that Tina purchased at a yard sale with you around a month ago.

Tina founded the dual bookstore and plant shop Perennial Pages at a rather rough stage in her life. She had married young and been a trophy wife till 37, then divorced her wretched old money husband after discovering his mass tax fraud; it was a way out of the marriage. She clung onto his illicit economic activities as a subtle form of blackmail, threatening that she would expose him for it if he didn’t sign the divorce papers. He was a cheating bastard anyway.

Following the split, Tina used the cash from the split to make her childhood dream a reality in Brighton, England. 

Tina is a shorter, stout woman nearing her sixties with a personality that others might call downright appalling for someone born at such a conservative time. But you love the straightforward yet free approach that Tina takes on life. 

As your boss, Tina is nothing short of delightful. Well, except when she isn’t there. Then, you have no one to talk to but stone-faced customers who wish to release some stress by feeding their book addictions. All you’ve been doing today is watering plants, shelving and organizing books, and making a point to ignore the unhappy teenagers who come to Perennial Pages to escape from other people. 

Tina never fails to take at least one day off every month. The philosophy was to make as many memories as possible before she runs out of time. The thought brings you back to memories from the month before. 

A few weeks ago, Tina had announced that she’d continue to pay you for your normal hours if you accompanied her to a spontaneous four-day getaway to New York City, even though there was no one else to manage Perennial Pages in the meantime. Well, you didn’t argue with the prospect of a fully-paid vacation with someone who acts more like an older sister than an employer to you. 

The two of you had spent your first afternoon in New York shopping around Manhattan, browsing through vintage clothing—and the vines that attacked you—at various thrift shops across the borough. 

As you shopped, you discussed deeply philosophical topics, just because you could. It was during that trip that you had an epiphany; you prefer deep conversations over small talk. The gritty ones that expose personal trauma and bare core beliefs are much more fulfilling and fascinating to listen to than superficial complaints about professors who cannot teach well.

Mulling over it, you realize that it’s probably because you find conflicting opinions to be intriguing. It’s interesting how and why a person comes to form their beliefs regarding controversies. People, after all, are merely mosaics of the different ideas they come across. Learning which ideas created the mold that a certain person emerged from is a fascinating way to sincerely get to know someone and empathize with the experiences that shape their central ideals. 

The chimes tied in fuchsia yarn to the topmost hinge of the front door ring, jolting you out of such reminiscing. 

“Welcome to Perennial Pages, let me know if you want a specific book or plant and if you have any other questions,” you state with as little facial movement as possible, not bothering to look up to identify the figure stepping inside. Your shift began not that long ago, but without Tina there to entertain you with other arguably deep conversations, you’re too tired to give anything but a blank expression to customers today. 

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule (it’s more of a common occurrence than a rule, really); some people are far too captivating to demand anything lesser than your utmost attention. 

“Hello, darling.”

Case in point. 

Your head snaps up to meet the gaze of the familiar voice. The height of the man before you is quite towering, even more so since you’re sitting down on the rather stout maroon stool behind the cash register. 

But you know better than to be intimidated. 

He’s dressed particularly well today. He dons a plain red beanie covering that mess of curls and what has to be a receding hairline—you’ve previously attempted to whisk it off of him, but he refuses to give a forehead reveal—but the beanie is slipping slowly away from his hair and closer toward the carpet made of fake moss.

“Well, well, well, isn’t it Mister Soot? My most loyal customer.”

“For Christ’s sake, call me Wil,” he says as he rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling all the while. 

He shakes his head and the outside fringes of his hair sway as he does so. The beanie slips a centimeter more down his right ear. When he meets your mock unapproving gaze, a chuckle escapes his mouth even though he’s bitten the inside of his cheek to prevent such an action. When you hop off the stool and fully stand up, the grin on his face widens even more than you thought possible. 

That smile never fails to not catch your eye. He’s always grinning whenever you’re around, so much that you’d think his cheeks would hurt. But you’re not complaining, as you’d be a hypocrite to comment about his smiley tendencies without addressing your own. 

If Tina were here, she’d elbow you and say, “The rascal makes you happy, that’s why you get all smiley.” 

Then Tina would return to humming an obscure Elvis song and walk away into the storage room. It would be just as if she hadn’t left you all alone in your thoughts with heat rising to your cheeks as you think about him. 

He’s made a beeline for the historical bookshelf today, near the peonies and sunflowers. 

“You should fix that,” you say, nodding toward the beanie that is half-falling off of his face. 

There’s quite the pause and it’s as if you can see the gears in Wil’s head shifting. Then, his grin has turned into a smirk.

“Fix what? I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You think you’re so sly, don’t you? I can tell you’re faking confusion,” you respond, lips curling upward despite your attempt to remain impassive. 

Granted, it wasn’t a very good try at concealing your happiness, but, then again, it’s always hard to hide your emotions around Wilbur Soot. He can read you like an open book, even if you’d like to think of yourself as one of those locked childrens’ princess diaries with voice-activated codes in them. 

“Cheeky bastard,” you mutter. 

But even as you’re complaining, you’re walking to the left of the counter and using your hip to push open the small door beside the counter. 

Honestly, curse the man’s charms. 

You make a come-hither motion with your hand, but the 6’6” man refuses to bend his knees or lean forward so you can properly adjust the beanie. 

“C’mere,” you insist, stopping right beside the nonfiction aisle, which is about a yard away from the plaque titled “HISTORY” in bold.

He crosses his arms and fervently shakes his head like a dog shaking water off of its fur after a bath. You have to bite back a laugh at his played-up mannerisms.

“No.” He frowns, then lights up with another eager smile. “If you call me Wil, though, I’ll consider your offer.”

“You’re a real drama queen, you know that, Soot?” 

You speak with as much force as you can muster, channeling stoicism, but your face betrays you. And your body too, which moves forward to meet him until you’re less than a meter apart. 

“Why won’t you just call me Wil?” He flashes the eyes of a sad puppy. 

“Whatever. Bend down so I can fix your stupid beanie for you.”

The man immediately begins to cough. It’s a shoddy attempt at covering his initial reaction.

All you do is roll your eyes and shake your head in disdain.

“What, it was funny! ‘Bend down,’ you know what else you can do when you bend down?” 

You’re pursing your lips, glancing around the room to see if anyone has heard. Of course, no one is in the room. Why would anyone be browsing for books or plants on a Tuesday morning at 9 o’clock in the morning? Well, anyone other than Wilbur Soot, that is. And he doesn’t even count, because you know that he’s only here for you. 

“Well, you’re the only one laughing,” comes your monotonous reply.

“Won’t you say ‘Wil’ and not ‘Well’ for me, love?”

All of a sudden, heat rises up your body, spreading like a wildfire underneath your skin. Unfamiliar to such a reaction, you clear your throat to break the odd silence between his question and your lack of a response. 

“What is with you and your odd infatuation with me calling you by your name? I think calling you Soot is–”

When Wil walks toward you, you immediately stop speaking. Your head tilts in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. It’s no secret that the man has an ego; he never submits to your will like this. 

You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t, so you say, “Go on, then. Tell me, why have you dragged yourself all the way out to the middle of Brighton? I assume it isn’t just to have me fix your beanie up.”

You fail to mention that you still haven’t shifted the position of his beanie yet. Partly because you’re afraid of how you’d feel if you touched him that closely, and partly because you think you already know how you’d feel. 

A smile stretches across his face for what must be the twentieth time since he’s walked in; actually, you don’t think that he’s truly stopped smiling, except for his fake frowns to coerce you into walking closer to him.

He doesn’t answer you verbally. Instead, he reaches into the right pocket of his trenchcoat and pulls out two slim sheets of paper. Curious, you step forward until you’re less than a meter apart. 

“Florence? You booked two tickets for Italy?”

Bewildered, you take a step back. Wil walks forward to keep the previous distance, and maybe even closer because now you’re just a few centimeters away from his face. He’s sheepish now, biting on his bottom lip in anticipation. 

“Haven’t we been talking about traveling the world in the Blade’s class? I don’t want to leave you. Will you come with me?”

“Wil, of course I will.”

Before he can make a comment about the pun in that sentence, you embrace him in a hug. On reflex, he rests his chin on top of your head. Although his trenchcoat is cold from the weather outside, his breath is warm. Fearing that he’ll be able to see the rather embarrassing happiness plastered on your face that you can’t seem to pat down to a cool neutral position, you shove your face into his chest. 

He smells like coffee and sandalwood, like home and something more. 

When your hand reaches to grasp his hair, with his arms still wrapped around your lower back, you’re met with the soft fabric of his beanie. Finally, you adjust it so that it’s not exposing his hairline anymore. 

A laugh escapes your mouth as you tug the beanie down over his ears, the tips of which are bright red. He looks ridiculous like this, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Huh, a hug right after we got on first name basis? Seems like you’re moving too fast,” he jokes.

“Sod off,” you say as your cheeks heat. “You’re the bloody one who bought plane tickets without asking me first. What if I said no?”

“You wouldn’t have,” he says, and he states it like it’s a fact.

Lacking a rebuttal, you shove your face in the crook of his neck. And the two of you stay there, content because you’re in one another’s arms.  

When your supposedly absent boss Tina walks into Perennial Pages an hour later with a half-eaten bagel and a cup of chai tea from the bakery next door, your mouth hangs open in shock.

“I thought you were visiting your sister in Carlisle?” 

Tina looks at your hands, which are entwined with Wilbur’s. Her initial reaction is a soft smile, one that hints at knowing that this would happen before you did. When she looks back up at his face, she confirms your suspicions. 

“Congratulations. I told you she’d say ‘yes’ anyway.”

────────────✧

Masterlist