#I hope you have your books packed and pencils sharpened

[laylajeffany]

Second semester is starting, are you ready? 😈

[connorswhisk]

Loose Leaf

fic fill for @thecrusadercomrade !! thanks so much for requesting and i'm sorry it took so long fdjl;sajkl; hope u enjoy <3

also on my ao3

She probably draws him about a million times, over and over again in her tiny sketchbook with the cheap colored pencils and the slowly dulling pocket sharpener. Fighting walkers, splattering scarlet blood all across the white page. Riding a horse, with Clem on the back of the saddle right behind him, arms circled about his waist. A lot of those pages end up stuffed between the cracks of the dumpster lid (Clem’s not tall or strong enough to lift it fully on her own) because in her opinion, they’re just not so good. She doesn’t like them, and so she figures neither would Lee.

She draws him a million times. Over and over again. But he isn’t the only one to make an appearance in her little book.

– – – 

The family is easy, probably the easiest thing there is to draw in the whole motor inn. Clementine’s had lots of practice drawing families, for school art projects and things like that, but it’s easier to draw people she knows are alive instead of the parents she doesn’t.

Kenny with his mustache and his hat, Katjaa with blonde hair that’s a little too bright because the only shade of yellow Clem has is lemon. And in between them, shorter than either but smiling bigger than both, is Duck. Clem has lots of fun dotting in the freckles all over his round, happy face; she thinks the stick-figure version of him looks very accurate.

(She considers adding a bunch of creepy-crawly spiders in the blank space beneath Duck’s feet, but ends up deciding that might be a little too mean.)

She gifts it to them, eager and proud at breakfast one morning. Kenny and Katjaa aren’t actually eating, Clem notices. Kenny eyes the granola bar his son is pigging out on with a pained expression on his face; Clementine quietly tucks her snack pack into her pocket, and though her stomach whimpers in protest, she resolves to eat it after. She can wait, just a little while longer.

Kenny looks at her like he has no idea what she’s talking about when she holds the page out in her tiny hand. “It’s like a family photo of you guys,” says Clem, slightly anxious. “Well, kind of…”

Kenny still says nothing. Clem tries not to take it personally - Lee doesn’t have to tell her so in hushed whispers just between the two of them, she knows Kenny’s been itching to leave the motel and the food situation definitely isn’t helping matters. Katjaa smiles, tired but kind, and carefully takes the drawing from her before the silence stretches out too long.

“Why, it’s lovely,” she says softly, angling it just so that Duck can see. “Look, Ducky, Clementine drew all three of us.”

Duck frowns. “Why did you make me have chicken pox? ”

“That’s not chicken pox,” Clem giggles. “Those are your freckles. ”

“Oh!” His teeth are crowded with leftover granola bits as he beams, big and wide and white. “Awesome!”

“Yes, it’s very nice.” Katjaa smiles again at her. “We’ll be sure to tack it up in the RV, right on the wall where everyone can see it. Right, Ken?”

Kenny sighs, distracted. “Yeah, yeah, that’s - that’s fine, honey.” He glances down at the paper for just a second, and his mouth twitches a little. “My mustache ain’t that big.”

“I wanna draw!” Duck exclaims, leaping to his feet. “Clem, can I borrow some paper and your pencils?”

“Ok,” Clem replies. “But you have to promise not to be too rough with them, or else they’ll break.”

“I promise!”

“You two stay in sight!” Katjaa calls after them as Duck dashes away, Clem fast in tow. It doesn’t look like it’ll rain, so maybe she’ll get out the chalk, too. Duck always likes playing with the chalk, or at least for as long as he likes playing with anything before he gets distracted again.

Once Kenny’s and Katjaa’s backs are turned once more, Clementine pulls the snack pack out of her pocket. She’s so hungry that the stale breadsticks and fake cheese are gone in mere seconds, and even then her tummy still growls, pathetic. Duck looks like he wants to ask her for a bite. She doesn’t offer any, and s he feels terrible about that but she’s pretty sure not eating would only make her feel worse.

(Years later and she still has it, even after all of them are gone.)

– – – 

Doug’s always been nice to Clementine, and she’s glad Lee saved him. Carley was kind too, and pretty, but…Lee made a choice, which is something you have to do sometimes, she knows that now. Even if the choice isn’t exactly a fair one.

(She wonders what she would have done in the same situation, forced to pick between two strangers. She never can seem to come to any sort of conclusion.)

But Doug doesn’t treat Clem like she’s a silly little girl, not in the way some of the others do. He talks to her like she’s just another adult, and Clem likes that because if she can pretend that she is just another adult, maybe things won’t seem as scary as they really are, not anymore. Doug shows Clementine how the bell system he rigged works to warn them of movement nearby, and the faded old Uno pack he sometimes breaks out has seen Clem her fair share of sneaky, smirking wins against a befuddled Lee and a frustrated Kenny.

So Doug is another person that is very easy for her to draw. That yellow shade is still a little too lemon-y, but Clem adds some brown, blends it in a bit against the page the best she can, and maybe this time it looks a little closer to his actual hair color. She makes the big green sweater extra fuzzy (fuzzier than it is in real life) and adds a teeny laser pointer in Doug’s hand, shining its red beam directly into the eyes of an oncoming walker and blinding it.

Doug smiles when she gives it to him. “Wow,” he says. “I look badass.”

“Swear,” admonishes Clem.

Doug raises his eyebrows. “Does ass really count as a curse word?” The grin doesn’t leave his face. “This is super awesome, Clementine. Thank you.”

She nods. “I just thought…I just thought you might wanna keep it.”

Carefully, Doug folds the drawing in half, then into quarters, and finally into neat, creased eighths. “Knew I still carried this around for a reason,” he says, drawing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and sliding the page inside it. “See, there you are. Now I’ll have it wherever I go.”

Clementine beams. “I like that,” she tells him, rocking back and forth happily on her heels.

(It’s still in his wallet, as far as she knows, the night that he dies. They leave his body on the side of the road, and they leave the drawing with him.)

– – – 

Larry doesn’t like Lee, and he doesn’t like Kenny, or Duck, or…much of anyone, really. But he usually isn’t as cranky to Clem as he is with the others, and though she doesn’t know why, it’s enough to inspire her to give him a drawing. 

He folds it, just like Doug did, tucking it into the breast pocket of his sweat-stained bowler shirt. “Reminds me of the ones my daughter used to make in school.” His voice isn’t hard, but it is still very gruff.

Above them, Lilly scoffs, adjusting her position on top of the camper van. “You never held on to those,” she accuses. “Why start now?”

“Times change,” says Larry offhandedly. “People change, ain’t you know that, girl?”

“Well,” Clem says, slow and unsure. “Well, I hope that you like it…”

“He loves it.” Lilly’s teeth are gritted hard enough to crack. “Don’t you worry about that, Clementine.”

Clem scurries away before their voices get too loud for her again. She doesn’t draw Larry anymore after that - it doesn’t feel right to.

(She sneaks it out of his pocket when Lee isn’t looking, after…after Kenny drops the salt lick. The paper is weathered and torn between her fingers and she pushes it to Lilly with shaking hands before she can think any more about it.

Lilly glares at her hard like she’s just sprouted some freakish second head, and Clementine lets go of the paper quick as a flash, sobs and runs back over to Lee.)

– – – 

It feels more than a little obvious to draw Ben. He’s all alone, and scared, and no one at the inn fully trusts him yet. Lee warns Clem to stay frosty around him, just in case. But all Clementine sees is a boy, and even though he’s a lot bigger than Duck or her, he’s still very, very afraid.

She doesn’t really know how she should do it. Drawing him with his friends who died seems cruel, and she doesn’t know enough about Ben to know what he likes to do, or what he used to like to do.

So she draws him in a big field, sitting under an apple tree, a shiny red delicious in his hand. Clem’s parents once would take her to a field just like that, on the way to Grandpa’s house through all the Georgia farmland. Everybody’s different, but she figures that Ben might find that sort of memory pretty and peaceful, too.

“You’re…Clementine, right?” he asks her unsurely as she approaches him at his spot up against the motel’s grubby brick walls. The grave Lee and Kenny dug for his coach is still fresh and loamy with loose, dark earth.

She nods. “I made this for you,” she says, thrusting the paper forward and into Ben’s hands. “It’s ok if you don’t like it, I won’t get mad.”

He sort of blinks at the drawing, like he isn’t super sure what it is he’s looking at. “Is this…me?”

Clem frowns. She thought that that was obvious. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh.” Ben looks up at her, then back down at the page, then at her again. “Um…thanks. It’s really - good. It’s really good.”

“I said I wouldn’t get mad.” She sticks her hand back out, expectantly. “Give it back if you don’t want it.”

“I - I want it!” Ben’s voice cracks. “I do want it, it’s really good. Thank you, Clementine.”

She nods again. “If you ever wanna draw with me and Duck, I still have a lot of paper left.”

“I don’t know…” Ben chews his lip, like he thinks he’d look stupid for hanging around the little kids. “I’ve never been that great at art.”

“Duck’s awful,” reports Clementine happily. “No one will care!”

Ben’s lips wiggle a little like he wants to smile. “Really?”

“Really,” she says.

And no one does.

(Clem doesn’t know what happened to Ben’s drawing in the end. Maybe she doesn’t want to.)

– – – 

“I like to draw everyone.” She adds a finishing touch to her figure’s glasses, before presenting the end product with a slight flourish. “See, that’s you!”

“Hey, it is.” Mark grins. He hasn’t been here long, but he’s funny, and any new face is an excuse to use something new to sketch. “Were you in art class at school or something?”

“Yeah,” Clem chirps, flipping to the next available page in her book for a blank slate. “It was a lot of fun. I liked to paint a lot, but I don’t have any paint right now. So I use my pencils and sometimes the sidewalk chalk.”

Mark’s dirty fingernails tap-tap-tap on top of the wooden picnic table. “I used to take art classes too,” he says, and his voice sounds kinda sad. “Before I joined the Air Force…”

“They didn’t let you draw in the planes?” asks Clem, choosing from her pencils a bright red, her most sickly green. “I rode a plane once. It was long. I drew everything I saw outside the window to pass the time.”

Mark shakes his head, laughing a little. “If I wasn’t flying the plane, I was busy doin’ somethin’ else with it. Didn’t really have a whole lotta time for hobbies.”

“That’s lame.” Clem looks up at him. “You should draw more now. Since you have the time.”

“I - I guess that’s true, isn’t it?” Mark shrugs, and glances back down at the tabletop. “Whoa. Whatcha makin’ now?”

Clementine doesn’t stop what she’s doing. She presses down harder with her muddy brown, dirt and death and decay.

“A walker,” she answers, and when she’s done with it Mark is gone and his picture is left behind, fluttering in the breeze.

Clem stuffs it back into the binding of her sketchbook. Even if he doesn’t want it, she’ll keep it around. She likes the way she shaded in the darkness of his leather jacket, the little shines on the lenses of his glasses.

(Mark pretty much avoids her completely after that. Clementine wonders if he’s drawing on his own, the things he always wanted to. She decides that maybe she doesn’t quite care, and she feels horrible after the farm.)

– – – 

Her mom and dad. Sandra. Carley, Glenn, Shawn and Hershel, her friends at school, her Grandpa, her little cousins, her teachers, Mrs. Earnshaw from across the road, Sailor Moon and She-Ra and Bugs Bunny and other cartoon heroes to help come and save the day.

These are the things she draws in between, and she has no one to share them with.

– – – 

She actually never gives Lilly one, though she draws her many, many times. She’s a little too scared, a little too chicken-shit (as Duck likes to say) to actually go through with it. Lilly hadn’t been happy when Clem had given a drawing to Larry and so it doesn’t seem likely she’d want one of her own. 

But she’s scary, and sharp, and Clementine draws her a lot. Filling in and out of the margins of her notebook, angry and shouting and mean. A few times, she leaves her book face-open on top of the picnic tables, in the hopes that Lilly might wander by, take a curious peek and see herself reflected back in all the pages.

She never does wander by, so eventually, Clem stops trying it, and that’s all there is to that.

(Years later, Clementine stares a woman she once thought she knew hard in the eyes and imagines taking a match to those drawings, each and every one at a slow and burning time.)

– – – 

He isn’t the only one to make an appearance in her little book. But in the end, the one she draws the most is still and always Lee.

[pishufics]

study date(s)

"Bertholdt knows that he needs to start trying. It’s junior year, and he’d rather not stay stuck in the same class next year as a senior. If he fails the next test, he’s in some shit. So, he's going to ask you for help."

pairing - bertholdt hoover x reader

tags - high school au, fluff, humor, texting

warnings - none

author’s note -  this was just a one shot but i kept writing lol it kind of switches between you and bertholdt, but i don't directly say his thoughts, it's kind of like 2nd person omniscient if that's even a thing LOL

lmk how the texting reads, i'll change it if it's weird

reblogs and comments are appreciated ! mwah

ao3 

chapter 1 - two days

reinah: I swear if you don’t just ASK her

Do you want to be held back?

bertoto: relax okay i’ll do it :(

r: Okay, okay

Lmk how it goes

b: i never said i was asking today

Bertholdt sighs and locks his phone once he sees Reiner start to type a reply.

Bertholdt is struggling with English, which surprises him. He’s a good student in every other class, but the moment Mr. Ackermann starts talking, he finds himself dozing off, missing the lecture. Recently, though, he’s awake in class, but still not paying attention. All his focus is on you, who sat in the middle of the classroom while he sat in the back, due to his height (he didn’t really mind, though; better chance of not getting caught asleep).

One day, due to some miraculous occurrence, the short, stern teacher actually had the boy’s attention, but not for long.

“Does anyone have number three?” Mr. Ackermann asked. Bertholdt definitely didn’t. He hoped someone would raise their hand so the teacher wouldn’t resort to calling a random name.

To his relief, you did.

“I think what the author was trying to convey was…”

Bertholdt didn’t really get what you were saying, but he admired your intelligence. You knew the material and could explain it in detail, while he couldn’t even recall the book's name in question.

He started to admire more of your traits - he gazed as you would lightly, but briskly, tap your foot in frustration when you didn’t know an answer and smile at the way your face relaxed when you finally got it. Seeing your motivation in class kickstarted his.

Bertholdt knows that he needs to start trying. It’s junior year, and he’d rather not stay stuck in the same class next year as a senior. If he fails the next test, he’s in some shit.

So, he's going to ask you for help.

...Tomorrow.

-

“Girl, I don’t have any more fucking gum. I drove up to Costco, bought the value sized pack, and you somehow managed to chew all of it.” You say exasperatedly, shutting your locker.

Sasha pouts. “Are you sureeee? There’s prolly half a stick left in your front pocket…”

You swat her hand away. “There’s. Nothing. Left. I promise.” She continues to stare at your bag.

“Fuckin-” You mutter, reaching into your bag and pulling out a snack-size bag of Cheezits. They’re one of your favorite snacks, but you know you can’t win when it comes to Sasha and food. You reluctantly hand the bag to her.

“Thanks, y/n!” She smiles and tears open the bag.

“Yknow, you can be annoying as shit, Sasha.”

She winks at you and eats her stolen prize. You turn to leave and head to 3rd period. English.

Hm. You’re usually greeted by your other best friend around now-

“Yeoooo!!” Oh, there he is. Connie daps you up before wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “What’s good?”

“I don’t really wanna go to 3rd," you answer. "Sasha stole my Cheezits."

“Does anyone really wanna go to any class? And that's your fault, you know you can't bring food without Sasha's fatass taking it,” Connie replies, and Sasha punches his shoulder.

“Okay, I know...have you started studying for the test?”

He blankly stares at you. Guess not. You have the same teacher, but different periods, so you can’t keep an eye on him.

“Nevermind. I’ll see y’all later.” You throw up a peace sign and head in the opposite direction.

It’s not like you’re bad at English, but you just don’t like school in general. You go to class to get your participation grade, then go home.

There might be another reason you tolerate 3rd period, though, and it isn’t the professor. (He is pretty fine, but he's an adult, so you don’t let your thoughts escalate).

-

Mr. Ackermann didn’t like assigning things online, so most of the work in this class was on paper, contrasting your other classes where everything was digital. Kind of annoying, but you’ve learned to deal with it.

You mainly use mechanical pencils because you hate the way wooden ones write, but one day, to your slight dismay, you forgot them at home. Just your luck.

There’s a container of pencils and a sharpener in the back of the classroom, so you stand up to go retrieve one and notice a tall boy asleep in a desk not too far back from yours.

Bertholdt Hoover.

You knew him, of course. You find it a little rude to not know your classmates' names; you’ve dealt with numerous “who?”s in previous years and don’t want to put anyone through that, so you make sure to pay attention during introductions.

You chuckle at sight. The class has barely even started, and the guy is already dozing. In an awkward position, at that. One of his long legs is across the other, cramped underneath the desk. His head was laying on his right arm with his left against his hair. You thought to wake him up, but he looked so peaceful, you couldn't bring yourself to do it, plus, it's not your business. Mr Ackermann somehow didn't notice either, so Bertholdt always had a good rest in 3rd period English.

Every time you walked into class, you checked to see what weird position he would be sleeping in. You found yourself looking forward to it- he looked kinda cute when he was sleeping- but he stopped one day. You were a little disappointed, but glad to know that he was starting to pay attention in class. You still glanced at him as you walked in- he's a pretty attractive guy. No harm in just looking...

-

You shrug your backpack off and sit at your desk, stretching your legs out a bit. The walk from your locker to this classroom was kind of far. You reach into your bag, get your mechanical pencil out, and wait for Mr Ackermann to pass out the first assignment.

Just then, you hear someone walk up to your desk, and you glance over.

‘Oh, it’s Bertholdt. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.’ You feel your face heat up, wondering what he wanted from you.

“Hey, y/n…” He nervously starts.

“Hey. Need something?”

“Yeah, actually...about the upcoming test.”

You hum in curiosity. “What about it?”

He clears his throat. “I’m lowkey failing this class, and if I mess up this test, I’ll have to retake this class next year. Do you think you could, uh…”

Bertholdt inhales in an attempt to calm himself down. It doesn’t really work.

“Could you help me study?” Phew. He managed to get it out pretty well and made a mental note to give himself a pat on the back later. But he hasn’t fully succeeded yet; you still need to agree.

You weren't opposed to the idea. You kind of figured he would be struggling in class a bit since he used to sleep all the time. It’s alright with you, and you wouldn’t mind a potential new friend. Sasha and Connie were exhausting at times.

“Yeah, sure. When?” You pause. “Actually, just text me.” You hold out your hand, asking for his phone.

Bertholdt was practically shaking in his sneakers as he reached into his pocket and handed you his unlocked phone with the contacts app open. You actually agreed! And you were giving him your number! Reiner was going to be so proud, he smiled to himself.

As you type in your info, you appreciate the cleanliness of his phone. That shows you that he’s at least hygienic.

“Aight. Here you go,” you return his device. “See you later.” You smile.

Bertholdt can’t believe this is happening.

Mr Ackermann’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Oi, Hoover. Sit down.”

Startled, he jumps back a bit at the sudden acknowledgement. He was focused on you and tuned everything else out.

“Sorry, sir.” Bertholdt gives you a quick grin and turns to go back to his desk. Once he sits, he looks down at the new contact:

y/n :)

xxx-xxx-xxxx

Bertholdt can’t help but smile. Just seeing your name and number on his screen made him giddy, and he thought that the smiley face you added was adorable.

His thoughts are interrupted yet again, but not by the teacher. He looks down at his phone, which just buzzed.

| Messages

reinah

Did you do it yet bruh

Good timing. Bertholdt taps on the notification and goes to type a reply, but decides to send him a screenshot of your contact…with your number scribbled out. Reiner was a flirt, and he didn’t want to risk anything.

r: YOOOOOOOOOO HOLY SHIT U ACTUALLY DID IT

Bertholdt rolls his eyes and puts his phone in his backpack. He was going to pay attention- for real - today. He didn't want to seem too clueless when you tutored him.

“Can anyone tell me what rhetorical strategy is being used here?” Mr. Ackermann asked.

Bertholdt certainly could not. But that was changing soon, with your help.

--

“Okaay, we got Ms. Tutor over here now,” Sasha smiles in between bites of a burger.

“Do you even know how to, like, teach, though?” Connie gives you a skeptical look.

“It prolly isn’t too hard. All I gotta do is help him study. If he needs help understanding a concept, I’ll just explain it,” you defend yourself. “We still have two weeks. Ion mind making flashcards or something.”

“You’re getting into it, huh?” Sasha laughs.

Your face heats in embarrassment. “Girl, you know it isn’t like that.”

“And why not? You’re always bitching about how lonely you are. High school isn’t gonna last forever…” she replies.

“I have no recollection of saying anything like that.” You glare. But she isn’t exactly wrong. You’d like to experience the “high school romance” you’ve heard so much about, and Bertholdt is pretty cute. It’s not like dating is a significant concern, though.

“I’m always here as an option, y/n,” Connie winks as he takes a sip of his soda.

“Hell nah.”

Across the cafeteria, Bertholdt is trying to eat a sandwich, but Reiner won’t leave him alone. He was right about Reiner being proud, but Bertholdt almost forgot how persistent the jock could get.

“I didn’t think you had the balls, dude. I was ready to see English 3 on your schedule again next year,” He grins, arm around his taller friend's shoulders.

“...Can I eat?” Bertholdt sighs and shrugs his friend away.

“Have you texted her yet? What day are you gonna hang out with her? You gonna bring her anything? Flowers or somethin’? Girls like that kinda stuff.”

Bertholdt didn’t really think that was true.

“First off, no, not yet. I need to see when I can actually go. Second, no, I am not bringing her anything. I didn’t say it was a date. She’s going to help me study.”

“Fine, man. At least try to seem more interesting, yknow, so she can like...be interested in you.”

“Are you saying I’m boring? Ouch,” He jokingly pouts and rolls his eyes at Reiner’s double usage of ‘interesting.’

“You said it, not me.”

“Okay, I don’t wanna hear that from you...if it came from Annie, then I’d believe it.” Bertholdt looks in the blonde’s direction. She took a bite from her burger, looked up from her phone, and shrugged.

“Damn, for real?” Bertholdt sinks. He didn’t think he was that dull. He did lots of interesting stuff, like…

Like…

Bertholdt sighs in defeat.

“It’s fine. Maybe y/n likes boring,” Bertholdt huffs, taking another bite from his sandwich.

“Yeah, okay, keep telling yourself that and see where it gets you…” Reiner mumbles.

“Come again?”

“Nothing, man…”

School's been over for an hour or two. You’re aimlessly scrolling through your phone when you feel a buzz, and glance towards the top of the screen.

| Messages

xxx-xxx-xxxx

hey

it’s bertholdt 😁

where should we meet up?

Your heart starts to beat a little faster. ‘Relax, girl… don't act like he's asking you out or something,’ you tell yourself.

y/n: hey!

how abt the library?

+  what day/ time works for you?

You add his number to your contacts as you wait for his response.

bertholdt :^)

is saturday at 3 okay?

y/n: yep

do you need a ride or anything?

b: no, but thank you

see you then ☺️

y/n: alrighty :)

You smile at his use of emojis, send what he requested, then swipe down on your screen to check the day (what? It's normal to forget sometimes.) Wednesday. Two days.

You feel like it would be awkward to study with Bertholdt considering you aren’t really friends, so you decide to text him a little more so it isn't too bad when the day arrives.

----

“See? That wasn’t so hard!” Reiner exclaims. “You could’ve tried to talk to her more, but it went good!”

“I think it would’ve been weird if I did say anything else. Best to leave it at that…” Bertholdt exclaims, trying to calm himself down. He had two days.

He wonders what he should do now. Study so he could impress you? Do something to make himself seem more interesting? What would he even do...?

Bertholdt taps back onto the conversation to reread it for the 6th time. Was there anything he could’ve said different? Should he try asking you someth-

Oh, wait-? You’re typing?

“Oh shit- Dude, she’s saying something else. What do I do?” He begins to panic. Did you suddenly decide he wasn’t worth your time? Were you cancelling?

y/n: sooo

how’s your day been?

Whaaaaaatttt?? You actually...care to ask?

Bertholdt stared at his phone in surprise.

“What’d she say? Cmon! Don’t just look, dude!”

“She...asked how my day’s been-”

“-You gotta reply now! You were on the chat when she said it, so she knows you’ve read it!” Reiner urges.

Shit. He doesn't have enough time to think of a good reply.

good, but better since i’m texting you 😉|

The hell? No, that’s weird. And too soon. He tries again...

pretty good, thanks!

kinda stressing over the test, haha

how’s your day going?

There we go. He twiddles his thumbs as he waits for your reply.

y/n :)

oh, dw, it’ll be fine !

my day was okay

sasha took my last bag of cheez its :(

b: ah, i'm sorry abt that :(

+ yeah, you're right

have you as my tutor :)

“Nice job man! That was...kinda flirty? You’ll get there!” Reiner ruffles his hair in encouragement, and Bertholdt shoos him away. He stares at his phone in anticipation. Was that too much?

----

i have you as my tutor :)

You lean your head on your pillow and feel your face heat up at the compliment ( was that a compliment?)

It’s not like you’re dumb, so he’s not wrong to think that. Your lips curl into a smile as you reread the message. But how do you reply? Should you compliment him back? You don’t really know.

if you’re saying i’m smart, thank you :))

hoping that wasn't sarcasm lol

You wait a minute, and he doesn’t reply, so you decide to ask another question.

is there anything specific you wanna focus on?

You cringe at the double texting, but hope that it doesn't make him think you're weird. You swipe away from the conversation and scroll on various apps as you wait.

b: ofc it wasn’t sarcasm, you're really smart, y/n!

i'm mainly struggling with rhetorical strategies and logical fallacies, but i could

use a general review too

if that's okay with you

You bury your almost overheating face into your pillow. Why is something like that getting you flustered, you wonder. You sit up, take a deep breath, and focus on the second part of his message. You're pretty good with what he needs work on, and a general review should be easy to put together.

y/n :) okay, we can focus on the first 2 on saturday

we can review the unit on other days

see you at school:)

At this point, you really don’t know how this conversation could go any further, so you ended it. Bertholdt returns your goodbye.

You exhale and sit up in your bed. Hopefully tutoring him won’t be too awkward now that you’ve spoken to him a bit, and there's still tomorrow at school to speak to him. You find yourself excited for the study date tutoring session, since you could get your homework done too.

"Two days," you smile.

[mkhaddan]

Gabriel and the hybrid chapter 2

Gabriel and Angel made their way to the apartment building where her foster parents live and sure enough, all her belongings were packed outside and the door locked. There were only 3 suitcases and 2 bags. “I know it’s not a lot, but it’s everything I own, ever since I lost my mom anyway.” said Angel. Gabe noticed the sad look in her eyes as if she was about to cry, he looked around trying to find something to take her mind off the sad memory. He quickly noticed that one of Angel’s suitcases was smaller than the others and it had chains and a lock on it. “Excuse me Angel, but why is this one not like the others?” He asked hoping to change the subject, Angel answered him. “It’s medicine that my dad sends me. You see, I was born with a condition that no doctor or hospital is able to treat and if I don’t take it, the results are… not good.” “ and how did your father manage to get a hold of medicine that’s able to treat you?” he asked. “He makes it himself, he’s very good with chemistry from what I’ve been told.” “So he’s a chemist then?” “More like a doctor actually, he’s skilled in everything a doctor can do, he can make medicine, treat injuries, make prosthetic body parts, as well as help a pregnant woman give birth to her child. But he didn’t help my mom deliver me in case you’re wondering, he had to be somewhere else at the time. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what he can do.” “He sounds like an interesting man, have you ever met him?” “I have, but he’s a big jerk, when mom died, he wanted nothing to do with me, he actually said that to my face, so, he dropped me off at a foster home first chance he got. The only time I ever see him is when he brings me my medicine, after that, he’s gone.” Gabriel thought to himself, and then speaks. “Well at least he sends you medicine, so he must care about you.” Angel gave Gabe a serious look, “Trust me, love and caring about me is not why he sends me my medication.” “Then why does he Angel?” “I’d rather not talk about it, it’s personal.” Gabe gives her a small smile, “Understood.” Just then, a window in the apartment building opened up. “HEY!!!!, YOU GOT YOUR THINGS SO HIT THE ROAD!!!!” Said the woman from hours ago. Gabriel spoke up.” I’m sorry, we’ll be on our way now!” The man spoke up. “GOOD RIDDANCE!” he said before slamming the window shut. “Come on Angel,” Gabe said as he picked up 2 of her larger suitcases. “Let’s go.” Angel gives him a nod and pick up her 2 bags and the suitcase of her medicine. Then she and Gabriel were on their way.

****

Gabriel opened the door to the hotel room, then he and Angel made there way inside, he helped set down her things as she looked around the room. “Wow, I haven’t been anywhere this nice in a long time.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “ Really?” He asked. “Yeah, I’ve only ever been to nice places like this back when I would vacation with my mother.” “She sounds like a nice woman.” “She was, … she was also the only person who ever loved me and in return, I loved back… but ever since she died, my life’s gone to Hell.” Gabe was taken aback by what he heard. “How old were you?” He asked with a sorrowful look in his eyes. “9… I was 9 at the time. you see, growing up, she spent most of her time and money on my well-being that she hardly ever looked after herself.” Angel starts to frown a little bit, “Then… one day… she got sick.” Angel begins to cry a little bit. “She didn’t have enough money to pay for treatment, and as a result… She… She…” Gabriel places his hand on her shoulder and gives her a warm smile. “Before she died she said something to me….” Angel pauses for a moment, remembering what her mother said before she passed away, “I don’t care what happens to me, as long as you’re alive and healthy, that’s all I want, my special girl.” Gabe’s smile weakens upon seeing Angel cry as she spoke what her mom said. “ *sniff* I can’t help but feel like I’m the reason she died.” At this point, she begins to sob and raise her voice a little bit, “ IT’S ALL MY FAULT! ISN’T IT?!? SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF IF I WAS NEVER BORN IN THE FIRST PLACE! IF I DIDN’T EXIST THEN SHE WOULD STILL BE ALIVE AND-“ Gabriel grabs Angel by the shoulders and lowers himself to meet her gaze. “Listen Angel, what happened to your mother is not your fault, she was doing what any mother would do, looking after her child, it is quite obvious that she loved you with all her heart and was willing to sacrifice everything for you.” Gabe brings himself closer to her, “But you should never say things that that, how you wish you weren’t born and that you’re mother would be better off if you never existed, do you understand?” Gabriel brings his hands up to her face, wiping the tears from her eyes, Angel’s eyes widen before she brings herself to hug Gabriel, catching him off guard, he smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

****

2 months and 7 days had passed since Gabriel let Angel stay with him until his job was done, he managed to get 6 more mortals on the right path before returning to the hotel to take a break. As he walked in the room, he noticed there were a lot of text books on a table, and a small trash can filled with crumpled up pieces of paper inside, some of which were next to the trash can due to it being full from the paper. Angel was sitting in a chair with a pencil in her hand and a piece of paper under the other while looking at one of the text books. “What are you doing Angel?” asked Gabe. “Homework.” She replied “I don’t have a teacher to help me so I try to teach myself. But I’m not very good as you can well see.” Gabriel remembered what her foster parents told him, that she struggled with learning and how she only got Cs and Ds on her report cards. She explains to him how she used to be homeschooled by her mother and that the people at the foster homes and all her foster families didn’t have patience to help her, and because of her condition, school was out of the question. “I see.” Gabriel pulls up another chair and sits next to her. “What are you doing?” She asked. Gabriel answers her, “I want to help you.” He says, “If that’s alright with you.” Angel gives him a little smile and nods in approval. “Thanks, it’s been a while since someone helped me.” Gabriel returns her smile. “You’re welcome sweetie.” He says before they begin to work together.

****

Several months have passed and with Gabriel’s help, Angel was able to make straight As on all her report cards, a mass improvement of her previous work. Not only that, but he and Angel have gotten to know each other a little better in the time they stayed together. He was making his way back to the hotel to leave New York, for he had just finished with the last mortal on his list. It was a shame really, he had grown a bit attached to Angel, and would hate to have to leave her. As he made his way inside the hotel room, he noticed Angel was in a sort of panic. “no no nO NO NO NO, I CAN’T BE OUT! NOT NOW!” Gabriel closes the door behind him as to not disturb the other guests. As he made his way inside, he noticed that the window blinds were shut, making it completely dark in the room. He turned on a lamp, “Angel…. are you ok?” He makes his way to her to see that she has something in her hands, it was the suitcase with her medicine, it was opened, as well as empty. “I’M OUT OF MY MEDICINE!” She says in a panicked voice. “Oh, I see, well maybe we can contact your father and-“ Angel interrupts him “You don’t understand Gabriel, getting the medicine isn’t easy I-“ just then, Angel throws up what seems like a pool full of blood. Gabriel taken aback by this rushes to her side to help her, but as he puts his hand on her shoulder, Angel looks up at him, only this time, her eye weren’t the sapphire blue they usually were, her sclera was yellow, her iris was red and both her eyes looked like that of a serpent. Gabriel yelps and jumps back from her due to fright. She reaches out for him. “Wait I-“ Angel begins to groan with pain and then screams. To Gabriel’s horror, her skin turns purple and her feet transform into hooves, her teeth begin to sharpen to a point, she begins to grow horns on her head as well as a long demon tail, and her hands form into hooved claws. Her ears grow to a sharpened point, and her tongue turns into that of a snake. With Her transformation complete, she looks up at Gabe with a worried expression on her face.

Hope you all enjoyed chapter 2 of Gabriel and the hybrid. It was based off of @camodielsart’s au St. Michael’s son, which is based off of @brightgoat’s au Lil Lucifer. Get comfy, the story is not over yet!

[bibliocratic]

Jonmartin prompt: Jon wants to cuddle Martin very badly and is also super awkward about it, like "how do I touch you without my elbows crushing something"

(post 160, jonmartin)(this is… well, it’s sort of what you were after? hope it’s ok!)

It’s not easy, the slapdash and imprecise art of communication. Martin’s never been particularly adept. His words trip over footholds of his own making on their way out of his mouth. He has a stammer he’s never quite rid himself of, his words too earnest or too anxious to showcase any finesse at the skill.

And Jon…

Well. Jon.

It wasn’t simple before, twisting the tape back to the start of all this, Jon talking like a car trying to jump start when things felt too personal, his indelicate sincerity that struck with all the tenderness of an anvil. And Martin likes to think they were both getting better, before. They had three weeks of stumbling, artless practise, their amateur declarations witnessed by no-one but the wind and evening-dappled fields that stretched like lazy days for miles around.

And now.

Martin wouldn’t say Jon’s up to managing much talking now.

Oh, he’s not silent. Chatty in his own way, and the conversations they have are tug-of-wars, teasing, testing to find the edges their pieces slot into.

Easy isn’t the word for it though. Martin supposes, it was never going to be.

They’ve stopped for a few days to gather themselves. They’ve made it as far south as Melrose on the borders, and it would have been a pretty market town, antique fairs and village fetes and a eye-catching ruin of a fourteenth century monastery, if the Hunt hadn’t passed this way, maybe the Spiral too. There isn’t much left here in the way of civilisation, and little to nothing in the way of humanity. There are shadows like the imprints on wall after the outpouring shock of a bomb, but their limbs do not concede to the shape of limbs. They sway as leaves on a branch, like they’re hanging from where their feet are stuck to the ground, and Martin tugs them clear of their gathering places.

They’ve managed to let themselves into the half-unhinged door of a little high street shop that used to sell fancy card and stationary. They had tried an art gallery further up the road, but the Dark had started to take root there like black mould, and it’d eaten away the ground floor to yawning inky nothing.

Martin asks Jon if they’ll be safe here, and Jon rallies himself  wearily, Looks. He replies that nothing will come for them, and that’s as much as they can ask for these days.

Above the shop, accessed via a back-room still plugged up and packed with unopened boxes, up carpeted stairs on which bundles of unopened notebooks and special occasion cards balance committedly against the will of gravity, there’s a small flat.  The decoration in the flat is… interesting. It’s more something one of Tim’s friends would have had, the few times Tim got Martin to go out with him for one of his ‘de-stress Friday’ sessions.  Martin would laugh at the wall-hangings like indoor curtains, the posters of the zodiac and some tie-dye hippy representation of chakras, the bong even still on the coffee table in the poky living room, except his attention is slightly more taken up by Jon at the moment. Leant against him like a downed tree, his eyes drooping closed and his legs fast failing him, shuddering from the effort of taking the stairs.

The way here was treacherous. There’s a town further north about forty miles swallowed by the Vast.  Jon tries to avoid Seeing as much as possible, of course he does, and Martin will never ask that of him outright, never, but they’ve had to check if the way is safe a number of times. And each time he opens the door or whatever metaphor Jon uses to understand it, it drains something from him it takes a long time to claw back.

Martin drops his backpack by the entrance. Divests Jon of his. Jon sways and blinks with lidded eyes, and his gestures are sloppy, poorly formed. Martin ends up carrying him to single bed off to the right of the staircase, the room still wreathed in the old stale smell of tobacco and weed.

Once Jon’s out for the count, Martin checks the doors, the windows, their rations and supplies with the religious militancy of a man who knows what happens when they don’t. He counts out rations, makes careful notations in his notebook with a stubby pencil sharpened by his pen-knife. The cupboards of the flat are mostly a bust, but there’s a few cans of baked beans, tinned peaches, and the delight of finding a single can of tinned custard, which Martin stashes to surprise Jon with later.

There’s a billy bookcase next to the non-functioning TV, crowded full of precarious piles of console game boxes and disordered books and back issues of the Fortean Times. Martin peruses through a number of books on mysticism, the paranormal and how one can access their inner self before he finds a glossy hardback on origami to entertain himself.

The sky outside is dark and scratched with an ugly bruising colour,  but it’s likely to be only mid afternoon. Martin ventures back down the staircase and grabs some coloured card before he settles back into the spring-less corner of a battered settee draped with a brightly adorned throw blanket. There’s another, equally obnoxiously shaded blanket of clashing colours, and he places it over himself and gets comfortable.

It’s a few hours later when he hears the bed squeak.  A clearing of a throat, the unsteady padded steps of someone who hasn’t found their equilibrium just yet.

Jon pushes the door open with a sighing squeak and peers blearily around.

The nap hasn’t helped at all by the look of it. Martin turns mid-fold and gets to see a crime scene of disturbed sleep evidenced on Jon’s body. One of Martin’s long-sleeve t-shirts rucked up, the under arms and ring around his neck patched damp. His skin rippled with a thick sweat, hair coming wildly and carelessly from the band he’d tied it back in. He’s rocking on the balls of his feet like he’s still following the motion of running, and his eyes as he stares at Martin are unnaturally dilated, unnervingly steady even as he scrubs his face with his hand.  

“Hey,” Martin says carefully. Knowing to keep his voice pitched low, calmer than Jon feels right now. “Are you… everything ok?”

Jon pauses, blinks just too slowly to seem natural, and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asks. “If you can… if you want to say, that it.”

Jon pauses. It’s habit now. A nervous tic. Mulling over what he wants to say and how he’ll say it.

He has to be so careful with how he says things.

Martin’s expecting a truncated gesture or two. A stumbling sign that Martin will have to parse, backed up by a thousand other signifiers of meaning in their home-spun language. But unusually, Jon clears his throat, bites his top lip anxiously before he opens his mouth.

Like tuning in a radio station mid-programme, someone else’s words ring out.

“I allowed myself some brief hope,” Jon’s voice sloshes out of his mouth with a South American cadence. “that maybe he’d just left me, maybe he’d escaped with just a divorce. But no. One call to the housing association confirmed that, as far as they were concerned, I’d always lived alone.”

Most of the statements Martin doesn’t recognise. He’s not been cursed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of them after all, a forced and unwilling archive now capable of speaking in every voice but his own. They’re all the same anyway. The recycling of other people’s tragedies and miseries, their worst days committed for posterity and recited dutifully by the archive Jonah Magnus created to house them.

Jon usually doesn’t share the content of his dreams.

“Nightmare?” Martin says, deliberately lightly. He puts down his truly butchered attempt to make a swan and watches as Jon swallows, brings a hand to his mouth to gnaw at a nail.

He wonders if that’s the right word, knows in his heart it isn’t, not really. Because nightmares are a twisting of things that both are and aren’t, a plaited deceitful recollection of an unkind brain. Jon’s dreams are a hideous witnessing, with no hope of challenge of change.

Jon jerkily nods, before he says in that awful ventriloquism:

“… regarding a series of misplaced objects lost over the course of three months.”

Jon’s started to rub his arms. His lips firmly closed again, as though embarrassed he’s shared the history he’s been watching in his dreams. But he did share it. And that’s notable.

Martin holds up a corner of the blanket on the settee, and chides “Get in here, or you’ll catch your death”, and Jon’s crossing the distance as though he was waiting for the signal.

They don’t say anything for the while. Jon folds himself up against Martin’s side like a gangly greetings card, like one of his obviously failed origami projects. Martin puts an arm around his shoulder and consigns himself to the rather shocking robbery of body heat that’s rapidly occurring. Jon accepts the arm, but the tension is still wound through his marrow, and he doesn’t calm like he usually does.

“This one really bothered you, didn’t it?” Martin says.

A twitchy up-down motion.

“How come?” Martin asks, before:  “If you want to talk about it. If not, well, I can tell you all about my grand adventures in paper folding. A wild ride, I can promise.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at the truly dazzling menagerie of wobbly animals, and huffs a stale laugh.

He brings out his hands from where he’d buried them in the furnace of Martin’s space, and makes a sign, a twisting hooked hand motion  - Spiral. And then, shakier, flatter, his fingers closed like shutters – Lonely.

“As far as they were concerned,” he repeats with a mournful and stolen tongue, “I’d always lived alone.”

He makes a sign again, and meets Martin’s eye like he’s been trying not to – Lonely.

Jon reaches out, and like setting fingers to the board of a violin, delicately fits his hand against Martin’s. Like he’s memorised exactly the places where they go, the coves and shorelines where their islands can align.

Martin’s grip has never been as careful. His fingers engulf Jon’s smaller size, cushioning them in a sturdy grip.

“You’ve not lost me,” Martin says, reading in between the lines of Jon’s gestures. “I’m here, yeah? Alright. And we’re together. I’m not lost.”

Jon makes a grunt of acknowledgement, inclining his head in agreement, impatiently, as though he knows all this, like he begrudges being reminded. But clearly this knowledge hasn’t stained every part of his waking yet, because there are tears slipping unwanted from his eyes and his hand grips Martin harder.

His gaze flickers like a camera shutter from the floor and its foot-scuffed rug to Martin, back and forth. Martin wishes, not for the first time, that Jon could just ask for what he wants. Could stop feeling like he needs to justify every out-reaching motion to himself, approaching physical affection like he’s trying to do the cryptic bloody crossword.

He’s learning. They both are.

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asks instead.

Jon’s eyes finally linger on him. Cheeks damp, eyes red. He removes his hand from Martin’s grip like he’s unmooring a ship from port. His next movements being planned behind his eyes. A methodical consideration of angle, of intent, of reciprocation that’s as much caution as it is overthinking. Martin wonders sometimes whether this is the Jon he always was, or the Jon that’s been made by this world and all that’s been laid against him. Maybe it’s one or the other or both, or maybe it doesn’t matter much any more. This is Martin’s Jon, the Jon that is, the one that is thinking about how he’s going to place his limbs as though there’s a wrong way to it, who will steady himself before he’ll reach out. But who always does, eventually, in his own time.

His arms encircle Martin’s neck now. A pause, a release of air, before he’s pulling back, fretting like something hasn’t worked. But he clearly wants something, enough to push through his dissatisfaction, face folded in on itself unhappily before it sets in determination and then he goes for around Martin’s chest, fingers steadying, finding their own bony handholds in the material of Martin’s jumper. The right angles of his elbows, the washboard of his ribs felt under his shirt, they don’t have any give and Martin shifts a little to ease the hard sensation of it, try and reorient them better. Jon picks up on this, already trying to shift again or perhaps even move away, and if his tongue could still form apologies, he’d be making them.

Martin’s arms come round decisively, closing the circuit of them.

“Stop fussing,” he murmurs, and Jon quietens. Face against the round of Martin’s chest, the hand that’s not still gripped vice-like carefully combining through his damp hair.

“This ok?” Martin says finally, wanting to know, wanting Jon to feel like he can tell him.

Jon lifts his head. Nods, brings their lips together for a skimming kiss, like he’s sealing the sentiment.

He shuffles his body so he’s wedged next to Martin, taking up any crevice he finds. After a moment, pulling and positioning Martin’s arm back over his shoulder, so it drapes heavy and solid and present. A lightness on his face that sleep couldn’t achieve but a victory Martin likes to claim as his own every time.

It is no hardship for Martin to understand every one of these expressions just fine.

[joonclouds]

Heat Packs | YoongixReader

You make a scrunchy face at the sandy-haired boy. “Not so bad? All I was, was concerned and he saw fit to make me feel as worthy as the dirt under your shoe.”

“I don’t wear shoes.”

When you raise an eyebrow pointedly at him, Taehyung holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, shoe police, calm down.”

-

Yoongi x Reader (and shoeless friend Taehyung)

Plot: Producer!Yoongi, fluff at the end, kind of enemies to lovers?? arguments to lovers? idk man Yoongi is bad at expressing feelings

Warnings:  It gets a bit hot and heavy at the end but nothing else unless you want to consider cringey fluff as a warning lol

Wordcount: 7.3k

Note: Quarantine is still very inspiring. I am still very bad at naming my fics. producer!Yoongi is *chefs kiss* Hope ya’ll are well x *kisses*

-

It is a Tuesday evening in mid November that you decide you hate Min Yoongi. Hate was a strong word for you. Most of the time you hovered between a state of neutrality to mild displeasure, and sure, you’d been harbouring a (maybe not so subtle) crush on your reclusive boss, but you decide today that it was time to Burn That Ship cause you hate Min Yoongi.

You stand there, heart pounding. From embarrassment or from anger, you can’t really tell at this point - but heck, it wasn’t even your fault. Indignant, that’s what you felt. You had heard a loud bang and crash from his recording studio, and in a moment of panic and concern you’d rushed in to check if everything was okay.

Turns out he was moving his large bass speakers and didn’t need (or deserve, you think huffily) any of your help. Maybe you should have knocked first, but -

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Never heard of knocking?”

See, you were a Badass Bitch™. Which is why now your face is flushing an angry red, mouth open, ready with a snappy comeback. But Badass Bitch™ is also paranoid and doesn’t like confrontations, so she takes a baton and whacks the retort right out of your mouth. So you close your mouth again, stand there silently and look down. And if it could get worse, it does - a prickling at the back of your eyes starts to grow.

“And you’re just going to stand there?” The black-haired boy cocks a brow at you.

“I.. I heard a crash so I just came in to make sure everything was okay and-“

“What is this, your house? Is your name on the outside of the door?”

You wring your hands behind your back and pinch the fleshy part of your palm to ease the growing lump in your throat. No, you refuse to cry in front of him. After three months of working here you’d thought you’d finally wormed your way into the category of “acceptable humans to Min Yoongi”, but clearly you had not. In fact, as of now, you probably didn’t even exist on the Venn diagram.

“I.. No, but… I…”

“Does it. Say your damn name. On. My. Studio. Door.”

You stand there, speechless, mouth opening and closing, looking for something to say. A fat tear starts to pool in your left eye and threatens to spill, but by some miracle you manage to hold it in. Barely.

Yoongi lets out a sharp breath and makes his way across the room, yanking the door wide open.

“The rule here is no one comes into my studio. Get the fuck out.”

-

You are still crying as you sharpen the twentieth coloured pencil on the living room floor you share with a pixie of a girl called Chungha, who sits opposite you with her chin propped on folded knees.

“You should do this for a living, you know. Given how many times you’ve done this already.” She comments

“What, the crying?” You stutter out confusedly between a hiccup and a sniff.

“I meant the pencil sharpening.”

You blow your nose wetly into a tissue. “I can’t help it, okay? I cry. When people. Shout at me.” You choke out the last few sentences in between sobs.

All your admission does is bring forth another wave of tears.

“So who made you cry this time?”

“Min Yoongi. Min. Fucking. Yoongi.” With each syllable you turn the pencil with a newfound gusto, taking some sort of vicarious pleasure in watching the wood getting shaved off in neat strips.

Chungha’s eyes widen. “As in, owner of the studio, Min Yoongi. Your ridiculously elusive, black-clothes-only, don’t-come-into-my-office, hot in a weird way, Min Yoongi?”

You nod aggresively. “I hate him. So much.”

“You don’t mean that.”

You consider locking Chungha in the storeroom.

“Maybe he just had a bad day?” She offers.

“What did I do to deserve this? All I did was check on him in his studio!” In your angst you stop sharpening. You imagine the little plastic sharpener is Yoongi’s stupid head and you hurl it across the carpet.

“I’m sorry he shouted at you.” She pulls a Kleenex out of the box and dabs gently at your face. “Even if he told you not to go in, but you didn’t deserve that. He’s an idiot. Men are idiots.”

“I was just trying to be nice!” You protest, voice rising a good four octaves. “I heard a loud thud so I got worried and I rushed in without thinking, but turns out he was just moving his speakers and he just got so mad and saying all those mean things - “ you trail off slowly as hiccups and sobs leave you incoherent.

“You know how he is, grumpy old man. I’m sure he’ll apologise.” Chungha offers you another tissue. “And honestly my love, there’s no point crying now you’ve already forgiven him so…”

“I. Havent.”

“Tell me that when you next speak to him and aren’t a puddle of mush.”

You fling your snot-stained tissue at her.

—

The next week when your shift comes around, you still show up for work. Even though you are half an hour late from pacing up and down the street outside, considering if you should just not show up to spite him. It took three existential crises, five tears, and many muttered curses about the offending human being, but eventually you find yourself in the lift up to the recording office. You didn’t like to admit it, but you were the type who was quick to anger, but quick to cool.

Though cooling didn’t mean forgiveness. You were good at compartmentalisation and that was exactly what you were going to do.

The idea of not landing yourself in crippling school fee debt was wholly enticing, and to do that you needed this job as an admin at the recording offices. It paid well, and was easy enough. Keep the place clean, stock the pantry, manage the room bookings, make sure no one breaks equipment. Make ramen for customers. Don’t go into Min Yoongi’s studio. Even if he suffered a heart attack and might be dead. Easy.

You steel yourself with a breath and push open the swinging door with gusto, making a beeline for the reception with your head down and eyes trained on your shoes. Just get behind that tall white counter and you’d be safe -

“Oof.”  - if you didn’t first collide with a broad, hoodie-clad chest.

Warm hands grip your shoulders to steady you. “Whoa, watch where you’re going, little pea.”

You smile as you step back to see a familiar face face that takes your breath away. “I didn’t know you were coming in today!”

Taehyung, or Tae, as you had come to know him, was one of the regulars at the studio. A music student with a voice deep and syrupy as honey, and a face just as sweet to match - he made hearts go ba-dump in chests. Even after six months of seeing him three times a week, and the knowledge that he was already (secretly) attached to his art school’s equally pretty-boy dance major, you as a normal human being were still not safe from Tae’s charms.

“Yeah, I had some free time - Jimin’s off putting in extra hours in the dance studio so I figured I’d come here.”

You’re glad for his presence as you go behind the reception and get ready for work.

Tae walks up on the other side of the counter and rests an elbow on it, chin propped in his palm. From behind his long bangs you can see he’s sporting a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. He looks at you expectantly and you’re confused for a moment but it all clicks into place.

You fall into the chair behind the reception and let your head loll back on the backrest, giving him the side-eye. “What is it, Tae?”

He grins mischeviously. “So Yoongi unleashed the kraken on you, huh.”

“If by kraken you mean Mr. Shouty Pants, then yes, the kraken.”

Tae lets out a barking laugh. “Let him off the hook, fisherman. He’s not so bad once you get to know him - he wasn’t always like this, you know.”

You guess is that if that stupid recluse had anything such as a friend, then Taehyung would probably be the closest thing to it. But then again your guess was as good as useless because it was near impossible to not like Tae - he was definintely overly-friendly, but not in a smothering way and boy, did it grow on you. Out of all the people who came and went in the studio, Taehyung and about four other people were the only ones you had ever seen Yoongi say more than three words to in a single sentence. Well, now you were included in that category too, but for very different reasons.

You make a scrunchy face at the sandy-haired boy. “Not so bad? All I was, was concerned and he saw fit to make me feel as worthy as the dirt under your shoe.”

“I don’t wear shoes.”

When you raise an eyebrow pointedly at him, Taehyung holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, shoe police, calm down.”

After a moment, he adds, “are you still angry?”

You sigh in resignation. “Honestly? Not really. I decided I need this job more than my dignity.”

Tae chuckles good-naturedly.

“Oh, by the way could I have the restroom key, Jungkook’s track got rejected again and the idiot’s gone and locked himself in there. Again.”

Bending to look under your table for the right set of keys, you cant help but feel the little worm of resentment wriggle in your heart. “If he were even half decent he’d apologise.” You grumble quietly.

“Looks like he already has.”

“What did you say?” You emerge from under the desk, a little red in the face, and hold the keys out to Tae.

“Thanks!” Tae grins widely at you as he takes the keys and makes in the direction of the hallway, calling out behind him, “Ramen at 9?”

“Choosing to have ramen with me over Jimin? I’m honoured.”  You tease.

Turning back to your desk you notice a little convenience store heat pack with a yellow sticky note that says ‘it’s getting colder’ messily scribbled on it. Tae must have put it there while you were searching for the keys - a right shame he batted for the other team, the boy was so sweet.

“Thank you for the heat pack!”

“Not my doing!” Is his muffled reply from inside the corridors, but you just leave it at that.

—

Taehyung trains his eyes on the mop of black hair sitting in front of him at the audio console. He slowly swings in the spinny chair he’s kneeling backwards in, arms and chin on the high backrest.

After a couple minutes of silence Yoongi turns around.

“Tae I swear. I tolerate you, but if you continue staring at me while spinning in that chair for one more second I will enforce a shoes-on policy on this studio.”

The spinning continues, a playful gleam in the younger boy’s eyes. I call bluff. “When I’m gone, who else will you spill all your admin staff related problems to?”

Yoongi lets out a resigned sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Why he chose to let this shoeless, pajama-clad hooligan into his life he would never know.

“This is about ____, isn’t it?”

Taehyung nods. “What you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing.”

He stops spinning in the chair. “Hyung. You didn’t misplace her printing, spill coffee on her notes, make her give out flyers in the rain, put in her pay three days late, or even ask her to make ramen for Jungkook.” (The boy eats four packets in one go.) He lists them all out on his fingers, much to Yoongi’s further annoyance.

“Heck, maybe even collectively doing all of those things might have been better.” He wags an accusing finger in his face, but Yoongi chooses not to acknowledge it. Just like he’s trying not to acknowledge the huge clusterfuck that was this situation with you.

“You made _____ cry. The _____ who waters the stupid plant outside your door and replenishes the bottled water in your personal fridge after you run out because you’re too damn lazy to do it yourself. You’d both die of dehydration if not for her.”

“You both?”

“You and the plant outside, you fucking dumbass, since both of you have so much in common.”

Yoongi slumps deeper into his chair, twiddling with the rings on his fingers uncomfortably. He’s looking at his three computer screens filled with music arrangements but all he can see is your face, hurt and angry. There was a particular point where he saw a tear threaten to escape and he can’t remember feeling like more of an asshole. He’s frustrated that you make him frustrated with your stupid pretty face all crumpled up like that and the fact that he’d been the one to -

“So?” Taehyung asks expectantly.

Yoongi has a defeated look on his face. “I already apologised!”

Taehyung gives him a stare that was equal parts appalled and in disbelief. “With a two dollar heat pack you bought from the convenience store? Which you left on her desk, along with some random post-it and no name. She thinks it’s from me, by the way.”

“She should have been able to tell? ... From the handwriting?”

Taehyung just looks at him.

“I didn’t mean what I said, Tae.” He adds huffily after a short silence. You know why I get so prickly when people come into my studio without permission.”

“Hyung, but ____ doesn’t know that.” He reasons with a softer tone. “I know you like her. If you didn't you’d have fired her on the spot. She’s the best one yet, and pretty, too. I bet if you explained yourself she’d forgive you.”

He hates it, but Taehyung was right when it came to things like this. Your feelings had been hurt and insulted (unjustly so by him) and he didn’t know how to fix it, so he’d just avoided coming out of his room or being at the studio when you were working your shifts. Which had turned out to be an unexpected inconvenience because you were there, manning the reception and running the room bookings more often than he had thought.

“Knew she was trouble from the moment I hired her.” Yoongi grumbles.

“Stop it, old man. You’re just saying that because you like her.”

And indeed you were, all doe-eyed and warm smiles in a floral print dress catching him off guard the day you tentatively pushed the doors of the studio open, asking about the position opening for a receptionist.

Yoongi soon discovered, over the three months you’d been here so far, that you were also a college student struggling to pay her bills, and your shy disposition hid a sharp tongue and intelligent dry wit that had left him chuckling below his breath before he could stop himself. You were definitely trouble, and just his kind.

“After you apologise you should just ask her out already,” tae adds, “she’s totally got a thing going for you."

Yoongi scoffs. “Yes, _____ totally has a thing for me and my winning personality.” He puts his hand on his chin in mock contemplation. “Now I know why she ran off crying. She’s in love with me.”

“I said, after you apologise. Properly. She’ll forgive you.”

“Maybe I can just fire her. Then I don’t have to see her again.” He groans.

“Then I’d never forgive you.”

The words were sharp, but that was just Taehyung. There was somehow always a kindness to everything he did or said, even if it was an unpleasant thing; it had made Yoongi see the error of his ways more than once. The kid was more mature than anyone gave him credit for.  

Tae pushes off the chair and claps an encouraging hand on the older boy’s shoulder before turning to leave the room.

“Just say sorry, Yoongi. It’s not that hard.”

—

The way Dongwon looks at you as he leans on the reception counter makes you uncomfortable. In the kind of way that you can feel his eyes on your face, your throat, your shoulders. It makes you want to take a shower. Not that you were wearing anything revealing. In fact, you are the antithesis of sexy right now in what Chungha liked to call The Nun Outfit - a  white turtleneck knit and a plain black midi skirt that fell to your shins.

Nevertheless, you force a smile out, respecting that this was one of Yoongi's previous work partners. “I’m sorry, but Yoongi specifically told me not to allow any unscheduled reservations today.”

“Come on babe. I left shortly after you arrived, but you know who I am. I just gotta pick something up, and use studio B for a while.”

His usage of the affectionate term on you makes your skin prickle but you shake it off. “Maybe you could leave a message?”

Fumbling at your desk, you reach for a pen and a notepad, pointedly ignoring the way Dongwon is leaning in closer, not sparing you an inch of his scrutiny. “Here, you can use this -"

“Are you fucking him?”

You freeze. “What?"

Dongwon gives you a once over and runs his tongue on the inside of his cheek. You think you’re going to throw up.

“Are you two fucking? Is that why you’re listening to him like a good little - ”

Yoongi is nothing if not a possessive man. So when he catches the tail end of your conversation with Dongwon on his way out to get this third Americano of the day, and sees Dongwon looming over you like you're his next meal, he feels a sharp, intense anger pressing against his chest.

“The heck do you want?” Yoongi is seething as he enters the reception area, but he tames the flames quickly. His tone is deceptively level.

Dongwon looks away from you and a weird expression crosses his face, but it’s schooled quickly. “Yoongi, my man.” He greets emptily.

“I’m just visiting. Seeing how you’re doing.”

“Great.” is Yoongi's clipped reply as he sets his empty cup on the counter and tosses a couple of bills in front of you.

“Im sorry, sajangnim, I told him you said no unscheduled -”

“Iced americano, triple shot.” Yoongi cuts you off. 

He looks at you pointedly, the first time he’s acknowledged you since he had shouted at you a week ago. Under normal circumstances you’d have snapped back about how ‘so we’re only speaking if you need me to be the coffee lady’ but today you just take the money and leave the office, glad to be out of there. You drag your feet, walking as slow as possible to the cafe downstairs and pray the barista takes longer, but there’s only so much time you can kill before you have to go back up. Coming to the end of the corridor you just hope they’re both gone by the time you get back so it saves you the confrontation but -

You stop just before they can see you through the glass door.

"You don't talk to my people that way."

"Your people?" You don't need to see Dongwon's face to know he's sporting a twisted mocking expression.

"What’s the matter, she’s free game if you guys aren’t sleeping together." His leering tone makes you blanch. "With a face like that? She's way out of your league, man, and even if you were fucking, it doesn't mean you can't share - “

Dongwon is cut off when you hear the loud, telling smack of a fist connecting with a face. It is all you can do to not drop the coffee in your hand, the other coming to cover your mouth to muffle a gasp.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you, Yoongi? Who shoved a cactus up your ass?”

There is a brief scuffling noise, and the sound of some pushing and shoving, but quickly, it is quiet again.

“You know I could end your career in one phonecall, right?” You can barely hear Yoongi from where you are, but one thing’s for sure. You’ve never heard him like this before. Angry and menacing.

“I know what you’re here for. I’m not going to fall for it again. I kept quiet to protect the people in Namjoon’s company, but don’t you for one damn moment think I don’t know you’re the stealing bastard who took my demos and used them as your own.”

"And when Namjoon realises what your work is like - ha!" Yoongi snorts. "I was gonna watch you die a slow and public death but I guess that can be sped up."

Suddenly, things click into place with a shrill clarity. You don’t hear Dongwon say anything.

“You. Owe. Me. So you be a good little bitch and apologise to _____ when she comes back, and if you even so much as breathe on the corner of my block again, I’m going to fucking end you.”

“Yoongi you -“

If there was a good time for Badass Bitch™ to make an appearance it would probably be now. So you squeeze your eyes shut and with a deep breath, push open the office door.

“Coffee’s here!” You say a little too brightly, like you didn’t just walk in on an altercation.

Dongwon is trapped against the counter, collar gripped in Yoongi’s fist. He’s sporting a shiner on his cheekbone. Your lip trembles, but you manage to hold it in place. After a tense moment, Yoongi releases his grip with a disgusted exhale. Dongwon brushes himself off, turning away to straighten his shirt.

You place the coffee cup on the counter, turning to Yoongi and holding out a small fist. When he just looks at you, you grab his wrist and deposit some coins in his hand. You notice his knuckles are definitely pink.

“Your change.”

Yoongi ignores you, looking over your head at Dongwon. He opens his mouth like he’s about about to throw a nasty remark, but then closes it again with fire burning in his eyes and turns to leave.

“Oi. You forgot something. ” Yoongi’s tone is dangerous, warning.

Dongwon looks back, eyes still blazing, gaze shifting to you when Yoongi tilts his head in your direction.

He scoffs before pushing the door open, but then as he leaves he spits out begrudgingly, “Sorry, or whatever.”

You stand there in shocked silence for a good full minute before your senses come back to you. You turn to Yoongi again, grabbing his wrist to examine his hand.

“Yoongi, your hand -“ you start, but he’s already yanking it back from your grasp and muttering an angry “I’m fine”, before grabbing his coffee off the counter and heading back into his studio with a slam of his door.

-

If Yoongi’s day could have gotten any worse, it just did. There is a knocking on his door, for the third time in a row now and -

Knock knock knock.

He groans, yanking the door open. If he could get any more pissed off, he does, when he comes face to face with Taehyung.

“The fuck do you want, Tae, I swear if it’s nonsense again -"

"Stop taking your problems out on other people, hyung. Getting real tired of your shit here."

Yoongi groans internally. Tae was right. Again.

"Sorry. Its been a day. Dongwon was here earlier." He explains wearily, and the younger boy softens a little with understanding.

"S'okay. He's gone now?"

"Yeah, left him with a present too." Taehyung eyes Yoongi's hand that rested on the doorframe. He nods a few times, and then shoves a plastic bag into Yoongi’s hands.

“I have a present for you. It’s from ____.”

Your name stuns him for a moment. “Wait. Who?”

“____. She asked me to give it to you. I think she’s too afraid to give it to you herself.”

“What? Why?”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes before walking away. Yoongi shuts the door and slumps back in his chair, hand coming to massage his temples but he winces when he tries to make a fist. His knuckles are an angry, painful red. He definitely hit Dongwon harder than he’d intended.

Sighing, he empties the contents of the little bag onto the table and finds a tube of anti-inflammatory ointment, a roll of bandages, and a little pink post it note. It’s from you. You’ve doodled a smiling caricature of yourself with a tiny speech bubble that says ‘thank you!’.

He picks it up, running a finger over the smiley face and plasters in the top right hand corner.

-

Huddling deeper into your coat as you trudge miserably back down the street in the direction of the studio, you silently thank Tae for the heat packs he’s been leaving you - though he always denies it and you wonder why. Of course it’s just your luck that you left your house keys at the office on the coldest night of the month.

It’s not that Yoongi was avoiding you, you reason to yourself, as you walk, he was always like that. Aside from the first interview, you didn’t get a second glimpse of him till the third week into your new job. And even then you didnt really know what he actually looked like, because his face was always covered with a mask or a black cap pulled low. You heard more about your boss than how much you actually saw him.  

Maybe he just felt embarrassed by the whole two situations? You reason to yourself. Frankly you were over the whole shouting fest. Maybe he just had an off day, so what? (Chungha was right, you were just a little miffed that he didn’t apologise to you, but you guessed he’d redeemed himself). As you round the corner you kick a stray pebble that bounces down the street -

Oh.

You remember the first time you had a Good Look at Yoongi. Not just glimpses of eyes under a cap pulled low, or a flash of his profile as he tugs his hood up over his head. Like, a real proper stare. It was about a month and a half in, when you were heading to water the plants outside his studio before you ended your shift, and caught him working late with the door open.

You had imagined him to have coarse, unrefined features, what with his reclusive, gruff personality. And so you were caught by surprise, when you're greeted with a delicate side profile, strong brows slightly furrowed in concentration as he experiments with different chords on the keyboard with long, elegant fingers. A plush lower lip is worried between a row of clean, straight teeth. It was an unconventional kind of handsomeness, a kind that made you want to look, and look again.

But it's like he knows you're there and looks up. Before you can apologise out of habit, he closes the door in your face, your gaze meeting his for a split second. His eyes are angled with an almost feline quality under long lashes, sharp and guarded. You didn’t know what they guarded, but you felt a curiosity take bud in your chest and it was in that moment you knew you were very much in trouble.

But it is not clear how much trouble you are in. And you thought you were clear of that trouble, given the happenings of the past weeks. But now you realise any chance of being clear of it is now shot to shit when you round the corner of the street and see him crouching at the curb outside the building near a small ball of fur.

He’s playing with a cat.

Softly, the three-coloured cat he’s watching purrs, abandoning the can of tuna in favour of rubbing itself against Yoongi’s shin. He pulls a hand out of his hoodie pocket and reaches down to scratch between its ears. A gentle, endearing smile finds its way onto his face. You feel your heart squeeze.

But like the last time, before you can make your presence known, he looks up. He knows. There’s an expression on his face like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

Yoongi quickly stands up and shoves his hand back into his hoodie pocket as you approach. It is at this point a small logical part of his mind registers that it would be a good time to apologise to you, but for the most part it is a mental re-enactment of a keyboard smash when you give him an unsure smile and a tiny wave. All swaddled in your coat and scarf, you were so cute, and holy shit you were walking over and he had no clue what he was going to say.

“So you’re the one spoiling him.” You murmur as the cat leaves Yoongi to pad over to you.

“Him?” He replies dumbly.

You nod to the meowing ball of fur curling around your ankles. “Him. I named him Jimin.”

“Jimin.” He repeats slowly. “A very human name?”

Yoongi watches you, as you watch the cat, a small smile gracing your face. “He reminds me of a friend of a friend. Small and cute. But has claws. And very clingy once he gets close to you.”

You look up to catch him staring, and he quickly redirects his attention to a streetlamp in the distance. “Yeah, I’ve been feeding him for a couple of weeks now. You’re definitely right about him being clingy.” Yoongi admits sheepishly as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

Crouching to give Jimin a head scratch, you can sense Yoongi wants to say something. But you reckon he doesn’t know how. You think about giving him a hard time, but you don’t. You figure getting caught feeding a little cat is enough punishment for him.

“Don’t worry, sajangnim. I won’t tell anyone." You say with a little smile. "I’ll keep your image intact.”

Your smile makes his brain short circuit. "What?"

You let out a laugh because this was the most flustered you’d ever seen Yoongi, over a cat, no less! (you were wrong about this) And boy, was it amusing.

It's a light, happy noise and it's so pretty, Yoongi thinks. A pretty laugh for a pretty girl.

"Y'know, your whole brooding, all black, don't talk to me, mysterious guy image." You make a mask gesture over your face and then to him in mock disbelief.

"Playing with cats isn't very on brand of you, but I'll keep that information to myself."

Yoongi laughs then, and he dips his head to try and hide it, but from where you're crouching with Jimin you're treated to a glimpse of the cutest gummy smile that makes your heart turn into mush. You mentally note to prepare yourself for the next time he does that.

Putting your hands on your knees you push yourself back up and you both stand in companionable silence for a little while, watching the little cat go back to his bowl of tuna.

“I’m gonna -“

“Yeah so - “

The expression of mild surprise quickly turns into amusement on Yoongi’s face, and it makes you laugh softly into your palm like a shy fifteen year old. You quirk your head at him. Yoongi feels like it is really unfair for someone to be this cute.

“You first.”

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck with his hand and looks up at you from behind the hair falling in his eyes.

“I’m. Uh.” He stutters. “Realised I never apologised for that day.”

“It’s okay,” you smile reassuringly. “I’m over it.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I mean, granted you were a Top Notch Asshole, but I guess it was just a bad day for you.”

“I deserve that. Taehyung told me I should stop taking my anger out on others. Its true.”

“I accept your apology. Everyone has their own… thing.” You say stupidly after not being able to find better words.

“I just have issues sometimes. With... intellectual property.” He gestures vaguely in the air, trying to explain the best he can and you understand that he doesn’t really want to say more.

“I know.”

Yoongi’s brow knits in confusion for a moment before realisation dawns upon him.

“You heard us.”

You nod with a tight smile. “I didn’t mean to.”

Yoongi nods. “You’re not curious?”

“I am.” You consider this for a while, before adding: “but I don’t want to hear it if you don’t want to tell me.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, just continues staring at you. He likes that you are perceptive, and that you don’t feel like you’re automatically owed a lengthy explanation (even though he feels like you were). He likes your humour and the way you say things, and how every emotion is displayed so clearly on your face. He used to hate it because he thought it was a lack of tact, but honesty like yours is something he’s recently come to treasure a lot.

His staring makes your skin prickle all over and your cheeks flush, so you look for something to say.

“So all the receptionists who've worked for you become your punching bag, or was it just me?”

“Only the pretty ones.” He's sporting that cheeky gummy smile again.

He thought you were pretty?

It was so cliche, but it made you giggle. "Okay, casanova."

Your laugh dies down and you do this little shrug smile thing at him. In the muted yellow of the lamplight, and the snow starting to fall around you, Yoongi feels his heart stutter.

“Thanks, for the... stuff.” He pulls his other hand out of his hoodie to show you that it’s bandaged.

“Ah, you got them. I’m glad Tae got them to you. I didn’t know if you um.” You pause. “... wanted my company or not.” Yoongi blanches apologetically. “I’m working on it.”

After a moment of silence, you point up at the building. “I gotta get going. I left my house keys in the office. I came back to get them.”

“I think I’ll stay here a little longer.” He looks down at his furry friend working steadily at finishing whatever's in the bowl. “With Jimin.”

A sudden gust of cold, sharp wind cuts by, and you shove your hands deeper into your pockets kept warm by the heat pack Taehyung had given you. You see Yoongi shiver in his hoodie, and in the spur of the moment you fish out the heat pack in your pocket and hold it out to him.

“Take this, if you're gonna be out here. It’s getting colder these days.”

There is an odd expression on Yoongi’s face and he stares weirdly at you for a moment before you go into panic mode.

“Oh no, do you mind that I’ve been holding it before? Oh no I’m sorry. It’s okay, my hands are clean, I wash them often, twice actually with soap and water. I don’t like germs. If you want I also have hand sanitiser - “ you begin digging around hastily in your little sling bag, but freeze when Yoongi’s hands settles over your own.

They are big and warm, and the rough callouse on his palm brushes gently over your knuckles. You can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on other places of your body. He accepts the heat pack from you, fingers lingering just a little too long - you’re sure of it, you hadn’t imagined that.

“Thank you, ____.” He offers you a half-smile and you can feel your heart flip flop like a fish in your chest.

All of a sudden, self-consciousness hits you in waves, and you school your features, clearing your throat. “I… I’d better get going, sajangnim.”

“Yoongi.”

“What?”

“Call me Yoongi.”

Yoongi finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too wide as he watches you, all flustered as you stutter a mumbled agreement and goodbye, trudging off abruptly in the direction you came. Only to turn back around because you’d gone in the wrong direction instead of going to get your keys. Cute, he thinks to himself. Very cute.

—

The first time you say his name is two weeks later and you’re not used to calling him that, so he really has to drag it out of you. (Not that he didn’t enjoy it, but you best believe he won’t ever let you live it down that you couldn’t bring yourself to drop the honorifics.)

It’s after hours, and he’s leaning against the audio console in his studio, with you standing between his legs. A random demo track of his plays in the background - a simple piano melody, but you don't recognise it. Must be one of the new things he's been working on - there were a lot of them lately. One of them being working up the sexual tension between you two, which had reached a head today, given the position you were in. You were about to burst. Into tears, or flames you didn't know which but you sure as hell were about to find out.

You are eye to eye with Yoongi. An arm around your waist presses you against his chest with nowhere to run, the other hand gently cupping the side of your face. He is terribly close, so warm and smells of soap and the leather jacket he’s wearing.

“Say it properly.”

A little bubble of annoyance rises in your throat at the smug expression on his face. You’re rather cute when you’re frustrated.

“This is blackmail. It’s illegal, you know?” You say huffily. “It’s just a name, why do you have to make life so hard for me? I’m sure you’d know - “

You ramble on, and Yoongi watches you fondly - you weren't much of a talker, but put you in a spot and suddenly you couldn’t stop talking. He’s rather excited to discover more of this side of you. Even your coping mechanisms were cute, and he thinks to himself that he’s pretty much done for.

Yoongi places his index finger under your chin, tipping your head up to meet his gaze and runs the pad of his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. You shut up, and watch him as he watches his finger press into the soft flesh. The guy knew exactly what he was doing, and you were going to let him.

“Kiss me.”

Yoongi tilts his face even nearer, lips hovering dangerously close.

“Not good enough.” He whispers. His breath fans gently across your cheek; it smells like the mint gum he likes to chew on when he’s working on a particularly difficult track.

Yoongi feels your small hands tighten around the lapels of his jacket, and he’s met with a glare that is pleading and dare he say… petulant? He’s wanted to kiss you for a long time, and he’s thought about it a lot. More than is healthy for him, he thinks, but oh, does he want to tease you just a little bit longer.

“Not. Good. Enough.”

“Yoongi, kiss me.”

When Yoongi first kisses you, he does so chastely. He nips delicately at your lips. His own are soft, unhurried and teasing - a tender shadow of a kiss. You can tell he's relaxing, savoring the moment, and like a fog settling in, your world grows hazy with the smell, taste and touch of him.

"There's my girl." Yoongi whispers as he pulls away, his breath mixing with yours. Unintentionally you shift, moving forward for another kiss because he's kissing you but not really kissing you. And unsurprisingly, he stays where he is, just out of reach.

"Kiss me. Properly ", you repeat.

He moves his lips slowly to your jaw and lower; you can feel his laugh through his chest. You crane your neck and let out a breathy "oh god" when Yoongi takes his own sweet time to suck a deep pink bruise into the creamy expanse of skin there. He appraises, with satisfaction, the way his mark looks on you before soothing it with his warm lips and tongue.

"Come on princess," he murmurs against your skin in between licks. "Try again."

The term of endearment he uses on you is your undoing, and he makes a mental note with emphatic exclamation points to revisit this tidbit of information at a later date.

"Yoongi. Kiss me. Please."

And just like that he continues where you two left off, this time with no ounce of teasing or flirting. It's hot and shameless and wanton. Yoongi is no longer gentle. The hand around your waist drops to the curve of your ass, gripping hard and pulling you onto your tiptoes. He slips a thigh between your legs, your hips now flush against his - a delicious pressure you can't get enough of. The other hand palms your breast, rubbing a pebbling nipple through your clothes and the sudden friction makes you gasp. He takes the chance parting of your lips to lick into your mouth, swallowing your soft moans eagerly. You run one of your hands up to the nape of his neck. Carding your fingers through the hair there earns you a low groan, and a heavy, languid swipe of his tongue against yours.

You don’t know how long you spend memorising the taste of him, his hands claiming every possible inch of your skin, but eventually the kiss slows. Yoongi takes your bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently as he pulls away. For a moment all you can hear is the the blood roaring in your ears.

As the both of you catch your breath, Yoongi is just watching you now. The hand that rests on your waist moves up your belly, up your chest. It comes to rest at the base of your throat, thumb one one side and four fingers on the other. Silently, you revel in its weight. The feeling of his rings on your skin makes you shiver a little. Unable to help himself, he squeezes ever so slightly. Like this, he can feel your hummingbird pulse under the pad of his thumb.

Your eyes flutter shut momentarily, but not before you see his eyes light with desire.

You look up at him, and he decides he likes you like this. He really, really likes you like this - soft, pliant, all pressed up against him with your moans and kiss-swollen lips, and for the love of god, begging.  

It’s a bit pathetic how you’ve got him all wrapped around your little finger but he's had enough of teasing and he gets to kiss you now, so he doesn’t care. He smiles widely, closing the distance between his lips and yours again.

-

Six months down the road is the first time he lets you listen to that piano track when it’s finished. You don’t remember it at first, but he’s quick to jolt your memory with a very in depth and very realistic re-enactment.

When you finally get down to listening to it, he plays it off as cool and nonchalant, but you’re attuned to his little mannerisms by now, and the way he’s picking at the skin on his thumb told you this was important. He’s nervous to let you listen to it.

It’s beautiful - a soft piano backing track compliments his husky rap in an unexpected but flawless manner, and the way it builds into a crescendo fills you with raw emotion. Your eyes are wet by the time the last few notes play.

“Yoongi, it’s beautiful.”

He smiles at you, but continues picking at his thumb.

“You don’t think it’s too… different?” He frowns a little. “From my other stuff? Will people like it?”

You walk over to take his face between two of your small hands.  You’re looking at him like he’s your entire world and his heart is going to burst. “ Don’t worry. It’s going to be amazing. It is amazing. You’re amazing.”

In that moment, Yoongi feels invincible. He presses a long, sweet kiss to your lips.

“Some day, I’m going to write a song about you.” he breathes when he pulls away. You beam quietly.

“Music is my first love but you - “ there is a pause as he takes a moment to run a finger across your cheek, so gentle, as if he might break you if he wasn’t careful enough.“ - you are my forever love.”

- 

[alienbactria]

Summary: After the not-pocalypse, Crowley goes back to the Dowling’s estate and adopts Warlock. Aziraphale is reluctant for adopt him at first, but after some persuading, Warlock Dowling becomes Warlock Crowley-Fell. This fic takes place 3 years later, when Warlock is 14 and has been attending a school for a bit. (He call’s Aziraphale papa, but Crowey is still Nanny) Warlock is having trouble with a class assignment, but figured out that the answer was in front of him the whole time.

3:25 in the afternoon

Warlock tapped his sharpened pencil on the wooden table. His brain coming up with ideas left and right, but none fit the mold of what he wanted. The class was Creative Writing, one of his favorites, but only after living with Aziraphale for the past three years. The assignment was to write a poem about someone important in their lives and something that person went through. The first part was easy. Of course he’d choose Nanny or Papa. The only problem was what story for the long list.

His head was starting to hurt from all the ideas and frustration. The ringing school bell cut through his thoughts and interrupted the growing migraine. Warlock sighed and packed up his bag, thinking about the prompt. He walked outside and saw his Nanny, Crowley, waiting for him at the side walk, leaning against the Bentley, hands in the pockets of their tight jeans. They smiled and waved for Warlock to get in so they could head home. Warlock rushed to the car, careful not to hit his head getting in the front seat.

“Have a good day today, devil spawn?” Crowley asked as they sped away from the school. He only asked as a formality, already sensing his child’s frustration.

“It was fine, Nanny. I’m just stressed on a project. I need time to think about it.” Warlock sighed. He was exhausted and decided to take a nap as soon as he was done with the writing. Good-Old Fashioned Lover Boy started to play in the background, and the two started humming along. Humming turned to mumbling and soon both Crowley and Warlock were in concert mode. The Bentley pulled in on the side of the street next to the bookshop, but Warlock and Crowley were too busy giggling and singing along to notice.

“Thanks Nanny. I needed that.” Warlock said with a smile.

“It was no problem, Warlock. Now let’s get inside.” Warlock catiously climbed out of the passenger side door and walked with Crowley to the front door of the old bookshop. As they stepped inside, the scent of old books and hot chocolate filled their senses.

“Aziraphale! We’re back!” Called Crowley. They were happy to be home. Warlock walked over to his favorite spot and claimed it with his bag. It was an old blue chair with a clear view out the window and a table right next to it. The perfect place to do homework.

“Oh hello! Warlock, how was your day?” Aziraphale greeted happily.

“It was alright. I have a lot of homework to finish. I should probably get right to it.” Warlock replied sadly. Aziraphale and Crowley shared a knowing look.

“Well, your papa and I were going to go to the Ritz in an hour or two for dinner. Would you like to go?” Crowley knew Warlock was going into one of his moods where he felt too stressed to move on from a project.

“I’m alright, Nanny. I just have a bit of homework to do and need to stay home. Anyways, you and papa haven’t had a date in a while. Go have fun.” Warlock collapsed in his spot and got to work.

Fast forward a few hours to 10:45 at night

Warlock had been working since his parents had left, an hour and a half ago. He had finished his math, science, and history without a problem. French had caused a little trouble, but it was easier than he made it. Now was the same poem he couldn’t write in class. This is when Warlock decided he needed a break. He went to the kitchen and pulled out a mug, some cocoa powder, sugar, and some potato chips. He opened the fridge and grabbed the milk. He was mixing some milk with cocoa powder and sugar in a pot on the stove when his phone rang. Warlock sighed and walked over to his phone. Adam was calling.

“Hey Adam. What’s up?” Warlock put the phone on speaker and went back to his hot chocolate.

“I was just wondering how you were doing. I sensed that you were frusturated and I was just wondering why.” Adam seemed hesitant. So much so that Warlock laughed.

“I’m fine. I just have to write a poem for class. It’s actually a bit harder than I first thought.” Warlock added a laugh in at the end.

“Oh ... well, maybe I can help? It might be easier to figure out what you want to do out loud than just on paper. What’s the poem about?”

“It’s supposed to be about in our life and some important thing that happened to them.” As we explained the task, Warlock grabbed the pot of hot chocolate and poured it into his mug. He grabbed the cocoa and his phone, taking them back to his spot by the window.

“Well obviously you have to do either Crowley or Aziraphale. They raised and adopted you.” Adam was sure with his answer, but that just made Warlock a bit more frustrated.

“I know! But the problem is what story...” Warlock trailed off as it hit him. The last story that Nanny has told him when he asked. The only story that had been real (as far as Warlock knew). The one that changed both his parents’ life.

“Adam! I’ve gotta go. I got an idea.” Warlock hung up the phone hastily and grabbed his bowl of chips. He grabbed a pen and paper and got to work. Within five minutes he was done.

“And to think I thought it was going to be difficult. Now I just need to go to ...” Warlock slumped over, asleep. He hadn’t been sleeping all week and the relief of his finished homework was enough to make him go to bed.

20 minutes passed and finally the Bentley pulled up in front of the bookshop. A giggling angel and smug looking demon popped out and headed inside.

“Warlock! We’re-”

“Shhhhhhh. Crowley. He’s asleep. Look” Aziraphale gestured over to the chair where Warlock, truly was, asleep.

“Whoops... well I’ll clean up his mess if you take his dishes to the kitchen” Crowley offered with a shrug. Aziraphale nodded, grabbing the young teen’s dirty dishes and carrying them out.

Crowley took one of the angel’s several tartan blankets and wrapped his child up in them. He left Warlock in the chair and started to put his work away, but then stopped. In front of Crowley’s hand was a well written poem with the title “He Who Fell” written across the top. Crowley was intrigued and decided a little read wouldn’t hurt.

Crowley was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. He silently glanced between Warlock and the paper in his hand. This is what his child had written. He didn’t know what for, but he had written it. Aziraphale has snuck into the room behind Crowley. He had too read the poem, but decided it was better to get Crowley to bed then to be shocked.

“Come on, love. Let’s go to bed.” Aziraphale whispered, carefully taking the paper from Crowley’s hand and placing it on the side table. That shook Crowley out of his state.

“Oh. What? Right! Yes, let’s .. let’s go to bed.” The two walked away, Crowley still looking back every once in a while before they were finally in bed and up the stairs.

The next morning at 7:45

Warlock was scrabbling to get ready. He grabbed all of his stuff and ran out the door. He got to school, just in time and made it to class. Everything was going alright so far, now it just needed to stay that way.

That afternoon at 3:25

Warlock had turned his poem in and hoped for the best. His teacher said that poems would be handed back at the end of the block, graded. And Warlock was scared out of his mind.

Two minutes before school ended and the teacher started to hand back papers. When he got his, he couldn’t believe it. There was a 100 at the top.

Warlock couldn’t have been more relieved. The bell rang and he ran outside to tell Nanny.

“Nanny! I got a 100 on my project!” Warlock saw a smile light up the pale face of the red head.

“That’s wonderful, devil-spawn!” Crowley didn’t even use a miracle. He knew the poem was fantastic.

[dreaming-of-assclass]

Nagisa looking up to Korosensei as a father/mentor figure

A/N: I’m sorry this is so late! I love this prompt so much UwU. I hope I did it justice...

~~~

Korosensei was a good teacher.

That was the consensus that most people shared, but in Nagisa and all of 3-E’s opinion, he was the best teacher.

He could list a thousand reasons why, but the most important one was...how much Korosensei cared. He put an immeasurable amount of effort in looking after his students, their wellbeing, and their success.

It was shown in obvious ways, of course, but Nagisa couldn’t help but notice the little things. The things that no one really bothered to notice, because they were so subtle.

One day, Kimura’s desk kept shaking a bit. He didn’t outright complain, just focused on what he was doing with a slight furrow of his brow. It wasn’t loud either, meaning class wasn’t disrupted. The very next day, his desk was fixed up, good as new. In fact, every desk got a shiny cleaning. Korosensei didn’t say anything, simply went on with lessons as usual. Nagisa eyed him curiously as he took out his books and placed them on his basically-new desk.

He saw it again when some of the girls saw packs of brand new gardening gloves by Bitch-sensei’s purse. They had instantly jumped her with hugs, ecstatic. Bitch-sensei couldn’t get a word out, just confusedly silent as they pulled her outside. Nagisa joined them and laughed as Okano made the blonde try on the gloves and help them plant bulbs in.

It was only when he glanced back at the classroom and saw Korosensei quietly lingering by the doorway, that he realized who actually bought the gloves.

It was the little ways, like how he sharpened twenty pencils every morning and left them at his desk for students to use throughout the day. How he had a basket stocked with snacks that he never allowed himself to touch, as they were for students who felt light-headed. It was how he gently steadied a clumsy Takebayashi with one of his tentacles when the boy stumbled walking up the mountain. It was how he gave Kanzaki a sun-hat to wear one day when she felt dizzy from the heat. 

The family-analogy came up thanks to Sugino, one day when Nagisa was helping him practice his pitches. They were talking about how the close the class became compared to the first day.

“It’s crazy how we’re basically a family now,” he had said, causing Nagisa to slightly falter and miss the ball.

“You really think so?” He asked, scrambling to grab it and toss back.

Sugino caught it with ease, a grin forming on his face. “A family doesn’t have to be a mom, dad and two kids,” He laughed. “It can be a government agent, a bitchy assassin, an octopus teacher, and 28 kids.”

It had been a joke, but there was so much truth to it.

The next day as class was ending, Korosensei dismissed everyone. He was passing out graded tests as students walked out, rings of goodbye filling the air. 

He packed up his bag, waving to his friends to continue on. “I have a question about my test,” he called to them, and they shrugged, obliging. 

Once the class was empty, Nagisa stood, clearing his throat. “Sir?”

Korosensei suddenly appeared right in front of him. “Yes, Nagisa-kun? You wanted to discuss your test?”

Nagisa clutched the test a bit tighter. It was an English one, and a bright red 97 was scrawled on the front. His lips curved up a bit, warmth bubbling up in his chest. “Actually no...”

“Hm?”

“What do you think of our class? Do you think we’re coming together?” He faltered slightly. “Do you think we’ll be able to assassinate you?”

Korosensei was quiet for a brief moment, before he spoke. “Yes, I do. I have full faith in all my students that they will be able to handle the task given to them. You all have shown your second blades, and you are not at all the failures the school system assumed you would be.”

Nagisa felt his chest tighten.

He continued. “As for your first questions, I can see how much we have all changed as individuals, and our dynamics amongst the class. When the year began, there was so little harmony and everyone’s motivation was solely based on the assassination. But you all grew and gave yourselves renewed strength to face academics and whatever life will throw at you.”

“And you were the main cause of it!” Nagisa pointed out.

Korosensei shook his head slightly. “I was, and am here to guide you. But all of you built yourselves and each other up just by sharing your talents and strengths. And I don’t just mean strengths from academics or assassination.” He gently patted Nagisa’s hair with a tentacle. “Each of you are special and have so much to contribute with your personalities and values.”

A smile formed on Nagisa’s lips, and an overwhelming surge of emotion flooded through him. Not for the first time, he felt torn between wanting to make Korosensei proud...and wanting him to stay alive, with them for as long as they could. 

“Thank you, sir...I also feel the same way about how we’ve grown closer” His cheeks heated up a little. “Like...a family.”

Korosensei was quiet until Nagisa quickly added. “A very unconventional family.”

He laughed. “Yes, I do think that’s best comparison for what 3-E is...” he trailed off slightly, his tone light yet carrying weight at the same time. “It’s a home for those who need one.”

“And everyone can trust and rely on each other,” Nagisa stated quietly.

“Always.”

[zweiginator]

My Sweet Lord--Uni!Brian x Reader

Summary: You and Brian meet by chance on a fall afternoon and become close friends. But as the seasons change and the flowers of spring begin to bloom--your relationship with him does the same. 

Word Count: 13k+ (oh my god i truly cannot be concise.. anyways stream my sweet lord by george harrison)

Warnings: slooooow burn, friends to lovers, Brian being a shy, smart cutie, unprotected sex, oral, dirty talking

October 1972

If Brian counted every step he had taken to the campus library and converted it into energy, he was sure the force would be strong enough to take him out of this world. This cruel, cruel world that was forcing him to study for a physics test that his professor insisted was the week after a gig he and the band had been preparing for for months--not that his pudgy, almost-elderly instructor would ever know--or suspect--that Brian was in a band. That was one thing he was trying to change about himself; the fact that he was Brian. He wasn’t Freddie. And he surely wasn’t Roger, who had kicked Brian out of their own flat four times that week, his curls soaked through with the same acid-rain that rolled down the streets as he pounded on the door, which Roger held shut with his booted foot as his one night stand whose-name-he’d-never-remember pushed her skirt up her legs and gave her interim lover a kiss, stained red. He’d mastered the awkward wave, one that expressed a sort-of hello-goodbye hybrid, Brian’s eyebrows furrowed in a sorrowful quasi-frown that he hoped would soften the blow when Roger inevitably failed to call her back.

“How do you do that?” Brian asked Roger as he shook his umbrella off, the material crinkling as trembling rain rolled off the sides, onto the wooden floors.

“Hey!” Roger wiped his hands down his bare chest, covered in a perpetual blanket of leftover kisses, healing into purple-pink marks that ran up the expanse of his tanned skin. He took another bite of a biscuit he was eating and shook his head at his best friend. “Don’t get fucking water all over the floor. This?” He pointed at the shitty floor beneath them; there wasn’t a step that didn’t produce an eerie creak that always made Brian’s heartbeat skip against his narrow chest as he attempted to get water in the wee hours of the morning. “This is real wood. When we sell this shithole, I don’t wanna be fined for ruining the floor.”

“Oh shut up.” Brian rolled his eyes and hung the umbrella on the coat rack by the door as  Roger lit a cigarette that dangled between his pillowy lips. “How do I do what? Shag random girls?” He asked, puffing at his cigarette, pulling it out of his mouth for a bit to let out a suppressed yawn. “It’s a bit exhausting.”

Brian believed him; his eyes were sunken in so much he would look dead if he weren’t so tan from the blistering sun that beat through his skin--all of their skin--as they packed and unpacked equipment from pub to pub all across London, all summer long. “I just--I wonder if I’m doing something wrong? I mean I don’t look like you, but I’d like to think I have a redeemable personality.” Brian complained, taking a biscuit from the crumpled paper bag on the counter.

“Don’t eat my fuckin’ biscuits.” Roger swatted Brian’s hand away as he took another drag, puffing the heavy, stale cigarette smoke into Brian’s nose, which was a rosy hue from the same nipping wind that mussed Brian’s hair into a coiled nest upon his head. “Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Brian. You’re just--” He shoved the bag of snacks into Brian’s hands and tapped some peppered ashes from his cigarette. “Shy. A bit awkward, but you do have a nice personality. And--” He paused. “You’re-- physically attractive. I--” He swirled the butt of his cigarette in a foggy glass ashtray, extinguishing the smoldering glow. “That’s all I’ll say. Don’t repeat those words to anybody.”

Brian chuckled and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, which remained soft, a severe contrast with his fingertips that were cracked and calloused from years and years of plucking ridged guitar strings. “Wow, thanks Rog.” He said it facetiously, knowing Roger didn’t appreciate sappy confessions from his best friend. Roger pulled his silk robe over his chest and gave Brian a tight-lipped smile.

“You’ll find a girl someday. Just like I’m sure I’ll settle down eventually.” He shuddered, padding to his room--a place Roger rarely stayed; otherwise it would be scattered with clothes and cigarette butts and the odd token from his girl-of-the-week, begging for his undying attention.

“Don’t be presumptuous.” Brian peeked around the corner in the kitchen, sending a smile to the shorter blond as he shut his bedroom door, swatting his hand at him before promptly flipping him off. “Charming.” He rolled his eyes,  biting into a semi-stale cookie, leaning his elbows on the granite of the counter, resting his sullen cheeks in his palms as he listened to the bay of the wind, watching the yellow lights flicker--whether that was a consequence of the wind or the unpaid rent bill shoved under a candle, he didn’t know.

__

Now, Brian was certain he would fail his physics test--which he reminded himself was in just two days, as he rested his head on the table, his ear pressed against the hollow, airy wood of the table. The tall chair he was sitting on was the same material, and there wasn’t a cushion, so he shuffled around every few seconds in a desperate attempt to find a comfortable position that soon proved impossible. Everything was muffled against his ear; the sounds of his peers punching irresolute numbers into their calculators, sipping lukewarm coffees hidden between their legs, behind sat-up textbooks. Brian was exhausted, and lying his head on the table--although scratchy against his soft skin--made his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones as his eyes fell, closed as his lips parted, shallow breaths fanning over his book so the dog-eared pages skimmed and flitted upon the next.

He wasn’t usually the type to fall asleep in class; in fact, he had become reliant on coffees saturated with grainy sugar to keep himself from doing just that. But something about the hollow, dreamy reverberation of flipped pages and tapping pencils had him softly snoring, his hair fanned over the table, where small dribbles of drool pooled at the corner of Brian’s mouth. The pen he was holding loosely between his fingers soon fell against the tabletop as his head fell to one side, nuzzling into the fleece of his powder blue hoodie which had sleeves that were much too short; his wrists were covered in goosebumps.

You sat at the table next to Brian’s, a small cart stacked with nonfiction books only slightly obscuring your--and your friends’--views of him, this massively tall, eternally sleepy boy you’d seen many, many times that week. It was nearing midterms, so everyone was scrambling to cram for the massive number of exams they were going to have--making pacts with buddies that they would study together, as if the collectivist, group setting would increase productivity instead of annulling it completely. But this boy was always by himself, his hands shoved into the pockets of whatever jacket adorned his willowy frame, his bony wrists jutting out from beneath his deeply tanned skin. He burrowed himself in a nest of crumpled notes and dully sharpened pencils, yawning into his fist as he scribbled so passionately you were convinced he couldn’t be writing anything pertaining to schoolwork.

Brian was a sort of enigma at university; nobody knew much about him, but they were endlessly fascinated by the shrouded nebula of the unknown that seemed to hover above his cloud of frizzy waves. Nobody had seen him speak to anybody but the occasional professor, hushed by their desk after class ended and the majority of the snooping peers had left to attend to their social lives. So everyone perked up in their seats when three men--two of them excessively rowdy for a school library--strode into the building, tall heeled boots clicking against the tiled floors enough to make the librarians scowl, shaking their heads uniformly as wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up their noses.

“Christ.” Freddie did a scowl of his own as he looked around the expansive library, taking in the grandeur of the old architecture. “This place is gorgeous; too bad its a fucking bore to be here.” He added, quite loudly. Deaky shoved his shoulder and shook his head, gesturing to the multitude of students who were now just pretending to study--they were all watching the men intently, aching for something to gossip about, anything substantial enough to act as an excuse to finally rest their weary eyes from reading their stacks of books which all seemed to belie one another.

“Shut up.” Deaky didn’t look at Freddie when he said this; he was looking for Brian, and was becoming frustrated when he couldn’t spot his head of curls amongst the sea of pupils focused their way.

Roger and Freddie loved the attention, and they winked and smirked at the majority of their audience, including you, as you held your pen between your teeth, fishing your keys from your tattered bag. Roger liked what he saw, so he pulled a chair out, sitting down leisurely while you paid no mind to the doe-eyed blond. He was cute, but you weren’t looking for a relationship; it was just too difficult with the amount you were juggling--plus you had silently swore off guys in a drunken rage a few months back and you weren’t ready to go back on your words just yet. You could tell your friends were intrigued by Roger’s beachy waves and sun kissed cheeks, his wide blue eyes that were covered in a thin film of innocence that most girls saw right through.

“You girls seen a tall lad around here? Big curly brown hair? No other redeeming qualities?” Roger scooted his chair closer to the table as you capped your pen, tilting your chin to motion to the probable culprit--although you’d never seen him speak to anyone, and would be surprised that these three very self-assured, very flamboyant guys would be anybody he would associate with.

Roger turned his head and scoffed when he saw his roommate knocked out on the table, his signature curls veiling his sharp, angelic features. His hands were splayed on the table in front of his book, and it was then that you noticed his nails were painted an opaque white, chipped just along the edges.

“That would be him. Good eye--what’s your name?” He acted nonchalant, furrowing his messy eyebrows as he pulled a smoke from the pack in his back pocket, his other hand fumbling, in search of his metal lighter.

“Y/N.” You smiled at him sweetly as you found your key ring, hidden beneath an array of old receipts and hoarded trinkets that had no place being there.

“Roger.” He held his hand out, flashing his teeth, semi-crooked and just a smidge yellow from incessant smoking. Without another word he pushed his chair back so it fit neatly, tucked into the table.

“Sleepy head,” Freddie poked Brian’s head with the pencil that had fallen from his grasp. Brian groaned softly, adjusting his position so his head moved away from the strange sharpness that pierced his scalp. “Wake up Brian. You’re making a fool of yourself.” He whispered into his ear.

“Fuck off, Freddie.” Brian turned his head to the opposite side, so he faced where you were sitting, watching the interaction curiously, like a few other surrounding tables were, halting their procrastinated studies to try and decode the campus mystery that was Brian May. You noticed how effortlessly attractive he was, even with his face mostly obscured by curled tendrils of hair that tickled against his angular nose, fell over his sharp cheekbones. His eyelashes were thick, and they laid across the very tops of his cheeks; his mouth hung open enough for you to notice how plump and peachy his lips looked underneath the yellowed lights that glowed throughout the building.

Roger moved to the other side of the table and pinched Brian’s nose, squatting down as Brian’s eyes snapped open, his pupils dilating and constricting like his stomach was, pumping with anxiety as he sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes with a ringed finger.

“I can’t believe you told us we had to postpone a meeting with fucking EMI records so you could study.” Roger used air quotes around the last word, slapping the back of Brian’s head harshly, which emitted a few gasps from the tables around you.

Brian grabbed Roger’s wrist, pushing his hand down onto the table quietly, his hazel eyes a warning to his friend. “Roger!” He whisper-yelled, looking around the library. He shot a few glances to their spectators, one that screamed: I’m sorry for disrupting your studies I wouldn’t usually be like this--

“I’m allowed to be pissed; they probably won’t think we’re fucking serious about the offer since you’re moping around in libraries taking fucking afternoon naps!” He was whispering too now, and Brian sighed in relief when he noticed more and more of their audience returning their attention to their books, the cracking of the glue along the spines like a depressant to Brian’s sympathetic nervous system.

“I was studying; I fell asleep because you’ve decided to shag a new girl every night, so I can’t exactly get anything done at home, now can I?” Brian gathered his physics book, shoving his pencil on the last page he was on before he closed it carefully, pushing it into his bag behind portfolios of various lab reports and unmarked quizzes.

“Whatever, Brian.” Roger knew he had been loud the past couple of nights, and he felt a tinge of pride on his part as Brian fed into his ego unintentionally. Deaky just stacked the rest of Brian’s papers strewn about the table and handed them to him without a word. Freddie was absurdly quiet too, mouthing apologies to a few angered students who had probably developed headaches from Roger’s screeching.

“Just don’t get me banned from this place, okay?” Brian straightened his stack of papers and clasped them together with a metal clip, pushing it into his bag expertly.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go.” Roger kneed Brian in the ass as he got up, and you noticed how he seemed to tower above the rest of the posse, his shoes and hair and incredibly lengthy legs just adding to his stature that would have been quite imposing if not for Brian’s lanky body and eyes that were laden in kindness and warm honey, framed by straight eyebrows that gave him an easygoing, impossibly handsome charm.

“The record company is just a few blocks east. We have plenty of time.” Deaky said, following behind Roger and Brian and next to Freddie, his breath fanning on their shoulders which grazed lightly against one another.

“Deaky, keep your mouth shut. We all know we would have missed the appointment if we hadn’t come here to drag Brian’s skinny ass out of his nap.” Roger shoved his hands in his pockets and shivered as he pushed open the heavy door of the library, it was teetering on the cusp of fall and winter and all four boys snuggled into their thin jackets; they never could dress for the weather.

You had to go too; your psychology class was beginning in twenty minutes and you were already running a bit late since you were admiring the cryptic boy whose name you still hadn’t gleaned. As you stood up and adjusted your necklace that you had flipped over your neck, you saw his own psychology book--more torn and loved than your own--tucked away under the table, sitting on the empty chair next to where he had been sitting.

You took it and weighed your options: you could attempt to find him and end up lost, with the very expensive textbook of a complete stranger--or you could find him, by some odd bout of coincidence or fate, and brush fingertips with him, then never speak to him again, most likely. Neither of those options were favorable, but by the scarlet blush that you had never seen him without, you reckoned he was an anxious person, and was probably already deliberating about where he could have possibly left his book. You tucked it under your arm and sighed, fixing your hair in the glare of a window that sat next to the entrance, the window pane covered in coffee rings and devoid of any paint.

You understood why the group of guys had shivered so severely when they opened the door; a drafty gust of wind made your breath become choked, shoved down your throat. But you saw his messy head of curls being blown about in the wind, the cold air reddening the tip of his nose as the foursome leaned against the side of a pub, a long-haired brunette cupping his hands around Roger’s cigarette to light it despite the wind’s vindictive attempts to keep it unlit. The other two men hugged their arms to their bodies and huddled into each other, chatting annoyedly, pulling open the door when passersby wanted to enter, in an attempt to feel the drafty heat. You quickly crossed the street, holding your coat over your body and his textbook over your chest as your bag thumped against your thighs.

“Hey!” You waved as you reached the edge of the sidewalk, where rain was sloshing in a deep divot in the street, a makeshift bay. Your boots kept your feet from getting wet, but the bottoms of your jeans were soaked and cold against your ankles as you held the book in front of you. “You--you left this on your seat.” You reached forward, watching Brian’s eyes light up as his arm extended towards yours. But your heel caught on the edge of the pavement, making you fall forward as a car weaved past you, soaking your jeans completely with rain that had to be just on the cusp of freezing. Your sweater, chunky and cable knit, did nothing to barricade the water from seeping through, and you stood up quickly, your hair stuck to your shoulders as Brian took the book that had somehow avoided the majority of the splash.

“Shit! Are you okay?” The black-haired one took your hand, helping you stabilize your balance. You attempted to rub some mud off of your knees, but it just worsened the stain, so you gave up, huffing as you checked your watch--which you realized wasn’t on your wrist.

“Fuck! What time is it?” You were already running late, and your professor for your literature class already had an odd vendetta against you.

“Ten ‘til one.” The longer-haired, lighter brunette said, giving you tight-lipped smile and offered to hold your wet coat.

“Shit.” You would be late even if you weren’t completely and utterly unpresentable.

Brian was monumentally guilty; it was, technically, his fault that you were in this predicament. If he hadn’t been so stupid and remembered to pick his book back up, you wouldn’t be in front of him, soaked to the bone and distraught, one side of your hair frizzed from humidity, the other side slicked down by a curtain of water.

“Do you have class soon?” Brian touched your shoulder apprehensively, but his grip was still strong as he tucked you under his arm and helped you walk under the awning outside of the pub.

“Yeah.” Your face was burning at the close proximity; his face was a few inches away from your own, squished near the wall so the door wouldn’t hit you two. You felt sweaty; cold yet burning to the touch. He braced a hand against the exposed brick of the building pushing closer to you as a couple brushed past, trying to get into the bar.

“Oh--I’m sorry.” He turned around so his back was against the wall and he was standing next to you, shoulder-to-shoulder. “I didn’t mean to get so--close.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What class do you have? Maybe we can still make it?”

“Renaissance Lit. It’s in about twenty minutes, so I doubt we can make it.” You lowered your eyes to meet his, noticing how they were sparkling, honey specks alternated with the faintest greens that made it impossible to look away. His hair blew over his face as he faced you; his hands large and delicate, gesturing down the block but you couldn’t focus on his words.

“Professor Thompson?” He inquired, wiping his nose discreetly with his rolled-up sleeve. “We better get moving then, he’s quite the stickler.” Brian turned away from you and then quickly pivoted back, holding his hand out towards yours. “I’m Brian, by the way.” He smiled easily, his lips a bitten peach color as his teeth tugged at the skin.

“Y/N.” You clasped your hand in his, which was much bigger, and much warmer than yours--which might have been why your touch lingered, your pinky rubbing against his own, adorned with a silver ring. “We?” You inquired, letting go of Brian’s hand, which was heavy but comfortable to hold.

“You have to get changed--I mean--I was going to offer you some of my clothes from my flat--” He spat out quickly, averting his gaze to his feet as Roger stomped his cigarette out with the toe of his boot. “If that’s not too much. Or too soon. Forget I asked?” It was charming how shy he was; you liked how his eyebrows made him look so tentative and innocent; and you liked even more how his personality mirrored the same thing--pure intentions.

“Are you sure?” You asked. “That would be great, I mean my flat is a ways away. If you’re not too busy or anything.” You stumbled over your words, your hands finding his wrists and running a thumb over the protruding knob of the bone there.

Brian stiffened, then grinned lazily. “Oh, don’t worry about it--I kinda owe you one since--”

Roger cut him off, his hands gesturing wildly, his pack of cigarettes clasped tightly in a calloused hand. “Brian. EMI records. Two o’clock.” He shoved the pack into his jacket pocket and shivered dramatically, his fingertips pressing white prints over the darkened skin of his shoulders.

“I promise I’ll meet you there. I’ll run and everything, Roger. Don’t even worry about it.” Brian stepped forward and clasped his hands down onto Roger’s shoulders, pushing his hair back, away from his forehead.

“Brian, if you’re late I’ll fucking kill you!” Roger yelled after him, his middle finger held up prominently and uncaringly as a group of miserable schoolchildren passed, their fur-lined hoods pulled snug over their heads.

“EMI records?” You began to walk faster, trying to keep up with Brian’s massive strides. His jaw was tensed as he looked at the checkerboard of taxis that were lined, parked along the streets.

“Yeah--” He looked down at you, slowing down a bit as he guiltily realized you were struggling to keep up. “Those guys and I are in a band. Just record deal drama. Trying to get signed before the end of the year is proving to be very difficult--and time-consuming.” He chuckled and looked at his feet, covered in white clogs, the heels only adding to his already massive height. “I’m just not sure if I’m ready to give up university, you know?” Brian didn’t know why he was dumping his inner drama to you--a beautiful girl who he had met mere minutes before--but it felt as natural as the blush that was seeping over him whenever he looked at your face.

“I mean, tell me about your band; is it something you’d want to pursue?” You didn’t want to pry, but he seemed comfortable with talking to you. Plus, you were on your way to his flat, so it felt necessary to break the ice a bit. Brian and you turned the corner, and he pulled you close to him as he saw a teenage couple walking towards you, a dazed look in their eyes which were focused anywhere but the sidewalk ahead of them.

“Sorry if that was too close--didn’t want you to run into them.” He ducked his head under an oddly low balcony, his hand ghosting over the small of your back. You noticed him pulling his arm away, his fist hovering over your body as if he were forcing it away but a magnet was stabilizing it there, confused.

“You’re fine, Brian. No need to apologize. Tell me about your band; I’m curious.” You stepped over a puddle and looked up at him.

“Oh--I--I guess I don’t know where to start.” He reached the glass door of his apartment building, ushering you inside. He pulled his hood down and shook some water from his hair, smiling at you as he strode towards the elevator, which looked crooked and unsafe. He must have sensed your fear, as he huffed and leaned against the wall as he pressed the button for his floor. “It looks a lot more intimidating than it is. Trust me, I know it looks sketchy; it took months for Roger and Freddie to convince me to use it.” A dull ding sounded, and the doors opened, two young boys stepping out, giving you a questioning look. “She’s a new friend.” He explained, gesturing to you as you stepped inside the lift. Brian was severely blushing now; his neck was painted scarlet.

“Brian, it was about time you got a friend.” One of the boys commented, chewing loudly on a stale piece of peppermint gum.

“For real! I thought guitarists were supposed to get all the p--” The other began, but Brian stopped him nervously.

“Okay! Watch the language! Go play your rugby or something.” He shooed them away playfully as the doors closed. You smiled to yourself, assessing the mud caked into your jeans, your soaked boots and your shirt which was seemingly more water than fabric. Your hair was matted and tangled but Brian still couldn’t meet your eye for more than a few seconds before his nerves fizzled and bubbled to the point that he couldn’t possibly look anymore.

“So you’re the guitarist?” You continued. Of course, it made sense; he just had that feeling about him. His calloused fingers, long and agile and bony, painted white were a sort of symbol.

“Yes, I am. The blond, Roger, is our drummer. Freddie is the singer, he’s the quite flamboyant one; and Deaky--John--is the bassist. His last name is Deacon if you wondered where the name came from.” He spoke quickly, and it seemed like he wanted the attention off of himself as much as possible.

But you wanted more. “How long have you been playing?” You watched Brian’s fingers fumble with his keys; he had a keychain of a guitar and a globe on the keyring, and the faint sound of the plastic and metal clinking together permeated the empty corridor.

He entered the key and turned, letting you in first. The floor was scattered with velvet shirts and satin pants and vice versa; socks piled around a laundry basket that remained empty despite the mess of dirty clothes. “Jesus Christ,” He bent down, frantically pushing the clothes into his arms and throwing them into the broken basket. “Roger is the messiest person I swear--”

“Oh, it’s fine.” You traced your finger along the marble of his counter before sitting down on a red leather stool sat nearby. “Can’t say mine is much better with so much going on.”

He nodded, looking up from the stained button-up he was inspecting. “And I’ve been playing for--” He paused. “Over fifteen years I’d say. Not sure quite exactly when I started, but music has always been an escape.” He held the laundry basket to his hip, leading you to his bedroom in the corner of the flat. “It’s just so hard to choose music when it’s so scary. Who knows if we’ll ever be anything but a group of English boys trying to be rockstars?” He set the basket in the doorway of what you assumed to be Roger’s room, before he opened the door to his own room. His was neat and tidy, save for some trousers scattered about the wooden floor. An orderly stack of school books sat at the edge of his desk, and he added his forgotten psychology book to the collection, slumping his shoulders so his school bag slid from his body.

You slumped down on his bed, sighing. “Can I take off my shoes?” You pointed to your soaked boots and he nodded, pushing open the doors of his closet. You noticed a cherry-wooden guitar leaning against his desk, the leather strap swinging from the air escaping from the vents. “I don’t know you much, but I’d say go for it.”

He sat down on the bed next to you, his knee touching your own. He extended a ringed pinky towards you and rose a dark eyebrow. “I promise I will, then.”

__

December 1972

“This is my friend, Brian.” You gestured to the lanky boy to your left, who waved awkwardly to your two friends, his hand gripping the neck of his guitar. Beads of sweat poured down the front of his face and over his nose. His lips were bitten from bouts of severe concentration onstage, and his pupils were dilated, his breaths labored and heavy in his throbbing chest.

Queen had scored a major gig at the Marquee Club in London--a nightclub that would allow them to perform to more than a group of sleazy drunks and their bartenders. It had taken some convincing, but you had gotten permission from Brian to invite some of your friends--his peers--to the venue. His lip was truly bitten purple and bloody from the anxiety simmering throughout his body; his hands trembled uncontrollably over the fretboard for the entirety of the concert. But to you--and the rest of the crowd--Brian looked at ease, in his element; it felt right for these few dozen strangers to label the mysterious Brian May as a guitarist--a shy, tall, incredibly handsome guitarist who was stumbling over his carefully chosen words. His eyes were able to follow your own much longer now; within the couple of months you two had known each other, quiet study sessions with amateur conversations had mutated into quasi-cuddling on his couch, resting your head in Brian’s lap as he dropped salted popcorn into your awaiting mouth.

It was you who he felt most comfortable with, which was why Brian pulled you into him by your waist as he mingled with little-known peers; nameless friends-of-friends who held lagers in their hands as they complimented Brian’s band. That was the girls mostly; the guys gifted Brian with backhanded compliments while they glared at his painted fingernails and the glittery makeup you had swiped over his puffy eyelids hours before.

“You taught yourself the guitar?” A random girl asked flirtatiously as she twirled an artificial blond curl around her finger.

Brian scratched the back of his neck as he lifted his half-drunk beer to his lips. His arm tightened around your waist; you were like a security blanket to him in unwanted social situations. “Yeah--more or less. My dad helped me get started but I guess--I just got really into it.”

She nodded enthusiastically, leaning into Brian as he set his drink down carefully on a cardboard coaster. “I can tell you’re into it--” She batted her eyes and looked at her hands coyly, stirring her mixed drink. “You’re so focused when you’re playing.”

You felt your face growing hot as Brian’s fingers played with the loops on your jeans, his thumbs fingering the denim fabric nervously. You felt jealous, even though you and Brian were nothing more than friends--close friends. You pushed Brian’s hair back from his forehead and plucked a fallen eyelash from his upper cheek as the girl continued to talk. Before leaning back to your original position, you whispered into Brian’s ear: “Christ, she can’t take a hint.”

He swatted your knee playfully and grinned at you widely, his teeth a brighter white than usual. “God, I know.” He mouthed, taking another swig of his beer.

A shorter guy, who was a bit chubby with side swept dirty blond hair came up to the girl and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whispering a secret of his own into her reddened ears. You and Brian assumed he was her boyfriend by the guilty look that adorned her features as she met eyes with him. “What’s up with the painted nails?” He gestured to Brian’s hand, which grasped his drink loosely.

“Wha’ do you mean?” Brian slurred; he had a few drinks in him and you could tell he was getting tipsy by the way his eyes were hooded over, his mouth tangled into a relaxed smile.

“It’s a bit--nevermind.” He pushed his girlfriend’s hair behind her shoulders, his arms hugged over her chest.

“A bit?” Brian urged, his thumbs digging into your hips. It was weird--seeing him angry. You’d known him for only a few months, but were surprised you’d never really seen him lose his temper--not when a taxi cut him off while he was driving, or when Roger had ruined a good amount of his clothes in the wash. He always heaved out a heavy sigh and crossed his arms--then let it go. But by the harsh grip he had on you, the tensing of his jaw as he rolled his darkened chocolate eyes--you could tell he was pissed. “A bit what?”

The guy smirked, realizing he had drawn a reaction from Brian. “Gay? Girly? Weird? Want me to continue?” His girlfriend tilted her head back and looked at him, disapprovingly.

“I don’t see anything wrong with being any of those things.” He tilted his head back and swigged the rest of his drink, slamming the glass down onto the mahogany bar. “Have a nice night.” He smiled tightly, pulling you flush into his side. “What a fucking dick.” He sneered, grabbing his guitar from backstage. He gave Deaky a small wave and gestured to you; John nodded, setting his drink down to give you both a double thumbs-up.

“Are you okay, Brian?” You brushed some hair over his collarbones and he nodded, biting his lip as he slipped your coat over your shoulders.

“Yeah--just pissed.” He opened the heavy door and braced himself for the cold, zipping his coat up entirely to cover his numbed nose and cheeks. “Hold on! Stop, missy.” He held his hand out and pushed a hand down on your shoulder, making you stop in your tracks. “Let me zip you up.” He bent his knees a smidge to reach you and pulled your zipper up quickly. You saw his eyes crinkle, fine patches of skin folding like thin paper as he smiled genuinely, drunkenness evident in his eyes and his sunken stature.

“I’m starving.” You commented, watching his eyebrows furrow; it was impossible to understand you with your mouth firmly covered by layers of thick wools and fleeces.

“Hmm?” He turned the corner with you, his guitar thumping against his leg as he strolled down the streets with you, his head turned perpetually to watch your eyes, fleeting over his face. You watched each other reciprocally like mirror images of one another; consistent, never missing a beat.

Yanking the covering over your mouth, you repeated yourself. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you? I swear I’ve never seen you eat that much you’re like a little birdy. Or maybe a robot. Is that why you’re so good at the guitar--and everything?” You teased him, holding onto his free arm tightly.

“You caught me, Y/N. Damn; how will I ever keep this secret?” He widened his eyes and tightened his grip on his guitar as his fingers began to slip, somehow sheathed in sweat despite the rest of his body shielded with goosebumps, his teeth softly chattering. “You’re hungry?” He asked in a robotic voice, poking your sides almost mechanically. “I can whip up something for you. I’d take you out but--” He gestured to himself. “I’m positively broke. Oh shit.”

You laughed at the random turns in his talking, the way his body leaned to one side, weighed down dramatically by his guitar, hung over his willowy arm. “What’s the problem, Bri?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and stopped at a fork in the sidewalk; the left would take you to his flat, the right to yours. “Gig night.”

“Oh, right. Shit, I still can’t believe it’s every damn time.” You shoved your hands deeper into your pockets. “You’d think he’d get tired of meaningless sex at some point.”

“Right?” Brian tilted his head back dramatically. “I’ve been convincing him for awhile that what he’s doing is not normal. And he’s so--loud.” He shuddered as you approached your apartment building; it was in a nicer part of London, but it was a little smaller and more remote, which Brian favored astronomically. There were many days that he forgot your flat wasn’t really his home, but just a temporary abode where he’d rather be than there. He slept at your flat more often than not; you had offered to make him a bed on the couch after seeing his bloodshot, sleepy eyes and wide yawns many mornings as he strolled into the library to study with you. But he would never admit to you how he’d over exaggerated Roger’s shagging statistics; he had once stayed an entire week and then some at your flat, telling you Roger had met a girl he had “real chemistry” with. But of course that wasn’t true. And Brian felt bad about it, but not that bad; he enjoyed making you toast in the mornings and brushing your teeth together over your porcelain sink, your hair messy from deep, comfortable sleep.

“Maybe you’re both robots--but he’s just programmed to be ultra-flirty and fuck random girls and annoy the shit out of you.” You joked, pulling your keys from your pocket. Your landlord gave Brian a familiar nod as you both walked in, stomping packed snow off the bottom of your shoes.

“Wouldn’t even be surprised if he were a robot. Sometimes that boy has no emotions. He’s ruthless with some of those girls!” Brian held the door open for an older couple as you ran to the stairwell. “I bet I’ll beat you on the lift.” He hovered his thumb over the button, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“I bet you wouldn’t. That thing has no business being called a lift.” You opened the door to the stairs, counting down from three before you both frantically tried to outrun the other--although all Brian could do was cross his fingers and shake his leg and pray. You won of course, panting heavily as you stood in front of the opening elevator doors, which Brian stumbled out of, almost tripping over his feet as he held a finger up at you.

“Two seconds.” He said. “I basically won.”

“Two? That was at least four. Maybe five.”

“Don’t be hyperbolic.” He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as you opened your door. “We’ll call it a tie.”

“I can leave you out here to sleep on my rug, you know that right?” You pointed to the shaggy rug at your door, small and covered in scuffs from your shoes.

“Who would make you world-famous toast in the morning?” He walked in behind you, shrugging his coat off lazily. “Couldn’t be you.”

“What’s special about putting pre-sliced bread into a toaster?” You mirrored his actions.

“It’s all in the techniques!” He gave you jazz hands, kicking his shoes off, watching them tumble on their sides as yours did too.

The next morning, Brian awoke twenty minutes before you did. His legs hung over the end of your tattered leather couch, his back sticky from sweat as he shook his arms to gain his sacred circulation back. He wiggled his fingers and pulled his favorite blanket of yours from his body; it was an ivory fleece blanket that was impossibly soft against his skin and smelled like you, and only you. Stretching his arms, he stood up and padded to the kitchen, cursing silently as he almost dropped your toaster, stored in a lower cabinet near the floor. He toasted some bread for you and added strawberry jam carefully, spreading it as evenly as possible with a concentration only akin to the type he had while playing guitar.

“G’morning.” You rubbed your eyes in attempts to adjust to the harsh overhead lights in the kitchen.

“For your troubles.” He slid you the plate with the toast on it, leaning on his elbows as he awaited your feedback.

You smiled almost timidly, taking a bite of the toast as Brian leaned forward, watching your reaction intently. Nodding, you pointed to the carefully made breakfast, one that Brian was embarrassed to admit took him almost twenty minutes to get just right. “How do you do that? It’s so good!”

“What did I say, Y/N?” He stole the piece from you, taking a bite large enough to transfer globs of jam onto his cheeks, peppered with fallen crumbs. His hair fell over his face, his eyes sleepy and crinkled as his cheeks lifted in the biggest smile you’d ever seen.

January 1973

Brian stumbled into the library just three and a half minutes after he had promised he would meet you, but he felt guilty enough to shrug his shoulders at you, mouthing a pouty “sorry” to you from across the room, shaking the freshly fallen snow from his shoes. He rubbed his hands together hastily as he walked towards where you were sitting, in a corner table, guarded by bookshelves on either side. It was early enough that the usual crowd of overworked, overstressed students was still asleep, or using the early hour as an excuse to put off their studying, for now.

“Sorry I’m late--” Brian set his bag on the table pulling the zippers down. He shoved his nimble fingers through his messy, unwashed locks. “Shit. I forgot my psychology book.”

“You mean the book for the one test we got together to study for?” You held a finger up, pulling the book in question from your bag, his favorite pen shoved in the middle as a makeshift bookmark. He began to talk, but you answered his impending question. “You left it at my place last night. And what did I tell you?” You scolded, withholding the book from him, eyebrows raised.

“I know! I should have put it back in my bag. Truly a mistake. I would say it won’t happen again but we know how forgetful I am.” He scooted his chair closer to your own and opened his book, licking the tip of his finger swiftly before turning to the page you were on.

“Oh, I know. I still don’t know how you forgot your underwear there last week.” You shoved his shoulder and he choked on his coffee, clasping a hand tightly upon his throat, the deep burning of the hot syrupy concoction making his eyes close tightly.

“Fuck.” He coughed loudly, embarrassed. “I did?”

“Somehow.” You looked at him through your eyelashes, admiring the smallest dimple, creviced in his cheeks, a cradle for his most beautiful, most genuine smiles.

Brian watched your lips move, your tone assured as you traced your pencil over the words you read aloud to him. He watched you bite the skin of your bottom lip as your expression grew more questioning, your eyes searching into his for an answer. He realized he spaced out for a minute. “Come again? I’m sorry. I’m—I can’t believe I forgot my underwear at your flat.”

“I washed them for you.” You turned the page, relishing in the way he reddened at your words, his eyes averting to concentrate falsely on the material in front of him. In all honesty, both of you were more than prepared for the exam coming up; you and Brian studied excessively just to spend the time together—your pinkies touching apprehensively as you turned pages and shared banter with each other.  

“That makes it worse.” Brian answered sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck as he pulled his lip between his teeth, running a thumb over his protruding collarbones.

“You don’t want me touching your underwear?” You kicked his foot from under the table and he reciprocated, stepping on your boot slightly as his shoulder bumped into yours.

“Not in that—not really. Not when it’s like that.” Shaking his head, he offered you some of his coffee, which you drank gingerly, savoring the bitter taste of an unsweetened latte and something so specifically Brian.

You slammed your book shut, sighing as you made eye contact with an influx of students rushing into the ambient warmth of the library. “Wanna get out of here? I can’t study this for another second.” You traced the raised orange letters on the cover, glossy and smooth against your fingers.

“Thank God.” Brian nodded and closed his own book too. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more confident about a test in my life.”

“Okay, we get it. You’re smart. Don’t have to rub it in.” You grabbed his latte from his hands and took a swig as Brian shoved miscellaneous papers into his leather bag.

“Oh shut up.” He slung it over his shoulder, checking his watch quickly. Still watching the tiny metal extensions ticking away against his wrist, he sighed. “My classes are all pretty easy this semester. Since I’ll probably drop out.”

“What?” You grabbed his wrist as he stood up, his chair harshly screeching against the floor. “What do you mean you’re dropping out?”

“I mean—“

“You got it? Brian, you got it?!” You ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek; it was the first time you had ever given him a kiss of any sort but it felt natural in the situation, and Brian’s beaming glow of a smile told you he didn’t mind the gesture, no matter how affectionate it was for two close friends.

“We got it. We’re gonna have our first record out in the summer.” He fiddled with the rings on his hands, rolling them with his thumb as his arm slung around your shoulder.

“Brian—I’m so proud of you!” You felt an overwhelming pride that flushed over your face and lifted your cheeks as you watched a smile choked in his throat bubble, overflow upon his face in a sweet grin, his as eyes easygoing as the boy himself.

“I just—my parents are gonna be livid.” Brian linked his pinky with yours; both of your hands held onto his, his arm still draped over your shoulder. And it didn’t seem odd to look so longingly into each other’s eyes, lost in the sea of honey that had hypnotized you and induced you in a permanent state of hope that maybe, maybe he felt how you two were inching closer and closer to a plateau—one that teetered over friendship and into something so much more.

February 1973

“Brian, it seems like we haven’t seen you in ages; what’s new with you?” Freddie hoisted himself onto the counter in Brian and Roger’s shared apartment, his legs swinging against the hollow column that supported the sturdy tabletop.

Deaky swung the refrigerator open, squinting to focus his sleepy eyes on the food inside that was definitely there past expiration. His hair was strewn about his head in every direction— except for down. “Ever since you got your little lady you’ve ditched us completely.”

“Yeah.” Roger agreed, shoving open a drawer as Brian reached into a taller cupboard in search of a clean plate. The knobby handle of the drawer pushed into Brian’s stomach and he winced, pushing Roger out of the way some. “You’re whipped by that little girlfriend of yours.”

“Y/N?” Brian set the last clean plate down, cringing at the hollow scraping of porcelain against the raw table. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He watched as Deaky cranked the heat of the stove up in utter concentration. “Don’t turn the heat up all the way—“

“Who cares, Brian? Very funny, “she’s not my girlfriend” “ Roger mocked Brian’s bashful tone, batting his eyelashes as he pouted bodaciously. “Is she a good shag? I can’t believe you’re finally getting laid!”

Brian took a bite of his toast, jutting his chin forward so his plate caught the shower of crumbs that fell. “Well the thing is, Roger—is that she is not my girlfriend. So I wouldn’t know.”

“So—let me get this straightened out.” Freddie held a finger up, his voice squeaky from a rather rambunctious concert a few nights before. “You’ve stayed at her flat for weeks on end, basically, and haven’t—done anything? Nothing?”

“Not a kiss? Maybe a cheeky touch?” Deaky added, setting a questionable carton of eggs next to Freddie.

“What do you do?” Roger looked a convincing fusion of disgusted and disappointed.

“Hang out. Talk. Study.. I don’t understand the big deal.” Brian rubbed his eyes and finished off his toast, focusing his attention on washing the sticky jam from the side of his plate. He felt belittled and stupid, his hands engulfed in scalding water, the metal rings only conducting the heat so it seeped and manifested over his skin, prickling like the tears stinging his eyes. There was something about that raspberry residue caked onto his plate that reminded him of you—your lipstick, your shared breakfasts and coffees snuck into the corner of the library on Saturday mornings, your books almost like a shield to barricade how obvious it was you two were in love—an excuse to stay in each other’s presence, so close together for so many hours.

“You’re in deep.” Roger commented, his tone almost worried. “You love her, don’t you?”

Freddie gasped dramatically, jumping down from the counter. Brian remained silent, scrubbing his plate with perfect deliberation, in attempts to ignore something he had known since fall. Freddie squeezed Brian’s shoulder, pulling a pronounced curl among a mass of loose waves. “Earth to Brian.” He waved a hand in front of his sullen face. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Are you in love with Y/N?”

“I’ve never been in love. I don’t know what it feels like.” Brian thought that was a good principle for avoidance, and he finally gave up cleaning his plate; his hands were rubbed raw, a fleshy red from the steaming water.

“You know, Brian.” Deaky comforted, much gentler than the other two men. “You know when you are.”

“I guess I am. I don’t know--maybe.” He slumped against the counter, opting to sit on the ground to assess this seemingly otherworldly situation. He’d never been in love, never had the hopes of being in a relationship. He’d spent his high school and adolescent years convincing himself he was bound to bigger things than girls and love and marriage and children; he told himself he didn’t want it. But the hopeless romantic in him feathered into everything he did; he daydreamed about meeting his love in aisles of the run-down grocery store he went to in west London. He dreamt about writing ballads for her and humming tunes in her ear while the two of them slow danced, hand-in-hand, beneath a sliver of the silver moon.

“Why are you sad about it? Is she with someone--I don’t get it.” Roger glanced over at Freddie, who shrugged unknowingly.

“I don’t think she feels the same way--I don’t know. I just know my luck with love; I doubt it will be different this time around.”

Roger shook his head and dug his pointer finger into Brian’s bony sternum where a layered necklace sat, cold against the skin. “No. We’re not doing this self-pity shit, Brian. What did I say a while back? You’re attractive, Brian. You’re a lot sweeter to girls than I am. You’re smart. Girls dig that shit. That’s the thing--you’re the long-term type. I’m the short-term type. And I’m fine with that. You need to be fine with yourself because you’ll never get a girl if you’re sulking around believing you can’t do it.”

“Wow!” Freddie clasped a hand over his chest. “I’ve never heard you be so..sweet, Roger.”

Deaky agreed silently, and Brian tilted his head back against the counter, listening to the pipes of the sink rattle and cry and squeak and he wished he were somewhere else entirely, a molecule of water spilling into trillions of others that looked exactly the same so he could just disappear, and conform.

March 1973

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Brian deliberated over his physics book, reading the same poorly-worded, contradictory sentence over and over. “None of this really makes any sense. When did I become stupid?” He hung his head and pushed his book away, crossing his arms over his chest which was only barely covered by an ivory button-up. Ever since Queen was signed to EMI, you--among many other girls--had noticed Brian’s confidence blooming and growing almost exponentially. The reserved boy in the back of the lecture hall who hid himself in oversized jumpers now wore his shirt only halfway on, and tight pants that only emphasized the lank of his slim legs. His hair was messier, but it only added to his charm, like the three golden necklaces layered upon his collarbones. His timidness and isolation from the university life had once deemed him weird and awkward--but now he was just mysterious, sexy even.  You had caught many girls ogling at him from across the library, biting their cherry lips and blushing when Brian met their yearning gaze.

“Why are you even studying? You’re dropping out after this semester.” You asked, genuinely unable to see the point. You watched the muscles in Brian’s forearm ripple as he scribbled notes into a lab notebook.

“Exactly.” He added. “After this semester. I still have a ways to go. Fuck, this makes no sense though; maybe I’ll save myself the trouble and drop out now.”

You scoffed. “And leave me alone to fend for myself for the rest of the semester? Disgusting and shameful.” You said, facetiously.

“Leave you?” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “I’d never. I’m too far gone now.”

His tone was quieter: anxious and apprehensive; his hands played with the charms laid upon his collarbones. There was an obvious shift as soon as you noticed Brian’s adams apple bobbing, his hand hovering over your own as he leaned forward, his breath warm and minty, ghosting over your lips, taunting you. You admired the faint freckling of his aquiline nose, pointed and angular and beautifully masculine. His plump bottom lip, protruding and so fucking kissable.

“Too far gone? What is that supposed to mean?” You scooted forward, running your thumb over his necklace. Brian stiffened, savoring the rarity that was having your hands on his body, no matter how indirectly, no matter that it meant nothing--seemingly.

“You’re always going to be a part of my life--I hope.” His eyes flitted upwards, watching your reaction. Your lips parted as you rested an arm over his shoulder, running your fingers down the expanse of the nape of his neck. He sighed contentedly, his hand finding your knee, tracing arbitrary shapes upon the bump, covered by your jeans.

“I could say the same.” You wanted to say more--so much more--but you didn’t know what this was, where this was going. You didn’t know what was too much, what he wanted to hear, what would hurt him or lead him on. It didn’t take long for you to label what you felt for Brian--your supposed “friend”--as love. Because it was truly impossible to be around him--his stupid grins and corny jokes and wild intelligence and everything about him--without wanting to see and hear and talk to him forever and ever. You had spent weeks on end together, sleeping with a paper-thin wall between you, but one that felt thick and impervious and massively giant--a barrier between you that was physical and tangible. But you’d both felt an emotional barrier separating the both of you for months. How Brian had begun to stay over less frequently although you knew Brian was playing more gigs. But you didn’t attend all of them like you used to, because seeing Brian onstage and in his element and completely himself--you couldn’t help but become more enamored by him with each passing lick of his guitar. And seeing the gaggle of groupies try and take him home was making you unyieldingly jealous.

“I lo--” Brian began to speak, but you barely heard him over the desperate pounding of your heart, and a younger peer batting her eyes at Brian, asking him if he was using the chair next to him.

The tension was arresting, a rubber band hooked over your finger and his own, stretched to the brink of snapping--and it would surely hurt one of you--but then, maybe it wouldn’t. You hoped it wouldn’t.

April 1973

Brian sat, hunched over a rather thick packet of papers full of graphics, pictures and equations for velocity and all sorts of things he knew he should have memorized by now--but his mind had no hierarchy now. He used to put school at the forefront of everything; he spent weeks revising for physics tests, convincing himself through something akin to self-torture that if he spent enough time studying and mastering he would soon learn to find passion in it. And he did have a passion for science--but it wasn’t as raw, as all-defining as his love for music. He had gradually lost interest in his studies as Queen picked up venues and fans and groupies--and now he had spent the past few weeks of the semester daydreaming. About performing, recording, growing famous. But mostly, they involved you. Performing with you in the front row, recording songs about you, coming home to you after a long and strenuous tour. It was all he thought about--dreams. Mere possibilities that you and him could be together--but just maybe. Just possibly.

He was wearing a pinstripe suit, one that elongated his body, his legs specifically. Silver necklaces hung loosely from his deeply tanned neck as he leaned forward, the eraser of his dull pencil salty against his lips. His hair was messy from hours of touching and playing with the tendrils of curls falling over his face. He had a photoshoot--the first real Queen photoshoot--right after his physics exam, and Roger convinced him to wear the suit to class. And while he admitted to becoming more daring with his attire as you grew his once minimal confidence, wearing a full on striped suit to an exam felt excessive.

“Well first of all,” Roger spooned some cereal into his mouth, cringing at its staleness he had hoped the milk would have subdued. “You’re gonna be late if you’re not dressed for it during the exam. So you have to wear it anyway. Might as well have fun with it!”

“I don’t--” Brian began.

“But! Also,” Freddie widened his eyes, sipping some chamomile tea, supposedly to calm his nerves. “We three were talking… and it’s time.” He paused dramatically, and then continued, sensing Brian’s uneasiness. “--To tell Y/N how you feel.”

“You still haven’t told her about the tour, have you?” Roger almost scolded him, and brian shook his head timidly.

“No. But I haven’t seen her much lately. We’re both so busy--with exams.” Brian explained.

“You always study for exams together though.” Deaky said. Of course, Brian had dwelled over the fact that he and you hadn’t really hung out or studied or had a sleepover in weeks on end. Your calls had gotten briefer, confessions simmering at the tip of your tongues. Opening your mouths would only release everything you both were thinking, and it just never felt like the right time.

“I know.”

So sitting, squished uncomfortably into his tiny desk in the back corner of the lecture hall, Brian gave only half an attempt for the last few questions, bubbling in the first answers that seemed plausible--not that he had the slightest clue. He had decided--in the minute elapsed between finishing the test and finally turning it in--that today was the day he was going to tell you the feelings he had been suppressing since the leaves were crisp and shades of browned ochres were all that Brian’s sweet eyes could see.

Brian didn’t pay much attention during the photoshoot; he just tilted his head when the photographers said so, lifting his chin and trying his hardest not to blink. All he could imagine while he posed and tilted for the allotted two hours was your reaction; would you laugh or cry? Would you feel the same way? Or would you say you hadn’t talked to him because you were endlessly tired of boring old Brian May? Had you fallen in love with another guy? Was that why you had invited him over less and less as winter morphed into spring?

He thought and dwelled ceaselessly as he buzzed up to your flat, holding two blood red roses behind his back, careful to not prick his fingertips with the hidden thorns. It felt like a metaphor for your and his relationship--walking on eggshells around each other until you both were at the edge, just trying to avoid the pain of rejection. But Brian needed to know; the lust for love had, for once, surpassed the worry of you not loving him back.

“Who is it?” You raced to your intercom, confused.

“Me.” Brian replied. “Brian. I need to talk to you.” He ran his fingers over the glossy stems of the roses as you buzzed him up.

You heart felt choked in your throat, your nervous system overly-aroused as your fingers trembled, opening the door quicker than you ever had before. Brian stood abashedly at the door, his long fingers choked around two lone roses. You had never seen him look so handsome before; his hair was frizzy and his curls uneven; he was wearing a pinstriped suit you had only seen buried in the depths of his closet once before. His adams apple bobbed anxiously as he extended his arms, offering you the wilting flowers. His lips parted, a warm peach tone, as you took them.

“I’ve missed you.” He admitted, stepping into your flat. He loosened his tie, wiggling the uneven knot he had spent twenty minutes tying that morning. “Where have you been?”

“Here.” You answered. “Always here.”

You were wearing an oversized  t-shirt and some fleece pajama bottoms, your hair unwashed and even more untamed. You yawned into your hand and led Brian to the couch, almost feeling grand relief at finally having him back there, where you thought he belonged, with you. Brian couldn’t believe how blind he was to ever believe he wasn’t in love with you; seeing you like this--natural--was all the confirmation he needed to know he was doing the right thing.

“Come here.” You sat up on your knees, and then knelt behind him, where he sat on the couch. “What’s bothering you?” You pressed your thumbs into the aching muscles of his shoulders, loving how soft and hot his skin was. His head rolled back and he groaned, just loud enough that you could perceive it and he could be embarrassed by it.

But, he didn’t mention it. “I--” His leg started to bounce up and down and he didn’t feel control over his mind--and definitely not over his body. This was the time. This was right. “I love you.”

You stopped kneading his shoulders between your fingers, slinging your arms over his shoulders as you sat on your feet. “You--what?” You heard him--how could you not--but you wanted to hear it again, wanted to know he felt it enough to admit it twice.

“I’m in love with you. I want you.” He whispered it this time, less confident. But you tilted his head to the side, your fingertips resting against the jaw you had so often wanted to pepper with sweet kisses until he drowned in them.

“God, I feel the same way.” You stroked the thumb of your other hand over his cheekbone, admiring the structure of his face, so angelic, so perfect. “You’re so perfect.” You said it aloud this time, touching the curve of his lip. “Perfect for me. I love you too.” You pulled his face forward, molding your lips with his, sighing into the kiss, which was searing and fueled by months of restless pining and lust. His lips parted and he moaned; it was the sweetest sound you had ever heard--innocent and purely Brian. You slipped your tongue into his mouth easily, massaging his as your hands tangled into his hair, yanking at the roots softly. His arms snaked around your waist carefully, pulling you into his lap fluidly.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” He whimpered against your lips as you ran your fingers over his scalp, reveling in his desperate cries. “I need you.” He rocked his hips slowly as you grabbed his face a second time, running your tongue over his bottom lip as his hands fell over the curve of your ass, squeezing just enough for you to slip a moan into his heavy, escaped breath.

“I want to make you feel good, Brian.” You tilted his head back, looking at him through your lashes as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat, suckling on his pulse point as you realized how he writhed beneath you when you did. You were deliberate, dragging your teeth smoothly along his protruding collarbones where his necklaces laid, sucking marks into the tanned skin and moving inwards with softer kisses, until you reached where his collarbones met.

“God, it feels so good--” He whined, his hips rocking forward, enough for you to feel his hardening cock against your core. “I want more.” He pushed down on your shoulders so you were flush against his cock, rocking back and forth as you kissed down his sternum, pulling at his tie to loosen it.

“You want more?” You teased, pulling him forward by the silk around his neck. You captured his lips in another kiss, one that was more loving but impossibly desperate and longing.

He nodded as you pulled the buttons to the shirt beneath his suit jacket, unfastening them teasingly to reveal his chest, splotched with a crimson blush. You ran your hands over the ridged, prominent bones in his chest, over his ribs and his toned stomach, down to the dark patch of hair that led you straight to the button of his trousers. His cock was incredibly prominent--long and hard--against the taut fabric, and you ran your palm over it, watching his mouth fall open in disbelief at having you finally, finally touching him.

“Lie down.” You commanded, watching him hurry to oblige. He was too tall to fit his legs onto the couch, so his feet hung off, his legs spread as wide as possible on the narrow width as you knelt between them, falling forward to kiss his sternum, licking down the valleys and crevices of his chest and pressing hot kisses along the skin, before you finally reached the waistband of his pants, your breath fanning over his begging cock.

“Oh god--I’ve never--You don’t have to.” He gasped as you palmed him more; he felt pulses of precum oozing from him, wet over his pants.

“You’ve never been sucked off?” You questioned, popping open the button. Your fingers pulled his zipper down quickly. “Can I be your first? I want to. I want your cock in my mouth.” You assured him.

“Fuck--yes--only if you want.” He nodded, letting out a heavy sigh as you released his aching cock from his briefs.

Your eyes widened as you held him in your hand; he was very well endowed--thick and long and throbbing with veins along the shaft. “Jesus, Brian.” You licked your palm--both of them--and started to stroke him with both of your hands, running your fingers along the veins of his underside until you reached the tip, his hips bucking forward as you touched his most sensitive area. “You’re so big.” You scooted back on your knees, resting between his legs as your mouth ghosted over him.

“Wh--what?” He was too high on the sensation--on the anticipation-- to understand what you were saying.

“Your cock is big, Brian. Fuck.” You watched him intently as you spit over the tip, watching it pool at his slit and then dribble down the sides. Brian had never felt like this--so loved and wanted--in his entire life. And feeling your spit that was mixed with his own spilling down his shaft was making him keen for more.

“God--Fuck.” He rested on his wobbly elbows, his stomach tensing as you pressed a kiss to his tip, your hands jerking him off lazily as you watched his eyes flutter shut.

“No, Brian. I wanna see you. Watch me make you feel good.” You directed, finally sucking on his tip, hollowing your cheeks to give him suction.

“Fuuuck.” He moaned loudly, his eyes hooded and lips bitten as he watched you suck on his cock, your tongue massaging a sensitive patch of skin on the underside of his head. His fists were clasped at his sides, his nails digging into sweaty palms.

“Baby, guide my head. Let me show you how much I love you.” You licked a thick stripe up his shaft and smirked as you watched him shudder in pleasure, before your lips began to wrap around his thick cock once again, bobbing your head up and down. His fingers threaded in your hair and pushed some tendrils away from your face, intent on watching you leftover mascara stream down your face. He whimpered and writhed beneath you, his hips thrusting into your mouth lazily as spit and precum spilled from your mouth.

“Holy shit--Fuck.” He gasped, watching the mess you were making on his cock. You were humming around him as you swirled and flicked your tongue over the tip, tasting the salty precum oozing from him. You took him as much as you possibly could down your throat, your eyes averted upwards to watch him as you gagged on his dick just slightly. His head fell back as his tip hit the back of your throat and he let out the deepest, most pornographic moan you never thought you’d hear from him. You pulled off of him, your mouth tight around him, watching strings of your spit break as you let his cock out of your mouth with a satisfying pop. Brian’s breaths were labored and heavy as you stroked his cock slowly, lubing it up with your spit.

“You dirty boy.” You spit more into your hand and massaged it into the velvety skin of his dick. “You like it sloppy, don’t you? Who would’ve thought?” You teased, moving down to suck on his tip more, your hands still jerking him off, your grip tight.

He nodded, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail. “Fuck--I love your mouth on my cock.”

You’d never heard him say anything suggestive, so hearing him say something so vulgar--so hot--made more wetness pool in your panties. You clasped a hand on his thigh as he began to fuck into your mouth slowly, one of his hands falling from your hair and over your hand on his leg. You dragged your tongue up his cock and rubbed his tip against your lips, watching his lips part and breathy moans escape as you did so. “So, so handsome.” You praised. “God, you’re perfect.”

He whined, so desperate that he pushed your head down just slightly--not that he didn’t feel bad about it. “Fuck, I’m so-sorry.” He gasped as your tongue swirled around him, warm and wet. “I didn’t mean to push--”

“I love you Brian--but shut up.” You continued your ministrations on his eager cock, moaning and humming around him, watching his pupils dilate and his eyes roll back as you licked and sucked his most sensitive areas, pulling him into a haze of pure euphoria.

“Oh--God. I love you so much. Fuck-I’m gonna cum..” He grabbed your hair desperately and tensed his stomach, trying to fend off his orgasm. “No--no. I wanna--I wanna be inside you. Can I please--”

You took him from your mouth and pulled him into a kiss, hot and unrelenting. This time, Brian took control, sitting up and pulling you into him so you straddled him, his lips tracing down your neck and over your collarbones--just like you did to him. He pushed your hair behind your shoulders and pressed passion-fueled kisses to your throat and upon your shoulders, thumbing the hem of your t-shirt.

“Please, do whatever you want to me--” You interrupted him before he could even answer, pulling his face into yours as he lifted your shirt over your body, wrapping his arm around your waist to flip you over so he hovered on top of you.

“Oh my--God.” He admired your breasts, groping and massaging them in his hands before he kissed the sensitive skin, running his tongue over the marks he made before it swirled around your nipple, making your back arch.

“Fuck--” You tangled your hands in his hair and pushed his mouth closer to your body, gasping as his fingers pulled the drawstring of your pants downwards, before he yanked them down, pushing your underwear aside.

His fingers rubbed gently around your entrance, his thumb stroking your aching clit as he felt your wetness with the pads of his fingertips. “So pretty. I’m gonna stretch you out with my fingers, okay?”  He waited for your approval and you gave it to him, in the form of a soft nod. He sucked his middle finger into his mouth, despite how incredibly wet you were for him already. His tongue swirled around the digit and you whimpered, writhing on the couch as he delved it into your pussy, hooking it to rub against your sensitive walls.

You gripped onto his wrist as he pumped his finger and and out of your hole, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “More, Brian. Fuck I want another one.” You urged, and he rubbed your clit in soft circles, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours as he pushed his ring finger into you as well, moving them in unison, moderately fast, but slow enough so you felt yourself on the cusp of an orgasm.

“So tight, fuck you think you can take my cock?” He nibbled at your earlobe and groaned into your ear as your walls clenched at his words, so straightforward, so unlike the sweet Brian you had known before, the one who was shy about leaving his underwear at your flat, the one who made you breakfast and blushed when his hand brushed against yours. You ran your hands down his back which was still covered by his button-up, which was halfway hung off his shoulders. Hickies covered the soft skin of his collarbones and extended over his neck; his hair tickled your own neck as he kissed you deeply and forcefully. His fingers pushed deeper inside of you and you pushed his shirt off of his shoulders, dragging your nails down his back as he curled his fingers again and again.

“Give it to me, Brian. Fuck--I need you inside me.” You had never felt more needy in your life; you had been starved of a touch this passionate and lustful in your life. You’d never felt a love this profound--one that was all-consuming, the licking tendrils of a fire engulfing your body into a flaming abyss you couldn’t seem to get out of, even if you tried. But you didn’t want out; you wanted more. He quickly lined himself up with your entrance, running his tip along your pussy, from your throbbing clit to your entrance and back up again, until you were hanging onto his neck, your nails scratching down as your legs shook.

“Brian--” You arched into his touch, how his fingers danced over your stomach and over your breasts, his lips attached to your jaw so his moans tickled against the shell of your ear. He rocked himself against your bare pussy, wanton moans escaping his bruised lips as he felt himself throbbing, every ridge of him being caressed by your sensitive core. He hitched your legs over his waist, one of his arms extended, straight next to your head as he pushed his tip into you, the veins in his arm pulsing in tune with his racing heartbeat. You pulled at the curls at the base of his neck and groaned at the dull burning inside of you; he was so thick.

“Are you okay, baby? God, you’re a fucking angel.” He rested on his elbows, still inside of you.

“It--hurts.” You whined, gripping onto his shoulders desperately.

“Want me to pull out? I don’t--” He began.

“No--more. Just go slow.” You sighed and dug your nails deeper into his skin as he pushed in further. “Ohh fuck. You’re already so deep.”

Brian tilted your head so the tips of your noses were touching, colder than the rest of your bodies. He kissed the corner of your mouth and whimpered, his hips stuttering as he pushed in even further. “Fuuuck-God you’re so tight. Taking me so well, my love.” He stroked your hair and wiped a tear from your eye with his thumb.

“Fuck, Brian. Go deeper--I want you all the way.” You urged him with a small nod, his forehead sweaty against yours.

He gasped and moaned as he became sheathed inside of you completely, your walls fluttering around him tightly, without him even moving. He moaned and whined into your mouth as he began to rock his hips back, pulling out of you slightly before fucking back into you, more easily than the first time. He grunted against your neck as he left soft kisses at your sweet spot, his thumbs rubbing against your scalp as he fucked you slow and deep. “You feel so good--fuck you’re so good, taking me all the way.” He cooed into your neck, one of his hands trailing down, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in assured circles, bringing his head up to watch your eyes flutter shut as you moaned almost innocently at the sensation.

“You’re fucking me so good, Brian--God--I want your cum.” You pulled his lips to yours and bit softly at his bottom lip, stroking your tongue over his as he picked up speed, his fingers still rubbing at your clit as his other one stroked your cheek.

“You want me--to cum inside of you?” He asked, making sure. “Fuck--wanna cum so deep inside.” He whined and went even faster, angling his hips to fuck into you at a new angle.

“Oh--fuck. Come on, baby. I know you’re so close.” You pulled at his necklaces, rolling your head back as his thumb pressed harder against your clit. “Give me your cum--please.” Your eyebrows knitted together as the couch squeaked beneath you, your wanton moans echoing off the tiled floors.

“Angel--so fucking pretty. I’m so close-” He trailed kisses down your chest and sucked on your nipple, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the bud as he began to lose his rhythm, his thrusts becoming erratic.

“My perfect boy--God, I love you. Love seeing you so desperate to cum.” You egged him on, and he wrapped the hand that was caressing your cheek around your throat, pressing gently against it, causing you to clench harshly around his cock.

“Oh my God--I’m,” His cock slipped out of you and he shoved it back into you, snapping his hips forward, his hand around your throat as his thumb rubbed over your bottom lip. He came in spurts, hot and deep inside you, groaning in a way that was much more primal than before. You arched into him as you came too, coating his cock with your wetness and his own cum. “Fuck--that feels so good.” He cried as your hand grasped over the one still around your throat, gripping his fingers as you came down from your high.

He pulled out easily, catching the excess cum with his hand in a manner that was anything but graceful. You rested on your elbows as he got up to wash his hands and grab a towel, which he rubbed you down with, pressing firm kisses over your hip bones as he did.

“I love you--I don’t know what to say now, other than that.” Brian giggled, a wide grin adorning his face; his hair messier than you had ever seen it, his lips red and thoroughly kissed like his neck and collarbones.

“I love you too Brian--I can’t believe we went this long without each other.” You laughed. “God, we’re clueless.”

Brian shrugged his shoulders. “I guess--good things come to those who wait?” Brian paused. “That seemed a lot more poetic in my head.”

“No need to be poetic after you just fucked me, Brian. Always the intellectual you are.” You booped his nose and pecked his lips softly, pulling your shirt off the floor as he slipped his briefs back on silently.

“I think we should be together.” Brian held a pinky out, scooping up yours with the long digit. “I don’t quite know how it’ll end up, but a pretty girl once told me to go for it.” He linked your fingers together and sealed the promise with a drowsy smile.

__

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[project-ohagi]

Keiji Akaashi x Reader {Haikyuu!!}

The grace with which he had been blessed was astounding, even to his upperclassmen. You always searched for him in the onslaught during break and lunch, hoping against hope that he would gaze your way. His politeness and the blunt way he voiced his opinions were surely going to be your downfall; every time he opened his mouth, your heart began pounding in your chest, and all the blood in your system would surge to your ears and cheeks. The sound of blood swirling around your head almost drowned out your love's magnificent voice. Almost. Once, he caught you zoned-out, on cloud nine, and questioned the intensity of your blush. The handsome setter thought that perhaps you were ill and seeking medical attention. Afterwards, he seemed to make a routine of greeting you every morning, and on the off-chance you happened to meet in the hallways.

Although he never appeared too interested in physical contact, his friend was incredibly touchy-feely. It humoured you for a while, but gradually, the amusement was replaced with fury - that was your man, your gorgeous specimen, and no matter how close those two were, Bokuto was not getting Keiji. You dedicated an entire journal to learning and recording his habits, mannerisms, likes and dislikes, as well as any other helpful bits of information. You wanted to know everything.

Sitting behind him in class had its advantages, because he couldn't tell that you were writing about him, and from your angle, you could garner his mood from the movement of his upper body alone. You didn't need to be an expert at deciphering facial expressions. You were quickly becoming a master on the topic of Keiji Akaashi. Following him also worked in your favour - the way he stood (hands interlocked behind his back) was utterly adorable, so you started copying it. You would try out the things you knew he liked, and also considered joining the girls' volleyball team. However, that way there would be less chance of you seeing his matches up close.

You examined his character in more depth, exploring how he talked to, and acted around, his classmates and team mates. His closest confidante was indeed Bokuto, but you feared that striking up a conversation would lead to some weird places. He was such a loud, rambunctious individual, and you couldn't risk the exposure. Not when you were so near to completing your most daring, yet most exciting plan. It needed perfecting and executing, but that was now only a matter of days. Keiji was quiet, but certainly not shy. Heck, you weren't exactly sure he was capable of reading the mood, but all his little quirks combined to make him so incredibly endearing.

Your Romeo was far more special and charming than anyone else in your life, and you were prepared to go to some insane lengths to keep him caged. Ten foot tall iron bars, and an ivory roof would surely sedate him. He would look so handsome, so perfectly submissive, splayed out amongst your sheets. His hands would turn a hot white as he gripped them, trying to chain himself to reality. The poor thing wouldn't know what to do, lying and trembling beneath you. Nothing would be veiling his perfection from your eyes, so they could feast on what they saw, and it would satisfy them for life.

A sticky white liquid would dribble down his stomach, having been shot out a short while earlier, when your lips closed around his throbbing member, and sultry moans filled the room. Keiji's soft, haggard sounds would be music to your ears - a choir of angels, and your legs would further entrap him. Lining his member up with your aching hole, you would sheathe him inside, relishing in the sudden, pleasure-induced moan that escaped his lips. It would be throaty, in his lustful haze. Leaning forwards, you would forcefully press your lips together, coaxing his tongue out to play. At some point, he might gain control, turning the tide of dominance. Pinning you to the bed, perhaps he would will you to beg, to plead for his glorious sex. He might release you, or he could make you suffer. Maybe he would pull out, so that only the tip remained, or perhaps he would even deny your orgasm, as punishment for screwing with him. Would he do that?

Licking your lips, you imagined all the possibilities, ranging from soft sex to rough sex, to no sex at all. It was entirely plausible that, once he gained the upper hand, he would tie you against the bed, stranding you until morning, or whenever someone decided to walk in and found your naked, or semi-naked body, shaking from the cold, desiring nothing but Keiji Akaashi.

Then again, Fukurōdani would provide the best environment. Plus, it would be much easier to find and lure your prey in a place that he felt comfortable. You might be able to find a jump rope to tie his hands, and maybe the gymnasium's storeroom would be a good spot to launch an attack. However, first came the annoying part: removing Keiji's larger-than-life friend from the picture. You didn't really have to go to the extreme of killing him, but that was always a viable option. No, you could just get someone to help you take his attention off Keiji, and go home by himself. He was constantly hoarding your beloved, never letting you get too close. You could have even sworn he glared at you once, for attempting to limit the space between yourself and the setter. Regardless, he had to go, if only for a few hours.

You crossed your legs, well aware that you were growing too aroused, from your fantasies alone. The object of your (obsessive) affections tilted his head in concentration. You loved this, because it meant that he was working really hard. He was incredibly smart, but never boasted about his grades. You adored his humility. The temperature had risen significantly in the past few minutes, but you hadn't noticed, since you spaced out. However, the heat seemed to affect Keiji, as his blazer was draped gracefully over the back of his chair, and you could see the sweat rolling down his neck. In that moment, all remaining reason flooded out, and you had to stab your hand with a sharpened pencil, just to stop yourself from leaning in and lapping up the substance. Glancing at the clock, you realised that there were less than ten minutes left. You sighed in relief. Keiji's dark eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of your flustered state. He would attest to being concerned. You were a classmate, after all.

He looked back towards the teacher, listening with one ear. The notes in his book were becoming more and more confusing - his focus was wavering, as he tried to disperse it between you and the lesson. He always appeared so cool, so collected, able to dish out the most brutally honest comments without batting an eye, but, a slight panic was building in his stomach. It twisted unnaturally, bringing him to the brink of nausea. Although, no-one would be able to tell, not even if they invaded his personal space, like Bokuto. The extraordinarily beautiful setter often noticed you staring, out of the corner of his eye, but he never said anything. You seemed quite timid, since you scarcely talked to anyone, so he didn't necessarily want to make you uncomfortable. However, while he thought that you kept your head down and got work done, you actually had a very different, very special reason for scribbling in your book, only sparing two or three glances towards the teacher.

Earlier, you had been in the process of writing out, and testing, various methods of torture/execution. You see, Keiji had a bad habit of being friendly around the girls at school. Well, he was an incredibly amiable person anyway, but, much like Aobajōsai's setter, he had a fanclub. They were absolutely obsessed with him.

Although, they could never love Keiji like you did.

Their president was a small-ish, brown-haired female, who compensated for her height by donning these ridiculous, strictly prohibited heels, which gave her a few more inches. She had a horrible, toxic sort of personality, and a smile that could wipe out an entire species. For her, you implemented a very special, very inhumane plan. One day, during lunch, you asked her (privately) about joining the Keiji Akaashi Fanclub. She was thrilled to have yet another member, and she entrusted you with all sorts of written documents, ready and waiting for your signature. The two of you had a clandestine meeting, because you wanted to 'show' her something. You shrugged off all her guesses. There was a spring in your step, and a happy giggle bubbling in your throat. In your bag, an iron contraption sat amongst your school supplies. After placing it (with much force) on her head, and twisting it violently, almost breaking the poor girl's jaw before the fun really started, you hauled her into the furnace.

She had been your first victim.

Proceeding her, were five more members of that detestable, and frankly annoying, club. When they were dealt with, you transitioned into Phase 2, which primarily involved the possible abduction, and definite enchantment, of your love: Keiji Akaashi. So now, you were in class, gazing dreamily at him, and wondering about your plan. It needed a touch more...flavour, so it would, unfortunately, have to wait. At least until tomorrow.

The bell rang, and freedom had never tasted so sweet. Thankfully, your chosen methods of extermination required minimal bloodshed, so nothing was visible on your clothes. Just as you packed away your items, and got out of your chair, a mildly concerned-looking Keiji blocked your view of the door. You recognised a slight imbalance in his stance, indicating that something was troubling him.

"(L/n)-san." He addressed, nonchalantly.

Your response was almost too quick. "Yes, Kei-Akaashi-kun?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Did you need me for something? You're always staring. It can be confusing."

"Ah..." You guessed he stopped himself from saying 'annoying'. "I can tell you tomorrow, maybe?" You muttered, attempting to stall for time.

Shaking his head, he spoke, "Please tell me now."

This was happening far too suddenly, yet you weren't about to let this opportunity slide. "Um...well, I could tell you on the way back? We go the same way, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, we do. Let's go then." His fingers brushed past yours, causing your skin to prickle.

Right, cool. Just keep this momentum, and everything will go smoothly.

While walking, you spotted him fumbling with his fingers - something he did quite frequently. It wasn't really a sign of anxiety, but you found it adorable. His gunmetal blue eyes were fixated on the road ahead, and his lips had long since been sealed. You desperately needed to take action, otherwise, if your actual strategy did not work, you would completely fail. You couldn't let him go home, but it would seem really strange if you asked him to join you for a cup of tea, or something to that effect. Whilst you were pondering this dilemma, droplets of water dripped down on to your hair and clothes, thoroughly wetting both of you. Since your house was close, and you lived alone, this was the perfect opportunity to invite him inside. Silently, you thanked whatever god was out there, listening to your prayers.

The two of you hurried inside, grabbing some towels and shaking yourselves off. Your (e/c) eyes glimpsed his shirt, now transparent due to exposure to the rain. Gulping, you averted your gaze, attempting not to grow too aroused. Keiji looked around, seeing nothing he didn't expect. Your hallway was pretty barren, to be honest, because everything of personal value was compiled in your room. That is to say, you had lots of...helpful tools.

"Thank you. I figured it might rain, so I gave my umbrella to Bokuto-san." He nodded politely.

Sighing, you stated, "You do so much for him."

"He's our captain. If he loses his cheerful nature, he won't be as good in practise." He clarified, not seeming to understand why you suddenly sounded quite out-of-sorts.

I need some love too, y'know?

You smiled. "I get that. Sorry, I wasn't trying to offend you."

He followed your lead, walking slowly behind you. "It's alright. I should have brought another umbrella, so you didn't get wet."

"It was inevitable."

I'm always wet when you're around, Keiji.

"I apologise anyway." He bowed, halting his movements.

You stopped outside your bedroom door. "Then, how about you make it up to me?"

[studypurple]

dormitory packing list: the bare essentials

hello! since im about to start packing for back to school, here’s my personal list of things i’m going to bring to my dormitory. the conditions of my dormitory is kind of different from other dormitories. we are required to “go home” and generally stay out of the dormitory every weekend due to renovations, so this is a very minimal list because i have to leave every weekend. i also live in the philippines so we don’t have different seasons so i probably have a lot less stuff than other people from other countries might need. either way, i hope this gives you an idea of things to pack for school!

clothes

five school uniforms (including inner wear)

five pairs of pajamas

two sets of casual clothes

one set of smart casual clothes (for oral presentations and reports)

one set of dressy clothes (for parties or hangouts with friends)

one jacket

bras

underwear

socks

one pair of school shoes

one pair of sneakers

one pair of dressy shoes

slippers

school supplies

backpack

one folder per subject (or an expandable folder)

filecase

notebooks

text books

pencil cases

pad papers

pens

pencils or mechanical pencils

eraser

sharpener

ruler

scissors

triangle rulers

compass

clearbooks

binders

coloring materials

bullet journal

bullet journaling materials (washi tape, paper scraps etc.)

toiletries

toothbrush

toothpaste

shampoo (if you use a bottle make sure to have a smaller bottle/sachets/bar too for swimming and sleepovers)

conditioner (shame with shampoo)

facial wash

toner

facial cream

lotion

deodorant

face powder

petroleum jelly

body wash

hand soap

toilet paper

napkins/tampons

bucket and dipper

bath towel

face towel

hair towel

hair comb

hair brush

cleaning supplies

laundry soap

broom

dustpan

mop

dishwashing paste or liquid sponge

rags

disinfectant spray

tissue paper

miscellaneous

curtains

extension cords

pillows

bedsheets, pillowcases, and blankets

umbrella

first aid kit (with basic medicines)

emergency bag (includes dried and canned food, water bottles, flashlight, another first aid kit, powerbank, money, and a change of clothes)

drawer liner and/or manila paper

extra ponytails, hair elastics, and hairbands

hair accessories

accessories (sunglasses, watch, bracelets, necklaces, etc.)  

laptop

laptop charger

laptop bag 

mouse

mousepad

boxes or organizers

medicines

eyeglasses

wallet

tupperwares and utensils

ecobags

- Elle <3

check out some of my other posts here:

how to organize your summer

101 bullet journal ideas

study moods: b99 edition

motivational phone wallpapers 1

motivational phone wallpapers 2

[gilliansanderson]

Ginger

Jackson’s life via his imaginary friend. i don't know if it's been done. @today-in-fic

You’re three years old and you’re a little miracle. The pride and joy and apple of your parent's eye. So, so cute, pouty lips and big green puppy dog eyes with which you observe the world around you with slack-jawed awe. You study your picture books intently and turn every page with care, you poke at spider webs to make them dance, you put your chubby hands up to the screen when you first watch the moon landing. Smart for your age, your kindergarten teachers say, you can babble on for hours on end, your favourite word is Roswell. You have an imaginary friend, they say, it’s adorable, really. They think their son will be an artist someday, or a doctor, president, something truly special. They proudly pin the pictures to the fridge, Mommy, Daddy, Jackson, and sometimes a woman with ginger hair.

You’re eight when you first remember, but maybe you never really forgot. Your best friend’s name is William, a punchline to a set up you won’t hear for a decade. He’s rough and tumble and loud and everything you’re not. You roll down hills and jump on beds, knock on neighbours’ doors and run away cackling and alive. But when you try to kiss him on a whim he breaks your reading glasses. That’s when you see her, her soft, tired features, long red hair, the gold at her throat. Her smile is as familiar as looking in the mirror. She must be your angel, for she feels like candlelight. When you pack up and move to Washington before the year is out, Ginger follows you home.

You’re eleven and you’re a little shit. You stretch your parent’s patience thin, you stay up long past bedtime and scare the local kids with horror stories, killer cockroaches and killer cats, sea monsters and serial killers. Ginger is your inspiration, the starring role in your craziest dreams. When you christen her the ghost of your dead mother, that’s the final straw. Your notebook turns to ashes in the fireplace, your lungs burn as you scream. I hate you.  You throw it in their face like a slap. You’re not even my real parents.

You feel her in the park after the warmth fades along with the light. You know it’s her by the way your mind clears, by the calm that fills your veins. Why didn’t you keep me? You wonder out loud, as your sobs subside to hiccups; as if she could reply.

You’re going on fourteen and you’re too old for an imaginary friend. When the pills they give you to stop the seizures stop you seeing red, you start to slip them under your tongue and hide your soul under your mattress. The kids at school keep you at arms distance, you have a nice enough swing and a nice enough face that they keep their real feelings behind your back. They think you’re weird and spooky, you’re starting to think they might be right. Your parents ask if it’s okay to go out of town, maybe they’re hoping you’ll be a teenager and come back to ruins and red solo cups. Your friends forget your birthday. When you stick a candle on a cupcake, Ginger is there as you blow it out. You wonder if she knows what day it is. You think you hear her sing.

You’re fifteen and you want to stop the world and to get the fuck off. You don’t wanna be the kid that does it for attention, but when you turn your gym teacher into a spider monster and traumatise your baseball team, you begin to attract attention. Your hands shake as you dissect your pencil sharpener. Your whole body is shaking and your whole world goes black. That’s when you see her, fully, you see her try to save the world. You see blood and smoke and a blinding blue light and brilliant blue eyes. You’re still shaking when the fits finally stop. You shove it in a shoebox, under your bed, to the back of your mind.

You’re seventeen and you’re probably overcompensating. Two girlfriends, two mothers, two blood types. Too many voices setting up camp in your head. When your life abruptly ends, you’re almost relieved. It hasn’t really kicked in that your parents are dead, you’re too busy learning that body bags aren’t breathable. The metal slab is hard and cold and it takes every ounce of willpower not to fucking cry. Corpses don’t cry. Not even when she starts to speak. Her voice is deeper than you imagined, it’s hoarse and heavy, every word that falls from your mouth burrows deep inside your heart. Suddenly not breathing isn’t such a challenge. She’s not just Ginger, she’s fire and flesh and blood. She’s beautiful, kind and sad. She’s yours. She’s Mother and she loved you, loves you.

You echo her words in the form of a promise, but you know the truth. You’ve known her your whole life.

[dailydoseofdacre]

Teenage Dirtbag

(vi)

a/n: just gonna ignore the request area because it wastes space and I think I wrote all of the requests so far. uhhh, hope you enjoy :)

word count: 2.2k+

It was all a dream. A dream you didn’t want to end. In fact, it took you quite some time to realize that merely minutes ago your face met Carl Roger’s fury. Your eyesight was hazy when you got up from the ground, everything in the hallways spiraling and moving as you finally made it on your two feet. The throbbing pain your cheek supplemented resulted in you hissing in pain, the stinging rushing throughout your face. Muttering a crap, you picked your book and backpack from the ground, realizing that you were a little more than late to class.

Head hung low, you tip toed your way into your English class in hopes that your lack of presence wasn’t spotted on by Mr. Kushner. With your luck, the exact opposite happened.

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the middle aged man tilted his head slightly, his tone irritated that of all people to be late to his class, it was you. Although unpredictable, he didn’t hold any mercy on your dignity. “What brings you in today?”

An eruption of giggles exploded out of the classroom mixed in with hush whispers and snickers. The throbbing pain that previously occupied your cheek was replaced with a burning sensation, cheeks flushing into a crimson red. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you, and even if people weren’t looking at you, they were glaring from the corner of their eyes.

“Uh,” you stumbled on your words, unaware of how you should respond to this situation. “I-I, uh,”

His hands running over his face, Kushner released a heavy breath and waved his hand to dismiss you, finally seeking an end to the public humiliation. It was your first time being late to class, ever. He knew well enough that a mere two minutes of torture was good, seeing as you’d probably never be late... again.

When you finally took a seat to your desk, Kushner silenced the class, instructing for everyone to turn in their book reports for Homer’s The Iliad. Groans filled the ears of you and your English teacher, the complaining obviously giving that no one did the report.

Rustling around your bag for your report, you heard Carol scoff, the pencil that previously occupied her lips dropping on her desk. She rolled her eyes and leaned towards Tina, whispering loudly enough so that Mr. Kushner couldn’t hear her, but you could.

“What the fuck does Billy see in her?” This question earned a snicker from Tina, who only shrugged her shoulders, nodding her head to signify that she didn’t know the answer to her question. Carol perked her eyebrow up at you, throwing a what-the-hell-are-you-looking-at face when you glared at the two through your lashes.

“I bet it’s like forcing a sausage into a sharpener.” The two girls giggled uncontrollably at the thought of it. Blushing involuntarily, you shook your hair to conceal your face, embarrassed that they were publicly speaking about how sex would be like for you and Billy.

After what seemed like a century, you popped into their conversation, not liking that they were blatantly talking about you in front of your face.

“I bet it’s like a hot dog being thrown in a hallway for you.”

What flew out of your mouth baffled you and the two popular girls, causing your hand to cover over your mouth due to the amount of attitude displayed. Carol and Tina turned around from their seats, as well as whoever eavesdrop the comment. A small round of oohs were produced from those who were listening, looking at Carol to throw a comeback at you.

When Carol pressed her lips together and turned around, those who eavesdropped only chattered on about how you owned her with little to no effort. A comment being made that Billy was changing you into a badass like him. That made your eyes go wide.

Never in your seventeen years have you heard both your name and the word badass used together in a sentence. This made you rethink your new friendship with the Californian. You didn’t want to become some badass, stuck up teen, that wasn’t you. Needless to say a rep like that would only make the student body know who you are... and you frankly preferred to be known as the invisible nerd, it suited you.

The rest of class period went by with you reading Of Mice and Men (for like the 100th time) while Mr. Kushner decided to be generous and let the class do their report. When the bell finally rang, you gathered all of your stuff and rushed out of the classroom, scared that Carol may release her wrath on your other cheek, and you couldn’t afford to have a swollen face the following day.

Luckily enough, the next period you had was lunch, to which offered you the given forty minutes of reading and eating in the library. But you felt jittery, recounting the dream you had over and over again. Do I like Billy? You pondered to yourself, chewing on your bottom lip as you absentmindedly skimmed over a page in Steinbeck’s novel. Your heart fluttered and butterflies flew wildly in your gut as you reimagined Billy’s lips on yours.

He’s a player. The other side of your brain argued, remembering all of the girls he’s banged since the King has moved to Hawkins. Another part of you wanted to try something with Billy, an attempt at a date, even one peck of the lips would do for you. Though, the other part wanted to avoid Billy as much as possible. So much trouble has walked into your life since the first encounter with the blonde, denim clad, Californian, and you were aware that even accepting a friendship would only double that trouble.

A low, familiar chuckle that was heard from behind the bookshelf in front of you snapped you from your thoughts. At first, you dismissed it, but when it sounded again, your heart did a flip, because that chuckle belonged to none other than Hargrove. A small smile took over your lips as you thought of Billy trying to spy on you from behind the self.

Closing your book, you discreetly walked to where the sound was being heard from. The smile fled from your lips, turning into a deep frown when found Billy and Carol sloppily locking lips. You scolded yourself for even considering something beyond a friendship with Billy and reprimanded yourself for spitting an insult at Carol, knowing well enough she would get her revenge.

Carol pulled away from your crush (to whom crushed your heart), pursing her lips before calling you out. “Rather be a hallway than a sharpener, freak.”

Billy looked down at the red head, eyebrows scrunching curiously as he whipped his head in the direction of her eyes. The smirk he has was wiped from his face when he noticed you nearly a meter away from he and Carol. Lips parted in disbelief at the look of your face upon catching him with her as well as the redness of your cheek. Pushing his weight off of the bookshelf, Billy spun on his heels, speed walking to approach you, concern coursing through his veins.

“What-“ the King of Hawkins was cut off by you supplying a rather gentle, yet heartbreaking slap to his face. Tears where streaming down uncontrollably, and you couldn’t help but to huff at yourself. Of course you had to develop feelings with the player of Hawkins. It couldn’t be someone like Steve Harrington, or that really nice Jonathan Byers that always attempted small talk with you.

“To think I like you,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. But you were more upset at yourself than anyone else. You let him in, trap you, and break your heart. And he managed to do so without banging you.

This side of you astonished Billy, eyes wide in confusion that you would ever lay a finger on him... unless it was for sex. Though this wasn’t the case. What surprised him most was that you had just angrily admitted your feelings for the boy, and despite the contact you’d previously made on his cheek, he was internally happy that he wasn’t alone. That you shared the same feelings as he did.

Before Billy could profess his feelings back, you stormed away from him. Today was one of the worst days of your life, and you bid a prayer that the rest of the day would go by in a blink so you can go home and cry.

Billy sat in his Camaro, Metallica’s Seek & Destroy blasting through the speakers of his blue beauty. Aviators hid his sea blues, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he waited for his stepsister to come out of the arcade, but Maxine’s lateness was the least of his worries. His mind replayed the scene that went down in the library over and over again. Billy took a drag from the cigarette as his mind put together that that was where you were hiding for the past couple of weeks.

But why? He asked himself, flicking the cigarette outside and dropping the subject of you before scolding Max for disobeying his orders.

Feeling out of yourself today, you decided to leave 1984, the book you picked up on your way home, in your bag, telling yourself to read the novel tomorrow. The remote in your left hand changed the channel repeatedly as your right hand held an ice pack to your cheek, recommended by the nurse before you were on your way to the public library.

You placed the remote on the coffee table before curling up into the blanket on the couch, eyes glued to The Shining. Although it was playing the end of the movie, you recalled the plot from both the book and watching it in the cinema when it came out. Jack Nicholson’s performance was chilling and haunting and it resulted in you re reading the book after watching the movie for the first time.

A soft grunt exploded in the living room when a knock was heard from your door. Eyes flickering to the clock, you wondered why someone was even visiting your house this time at night. Ignoring the knock only caused the noise to be more frequent and loud, but you couldn’t care less, knowing that it was most likely Hargrove at the door.

“C’mon, Doll. I’m freezing my balls out here.” His voice sounded muffled through the door, being as the living room was meters away from the corridor. Another knock followed after his voice, causing you to turn off the tv and hesitantly open the door for the Californian.

“Billy, I’m sorry for slapping you. I really am. But please leave me alone.” You breath out once extended the door open, your voice soft and gentle.

Billy’s hands were stuffed in his leather jacket, and ironically enough, he wore the same buttoned down maroon shirt from the dream you had earlier that day. Ignoring your apology and request, the King invited himself into your house, closing the door behind him. His hand immediately was placed over top of yours, forcing the ice pack away from your face and examining the forming bruise on your cheek.

Swatting his hand away from yours, you allowed the ice pack to soothe the throbbing pain on your cheek again. Billy huffed in annoyance to your noncompliance, upset that you (i) weren’t informing him as to how and why you received this bruise and (ii) didn’t talk about what you said in the library.

“So, you’re just going to leave me in the dark like that?” Billy asked, his hand attempting to pry the ice pack away from your face again. His deep seas carefully soaked in the bruise upon your allowance to let the ice pack flee from your face.

“I was just mad.” You defended, trying to culminate a lie to retract what you admitted in front of him. “Carol was making fun of me, and I said something back at her.”

When Billy didn’t say anything back, you continued.

“And I guess she tried to get at you to make me jealous. It worked... sorta.” Billy moved his eyes from your cheek to your (e/cs), face content as he stared you down.

“And the bruise?”

“I, uh.” You stuttered, not wanting for more trouble with Rogers, a lie escaped your lips. “Someone opened the door on my face.”

A humorless chuckle followed as Billy spotted on your lie, his eyebrows contorting in anger. “Explains why you were late to Kushner’s today.”

“Who’re you? The CIA?” You retorted in disbelief, backing away from his presence. Though, before heading to your room, you gestured that his visit was over, flickering your eyes to the door.

Billy followed behind, slipping into the crack your bedroom door offered and closed it. His back leaned onto it and butt slapped it shut when you tried to escape. He didn’t appreciate this newfound attitude of yours, and he wasn’t sure where it came from.

“Doll.” Billy’s voice was softened as well as his eyes. With your arms crossed, you slowly lifted your head up to look at him, and much to your misfortune, your heart tumbled and pounded within your rib cage dramatically. Billy smiled as the old you overpowered the former badass (Y/N.)

“Billy,” voice like silk, Hagrove’s legs turned to jelly when you called his name out just as he liked it. But his heart tugged when a question that slightly offended him was asked. “Why are you really here?”

To escape the hell-house. To tell you I like you. To be with you. His brain answered within his thoughts, but said, “To see my Doll.”

[solange-lol]

Under the Mistletoe

For @sohmamomiji for the @pjosecretsanta2k17

Summary: In a world where you may have the perfect person for you. All those who have a soulmate are born with two different colored eyes; one is your eye color and one is your soulmates. Theres no telling which one is who's until you lock eyes with said soulmate and your eye colors change to their designated color.

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Annabeth Chase

Word Count: 1k+

Notes: Sorry this took so long and for any mistakes, I wanted to get this out as soon as possible and then I got busy and I couldn’t finish it until today! This was my first percabeth fic and soulmate au, not to mentioned 500 more words than what I’m used to writing, so theres a lot of anxiety that comes with putting this out, but i hope you like it!!

Read on AO3

Annabeth twiddled her pencil, not really paying attention to what was going on. She glanced around the room. The tinsel draped around the windows. The tree at the front of their class where secret santa would later take place that week. The mistletoe her teacher had jokingly put under the closet doorway near the pencil sharpener. It was unlike her to act like this, but there was a topic in her mind that just wouldn't go away.

Soulmates. It was an interesting concept to think that someone out there was meant for you, waiting for you, maybe even thinking about you at this exact second. She was, at least, thinking about who hers was. Who was he? What did he look like? And was he really meant just for her.

It wasn’t Luke, that was for sure. Luke, one of her only friends growing up. They both had soulmates, which weren’t each other, but Annabeth had only hoped that maybe if they never found those people, they could be each other’s soulmates. But Luke had died earlier that year in an accident, and her eyes remained the same colors.

Her eyes. Everybody who was born with a soulmate had two different colored eyes. One was your own eye color, one was your soulmates. There was no telling which one was yours until you locked eyes with them for the first time, and your eyes would change to the color they were meant to be. Her left eye was a stormy grey which would darken when she was mad. Her right eye was a beautiful sea green. Something inside her always hoped that the green one was the eye of her soulmate, so if they were ever to meet, she could stare into them for the rest of her life.

It was something she only thought about in private though. She never liked when her classes would talk about soulmates. Kids in her grade school always teased her about it, saying her soulmate could never love someone so tough and so ambitious, telling her there was no use and that she would just push them away. Of course, when she got to high school, the comments faded as more people met their soulmates.

Snapping back into reality, Annabeth realized that the bell had rung for lunch. She quickly piled her stuff together and shoved it into her bag, a couple papers flying, when she overheard a sickly sweet voice talking just loud enough for her to overhear.

“Why are you in such a rush?” the voice said. She turned around to see Drew Tanaka, who was smirking at her as she tapped her long pink nails on the desk.

Annabeth narrowed her eyes. Drew was a student who had given her a rough time since they were young.

She widened her eyes in sarcastic innocence. “I was just saying, considering there's probably nobody waiting for you. You obviously haven’t met your soulmate, and after Luke died I just cant imagine what you would be in such a hurry for.”

Annabeth knew why Drew acted like this. It was no secret that her honey-brown eyes had never been different. She was of the pitied who didn’t have a soulmate. But that didnt stop her from backing up and glancing around. Most students were still packing up in no rush. The teacher was talking to some of them. In situations like this, Annabeth’s voice was not her strong point, and there was nobody there to defend her.

“Drew, stop,” she heard another voice join into the conversation. Her head was still lowered but she knew exactly who it was. Percy Jackson. He was Thalia, one of her only other friends, cousin. He sat behind Drew. The two of them had never actually talked. Thalia would sit with him and her brother Jason and their other cousin Nico di Angelo at lunch, as well as a couple of their friends. Thalia had invited Annabeth to sit with them many times but she always rejected her. Annabeth had only met Jason briefly before, and her self confidence was lacking. It was easier for Annabeth to sit by herself and read than to try and start a witty conversation with those students that she had never met before.

“What’s wrong Percy, we’re just having a little fun?” Drew asked, batting eyelashes. Annabeth had never seen Percy’s face properly before, but she prayed that he had two different colored eyes, or at least had met his soulmate already. He was the first person to stand up for her in front of Drew.

“Obviously it’s not fun for her if she’s shrinking into the corner like that,” came his response. Annabeth tried to shrink into herself as she drew her eyes to the floor. She hated to feel so weak.

She tried to back closer to the door, hoping she could just escape, but she bumped into something blocking her path.

“Oh sorr-” she started, looking up into the eyes of whoever she had just bumped into.

The eyes of Percy.

His tanned hands caught her forearms, still hugging a book to her chest. Looking into his eyes, something seemed to spark her vision like clouds being lifted. She opened her eyes wider. His eyes were the same sea green as hers. Both of them. But, that meant-

Percy smiled, seeing to have noticed the same thing.

Out of the corner of her eye, Annabeth say Drew pouting, hoisting up her bag and stomping out of the room. Not that she was paying attention to Drew anymore, though.

Percy was the first to break the silence. “We’re under the mistletoe.”

“What?”

He laughed. “You backed us up under the mistletoe.”

Annabeth glanced up. Sure enough, the small plant was hanging from the ceiling lamp above their heads. She smiled.

“Guess that means you’ll have to kiss me, soulmate.”

And before she could minorly freak out about what she just said, Percy leaned down, hands still gripping her arms, and kissed her. It was short and quick, but that was all she needed.

Breaking softly, Percy smiled at her. “Will you finally accept Thalia’s invitation to eat with us?”

“You knew about that?”

“I was the one who suggested it. Truly heartbroken when you kept rejecting me.”

She batted his arm, blushing. “Shut up, You have seaweed for a brain.”

Percy just smiled. “Is that a yes?”

She nodded, still blushing. “It’s a yes.”

“Perfect,” he said with a grin. His teeth were white and reminded her of the tiny clam shells at the beach.

Percy leaned down once more to kiss her on the cheek, before he slipped an arm around her waist as they walked out to go join the others for lunch. He couldn’t help but to smile. Jason owed him twenty bucks.

[sp4c3-0ddity]

For the Pidgance Positivity Discord prompt:  Eyeliner. Word count is ~2500

A sequel to this (Part Two), and you can read the very first part here.

Anyway, hope you enjoy corny coincidence ;)

“Campus library. How can I help you?”

The voice on the other end of the line oozed boredom, but though the tone itself was familiar, the person speaking was not. “Yeah, is Pidge working today?” Lance wondered for the fifth time in the last week.

“Who’s Pidge?” the person asked. “There’s no Pidge that works at the library, that I know of.”

Lance sighed. “Not you, apparently,” he grumbled. “Thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” they said, sounding confused.

Lance hung up before they did and stared at his cell phone’s screen, the little ‘5’ beside the library’s number mocking him. He was almost certain that every time he called that week a different person answered, and not a single one was Pidge – or even knew anyone by that name.

Tracking her down was more complicated than Lance ever expected, and to think it had been so easy for her to find him. Did she not miss her yellow scarf?

Lance unwound the scarf from around his neck and rolled it up neatly before stuffing it into his backpack. The day was unseasonably warm, the sun heating the ground and the air enough that people only wore light jackets.

The clock tower rang the hour, two tolls of the bell, and Lance finally stood and meandered towards his next class.

Pidge stared into the black hole that was her purple cosmetics pouch. The fabric was still pristine, not a single bit of glitter lost, since her mother pointedly gifted it to her as a high school graduation present last spring.

Pidge had yet to use any of the cosmetics stored inside; even the lip gloss remained untouched.

Today’s challenge was eyeliner, a very dark green – almost black – color that complimented the forest green of her dress. The pencil’s tip was as sharp as the day she bought it, not dulled by a single use – or attempted use, since the idea that her hand would shake while she applied it daunted her.

“God dammit,” Pidge muttered. She pinched the pencil between two fingers and bent close to the bathroom mirror with the tip poised close to her eye. “If I go blind…”

She ignored the sound of the unisex bathroom doorknob rattling as she touched the eyeliner pencil tip to the corner of her right eye. Her eyes watered as she struggled not to blink, but she dragged the pencil along the top of her eyelid all the way to the outside corner. She grinned triumphantly, unbothered by the line’s slight jaggedness – like she would let anyone get close enough to see it!

And the other eye…

Pidge put the pencil tip to the inside corner of her left eye, the motion now more awkward from the uncomfortable positioning of her left hand, but before she could draw a new line, a triple staccato knock sounded from the door.

She exhaled. “Patience,” she said, and drew the pencil from one corner to the other.

At the sharper knock, Pidge flinched, startled, and the pencil dragged abruptly across her eyelid and almost to her eyebrow. “There are other bathrooms on this floor, you asshole!” she snapped, irritated as she capped the pencil and dropped it into the bag. She dug inside for her eye makeup remover and continued, “Unless you can do eyeliner, go away!”

“Pidge?”

Pidge froze, hand still rummaging inside the cosmetics bag. She knew that voice – she’d heard it ranging in tone from cheerful to downright panicky. She withdrew her hand and walked to the door, turning the knob and tugging it open to see Lance on the other side, staring at her with wide eyes.

“I can help with eyeliner,” he said, recovering from his surprise with a shrug and a wide grin. “Since you asked so politely.”

Pidge clapped a hand over her left eye. “I was being sarcastic,” she told him.

Lance raised an eyebrow at her. “I could tell.” Without invitation, he tapped her hand, nudging it away from her eye. “You look like you could use some help.”

She examined him for a brief moment, from the somewhat wind-tousled look of his hair as if he’d just been outside to the bright blue backpack hanging from his shoulders. She dropped her hand and said, “I would…appreciate some help.”

Lance smiled and pushed past her into the bathroom, and Pidge let the door fall closed behind her and locked it. He headed straight for her purple cosmetics bag sitting open next to the sink, peering into it. “I never pegged you for a makeup person,” he observed.

Pidge shrugged and said, “There’s a time and a place for everything.”

Lance hummed and found the eyebrow pencil she’d been using, while Pidge stood next to him and grabbed the bottle of makeup remover. She wadded up a bit of toilet paper in lieu of a cotton ball, and after pouring a generous amount of the fluid onto it, she wiped at her messed up eyeliner.

“This is a nice color,” he observed.

“Thanks,” she said. She tossed the toilet paper into the trash and faced Lance. “I’m ready.”

“Good job on the other eye,” Lance then commented, pointing to it. “Not bad for a beginner.”

“And what are you?” she wondered. “Intermediate?”

Lance laughed. “Yeah, probably.” He stepped closer to her, leaning down so that his warm breath touched her forehead, and grasped her chin with a firm hand to keep her from twitching involuntarily. “Close your eye, or both of them so you don’t blink too much.”

Ignoring the strange way her heart beat more rapidly, Pidge did as he asked and held her breath when he touched the pencil tip to the corner of her eye. “So what’re you getting all made up for?” he asked as he slowly dragged the pencil across her eyelid.

“Christmas social for SWE,” she said. She forced herself to unclench her sweaty hands, to try to appear more relaxed.

“What’s swee?” Lance said.

“Society of Women Engineers,” Pidge explained, then she admitted, “I didn’t want to go, but I want to run for board next year, and the president suggested I get to know everyone better.”

“Politics, am I right?” Lance joked. He lifted the pencil from her eyelid and let go of her chin, stepping away from her.

Pidge didn’t know why she missed the heat of his body when he’d barely touched her – or why she should miss it at all.

“You can open your eyes now, Pidge,” Lance said.

Pidge huffed out a laugh that she hoped didn’t sound as strained as she feared. She opened her eyes and stepped closer to the mirror, examining Lance’s handiwork and how it matched hers.

She scowled when his proved to be so much neater than her own.

Lance laughed when he spotted her expression, wielding the small pencil at her like it was a sword. “You want me to do the other eye too?”

“Yes,” Pidge said immediately, telling herself it was only for the sake of symmetry.

“You’re not going to ask how I know how to apply eyeliner?” Lance wondered once her eyes were closed again, and she once more exhaled in tiny huffs.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” Pidge remarked, unable to help a small smile.

“Hey, stop twitching,” Lance scolded her. When she obediently fell still – with some difficulty – he said, “My older sister taught me since she couldn’t put it on herself but had no trouble doing it for her friends.”

“Why didn’t they do it for her too?”

“Because she couldn’t ask them to do her makeup before every family wedding,” Lance explained. “My family’s huge, and we have a ton of weddings.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Pidge said, rather untruthfully since she’d been to one wedding in her entire life and didn’t have much fun.

“They are,” Lance agreed, apparently without detecting any irony in her voice. He lifted the pencil but didn’t remove his hand, though he loosened his grip.

“If you’re done,” Pidge said, opening her eyes and staring up at him, “you can let go of me now.” She didn’t flinch at his proximity – she’d known how close he stood – but it still alarmed her, made her skin itch in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Lance let go and averted his eyes away from her face. “How’d I do?” He waved towards the mirror.

Pidge leaned towards her reflection, and she and her twin in the mirror smirked. “Bitchin’,” she said.

She saw his reflection roll his eyes and smile. “Well, just be careful you don’t touch your eyes and smudge all my hard work,” he said.

“Good thing it’s not allergy season,” Pidge said. She took the pencil back from him, noting that it would need to be sharpened before the next time – if there was a next time – she used it, and packed her belongings away. She extracted a black cardigan from her backpack and, after grimacing at the wrinkles in the fabric, put it on over her sleeveless dress.

“By the way,” she said, remembering as she glanced at Lance, who stood by the door as if ready to flee, “do you still have my scarf?”

Lance laughed, and dropped his backpack.

Pidge had a shift at the library the next day, on Saturday. The library stayed open for extra hours as finals week drew closer, and her supervisor scheduled her for more hours than usual when she made the mistake of mentioning how far ahead she was on her homework assignments.

And rather than returning books to their shelves – her preferred duty – Pidge stood at the circulation desk, manning the telephone and available if anyone needed to check out or search for a book or borrow a school laptop or USB cable. She kept herself busy by pretending to look busy when no one wanted her assistance, doodling a design of a pyramidal robot and highlighting the corners in blue ink.

“Worthy of being Star Wars concept art?” she asked herself, turning the page sideways to look at it a bit more closely. She shrugged and put the paper down, starting a drawing of something else – she couldn’t be sure yet what would spill out of her pen.

“Is that…Pidge?”

Pidge jerked her head up at the sound of her name, standing up so rapidly that she knocked her chair down. Her face heated up with embarrassment as she searched for a familiar face, and her eyes finally fell on Hunk and, on his other side, Lance.

Lance’s nose and cheeks were red with cold, and he crossed his arms and held himself stiffly. Pidge rolled her eyes and pulled off her scarf, tossing it to him as he and Hunk approached. “You should wear a heavier jacket, you know,” she said.

“It was s-so warm yesterday!” Lance retorted with a slight stutter.

Hunk clapped him on the back, frowning like he’d expected this to happen and was keeping himself from saying I told you so.

“One of the vending machines in the lobby has hot chocolate,” Pidge suggested. She rested her elbow on the counter, resting her chin on her hand and smirking. Sure, Lance looked cold, but there was just something cute and endearing about seeing him wrap himself snugly in her scarf, tug the top edge up to cover his mouth, and—

Pidge halted that train of thought in its tracks, her smirk faltering. “Do you guys need anything?” she asked.

“We’re just here to hit the books,” Hunk told her. “I’m good, but Lance…?” He looked at his friend, an inquiry – or perhaps a challenge – in his eyes.

Lance pulled the scarf back down – but didn’t take it off – and smiled at Pidge. “I’m good too,” he said. “Thanks, Pidge.”

Hunk rolled his eyes but walked away, off to find a free table, after waving towards Pidge; Lance took a step after, but he seemed to reconsider and doubled back to the counter.

“Did you have fun last night?” he wondered.

Pidge managed a smile even through the weird stuttering of her thoughts, the ones that made her heart race in an unfamiliar way while a warmth filled her chest. “A little,” she said. “I guess the good thing about engineers is that we’re all pretty nerdy.”

“Hmm, well, I’m sure you are, but I wouldn’t say the same about me.”

“We spent most of a Saturday playing an old video game once,” Pidge retorted, leaning across the counter towards him. “Face it, Lance; you’re a nerd.”

“Take that back!” Lance said, his own face drifting just a little closer to hers.

“I don’t think I want to,” Pidge said, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. “Although, maybe if you buy that coffee you still owe me I’ll take it back.”

“And then I’ll owe you something else,” Lance pointed out.

“You did my makeup for me yesterday,” she said.

“You gave me your scarf.”

“To borrow,” Pidge insisted, rolling her eyes, but then she narrowed them at him instead. “You are going to give it back, right?”

“Of course,” Lance said, “as soon as you give me your—”

“Hey, if you don’t need help,” someone interrupted them from the queue forming behind Lance, “can you get out of line?”

Lance stood up straight, and Pidge leaned away, finally conscious of the way they’d been drifting towards each other. “Yeah, sorry,” he said dismissively, rolling his eyes at Pidge. “I guess I have to hit the books too, so I’ll see you?”

“See you, Lance,” Pidge said.

He smiled as he left, though she frowned as soon as he was out of sight and the first person in line came forward with their inquiry.

Pidge helped everyone in line, succeeding in putting Lance from her mind – at least temporarily. But his interrupted comment haunted her, and she spent the rest of her shift preoccupied with it, trying to fill in the blanks herself.

Hunk left an hour before she clocked out, backpack slung over his shoulder with a frown on his face. “Studying that bad?” she asked him when he passed.

“Could be worse,” Hunk said, shrugging.

“Where’s Lance?” Pidge wondered, then noticing what was missing.

Hunk raised an eyebrow at her. “I should’ve known,” he said.

“Known what?”

He shrugged and said, “He fell asleep in the middle of going over our old midterms. Do me a favor and make sure he at least leaves before the library closes.”

“Will he need a ride?” she said, unable to keep herself from worrying.

“We live close enough that he can take the bus or walk,” Hunk reassured her, waving a dismissive hand.

“Sleepwalk?” Pidge quipped.

“Just make sure he’s awake when he leaves,” Hunk said with a laugh. “I’ll see you around, Pidge.”

“Sure,” she said, smiling.

It was only when he left that she wished she’d asked him for Lance’s number…and realized what Lance tried saying earlier.

Pidge clocked out of her shift and, after grabbing her backpack, she wandered in the direction that Hunk came from, scanning each desk for a familiar yellow scarf and blue backpack. And it didn’t take long to come across Lance slumbering on a desk, his head pillowed on his backpack and one cheek turned up towards the ceiling.

Pidge smiled when she approached him and reached out to touch his shoulder to wake him up, but then an even better idea occurred to her. So she dropped her backpack and rummaged inside for the cosmetics bag she hadn’t removed the night before, opening it and grabbing the only eyeliner pencil she possessed.

She uncapped it, smirking to herself, and bent over Lance to scrawl a sequence of ten numbers onto his upturned cheek as gently as she could. By the time she finished, he stirred, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, and Pidge, deciding her job was done, capped the pencil and stuffed it back into the bag. She grabbed her backpack and retreated as quickly and as silently as she could, heart beating in anticipation…and dreading disappointment.

Her phone buzzed barely an hour later, receiving a text message from an unfamiliar number, and Pidge smiled when she read it:

So…when can I buy you coffee?

[booksarelife-stuff]

i’m only seventeen, i don’t know anything- Chapter 10

James Potter/ Lily Evans (Jily), minor Remus Lupin/ Sirius Black (wolfstar)

Co-authored with the amazing @queen-isabelle-writes :)

It's seventh year for the Marauders and Lily Evans. Lily and James are dealing with their feelings for each other while the war with Voldemort brews in the wings.

Canon Divergence. Angst, fluff, falling in love.

Word Count:  2,857

Read on AO3   Next Chapter   Series Master List   Master List

Chapter 10

i never thought i'd live to see it break ~taylor swift, haunted

On the morning of James and Sirius’s last day with the Evans family, James woke up to a gentle prodding.

He opened his eyes, the world blurry without his glasses, but he could still make out the blob that was Lily Evans crouching beside the bed.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said. “Get up.”

James reached for his glasses, the world becoming clear once they were on. Lily was beside the bed, smiling at him.

“Is the surprise a lovely kiss in the morning?” James asked. Lily scrunched her nose.

“You haven’t brushed your teeth yet,” she pointed out. “Brush them and then meet me in my room.”

James got up quickly after that. He brushed his teeth and found a shirt to pull on, then slowly tiptoed down the hallway to where Lily’s room was.

Her door was open a crack, and James quietly pushed it open. Lily was sitting on her bed, swinging her legs, a wrapped present in her lap. James smiled a little.

“I thought we said no presents,” he said. He, of course, had gotten Lily one, but he truly didn’t think she would get him anything.

“I couldn’t resist,” she said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t get me anything.”

“It’s in my trunk. Be right back,” he said.

James quietly went back to the guest bedroom and grabbed the heavy box that he had charmed smaller so he could still pack his clothes. He grabbed his wand and changed it back to its original size again.

He went back to Lily’s room and she eyed the box in his hands.

“Please tell you didn’t spend a lot,” she said. James shook his head.

“I swear to Merlin, I got you the cheapest thing I could find,” he said. Lily rolled her eyes as James sat beside her. He handed her the box, and she handed him his present. James smiled at the wrapping paper that had little drawn reindeers on it.

“Open yours first,” she said.

James tore into the wrapping paper, revealing three notebooks that looked more like books that had “Composition” written on them with a place for him to write his name. He also pulled out a little package that contained yellow sticks.

“I got you some sturdier notebooks in different colors,” she said. She picked up the package with sticks in it. “These are pencils. They can make marks like a pen, but they can be erased without a spell.”

James smiled as he inspected the things, his heart warming. He thought of his old Quidditch notebook that was so well used, the pages were crinkling.

“Thank you. This will be great for Quidditch!” he said, cracking open one of the notebooks.

“I forgot a pencil sharpener and I couldn’t find a good spell, so I’ll get you one before Christmas is over,” she said.

James looked at his girlfriend and for the millionth time, he wondered how he got so lucky.

“Your turn,” he said.

Lily wasted no time opening the box, using her wand to slice the top of it. James got a little nervous all of the sudden as Lily pulled out the large leather bound tome with a questioning look. It was much larger than normal books, and James thought that it wouldn’t look out of place in the restricted section of the library at Hogwarts, save for the fact it was clearly new looking.

“The Potter’s have been inventing potions for generations,” James started. “Skele-gro, pepper-up, and then Dad’s hair thing. Since Dad’s been retired, he’s been going through all the journals of our family and kind of transcribing their process and the theory behind it all.”

Lily looked at James with wide eyes but didn’t say anything. James suddenly felt panic, thinking Lily didn’t like it.

“I was asking my mum and dad for advice as to what to get you, and they suggested a copy of this because, well, most great potioneers are purebloods only because they get knowledge passed down from generations and it’s a hard field for muggleborns to excel in because they don’t get that kind of knowledge and—”

“James,” Lily said, cutting off his babbling. “James, I love it.”

Her eyes were sparkling and there was a faint flush to her cheeks. She carefully set the book down on her other side and then launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. James dropped his notebooks and pencils, making them drop to the floor as he hugged Lily back.

“Dad also left blank pages in the back for you to put your own work,” James said.

Lily pulled away slightly and looked up at James.

“I’m not a Potter, though,” she said.

“Dad said that any great potioneer should be able to go in the book,” James said. “And he has lost all hope that I would be the next one to write in the book.”

Lily snorted.

“Prat,” she said, before pressing her lips against his.

James was surprised when both Thomas and Violet hugged him and Sirius goodbye.

“It was so lovely to meet you two,” Violet said, squeezing James tightly.

“Thank you for having us,” James said, pulling away.

“And for showing us all of Evans’ baby pictures,” Sirius added with a smirk.

Lily scoffed and crossed her arms.

“It’s rare I get to embarrass this one,” Violet said. “I had to jump on the opportunity.”

James promised that he would talk with his parents and see if they could schedule a dinner with them, despite James feeling the beginnings of the embarrassment that he knew Euphemia and Fleamont would unleash.

Lily’s parents went back into the house, leaving Lily, James, and Sirius standing in the backyard. Lily gave them a small smile.

“You can come over anytime over holiday,” James said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. He knew that Lily was happy to have the rest of break to spend time with her parents, but Petunia’s attitude seemed to worsen with every passing day. James wished he could do something to make it better. He was nice and polite to Petunia the few times that they had to interact, but Petunia would scoff and then Lily would get angry, and it never ended well.

Lily nodded. She gave James and Sirius a hug. James kissed her cheek and promised that he would send a letter when he got home. She smiled and waved as the boys walked down the sidewalk, checking to make sure no one was around. Then, with their trunks in hand and a tug in their guts, James and Sirius left the village of Cokesworth and apparated to Godric’s Hollow.

James and Sirius appeared in the backyard of the Potter Manor. Normally, the garden was full of life, his mother and father taking a lot of pride in their magical garden, but now it was lifeless. Whether it was from the cold or the fact that James’s parents had been busy, he didn’t know.

“I kind of like Muggle homes,” Sirius said as they started up the path.

“It was pretty cool. The record player Thomas had? Amazing,” James added.

Sirius smiled. “You think Moony would like one of those?” His trunk hit James’s leg.

“I think anyone would like to have one,” James said with a laugh. “Besides, didn’t you already get Moony a new jumper that had a heating charm on it? You’re spoiling him.”

“I would get Moony anything he wanted,” Sirius replied.

As they neared the manor, James felt the magic wards come around them. The backdoor opened and there stood James’s mum, Euphemia Potter.

She was tall but shrinking with her old age. She and Sirius normally could look each other in the eyes, but James could tell that that wasn’t the case anymore. Her dark silver hair was tied into a bun.

“What did Sirius Black first say to me when he stepped out of the fireplace two summers ago?” she called.

“I’m finally free,” Sirius replied.

Her hazel eyes turned to James. “What did James used to hide under his bed?”

James wanted to groan at the memory but he knew that his mum might hex him if he didn’t answer.

“Toads from the pond down the lane,” he replied.

She smiled and held her arms open, welcoming her sons. James and Sirius elbowed each other as they playfully fought to be the first one Euphemia hugged. She hugged them both instead, squishing them together.

“Did you have a lovely time with Lily’s family?” she asked.

“Yeah,” James said, giving his mum a squeeze.

“They wouldn’t let us drive the car,” Sirius said.

Euphemia laughed. “They’re smart folks, then.”

Just as quickly as the laughter in her features came, they went. She took a deep breath.

“We’ll have to do more catching up later, I’m afraid,” Euphemia said, sighing. “Dumbledore is here. He wants to talk to you lads.”

James and Sirius exchanged a panicked look with each other.

“Mum, I swear we didn’t do—” James started to say, but Euphemia cut him off.

“You’re not in trouble,” she said.

For some reason, that didn’t make the boys feel better.

James took his mother’s arm, giving her support, as they headed to the tea room. James and Sirius were polite to the paintings on the wall as they welcomed them home.

Dumbledore sat in the armchair with a horrid floral pattern on it. His long robes pooled around his feet When they entered the room, his sharp blue eyes inspected them.

Professor McGonagall sat on the couch. Her face was pinched in an expression James and Sirius knew meant that she was cross. She was looking angrily down at her tea. James’s father was sitting closest to Dumbledore. Normally, Fleamont was like James, always smiling, the glint of mischief in his eyes, but that was gone. Yet, he smiled weakly at James and Sirius when they entered.

“Welcome home, boys,” Fleamont said. James put a hand on his shoulder as they passed.

Euphemia sat next to McGonagall. James didn’t know where to sit as Sirius took the last armchair. He settled on perching on the arm of the chair.

“I hope you two had a lovely time at Miss Evans’s house,” Dumbledore said, taking a moment to sip some tea.

“It was nice,” Sirius said. His tone was a tad guarded.

“You must be wondering about why Minerva and I are paying you a visit during break,” Dumbledore said. “I’m not going to keep you in suspense.”

He sat his saucer with his tea cup on the table in front of him.

“As you know, the Wizarding World here in Britain has fallen on dark times, and I fear the darkest are almost among us.”

James shifted in position, the chair creaking a bit.

“I wish I could say that Hogwarts is going to be spared from this, but it is becoming more and more evident that that is an impossible dream,” he said, before clearing his throat. “I have knowledge that quite a few students are pledging themselves to the Dark Lord. I fear Hogwarts will become the front line of the war effort.”

Fear and sadness gripped James, thinking of the sanctuary Hogwarts had been. Sure, they had all heard the news, but life had always continued on as normal inside the castle walls. Dumbledore’s words meant that it was changing. He had half a mind to write to Lily, Remus, Mary, and Alice and tell them not to come back.

“I’m telling you this because I think you young men can handle it and maybe even help. I do believe that Voldemort—” Everyone except Dumbledore flinched. “—can be defeated. I believe I will need your help.”

James saw McGonagall tense up, but she didn’t say anything.

“I just need you and any other students to keep an eye out for Death Eaters. Watch for strange activity and any behavior you may think is connected to Voldemort. Is that agreeable?”

It was almost the same thing as being Head Boy. James nodded. So did Sirius.

“I want to also ask that if the time comes, you boys will stay and fight,” Dumbledore said.

James swallowed. He had planned on joining the war effort after Hogwarts. He almost felt like there was no choice. However, Dumbledore was saying it was now; there were no more chances to live happily in the last few months of his childhood. He couldn’t spend the next few months carefree with Lily, working hard to make sure that the relationship would be something that would last a lifetime.

But saying no would be a disservice to her because it was her life that was threatened more so than his. How could he have a future with her when the Wizarding World was actively trying to make sure she wouldn’t have one?

James didn’t want any of his friends to agree with this, not even Sirius. He couldn’t imagine living without them. He looked at Sirius pleadingly, trying to tell him to say no and that James would do it so he didn’t have too.

Sirius shook his head at James. He turned defiantly to the adults.

“I’ll stay,” Sirius said. “I’ll join the fight.”

James placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder.

“I will, too,” James said.

Dumbledore nodded grimly. Minerva looked angry. Fleamont and Euphemia looked tired.

“I’m going to ask that you speak with your friends about this as well,” he said. “We need all the help we can get.”

James wanted to say no. He wanted to say that there was no way that he was going to try and convince others that he cared about to sign up for something that would most likely end up in their deaths.

Sirius nodded. James didn’t give any kind of confirmation to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore stayed for a few more minutes, chatting with James’s parents like he hadn’t just asked their only children to pledge themselves to a cause that would most likely get them killed.

Once he was gone, Minerva releashed the anger she had been holding.

“They’re children!” she said, looking at Euphemia. “This is too much to ask of them.”

“They’re of age, Minerva,” Fleamont replied, but he didn’t look happy at this excuse.

“We were going to fight after Hogwarts,” Sirius told the room. “What’s a joining a few months early?”

Minerva looked at the boys. You could almost see in her eyes that she still saw them as the scared eleven year olds that she had helped sort. She let out a deep sigh.

“All I’m going to ask is that you come to us first. Don’t do anything on your own,” she said. “Don’t run into anything head first. You come get a professor or Dumbledore, understand?”

Sirius and James nodded. It sounded like a reasonable promise to them at this moment.

Minerva hugged the boys, much to their surprise, and left the Potter Manor.

Fleamont took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Euphemia was staring out the window that looked into their garden. The silence was stony and James couldn’t take it. He went and grabbed his trunk which he had dropped by the door to the tea room. He opened it and grabbed the wrapped parcels that were sitting on top of his clothes.

“Lily got some gifts for you, Mum and Dad,” James said as he entered the room again.

Fleamont placed his glasses back on and looked at the parcel in his hands.

“She didn’t have to do that,” he said as he took the small one from James.

James smiled a little.

“After the book you gave her, it felt like the least she could do,” James replied. He handed Euphemia her wrapped gift and sat beside his mother.

Fleamont opened his package and inspected it for a second, his eyes squinting.

“Mia! They’re pens with glitter in it!” Fleamont called, looking delighted. “My potion notes are going to be sparkly!”

Sirius let out a barking laugh while James tried to keep a smile at bay. He wished that Lily could be there to see how absolutely delighted his father was. Euphemia looked over in interest.

“Interesting, dear,” she said.

Euphemia opened her present carefully and smiled at the deep purple knitted hat and scarf.

“Lily’s mum is a knitter. She swore to me that her mum’s work is better than any kind of scarf with a heating charm on it,” James told her.

Euphemia smiled. “It’s so lovely. I was just telling your father yesterday I needed a new scarf. My old green one has holes in it now.”

James’s father started to rise, tearing open the package of pens.

“What’re you doing, Dad?” Sirius called.

“Writing dear Lily a letter as a thank you,” he said grabbing the blue sparkly pen and holding it up.

This time James couldn’t contain his laughter, his spirits lifted significantly. There were dark times ahead of them, certainly, but that didn’t mean that all bright ones were gone.