#because I keep waiting for Kant to be soft

[fadelbison]

I get soms are struggling a little with kantbison and are desperate for any signs that Kant is already in love with Bison because we’re just so used to FK characters being in love with each other from Day 0 but also it’s okay that he isn’t in fact it’s probably good - there’s probably a payoff coming of when Kant really does fall in love with Bison. I think Bison helping Kant out with Babe was a very real reason for Kant to start falling for him and makes the dynamic between the two compelling if there’s a conflict to overcome.

[theflagscene]

“I only accept apologies in fries” Okay, well, Fadel runs a burger joint, he can do that. You know Style totally wore that shirt on purpose,

Some auntie! Oh she’s such a romantic, I like her. I’ve said it before, I think it’s cute that she allowed Style to hang out at her stall just in an attempt to get him his man!

He’s gonna do the absolute opposite of that dude! Get out of your face? Nah, he’s gonna get you to commit various health code violations in that kitchen.

Ah! They was one hell of a grab! I wonder if Dunk aggressively grabbing Joong’s dick is what made them remember August 22nd lol! Because from what I know about them—I haven’t watched any of their other series, just seen clips and stuff—they don’t seem to be very high heat. So physically grabbing ahold of one another’s junk instead of just alluding to it, I kinda get the feeling that it’s a new thing for them.

Keeping the gloves on, kinky! Hey! You cut open a perfectly good shirt and wouldn’t even give him a lil kiss, so mean Fadel.

Omg those are terrible fake tattoos, having them in 4K close ups is not a good thing.

Poor Bison, he looks so torn. He wants to not believe Fadel is right about Kant, but he also hasn’t really known his brother to be wrong. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

Oh! Right out with it! Respect Bison! Just flat out asking him: did you give me something?

Ha! Thats twice Kant’s been threatened with his own tools.

Also those gloves are way too shiny, Jojo knows what he’s doing. I’d bet money I don’t even have, that at least one fisting fic will be written because of those gloves.

Wait wait, why does both Style and Kant have tiny frowning faces stitched into the left side of the collars of their shirts!?

Oh no! Bison is realizing that Babe’s being hurt! Why do I feel like there’s going to be a bully killed in the future? I feel like Bison won’t care about killing a teenager if he needs to, neither will Fadel. Because I definitely don’t see Kant being the one hurting him… or their parents aren’t dead, Kant and Babe’s parents are alive and well but abusive pieces of shit. Uhhhhh, no, my heart!!

Oh god, please don’t be a teacher that’s abusing him! Oh man, why are all the terrible things running through my head!? Jojo I blame you!—Actually I really like that Jojo doesn’t shy away from the heavier stuff in his series, so many writers and directors paint over the darker stuff with a soft lens to try and make it easier for the audience to digest. But not Jojo, he just throws shit at you and expects you to react. I respect that so much.

[motelroomjesus]

Okay so.... I read the entire The Heart Killers novel in one sitting. How did I do that??? By ignoring my responsibilities, BUT I had a lot of fun LMFAO

I'm excited to see how they adapt this to the screen. It really is your typical assassin story, but the classics are classics for a reason! Unexpectedly fluffy for the premise, but also this a f4f (freak4freak) romance. Really excited to see how they manage to show the sex on screen because zoo wee mama..... the boys are crazy. Anyway, reading the novel has solidly cemented Fadel as my favorite character, such an unexpected side to him that I think all the viewers have already clocked just from the first two episodes.

I'm gonna talk about some characters and plot spoilers now so don't read under the cut if spoilers ruin your life

Okay, so already they've deviated just a bit from the novel, I'm assuming due to time and filming constraints (u know the usual). Mostly with Fadel and Style's story, it's nothing major tbh they just got the ball rolling pretty fast on them. They've stayed true to the characters, especially Style! Style is just as flirty and bold in the novel as he is in the show, which makes the bomb of him being romantically and sexually inexperienced in every aspect all the more shocking, even to Fadel. Their first sexual encounter together was rough until Fadel realized that he was Style's first. It was a really revealing moment for both those characters to me as a reader. It's the first time we see Fadel falter in front of anyone and the first time we see Style fully drop the confident mask he puts on. A very vulnerable moment and it's definitely the catalyst that propelled them MUCH closer to each other emotionally (and physically 😵‍💫).

Oh, FADEL...... He is so shxkbdksn. I love him to bits, like honestly. He is so deprived of affection. He is genuinely so soft hearted whether it's about his brother or his lover, he's constantly looking out for them. Even when he confronts Style later on, he's not even mad. He's so genuinely filled with sorrow and sadness that it's come to that, what he thought was the conclusion of the only love he's allowed himself was genuinely heartbreaking for him and it was apparent despite the tough assassin facade he was trying to keep up in front of Style. He is SO devoted and loyal. Love him BAD.

Bison, also seems to be presented pretty novel accurate so far. He seems too carefree and naive, but he's had a knife in his hand just in case the whole time. He really wants to live a different life. He wants out really bad and, unlike Fadel who made that decision after Style, Bison came to that before he even met Kant. He wants to fall in love and do laundry and cuddle with someone. He just wants true freedom. It made me feel even worse when he finds out of Kant's betrayal because he chose to let that guard down despite the gnawing feeling he had in the back of his head that he can't trust anyone. He took the chance on Kant and it ended up biting him in the ass. Also, we need more power bottoms I LOVE U BISON !!

Now Kant...... I can't say I liked him all that much until the end of the novel. 😭 He's genuinely selfish unless it's about his little brother and very much gives every man for themselves. He's all about self-preservation. He had no problem pulling an unknowing Style into dangerous undercover police informant work, did in fact drug Bison at one point, so yeah not on my nice list at all. I do think he had feelings for Bison at the beginning, but they weren't significant enough for him to stop what he was doing. He ends up redeeming himself a bit at the end. He tried to get the Captain to let him off the hook for this mission to no avail, and you know with the whole u kidnapped me and beat me up bc I betrayed u but I still waited for u to come get me at this abandoned house u left me at for hours so I could confess my love for u bit, but still. Very up and down feelings for him as a reader.

The bdsm was actually interesting to read here too. Sane (kinda), safe (sometimes) and consensual was really the name of the game here and I'm grateful for that. Were things a little under negotiated? Yeah, but I'm willing to look past that considering what s&m dynamics look like in other series and novels 😬 There was also a brief description of subspace that I found kind of nice. It was interesting to see these aspects of sexual dominance and submission present in a novel from a genre that often foregoes diving even an inch into safe kink (and sex) practices.

Also that masturbation scene is NOT in the novel from what I recall, so THANK YOU JOONG AND JOJO !!!!!

Crazy, but expected plot twist, and yet I was still at the edge of my seat. Granted I am easy to entertain, but I really enjoyed reading this. I actually would recommend this novel to others. It was just fun 😽

[nervouscupcakeinspace]

BTS FIC RECS (PART 2)

Jeon Jungkook/Jung Hoseok | J-Hope

Don't Get Charmed by shikiso

When an injured omega is found on their territory, Jungkook's instincts scream danger. He is the pack's omega, they don't need another one. Jungkook is doing a good enough job by himself, protecting the den and soothing the tension off everybody's shoulders.

Why is the pack so adamant on keeping that useless omega in ?

They have Jungkook, they don't need Hoseok.

Why can't they even see his little game ? Hoseok definitely knows how to play the scared and helpless omega. But, if he manages to trick everybody, he can't trick Jungkook. He is immune to his sweet scent and sweeter eyes.

He won't fall into his trap.

Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin

Omega Drip by sugamongoose

Park Jimin is the kind of alpha who makes you coffee and asks about your day before reducing his partner to a crying, writhing mess on his organic cotton sheets. He doesn't even seem to care one bit that Jungkook is a broken omega who doesn't get wet when he's supposed to.

“Are you busy right now, alpha?” Jungkook asks, holding his breath in anticipation. He can already visualise getting on his knees for the smaller man, can imagine those soft-looking hands petting his hair in approval when he shows just how good his mouth is.

Jeon Jungkook/Kim Namjoon | RM

Every Kind of Way by Oh_Hey_Tae

And then he realizes, quite belatedly, that he’s not supposed to be shaking the hand of the barista. Because that’s weird. And uncalled for. And really, really weird.

So Jungkook draws back his arm, grips the straps of his backpack, and promptly flees the building without a word spoken. Which is fine. Sometimes you have to get out of awkward social situations and blacklist particular cafés and adjust your route to school to avoid said café and the barista with the heart shaped face and his sweet pea scented hands. It happens.

“Jungkook-ah, meet Kim Namjoon.”

And sometimes during your bi-weekly dinner one of your good friends introduces you to said barista with the terribly soft hands who also happens to be getting his masters in social work to help underprivileged youth in inner city neighborhoods. Which is fine. This is fine. Jungkook is doing just fine.

 (Or: Jungkook adores everything about Namjoon except that the man can't catch a clue.)

Here Is What I Know by Oh_Hey_Tae

There are flowers growing on Namjoon’s arm. They aren’t real flowers, of course. That would be absurd. Impossible. Ridiculous. But Namjoon spends most of his lecture on Kant watching the garden of ink bloom on his skin, beginning at his pinkie and spreading across his wrist, trickling down to his elbow, curling up and around his bicep and out of sight under the sleeve of his shirt. Irises and peonies and roses and sunflowers. The girl who’s sitting beside him is staring, and when caught, gives Namjoon a bright-eyed grin before glancing back to the board. Namjoon spots a faded smiley face inked into the skin of her thumb, what looks to be a grocery list scrawled over the back of her hand. Notes or reminders from her soulmate maybe. Soulmates. Huh. It looks like Namjoon has one of those now.

try to resist, i still want it all by exarite

At first, Namjoon doesn’t think much of him.

He looks familiar, but he’s too far away for Namjoon to really see or scent out his dynamic. He’s cute, but Namjoon's not new to cute boys either. He's far too used to handsome, and pretty, and everything in between in the industry.

But then he stands up. Namjoon's eyes catch on the swell of his belly, and every nerve in his body lights up, his mind going blank, and—

Oh, he breathes. He's pregnant.

::

Namjoon fucks a pregnant Jungkook.

just let me adore you by elle_O_moonchild *

Rockstar omega Jungkook has never let an alpha tie him down. He was independent, and happy, and had no need for a domineering knothead to mess up his career and lifestyle.

But powerful and wealthy alpha Namjoon only wants to spoil the pretty omega rotten.

or

A smitten alpha Namjoon gets a weary omega Jungkook to go on a date with him and shows him just how good they can be together…

Jeon Jungkook/Kim Seokjin | Jin

more and more and more by moonsuns

"If you haven’t had sex by the time you’re twenty, then I’ll have sex with you. That way you’ll have a guaranteed end date for your virginity.”

“Do you promise, hyung?”

"I promise."

The problem was, Seokjin never expected to be called on it.

you shouldn't give it to me (good like that) by jamaisvore

opposites in the eyes of the media, but a perfect match in each other's arms.

or: supermodel!jk x rockstar!jin

Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim Namjoon | RM

Pull Me Under by Oh_Hey_Tae

It’s been two weeks. Hoseok has managed to survive two weeks of Kim Namjoon’s progressively darkening thighs and his cheek craters and his swooshy hair and that stupid laugh he does that makes him sound like a bleating sheep.

Yoongi looks over his shoulder. Stares. Slowly draws his gaze back to Hoseok. “Are we discussing the same man who tried to brush his teeth with sunscreen yesterday?”

“Ew, he did that?”

“Your voice says that’s disgusting but your face says you’re enamored.”

Hoseok presses his palms against his eyes until he sees colored spots. “Make it stop, hyung.”

  (Or: Hoseok works at a summer resort and Namjoon is the newest lifeguard. Chaos ensues.)

fall underneath by crycoby

“Is this secretly about your huge crush on Namjoon?” Jimin asks, his fingers digging into the back of Hoseok’s neck in a way that is frankly criminal. “You know that if you like him, you’re going to have to be more direct. He doesn’t like to assume things about people and… He overthinks a lot,” he finally settles on diplomatically.

Hoseok groans, half because of the pressure and half because the idea of talking about this, about any of this, about any of the gnarled mess that is the clutch of Hoseok’s emotions in the knot of his chest, gives him hives.

//

hoseok could talk about his big messy feelings about namjoon, or he could talk around them instead and just hope for the best. yeah. that sounds good.

Methods of Mutual Stress Relief by Only_A_Fangirl

Hoseok cringes, “How weird would it be if I actually asked to jerk off in here with you?”

“Very,” Namjoon answers instantly.

Hoseok nods, “You can choose the porn.”

Namjoon blinks, “Are you for real?”

lyre lyre lyre by oliviacirce

Namjoo regrets every life choice that has led her here, to the hard wooden floor of this dance studio, where she's lying on her back like a beached whale.

Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim Taehyung | V

the long and winding road by moonsuns

Hoseok is (basically) forced to go on vacation and leave his stressful idol life behind, at least for a little while. He wasn't expecting to find Taehyung, that's for sure. (He's glad he did, though.)

Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin

Procurement by FlyYouFools1 (WIP) *

Seokjin and Namjoon have waited decades for a little of their own. Taehyung just wants to pay for his little brother's education.

Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Taehyung | V

Dandelion Love (part of the (Not) Destined series) by almostsophie1

Taehyung is twenty-one when the word on his wrist turns ashen. The kind of love that soulmates share is forever out of reach.

(But enter one Kim Namjoon, who doesn't think the same.)

Kim Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga

Bleeding Love by beebalm

Yoongi was already dressed and halfway to the door, nothing but a dry chuckle and a See you around when Namjoon asked for his number.

OR

It's not that Namjoon is hurt Yoongi only ever wanted him for a one night stand. And he doesn't have a crush. He just wishes they didn't have to keep seeing each other all the time.

Kim Namjoon | RM/Park Jimin

but i want it anyway by ameliabedelias *

Park Jimin’s roommate goes to study abroad for a semester. Kim Namjoon takes over the lease.

only lingering around you by moonsuns 

“I don't. I mean...this is going to sound awkward, but I’m...not really looking for a relationship right now.”

Namjoon considers, for a moment, elaborating and telling Jimin about everything with Hoseok, but there wouldn't be any point in that. And also, Namjoon is pretty sure that Jimin doesn't care about any of that anyway.

And he's right. At this, Jimin outright laughs. It isn’t a mean laugh, but Namjoon is pierced by the sound anyway. “Who said anything about a relationship, or even feelings? It’s just sex.”

Or, Namjoon and Jimin are friends with benefits.

Kim Seokjin | Jin/Min Yoongi | Suga

운명 (Fate) (part of the (Not) Destined series) by almostsophie1

Yoongi is part of that three percent population left without a soulmate word. It doesn't matter if he falls in love, because love isn't meant for people like him.

(Then he meets Seokjin.)

candy on my lips (part of the just desserts series) by moonbabie

Anonymous advice columnist and baby bi Kim Sujin meets queer club president Min Yoonji, and does the following: writes some cheesy advice columns, cuts her hair, and figures out her shit. (aka a queer romcom meets emotional constipation, self-discovery, and clueless wlw)

Min Yoongi | Suga/Park Jimin

pull me closer in the backseat of your rover by moonsuns

Jimin had just wanted to get off. He didn't think he'd end up with a boyfriend at the end of it all.

Or, another friends with benefits AU.

Nip & Bloom by sugamongoose (WIP) *

The year is 2021, and yet traditional and oppressive views of alpha/omega relations run rampant in the Korean society. Unmated Park Jimin is placed in a government programme which pairs delinquent omegas with support mates to make them more comfortable in their submission. Jimin’s alpha for six months turns out to be Min Yoongi, a tiny music producer who wears fuzzy sweaters, and who won’t stop talking about his kitten Holly.

“You look like an omega,” Jimin blurts out. The strange alpha flashes him a smile that reveals the pink of his gums. “Is that something you prefer? I saw your file, and it said you identify as queer.” “Oh, you looked at my file just to see if I like to fuck other omegas? Knot swelling yet?”

POLY RELATIONSHIPS

OT7 - Relationship

indiscentsible by cloudyworld *

Jungkook had been a little disappointed when, after all the build-up and speculation, he'd presented as a beta. Betas are great! They play an important role in society: level-headed, big-picture thinkers, the solid foundation that holds everyone together. But that pull of instinct that comes with being an alpha or omega, the feeling of belonging... He was crushed at the thought he might never get to have that.

In a pack with three alphas and three omegas already, presenting beta was a gift; Jungkook learns to see that too.

Precious Mettle by glitterandgilt (WIP) *

Jin loved his nest. He'd built it very carefully from the ground up. Spent centuries on selecting the individuals he wanted to spend the rest of his immortal life with. He was proud of his nest and protected it with a possessive love that rivaled a dragon's guard on their trove.

Jin didn't get the chance to go through that evaluation process with his newest treasure. But he would never let it go.

Or

When Jin's blood is stolen and used to sire a new fledgling, Jin has two choices: to ignore the strands of magic binding him to his new childe, or to lay claim to another jewel for his collection. He chooses the latter and drags his entire nest into a situation none of them were anticipating.

Kim's Seven by Gobi17 (WIP) *

Jungkook, 17 year old YouTuber, is in awe of the 6 hot boys who have adopted him online.

Bangtan are a dangerous group of vigilantes who seize the opportunity to kidnap the stepson of their latest target.

Found Kin by Adaptive_Artist (WIP)

Jungkook is starving. Food doesn't make anything better, and his teeth ache like someone is hammering on them. He thought he was cursed. Turns out he's a hatchling kin, and is now the precious baby of the renowned Kim nest. He's also growing little fangs.

Huh.

love bites (series) by feraljk (WIP) 

Summary from the first fic:

newly-turned vampire jungkook still has a lot to learn, but his hyungs are there to help him. taehyung enlists yoongi and jin to teach the fledgling how to teethe and helps him discover how much of a bonding activity teething can be.

or: trans koo and tae teeth on their hyungs and also come

Isn't it lovely? (all alone) by hopefully2020

At age eighteen, all citizens are given a concentration that will determine their fields of study. A small empty square on their wrist will gain a color corresponding to their skill set. Everyone’s fear is that their square color is black, meaning they are destined for a life of crime. When Jungkook turns eighteen, he waits anxiously for his square to gain color, only to be presented with a blank square. He is shunned by his family, having to struggle through high school while trying to figure out what to do for the rest of his life. Jungkook's life gets flipped upside down on the day of his twenty-first birthday when the store he works at is robbed with Jungkook at the cash register. Fearing for his life he believes he is going to die, only to be saved by a figure in black with a mask covering his face. To make things even worse, Jungkook suddenly becomes the target of one of the largest drug syndicates, solely because of his new connection to his savior and five other men who turn out to be the biggest crime lords in Seoul. What happens then, you ask? Well, then the blank world Jungkook always saw starts to drip with black, just a little bit.

blueberry peaches (a serendipitous summer) by elle_O_moonchild (WIP)

Jungkook spends a life changing summer working at a beachside car wash and meets 6 new lovers who change his heart and life forever.

Jeon Jungkook/Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim Namjoon | RM 

Falling For an Alien From Amalthea 5 by Pyotr_Keats78 (WIP)

Jungkook has been in and out of the hospital for years with various medical problems. Eventually, his heart becomes so weak that no human medicine can save him. Believing he will die never having come out as trans to anyone, he gives up. That is until his brother Jimin tells him, “You have two choices, Jungah: you can stay here in this hospital and get high every day until your heart fails you, or you can go to Amalthea, grow a parasite, and live.”

Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung | V/Park Jimin

Mentoring on Marsa by FlyYouFools1

Jungkook comes to the planet Marsa after being promised a full scholarship to Marsa National University. When the scholarship falls through, his academic advisor gives him the number for a mentoring service for newly stranded omegas on Marsa. With rent due, no way home, and no success in finding a job, Jungkook calls the number. The organization sends him Min Yoongi, a fellow omega who's been living on Marsa for 8 years. Yoongi teaches him how to survive. Jungkook's first attempt at survival is alpha couple Jimin and Taehyung.

Features: Yoongi doing his best to teach Jungkook how to manage handsy alphas, handsy alphas (like all of them are touchy) taking liberties with omega protagonists, and my best attempt at writing problematic but entertaining sex. A lot of fluff too, actually. The alphas are fluffy as hell with the omegas, and pamper them a lot, even though their actual behavior is wrong.

Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung | V/Min Yoongi | Suga

November (series) by cuttothequickk 

Summary from the first fic: 

Sometimes, Jeongguk gets so lonely he doesn't even feel alone anymore. He's practicing, and he's very good at it. Loneliness. Being alone. It's blustery cold, and the leaves are falling from the branches of trembling trees, and Jeongguk is alone in a big city, shivering without a jacket, trying desperately to keep himself warm.

There is no one, and then there is someone. Two someones. The lovely winter boys from Daegu, Taehyung and Yoongi, opposites and equals, so loving and in love.

It would be ridiculous, really, if Jeongguk didn't fall for them, too.

Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga

how, or when, or from where by moonsuns

“Stop calling it my quest,” Namjoon whines, and Hoseok laughs.

“You’re the one that said it first.”

“I was drunk.”

“Well, the bad thing about going out with people, is that you can’t take back the stupid shit you said when you were drunk. Especially when they’re way less drunk than you.”

Or, after Namjoon almost dies, he decides to go on a quest to live his best life, and takes Yoongi and Hoseok along for the ride.

(* Personal favorites)

MASTERPOST FIC RECS PART 1

[tabitha2]

You used to see a girl like this and get like wet and bothered imagining fucking her… but now that Miss Chantelle has brought out the true bimbo in you all you are thinking about is just how much you want to be dressed just like this offering your fine big Black ass to a real man!!! With that tight asshole you know he gonna ream out work deep ruin up fuck you till u kant shit—

You nasty honey but you His kinda nasty now.

Being noticed is nice & gives you value. Male attention is your value. Your tits are your worth. You need to be seen. You need a Man to see u. You can’t stop showing off. Showing yourself.

it’s nice to not have to worry, but to just try to look hot and sexy… to be hot and sexy all the time. Showing yourself to be just a brainless Black girl. Because ok, thinking can be a chore sometimes. And it sure as shit be easier to let someone else decide.

Showing yourself to be just a fun kinda dumb Black girl who don’t gotta worry about anything

Just a busty brainless Black girl, a bimbo

the girl of your dreams who’s only attracted to Men.

Wait, whose dreams ? HIS. Cause you know He is all that counts in your new pretty little head that can’t count for shit.

In this hot soft wet Black straight female girl body that belongs to Him yr Daddy yr Master.

Not thinking really just feeling

YES, I want my orgasm belong to HIM! MMM.. all those Hands.. groping! COCKS cumming in and on me.. soo good.. more and more cum.. Super Attractive Slutty whore looks so hot getting wrecked by meaty real Penis !!! Beg u plz biggy

They can look but they can’t touch, can they ? Everything for husband the master your owner

Nothing is hotter than smiles and confidence. You disposable country-grown cunts dunno. Daddy’s cock-hungry fuckhole is always ready to serve. Down on my fours giving that face. The default look that naturally looks perfect on a slut just happens to be the perfect position to face fuck it in. N i luv a good face fuck.

Getting your face fucked 24/7 on the regular (it’s just the kinda life u live lead love it’s just how u are kept led taken used) (U luv being a usual regular ordinary super hot facefuck)

I’m a Big cock addict Black Cock slut. I want my boobs to be enormous and my lips to be puffier. There should be no doubt what i am here for. I’m a Big cock addict ! Im a dumb Black slut. I’m a Cock slut who loves white Cock best. And I’m addicted to Cock with huge boobs and fat lips

dummy drooly puffy princess pillow lips. Phat blunt-smoking lips.

I’m just a girl and Daddy makes all the hard choices for me so i can focus on being a perfect little hot dumb Black Barbie with the best tits

stupid stacked leaky puff-nip plastic porno tits

think for me. give me opinions and present them like they’re my own. convince me that i came up with your thoughts. keep my mind turned off at all times, even if it thinks it’s on

And you know you believe His thoughts in u.

Black girls are beautiful Beautiful and superior made to be worshipped by inferior white sluts

Accepting all Daddy’s corrections to cum out

perfectly pretty sexy slutty stupid straight Black stripper girl who is Addicted to Cock and weed

and you can hear your mama Chantelle telling u

"You should have started sucking cocks sooner. You need to be on your knees, it's where you belong. You're missing out. Head out there, get on your knees where you belong. Life gets better once you start sucking cock. Don't be a prude. Just do it. Don’t be a bitch. Just suck it. You need cock on your lips. You need to be full of dick. You can't stop thinking about it. You LOVE to worship the Big. Beautiful. Cock."

U get it ? Sure u do. All girls get it; when will u. Clarity n acceptance will make yr dum lil life 1000x better. U jus a hot dum Black chick — shit. U clear on this ? U betta accept it, Tera. U hot. U dum. U fun. & u love Guys. U only gonna get with guys, cos u need Cock. And u need 2b wha they made u : busty. Boy-crazy. Braless. Brainless. Bimbo. Black. & Beautiful.

[mionemymind]

Do I owe her the truth?

Summary: (Hermione x Gender Neutral Reader) Should Y/n tell the truth to Hermione no matter the consequences? 

Words: 5223

A/N: Let me know what y’all think. I’m sorry I having been writing a lot but I figured you deserve something for waiting for so long. Thank you for being patient. You all are the best!!

According to the great philosopher Kant, one must always do the nature of the good principle regardless of the outcome. Simply put, even if a killer was knocking on the door and asking for your friend, you must answer with the truth of their location. Although a lot argue over philosophies, Y/n simply minded their business. They figured that they have their whole life to sort out what good things they must do and bad things they must keep away. However, a bright witch among their age, made them question every single good and bad thing they had sorted out in life. Because on the very most important day of Hermione’s life, Y/n pondered the question, “Do I owe her the truth?”

The story starts out small like any simple home. You must start with a bit of foundation and the right material for it to be built. So, when Y/n transferred from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts, the very first student they were introduced to was Hermione Granger.

Walking around the halls, Y/n found themselves slightly amazed at the walls of the castle. From the decorations, to the hallways, its scenery, and even its people were more amazing than of Ilvermorny. “Right this way.” Professor McGonagall led the young sorcerer to the very Great Albus Dumbledore. Y/n had only read of the magnificent things Professor Dumbledore has done for the wizarding world and was only slightly scared to meet her current headmaster. While opening the vastly large door, Y/n slowly followed Professor McGonagall in. At the sound of the doors opening, a booming but soft voice uttered, “Ah there you are! Do come sit.” Walking up the stairs, Y/n sat at the seat in front of his desk. Sweaty palms and nervous thoughts clouded their mind. “It is a great pleasure to welcome you to Hogwarts. I know you must be eager to survey the school so I will make this brief.” With a slight pause, Dumbledore had signaled for McGonagall to leave. “As a long-standing tradition of Hogwarts, let me first assign you your house.” Quickly, a hat that looked as if it lived through many ages, was placed on Y/n’s head. “Fierce loyalty like no other to those she cares about why you must be HUFFLEPUFF!”

The hat was taken off as quickly as it was placed. Soon, a new attire was placed on her lap. “Here is your new schedule that corresponds with what you should be learning now. I took great liberty to consult with your headmaster about your curriculum. They talk highly about you in regards to your academics and wizarding abilities.” Y/n blushed at the sound of the compliment. They weren’t used to the praise given to them. “To make sure you are consistently tested, I made sure to put you in classes with one of the brightest witches of your age – ah and here she is.” Y/n turned around and suddenly timed slowed down. A girl with red and black robes entered the room as if she already owned it. It was the confidence that surrounded her aura the most, but Y/n had noticed more of the beauty that she shows.

“This young witch is Hermione Granger.” Leaping to their feet, Y/n stood up to shake Hermione’s hand. “Y/n Y/l/n.” Hermione gave a small smile and sat next to Y/n as Dumbledore had briefly explained the rules of the school. “Ah – I believe that takes care of everything. Ms. Granger please give our newest student a welcoming tour around the school. I have already informed your teachers of your absence. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask. Other than that, welcome to Hogwarts.”

The two young students left the office and went to the nearest bathroom. While Y/n changed to their new robes, Hermione had fiddled with her hands. “Not to intrude, but you must be extremely smart.” Y/n was buttoning their shirt when Hermione had answered the question. Good thing she couldn’t see them otherwise Hermione would have seen how red Y/n turned. Scratching their neck, Y/n replied, “I guess you could say that.”

“Oh, it’s not a guess rather a fact. You happen to have been put with some of the most difficult classes Hogwarts can currently offer for our year. That’s not something every new student experiences.” It was the way Hermione had said it as a matter of fact that made Y/n blush more. Exiting the stall, Hermione turned around and saw that they had their tie around their neck. “Need help?” Hermione said while pointing at their tie.

Once again Y/n blushed and nodded. Hermione was quick to get close to Y/n and started to tie their tie. “I do have to warn you though. There’s not a lot of competition when it comes to academics in Hogwarts. Don’t get me wrong, there is certain bright students, but none seem to come close.” Tightening the tie, Hermione looked into Y/n eyes. It was the first time she noticed how deep they looked. Regardless of their color, they were enchanting as well. “However, you seem to be my closest competition. So, I will have to take every chance I can get to beat you.” Y/n chuckled at the bright young witch in front of them. Hermione backed away after realized how close they were and cleared her throat. “Don’t take it as a laughing matter. Academics are truly important to me.”

Y/n had put their hands up in defense. “Don’t worry…I just find it funny that you think it’s going to be easy to compete with me.” Y/n smirked at their come back. If you were to ask where the hell that confidence came from, don’t bother. Y/n doesn’t know the answer either. With a similar smirk, Hermione said, “You and I are going to be great together.”

The story continues as the home is built. The next few things needed are the walls and roof.

It was the summer after their third year when Hermione, Harry, and Y/n had spent the summer at the Burrow. Ron had almost forgotten to invite Y/n when Ginny saved the day. The three of showed up at the house all dropping in one by one. Y/n was the last one to drop in, showing up during dinner time. Slowly walking in with trunk in hand, Y/n was met with the sound of their name echoing through the house. Ginny was the first to notice Y/n’s presence and loudly yelled, “Y/n!” Ginny quickly gave Y/n a hug when the echoes came from up the stairs.

“Did someone say Y/n?” George asked.

“Y/n?”

“Are they here?”

“Y/n’s here?!”

Hermione was the last one to ask when a stampede of people came running down the stairs. “Y/n!” One by one, they all started a group hug with Y/n in the middle. “Guys, I can’t breathe.” They all broke apart allowing Y/n to regain air, but was cut off when Molly came swooping in. “Oh, hello dear. I was beginning to worry that you couldn’t make it – are you hungry? You must be starving. I cooked your favorite.” Molly was quick to ramble on and on when Fred had pried the two apart. “Mum, I think Y/n needs oxygen. We’ll go ahead and start setting up the table.”

Molly slightly blushed and smiled at Y/n. “I’m glad that you’re here Y/n. Now come on people, dinner won’t serve itself.” The group was quick to help around the house, working like a well-oiled machine. Soon, everyone was sitting down at the table enjoying their home cooked meal. Y/n was sitting smack dab in the middle between Ginny and Hermione. Across from them were the boys.

Over the course of dinner, plenty of topics arose such as school, quidditch, muggles (only because Arthur can’t get enough), and more. The boys plus Ginny and Y/n couldn’t stop talking about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup. Hermione butted in about how glad she was that summer finally came. It was especially hard on the girl considering her tight schedule.

After dinner came the night. The house was quiet as the guests separated to their assigned rooms. It just so happens that Hermione and Y/n were assigned Charlie’s old room. If it weren’t for the dragon paraphernalia, Charlie’s room was actually quite neat and well organized. “Going to take a gander but I think Charlie really likes dragons.” Hermione snorted at Y/n’s obviously sarcastic comment. “Oh really? Could’ve mistaken me, I thought he was a quidditch fan.” Jokes aside, the two changed into their sleeping garments and went to bed.

Well Hermione went to bed while Y/n stared at the ceiling deep in thought. It was not until the moon was shining brightly through the window that Y/n realized how late it was. Considering the time, they tried to sleep but failed miserably. After giving up, Y/n laid on their side and faced towards Hermione. Seeing as the young wizard had already spent too much time alone with their thoughts, Y/n poked Hermione’s face until she was awake.

“Hermione. Psssst. Hermione” Y/n whispered as they poked her. “Hermione. Psst.” At the feeling of someone poking her, Hermione swatted their hand away. Seeing Hermione with an annoyed sleeping face was funny to Y/n but being alone sucked more. “Hermione, are you awake?” Suddenly, Hermione’s eyes opened; it was like a fierce dragon was staring into your soul. She looked mad at the fact someone woke her up from her slumber. “What Y/n?”

With an innocent smile, Y/n looked at Hermione and said, “Wanna tell secrets?” Hermione rolled her eyes and faced the opposite way of Y/n. “Go to sleep Y/n. We have to wake up early soon.” Y/n groaned at Hermione’s words. She was right, of course, but Y/n couldn’t go to sleep. Night was always the hardest.

“Come on Hermione.” Y/n received no response from the girl. Only a silent shoulder. Laying on her back and hands behind their head, Y/n looked at the ceiling. “Ya know, I know your secret…at least one of them.” Y/n glanced at Hermione and she still was facing away. “Or maybe two of them. Well, it’s the same secret, it just so happens that two Hermiones happen to share them.” Hermione quickly shot up and faced towards Y/n to see them smirking. “It’s not that hard to tell that a bright witch like you can’t be in two classes at once, but somehow you were.” Hermione grabbed her pillow and proceeded to hit Y/n with it. “Don’t you dare tell a soul Y/n Y/l/n. I won’t be afraid to hex you.”

Y/n grabbed the pillow and threw it back at the witch, making sure to aim at her face. “Well maybe next time, try not to be in two places at once. It sure threw me off when I had to drop off a note for the Professor only to have found you in a different class. And after I returned, you were still at the same spot I left you.”

“Unbelievable. I knew I should have volunteered to do that, but you just had to be faster than me.” Hermione rolled her eyes and sat up against the bed frame. Y/n followed suit and did the same thing. There was still an obvious smirk on their face. After a couple minutes, the silence broke. “Well, are you going to tell me your secret since you exposed mine?”

“Well Ms. Grainger lets see what secret you get to hear today.” Pondering for a moment, Y/n tried to think of information that no one knew, something of equivalently as important such as time traveling. “I got it! However, you have to promise me that you won’t tell a soul not even Crookshanks.” Y/n held out their hand with only their pinky in the air. Hermione looked them in the eye as she said, “I promise.” They locked pinkies as Y/n said, “I think I like girls.”

Hermione blinked for a couple seconds which only led devasting thoughts in Y/n’s mind. It didn’t take long, but she responded with, “Oh for Merlin’s sake. If you’re going to tell me a secret Y/n, at least make it to something that isn’t so painfully obvious.”

Hermione broke the gaze as Y/n stared in disbelief. “Don’t look so surprised. Just as you said, maybe next time try not to be caught staring at every single girl in Hogwarts.”

Gulping down their fear, Y/n said, “You don’t mind?” Hermione shook her head. “Nope. Not one single bit. You’re still the same, just love who you love except for racists and he who shall not be named. Well there’s a list. As long as they’re not genuinely bad people and you can see them joining SPEW, then I approve.”

Y/n looked at the girl beside her in amazement and wonder. They continued the conversation as the night grew, telling even more daring secrets as the previous. But one secret did remain with Y/n that night, it was their everlasting crush on Hermione Jean Granger.

The second to last thing a home needs is the spark to light the fireplace as well as the furniture. That way the home can feel as warm and as safe to those that harbor in it.

It was a winter wonderland at Hogwarts. Students were preparing to travel back home to their respective families. However, a group of students decided to spend the last weekend at Hogsmeade before leaving the next day. Right now, they had crowed the room at The Three Broomsticks with laughter, joy, and happy memories. The air was filled with a different type of warmth, one that felt safe and even like a second home. Everyone was talking so loudly within small groups, it was hard to even feel alone. Ginny and Y/n were standing near the fire talking when Fred had grabbed the attention of the room. “Everyone. Everyone. I propose a game. Let’s do a simple muggle game called truth or dare.” Everyone in the group oood as they knew where this was going to lead. They would start with a couple truths before someone breaks the ice with a good dare. Typically, the twins were the ones to propose the dare, but not a lot could compete. “Whoever cannot complete the truth or dare shall lose. Completion allows you to stay,” George had added.

The group sat in a tight makeshift circle that almost took up all the chairs and tables provided. “I’ll start. Harry, who was the last person you snogged?” All eyes were now on the chosen one. Everyone could see his nervousness, but everyone knew he would never want to be the first one out. “Draco.” Certain eyes went wide, but Y/n simply went unphased since she somewhat caught the two making out in between classes. “No questions. Neville, is your crush in this room?” Neville immediately turned red at the question and was the first one to back out. There were small boos mainly coming from the twins. “Since Neville backed out, lets go with the person to his right, Ron. Is your crush in this room?” Ron had the same reaction as Neville but had looked at the ceiling to refrain from giving away his crush. “Yes.” Everyone looked among each other trying to figure out who it could possibly be. “Don’t even try asking who it is. Ginny since you’re bloody enjoying this, did you and Y/n ever snog?” Y/n and Ginny both went wide eyed causing the group to lean a little bit closer to the two. What added more was at how everyone knew how close the two were. Not wanting to entirely answer the question, Ginny backed out the circle causing more booing from the crowd. “What a buzzkill. However, lets just ask the second-best person. Well Y/n, have you snogged my sister?”

Y/n looked at the crowded but had kept glancing towards Hermione. Although it was a simple question, Y/n hadn’t wanted to entirely answer it. You see, Ginny and Y/n did kiss before, but it was an accident. There was a bump, a stumble, then a fall, and then an accident kiss. It didn’t mean anything to the two of them, plus Y/n felt like her heart might’ve been for somewhere. So, Y/n had followed Ginny in the same manner and backed out the circle. “Oh bloody hell! You two have a knack to keep this stupid mystery alive.” They both rolled their eyes at Ron and watched the game continue. What Y/n failed to realize was how affected a certain witch was at their answer.

The game dwindled down until there was three left and unironically it was the golden trio that had made it this far. It was a little surprising for Y/n that Hermione had made it this far. Majority of the time, Hermione would be among the first to decline doing a truth or dare. “I’m sorry Hermione, but I must win. So, I dare you to kiss Ron.” It was something about the dare that made Y/n’s stomach turn. Their mood soured so quickly that they almost felt sick. Slightly tapping Ginny’s back, Y/n whispered in her ear, “Hey, I’m gonna head outside real quick. I don’t feel so good.” Ginny gave a concerned look. She was going to say something back, but Y/n was already out the door with their hand clutching their stomach.

Besides Ginny, Hermione was the only other person that noticed Y/n had left. In her line of sight, she saw past Ron and briefly seen them leave in distress. The deafening chants of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” didn’t register with her. The only thing running through Hermione’s mind was Y/n. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this dare guys.” Quickly getting out the circle, the chants stopped, and the game continued to declare the winner. Hermione excused herself and made her way outside. She made sure to grab hers and Y/n’s coat. “What an idiot. It’s freezing cold out there.”

Stepping out the tavern, Hermione saw various witches and wizards pass by. Some she knew and some she didn’t. Walking further out, Hermione grew frustrated after not quickly finding her friend. “Where the hell are you?” Walking around further, she saw an outline of a person. Clearly, they had no coat on with how much they were shivering. Hermione walked closer to the figure and realized it was Y/n. “For someone so bloody smart, you are such an idiot.” Hermione accidentally wrapped her own coat around Y/n. She didn’t realize she had instinctively put on her best friend’s coat. Y/n chuckled, but it was cut short due to the freezing weather. Hermione sat down beside them and focused on the view in front of them. There was a small silence between the two as they had people watched. Hermione almost forgot why she even went outside in the first place. She shook her head remembering her thought, “Are you okay? I saw you leave in a hurry.”

Y/n glanced at Hermione, giving her a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I think my stomach was just feeling off. I went outside to get better air.” Hermione looked in their eyes and was quick to call bullshit. “Better air? It’s absolutely freezing out here. Even Merlin themselves wouldn’t want to be outside this weather. So why don’t you tell me the real truth? And if you lie Y/n, I will not hesitate to read your mind.” Y/n gulped at the sound of her threat. They glanced back out into the view in front of them. Taking a deep breath, Y/n nervously replied with, “During your dare, I suddenly felt…sick…I don’t know why but my stomach felt so knotty and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. So, I left.” Y/n glanced back at Hermione and immediately noticed the look on her face. It was intense and serious. Suddenly, something in the air felt different. It was getting hotter and hotter regardless of the snow falling around them.

“Can I kiss you?” Hermione asked in such a small whisper. A lump appeared in Y/n’s throat. They didn’t know what to quite say. They never really thought about what their feelings meant towards Hermione, but then again, everyone practically knew that Y/n and Hermione were in love with each other. Y/n just happened to be the biggest dumbass when it comes to realizing their feelings for others. But here Y/n was. They weren’t answering the question, but felt themselves leaning in. The two closed their eyes and was slowly leaning in. Hermione felt her heart beating so fast that she was certain it would explode, but she didn’t care. She knew that for so long, she wanted this.

However…the moment never arrived. It was cut off from a distant yell, “Y/n!” The two quickly separated and looked at different directions. Suddenly Hermione took it a step further and slightly moved away from Y/n. “There you are – I’ve been looking every where for you!” Ginny jogged up to the duo, noting the awkward tension that emerged. “We have to go back to the castle, I’ll explain on the way.” The red head dragged away her best friend while giving a small nod towards Hermione.

When they were far enough and half way towards the castle, Ginny explained the dire situation. “It’s your parents Y/n, you have to go home. An owl was sent towards the tavern. Here, you’re going to want to read this.” Ginny handed Y/n the letter. After reading it, Y/n’s stomach dropped. “I have to get home.” Ginny sent them a look. “Clearly dumbass. Come on, let’s get your stuff.” It was eerie quiet between the two since the situation had escalated. Y/n’s parents were in trouble and needed Y/n’s help.

Back at Hogsmeade, Hermione didn’t quite know what to feel. She was so close to kissing her crush, but Ginny just had to ruin the moment. The same person she was somewhat certain had Y/n’s heart. Asking the younger lad to kiss her took all the courage Hermione had, and here she was slightly heartbroken that she was gone. So deep in thought, Hermione didn’t notice Ron sit next to her until he said something. “Hey.”

“I need you to explain to Hermione that I’m sorry.” Ginny sighed. She slightly felt guilty for ruining the moment, but time was precious and something Y/n very much needed now. “I know you saw what was going to happen, but I don’t even know what I was doing.” Closing their trunk, Y/n stood up and looked at Ginny. “I do know that I also need to realize what I feel for Hermione. For a lot of my life, I thought I just had a deep love for her. I guess now it might be even deeper.” Ginny walked up and gave Y/n a bone chilling hug.

“I’ll try my best, but she’s definitely going to want to hear it from you.” They separated. Y/n saw the tears forming in Ginny’s eyes. “I’m going to bloody miss you. Please be safe in America and you better send me an owl at least once every two weeks.” Y/n gave Ginny and small salute and crossed their heart.

“I will Ginny. Besides, I need you to deliver all the letters I write for Hermione. I really gotta figure this out.” With one last hug and a small punch to Y/n’s shoulder, the young student left Hogwarts on to the next ride to America. The letter was still clutched in her hand and in it was detailed the long passage of how to save Y/n’s parents from the very people chasing after them. Y/n didn’t quite know how long it was going to take to save their parents, but they could only hope Hermione could understand. “Please wait for me.” Y/n whispered to Hermione in particular, but the younger witch didn’t hear those words. Instead, Hermione heard comforting words from a different red head.

The last thing a home needs is the very people that should live in it. It needs family, friends, and most certainly you and me.

Y/n stood, pacing around the bathroom. They knew time was running out, it was now or never. “Why? Why? Why? Why?” Y/n stood still and pinched the bridge of their nose. Eyes closed, Y/n pondered more and more about all of the things they didn’t do. How could they have let this go on for this long? Why did they let it go on for this long? Deep in thought, Y/n didn’t notice a certain ginger walk into the bathroom. “Y/n, what in the bloody hell are you doing there?  Hermione has been calling you and quite worried sick. If it wasn’t her big day, I would have already knocked you out you big prat.”

Y/n glanced at the second most important person of her life. With a heavy sigh, Y/n slid down the wall. Their knees were propped, hands in their face, and heart in their throat. “I don’t know what to do anymore Ginny.” Ginny pursed her lips and looked back out the door, making sure the coast was clear, before locking the door. She laid her small bouquet of flowers on the sink and sat down near Y/n while trying not to mess up her dress.

“Although I love my idiot brother with all my heart…I somehow love you more.” They sat there together knowing where this was going. “I can’t do it Ginny. I really can’t sit there without feeling like my world is crashing apart right in front of my eyes…The worst thing about it is, I can only blame myself for letting it go this long.”

Ginny rested her head on her best friend’s shoulder. She didn’t quite know what to say anymore. Offering her presence and her ear was the only thing left. “I-I-I spent so long in other countries to try and find my parents while trying to find myself. To try and figure out what I feel for her and by the time I have, she’s already engaged to another…And it’s my stupid fucking fault for ever thinking Hermione would wait. I mean why would she? If some other bloke can already provide her happiness, why should she wait for me? For…us?” Y/n hadn’t realized they were crying until their hands suddenly felt wet. “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Y/n said as they wiped their tears. “What is?”

“Knowing I am my own cause for my sadness. I mean who I am to blame Hermione. The girl was only doing what Aristotle says. Because as he said, we all want to be selfishly happy.” Sighing in defeat, Y/n got up and dusted off their attire. Lending their hand out, Ginny got up and did the same manner. “How much time do I got?”

Ginny looked at the clock in the bathroom. “You have five minutes before she needs to be walking down the isle.” With a small smile, Y/n kissed Ginny forehead and said a small goodbye. The two were only going to part ways for merely a bit. After all, Ginny is Y/n’s second-best friend. But here was Y/n, jogging to the very person that was going to forever have their heart.

Standing outside the bride’s room, Y/n silently prayed and opened the door. There she was in all her glory, the bride to be, the love of her life, the Hermione Granger. However, the brunette herself wasn’t feeling so great. With all the stress of wanting the wedding to be perfect, it wasn’t helping that her very best friend was mysteriously disappearing all the time without a single word. She looked up and sighed once she saw who it was. Picking up her dress, Hermione strutted to Y/n as they closed the door behind them. “Do you have any clue how worried sick I have been?”

“I-” With a single motion of Hermione’s hand, Y/n remained silent. “And anytime I happen to need my best friend to calm me down, they’re nowhere in sight. What is wrong with you? This is my special day Y/n and you haven’t been as great of a friend as you should be. So please, enlighten me where have you been running off to that’s sooo important that you need to leave me?” It was those piercing eyes that made Y/n’s heart melt over and over again. It’s those very same eyes that could practically melt the iceberg that hit the titanic. And it’s those eyes that makes Y/n’s world spin again.

“I…I can’t be your friend Hermione.” Y/n’s voice was so soft and so delicate, Hermione almost questioned if her ears were playing tricks. “What are you bloody saying? You’re not making any sense.” And all the remaining courage Y/n could muster up, they held her hands, looked her in the eyes and said, “When I was gone, I learned of this great philosopher named Kant-” “What does this have to-” Hermione saw the silently begging eyes in front of her and shut her mouth. This was serious and she wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for it.

“He always focused on good principles and always asked about the before of the action. Generally, he believed others should necessarily treat people how they want to be treated. So, a short example is that one should never lie under any circumstances. It does not matter the outcome, but it is simply something you must do. And although I’ve never really believed in absolute, I’ve been asking myself if I should tell the truth. And if people actually deserve to know the truth. So while I thought about it and asked, well what if they deserve the truth, should I still tell them regardless of the outcome? Although I thought I knew a lot of the world, it turns out I only know two things. One is that you deserve to know the absolute truth Hermione and the second is…you are the lie I repeat at night. Because every night I tell I love you, the truth is…I am so in love with you Hermione.”

The world went silent for Hermione. Not even a single pin drop could break the silence for her. Here she was still holding her best friend’s hands as they had just admitted that they were in love with her. “And I’m so sorry Hermione that today of all days was when I told you. I know I had my chances in the letters I sent but I must be honest now because you still deserve the absolute truth. And I’m running out of words to say, because it would be too selfish of me to convince you to run away. So I offer my congratulations Hermione, but I must still run. For then maybe in the blur of life, I can see a small fragment where there could have been you and I.” Y/n kissed Hermione’s forehead as tears may their way down. Letting go of Hermione, Y/n silently walked out the room without turning back because if they had, they would have broken down.

So, while Y/n told Hermione the truth directly. Hermione stood still at the alter with someone who she is most positively certain she loves pondering the very question, “Do I run after the truth?”

[liquid-luck-00]

Last Name: Wayne

Bio!Dad Bruce

Day 9: Last Name: Wayne

@biodad-bruce-month

Ao3 ~~~ First ~~~ Previous ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Why do I have time to school early mainly keep an eye out for little Miss Goody Goody. She knew that the moment that a little Dupain-Cheng showed up she would pull out the waterworks and everyone would be fighting over her to comfort her, and so very one would ignore the little Maribrat. What she didn’t expect was that Marinette showed up riding a motorcycle.

Hell she didn’t even know the girl could ride. That’s when most of her other classmates noticed her too. She was wearing a light brown leather jacket with what looked like neon pink piping. Comfortable blue jeans and a pair of dark gray combat boots. Her hair was just in a simple ponytail but that was definitely Marinette. Which means the other day that was probably her as well.

—-

Adrien, Nino, and Kim were the first to break out of the group and headed towards her.

“Hi Mari” Nino simply spoke rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mars are you OK?” Kim asked almost too soft explosive speech.

While Adrien simply just stood there. She gave them a smile like usual as she pulled her backpack over her shoulder. “Hey guys! Nice seeing you guys again.” She said, pulling out her phone, and grabbing her helmet. With that she simply walked off in towards class.

After that she didn’t even acknowledge any of rest of the class. Well how could she could ever since she took a step towards the school she was being stared at so she distracted herself by looking at her phone. However that didn’t stop them from trying to get her ‘attention‘.

Even though she was completely distracted, every attempt to push shown or even trip her failed, she seem to have gained uncanny sense of balance three weeks no one had seen her, Millie having to do with the constant sparring and Random prank attacks her brothers like to play.

At some point they seem to have just given up and followed her back to their homeroom where again she didn’t pay them any attention. She just walked up the steps towards her seat in the back and sat down.

“Girl why are you ignoring us we just wanted to say hi” Alya spoke out. Maria didn’t respond. However this seemed to throw the entire class into a fit of rage. “Mari really what’s wrong with you“

“Oh you only want to say hi, well where was that concerned when none of you showed up to my parents funeral, when none of you try to reach out to me during that time.” She said in a calm voice above a whisper. “Because you know what, oh yeah I don’t know about you but having the three people in my life who were my only family die unexpectedly tends to leave a person in the mourning. I was lucky that I had an actual support group of people who support me and love me but none of which are currently in this room right now.” Mari finished in the same calm voice leaving the entire class silent as if only just remembering yeah Marinette’s entire family died. There was no miracle cure to bring them back.

“No one really” Alya began to get angry, “are you kidding us everyone knows that Lila went last week to see if you were OK but you kicked her out“ at this Lila began to cry as if knowing that was her cue.

“Really I don’t remember anyone come to the states to try and talk to me?“

“What do you mean the states“ Lila asked tentatively.

“I’ve been in the United States for the past 2 1/2 weeks I haven’t been in France.”

In that moment Miss Bustier decide to enter the classroom and by her side Damian silencing all further conversation.

“Alright class as you can see we have a new student, would you like to introduce yourself?” Miss Bustier asked.

“Hello my name is Damian and I am from Gotham that is all.” He spoke in a bored tone. “Oh Qamri you forgot your tablet.” He whispered pulling the said item from his bag handing it to her and sitting down next to her. The entire class had been watching him and in turn this interaction.

“Thank you Mon Sol” she whispered in return.

“Okay” Miss Bustier clapped her hands to get the classes attention. “It is time to take roll” she went though roll but didn’t call me between Julia and Mylene, so of course Alya spoke up.

“Miss you missed Marinette, and she is on time”

“That is not the order of the roll now, Max Kante” she continued while the class broke out into hushed whispers, “Lila Rossi”

“Present” she called now the entire class was watching them as both still haven’t been called.

“Damian Wayne”

“Present” the class went silent watching her brother but nothing could prepare them for what would happen next.

“Marinette Wayne”

“Present” chaos erupted.

“You cant be a Wayne, your lying” suddenly everyone began to cowed their desk and was shouting at the two.

Just as suddenly the class went quiet receiving matching glare from both her and Damian.

“Honestly a simple search would prove my identity” Damian began “and as for my half sister it really is no concern of yours as to why she never told any of you” he growled.

“Holy shit” Alex yelled from her phone “He is the Damian Wayne”

“Wait is this why you don’t like Lila cause she’s dating your brother”

“If you are implying that I am in a relationship with that sausage haired harlot you are sorely mistaken”

“When did this lie come up because I don’t remember it before”

“What she is not lying!” Alya cried out.

“Honestly I don’t know how you deal with theses sheep Qamri”

“I don’t know how I’ve survived either.”

“Really we have wasted half of this class on this drivel, Madame may we begin the class or are we going to waste the rest of the time as well?” Damian spoke up hoping to end all of this.

Luckily Miss Bustier started the class attempting to reign everyone in. Their next classes were much more pleasant, mainly due to the teachers actually being competent. For lunch they happened to escape the school without being noticed and only returned right as the lunch bell rang signaling the end. By the time she and Damian went back to class the air was tense and many had changed seats. Lila still sat with Alya and with them on the left side of the class sat Adrien, Sabrina, Rose, Mylene, Ivan and Max. But on the other side sat Juleka, Chloe, Alix, Nathaniel, Kim, and Nino we’re now sitting on the right side of the class in front of her and Damian. Lila’s house of cards was beginning to crumble but that was nothing compared to what was to come.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@mochinek0 @justafanwarrior @abrx2002 @ranger-gothamite @fantasiame @moonystars14 @mochegato @bigbeautifulandfullofsugar @maribat-is-lifeblood @iglowinggemma28 @miraculous-ninja @talutah0 @vixen-uchiha @danielslilangel @witchsblackfox @pawsitivelymiraculous @lizziejay @marinettepotterandplagg @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @dast218 @sassakitty @miyla-lokidottir @lilkymilky @tazanna-blythe @tired-butterfly @lozzybowe @smolplantmum @queencommonsense @loopingtangent @chez-pezeater @paintedhope7 @technicallyburninggarden @meme991001 @wannajointhecrabcult @melicmusicmagic @trippingovermyfeet @greatcatblaze @fidget-eep @miraculouslydumb @iamablinkmarvelarmy @laurcad123 @hauntedwintersweets @fc-studios

[kamyru]

“Just like her mother...“ (Kaga x MC)

Soooo... I know that MC isn’t dumb, taking into consideration her character development and that she finished as the best PSA student. Though, sometimes I think what will be Kaga’s reaction if he finds out that she’s very academically intelligent. She reads a lot of books, knows many languages, finished a very good university, things like this. But take into consideration that being academically intelligent doesn’t require to be intelligent in day to day life, so she still can be pretty naive, just like she is portrayed.

(I swear I’ll do the requests I still have in my inbox. And if anyone is interested, my requests are always open so you can send me asks, if you’re ready to wait a little.)

Word counting: 1665

After a very long day at work, Kaga finally made it home. It was way past midnight and he was sure that everyone was already asleep. Though, when he opened the door, he saw light coming from the living room. He let out a sigh and prepared a long speech about why everyone has to be asleep if he comes home so late. However, when he stepped inside the room before his eyes appeared an astonishing view.

His wife was peacefully sleeping on the armchair, with their daughter fast asleep on her. An open book was set beside them. Kaga looked at them and a big smile forming on his face. It was obvious that his daughter looked just like him. Everyone who ever saw her thought that it’s their obligation to say this. Though, only he knew how alike was she with her mother.

The day she was born, Ayumu said: “I bet she’ll be as smart as you.” For him, it was obvious that being Kaga’s child is impossible not to be intelligent.

“She is way smarter than I was,” he said for himself, while he took her in his arms, to carry her to her bed. “Just like her mother.”

When he gave her a goodnight kiss and put her favorite toy near her, a voice broke the silence.

“How was your day? I’ll make your tea and fill the bath. You can relax,” said MC, while rubbing her sleepy eyes.

“Go to bed. I don’t want to sleep on the floor, only because you fell asleep right here.”

Kaga gave MC a quick peck on the lips and entered the bathroom. It is a blessing to come home after an endless-like day, see your beautiful and lovely wife holding your daughter and knowing that here you’ll always find love and peace.

While relaxing every tense muscle in the bathtub, he thought about the case he had to solve these days. The culprit was just making fun of them, leaving them everywhere shreds of evidence. Though, it took them too long to understand it. He could bet that if MC had been on that case, she would have helped a lot. Also, she would have been the perfect person to interrogate the culprit.

He understood that she is very intelligent when he saw how hard-working she was, how many questions she put, how she gave every drop of her energy in learning the lessons. Yet, he saw the extent of this only after they were dating for a while.

The moment Kaga entered her room for the first time, he was taken aback by the quantity of the book in there. He didn’t know at what to look, so MC lost him for quite a long time, letting him examine every book on the shelves. Besides Japanese authors like Mori Ogai, Haruki Murakami, Kobo Abe, Yasunari Kawabata, were Kant, Nietzsche, Hesse, Mann and Goethe in German, Dickens, London, Vonnegut, Joyce and Steinbeck in English and many other writers in different languages. He had no idea that such a small room could be filled with so many books. The one that caught his attention was a small and old one, which title he couldn’t read, but he knew it was in French. 

MC saw him taking the book in his hand and examining it. A warm smile appeared on her face.

“It’s my favorite book. I learned French because of it. Here are two novels written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.”

“What they are about? I only know his ‘Little Prince’ because mom read it to me when I was little.”

“The first one - ‘Night Flight’ is about sacrifice, from different points of view. The second one - ‘Flight to Arras’ is about Humans and Humanity. I read them separately when I was a teenager and liked them so much that decided to learn French to read them in original. And, as you can see, I did it and bought them when I was studying in France.”

She looked at them like one looks at one’s old friends. Kaga opened it and although he couldn’t understand a word from there, he saw a lot of pencil marks on each page. He made a mental note to find these novels in any language known by him and read them. They were something important for his girlfriend, so he simply had to know about what they are.

“You said that you studied in France?” he suddenly asked.

���I studied there for a year while I did my bachelor’s and then chose to do my master’s there.”

Kaga lifted his eyes and looked attentively at her. “What university have you finished here?”

“Kyoto University. Why?”

She was responding so genuine and simply, that for a moment he thought that she was just a very good actress. It was very rare to see people who finished good universities that aren’t emanating pride and don’t expect to see the other person taken completely aback by their smartness. But she was so simple about this, that he was more than confused. He wanted to give her more questions, to know how many languages she knew, what specialty she had, how she managed to have a master’s degree, a work experience in police and still be so young.

The next time he was surprised by her knowledge was when she took the responsibility to take care of a teenager who was waiting to find out news about his parents. The boy didn’t want to move an inch before detectives were going to say something about his lost parents. He didn’t even care about the department he was disturbing.

MC sat near him and gave him warm tea and sandwiches. At first, she didn’t say a thing, just waited till he finished eating. When he looked at her questioningly, she simply told him: “It’s a theory that trying to focus your thoughts on something that needs a lot of thinking helps you to stop crying.”

The boy wanted to say that he wasn’t crying but understood that his face was too puffy to make her believe him. He simply continued watching her.

“Are you coming directly from school?” she asked, looking at his bag and uniform.

He nodded. A soft smile appeared on her face.

“Let’s finish your homework, then.”

This time, the boy looked at her like she was the Mad Hatter in person.

“I don’t think I can concentrate on something like this right now.”

“I will help. What form are you?”

In no time, she convinced him to take into consideration her offer. Every person in the office gave them a skeptical stare. The thing was that MC didn’t only make him unbend a little, but explained every exercise he had questions on. Math, science, English or Japanese? She made it look so easy, that all the workers in the office refreshed and completed their knowledge from high school while accidentally listening to her.

When a dealer was caught and no one could understand what language he was speaking, Kaga instantly thought about MC. He still didn’t know how many languages she knew, but he hoped that, with a little bit of luck, she could be of some help.

She entered the interrogation room. She asked him some fast questions in Japanese. When the dealer started to speak in the unknown language, a smirk appeared on MC’s face. She said an only phrase that made him completely change his expression. The verdict was simple: “He knows Japanese. He is only bluffing.”

“How you found this out? What did you say to him?” asked the detectives.

“That he is making a pure job faking a Vietnamese accent.”

Kaga knew that MC was constantly learning something. That she was yearly reading more books than most people read in their entire life. That she was solving problems at math, physics and chemistry only for fun. He knew that her brain was keeping inside more information than anyone can imagine.

Still, every time someone finds out that his daughter can read at three years, already understands French and Mandarin besides Japanese and he can’t even remember at what age she learned how to count, they are praising him for giving her good genes. Because everyone knew that he graduated from a prestigious university, that he had fantastically good grades, that his logic is impeccable. But only a few knew what MC was hiding inside her head. He was the lucky one to see that every day. To be each time amazed by her thinking.

So, every time someone was giving him too much credit for his daughter’s education, he had to return them to reality and tell the truth. To give his wife the praising she deserves.

Kaga finally finished his bath. While trying to dry his hair with the towel, he entered the bedroom to look at his lovely wife, hoping deep inside that she was still awake. He felt the urge to hug her tightly and to sink in her cozy smell.

“I see that you’re already asleep, you mo... smart woman.”

MC made a wonderful job suppressing a smile. She knew that it was rare to hear Kaga making a compliment. Though, she knew that every time he thought that she isn’t listening, he couldn’t stop himself from verbally appreciating her.

When he finally got in bed, she rolled near him, putting her hand on his broad chest and her head on his shoulder.

“Good night, Hyogo” she whispered lovingly.

Kaga blushed. Kissing her hair, he soon fell asleep. He made a mental note to ask her something the next morning. Though, when he woke up he didn’t remember if he wanted to find out if she heard him saying that she is smart, if he wanted to know her thoughts about the case he just finished or something else. Instead, he chose to made her remember how much he loves her and how important she is to him.

[ddaenggtan]

hearts on fire | jhs

Hoseok has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, and he’s beyond excited to see you married and glowing.

He just really wishes that he was the groom.

pairing | jhs x reader, knj x reader

word count | 6.5k | cross posted to ao3

genre | angst, light fluff

warnings | angst, mentions of blood, mentions of vomit, lots of choking, lots of angst, this is open ended so like.......potential (?) mcd??, like this is very very very open ended yall there is no happy ending and there is zero satisfaction at the end, like it’s truly just here to hurt you

a/n | part of Outro: Tear, The Angst Now Told, and you should really read all of those fics bc they hurt so good but they’re sO WORTH IT, and i’m shouting out to @personawife​ not only for betaing this, but also for putting the Outro Tear Angst Collab together, because it’s been so fun!!!!! and yet so painful!!!! in so many good ways!!!!!!! this was honestly really fun to write, mostly because it’s rare that i write angst - unhappy ending angst, at that - so it was nice to stretch my creative muscles. 

also go stream ego bc its wonderful and i love it

It starts, as most things do, with a kiss. 

It was innocent enough - just a soft peck on his cheek and a sunflower in his hand while he cried about another student kicking him in the shin. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that did it for him. Maybe it was the way the sunlight lit up the barrettes in your hair and made them glint like stars. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t hesitated to smooch him on the cheek and give him the flower you’d picked out of a vase just to cheer him up. Maybe it was the fact that it had worked when nothing else had. Maybe it was none of that, instead something bigger altogether and more complicated than he could ever understand. 

Or maybe it was all of it. A simple act that led to a simple reaction - him taking your hand and making you smile with some face he made - that led to this moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches you walk down the aisle in the off-white dress with the golden sash that perfectly matches the sunflowers in your hands, he doesn’t care. Because it all led to this moment. 

[then]

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” You call over your shoulder. Hoseok laughs, wrapping his hand around your wrist to slow you down from your sprint. 

“We are not going to be late,” He tells you firmly. Your lips form a pout that he wishes he could kiss away, but he resists the urge. Instead, he grins and pulls you into a warm hug. “It’s not like they’re going to start our graduation without us, Starshine. It would be a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“Ooh, conspicuous, big word! All that studying paid off, I see.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes; he doesn’t mention that he’s been studying his ass off ever since you started crushing on one of the bookworms in the school. He refuses to acknowledge to himself that he did it in the futile hope that it would make you notice him. 

“Hey, it was worth it! Got me into that fancy university, didn’t it?” He wags his brows and lets go of you, and he does his best not to let his arms linger around your waist for longer than they need to be there. 

“Yeah, that fancy university that’s a million miles away from here,” You complain. His smile falters a little, and he covers it with a dramatic gasp. 

“What’s this? Is my little starshine going to miss me?” He doesn’t tell you about the packet laying on his desk at home, about the scholarships he’s scoured the internet to find, about the decision he has yet to make, despite the looming deadline. He doesn’t mention the sunflower pressed between the pages of a book that sits beside his bed, so he can stare at it each night as he wonders whether it’s stupid to take the harder road just for love.

“You know I will, Hobi,” You tell him. You curl into his side, lacing your fingers with his. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Who’s going to make me study when I don’t want to? Or convince me that getting pancakes at two in the morning is a proper breakfast?”

Hoseok shakes his head. He knows exactly what will happen when you head off to school in a few months. You’ll meet so many new people, make boatloads of friends, create new memories and new jokes and new references, and he’ll be standing off to the side, waiting to hear about all of it. 

He can’t wait to watch you flourish.

“Who’s going to help you stop stressing out about your choreography, or your routines?” You ask. Your voice dips into a whisper, and it’s the most scared he’s ever heard you. “Who’s going to be there when I need someone?” 

He knows what you mean; he knows all about the anxiety that wracks your body every so often, the way your brain spirals and panics and can’t seem to bring itself down out of red alert. He remembers - in vivid detail - all the nights he’s climbed through your window to help you breathe in that rhythm your school counselor taught you, or just talked at you through the phone about some new song or dancer he found until he eventually heard your soft laugh.

He remembers the nights you called and called and called and eventually just sought him out, not even bothering to knock as you barged into his room because his parents adore you and don’t care to let you in whenever. You’re like a second daughter to them, something his sister gives him no end of grief about. He’ll always remember the way your hands felt against his skin as you tugged him out of his room and into the kitchen to make some kind of monstrosity, just throwing anything and everything into a blender or skillet, only to wind up going out to the corner store to get noodles anyway. 

“I’ll be here,” He tells you. His voice is as soft and firm as his fingers as he brings your chin up to face him. He wants you to look at him, wants you to maybe see after all these years just how easy it would be for him to move the earth if you asked him to. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Your eyes search for something in his, and he wonders if you’ll finally realize. If he’s finally told you about every single pang of love that he’s ever felt without even needing words. 

You smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and playfully shove at his shoulder. “Not when you’re off at your fancy university a million miles away from mine.”

He covers the heartbreak with a deep sigh and slings his arm around your shoulders as you head into the building where your graduation is being held. He wonders what you’ll think of the sunflowers sitting on your chair, waiting for you to find them. 

Something tickles his throat, a hint of a cough not ready to be cleared, and he swallows it back. 

“About that…”

[then]

Asthma is what he tells you, months and months later while you both sit in your dorm room, curled under blankets. 

You’re preparing for your philosophy paper, pages and sheets and everything else strewn about your bed while he sits at your desk. The lamp is focused and bright as it shines on the metal and stone in his hands, glinting as he twists the wire this way and that. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying for your dance eval?” You ask him. He shoots you that half-smile, a quick glance so that he can finish wrapping the quartz in his palm. He hasn’t told you that he switched majors, that he’s now ‘undecided’ simply because he can’t keep up with the others anymore.

“Aren’t you supposed to telling me who made it their mission to disprove Kant’s entire career?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” You pout. He smiles, satisfied, at the stone in his hand; it’s wrapped in wire shaped to look like a tree. He never thought he’d be the jewelry-making kind, but thanks to a randomly-selected elective, he’s discovered he’s got a knack for it. 

Besides, he enjoys seeing the collection on your windowsill grow with each new thing he can make you. 

He extends the quartz to you -  a polished golden one that complements the tarnished brass he’d used to wrap it, the same colors as the flowers you love so much - and the way you light up as you take it makes his heart clench painfully. 

Something tickles his throat, too familiar now, and he does what he can to swallow it down, but this one is stubborn. It forces its way up his windpipe, giving him no choice but to try to cough it up. 

You watch, worried, as he rushes to the sink in your room, bending as far over it as possible so that you won’t see as much. 

It’s small, when it falls. Small and unassuming and spit-slick, he can almost believe it just fell out of the vase of them nearby, and he hopes that’s what you’ll believe as well. 

“Hobi?” 

He hates how small your voice is, how worried you sound as you listen to the ragged pants of his breathing. So he wipes his mouth, checks in the mirror to make sure there’s no blood, and turns back to you with a wry smile. 

“I’m fine,” He says softly. His voice is still hoarse, and you don’t look convinced, but he continues before you can argue. “Just asthma.”

“Asthma? You don’t have asthma, Hoseok-”

“I do,” He says quickly. “Developed recently. Strained myself too hard, weakened my lungs, or something. I don’t remember what the doctor said exactly.”

“But...your dance, how can you-” You cut yourself off with a sharp breath, and he can’t bear to see the heartbreak in your eyes as the realization hits, so he stares down at the scuff in his sneakers instead. “That’s why you aren’t practicing right now. You had to drop out of the dance program?”

You sound like you’re on the verge of tears, so he plasters a smile on his face that’s more convincing than anything else he’s ever done. 

“It’s fine, Starshine. Not all dreams come true. Besides, there’s other things I can do.” 

“But your scholarship, Hobi, I-”

“Already figured out,” He says quickly. It isn’t, not nearly, because he can’t just call his parents to say ‘hey I lost my scholarship because I’m hopelessly in love but don’t have the guts to say anything about it’ and he hasn’t had time to go visit them, either. The corners of your mouth are turned down, and your lips are pressed together, and it’s obvious you’re upset, and it hurts more than the roots tangling in his lungs. 

He crosses the room and slides some of your papers to the side so that he can sit across from you. You’re still holding the quartz in your palm, fingers wrapped gently around it like you’re afraid it’ll break if you squeeze too tight, so he wraps his own hands around that one of yours. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You ask him. Your voice is small and hurt, and he hates that he made it that way, but he knows it’s better than what would come if he told you the truth. 

“Because I didn’t want you to worry,” He replies quietly. “You’ve got exams and studying and papers to worry about. I don’t need to add to that. Besides, you’d just try to help somehow, and you do that enough as it is.”

“How could I possibly be helping you with this, Hoseok?” The look you give him is familiar and humorless and fond and it makes his throat tickle so he looks away. Stares down at the feather-soft blanket in your lap instead. 

“Just by being here,” He tells you. “Distracting me from it. It’s not important, that’s all. I can do other things.”

“Like what? Dancing has always been your dream, and now-”

“Like,” Hoseok interrupts, sliding the quartz from your hand and placing it with the other things he’s made you on the windowsill, “Making things, like this. For you. For everyone.”

You’re quiet for a minute. Your eyes linger on the collection of stones he’s decorated for you, that he’s worked on so carefully to make them as beautiful as you deserve, and he wonders if you can tell. 

If you can see it in every careful twist of wire, in the way his hands are always so gentle against your own, in the way he can’t bear to look at you for longer than a few moments but can’t bear to be away from you in the same way. 

“Well,” You eventually say, blinking back what might be tears. “I suppose we’ll just have to find you a new dream, then, won’t we?”

Your smile is weak and watery and doesn’t reach your eyes, but it’s still a smile. So he returns it, and locks his pinky with yours, and vows to himself to make sure you never cry for him again. 

[then]

"What is that?"

Hoseok looks up from the book he's got propped against the table. He hasn't been paying much attention to the conversation, too engrossed in the metalworking book his glassblowing professor gave him while you studied for an upcoming test, so your words surprise him.

"What's what?" He asks, looking around the cafeteria as if he can magically spot whatever it is you're talking about.

" That ," you repeat, stabbing towards him with your pencil. It's reflex that brings his hand up to his chest, and it's realization that has him clutching the pendant tightly, praying you hadn't really seen it.

"Nothing," he says quickly, tucking it back under his shirt where it's supposed to be. "Just a practice thing."

"Why won't you show me?" You pout. "You always show me your practice work."

"Yeah, because you always take it," He quips back with a laugh. You don't even try to argue, because you both know it's true. The collection on your windowsill has grown immeasurably over the last two years, and it makes Hoseok's heart stutter every time he lets himself consider why you keep all of them. Especially when some are so terrible.

"Seriously, Hobi, can I see?"

He starts to say no, because if there's one piece he's ever made that could tell you about his feelings, it's this. He should say no, should insist this once that you can't see it, but before he can, his hands are pulling the chain over his head and setting the entire thing gently in your palm.

He watches your mouth fall open and your eyes grow wide and he wonders.

He wonders what you see among the curl of metal; if the fact that he would do anything for you is obvious in the way it twists and turns on itself, looping around and around. He wonders if you can see, hidden between letters, how just being near you gets him through every day and makes it all worth it. He wonders if you'll be able to tell, between the pressed yellow petals, just how his chest aches; if you've put the pieces together, after so long, now that you're holding his heart so openly in your palm.

"'Remedy,'" You read, and Hoseok's heart jumps into his throat, even when he knows you don't know about it. "And some tulip petals? It's so gorgeous, Hobi, but what does it mean?"

"They're sunflowers," He corrects, almost scandalized that you could confuse the two. The petals are shortened, of course, cut so that they'll fit into the pendant without obstructing the text in the back, but still. "And it doesn't mean anything. Just something I wrote once in high school."

Your eyes light up. "You mean that poem you never let me read?"

"It was a song, actually," He mutters, but your attention is back on the necklace, looking for any hints about the secrets he keeps. Something soft tickles the back of his throat when you glance up at him and smile, the light glinting just right along the stones and casting golden beams along your features.

You look more beautiful than he's ever seen, and his chest aches with more than just the flowers taking root there.

"This is really gorgeous, Hobi," You tell him as you watch the way the light reflects through the amber beads along the edge.

"Yeah," He whispers as he watches you, drinking in the way your eyes widen in awe and the soft smile on your lips. "It is, isn't it?"

He wishes that moment could last forever, that he could tuck it away into a pocket and pull it out whenever he needs it, but he can feel the flower starting to work its way up his throat and he doesn't know how to hide that from you.

The coughs start right as someone calls out your name and his, and he tucks his chin into his elbow in an effort to hide it. He doesn't bother to look yet, just waves a hand as someone sits beside you, and by the time he's got the handful of petals tucked safely away in his pocket, you're deep in conversation with Namjoon about one of the classes the two of you are taking.

[now]

Hoseok decides, looking at you now, that you are happier than ever. 

You've said your vows and you've cried several happy tears and you've kissed more times than he can count, but you're still radiant. It's the glow of contentment, the promise of more to come, all coalescing to shine like stars in your eyes. 

"May I, Starshine?" He asks, extending a hand and pulling you away from your current dance partner. Yoongi doesn't look too upset about it, just smiles knowingly at you both as your hand folds into Hoseok's. 

You move with him as if it's second nature, and Hoseok supposes that it is , at this point. As many times as he held you this way while teaching you the steps, as often as he led you through them before today, you should be able to move out of sheer muscle memory. 

"Have I told you yet that you're sparkling, Starshine?" He asks, smiling along with you when you laugh. 

"I think that you're confusing me and the ring again, Hobi." 

On cue, he looks down at it. He spent so long on it, years of dreaming of what it may look like and months of trial and error and practice runs before he got it right. It was worth it, though; the ring does sparkle, takes the glow of your skin and the joy in your smile and amplifies it. 

Crafted to look like a sunflower itself, the ring is easily the most expensive thing he's ever made. Each petal sparkles with the same yellow quartz of that stone he gave you so long ago, and set into the middle is one large chocolate diamond that he spent entirely too much money on because it was already cut exactly the way he needed it. He'll never forget the way you cried when you saw it the first time. 

Hoseok's eyes meet yours, and he frowns at the tears he sees there. 

"Hey, none of that, Starshine. It's a happy day, remember?" He stops moving in the middle of the dance floor, hands moving to wipe your tears before they can fall. 

"I just...I'm so happy Hobi." He grins at your words, resisting the urge to poke fun, because of course you're happy. You just got married. 

You look up at him again, eyes still watery and he pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I love you so much, Hobi," you mutter against his chest. His heart flutters in his chest as he resists the urge to press his lips to yours right where you stand. 

"Yeah," He whispers. "Yeah, I love you too, Starshine." 

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he releases you, relinquishing his grasp on you so you can dance with Namjoon. The pendant around your neck sits beautifully, shadowed on either side by the white of the cloth, and he thinks for just a moment, that maybe he made that pendant for you, after all. 

He's worn it for years, of course, but the smile on your face when he slid it around your neck was worth it. It was worth being asked if you could have it, not entirely joking, and it was worth every single time you would fiddle with it during movie marathons, and it was worth every single night he held it in his clutched palm as he sat over the sink and coughed up the yellow blooms that you've strung up all over the reception hall. 

very day that you bugged him about it, how you asked every day without fail if you could have it. He knew you were kidding - mostly - but the light in your eyes when he finally gave it to you before the wedding today is something he’ll remember for the rest of his life, no matter what the future holds for him. 

It ends, as most things do, with a conversation. 

It was innocent enough - just a phone ringing in its place on the worktable and his hands covered in clay while he struggled to hit the screen with his elbow. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that he missed, exactly. Maybe it was the way that you’d been calling him less and less in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t noticed that he’d been spending too much time in the studio, pouring his soul into every shape he crafts and wire he twists while he chokes down petals. Maybe it was the classes the two of you shared and the projects you worked on together, that he assumed was friendly and not anything more. Maybe it was all of that, everything working in tandem in a way that he could never understand.

Or maybe it was none of it. Simple acts that led to simple reactions - being too busy for each other, not talking as often, coughing up sunflower petals - that all led to that moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches the heart-shaped vase spin aimlessly on its wheel while you cry tears of joy through the phone because he finally - finally - asked you out, he can’t care.

[then]

Asthma? is what Jimin asks him, years later when they’re both locked in Hoseok’s newly renovated store, basically a hole in the wall that he saved and saved for with his online sales. Hoseok is curled over the workbench in the back, doing everything he can to catch the petals before Jimin can see them. 

When they eventually subside, long enough for him to gulp down some water and shove the red-tinted petals off to the side in a pile that’s been steadily growing for weeks now, Hoseok shoots Jimin a self-deprecating smile. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to lie to him. 

“How long?” Jimin asks him. There’s no softness to his tone; it’s all hard edges and naked truths, and for once, the exhaustion overtakes Hoseok. He’s so sick of lying. He’s so sick of carrying an inhaler he doesn’t need, of shoving sunflower petals into every nook and cranny he can find so that no one sees them, and he just wants someone to know. 

“Forever,” Hoseok answers simply. “As long as I can remember.”

“And you never said anything? Ever?”

Hoseok sighs, throat scratchy and raw, and he stares down at the ring he’s been fiddling with. “Would you?” He eventually says. 

When he looks at Jimin, the other man has a petal of his own in between two fingers and rubs it absently, distractedly, like it’s habit. When he looks up, Hoseok understands, and an understanding passes between them. 

Jimin goes back to the laptop perched in front of him while Hoseok continues to work on other orders, things less important than the ring burning a hole in his mind’s eye, begging to be made. 

He isn’t ready, he tells himself. He isn’t skilled enough yet. Maybe one day. 

“I’m getting the surgery,” Jimin says after a few hours of silence. Hoseok fumbles with the pliers in his hands, twists the wire the wrong way, and it all clatters to the tabletop. He doesn’t bother to catch it, either; he’s too busy staring at his best friend in shock. 

“Seriously?” He breathes. Jimin nods, and the air rushes out of Hoseok in the span of a heartbeat. 

Everyone knows about the surgery, just like everyone knows about hanahaki disease. It took years to develop and it’s the only known treatment, but there are always side effect. Always. Sometimes they’re minor, just losing your feelings of love for the person you have feelings for, or like the guy that just became allergic to the peonies that he had removed. 

But then there are the others. 

The people who lose the capacity to love altogether. The ones who never find anyone else, who never learn how to love another person, not like they loved the one that caused the flowers. Or the ones who just lose their emotions completely, and become essentially lifeless. Unable to feel love at all, or sadness, or grief, or joy, or excitement, or remorse, or anything. They just exist. 

“But...the side effects-”

“Aren’t guaranteed,” Jimin interrupts. “Plenty of people get the procedure every day and walk away fine.”

“Yeah and some of them turn into lifeless machines!” Hoseok counters. Jimin’s expression hasn’t changed. He looks steadfast, decided, and he’s barely looking away from whatever work he’s doing on the laptop, and it infuriates Hoseok. “You’re gonna sign away any hope that you have, any chance that you have, because it...because it hurts?”

“No,” Jimin says as he closes the laptop and slides it to the side. “Because I’m tired, Hobi. I’m so tired, all the time. I’m tired of keeping it a secret, and I’m tired of puking my guts every time I think about-” Jimin cuts himself off and closes his eyes, tight, as he swallows. 

When he opens them, Hoseok can see every emotion he’s ever had in Jimin’s eyes, and it makes his heart ache. 

“Aren’t you tired, Hobi?” 

Jimin’s voice is small, and weak, but it lingers in the air between them. It curls past Hoseok’s throat and then down to wrap around his chest, growing tighter and tighter with every breath. Neither of them break eye contact, and Hoseok wonders what Jimin sees in his face. 

“Yeah,” Hoseok eventually says. With that, the spell is broken, and he can breathe again, and he drags his eyes away from Jimin to look at the piece he’d been working on instead. “But I can’t just...stop, y’know? I’ve loved her for basically my entire life. I can't...I don’t even know who I am without that.”

Jimin’s quiet for a long moment, and Hoseok thinks maybe he’s not going to say anything. Maybe he got through to Jimin, maybe he won’t get that surgery. 

“Don’t you think that you should find out?”

[now]

Hoseok watches from across the room as Jimin spins you in a circle, both of you laughing brightly. 

Jimin’s suit matches your dress wonderfully; Hoseok doesn’t think anyone else could quite pull off the pattern on it quite like Jimin does in such an effortless way. He looks happier than Hoseok has ever seen him, more content, more at home in his own skin. 

He isn’t coughing, and he isn’t struggling, and everything worked out well for him. No more flowers in his lungs, no more lies to his friends, no more unrequited love left heavy in his heart. Just happiness and laughter and joy. Hoseok wonders if he’d be the same. 

His thumb rubs absently across the business card in his pocket. It’s been there since Jimin handed it to him, what feels like forever ago now. It’s worn, and faded, and torn, and old, but the doctor is still practicing, just got recognized by the World Health Organization for his work. There’s an appointment reminder dinging in Hoseok’s phone, and a business card in his pocket, and he still doesn’t know if he’s even going to go, because you look so beautiful. 

You’re surrounded by your flowers, and you’re glowing like the North Star, and he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“She’s gorgeous, right?”

Hoseok turns and smiles at Namjoon. The man looks just as good, decked out in the best suit money can buy, with crinkles in the corner of his eyes and a dimple in his cheek as he grins.

“Yeah, she is,” He says. Emotions clog in his throat when he looks back at you only to find you looking his way. There’s love in your eyes and a soft, private smile on your lips, and it makes his chest tighten. “She looks really happy.”

“She does,” Namjoon agrees. 

Across the room, you wiggle a finger, and the ring glints in the light. Hoseok stifles a laugh, and shakes his head. 

“I can’t dance anymore, so this is all on you, big guy,” He tells Namjoon. The other man looks more than happy to take him up on the offer, grinning sheepishly as he sets his drink down to make his way to you. 

You take Namjoon’s hand and pull him close as the music transitions into a slow dance. Namjoon presses his forehead against yours, and both your eyes close, and suddenly, Hoseok feels like he shouldn’t be watching. This feels private, intimate, in a way that he’s never been privy to.

His throat clenches and he can feel it in his throat. 

He nearly drops his drink, but he gets to a table just in time to put the cup down with shaky hands. He knew, he knew what would happen. He clenches his jaw and heads through the side door of the event space, barely chancing a glance behind him. You don’t seem to have noticed, thankfully, but Hoseok makes eye contact with Jimin. The younger boy taps his wrist, and Hoseok just heads outside. 

He doesn’t need Jimin to remind him that time is up. 

[then]

“You need what?”

Namjoon’s smile turns shy at Hoseok’s tone. Of all the things that Hoseok could have anticipated Namjoon would ask him for, of all the potential items that he’s been commissioned by the taller man, this was never something he expected.

Though maybe he should have.

“-you know her better than anyone, y’know, and no one can craft like you, Hobi-”

The nickname sounds wrong, suddenly; like poison on Namjoon’s lips, but Hoseok just plasters on his smile again, the one he saves for truly difficult customers who try his patience, and he prays Namjoon doesn’t recognize it. 

“No, I get it, yeah.”

“I just...it needs to be perfect. And you’re the only one that I trust to make it perfect.” Hoseok’s heart twinges in his chest, and he can feel the roots moving in his lungs. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, too, cost isn’t a factor, it just needs to be-”

“Perfect,” Hoseok finishes. Namjoon smiles again, sheepish, and nods. “It’s fine, I’ll make it. No charge.”

“Hobi, I can’t ask you to do that, not for free-”

“You didn’t,” Hoseok insists. “I’m offering. Consider it a...gift.” Namjoon’s smile is blinding, and he really must trust Hoseok with this, because he’s heading out just a few minutes after, already on the phone with you because the two of you are meeting for lunch. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It makes sense. It’s been years. Isn’t that the usual time people start to expect this kind of thing? 

A voice in the back of his head, bitter and cruel, tells him that he should have charged Namjoon. Should have made him pay an exorbitant amount, enough to keep the shop running through the months of the slow season, enough to help heal the wound in Hoseok’s heart, but he brushes it off. It wouldn’t have felt right, charging for this. 

Not when he’s had the design sitting in his head since he wrapped that first stone with wire, since he first learned how to make this jewelry. Not when he’s had pages upon pages of designs drawn out for years, since before he even owned his own shop. 

That was never his to design, though, he reminds himself as he heads into the workshop. He had no right to that design. 

Just like he has no right to you. 

[then]

Later, weeks and weeks later, In the darkness of his apartment, Hoseok cries. 

Hoseok cries for all the things he’s never said, all the things he’ll never do, all of the things that you don’t know. He cries for the late nights together and the impromptu adventures and the panicked phone calls. He’s been so blind, he’s refused to see it, he knows. It’s all been waning, all put on the backburner in favor of him. 

He’s the one you call when air can’t make it to your lungs. He’s the one you pull from work in the dead of night to make him sleep. He’s the one that gets to wraps his arms around you while you watch the newest episode of whatever show you’re obsessed with lately. It’s all him, and it will never be Hoseok, no matter how hard he wishes, because he’s too late. 

He spent so long obsessed with maybe. Maybe you’ll love him back, maybe it’ll ruin the friendship, maybe you’ll realize. For years and years, he said maybe, and now it’s too late, because you’re going to be saying yes to another man’s question, and Hoseok will be left in the darkness, no longer able to look at the stars in your eyes because you’ll be looking at him. 

For the first time in his life, Hoseok hates. He hates you for not realizing that he loves you; he hates Namjoon for taking the chance and asking you out; he hates the flowers growing in his chest that are just further proof that he’s alone in his feelings. Mostly, though…

Mostly, Hoseok hates himself, he realizes as he crumples against the wall of his living room. He hates himself for not taking the risk that Namjoon did, for not putting it all out there so that you could give him whatever kind of closure would come. 

And it’s there, sitting on his floor, surrounded by the remains of too many projects that he spent too long on that you’ll now never see, that he first begins to consider it. Everyone knows about the surgery, everyone knows that you can get the flowers removed, but that it comes with a cost. He stares, past his tears, past the colorful crystal remnants at his feet, and he considers. 

There’s already a numbness spreading through his body; it follows the same path as the roots of the flowers in his lungs, it runs parallel to the petals and seeds, and it only serves to highlight the painful ache that his feelings have caused. He’s already becoming numb to it, so why not? He may lose the ability to love forever, yes, but he can still be your friend. He can still watch you marry another man, this time without the itch in his throat and the flowers in his bile. So why shouldn’t he?

His phone rings, and he already knows it’s you. Not by the specialized ringtone - the only custom one in his entire contact list - and not by the blinking light that’s sure to wake him up in the middle of the night. No, he knows it’s you, because he knows that there’s no way Namjoon could have resisted the temptation to ask you tonight. He’s pictured what you’d look like a hundred thousand times, knows exactly how bright your smile would be as you said yes, how soft the tears would feel as he wiped them away, he knows. 

And now you’re calling him, to tell him the great news, or maybe scold him for not giving you a heads up about it in the first place since he’s the one that made the ring. Either way, you’re on the other end of that ringing, ready to tell him about the happiest night of your life, and Hoseok can’t…

He can’t resist it. It’s autopilot as he drags himself to where his phone is still ringing, and it’s only after a deep and shaky breath that he answers it. 

You don’t even give him time to speak for you’re launching into your squeals and happy giggles and how Namjoon did it, and Hoseok feels a reluctant smile cross his features. It only grows when you start to gush about the ring, complimenting his skill, and he can feel a bud trying to make its way up his throat, so he mutes his phone. He doesn’t want you to hear as he rushes to the kitchen sink, as he chokes and coughs and gags and eventually spits out a nearly whole sunflower. 

It’s not a big one, maybe an inch or so in diameter, and not fully bloomed, but it’s there, and Hoseok knows it’s more of a death sentence than anything. 

“Hobi? Are you there?” 

He wipes his mouth and clears his throat and leaves the flower in the sink with its red-stained petals so that he can unmute his phone. 

“Yeah, Starshine, I’m here.”

[now]

In the alley beside your wedding, Hoseok coughs. He coughs and he gags and he chokes, until the ground is littered with flower petals that aren’t from your bouquets, and blood drops and tears. He chokes until he can’t breathe anymore, until he has to reach in and pull the flower from his throat before he really does die, and it makes him shudder when he sees that it’s nearly fully formed, almost completely bloomed and everything.

He doesn’t think he’ll make it through the next one.

He stands up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of the red suit he chose for this exact reason, and he looks through the window, to the space where you should be dancing with Namjoon. 

You aren’t, though. You’re watching him, brows drawn together, confused, and you’re saying something that he can’t quite make out through the glass. 

Fear strikes his heart. Fear that you saw everything, that you know everything, but directly after it comes relief, because he knows now. He knows what he needs to do, because he doesn’t think he can bear to have you watch him die, but he doesn’t think he can bear not to love you anymore, either; no matter what, he’s lost you, and that knowledge solidifies his decision. He holds a hand over his chest, and you mirror him, your fingers closing around the pendant he made so, so long ago.

You turn, looking for someone - Namjoon, maybe, or Jimin, to ask what’s wrong with him, and he takes the opportunity. He heads out of the alley, as fast as his legs can carry him, because he knows. 

When you finally make it into the alley, you don’t understand. Your best friend, your best man, is nowhere to be found. In his wake are flower petals, drawn out by the wind. 

One catches your eye, and you pick it up. It’s soft against your fingertips, and you frown when you see the red on it. 

You don’t ever see Hoseok again.

[yikesharringrove]

i’m sorry that you’re having a rough time. if you need to talk my ask is always open! 💜 something I haven’t really seen in the harringrove fandom is a bookstore aus. do you have any head cannons for that? or maybe you could write something? i can see billy being a pretentious, flirty sometimes grumpy bookstore owner who is simultaneously annoyed and charmed by clueless steve who is obvi not a reader, but keeps coming in. Billy’s clueless why the pretty keeps coming in. robin is not clueless!

(ao3)

“Fuck.”

Billy shook out his hand, just dropped a large box of books on his fingers.

“Dumbass.” Robin was perched at the counter, leafing lazily through some indie zine her friends made.

“You know you could, like, help.” Billy shot her a glare as she rolled her eyes, leaving him and his smushed little hand to shelve the new stock.

“No point in that, Boss.” Billy just kept sorting maneuvering himself through the narrow shelves to sort the new arrivals.

His bookshop had been open for about a month, and was doing well. He had a little cafe in the back corner, run by Heather and her baked goods. There was a second level to the shop he filled with squashy armchairs, and little tables. It had become a fairly popular spot with the kids from the local university as they studied, or avoided their studies with the books he had on the first level.

He had new and used books, had a trade-in program with book donations. It was warm in the little shop, sweet and cozy.

The bell above the door chimed.

“Hi, I was looking for Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals by Immanuel Kant.”

“You can find Billy, he’s in the stacks over there, and he should be able to help you better than I can.” Billy rolled his eyes, could hear the smile in her voice. He kept shelving, could hear the light footsteps approaching.

“Um, excuse me, I was told you can help?” Billy looked up, his breath hitching when he saw the guy. He was tall and lanky, slouching like he wanted to be small. He had all this messy brown hair, these big dark eyes behind his glasses.

“Kant, right?”

“Yep!”

“This is a good one. Have you read the Critique of Pure Reason? That book was pretty big for me, his thoughts on causation in relationship to time and experience were so new to me first time I read it.”

“Oh, it’s uh, it’s actually for a class. I’m not any good at this philosophy stuff.” Billy just smiled weekly. This guy was almost fucking perfect. He wandered over a few stacks to search.

“You at the university?”

“Yeah, I’m a senior. Just finishing up my generals and everything so I can graduate. I’m studying to be a teacher. Sorry, you probably don’t give a shit.” He had red splotches high on his cheeks.

“No, I always love talkin’ with new folks.” He smiled gently at the guy, reaching up for the book. “Immanuel Kant. Robin up front’ll take care ‘a you.” The guy fidgeted for a second, taking the book slowly.

“Thank you, I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Billy.” Steve waved at him, awkwardly and adorably.

-

Steve began coming in just about every other day.

He would say an awkward hello to Billy, would be all fidgety and weird, and retreat to the comfy second floor with a large iced latte, face red, mumbling to himself.

“He has a crush on you.” Robin was poking him over the counter. Steve had just high-tailed it up to work on his schoolwork after asking Billy how he was and looking so fond when Billy just said not so bad.

“Shut up, Rob.”

“He does. He’s in here almost every day, and gets so fucking nervous when talking to you. He wants to date you and kiss you.” She sang it at him, wiggling around a bit.

“Jesus Christ, Robin, he doesn’t. He’s a paying customer.”

“A paying customer that gets all cute and blushy when you two talk, and who never says more than three words to me.” Billy rolled his eyes, retreating to the back office.

She followed him, stomping loudly.

“At least admit you think he’s cute.”

“He’s fuckin’ adorable, but he said he’s not a big reader, and when I started talkin’ about Kant philosophies, his eyes got all big like that shit went way over his head. I don’t think we’d work out.”

“Just because someone doesn’t read and-slash-or comprehend eighteenth century philosophy, doesn’t make them not worthwhile.”

“It’s kind of a deal breaker for me, Rob.” She glared at him.

“You are so pretentious. He’s cute, and he seems sweet, what does it matter?”

“I just like intellectual types.”

“I fucking hate you.” She huffed, stomping back out into the shop.

-

“What in the hell?” Billy was up on the second floor, cleaning up the discarded coffee mugs and books left behind before closing. He heard muttering from the corner, looking to see Steve, tucked in a large armchair, frowning heavily at the book propped in his lap, something thick and heavy, probably for that philosophy class he’s been trudging through.

“You okay, Pretty Boy.” Steve slammed the book shut.

“Yeah I’m fine.” He began shoving his school work away, stuffing it roughly into his bag.

“Hey, whoa.” Billy plopped down across from him, taking one of Steve’s wrists in his own. “What’s wrong?” Steve whipped off his glasses, digging his thumbs into his eyes.

“It’s just been a long day, and my dyslexia gets so much worse when I’m tired, but this midterm is tomorrow and I need to study.”

“I didn’t know you were dyslexic.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot my button that says I’m dyslexic, ask me how!” Billy sat back, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired. And my brain hurts.”

“You know we have audiobooks. There’s a whole selection in the back downstairs.” Steve looked up at him.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. We have tapes and CDs. Have a bunch of random stuff. You wanna take a look through it all?” Steve’s eyes were wide. He shoved his glasses back on, following Billy to the display.

They were sitting on the ground, going through the selection Billy had, Steve had found two of the books he needed for his philosophy class.

“Billy I’m heading out-” Robin stopped when she saw the two of them, sitting in a sea of tapes and CDs. “You do know we closed, like half an hour ago.”

“Holy shit. Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me to go! I would’ve gotten outta your hair.”

“Relax, Pretty Boy. I don’t mind stickin’ around. Don’t got much else goin’ on.” Robin was watching them with a smug look on her face, sitting in one hip.

“No I have to, I should go. I’ll, um, I’ll come back for these tomorrow.” He pressed the few he had selected into Billy’s hand, gripping his upper arm. “Thank you, Billy. It really means a lot to me.” He gave him a sweet smile, threw Robin a two-finger salute as he hefted his backpack, leaving the shop with a jingle.

Robin slapped Billy’s arm.

“He’s so hot for you, and you’re practically in love with him too, this is disgusting and gay.”

“Robin no homophobia in my store, please.” She laughed at him as they locked up, Billy cleaning up the mess of audiobooks.

-

“Hi, I brought you this.” Steve was wearing a soft sweater under a pair of overalls. He looked so soft and Billy wanted to cuddle him.

He was currently pushing a plastic container full of chocolate chip cookies over the counter.

“I wanted to say thank you for helping me last night, and I know there’s straight up a cafe that sells these in the back, and you could probably eat as many as you like because you own the whole place, but I thought it’d be nice and I bake when I’m stressed and ramble when I’m nervous, if you couldn’t already tell, but you’re really nice and I just wanted to do something nice for you, and I’m gonna shut the fuck up if you don’t mind.” He was bright red, his eyes darting around the shop, looking everywhere but at Billy.

“Thank you, Sweet Thing.” He took a cookie, taking a big bite out of it. “And I got your audiobooks on hold.” Steve giggled when Billy talked with his mouth full of cookie, rifling through his wallet to get cash for the CDs. “Your midterm was today, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I, you remembered.”

“You told me last night.” Steve shrugged.

“Sometimes people kinda tune me out.” Billy frowned, opened his mouth to say something in rebuttle but Steve plowed on. “I had the test today. I think it was okay, but it always goes either way with me. Sometimes I feel super good about it afterwards, but then I’ll straight up fail and sometimes it goes the other way, so I’m hoping ambivalence is key.”

“I think that sounds like a valid plan. Just keep your mind off it.”

“You read anything good lately.” Billy just gave him a look.

“Take in where we are, then get back to me.”

“I mean, you probably read a lot, but have you read anything good lately?”

“Define good.” Steve shrugged. One of the straps on his overalls fell off his shoulder. It was so cute.

“Like, engaging content.”

“That’s a pretty low bar.”

“Well, I know you probably read like, super smart stuff that goes way over my head. If we were talking about novels I would say, engaging plot, interesting rounded characters, all that shit, but you probably read, like, I don’t even fucking know.”

“I’m gonna let you in on my best kept secret.” He leaned into the counter a little. Steve’s eyes were bright as he leaned over the counter, shoving his nose right into Billy’s space. “I’m a sucker for classics.” Steve had this cute little half smile on his face.

“Like, Moby Dick?”

“Jesus, no. Nobody actually likes that book. I mean like, Pride & Prejudice and Emma and Wuthering Heights and Don Quixote.”

“I think I’ve heard of like, two of those.” He gasped a little, his eyebrows going up. “I have an idea! Would you recommend me audio books? Of all your favorites? I want to be able to like, talk about them with you.” His eyes were shining and bright, so excited to share these books with Billy, these books that mean the world to Billy.

“Sure thing, Pretty Boy. I’ll pick a new one out for you every week or so.” Steve hoped from foot to foot, wiggling and excited.

“I wanna do that! WE can have our own little bookclub. It’ll be so fun, we can like talk about your favorite books, and I’ll actually get it because I won’t have to be, like, translating the fucking wiggly words.” He was crackling with energy over this idea, it was making Billy excited.

And then Steve’s phone started going off in the chest pocket of the overalls. When he took it out Billy caught a glimpse of the name Nance.

“Sorry, this is my ex-girlfriend.” He smiled at Billy who’s heart dropped. “But I’ll be back tomorrow, if you wanna have a book ready for me!” He pushed the cookies closer to Billy with a Look, answering the phone as he awkwardly pushed open the door with his back, and a little hey, Nance!

“How was your boyfriend today?”

“Straight. He’s fucking straight.” Robin furrowed her brows.

“Sorry, there’s no way that boy is completely  straight.”

“He got a call from his ex-girlfriend. He’s fucking straight, and we’re gonna start a stupid bookclub thing because he wants to read my favorite books and he’s fucking straight.” Billy shoved the cookies away from him, taking up on of the heavy boxes of book donations, heaving it to be shelved.

Robin followed him to the stacks.

“Just because he had an ex-girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s straight, Billy. He could be bi, or pan, or fluid, or literally anything.” Billy just ignored he, kept shoving the new arrivals away. She sighed at his back. “Okay, asshole. Give him some queer book, like Orlando and see what he says about it.” Robin tromped away when Billy refused to answer.

-

Steve tripped on the door frame the next day.

He spilled out hard on the floor, smacking his chin and spilling paper. It was so fucking funny, but Billy stifled his laugh, and helped Steve up. His face was red, the flush spreading down his neck.

He took one look at Billy when he stood up, and walked right back out the door.

-

He gathered up the courage to come back in three days later.

“Watch yourself there, Pretty Boy.” Steve’s face went hot again.

“I’m so sorry about that. I was so fucking embarrassed, I had to go have a panic attack for like, six hours after that.” He gave a shaky little laugh. “I believe I was promised an audiobook?” Billy took it out from under the counter.

“Maurice, by E.M. Forster. It’s a gay classic about coming of age, and having to live in the closet, and being in love. It’s excellent.”

“Sounds like my fuckin’ life.” Billy stared as Steve just read the snippet on the back of the box.

“You gay?”

“Pan.” Steve said it easily, didn’t even look up from reading the box. Billy can hear Robin gloating in his head, saying that she’s right.

“Cool.” Steve gave him a weird look.

“You’re being weird.” Billy shrugged. Steve glanced at the large pride flag hanging in the window of the store, looking back at Billy with one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I’m a big ol’ homo. I’m really not being weird. I just didn’t know.” Steve reached out to push his shoulder.

“I’m kidding, Bill! Quit bein’ so grumpy.” Billy couldn’t help but smile when Steve was looking at him like that, was giggling at him like that.

-

When Steve finished the audiobook, they talked about it over hot tea after closing.

That became their ritual, Steve would get a book recommendation, would finish it in about four days, he’d stay after closing an they’d talk. The next day, he’d get a new one.

They began talking about more than just the books.

Steve was an incredibly easy person to talk to. Something about his big eyes made Billy want to open, to share his past.

He told Steve about his dad, just the tip of the iceberg, just the basic he’s a homophobic asshole. But then Steve told him he’d been kicked out of his house at eighteen, so Billy told him his father was physically abusive, and before he fucking knew it, they were both tearing up and connecting.

“Who’re you texting?” Robin snatched his phone, dancing out of his reach as she scrolled through the texts between him and Steve. “Oh my God, are you sure you two aren’t dating.” He ripped his phone out of her hands.

“Shut up, Robin.” He stormed to the back office, his refuge whenever Robin started bugging him.

“No. You two have been doing this dance for months. You two have your own special bookclub. You need to ask him out.”

“I just don’t wanna assume anything and fuck up this friendship. I don’t have very many friends, and i don’t wanna lose him. Just because he’s into guys doesn’t mean he’s into me.”

“Billy you’re hot. And me, a whole lesbian, telling you that means it’s true. I’ve seen the way he is around you. Remember when he fucking fell and had to leave immediately? He’s so hot for you and nervous rambles all the time. If you asked him out he would say yes.”

But Billy never actually got a chance to ask him out.

The same night Robin was bugging him Steve came slamming roughly into the shop.

“You okay?” Steve was quiet, something Billy had never seen in him.

“Just a bad day.” He sipped at the tea Billy had placed in front of him.

“You wanna talk about it?” Billy said at the exact same moment Steve looked right at Billy as said.

“You wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sorry, what did-” Billy ears were ringing.

“No, I didn’t say anything.” Steve was looking everywhere but Billy.

“No you asked me out.” He took a breath.

“Look, I really like you. Like a whole lot. And today was shit and the whole time I just kept thinking about how I wanted to see you, and talk to you about it, and I knew just walking in here and looking at you would make the whole awful day that much fucking better and I just wanna go on a date. With you.”

Billy’s mouth was open.

“Holy shit.” Steve was steadily going even more red.

“I’m sorry if I just fucked up this whole thing we had goin’ on-”

“No, I wanna go out with you. I really like you too.” Steve was still, and then he started wiggling, that excited little side to side he does.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Steve stood up, shaking and wiggling in the cutest little happy dance Billy has ever fucking seen.

“Oh my God. I’ve wanted to ask you out for like, months. I’m so excited.” He flopped back into his seat. “Okay but first, Animal Farm. I think the pig’s an asshole.”

Billy leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek.

[magistralucis]

soft gop bromance, 7?😳😳😳

07: Garden work // Gopnik AU Bromance (Soft ver.)

---------------

Summers in Krasnodar breathe so sweetly. In early afternoon the heat drifts along the river banks, rubs its back along the windowpanes, then curls about each tangled street to fall asleep. A good time to bring out the sunhats and fruity drinks and lay back - providing, of course, that there are no pressing matters at hand.

The latter is the case for the two lovers. They have sunhats and drinks, yes, but they’re also renovating their garden. There’s a member of the family who’s insisted on going out more often recently, and they’re catering to those needs. It’s a two-way teamwork: between Louis, who’s hauling stone for the edges, and Mike, who’s preventing the cat from getting in Louis’s way, they’ve got it sorted. Mike turns the page and clears his throat anew.

“And so, we move onto what we mean when we speak of art. Section 43: ‘art is distinguished from Nature, as doing is distinguished from acting or working generally, and as the product or result of the former is distinguished as work from the working of the latter‘.” He underlines the last phrase with a soft pencil. His singular audience quirks his ears at the sound. “To put it simply, Kant means that ‘art’ is conscious human action, unlike that which occurs in nature.”

His listener scratches at the base of his sunchair. He’s not a very good listener, but then, neither are Mike’s undergraduates. Mike shakes his head, smiling, and reaches down to scratch him between the ears.

“’By right we ought only to describe as Art, production through freedom, i.e. through a will that places Reason at the basis of its actions. For although we like to call the product of bees’ - that is to say, beehives - ‘a work of art, this is only by way of analogy: as soon as we feel that this work of theirs is based on no proper rational deliberation, we say that it is a product of Nature, and as Art only ascribe it to their Creator’.” He circles a phrase. “Now I’ve plenty to say about the rational capacity of bees, but what do you think, Pyotr Mikhailovich? I’d rather you didn’t actually meet the bees in order to form your opinion, but does a beehive have no artistic merit? Kant would have had a field day with the concept of found art, no?”

His cat rolls over on his back. Mike smiles. “No more?”

Pyotr Mikhailovich mewls in assent.

He’s not the most expressive cat, but even he looks mighty glad when Mike puts the book away at last. Mike leaves the sunchair to sit beside him. With a trill, he pounces on Mike’s lap and digs his claws into the other’s shirt. Laughing, Mike looks up; Louis’s strong back is visible in the distance, and he admires the view. The sun will soon be overhead, and then it’ll be time for a late lunch. but until then it looks like Louis will need a hand. He stands up, Pyotr still purring in his arms, and adjusts his sunhat as he starts walking.

This is Pyotr Mikhailovich’s third summer. For two years he was content to keep a window between himself and the outside, and then he got brave. It was the worry that he might get into something poisonous, or end up entangled, that sparked this renovation. Louis has new shelving for his tulips and succulents. The daffodils and lilies in the garden have been replaced with safer options. Mike bought some shrubs and planted them out back, and now the task is to line the flowerbeds, smooth black-and-white quartz replacing the wires that were there before. Louis tips back his sunhat and beams as he sees his lover approaching, and takes off his gloves, his tanned hand touching Mike’s shoulder first and then the cat.

“I see you’ve been revising your curriculum. Any feedback?”

Mike shakes his head, his face half buried in Pyotr Mikhailovich’s fur. “He is no Kantian, alas. But few people are, let alone cats. Is it safe to let him play?”

Louis kisses the top of their cat’s head. “Yes, I’ve removed the weeds. There were some bulbs I dug up too, I don’t know what they are, but they’re out of the way.” He quirks a thumb towards a large plastic bag, filled with soil and bulbs and knotted at the top. “He should be fine to run around now. Would you like some gloves?”

“Please. Would you like some kompot?”

“Wouldn’t complain.”

It’s apple-and-pear, served with ice. Louis downs the whole glass in one go; Mike grins, brings him another, and gets his own glassful. They work in pleasant silence. Thankfully, Pyotr Mikhailovich keeps to the upper left corner of the garden, which is the only area fully renovated for his safety so far. In that corner lies a bed of houseleeks and three new camellia shrubs, which Pyotr likes to climb and nibble to his heart’s content. As they arrange the pebbles, Louis steals frequent glances to the side, making no secret of his admiration.

Mike has such a reverent posture whenever he’s gardening. He doesn’t just bend down, but fully kneels in place, his movements slow but precise. Louis’s heart twinges to see the other’s hands, which have started to roughen over the past weeks of labour. Mike doesn’t actually mind, but Louis feels guilty whenever he feels he’s making Mike’s life harder; maybe if they finished the renovation quickly, his lover can spend more of the summer relaxing.

He’ll never say it out loud, though, and logically he knows they can’t hurry this. The garden will be finished when they both agree it’s finished. So he puts the guilt out of his mind and slots the last stone into place, and when his Misha slumps down from exhaustion, he pours him an entire jug of kompot and lays him down in the shade.

“But this is the opposite direction to where we’re going?” Mike says with a little smile, but doesn’t question it any further. Louis just lies down with him, splayed out at a right angle, his head resting on the other’s stomach. It is a long while before he speaks again. “Lyova.”

“Yes.”

”It’s a shame Petrunyushka can’t have tea.”

Then, seeing the puzzled look in Louis’s eyes: “The tea plant is a relative of the camellia. I found that out when I was ordering those shrubs. Sometimes I see him adjacent to something sublime in this world, like sweet tea with salted black bread, and I’m sad he can’t quite get at it.”

Mike often talks like this. Maybe it’s because he’s a Kantian, and he likes to reflect on moments of startling unintentioned beauty as much as he does the deliberate. “True, that camellia is the closest thing to tea he’ll get.” He says, resting a warm hand on Mike’s stomach. “But his life is rich in ways we can’t quite understand, like he’ll discover when the catnip I just planted starts growing.”

“Did you really.”

“Yes, in the flowerbed we just lined.” They share sly looks; Pyotr Mikhailovich goes crazy on catnip, there will be nothing else that can grow there. “And when we go back in, we’ll share our teatime with him as we always do. So let’s do that, Misha. Catnip treats for him and mint tea for us, as sweet as you like it.”

Mike gazes at him. “With little marshmallows?”

“With little marshmallows.” Louis smiles, and kisses him, pillowed softly against the grass. Pyotr Mikhailovich has come to loaf by their feet, his stripes bright beneath the sun. Lunch is waiting, and so is their tea. But for now, they stay a while.

[iamleavingthisfandom]

So I’ve decided I want to write some stuff based on these tumblr prompts because it’s fun. This isn’t going on my ao3. Or maybe it is. Nothing matters.

Pairing: reddie (Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak)

Rating: M or E, I don’t fucking know, but there’s nsfw ahead

WC: 1770

Setting: College!AU

74. “We’re just friends.” + 49. “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” + 75. “Friends don’t do this kind of shit!”

Richie and Eddie had been going through a bit of a weird time in their relationship.

Which was to say, they were hooking up. They hadn’t discussed anything about it, really, even though they couldn’t shut up during. Well, okay, they kind of discussed it: the first time they hooked up, something along the lines of ‘this doesn’t have to change anything, right?’ was muttered in-between sloppy drunk kisses. And it didn’t, not really. They were still best friends, they still hung out all the time, with the losers and by themselves, and nothing had to be weird. Except that now that they were hooking up whenever they had some access to alcohol, Richie was developing an almost-Pavlovian response to the sight of a red cup in Eddie’s hand. It had gotten to the point where eye contact while Eddie was sipping on something from a plastic cup was enough to get him halfway there, and that wasn’t great, especially when the awkward boner happened at a crowded party. Which was what happened this time. He was in an interesting conversation, safely discussing Kant’s Kingdom of Ends, when he caught Eddie staring at him from the corner of the room with that look he got when he wanted to get Richie alone as soon as possible. He stared back as Eddie casually leaned on the wall and sipped vodka with coke from the cup, missing the rest of the conversation entirely. When he saw a drop of the drink make its way down Eddie’s jaw and then throat (almost definitely on purpose), Richie politely if a bit too quickly excused himself and walked to the wall. Judging by Eddie’s grin, that was exactly what he was planning for. “You’re really not being subtle, you know?” Richie commented with a raised eyebrow. It was to be expected if Eddie was tipsy, though, and he didn’t seem like he was terribly concerned about that. “So what?” he challenged with a slight smirk. “Are you not up for it?” Richie felt like he was dying inside. Could one die from the intensity of one’s boner? Well, if it was possible, he would definitely die within the next five minutes. That thought left him, along with the rest of his brain, when Eddie, apparently tired of waiting, grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs. At this point, Richie didn’t care whether anyone saw them leave to one of the rooms or whether anyone suspected anything; all he could think of was getting Eddie’s dick in his mouth as soon as possible. So, as soon as the door of the nearest unoccupied room closed, he crowded Eddie against the door, kissing him urgently. He was met with parted lips and an eager tongue, seemingly trying to reach his throat with the impatient and desperate way Eddie kissed him. He felt hands in his hair and slid his own under Eddie’s shirt, pinning him to the door harder. Immediately, Eddie rutted his hips against Richie’s, moaning low into the kiss. Richie’s dick was about to rip a hole through the denim with how hard he was, but he was prepared to ignore it, because he really wanted to give Eddie head. He didn’t have any misconceptions: he knew he was good at it, and he knew that the two times he had an opportunity to suck him off before their desperate rutting, fondling, and messy handjobs got the best of them, Eddie loved it. He got him to clamp a hand over his mouth not to be too loud both times and took pride in that knowledge. Before they could get too into it, he released Eddie’s lips, trailed wet kisses down his neck in response to the unhappy noise he got when Eddie tried to chase him, and fell to his knees, tugging down Eddie’s jeans and boxers to about mid-thigh. He wanted to appreciate the sight at some point, probably get Eddie fully naked (which they hadn’t done before, their hook-ups too rushed and kind of desperate), lay him out on the bed and worship him like he deserved; however, now wasn’t the time for that. Nor was the situation, probably: if they were just hooking up casually, it probably didn’t call for body worship or seeing how many times Richie could make Eddie come in a single night. So instead of appreciating the sight of Eddie’s hard dick in all its glory, Richie gave him a couple of strokes and looked up as he swirled his tongue around before taking the head in his mouth. Eddie was biting his lip as his hands got tangled in Richie’s curls again, but he didn’t look away. Whether he was blushing or just flushed from alcohol and the heat of the room, his cheeks were pink and eyes a bit glassy. Not wasting any more time, Richie bobbed his head up and down, getting as much as he could in his mouth, all the way to his throat and then some. He brought his hand up to play with Eddie’s balls, moving it to massage his perineum when he got the fast breaths he was looking for. When he hit the skin of Eddie’s stomach with his nose, he heard a needy noise above him and looked up again to see Eddie’s head thrown back. His chest was rising and falling with rapid breaths, and he felt the grip on his hair tighten. So he bobbed his head faster, knowing Eddie’s orgasm was fast approaching. Without warning, Eddie was groaning and coming into Richie’s mouth as he took his time to swallow every last drop. When he heard a soft whine of oversensitivity, he released Eddie’s cock, wiping at his chin, covered in the mixture of cum and saliva. He stood up and pulled Eddie’s pants up, holding him up when he felt like Eddie’s knees were about to give out. He soon got a genuine smile and a kiss on his cum-covered lips, which was also new. Eddie didn’t kiss Richie after he’d sucked him off before. He let Eddie walk him backwards to the bed and push him down before straddling his lap. He didn’t say anything, but he got Richie’s cock out of his jeans and underwear, stroking him slowly at first as he left slow kisses up his jaw. Richie felt like he was in heaven, and the only things he ever needed were Eddie Kaspbrak’s hands and mouth on him. But then, when Eddie sped up his strokes and went to leave wet kisses that somehow morphed into him sucking on Richie’s neck, which was sure to leave hickeys, he forgot how to verbalize what he was feeling at all and instead said what he could with heavy breaths. Soon, he was coming all over Eddie’s hand. A little got on his shirt, but he really couldn’t care less. When he felt Eddie pull away, he opened his eyes and saw him wipe his hand with some Kleenex, probably left there on purpose by the hosts who were tired of getting people’s cum and other bodily fluids everywhere. He couldn’t think enough to feel too bad for them, though, as Eddie was soon tucking him back into his underwear and pulling him down onto the bed. Richie went pliantly, and wound his arms around Eddie’s waist when he cuddled into him. Through his post-orgasm haze, he heard Eddie say his name and hummed questioningly. “What are we doing, Rich?” “Cuddling?” he suggested. Eddie sighed and lifted himself on his elbow so that he got a better view of Richie. He had to open his eyes for them to continue. “No, I mean, with this. Us. Hooking up,” Eddie lifted his hand momentarily to gesture between them and got it back around Richie. “What is this? What are we?” “We’re just… friends,” Richie supplied carefully. He was scared to come forward, really. He didn’t want them to stop hooking up, but he was way more scared of losing Eddie as a friend. So even though he didn’t sound convincing, he had to try. “We’re friends who care about each other and so help one another with boners.” Eddie sighed in response. “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it, Rich. If you want to pretend that’s all this is, fine.” He closed his eyes, and Richie’s heart hurt at that. “Friends don’t do this kind of shit. But if that’s really all this is to you, I don’t think I can keep doing this.” Before Eddie could continue, Richie interrupted. “Okay, no, I… that’s not all we are. Fine. You’re right,” Eddie looked up at him again, curious, and Richie felt exposed in a way he never did before Eddie, not when he was sharing his insecurities about his looks, and not even with his dick out. “This is more than that, much more. But you gotta help me out here, Eds,” he asked. He couldn’t be the one to say it. “You gotta—” He didn’t get to finish his thought, because Eddie was cupping his jaw with gentle fingers, silencing him entirely. “I love you, Rich,” his tone was the softest Richie had ever heard him, and he melted. “I love you and I want it all with you. Dates, hickeys, cheesy gifts for anniversaries and holding hands while walking around campus.” “Yeah,” Richie nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I want that, too. And I love you.” Eddie smiled and brought Richie into a soft kiss, now paced and unhurried. Richie buried his hand in Eddie’s hair and felt him smile into the kiss. “So… boyfriends?” he asked, hopefully, when Eddie pulled away and was brushing an odd curl from Richie’s forehead. He got an even softer smile. “Yeah. Boyfriends.” Eddie kissed him again, giggling when Richie rolled them over and rested between his legs, licking into his mouth. “Then… want to get your first blowjob as my official boyfriend?” he asked with a grin after they broke the kiss. Eddie grinned in response. “Nothing would delight me more,” he chuckled, threading his hands through Richie’s hair. When he started moving down his body, Eddie continued, “But I would also love to get fucked into the bed with your gorgeous dick at some point. Preferably soon.” Richie laughed into his skin as he was biting his was down, leaving a big hickey on his way. “Anything you want is yours, Eddie baby,” he was met with a loving smile and a small gasp as he continued his way down and went on with his plan, sucking on the tip of Eddie’s dick through the cloth of his boxers with his pants out of the way again.

[bri-borg]

stars of lovingness in her hair

Part Three

A/N: Heyyy chapter three is finally here! I am so sorry this took way too long. I’ve just started a job and school and I had a bad case of writer’s block these past weeks. I hope you all like this one, she’s a bit melodramatic. But then again it’s a slowburn, mutual pining friends to lovers asdfghjkl

Also please leave comments and reblog if you enjoy it! Also the stereo mentioned in this chapter is actually real! It’s Prof. H. Draper’s stereo of what I think is the full moon from the 1840s.

One line (if you squint) directly ripped from BohRap because I am unoriginal. As per usual it was edited by me, a tired person. I am sorry about the potentially many errors. 

read part one here read part two here

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, some suggestive dialogue, mentions of anxiety, general repression of feelings and self-doubt

Summary: the more time you and Brian spend together as friends, the more you fear that you might want to be something more. As the both of you come to terms with how you feel about one another, a discovery leads you feeling further from him than you felt before

Winter, 1969

You sat down on the floor of Brian’s flat, legs crossed as you tried forcing yourself to read over another set of equations. Brian had invited you over to study, excited to have the new flat to himself while his roommates were out getting moth and flea riddled artefacts. It was smaller and cramped than the last flat—especially considering the fact that Brian was now living with two other men.

You’d gone over to Brian’s place around four in the afternoon, and although you felt as if it had only been a little over than an hour, the bright light of the moon seemed to prove otherwise. He’d finished all of his exams—no doubt getting perfect marks in all of them. He was kind enough to invite you over, stay with you if you’d had any questions, which you felt guilty over considering he could have been enjoying his time off. But he seemed to be enjoying himself, trying to unpack, and getting distracted every now and then by a pair of trousers on the floor, or instead finding his copy of The Hollies’ Would You Believe, which at the moment was now spinning its way happily on the record player. 

Normally the music would distract you, but you weren’t actually getting much studying done. Aside from the fact that your mind was thoroughly spent, you couldn’t help but focus on Brian instead, watching as he tinkered with the contraption he’d rigged to his polaroid camera in an attempt to make stereo photographs. Noticing how animated his hands were when he explained something to you. How his sharp canines poked out from beneath his pink lips when he smiled whenever you got something right. How his warm hazel eyes lit up when he looked at you. How every now and then he’d reach over and intertwine his delicate fingers with yours, holding your hand from across the coffee table whenever you’d try your head in your books from frustration. I wouldn’t mind if he held my hand like that more often, you thought on more than one occasion before berating yourself silently, telling yourself you were here to study.

So here you were with one more exam left, trying not to lose your head over the sight of another number—or Brian.

“Y/N?” You heard Brian ask, his tone one of genuine concern. You flit your eyes off the pages of your text book and look at him, raising your eyebrows in question.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for today? You should at least get some rest, I mean. It’s a bit late.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, glancing over to your watch. Shit. You’d overstayed. “I’m sorry, Brian. I can get out of your hair if you—“

“Oh no! No! That’s not what I meant,” Brian interrupts, holding his hands out to keep you from standing up. “Please, stay as long as you’d like, Y/N. It’s just, I’m worried you might be over-exerting yourself, you know? Overdoing the studying?”

You shake your head, at him. “That’s very kind, Brian, but I need the extra studying—I’m not like you, you know?”

“Oh, stop it, I’ve seen you read books that make my brain hurt and make me question reality. You’re one of the most clever people I’ve ever known. And you can do it—I’ve seen you. You’ve just got to trust yourself now.” He bites his lip, eyes looking up before he speaks again.”Vous avez besoin de confidence.” Brian reaches over to hold your hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze as he reassures you.

“Thank you,” you say, unable to hold back the smile forming on your face. “And it’s ‘Tu as besoin de confidence’—no need for such formalities, Bri, we’re friends.” You say and he rolls his eyes. “I suppose you’re right. I’d just about die if I read another word—and Kant makes everyone’s brain hurt. You’re not special.” You smirk.

Brian just smiles before he closes your textbook, moving himself so his back is pressed against the couch. He pats the spot beside him, urging you to sit next to him. 

“This coming from the man who’d much rather study than sleep,” you say as you shuffle beside Brian, who’s folded his arms over his long legs as he tucks his chin over his knee.

“Well, it’s from personal experience then.” He tells you, as he leans over close to you. You feel the warmth of his body press against yours for a brief moment as he does.

“You’re right.” You say getting up and sinking back to your seat beside him, your back against the couch, tucking your legs into yourself to copy Brian. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without your help—so thank you,” you say to him, leaning your head against his shoulders, telling yourself that you’ve always been one of those people who was overly affectionate with their friends. For a moment or two everything is silent except for Brian’s soft breaths beside you.

“Are you still thinking about it?” He asks, moving his head off of yours so he’s looking down at you.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mutter quietly.

“Don’t be. I can distract you if you want?” Brian says, and you hope he doesn’t notice how there’s a pause before you nod, and he practically leaps out of his seat to fetch his camera. He tells you to stay still and you do, though you aren’t able to keep yourself from being startled as he snaps two photographs of you in quick succession, a big smile on his face the entire time he does.

“What was that?” You giggle, in mild confusion.

“Hang on a moment—it’ll be worth it, promise,” he says as the two of you wait for the photographs to develop. 

As the two of you wait there patiently, Brian pulls out a small device with two lenses attached at the end from his bag. “This,” he says, holding it up, “is used to view stereoscopic photographs—“

“Did you get that out of a Weetabix?” You ask, trying to hold back your laughter. 

“…Yes.” Brian says chewing his lip, and shifting slightly in his seat.

“It’s from a cereal box!” You cackle.

“But I’ve made some alterations to it! I’ve upgraded it! Aha! Now, here, have a look,” he says, laughing along with you. Brian takes the photographs of you, your eyes wide open in confusion in both of them, setting them beside one another on the coffee table. He gives you the device, telling you to focus on the photographs, smiling as you lean in and adjust yourself to view the pictures.

“Now the photographs I took—they’re not quite the same,” he explains “so what you’ll get is the effect of the photograph being three-dimensional. Like you’re there in that moment.”

“I do! I see it! Blimey, that’s cool. Wish you’d taken a better photo of me though—I look like a deer caught in headlights!”

“You can keep it if you’d like.” 

“Oh, what use am I gonna do with a picture of myself? Can you teach me, then? I’d much rather have you instead—your picture I mean!” You say, feeling a heat creep up your neck as you realize what you’d just said. Fortunately Brian is too overjoyed to notice your slip-up, ecstatic that one of his best friends is showing interest in his passions. 

It takes you a couple of tries, and you apologizing to Brian for wasting his film, even though he reassures you that, ‘it will all be worth it!’ Eventually with much redirection, trial and error, you take the photos that produce the effect, which practically makes Brian giddy with enthusiasm. When you view it, you can see Brian looking up at you, a small smile on his face—a moment that you were thankful you’d be able to revisit.

“You did it! You got it faster than I did—took me ages figuring that out. My mum got cross with me for using up the film. It’s really good, Y/N.”

You stand up and do an overly dramatic curtsy as Brian claps, that wide grin still on his face. “You are far too kind,” you say rather grandly, taking Brian’s hand as you sit back down next to him. 

“I can keep these, yeah?” You ask, gesturing to the trial photographs, which is just Brian staring awkwardly into the camera or blinking, and ruining your shot. He nods as you take them in your hands, giggling at how silly he looked in some of them.

“As long as I keep the stereo of you—took the definition of doe-eyed to a whole new level, didn’t you?” Brian smirks widening his eyes to mimick you. “Any relation to Bambi?” He adds quickly.

You look at him, pretending to be thoroughly unamused, your lips a hard line, and one brow raised as Brian attempts to hold back fits of laughter, unable to look at you as he does. But you can’t help it, how you wish this moment would never end, and the dread that comes with the thought that it inevitably has to.

“Oh, what am I gonna do without you next year?” You muse fondly all of a sudden. There’s a hint of bittersweet in your voice at the thought of him leaving, which Brian definitely notices.

Suddenly he’s gone quiet. Brian shifts for a moment so he’s facing you before speaking again. “Oh, erm. Well, actually I’ve been meaning to tell you—I got accepted into the P.h.D. program. So m’afraid you’re stuck with me—for a while.“

You practically lunge forward, flinging your arms around him and muttering all your congratulations while still wrapped tightly around him. “Oh I knew you’d get it! Brian I’m so proud of you!” You mumble, your voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder. You were happy for him—truly. He was intelligent and passionate about his studies, and it made you happy seeing him succeed. Yes, you were happy, but somewhere deep in the back of your mind you were happy knowing you’d still have Brian close by for the next few years. 

When you let go of him, neither of you pull away. 

Suddenly you feel just how close the two of you are, that you can practically feel the warmth of his breath on your face, feel his heart beating as his chest pressed up against yours. 

“My dad really wanted me to,” Brian says softly, avoidant of your gaze as the two of you were this close to one another. “I could never say no to him.”

You nod as you listen intently, neither of you refusing to pull away. He finally looks up at you, studying your gaze as they drift to observe the way his eyelashes kiss his cheekbones when his lids sit low. The proximity made you flush, and you prayed that Brian wouldn’t notice your touch lingering, the way your arms were still around him. 

“You’re wearing your hair all curly—I just noticed.” You observe, all of a sudden, your eyes drifting to a defined curl that rested on his forehead. You wonder how it had escaped you, all these hours you’d spent with him and you didn’t even notice such a small little detail until now.

“Oh, erm. Yeah, I thought I’d give it a go—all that straightening can’t be good for it, I s’pose” Brian tries to let out a small laugh, his face flushed with pink as he manages to get his words out. He doesn’t pull away, or let you go, though. For a second or two he’s unconscious of his hands falling to rest upon your hips, before he quickly pulls them off of you his cheeks now kissed with a deep pink.

“I really like it.” You say, your eyes fixed on his as one finger comes up to delicately place a stray curl back into place. You think for a moment that you hear Brian’s breath hitch as you touch him, but you brush it off as your own subconscious. He was so close, you thought. His lips only a few millimetres away from yours. But it wouldn’t be right.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling away quickly. “I got too excited—I’m really glad you got in, Bri. I’m proud of you,” you say, your smile a vague attempt to hide away your anxieties, hoping Brian doesn’t notice how uneven your breath is, how the heat’s crept up your neck. 

Brian blushes a bit, his head shrinking into the neck of his sweater, muttering a small ‘thank-you’ and ‘it’s alright’ when you take your place and sit back down next to him, close enough so that your sides are touching. There’s something different in the way the silence fills the room now, different to how it was mere moments ago. But it doesn’t take long before you lean your head against his shoulder again, prompting him to lean his head against yours once more. Yet you can’t help how your thoughts drift from you, wondering if there was anything more to you and Brian.

————————————————————

Friday, 1970

“We can’t bloody well sell it! It’s my fucking jacket!”

“It’s atrocious, Fred!”

“You don’t know a thing about fashion, darling—“

You felt a bit awkward, overhearing the argument—as a matter of fact the whole reason for your presence there was awkward. Suzie, had decided, she’d drag you along to Kensignton Market to go and ‘keep an eye on’—in her words, “Roger Taylor, the love of her life.” Of course, such a plan might have worked if Roger hadn’t known either of you. The only reason you’d agreed was the hope that you’d finally be able to meet Roger and Brian’s elusive third roommate, who had apparently just recently changed his name, and to maybe get Brian something as a thank-you for enduring you as his student in maths. You’d gotten the results of your statistics exam back and had passed with flying colours. You felt it would be nice to get Brian something especially considering the fact that when he aced his French exams he’d gotten you something too. It was a small plush polar bear—one that you’d mentioned was cute from a few weeks ago when you and Brian had passed by the window of the shop. It was a small gesture, but it made you smile to think he’d remember a small thing you’d said.

“Suzie, I don’t think this is a good idea—what if he sees us?’ You worry, peering over to see Roger arguing with a dark haired man from beneath the gaggle mannequins and hat boxes stacked atop one another.

“That’s exactly the point, Y/N!” Suzie exclaims, grabbing a hold of your shoulders in a manner that’s probably too harsh that your back presses against the hatstand behind you, toppling it over with a loud thud tp the floor and calling attention to the both of you. The noise must have alerted them—there wasn’t any way they didn’t hear.

“Hullo, Y/N, Suzie. How are we doing today ladies?” Called out Roger from their makeshift counter. Suddenly he turns to his friend, yanking a cigarette out of his mouth, muttering a tiny tsk tsk, as he waves a finger almost patronizingly.

“Don’t smoke in here—the coat’s will smell like shit.”

“Everything here smells like shit!”

“Hey Rog,” Suzie says rather wistfully, effectively interrupting the beginnings of another argument as she begins flipping her hair over her shoulder, practically jogging over to where Roger is. You just hold your hand up, waving hello at Roger, making a face that says “I’m really sorry about my roommate.” He seemed to understand, making a face that seemed to say, “no it’s not your fault your roommate can’t take a hint.”

As Roger attempts to entertain Suzie, the other man saunters over to where you are.

“Apologies—me and my associate were just having a bit of a dispute. I’m Freddie, this is Roger—though you already seem to have met.” He holds out an elegant hand, each finger adorned with rings and the tips with black nail varnish. His features are quite sharp and angular with an effortless elegance and a kindness, his hair, dark and messy as it frames his face—so this is the elusive Freddie.

“Freddie—yes! Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard all about you! I’m Y/N.” You say, taking his hand.

“Y/N?—are you Brian’s Y/N?—Oh, my dear, it’s so nice to finally have a pretty face for that name! All he ever does is talk about you!”

You blush, feeling heat creep up onto your cheeks, no doubt flushing them pink. Brian’s Y/N. 

“That’s sweet of him,” you say biting at your lip a bit, noticing how there’s a knowing smirk lingering on the side of Freddie’s face. 

“Brian can be very sweet, can’t he? You must tell me about this whole other side of Brian—I rarely get to see it. It’s always ‘don’t burn the flat down, Fred’ or ‘could you not play an entire concerto when I’m reviewing for my astronomy final!’ Why, you must know of Brian’s sweetness better than anyone else.” He says, rather slyly, his voice teasing, as you blush and go quiet. Although he hadn’t said anything particular, there isn’t any doubt of what he’s implying. 

“Sorry about the mess and barging in—“ You say, trying to change the subject.

“Oh don’t worry about it. Adds character to this whole ruddy place anyway. And I much appreciated the distraction—“

Crash! A noise came suddenly from towards the counter, followed up by a small “sorry!” From Roger, now sat on the floor, who it seemed had accidentally destroyed the makeshift counter by putting the weight of his legs against it.

“Roger! What did you do?” Snapped Freddie—though he sounded more amused than irritated.

“It’s two fucking planks of wood, Fred! Help me put it back, will you?” Roger shouts, attempting to get up and reassuring Suzie that he’s not dying. 

“Right. Well, I am glad to finally meet you, dear. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a busy man. Do make yourselves comfortable while you’re here darlings! I’ll just go and deal with Roger—right, Taylor don’t get your knickers in a twist!”

You look around the shop, noticing a couple of items you’re sure you’d seen back at their flat, haphazardly flung across the sofa while you and Brian attempted to study. It was a small boutique, no bigger than an alley-way. Its walls adorned with oil paintings and sketches—some of them Freddie’s, you’d noted. Canvases were stacked up against the walls, and coatracks full of beautiful clothes which you assumed were, in Brian’s terms, “bloody flea-bitten.” You glance over to look at the counter, shaking your head at the way Freddie and Roger attempted to hammer together planks of wood to form a counter. Suzie, as always, was orbiting Roger, awkwardly trying to get a word in. 

A small crate of old photographs and postcards catches your eye. Some of them are dated 1890, 1880—1870—most of them featuring women in their drawers, which would have been quite scandalous for the time, the thought of which makes you laugh a bit. You wonder if there are any vintage stereos in the pile. It would be a nice surprise for Brian, he was quite fond of vintage stereos—the way he mused about the ones he saw at the auctioneers. You look through them, sorting out each photograph carefully, looking for a stereo. Gotcha.

You pick out one of what seems to be the full moon. The paper is yellowed, and fragile, with a few tears on its sides. On its borders are written the date in sprawling cursive font—1870, reprint. The moon is round and full, its craters cast in shadow, its normally silver glow a sepia in the picture. There was just something so quintessentially Brian about the whole photograph that made you smile.

You purchase it from Roger, for a threepence, who seemed unaware of the fact that he was selling you a photograph that you were certain was an antique. Freddie, gives you a knowing little smile as he wraps the photograph in parchment paper, no doubt very much certain that you were going to give it to Brian. He’s kind enough to walk you and Suzie out of the shop, his arm gallantly wrapped around yours as he does, urging you to come over for tea time when he’s around. Freddie gives you a wink as you and Suzie say your goodbye’s. You freeze, and blush a deep pink once again when Freddie calls out after you saying, “say hello to Brian for me!”

——————————————————————

Saturday night, 1970

“Hello?” You answer, after finally wringing out the telephone from your roommate’s overly tight grasp. So Roger had called. You think to yourself, as you look over at Suzie, with a smile on her face and giddy excitement that only ever comes when she hears the voice of her one and only Roger Taylor. You smirk at Suzie, sat on the couch as she gives you a guilty smile before she returns to her book.

“Hey, Y/N, it’s Rog. Listen, I was wondering if you could do us a favour. We’ve got a bit of a problem.” He sounded a bit stressed, from the sound of his voice.

“Is everything alright, Roger? Did anything happen?” You inquire, your voice coloured with concern. 

“Nothing’s wrong—everything’s perfect—if it weren’t for one damn thing.” He adds the last part almost as an exasperated mutter.

“I can’t tell if this is a prank or you’re going to make me do something I’ll regret“ 

“It’s not!” Roger almost whines from the other end. “Listen, Bri’s been an absolute numpty and left his bloody guitar at home—we’ve a gig tonight and he’s fucking forgotten all about it. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to go over to our flat and give it to him before the gig. We kind of need a guitar, y’know. Rock and roll and everything.” Roger says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. You can practically hear him take a long, dramatic drag from his cigarette on the other end.

“He’s stressed out, Rog. Give him a break—“

“Yes well, he’s always stressed, Y/N. When isn’t he? Great guy, love him to bits, but the memory of a goldfish, as you know. Give us a hand will you?” He practically pleads. Well. He had a point, you think. On more than one occasion Brian had forgotten the keys to his apartment, which had caused him to sleep over at your place, not wanting to face the wrath of his roommates whose sleep, or other activities, he would have had to interrupt. Of course, you didn’t mind. In fact you quite liked having him around.

“Yes, well I’ve got things to do too, Rog,” You begin, fingers twisting at the thick black coils of the telephone. “Why can’t you just pick it up—“

“I’m a busy man, Y/N, I’ve got things to see, people to do—“

“Christ, Rog—“

“That was a joke! It’s a bad one I know. Anyway I can’t cause I’m at rehearsal right now and Fred can’t cause he’s at his parents’. Pretty please just help us?” Suddenly Roger changes the infection of his voice, making himself sound more higher pitched and nasally as he dons a ‘baby voice’—a trick he knew from experience would either be irresistible to women (though, in honesty just probably Suzie) or annoying enough for you to cave in. “C’mon, Y/N, do it for pwetty bitty Bwian—“

“Ok! I’ll do it, just please never talk to me like that again.” You say, shaking your head, but unable to hold back a laugh at Roger’s antics. “Spare key still under the mat, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thank’s Y/N—you really saved our necks. Especially Brian’s neck—from my foot that is!” Roger taunts at the end of the line before hanging up. You shake your head, and grab your bag and keys, heading out for the door. 

———

It takes you a few minutes, wading through still unopened boxes, records, and flare trousers of all different sizes littered across the floor of their flat. You almost trip over a jacket, the heel of your shoe catching on the loud-patterned bell sleeves. You aren’t quite sure if it belongs to Brian or Freddie or Roger—as you’ve certainly seen all of them wear it on at least one occasion. 

You finally make your way to Brian’s room, smiling a bit at how quintessentially Brian everything was. His small bookshelf was barely able to hold up as some books were laid on their side, trying to fit into any space available. His guitar rests against his wall almost precariously, threatening to fall flat on its front at the smallest touch. Your face lights up when you see the stereo of the moon you’d given him displayed proudly on his nightstand. When you had given it to him he had been speechless, his only response was to hold you in his arms and practically lift you up the ground as he murmured a thank-you into your shoulder. He’d apologized for surprising you—but you didn’t mind in the slightest. You’re left there blushing when your gaze drifts to find that the stereo photos that he took of you looking like a deer caught in headlights from last winter is displayed proudly along with it, taped together as they rested on the frame of the first photograph. 

You pad around his room, looking under his bed, and behind the door, looking for his guitar case. You find it shoved atop one of his cupboards, at a height that only Brian could ever reach.  You huff, waving your hands, trying to grab a hold of it. Going on your tiptoes you try and grasp at the strap of the case, only to have it fall down rather disgracefully at your feet. Just as you’re about to pick up the case, a notebook falls from the cupboard hitting over your head as it falls open to the ground, it’s pages pressed against the floor.

You pick it up, not wanting to make a mess when you see that it reads “French 100” on the side. Intrigued and hoping to reminisce on your time spent studying together for the class, you open it, hoping that you’ll find conjugation rules and notes about Baudelaire and pronunciation. Instead all you find is a song.

You catch a glimpse of about half the page before you snap it shut. You knew you probably shouldn’t intrude, that you probably shouldn’t pry and overstep Brian’s boundaries, but your mind lingers on what you’d seen. Your eyes widen, and you can feel your heart beating in your throat.

It was about a girl. The handwriting was unmistakably Brian’s, and the way he described her, talked of her, thought of her only meant that he was in love with her. 

Whoever she was. 

You hurriedly pick the notebook up, shoving it back into his closet, not wanting to think about just who this girl might be. You try not to think about the words sprawled in black ink as they tripped over the margins of the book, every word a silent prayer that she’d notice him too, immortalizing her smiling dark eyes in a song that he no doubt sang only for her. For a moment you think if there’s a chance Brian’s written the song about you, but you shake the thought away. She was ethereal, beautiful and enchanting. By the looks of it Brian practically worshipped the very ground she walked on. You two were just friends.

Your thoughts are interrupted when notice the quickened pace of your heart’s beating, a dry lump that seemed to be stuck in your throat, and the unmistakable feeling of jealousy at the pit of your stomach.

You try to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be upset. Why would you be? It’s not like there was anything between you and Brian. Whoever this girl was, you thought, was lucky. Your friend was in love, and you were happy for him. You and Brian were meant to be friends, nothing more.

So you carefully place his guitar in the case and leave, everything just the same as it was before.

——

You barely even make your way to the front of the stage, choosing instead to wave over to Roger to catch his attention so he jogs over to where you are by the door. 

“Here,” you say, handing over Brian’s guitar, careful so that the strap of the case doesn’t catch onto your neck. Roger, as annoyed with Brian as he probably was in that moment, is a careful, if not more as he takes it from you—knowing Brian he’d probably faint at the sight of one dust particle settling on his Red Special.

“Thanks so much, Y/N, you’re the best—do you want to come to the back? Bri’s there probably studying—bloody nerd,” Roger snorts, but you shake your head, telling him that you really had to head out, and that you probably won’t even be able to make it to the show anyway. Roger looks puzzled, you and Brian had never not made time for each other.

“Oh. Well, I could call him over just so he doesn’t go looking for you later—“

“It’s fine, Rog. I’ve just got to head out.” You say rather bluntly.

“Is anything the matter, Y/N?” He asks, his brows furrowed in concern as you shrug it off, telling him you just feel a bit ill. Roger doesn’t seem convinced but he doesn’t press you. Instead he just maintains a polite demeanour as you bid him and the rest of the band a “good luck”.

As you exit the pub, the golden light of the afternoon sun seems almost too bright. A cold breeze blows by past you, strands of your hair blowing into your face as it does. You had tried not thinking about it but the more you tried the more you found she was all you could think about. And you didn’t even know who this girl was. You couldn’t help but let your mind linger on the thought of how much Brian wanted her. You take in a deep breath, looking out to lift your head towards the crowded street.

You loved Brian. You were certain now more than ever. And it was too late.

You felt a bit childish, creating this distance between yourself and Brian, but you couldn’t bring yourself to see him–not right not anyway.

—————————————————

that night, 1970, Brian’s perspective

Take your chances. Brian told himself. Roger’s right. No. No. No—

Maybe i should.

He’d been thinking of telling Y/N since winter. About how he felt—about her, about them. He always seemed to find the right words when he was with her. The trouble was that he could never say them to her—could never bring himself to out of fear that she wouldn’t feel the same, or that he’d ruined their friendship. Maybe it was selfish, but then again, maybe he wasn’t wrong. Instead his confessions were written across lined pages of his notebooks, page after page professing what he feared might have been love for this girl who was his friend. 

That one night in winter, Brian recalled how close her lips were, how her touches lingered, and how he felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. His touches had lingered against her skin but she didn’t pull away. But maybe that was just wishful thinking. He’d never felt that close to her. All he ever seemed to do was replay that night, think of the sond of her laughter as the two of them snapped photograph after photograph. 

Although he didn’t know for certain he’d hoped from the way she’s looked at him that night that she might have felt the same way. He wanted to take her by the hand, take her some place they could be alone so he could finally tell her. In his mind when he thought of the day he somehow plucked up the courage to tell her, he’d hoped that she’d tell him she felt the same and that when his touches did linger she wouldn’t move away. All he ever did was hope for that moment, but the moment never came. 

And so here he was now, his back against the cool concrete of the wall, head hanging low as he waited with his bandmates to play their set for the night, trying to take his mind off of her for once.

———

The gig had gone by with what seemed like a matter of minutes. One second they were playing together in a dimply lit pub, singing to a crowd that seemed to be as loud as they were. Then the next, they were backstage, packing up their instruments hastily before the owner would eventually come in and usher them out for staying past their time-slot. Brian had stolen glances at the crowd, his gaze shifting through the audience, trying to find Y/N.

Brian weaves his way around Roger who’s preoccupied with taking down his drum kit, excusing himself as he heads back into the pub to look for Y/N. Once inside his eyes adjust to the dimmer lights as he’s faced with a group of students telling him he played well that night. Brian exchanges his thank-yous with them, nodding as he tries to look for Y/N, weaving past through them, his neck held high as he tries looking for her.

Brian worries, thinking if anything might have happened between when Roger last saw her just a few hours ago and now. Brian was just about to make his way to the payphone when he hears Tim call his name.

“Brian? D’you mind coming to the back again? I’m calling band meeting.” Tim says. He’s stood by the doorway, his bass slung across his shoulders as he avoided leaning on the poster plastered walls of the building. He held up his hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he waited for Brian.

Brian nods after a moment’s hesitation, before following Tim, who leads him out back to the lot where the van’s already loaded with all of their equipment. Everything with the exception of Tim’s bass guitar. Roger sits in the open back of the van, his feet tapping against the back of the wheels. 

“Did you see Y/N tonight Rog? She said she’d come.” Brian asks worriedly as he sits down next to him.

Roger shakes his head no, a knowing look on his face as shifts away from his friend’s gaze suddenly. “She seemed a bit out of it, mate,” he adds, trying to ease his friend’s worries. “I don’t think she was feeling well—might be sick.” 

Brian nods his head, although something tells him that even Roger himself wasn’t quite sure if he was telling the entire truth. 

Roger leans back,trying to change the conversation as he props his feet up onto the bumper. “Right then, Timothy, why have you called us out here?”

After a few moment’s hesitation, Tim tells the both of them that he’s thinking of leaving. He tells them that he’s not sure if Smile’s going anywhere. Brian stands up and tries talking him out of it, telling him they’ve just hit a slump in their careers, though he knows he’s right. Just when Roger joins in trying to talk him out of it, Tim tells the both of them that he’d gotten an offer to play with a different band. Brian isn’t able to speak, and neither can Roger.

“Let’s face it, guys. Smile’s going nowhere—I have to take my chances. I have to.” Tim says, his voice strained by some guilt, but still unwavering as he stands his ground. “I’m sorry,” is the last thing he says before he walks away.

 Despite their protests both Brian and Roger know that they can’t control their friend’s decisions. For a few minutes the two of them sit there, stunned in the parking lot, breathing in the cool air. After a few minutes the two of them begin waxing on about hypotheticals—who might work, who wouldn’t work, but the two of them eventually exhaust the conversation. The both of them, too tired to think or talk about it right now, much more willing to put it off as a problem for the morning. 

Brian and Roger spend the car ride in silence, aware that they’re a step further from where the both of them wanted to be in their lives. Not much words are exchanged as the both of them make their way to their flat and into their respective rooms.

Brian sits on the edge of his bed, feeling a weight pulling at his chest.  For a while he listens to the quiet, just sitting there in his room as a sliver of light from outside illuminates the photographs on his nightstand. He notices the stereo that Y/N gave her and the one of her. He smiles but quickly remembers tonight. 

Something about the way Roger had avoided his gaze tells him that something was wrong with Y/N. Of course she didn’t owe him an explanation, but he couldn’t let his anxieties cloud his thoughts—thoughts that told him maybe he’d been too overbearing—too needy, maybe he let his touches lingered for too long, suffocated her by needing to be around her too much and pushed her away. He knew those kind of thoughts had little truth in them, but part of him wanted to believe them.

He felt that familiar distance between the two of them, only now it seemed as thought they were a whole universe apart, lightyears away from each other.

Brian furrows his brows and hunches over to rest his head in his hands. He lets out a small groan of frustration, trying not to think about how he couldn’t seem to do anything in his life right. 

He wasn’t even good at what he thought he was good at—he feared the rest of the world might move on while he stayed still. As frustrated as Brian was with Tim he admired him for taking his chances. I could never be that brave, he thought. He was always too busy with his studies to focus on music, too scared to stand up against his dad, too scared of ruining things with Y/N to tell her how he felt.

He was going nowhere. Not with music, not with his studies, not with Y/N. What was perhaps the worst thing was that he still couldn’t admit to himself that he was in love with her. He was too scared. 

Brian would sing songs about her every day if he could. He could find every other word to describe how he felt about Y/N with the exception of one.

[bountyofbeads]

The 1619 Project https://nyti.ms/2Hjvu0L

The 1619 Project is a major initiative from The New York Times observing the 400th anniversary of the beginning of American slavery. It aims to reframe the country’s history, understanding 1619 as our true founding, and placing the consequences of slavery and the contributions of black Americans at the very center of the story we tell ourselves about who we are.

"We asked 16 writers to bring consequential moments in African-American history to life. Here are their poems and stories:"

Published August 14, 2019 | "1619 Project" New York Times | Posted August 16, 2019 |

⬤ August 1619

A poem by Clint Smith

In Aug. 1619, a ship arrived in Point Comfort, Va., carrying more than 20 enslaved Africans, the first on record to be brought to the English colony of Virginia. They were among the 12.5 million Africans forced into the trans-Atlantic slave trade, their journey to the New World today known as the Middle Passage.

Over the course of 350 years,

36,000 slave ships crossed the Atlantic

Ocean. I walk over to the globe & move

my finger back & forth between

the fragile continents. I try to keep

count how many times I drag

my hand across the bristled

hemispheres, but grow weary of chasing

a history that swallowed me.

For every hundred people who were

captured & enslaved, forty died before they

ever reached the New World.

I pull my index finger from Angola

to Brazil & feel the bodies jumping from

the ship.

I drag my thumb from Ghana

to Jamaica & feel the weight of dysentery

make an anvil of my touch.

I slide my ring finger from Senegal

to South Carolina & feel the ocean

separate a million families.

The soft hum of history spins

on its tilted axis. A cavalcade of ghost ships

wash their hands of all they carried.

Clint Smith is a doctoral candidate at Harvard University and the author of the poetry collection “Counting Descent,” as well as a forthcoming nonfiction book, “How the Word Is Passed.” Photo illustration by Jon Key. Diagram: Getty Images.

⬤ March 5, 1770

A poem by Yusef Komunyakaa

In 1770, Crispus Attucks, a fugitive from slavery who worked as dockworker, became the first American to die for the cause of independence after being shot in a clash with British troops.

African & Natick blood-born

known along paths up & down

Boston Harbor, escaped slave,

harpooner & rope maker,

he never dreamt a pursuit of happiness

or destiny, yet rallied

beside patriots who hurled a fury

of snowballs, craggy dirt-frozen

chunks of ice, & oyster shells

at the stout flank of redcoats,

as the 29th Regiment of Foot

aimed muskets, waiting for fire!

How often had he walked, gazing

down at gray timbers of the wharf,

as if to find a lost copper coin?

Wind deviled cold air as he stood

leaning on his hardwood stick,

& then two lead bullets

tore his chest, blood reddening snow

on King Street, March 5, 1770,

first to fall on captain’s command.

Five colonists lay for calling hours

in Faneuil Hall before sharing a grave

at the Granary Burying Ground.

They had laid a foundering stone

for the Minutemen at Lexington

& Concord, first to defy & die,

& an echo of the future rose over

the courtroom as John Adams

defended the Brits, calling the dead

a “motley rabble of saucy boys,

negroes & mulattoes, Irish

teagues & outlandish jacktars,”

who made soldiers fear for their lives,

& at day’s end only two would pay

with the branding of their thumbs.

Yusef Komunyakaa is a poet whose books include “The Emperor of Water Clocks” and “Neon Vernacular,” for which he received the Pulitzer Prize. He teaches at N.Y.U. Photo illustration by Jon Key. Boston Massacre: National Archives. Attucks: Getty Images.

⬤ 1773

A poem by Eve L. Ewing

In 1773, a publishing house in London released “Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral,” by Phillis Wheatley, a 20-year-old enslaved woman in Boston, making her the first African-American to publish a book of poetry.

Pretend I wrote this at your grave.

Pretend the grave is marked. Pretend we know where it is.

Copp’s Hill, say. I have been there and you might be.

Foremother, your name is the boat that brought you.

Pretend I see it in the stone, with a gruesome cherub.

Children come with thin paper and charcoal to touch you.

Pretend it drizzles and a man in an ugly plastic poncho

circles the Mathers, all but sniffing the air warily.

We don’t need to pretend for this part.

There is a plaque in the grass for Increase, and Cotton.

And Samuel, dead at 78, final son, who was there

on the day when they came looking for proof.

Eighteen of them watched you and they signed to say:

the Poems specified in the following Page, were (as we verily believe)

written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since,

brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa

and the abolitionists cheered at the blow to Kant

the Negroes of Africa have by nature no feeling that rises above the trifling

and the enlightened ones bellowed at the strike against Hume

no ingenious manufacturers amongst them, no arts, no sciences

Pretend I was there with you, Phillis, when you asked in a letter to no one:

How many iambs to be a real human girl?

Which turn of phrase evidences a righteous heart?

If I know of Ovid may I keep my children?

Pretend that on your grave there is a date

and it is so long before my heroes came along to call you a coon

for the praises you sang of your captors

who took you on discount because they assumed you would die

that it never ever hurt your feelings.

Or pretend you did not love America.

Phillis, I would like to think that after you were released unto the world,

when they jailed your husband for his debts

and you lay in the maid’s quarters at night,

a free and poor woman with your last living boy,

that you thought of the Metamorphoses,

making the sign of Arachne in the tangle of your fingers.

And here, after all, lay the proof:

The man in the plastic runs a thumb over stone. The gray is slick and tough.

Phillis Wheatley: thirty-one. Had misery enough.

Eve L. Ewing is the author of “1919,” the “Ironheart” series, “Ghosts in the Schoolyard: Racism and School Closings on Chicago’s South Side” and “Electric Arches.” She is a professor at the University of Chicago.

⬤ Aug. 30, 1800

Fiction by Barry Jenkins

In 1800, Gabriel Prosser, a 24-year-old literate blacksmith, organized one of the most extensively planned slave rebellions, with the intention of forming an independent black state in Virginia. After other enslaved people shared details of his plot, Gabriel’s Rebellion was thwarted. He was later tried, found guilty and hanged.

As he approached the Brook Swamp beneath the city of Richmond, Va., Gabriel Prosser looked to the sky. Up above, the clouds coalesced into an impenetrable black, bringing on darkness and a storm the ferocity of which the region had scarcely seen. He may have cried and he may have prayed but the thing Gabriel did not do was turn back. He was expecting fire on this night and would make no concessions for the coming rain.

And he was not alone. A hundred men; 500 men; a thousand men had gathered from all over the state on this 30th day of August 1800. Black men, African men — men from the fields and men from the house, men from the church and the smithy — men who could be called many things but after this night would not be called slaves gathered in the flooding basin armed with scythes, swords, bayonets and smuggled guns.

One of the men tested the rising water, citing the Gospel of John: “For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.” But the water would not abate. As the night wore on and the storm persisted, Gabriel was overcome by a dawning truth: The Gospel would not save him. His army could not pass.

Gov. James Monroe was expecting them. Having returned from his appointment to France and built his sweeping Highland plantation on the periphery of Charlottesville, Monroe wrote to his mentor Thomas Jefferson seeking advice on his “fears of a negro insurrection.” When the Negroes Tom and Pharoah of the Sheppard plantation betrayed Gabriel’s plot on a Saturday morning, Monroe was not surprised. By virtue of the privilege bestowed upon him as his birthright, he was expecting them.

Gabriel Prosser was executed Oct. 10, 1800. Eighteen hundred; the year Denmark Vesey bought his freedom, the year of John Brown’s and Nat Turner’s births. As he awaited the gallows near the foot of the James River, Gabriel could see all that was not to be — the first wave of men tasked to set fire to the city perimeter, the second to fell a city weakened by the diversion; the governor’s mansion, James Monroe brought to heel and served a lash for every man, woman and child enslaved on his Highland plantation; the Quakers, Methodists, Frenchmen and poor whites who would take up with his army and create a more perfect union from which they would spread the infection of freedom — Gabriel saw it all.

He even saw Tom and Pharoah, manumitted by the government of Virginia, a thousand dollars to their master as recompense; a thousand dollars for the sabotage of Gabriel’s thousand men. He did not see the other 25 men in his party executed. Instead, he saw Monroe in an audience he wanted no part of and paid little notice to. For Gabriel Prosser the blacksmith, leader of men and accepting no master’s name, had stepped into the troubled water. To the very last, he was whole. He was free.

Barry Jenkins was born and raised in Miami. He is a director and writer known for his adaptation of James Baldwin’s “If Beale Street Could Talk” and “Moonlight,” which won the Academy Award for Best Picture. Photo illustration by Jon Key. House: Sergey Golub via Wikimedia. Landscape, right: Peter Traub via Wikimedia.

⬤ Jan. 1, 1808

Fiction by Jesmyn Ward

In 1808, the Act Prohibiting Importation of Slaves went into effect, banning the importation of enslaved people from abroad. But more than one million enslaved people who could be bought and sold were already in the country, and the breaking up of black families continued.

The whisper run through the quarters like a river swelling to flood. We passed the story to each other in the night in our pallets, in the day over the well, in the fields as we pulled at the fallow earth. They ain’t stealing us from over the water no more. We dreamed of those we was stolen from: our mothers who oiled and braided our hair to our scalps, our fathers who cut our first staffs, our sisters and brothers who we pinched for tattling on us, and we felt a cool light wind move through us for one breath. Felt like ease to imagine they remained, had not been stolen, would never be.

That be a foolish thing. We thought this later when the first Georgia Man come and roped us. Grabbed a girl on her way for morning water. Snatched a boy running to the stables. A woman after she left her babies blinking awake in their sack blankets. A man sharpening a hoe. They always came before dawn for us chosen to be sold south.

We didn’t understand what it would be like, couldn’t think beyond the panic, the prying, the crying, the begging and the screaming, the endless screaming from the mouth and beyond. Sounding through the whole body, breaking the heart with its volume. A blood keen. But the ones that owned and sold us was deaf to it. Was unfeeling of the tugging the children did on their fathers’ arms or the glance of a sister’s palm over her sold sister’s face for the last time. But we was all feeling, all seeing, all hearing, all smelling: We felt it for the terrible dying it was. Knowed we was walking out of one life and into another. An afterlife in a burning place.

The farther we marched, the hotter it got. Our skin grew around the rope. Our muscles melted to nothing. Our fat to bone. The land rolled to a flat bog, and in the middle of it, a city called New Orleans. When we shuffled into that town of the dead, they put us in pens. Fattened us. Tried to disguise our limps, oiled the pallor of sickness out of our skins, raped us to assess our soft parts, then told us lies about ourselves to make us into easier sells. Was told to answer yes when they asked us if we were master seamstresses, blacksmiths or lady’s maids. Was told to disavow the wives we thought we heard calling our names when we first woke in the morning, the husbands we imagined lying with us, chest to back, while the night’s torches burned, the children whose eyelashes we thought we could still feel on our cheeks when the rain turned to a fine mist while we stood in lines outside the pens waiting for our next hell to take legs and seek us out.

Trade our past lives for new deaths.

Jesmyn Ward is the author of “Sing, Unburied, Sing,” which won a National Book Award. She was a 2017 MacArthur fellow. Photo illustration by Jon Key. Landscape: Peter Traub via Wikimedia.

⬤ July 27, 1816

A poem by Tyehimba Jess

In 1816, American troops attacked Negro Fort, a stockade in Spanish Florida established by the British and left to the Black Seminoles, a Native American nation of Creek refugees, free black people and fugitives from slavery. Nearly all the soldiers, women and children in the fort were killed.

They weren’t headed north to freedom —

They fled away from the North Star,

turned their back on the Mason-Dixon line,

put their feet to freedom by fleeing

further south to Florida.

Ran to where ’gator and viper roamed

free in the mosquito swarm of Suwannee.

They slipped out deep after sunset,

shadow to shadow, shoulder to shoulder,

stealthing southward, stealing themselves,

steeling their souls to run steel

through any slave catcher who’d dare

try stealing them back north.

They billeted in swamp mud,

saw grass and cypress —

they waded through waves

of water lily and duckweed.

They thinned themselves in thickets

and thorn bush hiding their young

from thieves of black skin marauding

under moonlight and cloud cover.

Many once knew another shore

an ocean away, whose language,

songs, stories were outlawed

on plantation ground. In swampland,

they raised flags of their native tongues

above whisper smoke

into billowing bonfires

of chant, drum and chatter.

They remembered themselves

with their own words

bleeding into English,

bonding into Spanish,

singing in Creek and Creole.

With their sweat

forging farms in

unforgiving heat,

never forgetting scars

of the lash, fighting

battle after battle

for generations.

Creeks called them Seminole

when they bonded with renegade Creeks.

Spaniards called them cimarrones,

runaways — escapees from Carolina

plantation death-prisons.

English simply called them maroons,

flattening the Spanish to make them

seem alone, abandoned, adrift —

but they were bonded,

side by side,

Black and Red,

in a blood red hue —

maroon.

Sovereignty soldiers,

Black refugees,

self-abolitionists, fighting

through America’s history,

marooned in a land

they made their own,

acre after acre,

plot after plot,

war after war,

life after life.

They fought only

for America to let them be

marooned — left alone —

in their own unchained,

singing,

worthy

blood.

Tyehimba Jess is a poet from Detroit who teaches at the College of Staten Island. He is the author of two books of poetry, “Leadbelly” and “Olio,” for which he received the 2017 Pulitzer Prize. Photo illustration by Jon Key. Cypress: Ron Clausen via Wikimedia

[the-paris-of-people]

Eleanor and Chidi B99 au headcannon

OOOOO okay:

Eleanor is the immature, yet talented and intelligent, detective who refuses to socialize with the rest of the team. She has a lot of baggage from living with her dirtbag parents and getting emancipated from them at 14 years old. The only person she talks to is Chidi, the uptight, by the book detective who sits at the desk across from her. She constantly teases him, works cases with him so she can tease him, and one day, she makes a bet that she can solve more cases than him. Chidi, who despises Eleanor and resents her ability to solve cases despite the fact that she doesn’t follow the rules, grits his teeth and agrees. Chidi freaks out all year about solving cases, and it turns into a fierce competition. 

Eleanor wins the bet (surprise, surprise), which means that Chidi has to go on the worst date ever with her (loud bars, Eleanor drinking, Jason’s EDM music) Tahani suggests that she makes fun of Chidi so much because she likes him. Eleanor denies it “WHAT?! No I don’t! Shut up, you do!” but there’s a niggling voice in the back of her head. 

Michael (their captain) calls Eleanor and Chidi away to a stakeout in the middle of the night where they sit on top of the roof of the building. Involved in their work, Eleanor forgets to make fun of Chidi, and they talk throughout the night. Eleanor totally softens once she realizes what a little part of her has known all along- she likes Chidi. She really likes Chidi. He’s kind and patient even though Eleanor’s always been awful to him, and he’s so sincere, and she likes the way his brown eyes flit and dart around and the way he bites and licks his lip. He’s really, really cute, she thinks as she turns away from him and blushes. In Jake and Amy fashion, she extends the stakeout to hear Chidi’s adorable ramblings on Kant, and Chidi finds about about it from Michael the next day and raises his eyebrows curiously. Huh. Maybe Eleanor was different than he thought. 

They are so much softer and friendlier from then on- they talk to each other  at their desks, they eat together in the break room, and sometimes, just sometimes, they even grab dinner together after a hard day’s work. Her connection with Chidi allows her to become closer with the squad, which delights Michael. 

A year after the stakeout, when Eleanor and Chidi are good friends, they go undercover to catch a criminal together at a restaurant. Chidi FREAKS OUT because he can’t lie, so Eleanor suggests he doesn’t think of it as lying, but as a stretched version of the truth. As a result, when they show up to the restaurant, Chidi somehow spurts the lie that they’re engaged and that he’s crazy about his new fiance. He kisses Eleanor on the cheek, which thrills her, and then, after they are seated and the customers next to them ask why they love each other, Chidi launches into a speech about how amazing and fearless and funny Eleanor is, and Eleanor is absolutely floored because Chidi can’t lie that well...wait...does this mean he likes her? (Um, not that she cares or anything… she doesn’t like him that much, anyway) 

They go to the park to see the deal go down, and right when Eleanor is asking Chidi if he really meant what he said, HE SEES SOMEONE LOOKING AT THEM AND GRABS AND KISSES HER so they won’t seem suspicious!! Eleanor secretly flips out, but there’s no time for that, they have to get the job done (STILL, SHE CAN’T STOP SMILING AS THEY ARREST THE GUY) 

Back at the precinct, Eleanor finds Chidi in the evidence room and asks him about the restaurant and the kiss. Chidi stutters and flips out and he’s suddenly bad at lying when it comes to not having a huge crush on Eleanor Shellstrop. Eleanor steps forward and tells her she totally likes him, too, and she places a super soft kiss on his lips. Chidi slides his hands across her back, and Eleanor cups his face with her hands, and they keep kissing, slowly, gently, until Tahani comes in and tells them Michael has an announcement to make. They hold hands and trail out to hear the news. 

[yoongink]

Could you do Namjoon+alone for xmas+college au? Thank you~

this is the exact premise of my fav fic of all time rip

One great thing about not going home for Christmas was having the dorm all to yourself. Normally you’d be respectful and courteous, keeping mostly to yourself and avoiding confrontation that way, but with no one around you were free to play your music at any volume, run around the kitchen in your knickers, sing your heart out in the shower, and masturbate as loudly as you want, or rather, dare to.

Truth is, you have to do these things to fill the eerie silence that stretches through the halls these days, you find joy in the little things to distract from how utterly alone and quite vulnerable you are. And after a few days of this the shadows seem longer, deeper somehow, and always moving in your periphery. Every creak, thump, or bump in the night sets your nerves on edge and you start to get a little jumpy. 

You ignore it to the best of your abilities, of course. Because you’re not a child anymore you refuse to be spooked by any of it and go loopy just because you’re spending Christmas alone. Instead you put on a sheet mask, your favourite album, and go make yourself a cup of tea in the kitchen.

Headphones blaring, you do a little jig as you wait for the water to boil. All the while a shadow lurks into your periphery, but you wilfully ignore it, sliding around the linoleum floors in your wooly socks. There’s a sound, like a voice, but you ignore that too, thinking it might just be the music, or the wind, but then it happens again. 

A silly little knot of dread twists in your stomach and you decide to face the shadows and prove to yourself that you have nothing to fear. 

How wrong you were.

Your headphones clatter to the floor as you leap about one meter in the air and shriek at the man facing you.

“Sorry!”

“Oh my fucking god!”

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought you knew I was here.” 

He’s thrown his hands up to show he comes in peace, looking genuinely concerned for about a split second and at least he has the grace not to openly laugh at you. He’s quite tall, with a soft round face, red cheeks, and messy hair.

You realise you know him, Namjoon from down the hall, the boy with the sweet dimples and the wicked sparkle in his eye, who is a mess of limbs when he drinks a little too much and won’t shut up about how “Kant is a cunt.”

“You almost scared me to death!”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

He’s barefoot in his pyjamas, and just as you wonder if he’s been in the dorm with you all along you realise you yourself are in nothing but socks and an oversized jumper that barely covers your ass. 

“I thought I was alone,” you say, by way of explanation.

“Ah,” he shrugs. “Sorry?”

“Uh, Namjoon, right? You study… uh, philosophy?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, literature, but I’m Namjoon, yes.”

“Oh, okay.”

You stare at him a moment, just long enough to appreciate that his gaze doesn’t seem to wander, before the kettle clicks off and you have an excuse to turn away from him and do what you came to the kitchen for, tugging down the back of your jumper all the while.

You collect your headphones and pour the water in record time, shuffling past Namjoon with a mumbled “Well, see ya.” to go die of embarrassment in your room.

“Hey, uh,” he stops you from escaping. “I was wondering, I mean, since we’re the only ones here.”

You give him a look, hoping desperately he’s not about to say something gross when he rubs his neck and looks away.

“Nothing weird, I just– I was gonna order pizza. Do you wanna, like, watch a movie, maybe?” 

He seems to flinch at his clumsy delivery of those words, and you find yourself sympathising with him, both stuck in mighty awkward positions. You realise that if you didn’t do something about it now, it’d be awkward every time you passed one another in the halls or bumped into each other in the kitchen.

“Uh, yeah, just, uh–” you gesture to your tea, the sheet mask, your room. “I just need a minute.”

And while putting on some clothes and disposing of your sheet mask takes about a minute, shrieking into your pillow with sheer embarrassment and making yourself go back out there and face him takes a little while longer.

But it’s worth it.