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seungmvnnie · 4 years ago

Text

Flipped

pairing; Chenle x reader

genre; enemies to lovers au, ‘American high school’ au, angst, fluff

word count; 10.8k

summary; ‘The moment you laid eyes on Zhong Chenle, you had flipped.’ You had known that you were in love with Chenle, your next door neighbor, since you were 7 years old. Chenle wanted nothing to do with you. Until of course, ten years later he starts to realize that perhaps there’s more to you that meets the eye, unluckily just as you began to realize, perhaps Chenle was less than you had chalked him up to be.

warnings; insensitive language regarding illness, death, female reader, heavily inspired by the movie flipped, some scenes are near word for word from the movie, so credits to the movie for those parts, although parts of the main narrative differ, as well as scenes. A large majority of the characters are not similar to their real life counterpart.

tag list; @sunflowerhae @byunbaekby @mikasrecs(if you asked to be on the tag list and i didn’t tag you, i’m very sorry, i was terrible at tracking who was on it cause im an idiot)

a/n; Started making it. Had a breakdown. Bon Appetit.

It all began in the Summer before second grade. In Zhong Chenle’s eyes, it was the beginning of a decade of strategic avoidance, awkward encounters, and a lifetime worth of what he deemed to be, discomfort.

For you, it was true love.

The moment you laid eyes on Zhong Chenle, you had flipped. It was something in those eyes, those dazzling brown eyes which bore into you. Or maybe it was something about his smile. There was something about him which made you realize that at 7 years old, you had met your soul mate. His family had just moved into your neighborhood, a long cul-de-sac of identical, modern two-story houses, the majority of which had the same identical clean cut lawns and typical nuclear well off family who owned the house and prided themselves on how their petunias were better than the house across the streets. That was except for yours, of course. Deemed the ‘embarrassment of the neighborhood,’ the yellow paint on your house was flaking off, the grass dry and grey and the fence encasing the yard, which had at one point been white was now a dull grey, not to mention falling apart in some places. This was attributed to the fact that your father simply did not have the time. As a painter, he had to work extra hard to provide for his family, especially considering your mother’s situation.

It was a hot summer’s day, the day Chenle moved in. You could remember the feeling of the sun on your face as you basked in its warmth, the pavement on which you sat almost boiling as the moving van pulled up to the house opposite yours. You had recalled that your father had told you to always be kind and helpful, which is why you had thought it appropriate to skip across the road to the nice looking family and offer a helping hand.

Little did you know, your help was unwanted. Chenle remembered watching the girl skip – skip? As if anyone had done that since kindergarten – from the odd-looking house across the way and when she confidently stated,

“Hi, I’m (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Need any help?” He looked to his father for confirmation that this girl was strange. He noticed the judgmental look which was written on his father’s face as he surveyed the girl with the messy hair and grubby clothes, no doubt from playing in the unpleasant yard which she came from that juxtaposed with their clean, green yard. He recognized the exact moment that his father deemed them better than her, a switch in his face where he knew where she stood on the social ladder. Acting according, he too looked at the girl with disdain.

“There’s some valuable things in those boxes. Don’t touch them.” His father had scolded as you reached for one of the boxes that were stacked on their lawn.

“What about this one?” You suggested, reaching for another one. This was the moment that Chenle had realized that this girl could not take a hint. His father had pushed the box away with his foot before you could even touch it.

“Maybe you should run home? Your moms probably worried about you.” He sneered, staring down his nose on you. Resilient, you stared back.

“My dad knows I’m here.” You had replied simply, before turning to Chenle.

“Want to push one together?” You asked, pointing at one of the heavier ones. Chenle scrunched his face up at you, looking to his father for answers.

“I think your mom wants your help in the house, Chenle.” His dad had replied, not so subtly winking at him, as if to say, ‘escape from the crazy girl while you can.’

He seized the opportunity, turning on his heel and running towards the house, where his mother stood in the doorway, when the most ridiculous thing happened. Not only did (Y/N) (Y/L/N) follow him, but you grabbed his hand.

“Oh, hello! I see you’ve met my son.” His mother had called out, a small smile growing on her face as she observed the sight of the two 7-year olds connected by their hands.

Chenle, having no clue how to escape the situation, did the most mature thing a 7-year-old boy could do. He hid behind his mother.

Who did you think you were? He had been here for less than 10 minutes and he had some crazy girl trying to hold his hand.

Of course, for you, you really had thought you were being kind. The boxes on the lawn did look intimidatingly heavy but you were sure with the help of the cute boy stood next to them, you could help get them into the house. You hadn’t picked up on the fact that it had taken Mr. Zhong all of 10 seconds to determine that you weren’t worthy of their time and when he had sent his son inside to help unpack, you thought maybe it would be a good idea to chase after him, see if he wanted to play for a bit before he was stuck unpacking boring boxes. You had grabbed his arm to stop him from running into his house, when he turned around and moved his arm out of your clasp, grabbing your hand instead.

You could remember vividly, the way your stomach had flipped as he stared at you with those deep brown eyes, and you had been so sure he was going to kiss you. He had held your hand! At 7, you had basically considered that a marriage proposal. If his mother had not have called out to you, you were sure you were going to have had your first kiss at 7 years old. The way he blushed and hid behind his mother was adorable, he was so shy.

That night you lay awake, thinking of the boy who was walking around with your first kiss.

If only he wasn’t so shy, maybe he would have. That was the moment you decided, you were going to do everything in your power to ensure that Chenle would not have to ever feel shy around you. He needed to know; he had a friend in you.

While sweet in theory, the reality of the situation was, Chenle believed he did not need the help of, what his father had referred to the evening after you, your two older brothers and your father brought over homemade pies, ‘trash like them.’ He especially did not need the help of the girl who embarrassed him on the first day of school. Yes, you had thought it appropriate, upon seeing Chenle enter the classroom of Mr. Lee on the very first day of school, to run up to him and give him a huge hug, which he of course, had struggled against. That’s what had earned him the reputation of being (Y/N) (Y/L/N)’s boyfriend, a reputation he did not manage to shrug off until freshman year of high school, and he only got rid of through dating Lee Chaeryong for an incredibly brief period of time, who was perfectly sweet, but he didn’t find her particularly interesting.

For a while, he found dealing with Chaeryong’s insistence yammering about nothing he cared about a lot easier to endure than the lovesick eyes you gave him. The plan was, he would walk her to class a few times, sit with her at lunch and eventually, you would lose interest, he could break up with her. It was all going smoothly, until his best friend, Park Jisung, suddenly decided to get a moral backbone for once and tell Chaeryong what Chenle was doing. Chenle reckoned it was just because of Jisung’s own crush on her, but either way, it had resulted in a very public breakup. A week later, you were back to obsessing over him, and once again he became, (Y/N)’s boyfriend.

3 years later, their senior year, brought a lot of changes, the main change of which being Chenle’s grandfather had permanently moved in with their family. Chenle did not know much of his grandfather. An old surly man, he spent his days sat in the armchair beside their front window, staring blankly out into the empty street. Chenle’s mom said he did that because he missed grandma, although Chenle would not know as much he had very little conversations with him. The second change in Chenle’s life was more superficial as everyone was talking about how much (Y/N) had grown between the summer of junior and senior year – your face had thinned out, and you had a much more of a mature air about you and for a brief moment of, what Chenle had deemed insanity, he may have mistaken you as pretty. Of course, the second you had sent him the same goofy smile which graced your face every time you looked at him, and murmured the same,

“Hi, Chenle,” the pit in his stomach from the tired repetition of ten years returned.

“Hi, (Y/N).” He had replied, a tight-lipped smile sent your way.

It is imperative to the justification of your side of the story that you understand that Chenle had never once openly rejected you, or even treated you rudely. You would talk to him when you could, and he would reply perfectly politely, which would only reinforce the idea that it’s not that he did not like you, he was just shy. On top of that, it was not as if you actively pursued him. You spoke to him like one would a friend as, how you saw it, everyone knew you liked Chenle, no doubt, including him. If he wanted to, he would ask you out. Other than that, you were content talking to him when you could.

Other than your looks, a lot more had changed in your life. For almost as long as you could remember, your mother had been sick. There had been a time, a very long time ago, where you could recall how the same scalic motif would echo from the piano which now lay dormant, the thick layer of dust that had blanketed it over the years rendering it inoperable. Your life had been filled with hospital visits to a woman you had never really gotten the opportunity to know and who no longer knew you. You often grazed your hand over the ivory piano keys, and tried to flick through the penciled sheet music which hadn’t been touched since the last time your mom had last scribbled on them but to you it was a foreign language you could only hope to understand.

About a week into September, you had been ignoring your English teacher’s in-depth analysis of some Shakespeare scene and letting your thoughts and eyes wander to where Chenle sat two seats in front of you. His black hair had seemed even darker that day, contrasting with the white t-shirt and denim jacket he was wearing. You were so focused on the way his head would duck down to take notes, that you barely noticed the teacher who had slid into the classroom and leaned to whisper something in your teacher’s ear. It wasn’t until your teacher had called your name and Chenle had spun to stare at you alongside the rest of the class, his brown eyes meeting yours, that you had snapped back into reality, the heat of your embarrassment at getting caught by Chenle warming your face. Funnily enough, you had forgotten about your embarrassment when your teacher had called you out into the hallway, where your tearful father stood. He didn’t have to say anything. You knew.

The next week all blurred together into a flurry of emotions which you purposefully tried your best to forget. The funeral was huge, groups of people from your school coming to show solidarity, as well as the entire neighborhood, including Chenle and his family. You could not bring yourself to glance at him, not with your father crying quietly next to you. You did not know whether to cry for the woman you had never met before.

Your school allowed you the next few months off school, but you had returned after only one month and that month was the quietest your house had ever been. Your father locked himself in his room for the first two weeks, and your brothers oversaw making dinner for the family, which essentially meant the whole family was living off frozen pizza for two weeks. Your dad eventually emerged from his bedroom, but when he did, he was like a man crazed. He insisted that you did a spring clean (it was September) of the house and get rid of the clutter which had gathered from the many years of neglect. You were in charge of sorting through all of the things your dad wanted to give to charity, and you had invited your friend Shin Ryujin over to help. More like she insisted. Ryujin had been new to town in freshmen year and had befriended you before she had known of your reputation as ‘Chenle’s stalker,’ and she had been a fierce friend ever since. You had both been folding a pile of old clothes when your eyes fell on your mom’s old music stand accompanied with that oh so familiar stack of written sheet music under a pile of old toys.

You didn’t want your mom’s handwritten sheet music to end up in a charity shop but your dad had insisted that no one was using it, and, unless you could think of someone else to give it to, it was going to charity. That was when, luckily, you remembered Chenle. He was a skilled piano player and singer, so much so, the whole school anticipated his performance in the Christmas Talent Show, which he had won for the past 3 years. Upon gaining your father’s permission, but against the wishes of Ryujin who had spent the past three years explaining how Chenle was terrible for you and you needed to, in her words, ‘Hoe it up,’ you made the journey across the road and knocked on Chenle’s door, clutching the music stand and sheet music to your chest. Luckily, he had been the one to open the door instead of his father whom you didn’t personally mind, but felt as though he may have disliked you.

It had been early before school one morning, when you had knocked on his door. He was barely awake, the sweatpants and loose t-shirt he had worn for his pajamas still clung to his body. He hadn’t expected to be opening the door to someone from school, let alone you, awake and bright eyed. On a normal day, your chirpiness would have bothered him to no end, but today was different. He hadn’t seen you since your mom’s funeral, and he found that he had wounded up missing your ever-present annoyance. He didn’t know how reassuring that lovesick, “Hi, Chenle,” could be. He couldn’t understand how, in your absence, he found his eyes straying to your empty seat, or when he sat at his desk which lay in front of his window, his eyes would wander to where he knew your bedroom window sat. He had realized, in the few weeks that you were off, that your presence was more comforting that your absence.

His dad hadn’t wanted to go the funeral. Apparently, he didn’t see the point. It was his mother who had pushed them to go, saying how bad they would have looked if they didn’t show their faces. His dad had argued that he didn’t care how he looked to a poor dreamer and the ‘crazies he calls family.’ The only reason they ended up going was because his mom had said she was going with or without him and apparently that would look bad to everyone else in the neighborhood. Chenle didn’t see the harm; sure he didn’t like you, but you were always nice to him and it was only respectful.

“Uh- Hi, (Y/N).” He said, eyes wandering down your body to where you clutched the sheet music and back up to your face. Your heart had flipped, a sensation you were now old friends with and usually attributed to Chenle’s warm brown eyes which traversed your face, his morning voice only making him more attractive. Little did you know, Chenle’s biggest concern at this moment was less checking you out and more checking if you were okay, and judging by the tired bags under your eyes despite your outwardly cheery appearance, you didn’t look okay.

“Hi, Chenle.” For once, those two words didn’t make him want to rip his own hair out.

“Uh, these are my mom’s. My dad wanted to give them to charity but, I don’t know, I thought they’d be better with someone I know... and well, you’re kind of the only musician I know.” His eyes flickered down to the sheet music you clutched in your arms.

“Oh- Thanks?” The music stand looked to Chenle to be at least 30 years old and the yellowing sheet music did not look too enticing, but he reached out his arms for them anyways.

“She wrote the music herself. You don’t have to play it but, I don’t know, I just really didn’t want to see it end up in the back of some charity shop. At least I know, with your talent, it’s in good hands.”

“Oh, well thanks.” You sent him an awkward closed mouth smile before turning on your heel but before you could make the short walk across the road, he called out to you.

“Wait-”

You spun around again.

“Yeah?”

He had stood up from where he had previously been leaning against the door frame, his brow now furrowed.

“Are you- are you coming back to school anytime soon?” He almost cringed as he uttered the words. He always felt bad being nice to you, it felt as if he was giving you false hope. However, for the first time, it came naturally to him as opposed to the fake smile he would give you.

“I’m allowed off until January but I’m coming back next week. It’s just so... quiet at my house. I’m kind of sick of it at this point.” His eyes scanned your face again, in the way that felt as though he could stare into your very soul if he looked hard enough.

“Well, I hope you’re okay.” The sincerity in his voice echoed the sympathetic look on his face.

“Thanks. I’ll see you next week, I guess.”

“See you at school.” He closed the door and looked at the music stand he had left leaning against the wall, which, unfortunately, became the topic of discussion that night at the dinner table.

“I think it was very nice of her to give you that stuff, Chenle.” His Mom had said, the clinking sounds of cutlery against plates underlying the conversation.

“I’m not using them,” He replied simply, as he moved the vegetables his mom had forcibly placed on his plate around with his fork.

“Oh, don’t be a dick, Chenle.” His sister nudged him, ignoring their parent shouts of, ‘language!’

“I’m not being a dick, they’re about 30 years old and I’m a piano player, I don’t use a music stand anyways.” He placed his fork down.

“Well, they’re not lying here and collecting dust. I’m honestly annoyed. Just because their house is all cluttered doesn’t mean our house has to be. You can go back and tell her you don’t want them.” His dad interjected, in that authoritarian manner he so loved.

“Dad, I can’t do that.”

“Eat your vegetables, Chenle.” His mom said, taking a sip from her way-too-expensive crystal wine glass. He rolled his eyes and picked up his fork again, purposely taking a bite out of the broccoli which adorned his plate.

“Why not? Are you scared of her?” His dad challenged, and Chenle couldn’t help but notice the broccoli which remained on his plate. Why did Chenle have to eat it but his dad didn’t?

“I’m not scared of her, it’s just- Her mom just died. I don’t want to be mean.” His fork stopped moving as his Father scoffed.

“Man up. You aren’t being rude, you’re being honest.”

“Chenle, vegetables.”

He groaned, shoveling as much of the vegetables into his mouth as he possibly could in one go before sinking down in his chair. He didn’t have a clue what to do. On one hand, the music equipment was of no use to him, so realistically, it would make the most sense to give them back. But on the other hand, if he gave them back they would just end up with charity and while Chenle didn’t necessarily like the girl, he didn’t think he could be that insensitive. Which was why he had deemed it an amazing idea to ask the paragon of good advice, his best friend, Park Jisung, at school the next day.

“Dude, just give it away yourself.” Jisung had answered assertively, from where he had perched himself atop his desk during their break, opening the cupcake that Chenle had given him. It had originally been a gift from Chaeryong who had long since forgiven him since the Freshmen incident, and every now and then when she got bored, would return to her phase of crushing on him.

“What do you mean?” Chenle asked, ignoring the way he could most definitely see Chaeryong staring at him from behind Jisung’s head, taking a sip of the strawberry milk he had bought from the school vending machine. Jisung rolled his eyes.

“I mean, if you give it away to some thrift shop first, she’ll never know, and you can tell your family that you told her. Boom, both people are happy.” Chenle chewed at the straw of his milk carton. He wasn’t necessarily wrong; in giving the stuff away himself, no one got hurt and he wouldn’t get called a coward by his family.

“Jisung, you’re a genius. Come with me after school? We’ll drop by my house and I’ll drive us into town.” Jisung nodded, cringing as he picked the love heart candy off the cupcake.

Unfortunately for Chenle, he hadn’t seemed to realize that, sat with her back to him was Ryujin, who had overheard the whole conversation, mostly because Chaeryong had insisted they eavesdropped on them to see if they talked about her. Ryujin had let Chenle away with a lot over the years; he had ignored you, laughed at you with his friends, talked about you behind his back and while she would discuss how much of a prick she thought he was with you, you never believed her, or blamed yourself, or make excuses for him. Which was why she deemed it a necessary evil to send you a text saying, ‘Want to go thrift shopping after school? I’ll buy you coffee?’

She knew you would never turn down free coffee. And it actually had turned out you had multiple boxes to donate anyways, although shopping with Ryujin was always an experience. You liked clothes shopping as much as anyone, but Ryujin was crazy. She could take 3 hours to go through one tiny shop.

“Ryujin? Are you done yet?” You had whined, the cardboard coffee cup in your hand had been emptied at least half an hour ago, and you had finished looking for clothes an hour ago. She was especially taking her time today, deliberating every item of clothing she saw and the dark lighting was starting to hurt your eyes, the musky smell of cedar wood and laundry detergent was inviting at first, but now made you feel woozy.

“My feet hurt.” You complained again, only pouting at the joke glare she shot your way. The bell which jingled every time someone entered the shop that you had learned to zone out the past two hours rang again, but this time, Ryujin’s eyes flickered up and rested on the person standing at the door. You furrowed your brow and spun to see who she was staring at, and there stood Chenle and Jisung, both looking positively ill.

“Oh- Hi, Chenle!” You waved, a small smile gracing your face. You cocked your head slightly to look at the two boys who had lost all color to their faces. Chenle still looked as good as ever, and the smell of his citrusy shampoo paired with his expensive smelling cologne cut through the woody scent of the shop, his chestnut brown eyes which lay beneath his messy mop of dark hair bringing butterflies to your stomach the way they always did.

“What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a-,” you didn’t get to finish your sentence as your eyes had fallen down to where he clutched the oh so familiar sheet music and music stand. Your smile dropped, the butterflies in your stomach mutating into lead.

“What are you doing with those?” You asked, quietly, ignoring the way Jisung almost ran back out of the shop.

“I- uh- well...” He looked down, staring guiltily at his hands and the rusty music stand he clutched.

“If you didn’t want them you could have said, you know. You didn’t have to go behind my back to give them away.” You snapped, and for the first time in your whole life, looking at Chenle made your heart sink instead of flip.

“It wasn’t me! My dad said that he didn’t-” He stopped, as if he had caught himself.

“Didn’t what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, and glance to the side, almost as though he was refusing to meet your eyes.

“He said he didn’t understand why our house had to be cluttered just because you only started cleaning up your house and yard now.” He mumbled, and your eyes widened, and you put out an arm to stop Ryujin, who you could sense was about to jump on the boy.

“I didn’t think a bunch of sheet music was going to destroy your house that much.” You replied, letting out a huff and gulping away the lump in your throat, refusing to cry in front of him.

“I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He mumbled, staring at his hands in shame. He had never wished that the ground would swallow him whole more in his entire life.

“You should have told me. Give them to the shop, honestly. I don’t care anymore.” You pushed past him, resisting the urge to throw the empty cardboard coffee cup at him.

“(Y/N)!” He called after you and you turned again, blinking back the tears which were gathering in your eyes, the constant chanting of, ‘don’t cry,’ becoming a sustained pedal in your head and realistically being the only thing stopping the tears from spilling.

“What?”

“I- I’m sorry.” His chestnut eyes you loved so much stared at you in that sincere way that felt as though he could stare into your soul if he tried hard enough, but for once, you could see a corruption in the honesty, a sort of rotten core to what you had previously thought was a pure center.

“No, you’re not.” You mumbled, before spinning back round and dragging Ryujin out by the wrist who had to drop the clothes she had clutched previously in a pile next to the door, having been given no opportunity to replace them tidily.

At first you had thought you were upset, the burning sensation in your chest was mistaken for sadness, but when you brought your hand up to your eyes to wipe away the tears which now fell, the downtrodden feeling switched into anger very quickly. Not only did Chenle lie and act as if he had cared about you and your family, but he had the audacity to talk about you all as if you were a group of hoarders who couldn’t keep your yard presentable.

You slammed your car door shut - while you had previously loved your run-down little jeep, you supposed perhaps the Zhong family liked to comment on that too - ignoring the comforting words Ryujin was uttering as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Are you busy on Saturday?” You asked as you gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white, turning the key in the ignition.

“Uh- I don’t think so. Why?” Ryujin replied, eyeing you warily.

“How do you feel about gardening?”

It didn’t take long for Chenle to realize he had traded in his old problems with (Y/N) (Y/L/N) for a whole set of new ones. You had returned to school the next week, and the way you constantly avoided him was simply a reminder of how much of a jerk he had been. Not to mention when he woke up on Saturday morning to discover you and Ryujin in your garden pulling up weeds, the guilt panging in his chest as he watched you toil away.

Then one day a week later or so, he was walking back from playing basketball from Jisung when things got weird.

His grandfather stood in your front yard, a pair of sheers in hand as he clipped at the hedges which had grown over your windows, conversing quietly with you as you worked.

He had only ever seen his grandfather in slippers - where the hell had those work boots come from? He didn’t even know his grandfather knew how to use sheers let alone would willingly help a random girl from across the street. The more he watched from his bedroom window, the madder he got. His grandfather had said more to you in the last hour than he had the whole time he had lived with them. Chenle wasn’t even sure if he had ever seen his grandfather laugh before, but there he was, laughing at something you said.

You had been struggling with hacking away the hedge when his grandfather had approached you. Ryujin had abandoned helping you a while ago, but you still appreciated the help she had given you originally. You knew gardening wasn’t necessarily her thing. You wanted to think that the reason you had decided to fix up your yard was not because of what Zhong Chenle thought of you, but to make your house better in this new pre-mom times, as your brothers had begun calling them. After what he had done with your mom’s sheet music, why were you meant to care about anything he thought? But sadly, you knew deep down you did.

“Are you pruning that Hedge or hacking it to death?” You heard someone call out, and you swung around to see a man whom you couldn’t help but recognize as being related to Chenle. They had the same smile.

You laughed awkwardly, clutching the sheers a little tighter.

“I’m Chenle’s grandfather. Sorry it’s taken me so long to come over and introduce myself.” He smiled again and outstretched a hand which you then shook.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Are you planning on cutting these all to the same height?” He gestured towards the hedges. You breathed in, looking at the hedges which you had previously been ruining.

“That was the plan, but I might have to take them out. I’m not very good at this, if you can’t tell.” You joked.

“Oh, these are Hicksii shrubs. They should prune up nicely.” He replied, pulling out a pair of gloves he had appeared to have brought with him, and reached out for the sheers you had been holding.

You eyed him wearily, as he cut at the hedge. “Listen, Mr. Zhong, if you’re here because of what Chenle said, I don’t need your help.”

He leaned back and looked at you sincerely.

“I don’t know what my little shit of a grandson said to you, but I’m just here because of the crime you were committing on these shrubs.”

The previous reluctance you had felt was immediately relieved as you let out a sincere laugh, not expecting his crude language.

You both worked together on the yard for weeks, and the whole time you worked, you talked. Mr. Zhong was incredibly kind, and it was honestly nice to know that there was someone in that house who wasn’t watching and waiting for your families next screw up. He told you how you had the same spirit as his wife who died a while ago; apparently you both had the same strong will. Although the conversation that stuck with you the most was a few days into working together and he had tentatively asked you about what was happened with you and Chenle. You had explained the situation while you painted the wood you had bought together to make a fence.

“Well, do you like Chenle?” He had asked, and your face warmed, your hand which held the paint brush stilling.

“I don’t know... It’s something about his eyes, I guess.” You looked down, embarrassed. It felt really weird discussing this with his grandfather.

“But what about him?” Mr. Zhong had asked, his hand still as well.

“What do you mean?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing as you turned your head.

“Well - I mean think of it like this. Your father’s a painter, isn’t he? Well, a painting is more than the sum of its parts. You have to look at the whole landscape. A cow by itself is just a cow, a tree is just a tree, a beam of light is just sunshine, but when you put it all together - it can be something magical. Do you think Chenle’s more than the sum of his parts?” If he had asked you a month ago you would have said absolutely. Chenle was entirely more than the sum of his parts, in every conceivable way. But now you weren’t so sure.

“I- I don’t know.”

Meanwhile, Chenle was still struggling to apologize to you. He had spent all week trying to approach you at school, but when it came to holding a grudge, you were truly impressive. You always found a way to duck him, either turning in the hallway to walk the other way or having Ryujin exit through doors first when he tried to block them to confront you. And every time you were out in your yard, his grandpa was always there. It wasn’t until one day, on a cold Saturday morning towards the end of October, when his grandpa had gone into town to buy cream for his hands because all the yard work was starting to get to him, that he found his opening.

“It looks really good.” He commented, grabbing your attention from where you were watering the grass with a hose. You looked up at the boy whom you had dedicated your life to, who stood awkwardly behind the fence you had put up with his grandfather. You wished you could say he looked bad, but in a flannel shirt, black t-shirt and jeans he had never looked better.

“Thanks.” You said quietly, turning your back to him to continue your work.

“I- I’m sorry for what I did.” He piped up and you sighed before switching off the hose and turning towards him again.

“I don’t get it, Chenle. You could have just told me you didn’t need them. You didn’t have to give them away behind my back.” You looked at him, and for once, you were the one looking into his soul, not the other way around. You looked into those eyes, those dazzling brown eyes which bore into you that belonged to the boy walking around with your first kiss and you thought that perhaps his Grandpa was right. Maybe Chenle wasn’t more than the sum of his parts.

“I don’t know - It was dumb. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have said anything about your yard either. It wasn’t right.” You let your eyes rest on his face again. You were sure - Chenle was definitely less than the sum of his parts. You shrugged.

“Maybe it was for the best.” You turned back towards the grass, turning the hose on again as if to signal, this was the end of the conversation.

“I- I guess I’ll see you around.” He said, hesitantly. You didn’t even turn to look at him this time.

“I guess.”

He spun to make the short trek back to his house, but not without turning back to look at you one last time before opening the bright red door of his house. Your acceptance of his apology was not all he had hoped for, but at least now he could watch TV with his family with a guilt free conscious. although the atmosphere between his grandpa and dad was nearly palpable, especially when his grandfather reached for the cream on the table beside them to rub into his hands.

“That girl working you too hard?” His dad slyly commented, ignoring the foul look his grandfather sent him in response as he rubbed cream into his hands.

“’That girl’s’ name is (Y/N). And no, she isn’t working me too hard.”

Chenle’s dad widened his eyes slightly, staring down into the brandy which he swirled in the glass he held.

“Do you not think it’s a bit, I don’t know, weird, that you have the time and energy to spend time with the girl next door but not with your own grandson?” He replied snippily, ignoring the way his mom interjected.

“-It’s okay, Dad-” Chenle began, but couldn’t finish as his father cut him off with a sharp, “No, it’s not.”

“Do you know why the (Y/L/N)’s hadn’t fixed up their yard until now?” His grandfather asked, more rhetorically than anything.

“Yeah. Because he’s too busy with his paint-by-numbers kit.” His dad answered, chortling to himself at his own joke, taking another sip of the brandy he was drinking.

“The illness Mrs. (Y/L/N) had was incredibly hard to treat, not to mention emotionally draining. Every penny they had went into hospital bills treating her, and even then, she had been in a coma for 8 years, and then unresponsive for another 5.” Chenle stared down at his hands, trying his best to zone out the argument, especially considering he had been the asshole who tried to give away this poor woman’s music.

“I don’t see what their vegetative mother has to do with their pride in ownership. Realistically, if she had looked after herself more, maybe they wouldn’t have been in this mess.” His dad had answered, once again laughing at his own joke.

“They don’t own that house, they rent it. It’s supposed to be the responsibility of the landlord, and it was nothing to do with how healthy that poor woman was, (Y/N)’s Mom had a blood condition that made her susceptible to strokes, and that’s what made her so ill.” Chenle’s mom sighed from where she sat next to him on the blue couch, before his father had the opportunity to reply and dig himself into a deeper hole.

“That poor family. We should have them over for dinner.” She announced, standing up, grabbing the still full glass from her husband’s hand as she moved into the kitchen.

“We are not having them over for dinner!” His father shouted from the living room.

“We should have them over for a sit down fancy dinner.” She replied, almost deliberately ignoring him.

“We are not - Hey!” He called out as he heard the buttons on the landline beep with each number his mother punched in.

“I’m sorry, I can’t here you over me inviting them over for- Oh hello, (Y/N), dear.” At the sound of your name, Chenle sank farther into the plush couch seats. He just wanted to watch television in peace.

“Shoot me now.” His dad mumbled.

“Careful what you wish for.” His Grandfather replied, not tearing his eyes from the tv and this time he was the one to ignore the evil look which was shot his way.

And so, dinner with the (Y/L/N)’s was in his imminent future, which only made things more uncomfortable at school. Much like when you had taken that month off in school, he found himself focused on the idea of you more than he had previously. He couldn’t get you out of his head, you and your poor mom. He thought he would apologize for the music thing, you would begrudgingly accept his apology, and you could live the rest of the senior year blissfully ignoring each other’s existents. While you had apparently stayed true to the plan, he couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted to find you in class. He had spent 10 years in the same class as you but he had never noticed how you automatically pulled your bottom lip into your mouth when you were focused on something or the way you smiled to stop yourself laughing when Ryujin mumbled some sort of snarky comment. In the same bout of insanity he had experienced at the beginning of the year, he may have mistaken your smile as being pretty. Except this time the insanity did not melt away into resentment, but instead grew into a roaring monster of butterflies anytime he saw you.

He was starting to think he was sick or something. It was like his whole life had been flipped upside down; in what universe was he the one with the clammy hands and racing heart around (Y/N) (/L/N), and she was the one ignoring him? He needed to talk to someone - and who better than the lord of advice himself, Park Jisung.

Luckily for him, him and Jisung were the first people in their home room class the day of the dinner; usually you were in early, but today you conveniently hadn’t been. “Dude, I need your help.” Chenle emphatically exclaimed, sitting down in his seat next to Jisung before explaining the situation.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)? You hate her. You’ve hated her for 10 years.” Jisung blankly stated, and Chenle shook his head.

“That’s the thing, I don’t think I do. I can’t stop thinking about her.” Jisung rolled his eyes.

“You definitely hate her. Think about it, you just feel bad because of the mom thing. And you insulted her house, but I mean come on, it was a mess anyways.”

“It’s not her fault. Their family is in crazy amounts of debt because her mom had some sort of untreatable illness and she was sick for so long. Do you know apparently, she had been sick for like 13 years? It must have been torture on their family.” Chenle defended, the stubborn side of him which was declaring, it’s been a decade, why stop hating you now, losing out to this new need to defend you.

“Oh, God, really? Well then, there’s your answer.” Jisung replied, leaning back in his chair with confidence, as though he had just solved the world’s problems. Chenle’s eyebrows knotted together, cocking his head.

“What do you mean?”

Jisung scoffed, as if it was the most obvious thing since the last advice he had kindly bestowed on Chenle.

“You don’t want to be with someone with that in their family. Dude what if she infects you with it?”

Chenle wanted to hit him. He was certain, he had never before in his life been closer to punching someone and God did Jisung deserve it. How dare he say that? He wanted to tell him that it was much more complex than Jisung’s derogatory simplification of your mother’s illness, and just because Jisung was failing biology did not mean he had the right to be going around and saying things like that about you. He wanted to tell Jisung to keep his stupid opinion to himself, but despite this intense fury he felt searing up his chest, all he could manage was a stiff laugh.

“Oh. Yeah.” He mumbled, not looking at him in case the smug smile which had graced Jisung’s face flipped the switch which would erupt the burning anger in his chest.

You had been running late that day. You liked getting up earlier and beating the traffic to school, now more than ever, with the sullen mood your house had fallen into, although with the dinner with the Zhong family in your near future, the three boys of your house appeared cheerier. Your father was good friends with Mrs. Zhong and she had always been a good neighbor, and your two brothers were old friends with Chenle’s older sister. You were only one against the idea, but realistically, what harm could one dinner do? You had woken up and been ready on time, but when you climbed into your sturdy little jeep and turned the ignition keys, the engine made an unfortunate spluttering sound, that rather sounded like it was simply giving up.

You had taken a stab at fixing it, popping the hood and pretending as though you had a single clue about what to look for, but upon realizing there was no hope you started glancing worriedly back at your house. Surely one of the three people who all knew all to drive would know something about what was wrong with the engine. Biggest problem was, they were all asleep, and if you woke them up, you might have lost a hand. You were heavily considering risking the hand when, by some sort of divine intervention, a familiar voice called out to you.

“Need help?”

You started, spinning to see Mr. Zhong, the familiar and kind old face smiling at you. You hated how similar his smile was to Chenle’s; he was simply a reminder of who you thought Chenle used to be. Nonetheless, you smiled and nodded, gesturing to the hood and taking a step back.

“Please. It’s all yours.”

He worked in silence for a moment, pulling at the machinery inside the bonnet.

“How old is this car?” He asked, and his muffled voice could not disguise the astonishment in his voice.

“Uh, I think the last person to drive it was my Mom, so, that should tell you.” You half joked, awkwardly watching him work until he indicated to you to try again.

You climbed into the car and turned the ignition, and it spluttered again, but this time the spluttering graduated into the unhealthy purring sound you were used to.

You rolled your window down, and called a gracious, ‘thank you!’ out the window, but before you could proceed the short drive to school, the man stopped you, leaning against the side of your car.

“Wait a minute, I want to talk to you about something.” You uncomfortably clutched the steering wheel tighter, raising an eyebrow at him, as if to say, ‘go on.’

“You and Chenle? How’s that going?” He asked, an eyebrow raised in a similar fashion, although his was more teasing where yours was questioning. Your heart leapt as your face warmed.

“Oh - uh. I haven’t really spoken to him since.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised.

“Why?” You asked, trying to discreetly gulp away your nervousness.

“Oh, he’s just been speaking about you a lot more, is all. Have fun at school.”

Your five-minute drive to school was the most anxiety ridden drive you had ever experienced. What did he mean speaking about you more? He was asking about your relationship so would that suggest Chenle was saying nice things? Did Chenle maybe like you? Of course, the idea of Chenle having any sort of romantic feelings towards you felt nearly laughable at this point, but this glimmer of hope that had remained from the past ten years that maybe, just maybe, you had finally grabbed the attention of those sweet brown eyes simmered in your chest before you could push it away. He had treated you badly, you reminded yourself. You didn’t need him.

You stormed into school that morning, affirming that you did not need Zhong Chenle in your life, and if he did finally notice you, that was not your problem. But the little girl in you who had walked up to the door of your classroom to overhear Chenle say your name insisted on eavesdropping. And who were you to say no to her?

“... That’s the thing, I don’t think I do. I can’t stop thinking about her.” You couldn’t stop instinctual fluttering of your heart. Chenle couldn’t stop thinking about you. Chenle couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your previous conclusion that he was not more than the sum of his parts was thrown out of the window and replaced with schoolgirl butterflies.

“You definitely hate her. Think about it, you just feel bad because of the mom thing. And you insulted her house, but I mean come on, it was a mess anyways.” You rolled your eyes. Park Jisung was a self-righteous dick.

“It’s not her fault. Their family is in crazy amounts of debt because her mom had some sort of untreatable illness and she was sick for so long. Do you know apparently she had been sick for like 13 years? It must have been torture on their family.” You had never heard him defend you before, and you couldn’t help the small smile which grew on your face.

“Oh, God, really? Well then, there’s your answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to be with someone with that in their family. Dude what if she infects you with it?” Your previously elated heart dropped to your stomach as your face fell. Chenle wasn’t going to let him away with that, was he?

“Oh. Yeah.” He was. Zhong Chenle had the perfect knack of getting your hopes up, and just when your heart had warmed to him again, crushing it, and you were sick of it. You spun on your heel, making your way back out to your car without even thinking about it. You didn’t want to have to look at him.

You thought about the situation as you got ready for dinner that night. You were sick of this stupid game of cat and mouse, where you inevitably always ended up hurt. And thinking back on the past ten years, Chenle had never been a good friend to you. Ever. He gave away your sheet music, he insulted you and now he was talking about you with his friends as if you were some sort of plague just waiting to infect him. You were sick of it and you were sick of him. Zhong Chenle meant nothing to you anymore.

You had half an idea to march out into the hallway where your father was calling you and tell him that you did not want to go, and he couldn’t make you. You drew together pieces of this declaration in your head before firmly making your way into the hall, entirely ready to tell him where the Zhong family could go, but then you saw his face. He had shaved for the first time in a month, the clothes he wore was ironed and smart, and you could have sworn he smelled better than he had in a while. Your previously parted lips closed again and instead of communicating your desire to be anywhere but the Zhong house, the corners turned slightly, mustering up the most sincere smile you could. You could suck up having to sit opposite Chenle for your family - They had gone through so much recently, you thought maybe you could deal with him for another night.

Your plans to snub him was momentarily interrupted when you realized, as he stomped down the stairs into the entry way of the house, where your family awkwardly hovered, exchanging greetings with the Zhong family, he had worn your favorite jean jacket, white t-shirt and black jeans combo that used to make you melt at the knees. Like always, it made his dark hair seem darker, but you pushed back the bubbling butterflies. What he had done was unforgiveable.

“Why don’t I show you guys my room?” His sister had emphatically exclaimed to your brothers who glanced to your dad. He gave a disinterested shrug, and the three stomped up past where Chenle came from. “Chenle, sweetie, why don’t you bring (Y/N) up to your room? The adults can talk down here.” His mom suggested.

“No, Mrs. Zhong, it’s okay-” You began, but you didn’t get to finish.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, I know you won’t want to be stuck with the adults. Just no funny business!” You ignored the sly comment which Chenle’s dad mumbled under his breath about, ‘that being unlikely,’ and hesitantly made your way up the stairs, following in Chenle’s footsteps. His house was the exact same as yours - sure his stairs didn’t creak from years of you and your brothers abuse , and it was much sleeker - the black and white modern décor juxtaposed greatly with the warm, yellow tones of your own house, plus the fact they obvious could afford to have their carpet replaced with hardwood floors, but other than that, there was nothing spectacularly upper class about their house that would suggest they had any right to look down on yours.

His room matched his personality to a tee. With grey-white walls plastered with posters of his favorite musicians and athletes whom you didn’t recognize, the room was small but clean and smelt like him. That familiar citrusy scent you associated with him filled the air, and past you would have been intoxicated by him, but current you knew better.

He sat down on top of the checked black and white duvet cover, (little did you know, he was secretly celebrating the fact he had happened to change the Stephen Curry bed sheets the day before) and gestured for you to sit down beside him. You remained standing.

“Uh- Hi.” He greeted, a softness to his voice you didn’t recognize but nearly succeeded in melting the barricade you had placed around your heart. Nearly. You didn’t respond, staring down at your shoes as if, suddenly your vans were the most interesting thing in the world.

“You look really pretty.” There he was again, trying to get your hopes up only to smash them again. You wouldn’t let him. Not this time.

“I know what you and Jisung were saying about my mom. And I’m done with you, okay? You can stop this act now.” You blurted out before you could even stop yourself.

Chenle’s face fell, and his head jerked to the side, almost as if you had genuinely slapped him in the face. He looked like a wounded puppy. Why was it so hard to stay angry at him?

“I- Look, (Y/N), it was wrong what Jisung said, I know. I wanted to hit him.” You raised an eyebrow, which sharpened your features and nearly made Chenle melt, both from the radiating heat of your anger and the sheer attractiveness of the action.

“You didn’t say anything to him. You just agreed and laughed. Like a coward.” You replied, simply.

“Yeah - I know. It was wrong of me. I’m sorry, but look, I’ve had a recent... self-discovery and I like you, (Y/N). If you could just give me a second chance.” He pleaded, standing up to look at you sincerely. His honest, chestnut eyes did not hold the same rotten core you had seen in them a month ago in the charity shop, but you held your ground nonetheless. “Third chance, you mean. Realistically, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. We’ve lived next to each other for 10 years and we’ve had, what, two civil conversations?” Chenle was the one to look down at his feet now, focusing on the hardwood floors. You weren’t wrong - you didn’t really know each other. You relished in the silence as Chenle thought for a moment, before he mumbled,

“That doesn’t change how I feel about you, though.”

“Well it should.”

He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by his mother’s screaming for them to come to dinner. You had turned and left before he even had the opportunity to draw breath and he was left alone in his empty room, which grey walls that had previously been illuminated with the presence of you had dulled in the absence of your vivacity.

Dinner was a success for the most part, except for the torture of sitting across from you. He bore holes into the side of your head, but you were so skilled in acting as if he wasn’t there, he was starting to question his actual presence at the dinner table; if it were just you and him sitting there, he would have been convinced he was some sort of ghostly apparition.

“So, you paint, right?” His grandfather had directed toward your dad who nodded politely.

“Yeah, I always loved art and - well I couldn’t afford to go to college so I thought why not kill two birds with one stone and do something I love that I don’t need a college education for.” He replied, the bright look on his face when talking about something he loved was so similar to how you used to look at him that Chenle almost felt sick with guilt.

“And you make much money off of that?” His dad had commented, his knife and fork obnoxiously clinking against the plate. Chenle almost sunk down in his chair.

“I make enough.” Your dad replied, stiffly. He spoke how you spoke to him a mere 15 minutes ago.

“Didn’t you used to like art?” His grandfather had asked, turning to his Dad who shrugged, sipping from his expensive wine glass.

“I painted a little.” Chenle had never seen his dad so uncomfortable.

“No, I remember, you wanted to go to art school, right? But my daughter here talked you out of it.” His dad squirmed in his seat as his mother awkwardly laughed, avoiding the topic entirely and asking your dad another question about his job.

The more your dad discussed his ventures into the world of art, the quieter his dad got. He tried to plaster on a smile every now and then, but underneath, Chenle could tell he was sad. He thought about how his dad had always looked down on your family, and the countless times he had referred to your dad as being ridiculous, a low-life who needed to get a ‘proper job.’ He watched the man who had dwindled his life away and wondered, if he was simply angry at himself, as opposed to the kind family across the street. His father was a coward who didn’t chase what he wanted because he was too scared. Chenle swore to himself there and then, that he would not be a coward, like his father. He refused to become the bitter, jealous old man across the street. And so, late that night, after you had all left, he rifled through the papers on his desk and hatched a plan.

Patience and timing were key elements to Chenle’s plan - A month, to be precise. The day of the Christmas talent show. Everyone was excited to watch Chenle perform, especially now that it had been spread that he was dedicating his performance to someone in the audience. Pretty much everyone in the school who was attracted to boys were praying it was them. All except for you, who still hadn’t spoken to him since that fateful night in his bedroom and had resumed your strategic avoidance of him.

He nervously peaked from the side of the stage of the school theatre which had been transformed from it’s boring wood and red velvet into an explosion of tinsel and fairy lights, the excessive Christmas décor almost hurt his eyes. He stared into the audience past Chaeryong’s skillful dancing on stage, despite her optimistic glances towards him, as he clutched sheet music in his hands. He had enlisted Ryujin’s help to ensure that you were sitting in the very middle of the front row, despite her unwillingness. He had to promise her that if he broke your heart again, she had a free pass at kicking him in a very private place. His attention was only broken from the way you hid a laugh as Ryujin whispered into your ear, by Jisung frantically running up to him, whispering as to not to disturb Chaeryong’s performance.

“Dude! There’s a rumor going around that this mystery chick you’re playing for is (Y/N)?” Chenle simply blinked at him.

“And?”

“Is it true?”

“Yep.” Jisung threw his arms in the air incredulously, whispering as loud as their setting allowed him,

“What the hell is the matter with you! You have every single girl on campus wanting you and you want (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” Chenle spun to stare out into the audience again, turning his back to Jisung. “Leave me alone, Jisung. You wouldn’t understand.” He whispered back, watching and clapping as Chaeryong took her bow, exiting at the other side of the stage.

“You’re right! I completely don’t understand! Have you flipped or something?” Chenle ignored him, breathing out slowly, trying to calm his nerves.

“This is it.” He mumbled, more to himself than Jisung, ignoring his friend who made a last minute attempt to grab him before he walked on stage.

The entire audience sat with bated breath, you included as he sat down at the piano, almost excruciatingly slowly. You stared at your hands, trying not to look up at the stage because you knew that he was probably about to sing some love song to Chaeryong, since his feelings for you had obviously dissipated since that night, and then they would kiss on stage and everyone would be happy for them. You included. Probably. If you were feeling in a particularly positive mood.

“Um, so I’m sure you all know, that I’m dedicating this performance to someone. Which I am, but I’m not going to say who. Yet. They’ll know who they are.” His smooth voice echoed throughout the entire auditorium, officially piquing your interest as you lifted your head up to look at him. He had already moved to face the piano, his fingers - which were unusually shaking - hovered over the keys as he examined the sheet music in front of him, pressing down the first chord.

Your stomach dropped, the familiarity of the scalic motif he played with his right hand causing you to audibly gasp. You hadn’t heard this piece since you were four. You raised a shaking hand to your mouth, ignoring the way Ryujin was almost definitely staring at you with concern. He had kept the sheet music. You had thought all the time, it was in the back of some shop, never to be played again. But here he was, playing your mother’s music in front of the entire school with pride, his skilful fingers dancing from note to note as if it were as simple as breathing, the music enveloping you in a blanket of comfort.

His playing ended too quickly, finishing with a short section you didn’t recognize and ending on a perfect and harmonious cadence. The audience tentatively applauded, the majority - as in everyone but you and Ryujin - more confused than anything, until he walked to the end of the stage, directly in front of you.

“My favorite color is red.” He stated, looking down at you in your chair.

“Wha - What?”

“I am the worst loser ever. Seriously, if you play a game with me and you win, I will find ways to blame you for making me lose.”

“Chenle, wha-” “You said you didn’t know me, right? I’m terrified of spiders. I love basketball more than football but I’m better at football. You couldn’t pay me to take science the second it isn’t mandatory anymore. I talk in my sleep. I’m crazy ticklish. I would literally die for Stephen Curry. I’ve been an idiotic dick, for lack of a better word, for the last ten years, and if you let me, I would love the chance to get to know you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your face as you stared into those eyes - those once again dazzling eyes which bore into you, no evidence of corruption, the oh-so-familiar sensation of your heart warming to his words blooming in you once again, as if it had never left.

Your smile resonated within him and he questioned what the hell had he been doing the last ten years. How could anyone, ever want to run away from you?

“If you break my heart, Zhong Chenle, you have Ryujin to answer too.”

He chuckled, the sound of his laugh more musical than anything he could’ve produced on stage, and as you watched him, you came to the conclusion that Chenle was more than the sum of his parts, astronomically. You knew that Zhong Chenle was still walking around with your first kiss. But he wouldn’t be for long.

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tickle-bugs · 3 years ago

Text

One of a Kind

@amazingmsme I didn't want to post the thing you sent just because of the minor minor spoilers (I hate that we've lost a grip on spoiler culture on the internet so I am overcorrecting to keep my blog safe!) but what you sent was too goddamn cute. Have an unedited thing I wrote in one go. This takes place in the nebulous, non-existent gap between episode 5 and 6! I still haven't see the finale so....this is canon-adjacent-adjacent I guess. Enjoy!

Spoilers for the Loki series under the cut!

Cataloguing variants had always been time-consuming, but somehow Loki was making it take longer. Mobius knew that Loki should’ve gone through his stack already, especially with his reading speed, but he was just staring at one particular file and huffing at increasing volumes.

Alright, I’ll bite.

“I’d ask what you’re thinking about, but I know you’re gonna tell me.” Mobius thumbed through his file on another Loki, one who’d defected from Thanos in 2012 to join the Avengers. They’d pruned him pretty early. Mobius still regretted not being able to pick his brain for a little while longer.

“These other variants are incredible,” Loki scoffed.

“I agree.”

“I don’t understand it.” He stared at Mobius, brow furrowed, and alright, they clearly weren’t getting any more work done.

“Lokis tend to be extraordinary. It’s kinda a thing with you guys.” Mobius slid his files aside.

“Right, but in comparison, I am at the lower end of the bunch.” Loki frowned, gesturing as if this was a matter of grave importance.

“Okay, you lost me.” He folded his hands on the table and squinted at Loki.

“We have an alligator, an illusionist whose powers dwarfed my own, a child who killed Thor, a President--though I can’t fathom wanting to be a part of the American political system--and an enchantress. Those are the variants that we know about. So why am I here helping you?”

“You’re the best of the bunch.” The simplest and truest answer. Loki didn’t seem to buy it.

Mobius dragged his chair around the table and put it in front of Loki, effectively pinning him against the table--well, he could just stand up and walk away, but Mobius knew he wouldn’t. It was part of their thing.

“What are you doing?”

“Just gettin’ closer.” Mobius slotted his knees between Loki’s and pulled his chair as far in as it could go.

“I can see that. Why?”

“I just wanna be close to you, that’s all.” He gave his best convincing grin. Loki visibly softened.

“Loki, you are a genius with a good heart. You’re here because you are, at least in my book, a hero.” Mobius gave his knee a steady pat. Loki puffed with pride.

“Go on.”

“Wow, you are on a perfect swinging scale of narcissism. From self-deprecating to king of the world in no time flat.” Mobius laughed.

“Thank you.” Loki adjusted his tie, missing or ignoring everything but the word ‘perfect’. Mobius bit his lip on a chuckle--he really shouldn’t inflate an already dangerously-large ego, but Loki needed it, he thought. His confidence was all air, after all--smug posturing designed to fill the void of something genuine. Loki could use genuine, for a change.

He looked Loki up and down slowly, deliberately, and an absurd little idea took root in the back of his mind. It had worked in the Time Cell, so maybe...

“Why are you looking at me like that? Wh--Mobius. Mobius. Stop it.” Loki leaned back as much as he could. Mobius grinned and hovered his fingers just over Loki’s torso, dangerously close. Loki sucked in his stomach, looking frantically between Mobius’s hands and his face.

“This r-really isn’t necessary.” The wobbly smile on Loki’s lips told Mobius the exact opposite.

“Nervous giggler, huh?” Mobius twitched his fingers and Loki jumped.

“No.”

“Perfect! Then you’ll hear what I have to say.” Mobius set his fingers adrift, passing languidly over Loki’s spots but never landing anywhere.

“Sylvie’s my favorite because she’s wild and unpredictable. I can never quite figure out what’s goin’ on in that head of hers, regardless of her being a Loki, and it fascinates me. You know I love my puzzles, and cracking open her head like a walnut has been a real highlight of my career.” Mobius’s fingers over Loki’s knee got the first giggles to bubble out, sweet and fluttery, and it took all of his strength not to chase them down.

“But you? You’re incredible. Quick wit, a quicker knife hand, and a will to survive that I haven’t seen in--” Mobius whistled lowly-- “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. Plus, you’re pretty cute. Or, so I’ve heard.”

“You had me wrapped around your finger when we brought you in. I mean, you could talk a desert into bloomin’.” It was the first time in a few thousand Loki’s that he’d genuinely almost been fooled--something about this one, his Loki, just got to him in a way that the others never could.

“I still have you around my finger.” Loki’s smile and rosy cheeks ignited a gentle warmth in Mobius’s chest. Gentle, rolling chuckles flowed steadily from him, walls completely broken down, and if Mobius could keep one memory forever, it would be this.

“Oh, and that laugh. I’m almost jealous. Literal music to my ears. Y’know, the other Loki’s never laughed like this? It was always this fake, snooty chuckle that used to make my skin crawl.

“But not you. You’ve got this damn beautiful giggle. It’s like the old saying goes: every time a Loki laughs, a puppy is born. Or angels get their wings. A little bit of both.” Mobius let his fingers drift upwards to Loki’s ribs and he whined, pitching forward until his forehead hit Mobius’s chest.

“T-That’s not a thing.” The color on Loki’s face had matured into a wonderful shade of cherry, his voice pinching from the sheer volume of emotion--Mobius could actually see him working through it in real time. Another favorite thing that he could never express aloud--how earnestly and easily Loki wore his emotions.

“He speaks!” Mobius swooped his hands in, never touching but threatening, and Loki yelped around some more giggles.

“Stop it.” Loki swiped at his hands, but even at close range, he couldn’t coordinate enough to catch Mobius.

“You’re right, my bad. It’s rude to keep you waiting.”

“Wh--no, nonono, that’s definitely not what I meant--”

“You make it so easy for me,” Mobius sighed wistfully, seeking out Loki’s trick rib as easy as breathing. Loki shrieked, crumpling in Mobius’s arms, and Mobius held him as he deftly took him apart.

“You are a Loki, alright? There’s no doubt about that. But you’re you, and I like ya. Stop worryin’ about the others.” He wormed his fingers under Loki’s arms, then spidered across the backs of his ribs and up towards his shoulders.

“M-Mobius!”

“Excellent point. You also have me. That’s a pretty big deal--I’m one of a kind, y’know. Limited edition. So there’s that.” His hands found solace beneath Loki's jaw, pulling forth jumpy squeaks between...purrs? Huh. He made a note of it as he scribbled his fingers up Loki’s thigh, dodging swatting hands like a stubborn bug. Loki pulled his knee up to his chest, head tilted back in open-mouthed laughter, and Mobius followed him.

“Who’s got an ego now?” Loki smirked, eyes crinkled, and Mobius summoned his best dramatic gasp.

“You take that back!”

#my drabbles #marvel #loki #ticklish!loki #mobius m mobius #writing them as super affectionate but not having them kiss...schrodingers lokius #lokius is super cute though and im starting to get into it now! feel free to tag this as ship if you'd like but it isn't expressly romantic #but it could be if you squint #its just up to you to squint if you wanna see it #no proofreads no edits we die like overcaffeinated writers who are avoiding other tasks by writing #sorry for the abrupt end on this but it just felt right #edit: linked my other loki fic for context at a certain part....realized i referred to it on accident

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canariie · 3 years ago

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baby, it’s cold outside

Rating: K+

Synopsis: “Well, he is a Hitsugaya after all,” Rangiku mused as she lit more candles. “Nothing will stop him with it comes to Momo.”

“Evidently so,” Toushiro grumbled. “I just wish it didn’t have to do with pushing me out of the way.”

...

It’s winter and it’s too cold for Toushiro’s son, leaving the white haired captain sleep deprived & at his wit’s end.

Word Count: 3270 words

Setting: established relationship, many decades after the last Bleach chapter

Prompt: Hitsuhina Week 2021 Gift Exchange for @go-n-ef

Authour’s Note: I am so sorry that this is late! Thank you to @rays-of-fire-and-ice for being patient with me & allowing me to submit after the @hitsuhina-week gift exchange day!

@go-n-ef requested hitsuhina fluff with family, which IS MY JAM (if that is not obvious by now haha). I hope you enjoy it! :)

This is building off of a similar notion of Momo & Toushiro’s powers balancing each other, which I had introduced in an earlier Hitsuhina week 2021 submission, under the blue moon, except fast forward to a future where they are together & have more additions to their family ;)

Enjoy!

---

“Taicho! Can we turn up the heating? It is frigid in here!” Rangiku groused as she entered the office. Little puffs of chilled air escaped her lips, almost as if winter had entered indoors. “If it continues like this, I’m going to have to wear a winter coat inside to work.” She doubled up her scarf and plopped herself down behind her desk, shivering in place.

“Good morning to you too Matsumoto,” the white-haired man said dryly, briefly looking up from his stack of reports. “Glad you could make it before noon.”

“It’s much harder to get out of bed now that the snow is piling up,” Rangiku defended herself, tightening her scarf. “If you increase the heating, maybe I’ll consider coming in earlier.”

“We’ve already used up our company’s expenditures for the month since somebody decided to spend it on an office party,” Toushiro retorted. “I suggest you bring in more of your own candles to work if the cold bothers you so much.”

The vice-captain huffed under her breath as she started rummaging through her desk for her scented candles. As she peered through the drawers, she cast a glance at her captain who was diligently copying down his notes. However, only her trained eye of being under his supervision for so many years could see that there was something wrong with him. From the tight grip on the brush, to the hunched shoulders and and the more prominent scowl on his face— Hitsugaya-taicho was in a foul mood.

Rangiku raised a delicate eyebrow at him. “What happened Taicho? You have bags under your eyes so black, you look like a panda.”

Though he had grown much taller and was closer to his matured adult form, he still couldn’t help the habit of sending an icy glare at his lieutenant. In normal circumstances, he would have reprimanded her for such a comment and told her to get back to work. However, they had worked together so long, Toushiro knew that she wasn’t going to let anything go.

His eyebrows furrowed together as he rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “Unfortunately,…I did not sleep as well as I would like,” he grumbled. A moment passed as he got his bearings together, before he muttered to the side, “I ended up being pushed off onto the floor.”

The look on her face was far more understanding than what Toushiro had anticipated. “Did you and Momo have a fight? I know she’s pregnant again and a bit hormonal but even that’s a bit much for her,” she quipped as she pulled out a candle from her drawer to light up.

Toushiro sighed wearily. “No, it’s nothing like that…”

There was a slight chill in the air as Toushiro closed up the veranda to their patio. Winter nights were his favourite time of the year as the world seemed quieter and more peaceful. No longer was there the hustle of the day where any minute could ring the alarm for battle. Instead, all the residents of Soul Society would light their candles and retreat inside, closer together in the warmth and refuged away from the frigid cold. It reminded him of his long night walks through the snow when he lived in Junrinan, a much simpler time when he felt like the only soul awake.

He could not enjoy the weather as well as he would have like for it had been a long day of back to back meetings with different divisions, leaving Toushiro without a break. So, by nighttime, he was more than looking forward to collapsing on the futon and sleeping next to his wife.

He entered their bedroom quietly, not wanting to disturb Momo who was already deep in slumber. Since she was pregnant with their second child, she fell asleep much earlier than him and would usually be passed out by the time he came home.

Another difference to his pregnant wife is that her reiatsu was much stronger while she slept. Momo had always exuded warmth, even from an early age. It wasn’t just her bright personality but her natural temperature was warmer than normal—as if the summer sun followed her wherever she went. That’s why it was only when she left their village that Toushiro’s reiatsu became unbalanced without her warmth to counter it—which almost ended up freezing his grandmother to death.

There was still a small part of Toushiro that feared he would do the same again, though he was much older and more in control of his powers. So, it gave him peace whenever Momo would stay the night at his place; after they got married, it alleviated his fears knowing that her warmth could fight his natural coldness—especially when they had their first child Natsume.

Toushiro walked over the crib to check on his son who was fast asleep with a small fist clutching his blanket, his little chest rising and falling gently. Though Natsume was about 2 years and already walking eagerly around, the white-haired man couldn’t stop staring at him in astonishment. Toushiro was happy that his son had inherited more of his mother’s features with his black hair and warm spirit. One of the few things he received from Toushiro were his emerald eyes, though he would have preferred Momo’s warm brown eyes. But it still sent a swell of pride knowing that he had a child with the woman he loved.

Toushiro slipped into their futon, moving himself behind Momo to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her against his chest. He inwardly cheered that he had finally reached his “aged” form—initially while he was not a fan, one perk was his ability to hold Momo who now seemed much smaller in his arms.

He buried his face into the back of her neck, taking note of the jasmine smell in her hair. With her in his arms, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was deep in the middle of the night when Toushiro woke up with a jolt, his eyes blindly searching around the room. Taking it for a bad dream, he instinctively moved closer towards Momo until he felt something intervene in between. Attached to Momo’s back was Natsume, fast asleep with his little fists holding onto her long hair. Somehow through the night, the boy had crawled from his crib and onto the futon in between his parents. The white-haired man felt his heart swell to see all his family together in one place. Toushiro moved to pull the covers over the three of them when he felt something like a barrier in between.

“What’s going on,” Toushiro murmured. He tried again to move closer but the barrier seemed stronger, pushing him away and fumbling off the futon.

Slightly annoyed, Toushiro picked himself up and pried the baby from his mother before placing him back in the crib.

However, this repeated for several nights with Natsume crawling out of bed and attaching himself to his mother. Even at a young age, his spiritual pressure was strong enough to ward off Toushiro—leaving him banished off the futon and to sleep on the floor.

“Well, he is a Hitsugaya after all,” Rangiku mused as she lit more candles. “Nothing will stop him with it comes to Momo.”

“Evidently so,” Toushiro grumbled. “I just wish it didn’t have to do with pushing me out of the way.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’ve tried it all! Blocking his crib with cushions, adding a space heater, placing his futon right next to Momo’s. Natsume still crawls in between and forces me off the futon!”

“Taicho…” Rangiku started slowly with trepidation, not used to seeing her captain all out of sorts. “Have you ever just thought…of buying a larger futon?”

He stopped in his tracks.

No, he had not. Something as simple as that had slipped his mind.

It must be the lack of sleep if his vice-captain thought of a better idea before him.

“You know, Matsumoto—you might be onto something.”

---

And that’s how the top two 10th division officers found themselves wandering through the town before settling on a futon store.

“Matsumoto, let’s be quick. We don’t want to leave the division for too long,” Toushiro warned, wary of being spotted out & about on company time. Though Kyoraku-soutaicho was much more laidback than the previous general captain, the tenth captain didn’t want to be risk being penalized.

“Nonsense, Taicho!” Matsumoto quipped. “This is of utmost importance—we are talking about your sleep here! We must resolve it, so you can be happy and the division—can ergo—be happy as well.”

“You just want to skip out on work,” Toushiro muttered dryly, but followed her inside with the bell chiming above their heads. The shop was a small intimate one, with stacks of mattresses lining up the walls, and leaving only a tight path towards the desk in the front.

A stout clerk was organizing papers and sent a dismissive glance up at Toushiro before glancing back down at his work. A moment lapsed where the two officers looked at each other before Rangiku moved to the front, sweeping her hair aside and batting her eyelashes. “Hi, I was wondering if you could help us with a mattress purchase,” she asked sweetly.

The clerk looked up again, and stopped in his tracks—making Toushiro roll his eyes. The captain was far used to the way that men behaved around his lieutenant and he had stopped trying to interfere a long time ago.

“How can I help you?” the clerk asked eagerly, not used to such attention from a beautiful woman. Rangiku smiled. “We were wondering if you had a futon, maybe a king size one, that would have a lot of room for two people,” she asked as she leant over, cradling her cheek in her palm.

“You two?” He looked them both up, taking in Rangiku fully before throwing a glance at Toushiro. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “She’s out of your league.”

“What…?,” Toushiro gritted his teeth. He was far from amused and had half a mind of pulling out Hyourinmaru and freezing this obnoxious man on the spot.

“I mean, it wouldn’t make sense if you two were together,” the clerk explained with a blasé attitude, sorting through some papers on the desk, oblivious to the rising fury on the white-haired captain’s face.

“Hahaha he couldn’t handle me!” Rangiku laughed, clutching the sides of her stomach.

“Matsumoto!”

“I’m kidding of course, Taicho! Don’t need to be so uptight about it,” she lightly slapped his arm but it did little to move the stormy cloud that rested on his features.

“I don’t understand how those kinds of people could run these stores,” he muttered darkly as they returned back to the office. After Toushiro had frozen the nosy clerk quiet, the manager had appeared and with obsequious flourish, offered same day delivery at a reduced half price.

Rangiku dropped her bag on her desk before flopping on the couch. “Well Taicho, if you turn up the heat, then I wouldn’t say such things!” she commented as she tucked in herself with a shawl and blanket around her shoulders. “I’ll be better behaved when it gets warmer!”

Toushiro was about to retort a profane remark back when the door slid opened to a jubilant Momo holding a sleeping Natsume in her arms. “Hello Rangiku-san, Toushiro!” It was like a wave of summer wind as she walked in, exuding a welcoming warmth. She was dressed in a bright yellow maternity kimono, lined pastel pink cherry blossoms that Rangiku had bought for her. Her long hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon that did nothing short of highlighting her radiant smile.

“Momo-chan! It’s so good to see you!” Rangiku cheered as she immediately hugged her. “It’s too cold in here and Taicho won’t increase the heating!” Momo laughed at the glare that Toushiro sent the blonde’s way. “I’m glad I can be of assistance then!”

Toushiro watched as the two continued to embrace each other, with the sleeping baby tucked in the middle. After a couple moments, when he saw that his vice-captain wasn’t letting go of his wife, he cleared his throat. “Matsumoto, that’s enough—don’t suffocate her.”

The blond woman let go but remained with her arms around the shorter vice-captain. “Momo-chan, you should stay here! We could use your warmth in the office!” she exclaimed, pulling Momo by the couch.

She chuckled, “I thought I would stop by and check on you all! Hirako-taicho sent me off since there were too many division officers retreating to our office.”

Toushiro was about to interrogate her of which people were exactly coming close to his wife when the door was briskly opened again.

“Good day Hitsugaya-fuukutaicho!” the men chorused outside. Momo smiled widely at them, already used to this sort of behavior from her division. “I hope you all are doing well despite the cold,” she chirped as a few of the men sighed in content, like they were near a campfire. “It’s always a joy when Hitsugaya-fuukutaicho graces us with her presence,” one seated officer responded, the others nodding their heads enthusiastically in agreement.

Toushiro scowled at the gawking of his company men as they scrambled over each other to come closer to the edge of the door, and nearer to his wife.

“If you have time to be standing there, you have time to do the extra drills—outside,” he commanded. The lot turned to their captain to see his eyes flashing ominously ice blue. “Leave. Now.”

The two women watched with bemused expressions as the men scurried off, leaving the door wide open. The captain reverted his attention back to his paperwork, a deep frown etched onto his features.

“Rangiku-san, can you take care of Natsu-chan for a bit?” Momo whispered. “He fell asleep about an hour ago so he shouldn’t wake up soon.”

The blonde smiled at her, “Of course! Anything for my favourite nephew!” Momo handed the baby, carefully as to not disturb his sleep, into Rangiku’s open arms. She kissed her son on the forehead, affectionately brushing his hair. “Stay asleep Natsu-chan and don’t give your Aunt any trouble,” Momo whispered. The boy made a slight purring noise, but other that than made no other sign of waking up soon.

“Let’s leave your parents alone, Natsu-chan,” Rangiku said softly before quietly moving out and closing the door behind her.

The white-haired captain watched with a raised eyebrow as his wife sauntered towards him, a knowing smile in her eyes, before settling herself bestride on his lap.

“Ahh, I’ve wanted to do this for so long! Without your coolness, all the extra reiatsu has me burning up,” Momo mused as she snuggled closer, her arms encircling his waist. “I’ve missed you, Toushiro,” she murmured into this throat, sending shivers down his back.

He could only agree as he kissed her forehead, dropping the ink brush to brings his arms around his wife. “I’ve missed you too.” Pushing back the bangs from her forehead, he pulled back to look over her face. “How are you feeling?”

“We’re both in excellent shape!” Momo flashed him a dazzling smile and he couldn’t help but follow with his own. “Isane-san said that it’ll only be in a couple of weeks’ time that we get to meet the baby!” She looked down fondly at her belly, holding it maternally. It really had been so long since he last held her like this, and the warm reiatsu was slowly melting away his earlier sour mood. It was also a peaceful repose to have some alone time with his wife—which he didn’t realize how much he had needed before.

“However well I am, we must talk about this.” Momo pulled back as she gestured around him with her hands, the ring on her hand sparkling in the light.

Toushiro furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

Momo traced her fingers below his eyes, the sensation reminding him of being near a lit candle. “Shiro-chan, you haven’t been sleeping well. You look so exhausted and I’m worried about you.” Her bottom lip stuck out as she pouted. “Is it because of my reiatsu?”

“Of course not!” Toushiro sighed and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “The warmth doesn’t bother me at all,” he admitted wearily. He was quiet for a moment as he debated internally what to say. “Natsume…has been crawling into bed and has been attaching himself to you. He’s also formed a barrier against my cold reiatsu so it…pushes me out of the futon,” he grumbled to the side.

Momo blinked before giggling. “Toushiro, are you sulking?”

“I am not,” he said petulantly. But the look in Momo’s eyes said she didn’t believe it. “I’m…afraid that I will be too cold for the both of you,” he admitted softly, not meeting her warm brown eyes. “If my son doesn’t want to be near the cold, who’s to say that the baby will not want to be near me.”

“Oh Toushiro…” Momo cradled his face with her hands, sending warmth throughout his cheeks as she tilted his head down towards her. “Your reiatsu may be of ice but that doesn’t mean your heart is like that.” She moved forward to kiss his cheek. “I love you for the coolness that you bring, and Natsu-chan does too—as will the new baby.” Momo moved his hands back around her again as she leaned against his chest. “My safest place is in your arms—and there is nowhere else I would rather be.”

She stroked his skin, lazily drawing patterns under his collarbone. “We work as team, Toushiro. My heat balances your coolness and vice versa. Without you—I would probably end up melting people,” Momo joked. He smiled at the visual, knowing that she was exaggerating to alleviate his real fears. However, with the warmth of Momo’s reiatsu and her tucked in his arms, he could feel a surge of relief flood through his whole body, easing the anxiety that was at the back of his mind.

He pulled her closer in. “Thank you Momo.”

They stayed like that for a while, with his chin on top of her head and a hand on top of her belly. Toushiro could feel a strong power moving inside, almost like they were appreciative of the cold rieatsu.

“Also, Toushiro, it’s winter now so of course Natsu-chan wants to sleep next to me!” She smiled brightly at him. “When it’s summer, you’re going to have me and the kids holding on to you to stay cool!”

He chuckled, but felt lighter inside at the prospect. “So I assume it was still worth it to get the bigger futon.”

Momo suddenly turned bashful, reminding Toushiro of when they had first start dating. She fingered a lock of his hair in her hands. “Well,” her smile turned puckish. “Natsu-chan is still asleep…we could go test it out.”

Toushiro raised his eyebrow, not used to seeing this side of her. “What are you trying to imply, Momo?”

She blushed. “I’m saying, we have some time for the two of us…”

“To do what?” he teased.

Momo pouted at him in exasperation, “I mean…” she pushed herself up and whispered in his ear. Toushiro’s ears turned red.

“Matsumoto!” he called out. “I’ll be taking my break now!” Momo giggled as Toushiro stood up in one swift motion, with her cradled in his arms, as he moved them both to their private quarters.

---

Authour’s Note: I headcanon that external & internal factors affect Toushiro & Momo’s reiatsu. For Toushiro, probably with winter, his reiatsu & powers are much stronger, which would probably make him colder to others. Momo on the other hand, can withstand this and would probably enjoy it more because, when she’s pregnant, she’s warmer than normal— allowing them to perfectly offset each other when they’re hotter and colder than usual :)

And again, I think there will always be some anxiety with Toushiro freezing the people he loves to death, especially if he were to have his own family. I think with Momo he has some ease, but with his children, it can still be anxiety inducing — especially if he’s worried that he would be too cold with them.

Safe to say, Hitsuhina needs each other!

#hitsuhina #hitsuhina week 2021 #momo hinamori #hinamori momo #Toshiro Hitsugaya #Hitsugaya Toushiro #canariie: my fics #and yes Natsume is my OC in my head #the first of hitsuhina children!#the baby is a secret for now but they may appear in other fics :3 #hope you all enjoyed!#what a great hitsuhina week celeberation it has been :))

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wornoutmouse · 3 years ago

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@midoriyaprofessionalslut

I can't even begin to describe the ask I received so I'm just going to leave screenshots😅😅

Also in the new mha season, I thought Tsu was being petty when she called Mineta Grape-Juice and Shoji Tentacle. But nope, those are their hero names.

Side note: I feel like when Mineta gets old and knows how to work his quirk better, he'll be able to control if they stick or not.

Slight racism, usual smut.

NOT PROOF READ SO LET ME KNOW IF U SEE SOMETHING

If you imagine Mineta as in the picture above and with a mature voice, this is more enjoyable. Or you can imagine someone else entirely.. Cause even as someone who's tolerant to Mineta I can't imagine him getting any hoes much less smashing (at least not on top). It would be like watching a chiwawa top a mastiff.

"This is some bullshit." You shuffle through various papers on your desk, each containing the receipts of Pro-Hero Grapejuice's celebratory purchases. Most of it was random appliances that could in no way be used on a day-to-day basis, but there were others….a shiver goes down your spine, there were others that were just downright perverted. "What even is a nub tickler?"

Being an accountant was something you were good at, the numbers came easy and it was interesting to see the income and ways of business that different people in power displayed. Planning meetings and getting the occasional phone call made everything a breeze, but it wasn't what you wanted to do. Or in better words, this was not whom you wanted to work for. Even being number 6 causes the workload to be higher than should be physically possible in the hero world. That's one of the reasons you never gave praise to the rankings because no matter how low in the chain, a hero’s work is always taxing.

Shifting in your seat you look at the analog clock on your desk. 3:45, you were supposed to come to work at 5:30 which means you once again have no time to sleep. Having these late nights had increased 10 fold whenever Mineta went up in rank even by a little. His way of celebrating was spending his money carelessly and leaving you to fix the balance. Though you supposed it may be your fault for never objecting when he barged in your office showing his trinkets as well as leaving his credit card.

"Yeah, it's time to go." You muttered as you read the words, "Dwarf Cow in the left lot of Wisconsin."

The next hour, you take a detour from your office for the first time in months. Heading down the hall you watch the walls go from the pale greys to deep purple and violet splotches splattered along the wall before it inevitably melds into solid purple walls as you get closer to the front door of his office.

Hesitantly you knock on the door and wait until a muffled "Come in." Rings through the thick wood. The room itself was just as flamboyant as the walls leading to it. A beautiful fuchsia carpet on the floor made you realize that calling in your two weeks would have been better than walking into the Willy-Wonka factory that was this office. Various spherical decorations hung from the chandelier, and even something as simple as the legs of his desk was made up of crystal spheres.

The man himself sat perfectly balanced on a large purple ball most likely of his own creation, meanwhile, various children sat around him slipping and sliding on smaller balls in an attempt to copy him. "Ah, here is my beautiful assistant!" The compliment made you cringe as you fiddled with the end of the sleep-wrinkled white blouse you had worn for 2 days straight. "Can we talk sir? It is important." Mineta raised an eyebrow at your formal speech before shrugging.

In an extravagant display of balance, Mineta does a handstand on the ball with one hand before flipping to the other side. "Well kids it's time for me to get done as a hero’s job is never over and blah blah blah the gift shop is giving out free plushies and you can keep your ball." The teacher does her best to usher out her students and the sound of childish screams resound down the hallway even though the door was shut. "How can I help you Y/n?" Mineta offers you his ball to sit on and you reluctantly take the offer as you grate in multiple directions in order to stay afloat.

Mineta watches you with hidden interest as he interlocks his hands underneath his chin. "I didn't know you even knew my name?" Mineta Laughs exposing his annoyingly perfect teeth. It was hard to associate this face to the pictures you see when you search for his early years. "Of course I know your name, I stole your nameplate off your desk 2 months ago." Ah, so that's where it went "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

You sighed, "I would like to put in my two weeks." Mineta goes slack-jawed before composing himself "Why?" Mineta looked at you earnestly, completely confused on why you'd want to abandon your post as his secretary- I mean assistant. "Working for you has become a hassle with your lack of financial maturity." Mineta mock shivers, "Oo big words, me no likey." Mineta hops onto his desk as if he weighed nothing more than paper and squats in front of you, "How about this, you don't quit and instead help me learn how to...how did you say it? Be financially mature." You lean back in your chair unconvinced that he was taking this seriously.

With the final nail ready to be hit, Mineta adds, "How about I give you a raise of 10 percent and a promotion?" You stand up in your chair with an eager grin, "That sounds great!" Mineta smirks to himself but you did not pay any mind to it. "Great, how about we discuss this over food, dinner date?" Your internal celebration screeches to a halt, " Dinner Date-" Mineta looks at you shocked, "Dinner date? Great idea, why didn't I think of it myself!?" A firm hand slides you towards the door as Mineta starts a complimentary speech giving you no room to object, "This is why I need you, you're so smart, I wish I was like you, tomorrow at 11?" You sputter trying to slip past his arms, "11 but I-?!" Mineta loudly gasps again, "There you go doing it again I'm so lucky to have you, tomorrow at 11 my treat!"

The door is shut in your face and the sound of the lock clicking seals your fate. What did you get into?

Cut to 4 years later and you are still not sure of that answer. Simply being bis accountant you had a glimpse of his perverted tendencies, but as his girlfriend, it was further exposed to depths you never could have found yourself imagining. You shuffle papers in the printing room as you do your best to ignore the faint tingling sensation in between your legs. Yet another whim you found yourself following on Mineta’s behalf despite the ever-present fear of being caught. The vibrator comes to life before going back down as quickly as it came. You toss a middle finger to the camera in the top corner of the room knowing he was watching.

"Miss L/n, can I ask you something?" You slap your arm down to your side in embarrassment. I hope he didn't see that. Your coworker walks up to you holding a small stack of papers. "Yes, how can I help you?" The man shows you various forms as he talks, for once you were thankful for Mineta not embarrassing you in front of others. "Oh I see where you went wrong, this right here would be a 20% increase, not 18%." The man applauded you and graciously wrote down your explanation. "Thank you so much, my name is Kaminari by the way."

"Ah hello, Kaminari, and no worries I'm always glad to help!" You turn back as your papers finally scan through but can't help notice Kaminari lingering. "Say Y/n?" You open your mouth to respond only to close it again as the vibratory comes back to life strongly. "Hmmm?!" Kaminari peers at you, your reaction was strange but he couldn't figure out why. "Um, never mind, have a nice day Miss. Y/n, maybe we can get together over coffee or something?” You shrug turning away from Kaminari in fear of your eyes rolling up. The man sways from foot to foot awkwardly before leaving the printing room.

Snapping out of your personal flashback, you look over at your fiance signing autographs for his adoring and objectively feminine fan base. While it was extremely unnerving how unknowingly close they were to your home, you weren't resentful of their gushing.

Your engagement and your overall relationship had not been made public in fear of your personal life being exploited by paparazzi. That doesn't mean, however, the next thing you witness doesn't get your blood boiling.

A girl, no older than maybe 22 waltzes up to Mineta with the confidence of Muhammad Ali in a ring match. Her raven black hair fell flawlessly down her back with not a single split end. Almond eyes decorated with precise coal blink rapidly to draw attention to her seemingly natural eyelashes. With 4 inch wedges. a black halter top, and cuffed jean shorts, it was clear she was someone on a mission. She effortlessly pushes past the nearby fans as they stop to quack at her rivaling beauty. A smirk draws itself with her soft pink lips as she hears people muttering around and about her.

"Wow she's so pretty"

"They would look good together just look at them."

"Ugh, such an attention whore, not giving the rest of us a chance!"

"I bet a 20 she's his type."

"Is she famous?"

The chatter comes to a close as the girl hands Mineta a notebook, "Can you sign right here?" Mineta flips open the book and his eyes widen a fraction before he puts on his heroic voice, "Wow it looks like you got all of Japan's heroes in this book!" The girl smiles as she watches Mineta scratch his signature, "Don't be afraid to leave your number in there too Mr. Minoru." Mineta pauses at the statement for continuing his elaborate handwriting, "I don't think that would be very plus ultra of me so I'm gonna have to pass." Smug pride fills your chest as you watch the annoyance cross the girl's face.

Mineta finishes signing and hands her back her book, she, in turn, forces a small piece of paper in his hand before holding his chin and kissing him. At that moment nothing else mattered but beating that bitches ass as you yanked her black hair and dragged her to the ground. "This ain’t Wattpad bitch get your hands off of him!!" You turn to Mineta making him flinch with a sharp glare as you yank her hair again, hopefully pulling a few strands out. "You just gonna let her kiss you and not do anything!?" Mineta stretched his hands towards you cautiously, "Y/n calm down, if you would have given me a chance I would have settled it-" "No, settle it now!"

Your rage is diminished by the judgmental looks coming from the fans and you realize your brazen display was out of order.

"Who is she"

"I think she's the secretary l, so why is she so mad"

"Delusional just cause you're with him all the time doesn't mean you're together"

"I hope he fires her."

"This is why we shouldn't let them in Japan"

The girl whose hair you have in a chokehold stands up unbalanced before pushing your hands from her hair. Satisfied at the disheveled look of her previously perfect strands, you turn to walk back to Mineta, your anger having been sated, "Black Bitch." You turn around and go charging towards the girl again grinning when she flinches. Your rampage is stopped as Mineta wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up, "Sorry for the disturbance, we deeply apologize!"

It's almost comical how your mouth spews vulgarity that would make a sailor blush as Mineta drags you behind your apartment building. He ushers you through the back door leading to the washroom, "I can't believe she'd do that in front of me, and you let her!" Mineta shuts the door quietly, leaning his ear against it to listen out for any lingering fans. You sit on top of a washer still ranting as your blood cools down. "The nerve of some of these people is outrageous, even if she doesn't know about us that is still sexual harassment!"

Mineta doesn't look at you and instead peeks through the blinds lining the washroom windows. "I think they are gone, come on." The two of you sneak out the door and walk at a moderate speed all the way back to your front door. In hindsight, you knew that causing a scene like that was a bold move on your part. If anyone was recording the whole ordeal you knew Mineta’s name and possibly yours would be in the headlines by later this evening.

As the last one entering, you lock the door behind you, forehead scrunched together with apprehension. "Mineta I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me. I just saw her touching you and saw red." You face away from the door with an earnest look on your face. Mineta has a cheeky look on his face that can only mean trouble. Despite your similar slim build and height, Mineta easily corners you against the door. "I know exactly what got into you." Mineta’s pointer finger taps your nose. "Jealousy."

You sighed, putting your head down nodding, "Yeah, it's not that I don't trust you, it's just-" "shhh." Mineta lips your head back up with a hand under your chin. "It's fine Y/n. It's not like I expected a perfect little cocksleeve like you to be okay with sharing." You stare blinkingly at Mineta. 'Oh, he's in one of those moods huh?' As expected from such a fiend like Mineta, he was quite possibly hard the whole time he was watching you beat that girl's ass, and for some reason that irked you even more. “Mineta I’m being serious.” The words leaving your mouth did not phase Mineta, he holds your hips and pulls you close to him in order for you to feel his bulge.

“Oh come on, after seeing you be so possessive for me, how can you not expect me to be a lil turned on?” Mineta’s hands circle your ass before slapping it, “Made me feel special.” Rolling your eyes you lean into the lingering kisses he begins to leave on your shoulder. His grip tightens as he shuffles you to the nearest surface. “Makes me feel all giddy inside to know that you do this only for me and no one else.” Minoru unbuttons your dress pants and removes your belt, “But doing that in front of all those people was stupid.” A shiver travels up your arms from the feeling of lips caressing your ear. Mineta dips his hand into your cotton panties and immediately draws attention to your clit.

“Look at me, Mineta Minoru with a girl like you that would fight for me. Who would have thought?” You ball your fists on the table, hanging your head low. “You’re not going to make this easy for me are you?” Mineta slips his other hand beneath your blouse to cup your breasts. Short l rub down your slit collecting your slick. The feeling was warm and buzzing just underneath your skin, the bastard was well trained on how to slowly but surely bring your pleasure to its peak and hold you there. Your muscles begin to feel more and more like jelly, you sigh “Oh God..” Mineta pushed his body further on yours, rutting against your body. Up until now, his other hand was simply resting on your skin but once impatience overcame him, he used it to pull down your pants.

“You know this will be in articles tomorrow right?” Two fingers curl inside of you making you squeal, “Y-Yes!” Something hard and slick smacks against your bare ass as Mineta removes the bottom half of his hero costume. “So how are you going to compensate me for what I’ll have to deal with tomorrow?” You turn your head to the back with a small pout on your face, “She shouldn’t have touched you.” Mineta coyly smiles before pressing your head down against the table. “You should have let me handle it.”

Mineta was an average of 5 inches in length with conservative girth. But so far he’s been the only man that really added proof that size doesn’t matter. Mineta pulls away from you and leans down to riffle through his pants. You hear a crisp pop of a cap being opened and a slick splatter is heard afterward. A shaky breath leaves Mineta’s lips as he lubes his cock up. Penetrating is a struggle at first, the longer it takes for him to push it in the more both of you become frustrated until he finally pulls your waist back against himself. “S-So good!” The pleasure causes his childhood lisp to slip through as he waits for you to acclimate to the stretch.

You shift your feet when Mineta refrains from moving. "Tsk, you really don't understand the meaning of patience do you?" Your hands suddenly become cool to the touch as Mineta covers them with medium sized spheres temporarily gluing you to the table. "Mineta this isn't fair! Please just a little bit to the left!" Now having you helpless Mineta puts one hand on your back while stroking the base of his cock. "It's not about being fair, it is about teaching a sneaky brat like you to know their place." Mineta begins to move but it's not right, he needs to go more to the left, "Mineta what are you even talking about!?!"

A sigh leaves Mineta's lips, "Don't think I forgot about that slick shit you tried to pull with Kaminari." Mineta watches your ad shake and bounce everytime your hips meet. Your arms twitch and pull at themselves wanting to find purchase on the flat surface. Groans leave your lips as Mineta comes closer to hitting your spot, "Slick shit?! Y-You're the one that wanted to do that stupid little piano in the first place!" You couldn't see it but Mineta had a deep seated glare on his face. He loops his fingers underneath his yellow scarf and rolls it around long ways.

"I'm really tierd of your mouth. What you think because I let you beat that girl out their I'll let you beat me?" The middle of the scarf is put in your mouth and your head is pulled back by it. Mineta holds both ends of the scarf to slam into your cunt. "Just a greedy little bitch aren't you?" You scream into the cloth as Minetas cock finally hits your spot just right. The constant pulling on the corner of your mouth burned everytime the fabric rubbed against the sensitive flesh. Your feet rise to your toes in a fruitless attempt at getting a break from the pleasure. Mineta holds his scarf in one hand and pushes down your waist. "Didnt you want this? Don't run from it now."

Your pussy squelched around his cock the faster he went making you go cross eyed. "Fuck you feel so damn good. The table rattled and scraped across the floor with every thrust. "oh fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Your nails scraped the table as you closed your fist, had you had claws it would have been a whole different story. You beared down on his cock, trying, begging to feel more inside of your walls as he moved faster. Suddenly your argument fel worth it.

Mineta knew many things about himself. He knew his birthday, he knew where he was in life, and he knew he had come 6 minutes ago and was bordering hysteria as he pumped his overestimated cock into your wet heat. Each drag made years collect in his eyes. Tiny whimpers left his lips and his hands squeezed your sides harder and hard. "So fucking warm. Squeezing down on my dick like that."

He bowed his head and rested on your back, kissing the sweaty skin as he pushed through the painful pleasure. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mineta slaps your ass before pulling out and shoving his fingers inside your pussy. "Cum for me, Y/n. That's it cum on my hands." Mineta's fingers were the only thing that never really grew on him. They were relatively short but thick so even three of them were able to stretch your hole the way you needed.

"Y-Yes, right there shit!" Your cum drips down his arm soiling the fabric there as you squint around him, "That's it give it to me." Mineta buried his face in your pussy licking you clean like a man starved. It wasn't until you whined did he stop and pull his fingers out.

Luckily for you, his spheres were just about coming close to their time constraint. You stand up rubbing your wrists and drinking some water Mineta brings you. A snort captures your attention and Mineta holds up his phone, "Not even an hour." Writing in thick bold words read.

"Obsessive Secretary Snaps on Camera!"

You snort, "I'm the obsessive one huh?" It was going to be a long day tomorrow

53 notes · View notes

thetaoofzoe · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: Ethan Hunt Must Die 1/1

Pairing: August Walker x YOU

Word Count: 10,420

Summary: You are a medic and a member of what’s left of The Apostles. And it’s not rumour anymore. August Walker is definitely not dead. All you want to do is help him with his cause, kill those responsible for his grave injuries (and foiling his manifesto) and make Ethan Hunt pay. Falling in love with August Walker is just a given ;)

Rating: Mature to Explicit some Violence, sex and fluff and yearning and impetuous kisses, explosions and delicious August Walker. And, this story is not as serious as it may appear, so have fun reading.

Note: If you have been around you’ve seen the original iteration of this story, but maybe not in its entirety. It was originally broken up into 10 parts as A Month of August Walker Challenge. Now, in all of its revamped glory is the complete story all in one place.

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

Your contact was a pleasant woman. She’d collected you from the tiny airport in Kashmir and on the way to your destination, she’d offered to buy snack food for you from a nearby shop.

‘The cabin is fully stocked,’ she reasoned pointing to the squat building by the side of the road, ‘but in case you want a Coke or something.’

You did want a Coke in fact and you took her up on the offer. Along with a few cans of cola you grabbed other items – chocolate bars, fishing tackle, and feminine hygiene products. You didn’t know how long you were going to be out there in the middle of nowhere, and you didn’t want to use up the precious bog roll when your cycle eventually came.

The woman was leaning against the side of the battered truck and smoking a cigarette when you stepped out of the shop. Eyeing your purchases, she nodded with approval.

‘Good idea,’ she said, making a vague gesture towards you with her cigarette. ‘We didn’t think about a woman’s needs during such a long excursion. Next time. There are all sorts of painkillers in the stocks though… just so you are aware.’

She put a gloved hand on her lower belly and laughed a little.

‘I know how it can get.’

You smiled, grateful to be sharing this moment with her, woman to woman, and thanked her before getting back into the truck.

‘Is there gonna be a next time?’ you asked, sweeping the seatbelt across your chest and clicking it into place.

She didn’t look at you as she started the truck and set off down the road.

‘I hope this is the last, ‘ she said finally and as it seemed like such a struggle for her to come up with an answer that she seemed satisfied with, you didn’t continue to press the matter.

Settling into the seat, you unwrapped a chocolate bar, and with three large bites, had it stuffed into your mouth. The salty chocolate and nougat were glorious and you moulded the sweet wad into the roof of your mouth so that you could savour it with slow licks. You folded the plastic-coated wrapper into a small square and tucked it in your jacket pocket.

The woman drove along the rough frosty mountain roads as if you two were being chased. She didn’t seem at all phased with how the truck bounced and jumped dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, as if one wrong turn of the wheel wouldn’t send the two of you plunging down into the river below.

That imagery triggered sudden rage in you.

Goddamn you, Ethan Hunt, you thought.

You wanted just two minutes alone with Hunt to make him regret having ever laid eyes on August Walker. Hunt deserved nothing but a long slow torturous death.

Ever since the incident, The Apostles had been split on what to do regarding August Walker. Should he be left out there and forgotten? Or should his remains be recovered and given a proper burial?

The thought that there was nothing left to recover prevailed until reports that August had survived the fall started trickling in. With this new knowledge, it was impossible to prevent the uprising that voted to scour the mountains to find him. This time, your only mission was to man the cabin in the event one of the search teams found him.

‘Not far to the cabin. Ayami is apart of the search team. You know her, yes?’ asked the woman.

‘Yes. I know her.’

‘Good, Ayami planned all of this, coordinated us, and was able to pinpoint a location not far from this cabin.’

Not enough planning for a menstrual cycle, you thought, petulantly.

‘It will work out,’ she continued and nodded. ‘He will be found.’

‘This is the third time someone has,’ you made inverted commas in the air with your fingers, ‘pinpointed his location, only to run into IMF lies. We are wasting precious time. August is alive and we need to find him.’

The woman drove on in silence for a moment.

‘I agree with you, yes. I agree. But what do you suggest that we do? If not this.’

You relented and sighed. You had no idea what to do other than this.

‘If I could snap my fingers…’

You clicked your fingers and she chuckled, clicking hers as well.

‘He would be safe with us,’ she finished for you.

A half hour later, she slowed and finally stopped the truck and pointed through the windscreen at what looked like a stack of fallen trees.

‘Unfortunately, my friend,’ she said. ‘There is a way to drive up to the cabin. However, it is many, many kilometres that way and petrol for me is hard to come by right. It’s easier to drop you here and you take the trail. It’s only a few hours hike.’

You grabbed your rucksack from the foot well, reached over and one-arm hugged the woman and then got out. She did a wide circle turn around and pulled the truck up to where you stood.

‘Good luck, my friend. And take care.’

‘Take care,’ you said. ‘See you soon.’

She gave you a two-fingered salute and drove away.

It was cold that far up in the mountains and the beginning of the trail looked desolate. Securing your rucksack on your back, you began your long trek, and the cabin was a welcome sight after hours of navigating the rocky hard terrain. Inside was small and utilitarian, but it was more than enough for you. You didn’t bother to take off your boots before falling onto the cot and into a deep exhausted sleep.

In the morning, you took stock of your surroundings. The cabin was pretty well-appointed with a wood stove, a table with two chairs, an amazingly comfortable cot and stacks and stacks of supplies. The gold-painted metal ammo closet in the back was comforting to see and you were going to familarise yourself with its contents later. But first, breakfast.

You got up to make coffee and noticed a medium-sized cardboard box sitting on the small dining table by the stove. There was a note.

‘Your name was given to me at the last moment. Here are some things you may need.’

And it was signed, ‘Ayami’.

You slit open the box with your pocket knife and laughed when you saw the contents. Ayami had packaged not only tampons and pads but several different styles of menstrual cups for you and you felt guilty for earlier, being such a brat about the supplies you needed.

‘You planned everything, Ayami,’ you said aloud to the empty room. ‘Thank you.’

You lit the fire in the stove and put a pot on to boil some water. A noise outside pricked your ears. It sounded like the heavy motor of an ATV and out of the noise you picked out the sounds of other engines drawing closer.

Shit! you thought, rushing to the ammo closet at the back of the cabin.

Flinging open the doors, you dragged out a single barrel shotgun, loaded it, and scrambled back to the front cabin door. Peering out through the narrow window you watched as several four-wheelers and one battered Land Rover raced towards the cabin. In a cloud of kicked up dirt and dust, the Rover drove straight up to the door and to your absolute surprise, the passenger door popped open and Ayami jumped out.

You opened the cabin door and came out.

‘Good!’ she shouted over the noise of the engines. ‘You’re here. Get the first aid boxes ready, now!’

You were a medic and understood the urgency in her tone. You ran back to the cabin and were piling bandages, antiseptics, and other items on the table when three men carried in a limp body between them. Ayami strode across the room and captured you in a hug.

‘I am happy to see you,’ she gasped breathlessly and grabbed your hands. ‘We found him!’

With heart crashing against your ribs, you looked to the man being stretched on the cot as Ayami continued.

Oh God… they found him.

‘Somehow some wanderers discovered him months ago and took him in.’

She trailed off and shook her head. She still seemed to be in shock.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ you told her and squeezed her hands. ‘We’re looking after him now. Radio in for helicopter transport. It may take a few days to get someone out here.’

You cleaned your hands and went to assess the situation. August was alive and badly burned, but gladly not beyond your repair. Ayami came back into the cabin after making the call and joined you at the bed.

‘You planned all of this, Ayami,’ you said. ‘You made this happen. What’re our next step?’

Ayami put her hand on your shoulder and smiled viciously.

‘To make Ethan Hunt pay.’

You were wrong.

It didn’t take a few days for the helicopter to arrive. It took two weeks. Although the cabin was well stocked and had nearly everything you needed to tend to August’s wounds, it wasn’t enough.

Ayami wanted to leave and take August the long way through the mountains. They had the power to transport him over land and it was fucking stupid to leave him at the cabin to succumb to something that could be fixed. His body was fighting a raging infection and frankly, he was losing. You explained to her your reasons for why it would be tough on August to try to drive with him through such hard terrain. He was in a fragile state and jostling him all around in an unstable car could exacerbate any internal injuries. A chopper ride would be better.

Ayami understood that, however…

‘We’ve got plenty of antibiotics,’ she said reasonably. ‘Why can’t we give him some?’

‘Because we don’t know what he has. He could have a bacterial or viral infection and just picking something to give him might do more harm than good. I don’t want to take that risk.’

It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to pump him full of all of the pills you had, just to scattershot the infection, but incorrectly dosing him, in his weakened state, might kill him. August Walker was alive and you were going to keep him that way.

So you did your best. With Ayami’s help, you kept him clean and dry and in order to manage his temperature, iced. August, however, foiled your attempts to tend to him effectively. He was delirious and unaware of what was happening to him. More than once you had to extract yourself from his vice-like grip as he held onto you and growled guttural threats of violence to your person. All you could do was try to soothe him and mop his brow and use the aspirin to dull his obvious pain.

During the wait for air transport, you stayed up some nights with August. Sometimes you just sat at his bedside and read by the light of your headlamp. Sometimes you just watched him, held his hand and stroked his hair when nightmares haunted his sleep.

He would heal pretty well, you observed, and, without too much lasting damage to his face. He was fortunate that the hot oil missed his eye, although it ruined his ear. But you knew that too could be reconstructed.

‘We’re gonna get you back on your feet, August,’ you murmured on those nights when he was at his most fitful. ‘And we’re gonna get those people who did this to you.’

Even though you weren’t sure he could even hear you speaking, you continued to encourage and comfort him. It was the least you could do.

‘You met John Lark before?’ Ayami asked over breakfast one morning, using August’s real name for the first time.

‘When he was going by John Lark?’ you asked for clarification and she nodded. ‘No. Not then. He had already assumed the new identity and was in the CIA when I turned up.’

‘He was not always like this,’ she said a bit cryptically.

‘How was he?’

Interest sparked in you.

She shook her head.

‘Just different. Maybe he’ll tell you someday.’

Ayami smiled at you and you turned, alerted by the soft groan coming from the bed.

‘Oh God, he’s waking up again,’ she chuckled and then asked you, ‘Top or bottom.’

You laughed inspite of yourself and gave the choice a moment’s thought. ‘Top’ meant that you got to administer medication, clean up his face and check his bandages, while ‘bottom’ meant that you would have to wrestle with his strong flailing arms and risk getting punched in the face. Ayami looked at you expectantly and you grimaced.

‘I had top last time, so…’

She smiled and got up, patting your arm in passing. ‘Then you get top this time.’

‘Ayami, c’mon,’ you protested rising from the chair. ‘I don’t want to be unfair.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ she said lifting her arms and flexing her biceps. ‘But, I need my workout.’

Ayami needed to stay in Kashmir to tie up some loose ends. So, you said your farewells and parted company when the chopper transport finally arrived.

You, on the other hand, were headed to New Delhi where another contact would meet and relieve you of your August-sitting duties.

Exhausted and battered, it was just after midnight when you finally arrived at the airport. Out through the cloudy bubble heli-window, you saw the second contact rush to the settling helicopter. You unlatched an dragged open the side door.

‘Hello!’ he shouted over the roar of the blades overhead. ‘It’s Janus. You can come with me!’

‘Where am I going?’ you shouted back, not moving from where you were sitting next to August’s prone body.

He was still blissfully unconscious and sleeping quietly.

‘There is a safehouse here. You can rest. We will transport Walker to the small plane over there and continue on to London.’

You shook your head and were able to speak normally when the blades finally shuddered to a stop.

‘I’ll go on,’ you told Janus. ‘I’ll go on, it’s ok. I’ll stay with him.’

Janus looked puzzled.

‘No, you are to go to the safe house. I am to continue on.’

You had come this far. You weren’t going to leave August, so you again declined the offer of a trade.

‘Now. Come on. I’m not going to quibble with you,’ you said, kicking open the other door so that the two men accompanying Janus could wrangle the stretcher out of the chopper.

You watched them carry August off and jumping out of the heli, you turned to Janus.

‘Be well, my friend. But I’ve got it.’

Janus shrugged a little and nodded, seeing that you weren’t going to be swayed.

‘Is it really him?’ he asked and you could hear relief seeping into his voice.

You put your arms around him in a farewell hug.

‘It is,’ you said. ‘You have Ayami to thank for that. Make sure that you do.’

You ran after the two men carrying the stretcher. The men secured the stretcher inside and turned to help you into the back of the plane. You pulled closed the small plane’s door and made sure that August was securely strapped in. It was going to be another long ride to the final safe house.

It was raining in London, and as the small plane approached, the cool precipitation rinsed away grey foggy clouds to reveal the golden city. Through your headset, you listened to the pilot talk to air traffic control and learned that you were headed to Blackbushe Airport.

‘How far is the safe house from the airport?’ you asked the pilot.

‘Not far. Maybe 20 kilometers. Not far.’

You were so ready to put your feet on land that you closed your eyes and envisioned a soft bed, a hot meal, and an even hotter bath. Glancing down at the still sleeping man on the stretcher at your feet, you felt a rise of tender feelings in your heart. Not only had your team recovered August Walker, alive, but you had a personal hand in his convalescence. Reaching down, you touched his face. He felt hot, but not as feverish as before and you were relieved. Elevated fevers for sustained periods of time were dangerous and although he wasn’t out of the woods yet, he was better. You brushed a curl of brown hair off of his forehead and smoothed the edge of your thumb across his eyebrow. Yes, he was going to heal well and regain his strength to be able to fight another day.

Blackbushe Airport was small but efficient and there was a black, solid paneled van waiting for you. You helped the men with the stretcher and once August had been secured, you pulled yourself into the offered front passenger seat. The driver nodded to acknowledge your presence and you put on your seatbelt as the van drove off.

Someone tapping on the window jarred you from the nap you didn’t realise you had fallen into. With a wet grunt, you sat up, reflexively swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, and dried the drool which had pooled in the corner. Hand still to your mouth, you shifted to look through the window. It was the driver and he made a gesture for you to get out.

You nodded to show that you understood and he moved off. Behind you in the cargo part of the van, you could hear men talking and then sounds of strain when they lifted the stretcher. Even unconscious, August wasn’t for the weak or fainthearted. You chuckled at your own analogy, unclipped the seatbelt and opened the door. Your legs wobbled when your feet hit the ground and you pressed back against the closed door until you felt that you could walk without collapsing. It took a while for your legs to finally firm and when they did you followed the men into the medium sized country manor house.

Inside smelt of cedar and pine. Your footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as you walked into the charming front room and looked up at all of the old portraits and paintings and decorative weapons. Twin staircases, one on each side of the front room, dog-legged up to the next level. You approached a tall round table with a large vase of fresh flowers and walked around it. You peeked into dark rooms and soon found yourself in an equally as charming country kitchen. There was a man in there wearing a black jumper and blue jeans, drinking from a white mug.

‘Ah!’ he said when he saw you. ‘Come in, come in. Coffee?’

Aware that you looked particularly filthy and bedraggled, compared to his crispness, you cleaned your hands on your cargo trousers and stepped into the room.

‘Yes, please.’

The man obliged, saying, ‘It’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

Instant was fine and you didn’t protest when he handed you a cup.

‘And it’s terrible,’ he added with a laugh. ‘I’ve only just arrived and haven’t had a chance to flush out all of the pipes. Everything happened so fast.’

You nodded and drank the metallic tasting coffee without complaint.

‘Ayami, then. Right?’

You knew what he was asking. Ayami was the conductor of this orchestra and she deserved all of the credit.

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck… she’s a legend.’

Finishing the cup without much tasting it, you handed it back to him.

‘I’d like to clean up and make sure that he’s… that August is ok for the night.’

He took the cup and was nodding as he put both yours and his into the sink.

‘Sure, sure. I can do that. There is a room ready for the both of you. Come on, I’ll show you.’

You followed him up the stairs and down a quiet, thickly carpeted hallway which was also lined with gaily painted portraits. Upon reaching the room at the end, he stepped aside to let you go in first.

There was a trio of men in there, that you recognised as the medical team and the room had been set up like a well-stocked hospital room. The lemon yellow wallpaper with its sunflower print was a pleasant contrast to the medical equipment and other paraphernalia. The men greeted you and they all shared a happy look. You knew why and yes, you shared it too. You said nothing as you watched them undress and bathe August, glad that he could finally receive more focused treatment.

‘And my room?’ you asked.

August didn’t need you now and you had to look after yourself. Mr instant coffee led you back down the hall and showed you your bedroom and amenities. When he left you, you threw your rucksack on the floor by the bed, stripped out of your filthy clothes, and immediately ran a bath. When you finally emerged, refreshed, and clean down to your toes, you found a sandwich and cola waiting on the table next to the bed. You devoured it in a few bites but drank the cola slowly as you unpacked your rucksack. All the way at the bottom, and rolled around a pair of thick socks was a clean shirt and sweatpants which you quickly pulled on. You sat on the edge of the bed and finished the cola.

Flopping onto your side and closing your eyes, you intended to rest for only a moment. However, sleep had other ideas.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows behind you and you woke suddenly then rolled over. On the wall at the head of the bed, a pleasant-looking woman smiled down at you from a pastoral painting and you were groggy enough to smile back. Rubbing your face you sat up, yawned, and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, staying there a moment to contemplate the night before. You hadn’t slept that well in a very long time and you were grateful to have finally got some rest. That old bed was a godsend.

After washing and dressing in clean clothes, you stood in the corridor outside your room door and looked down the hallway to where August slept. His door was closed. The scent of coffee wafting up the stairs alerted you that someone else was awake and you wondered if it was Mr Instant coffee down there still flushing out the pipes and drinking metallic tasting coffee. You decided to leave him to it and you walked to August’s room.

You tapped on the door but there was no answer, so you turned the doorknob and let yourself in. August was still asleep. The IV drip bag was half empty and the bandages on his face were bright and clean. He looked much better in the warm morning light and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. You smoothed down the patch of IV tape on the back of his hand and August startled a yelp out of you when he moved.

His eyes were open and you found yourself under the clear scrutiny of the infamous August Walker. Before your inglorious meeting at the cabin, you had never been this close to him. The two of you never spoke nor had you even been in the same room.

His eyes moved all over your face as if hunting for something and you stood still letting him complete his inspection. When recognition finally bloomed in his eyes, he relaxed.

You ventured to put your hand over his.

‘Do you remember me?’ you asked.

‘I remember,’ he answered, voice raspy from disuse.

August fell silent and it seemed to take effort for him to speak.

‘I… remember you read to me.’

Your heart skipped with elation.

‘Yes.’

Breathing out a breath, August closed his eyes.

‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll make him pay, August,’ you said when he was quiet. ‘All of them.’

It didn’t matter that he had succumbed to sleep again and probably didn’t hear you. Ethan Hunt was going to pay.

It was fortunate Mr. Instant Coffee, as you dubbed him, was around to cook and clean because you weren’t about to look after Walker and do the domestic duties as well.

As the weeks drifted by and August grew stronger, you turned your interest away from him and to revenge.

Retribution, you liked to say to yourself. It was a much better word and to pull it off, you needed a team.

Ayami, of course, was on board. She was always up for some violence and you loved her for it. She knew exactly who you needed and how to contact them. And, if you were going to go through with it, all the way, you needed a solid plan. Every piece had to be in place for the whole machine to move forward. No stone could remain unturned.

You spent a lot of time in that country kitchen with plans and schematics and blueprints spread out in front of you on the table. The first order of business was to find the persons responsible; Benji, Ilsa, Luther and Hunt.

Find them, and observe.

‘That’s it,’ you’d told Ayami. ‘Find them and observe. Record their patterns, their travel, their habits, their pubs, markets, clothing stores, everything.’

You made sure to have rotating team members on each target so that said target would not recognise any reoccurring faces and become suspicious. IMF was a clever, skittish bunch and the way to lure them into the trap was to be patient and deliberate.

Early one morning, about three months into your stay at the safe house, a heavy thumping down the stairs distracted you from your research.

You got up, refilled your coffee and then poured a second fresh cup. Returning to the table you put the second cup in the space across from where you had been sitting. For two weeks now, August had been testing his newly found strength and had insisted on getting up and moving around own his own. He’d recently been cut out of his arm cast and was able to navigate his way on crutches. And on mornings after breakfast when he could get himself out of bed, he usually banged down the stairs and hobbled into the kitchen.

After a few days of this, you started preparing a cup of coffee for him. Whether he was looking for coffee or not, you always put out a second cup when you heard him coming down. And August was actually polite and thankful for the gesture. It surprised you. You expected him to be this gruff and grumpy take charge team leader who didn’t have time for underlings. When, in fact, August Walker was a very pleasant man.

‘Morning,’ you heard him say from the kitchen’s doorway.

‘Morning,’ you replied, nodding to the coffee cup.

He took up his regular place across from you, and leaned the crutches against the bench seat.

You looked at him finally. The bandages were all off of his face now (except for the one remaining to protect his damaged ear) and the swelling had gone down.

What was at first considered full-thickness burns were actually only partial-thickness and he could heal without skin grafts.

He looked, you decided, pretty normal. Handsome, in fact and you wanted to reach out to touch him.

He saw you examining him and he made an aborted attempt to touch his face.

‘No, it ahh… it’s good. You look much better. Really,’ you said quickly.

He picked up the coffee and drank slowly.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘No,’ he said into the cup and changed the subject. ‘What have we got?’

Right back to business, you thought. Of course. None of this ‘feelings’ stuff for him.

‘The only one we got consistent eyes on is Luther. I guess they’re not using him these days, so he’s staying put. He’s in the States and looks to have a vacation home in Florida. If he has a third place, we don’t know about it yet.’

August listened and nodded and you swore you could see a little smile starting to play across his mouth. Not wanting it to disappear, you showed him photos of Ilsa.

‘I think, she thinks she’s clever. At first she was darting around, doing the whole ‘spy’ thing. It was cute. Now, not so much. I’d like to take her… if you agree.’

August looked up at you and that little smile was still there. In fact he looked particularly pleased with you.

‘Don’t worry. Hunt’s for last. We’re saving him for you.’

August held your gaze and you felt a thrill race through you.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I want you to do whatever you want to do. I trust you.’

You brightened considerably and resisted the urge to clap your hands with delight. Having August Walker’s trust had made the day golden.

A few days later, the thumping down the stairs distracted you from your work. Smiling a little, you got up and poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat it on the table across from you. Then as an afterthought, you got up again and plated a few chocolate Hobnobs that Mr. Instant Coffee had bought with the weekly grocery. You had barely put the plate down before August appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Seeing the mid-morning snacks waiting for him, he smiled a little and now down to one crutch from two, he hobbled into the kitchen and sat down in his usual spot across from you.

‘Look at you, speedster,’ you teased.

August’s brows rose with pleasure, but he smothered his growing smile by lifting his cup and drinking the coffee.

‘I prefer your coffee to the other one,’ said August, raising his eyes to meet yours.

You hesitated to meet his gaze, and when you did, the praise in his face melted you.

August quickly looked away and down at the plans on the table between the two of you.

‘So, tell me.’

He gestured with the cup to the papers.

You grinned, feeling pleased with your progress.

‘Ilsa. I finally got a bead on her. And I will be travelling to her location today.’

‘Today?’ he asked, sounding surprised and your brows drew together a little.

‘Too soon? I mean.. do you want to come?’

August shook his head and suddenly looked concerned.

‘I don’t want you rushing into something.’

Ah, was that it?

You reached out to tap the back of his hand with your index finger.

‘Whilst I thoroughly enjoy your concern, there’s no need for it. Do you umm, want a trophy? An eyeball? A finger?’

August was clearly surprised, and your offer startled a laugh out of him.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t want any of that. But ah… I appreciate your vigour.’

You smiled at him.

‘You sure?’

He laughed a little, again, and asked, ‘And your flight?’

‘Coupla hours,’ you replied checking your wristwatch.

‘And your plan?’

‘Delicious,’ you promised.

And it was.

Los Angeles was hot and sweltering and you were not prepared for the weather. But you didn’t let that deter you, for you had a mission to accomplish.

You found the target sitting at a table beneath a colourful umbrella at a crowded outdoor cafe.

Carrying several bags emblazoned with names of high-end shops you stopped by her table, made a show of looking into the cafe and then down at the chair across from her.

She looked up at you and you tried a smile.

‘Hi, I am sooo sorry, but do you mind if I just sit here. I am dying in this heat!’

As you were actually dying in the western heat, you knew that you came across sincerely. She took a moment to consider you. Judging you harmless, she nodded to the chair and you collapsed onto it gratefully.

‘Oh, thank you, honey. That’s so good of you. I thought I was going to get all of my shopping over and done with before noon, but you know how it is. Just one more shop, one more try on…. maybe they got those shoes in the back in your size, right? Am I right?

You giggled easily and she nodded, then glanced into the cafe.

‘I gotta wear these gloves to that my hands don’t tan,’ you said watching her. ‘There’s nothing worse than having your arms one colour and your hands 5 shades darker.’

Ignoring you, she raised her hand hoping to alert the waiter standing inside.

He eased up to the table.

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘I ordered my…’

‘Yes, I know ma’am. We are working on it right now, please give us some time. The broiler is currently holding on by a thread. May I offer you a cold drink? On the house?’

You looked at her and she sighed.

‘Sure, go on. You want one?’

Her attention was on you.

You shrugged.

‘Sure! I’ll have what she’s having.’

The two of you chatted amiably for a little while and the waiter returned with your drinks. You immediately sipped at the fizzy fruit drink and put your glass down next to hers.

Several minutes later someone inside shouted, ‘Janie Fellows?’

The woman across from you stirred and then stood up.

‘Finally,’ she said and went inside to pick up her order.

You watched her go and quickly, unobtrusively, dumped the contents of your travel perfume bottle into her glass.

Ilsa returned with a plate brimming with meat and salad and set it on her placemat.

‘Looks good,’ you said admiring the dish. ‘I might get one, but I do need to get on, I think.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ she assured you and began her meal.

You sat and chatted whilst she ate and finished her drink.

You were in the middle of a long drawn out story about your imaginary husband when she stopped devouring the rare steak.

Ilsa dropped her fork and you turned towards her.

‘Something wrong?’ you asked, faux concern in your voice as you let your natural accent slip. ‘You’ve gone quite pale… Janie.’

Ilsa’s wide eyes shot up to your face and she spat out her chewed mouthful.

‘I probably overdosed you,’ you said quietly. ‘I mean, you were ten pounds heavier the last time I checked. But you and your hot yoga classes have done wonders. I might take it up myself.’

Eyes bulging as the poison squeezed closed her throat, Ilsa gurgled and staggered upright. The chair screeched on the concrete, fell away and you got up.

‘August Walker says, hello,’ you snarled at her. Then changing your attitude to something more helpless you shouted, ‘Oh My God! I think she’s having a seizure, help, help!’

A crowd began to form allowing you to slip away, but not before giving the thumbs up to Mr. Instant Coffee who had posed as your waiter who had perfectly distracted the mark enough for you to poison her drink.

‘Went well, I take it?’ August asked when you bustled into the kitchen the next morning.

There was coffee waiting for you at your usual spot.

You threw your arms round his neck and gave him a hearty kiss in greeting.

‘Better than you could ever imagine!’ you crowed and left him in stunned silence.

Distracted by the noise coming from the upper floor, you looked up from the laptop. The thumping down the stairs had been sounding a little less clumsy lately, now that August had finally regained control over his healing limbs. You were glad for it, because it meant that the infamous August Walker was out of the woods and on the mend.

You got up, poured a fresh cup of coffee, and was just setting it down when August came into the kitchen.

‘Morning!’ you called brightly, like the little homemaker you fancied yourself to be.

Well, you fancied yourself to be the kind of homemaker who didn’t keep house, but made coffee and assassination plans. You turned the cup so that the handle faced August when he straddled the bench and sat down across from you.

‘Thank you,’ he said picking up the cup and drinking deeply.

Smiling fondly, you considered him a moment and looked at the fresh bandage on his ear.

‘It’s ear day soon, isn’t it?’

Ear day, as you called it, was literally when August got his new outer ear to replace the one that had been damaged. Contacts in one of the world’s leading biotech labs had been cultivating new skin and cartilage from his own cells and were ready for transplantation. August had been putting off the surgery, ever since the fire of killing off the IMF team had been lit. He wanted a clear conscience before proceeding with any additional cosmetic surgery.

August lifted his gaze, but not directly to you. He looked at a spot on the table which was still littered with papers and blueprints and your laptops and a muscle bunched in his jaw, alerting you that he was uncomfortable with this line of discussion. You were never one to back down from a subject you wanted to pursue, so you pressed him gently.

‘I think… well, I think it’s gonna be fine. The surgery will be fine. You’ll have a brand spanking new appendage and everything’s gonna be fine.’

You watched his eyes sweep the length of the table, in an obvious attempt to avoid looking at you.

‘You suffered no hearing loss, on that side, the skin is mending itself nicely and the doctors even said that there was no follicle damage. Those curls will be coming back in no time.’

He scoffed.

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Yes you do,’ you said with a tiny grin. ‘Yes you do, you care. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t look like this.’

You waved an appraising hand in his direction.

‘August Walker, meet August Walker. He cares about his looks.’

‘I’m not vain,’ August scowled, putting the cup down and finally looking you in the face

You softened your teasing just a little.

‘I didn’t say you were vain. There’s nothing wrong with a man who looks after his appearance. It’s… sexy.’

That stopped him and a spark of pleasure brightened his face.

You continued to lay it on thick.

‘Come now, a good looking guy like you? And you don’t know it? I find that hard to believe.’

He snorted quietly.

‘Do you ever think something that you don’t say?’ he asked, lifting a dark brow.

You leaned in on your elbows.

‘There are loads of things that I think, that I don’t say. That doesn’t mean that I won’t say them eventually.’

August’s lips lengthened into an inquisitive smile.

‘Like?’

‘Like?’ you repeated and decided to come clean. ‘I just said that you were sexy.’

You made an airy, dismissive gesture.

‘That’s not a new thought.’

You felt a chill manifest as a soft, insistent tingling that skittered all along your skin. Everything you’d hidden about your feelings for him was almost all the way out and you couldn’t stop yourself.

‘It’s not new that I’d do anything for the manifesto to be realised,’ you continued.

When August put down the cup, you reached out and clasped both hands over his.

‘That I’d do anything for you, August.’

The passion in your own voice stunned you. Surely, you had once again overstepped his boundaries.

First, it was kissing him without asking, and now this, though August didn’t seem bothered by your audacity. He turned his hands up to enclose yours.

‘And I reward loyalty,’ he answered, voice low and full of promise.

You drew in a long breath through loosely pursed lips, which August seemed to appreciate for his eyes lowered to your wet mouth. His own lips parted in response and you wondered if you climbed across that table and onto his lap, would it have been considered outlandish.

You didn’t think about any of that, as you stood up onto the wooden bench. With his handsome face brimming with delight, August held onto your hands and steadied you as you scrabbled across the table and landed astride his muscular thighs with a satisfied ‘ooof!’

He grimaced from the sudden pressure slamming down on his still tender leg and you were immediately contrite.

‘I’m sorry,’ you murmured, sliding your arms around his neck and curling your fingers into his shaggy curls. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll not play so rough next time.’

‘I like it rough,’ said August, running his hands over your hips to grip you close.

And then you kissed him, softly, fully, feeling his lips come apart beneath yours. Breathing him in, your thoughts ran wild.

I could get used to this. I could indulge in this all day. I could–

Then, ever a man of ill timing, Mr. Instant Coffee bustled into the kitchen, and it took him a moment to realise what he was interrupting.

‘Oh, shite, ok… uhh so that’s happening. Ok, great, but ah, you two… we need to get a move on. The car leaves in ten.’

And then he was gone, leaving you staring at the recently vacated kitchen doorway with your arms dangling over August’s shoulders. Reluctantly, you backed off of August’s lap and smiling, you cupped his cheek, pressed your thumb against the dimple in his chin and walked off to grab your travel bag.

It was back to the States again, the keys of Florida where Luther Stickell was vacationing on a secluded houseboat.

Stickell was not hard to find. His boat was moored in one of the farthest berths and was lit up like Christmas. He was having a party.

So much for keeping a low profile, you thought as you stepped off of the elegant cabin cruiser that had been rented for your mission. Your craft was berthed far enough away from his that no one in Stickell’s party could see August in his scuba gear, stepping off the low deck and into the dark water.

Standing on a nearby wooden piling, a pair of seagulls watched you suspiciously, the way birds do, and you lifted a finger to your lips, shushing them.

Holding a pair of strappy heels in your hand, you walked down the slatted dock between yachts and other smaller boats. You purposefully wore a skimpy sequined dress, in the hopes of talking your way into the party. There were casually dressed men standing on the dock and smoking and they stopped talking as you approached. They didn’t look like bodyguards, but just like regular blokes. Easy to manipulate.

‘Hullo!’ you called happily, flapping your hand at them in greeting, affecting tipsiness. ‘I couldn’t help coming over. I just came from another get-together, but I’m not done partying yet. Ya’ll mind if I… ’

You made a walking motion with your index and middle fingers towards the boat. One of the men smiled and swaggered towards you. He held out a hand which you took and he led you to the edge of the boat, then helped you down the stairs.

Too easy.

There were people milling about on the port deck and some people playing cards inside, but not a lot was going on. It appeared to be at the tail end of the party, where people were trying to drink the last of the booze and eat the last of the food before they were forced to go home. You spotted Luther at the card table. He was laughing around a huge cigar clamped between his front teeth and then he threw the cards down on the table with a triumphant cry. The men sitting there erupted in jeers and hoots as he raked in the pile of money from the centre of the table.

Scanning the area you then went down the stairs to the toilet and stood in the dark narrow corridor thinking about August swimming around beneath your feet as he planted bomb charges against the boat’s hull.

The thought of him down there was strangely arousing.

August was stronger now, strong enough to cause mayhem with his own hands, and it was all you wanted for him. You crouched by the toilet and dug about in your handbag, pulling out one of Ayami’s personal creations – something she’d called her ‘cherry bang bang’. You drew out a black device that was flat on the bottom and round on the top. It looked harmless enough, almost like a little cake, but you knew the massive power packed into that sweetly named bomb. She had given you and August a personal demonstration of the destructive power of her little sweets. You placed a kiss on its glossy surface and adhered it to the underside of the toilet bowl.

‘You are a gem, Ayami,’ you chuckled and pushed upright.

You made your way back to the upper level and moving about unnoticed you planted more cherry bang bangs, even adhering one to each of the fishing chairs bolted to the port side deck.

A chill settled over the harbour. The guests soon drifted inside and eventually left the party altogether.

You walked back to the rented cabin cruiser to find August waiting for you. His hair was curly and damp and there were pressure marks from the dive mask across his brow. You went up on tiptoes to kiss him. August caught you about the waist and wrapped you up in his arms, lifting you to deepen the kiss. Trapped like that against his big, hot body, your heart throbbed excitedly. If he could elicit such wonders from your body with just a kiss and an embrace, you couldn’t imagine what other magic he could work.

‘Ready?’ he asked, bending to put you back on your feet.

You nodded and tossing your shoes aside, went to sprawl on one of the long creme coloured couches. August started the engine and guided the cruiser out of the berth. When you were a safe distance away, he reached for your hand and helped you up to the top deck.

You could see the lights of Stickell’s boat twinkling in the distance. And after about twenty more minutes, once everyone was finally gone, Luther shut off the boat lights. You and August got up from your deck chairs. You held up the binoculars and adjusted them until the houseboat came into sharp focus. All you could see now was the red glow of Luther’s cigar as the man sat out in one of the fishing chairs and enjoyed the rest of his evening.

August put one arm about your waist, big hand splaying across your stomach, and held up the detonator with the other.

‘Two down,’ you said and he depressed the button.

The explosion was brilliant.

Through the binoculars, you watched the boat burn and sink, but August was more interested in kissing the back of your neck and exposed shoulders to pay attention.

‘Mmmm,’ you purred slyly, leaning your head back against his shoulder. ‘Did you like that? Was it good for you?’

‘So good,’ he answered giving you one last kiss before releasing you.

You opened your mouth to say something but the distant sounds of sirens broke the silence.

Time to go, you thought and the both of you disappeared into the night.

You didn’t want to go back to the safehouse right away. As nice as the country house was, being cooped up between those four floral walls drove you crazy. August paid for a few nights at the Shangri-la hotel in London so that you could shower in temperatures above lukewarm, and sleep in a broad bed beneath washing detergent scented sheets.

And when August made love to you on those soft sheets, your earlier conjecture regarding his sexual prowess, did not prepare you for the bliss you experienced with him buried deep inside you.

It was nearly nine in the morning, a few days after your expedition to the Keys, and propped up with a pillow under your armpit, you lay on your side across the hotel bed, a bowl of spag bol, and your open laptop on the white duvet in front of you. You were half under the thick covers and half out of it because the room was warm, but not uncomfortably so. August emerged from the adjoining bathroom, wearing one of the luxurious bathrobes and towelling dry his hair.

He tossed the towel across the footrest by the chair and stretched out on the bed behind you, looking over your shoulder to read the Miami Herald’s bold headline. He slid his hand beneath your tee-shirt and caressed the skin between your shoulder blades. How he figured out that you liked that, still remained a quandary, but you were glad that you didn’t have to ask for it.

‘Oh, dear,’ you said feigning distress. ‘Did you hear about the accident that happened in Florida? Tsk… such a shame.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked August, as he nuzzled your shoulder.

‘Yes, sir,’ you teased, reaching back to playfully push him off. ‘You are not paying attention.’

‘I am. I’m paying attention to what’s important.’

The implication of his statement drifted right over your head as you were too focused on proving him wrong.

He kissed your neck again and grunted when you jabbed him with an elbow.

‘Well, if you were paying attention to what was important, you’d know that…’

‘That Dunn is here in London,’ August finished for you and continued to lazily caress your back.

That shut you right up. How did he know?

‘Of course, you knew,’ you chuckled.

‘I suggest,’ said August, changing the subject and lifting his head to take your earlobe between his lips. ‘We take one more day here and then find him.’

As he spoke, August slid his hands beneath you, turned you away from the laptop and pulled you atop him. You wriggled with delight, and grasping the robe’s belt, you pulled the knot free and let it fall open.

‘Just one day?’ you asked, sliding down the length of his body to ease his cock into your mouth.

‘Anything!’ he gasped, the heat of your mouth robbing him of coherent through. ‘Whatever you want.’

You wanted at least two extra weeks after the mission.

When you woke hours later, August was gone. There was a note left for you on the nightstand and in his neat print he’d written, ‘Supply Run.’

You stretched under the duvet and tapped the stiff cardstock against your lower lip.

Supply Run either mean food, or guns and knowing August, it was probably the latter. You were just raiding the over-stocked minibar refrigerator when he returned to the hotel room, carrying a long black duffel which he dropped onto the chaise at the end of the bed.

‘Guns,’ you said aloud, looking up from the chilled box of chocolate.

‘What?’ he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

You smiled and shook your head and switched on BBC World Service.

Unzipping the duffel, August asked, ‘what do you know about Sage Software?’

‘Nothing,’ you answered truthfully. ‘Who are they?’

‘They supply small business software. Dunn is working with them and hacking them.’

Taking the chocolates to the bed, you opened your laptop and searched the business. With a laugh, you rolled over onto your back and looked up at August with interest. He was smiling slightly back at you.

‘Well, what do you know?’ you said with amusement. ‘Sage is located in the Shard, which is… ’

August nodded to you and his grin widened.

‘Right downstairs,’ he finished.

‘Did you plan this? Getting a room here because he was downstairs?’ you giggled, when he leaned over to kiss you.

‘Of course. Leave nothing to chance, Princess.’

Well, that nickname was new, you thought, delighted.

‘What’s the plan, then?’

August stretched out on his back next to you and folded his hands on his belly.

‘He’s got an office on the 13th and is there most nights.’

‘Most nights,’ you repeated and waited for him to finish his thought.

‘Tonight.’

Dunn was surprisingly easy to pick off. You had expected for him to have cameras and monitors and other high tech stuff to alert him to the presence of anyone who came unannounced to his office. And, you were surprised that /he/ was surprised when August quietly opened the thin office door and let himself in.

You stayed in the corridor and watched the scene unfold through the narrow decorative glass panel next to the door.

Dunn obviously recognised and remembered August, because he bolted out of his swivel chair and threw himself against the wall behind him.

‘I thought you were dead!’ you heard him shout before the silenced round splattered him across the frog poster that announced ‘work hard, play hard, live hard’.

You clapped lightly as August exited the office.

‘Well done, baby,’ you praised him. ‘But come on. I heard the lift bell. It would be stupid of us to get caught.’

All the little piggies had gone to slaughter. All except one.

Ethan Hunt was not a stupid man.

In fact, he was quite the opposite. He was cunning and clever and suspicious which were characteristics that helped him to remain one of the top Mi6 agents.

He also had a golden streak of very good luck and August Walker was just about to ruin that man’s whole career.

‘He went squirrely, ’ said Ayami who was pawing through a tin of broken Danish butter cookies from where she sat perched on the kitchen counter-top.

Two weeks after you returned from the Dunn business, Ayami just turned up at the country safe-house. Much to your delight, you’d found her one morning sitting at the kitchen table having a bagel and cream tea. And you knew why she was there. Things were winding up to the big payoff and the team needed to be as consolidated as possible.

‘What does that mean?’ you asked her but it was Mr. Instant Coffee who answered.

‘Means that he knew what’s good for him and went underground.’

‘Because all of his peeps were getting murdered,’ Ayami finished cheerfully and you half expected her and Instant Coffee to slap hands in a celebratory high-five.

August sat silently in his usual place, thoughtfully turning the small white coffee cup in a circle on the table.

‘Last time he was seen?’ he asked finally.

‘Park hotel, Berlin,’ Instant Coffee read from the reports supplied by the ‘boots on the ground’ team. ‘Been there for about a week, but he hasn’t really stayed one place for more than that. We should have moved earlier.’

‘No,’ said August, not looking at him, but at the cup. ‘No, we want to give him enough rope to hang himself. Let him get complacent.’

‘Do we have time to let him get complacent?’ Instant Coffee said. ‘I mean, the longer we wait, the more time he’ll have to burrow in like a fucking tick.’

You looked at Instant Coffee for a moment. He did have a point.

‘Okay,’ August replied easily. ‘You’re right.’

At that moment, your respect for August Walker increased ten-fold. That he was able to take in the opinion of the other members of his team was unbearably sexy. He may have earned a little leg over for later that night.

‘I’m going alone,’ August announced finally, drawing the sharp attention of everyone in the room.

You reined your own reaction because an emotional response in that instant would have been inappropriate. You knew exactly why August wanted to hunt down Ethan alone. Hunt had not only gravely wounded August’s body but also his pride. His revenge was personal.

‘That’s probably not a good idea,’ said Instant Coffee, obviously feeling confident that he had scored a few brownie points a few moments earlier.

August scowled and looked to you. Meeting his gaze, you nodded once.

‘August should face Hunt alone,’ you said to the room and then to him, added, ‘but I don’t think you should go alone.’

There was so much gratefulness in his eyes that you felt embarrassed and looked away. You didn’t want August to see the answering distress in your eyes. If the fight on the cliff side had been fair, and luck hadn’t been on Hunt’s side, August wouldn’t have lost. Tossing August over the edge was poor sportsmanship. You were afraid that Hunt would employ other clever tricks and defeat August for the second time. And now that August wanted to take on the IMF leader alone ensured that he would be left vulnerable to losing the upper hand.

You didn’t want to lose him again, but you remained silent. This was ultimately August’s decision and he had made his choice.

The two of you didn’t speak much on the trip to Berlin. There wasn’t much to say. You didn’t dare express to him your fears, because that would only serve to distract him with your possibly misplaced doubt. And distraction was the last thing August needed.

When he pulled up to a local hotel to drop you off, you stayed in the car, sitting quietly for a moment, unsure what to do or say. Sighing, you turned to him and reached to cup his cheek.

‘See you soon,’ you encouraged him. ‘Bring me a trophy.’

August nodded and you got out of the car.

Come back to me, you thought watching the car disappear in the afternoon traffic.

Your room faced the Berliner Fernsehturm and you could hear music from the festival going on in the square below. You took a long hot shower and stretched on the surprisingly comfortable bed. It wasn’t the Shangri-la, but it was charming and it wasn’t long before you fell asleep.

The room door thunking shut as if a heavy weight collapsed against it awoke you hours later. With a gasp, you shot upright and reached for your weapon. You couldn’t remember where the light switch was, so when you scrambled up from the bed, you backed up to the table under the window and jerked open the curtains to let in the artificial outdoor light.

The scent of sulphur and petrol filled the room and as your eyes slowly adjusted to the differences in the light you could just make out the bulky form sitting on the floor against the door. You knew that form as the impression of it was etched on your own flesh.

You put your weapon aside and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, grabbing a towel and wetting it as you passed the small bathroom alcove. You crouched before the shadowed figure and put your hand beneath his chin. You lifted his face to the light and it was clear that Hunt had given August a run for his money.

You gently cleaned the dried blood from his mouth and chin, carefully working it out of his moustache and scruff.

You wanted to say something reassuring, something positive, but you were too overwhelmed with relief.

‘Well,’ you murmured, stroking his face. ‘I hate to see the other guy.’

August was silent and you hoped you hadn’t over stepped the line.

He then held up a small package wrapped neatly in butcher’s paper and tied with white twine. You took it from him, pulled the string and the paper unfolded to reveal your trophy. Holding it up to the light, it took a moment for you to recognise the carefully extracted evidence of Hunt’s death and you smiled.

‘Come on, you big brute,’ you said fondly, attempting to pull him up from the floor.

When August didn’t budge, you stopped straining against his weight and gasped with exertion.

‘You’re gonna have to help me here, babe!’

Groaning miserably, August managed to get his feet beneath him using the door and you to heave himself from the floor. You struggled to get him out of his clothes and under the soft yellow light above the sink you examined him. Big swollen bruises bloomed across his chest and back accompanied by several shallow scrapes and slashes. You wasted no time washing him up, patching his wounds, and getting him into bed.

Lying on his belly, August was still asleep when you woke the next morning. You went to the minibar refrigerator, withdrew your trophy and admired it in the morning sunlight. Your mobile beeped.

It was a message from Ayami.

‘Tell your boyfriend to be a little less conspicuous next time, ok?’ she’d written.

Curious, and glancing at August’s sleeping form, you rang her.

‘What’s that mean?’ you asked when she answered.

‘I mean that August didn’t need to leave that fucker’s burning corpse in the warehouse. He damn near burned down the place.’

‘He was obviously sending them a message,’ you answered, smiling gleefully, proud of your little murder puppy.

‘I can understand that,’ she shot back sounding uncharacteristically irritable. ‘But that also earned us more attention than we wanted.’

You sobered.

‘Is this something that needs to be taken care of?’

‘It’s already handled,’ she answered and some of her good humour crept back into her voice.

You sighed and relaxed, wrapping an arm about your midsection.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ you said after a moment with no conviction in your voice and she laughed incredulously.

‘When are you coming back?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘I dunno. Depends on what August wants.’

‘Ok, you two lovebirds hash it out and I’ll see you… whenever.’

‘Thanks, Ayami. I love you!’

‘Get something from the Wall museum for me, ok?’

You disconnected the call and tossed aside the mobile.

Feeling a warm sense of well-being, you re-wrapped your trophy and stored it in the refrigerator again. Climbing into bed next to August, you lifted his arm, crawled beneath it, and curled your body against him.

August had exacted his revenge and you felt satisfied for him. But you weren’t sure what was going to happen now. The mission that had consumed so much of your year was over. You felt un-moored and a little panicked, but when August tightened his arm round you, your hamster wheel of thoughts scattered.

There was time to worry later, now in the heat of August’s embrace was peace and with a small smile still on your lips, you put your head against him and slept.

-end

#Henry Cavill #August Walker #August Walker x reader #Henry Cavill smut #ethan hunt must die #napolwon solo #man of steel #clark kent #geralt #the witcher #napoleon solo

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gamer-logic · 3 years ago

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Since my state, Georgia, is having the annual Peaches to Beaches event which is two days of statewide yard sales, I thought it would be interesting to show how America, the states, and any other countries wanting to participate both 1p and 2p would be during this event. So here you go!

Georgia is happily selling fresh produce like boiled peanuts and Vidalia onions and peach-based deserts. Her homemade peach cobbler and ice cream are to die for!

Antonio (Spain) also sells many fresh tomatoes, olives, and other vegetables. He doesn't understand why no one wants his Olive Juice though.

Hawaii and Alaska make a killing selling lemonade at their stand with a free complimentary handmade flower crown with every purchase. While using their sheer cuteness to attract everyone including one of those sweet biker gangs. It's really surreal to see a huge gang of buff, tattooed, tough-looking guys in leather wearing flower crowns and drinking lemonade. Allen's also there to supervise and ward of creep. Also, to provide people more 'incentive' to buy their lemonade.

Texas breaks out the Texas BBQ and is in a Barbecuing turf war with Jett (Australia). They draw huge crowds for the five-alarm chili as well and hold a competition who can eat the most without burning out their tongues and/or passing out.

Florida sells some of the weirdest stuff you'll ever see. "Want a full-scale model of a gator made entirely out of bottle caps? Only ten bucks! Want a portrait of Florida Man painted with orange juice? 15 bucks!"

Nevada also tries to sell weird and sketchy stuff to scam everyone. "This piece is the genuine article folks! One napkin gently used by Elvis Presley himself! Just 500 bucks! Also, gets into a haggling war with Lars (Netherlands). Somewhere Alfred's dad instincts go off and he reminds himself to ground Nevada.

California, Oregon, and Washington collaborate and California sells anything vegan or made with avocadoes and the autographs of Hollywood stars, Oregon sells his old tye-dyed shirts and records, they also made him sell his old groovy hippy bus from the sixties he'd never got rid of no one knew they had. Oregon can be a bit of a hoarder, so they had to tie him to a chair and gag him because he wouldn't surrender the bus without a fight. Washington also tries to sell and drink cups of coffee, but in the hot Southern heat, this doesn't end well.

Louisiana sells anything Cajun-style from frog legs to fresh gumbo, to beignets. Also has a full collection of Mardi Gras masks and shrunken voodoo heads on sale for two bucks a pop.

Gilbert (Prussia) gets tricked by Nevada and gets a ton of stupid things he doesn't need. Ludwig (Germany) tries unsuccessfully to keep him on a metaphorical leash.

Ludwig always checks the quality of things he sees and buys dog toys and supplies for Blackie, Berlitz, and Astor. Later, he actually buys a kiddie leash for Gilbert.

All the while Lutz (2p! Germany) is asleep in a lawn chair with his hat on his face after drinking like six cold beers from this really good booth. All the while, Klaus (2p! Prussia) finds an antique Teutonic Knights flag from a vendor whose family was from Germany.

Vash (Switzerland) buys antique guns from Alabama and Roderich (Austria) also checks out some of Tennessee's guitars. He's horrified upon seeing Alabama's banjo and washboard.

Mathew (Canada) and Emma (Belgium) combine their powers and tag team to sell the best pancakes and waffles on earth with genuine Canadian maple syrup.

New York sells tons of baseball memorabilia and collectibles. Allen, trying to save his bad-boy image, tries to be discreet when buying some while taking Hawaii and Alaska around to get something with their lemonade money. James also gets some hockey memorabilia with Michigan and Minnesota who also got snow cones.

Alaska and Hawaii see a giant deluxe dollhouse but are almost in tears when they don't have enough money. But they end up getting it for free because no one can resist their weaponized puppy dog eyes. Also, no one can resist a growling Allen. Using the leftover money, they buy cute little rainbow umbrella hats for everyone and have Allen wear one who begrudgingly accepts it.

James, walking by with an armful hockey gear and flannel shirts, bursts out laughing when he sees this. In revenge, Allen forces him to wear one too and help him carry the dollhouse, much to Hawaii and Alaska's delight! "I said go my way puck head!" "No, it's my way, you vegan loving hoser!" A passing Francis (France)' is in stylish horror when they also make him and a nonchalant Luis (2p! France), holding a case of vintage wines, wear them too. Hawaii and Alaska go around giving umbrella hats to everyone including a sleeping Lutz they pass by.

Loving (Romano) practically has to supervise Feliciano (Italy) and keep him from buying anything too stupid on impulse or get scammed. They still end up with stacks upon stacks of cookbooks, kitchen wear, and a Mona Lisa made entirely out of Macaroni. They also get umbrella hats.

Flavio (2p! Romano) browses through clothing racks to get ideas for his vintage line. Also checks out the handmade fabrics like quilts. "Such craftsmanship! This pattern is so unique and chic! I simply must have it! What's your price Bella?" The nice old woman selling the quilt just smiles, "Oh just about five dollars young man." "Perfect!" Flavio hands the quilts off to Andreas (2p! Spain) who's practically buried underneath the fabric. Luciano (2p! Italy) facepalms while holding a new knife set in its case. "Oooh! Look at those adorable hats I just have to have one." Cue three more umbrella hats and a humiliated Luciano. "Just kill me now..."

Katyusha (Ukraine), Elizaveta (Hungary), Lillie (Liechtenstein), Natalya, (Belarus), Katya( 2p! Ukraine) and Anastasia (2p! Belarus), and Michelle (Seychelles) explore with armfuls of clothes, new ribbons, and a gun case for Switzerland (Lillie), cast iron frying pans (Elizaveta, watch out Prussia!), farm tools (Katyusha), Jewelry and unmentionables (Katya), dresses (Anastasia), an assortment of switchblades (Natalya), and one of those singing fish on a plague (Michelle). It's definitely an interesting group.

Kiku (Japan) and Kuro (2p! Japan) find a nerd booth selling comics, manga, and Japanese weapons like katanas. Kuro test swings a blade and tries to slice the table so hard it breaks the blade, "Hmmm, not sharp enough for me, got anything else?" He throws it on the pile of broken blades he's already tested. Kiku stockpiles on limited-edition manga and he and the vendor end up getting into a huge, heated by Kiku standards, debate on who's waifu is best. Further down, Alfred reads every Marvel/DC comic while keeping an ear out on every state's location. He checks on Texas via his glasses and notices he's beating Australia in the chili contest. "That's my boy!"

Wisconsin wearing a cheese head sells anything cheese-based. He's got cheddar, goat cheese, string cheese, cheese spray, gorgonzola, grilled cheese, cheese curds, Mac n' Cheese, cheese sculptures of all world monuments, you name it he's got it! He also starts a war with Iowa's corn dishes and Idaho's potato dishes. They eventually end up flinging cheese, potatoes, and corn after they start dissing each other's foods. "Take this cheese brain!" "Nice aim, I-da-ho!" "I told you not to call me that!" "I'm gonna go children of the corn on y'all's behinds!" Poor Nebraska is stuck in the middle.

Alfred (America) hears the commotion and using his parent radar, immediately knows who it is and reminds himself to ground Iowa, Wisconsin, and Idaho later along with Nevada who, though still grounded for sure, makes him feel a little proud of since he managed to out haggle Netherlands.

New Mexico and Arizona also sell Native American handicrafts along with things like dreamcatchers and giant inflatable aliens. While Delaware, being the boring stick in the mud that he is, walks by with a framed and complete U.S. quarter collection from a vendor.

Kansas sells out of every sunflower she had courtesy of Ivan (Russia). Ivan and her the team up to buy out every sunflower seed from here to kingdom come. Viktor (2p! Russia) buys all the vodka he can find and a new shovel while Xiao (2p! China) tries giving people tattoos for 10 bucks a pop.

He tries to convince Yao (China) to get a hello kitty one to match the giant plushie he's holding, with the encouragement of Leon (Hong Kong) and Yong Soo (South Korea) who all collectively agree he needs to quit being such a grandpa. They also like calling him an antique-like the items on sale. " Aiyah! I'm not that old, aru!" "Yeah, you are Sensei." "Don't deny it! Da Ze!" Respect your elders!" "Tattoos originated in Korea da ze!" He totally is that old.

Oliver (2p! England) holds a bake sale and has people lined up for blocks to get some. Arthur (England), after having his scones shut down after it poisoned some unlucky squirrels, fries selling authentic magical items like unicorn hair or pixie dust. Everyone thinks he's a little crazy but he did sell a good bit of old magic books he needed to get out of his house, after making sure no one could actually use them of course.

The Nordics also went perusing for antique and handmade furniture when Mathias (Denmark) spots two full sets of Viking costumes and tries to get Lukas (Norway) to try them on with him. Lukas wasn't amused.

Berwald (Sweden) and Tino (Finland) also find a great handmade table to get after inspecting the workmanship and a full Lego set for Peter (Sealand), now if only Mathias would stop squealing like a little kid at the full piece lego death star. Emil (Iceland) keeps thinking he's the mature one until he spots a mini top hat and cane for Mr. Puffin.

In the end, everyone ends up wearing umbrella hats courtesy of Hawaii and Alaska, loving all the strange things they bought or counting the profits they made. Alfred (America) is proud of his kids and visits everyone one of their stands. He ends up looking pretty funny with an umbrella hat (HW, AK), a washboard, (AL),a picture of Florida Man, (FL), a balloon alien (NM, AZ), a tye dye shirt (CA, WA, OR), hockey stick shaped glasses (MN, MI), a giant stack of comics with a replica Thor hammer and Captain America shield on his back, all in a shopping cart (NV), and a giant turkey leg in his hand (Tx). Unsurprisingly, it was a tie between Oliver, Texas, and Australia for who earned the most with their food. Georgia just smiled as this was another great year for her state and people!

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kojandra · 3 years ago

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My Personal Reflection of “Do You Like Brahms?” (with specific reference to the leads)

✨ spoilers below ✨

It’s been a while since I’ve shed tears for a drama. I tried to pinpoint the reason why I was so addicted to every scene while I was watching it; even as I watched the end credits for episode 16, I still had no idea why. But as I made my way downstairs to fill my glass with water, I saw the upright piano. I saw the scores stacked neatly, a dust cover on the ivory keys, and the many many tattered repertoire books from years of commute to the academy and teaching studios, stuffing them in backpacks, and flipping the pages back and forth until the phrase is memorized. And I was reminded of the violin stuffed under my bed and the calluses that became a part of me in grade 4, and how my piano teacher didn’t like the way it sounded on the piano keys.

I remember crying through learning Bach, Bartok, and Liszt. I remember loving Kabalevsky and Chopin. I remember detesting Brahms and Schumann (Robert and Clara) because I didn’t have the emotion to do their pieces justice. I remember the hours committed to perfecting every single bar with precision and emotion.

“Do You Like Brahms?” unearthed a part of me buried with the hopes and dreams of the 10th grader who made the decision to quit music. I didn’t believe I had enough talent--scratch that--I knew I had no talent. I had nothing compared to all the other kids that played before me and after me during lessons and recitals. I picked up every single instrument in hopes that I would have a natural ease with one of them: piano, violin, guitar, flute, ukulele, percussion, and even the banjo. I so desperately wanted to be good at one instrument to play the music I wanted to and I even put in the extra hours to attempt to achieve a sliver of it.

Seeing Chae Song Ah struggle with the same issue had my heart strings tangled. The struggle that I thought was a me problem is being represented! On television! Is this what empathy feels like?

Seeing Park Joon Young lose his passion for the music because of the weight every performance meant made my heart break. And when he said “I’m not happy playing the piano” to his mother in tears, it reminded me how I said those exact same words to my mother in grade 10, asking her if I could quit, with the same heartbreak as Chae Song Ah knowing no matter how hard she tried, she could not compete with those who were born with the ‘musical sense’.

When Song Ah and Joon Young made their decision to quit music, my heart twisted into aches of despair and sadness for them. I feel like I lost it when Song Ah started asking around about the prospects after graduation for those who do not (or cannot) perform.

I see so much of myself in her.

I stopped pursuing music in high school knowing I would only let myself down during the university admission auditions, but seeing Song Ah let her dream carry her to major in music after a business degree sparked a small firework of envy in me. How far can passion take you when “natural talent” is a roadblock? When Joon Young said one should have natural talent to succeed in music, my heart broke more for Song Ah than myself. And when she made the decision to walk away from the relationship giving her anxiety, the chamber position that took advantage of her eagerness to pursue what comes easily to others, and the careful but hard stance she took when it came to matters of the heart and herself...my heart kept breaking knowing hers was already shattered.

I know exactly what she feels.

The whole conversation about finding that conviction to the piece set me back in 2012 when I cried on the cushioned leather piano stool in the practice room for 15 minutes because I couldn’t find that conviction.

It’s your music, so you should take control of it.

I found comfort in these words and in the characters as I watched them each tackle a part of their identity they had lost and are trying to regain control of.

I love every single character in this drama (though I feel the double love triangle is exhausting at times). I really like how the story maintains the Schumann’s and Brahms-inspired story, circling back to it at the end and with a different ending. I thought I would be disappointed knowing the title can be misleading, but I wasn’t.

Without blabbering too long, I guess what I’m trying to say, is that this drama impacted me in ways I will never forget (and it has me learning to love piano again). Maybe one day, I will find the emotion to commit to the pieces by Brahms and Schumann. And maybe one day, I will grasp the conviction to own “Revolution” by Chopin--the one piece I’ve always loved but felt like it could never be mine.

The smallest moment in your life is when your crescendo begins.

Thanks to this drama, I’m playing the piano again. My passion for music is still a little callused (and I’m still hesitant to play some notes for fear that my lack of “natural talent” will seep through the fingers), but I’m regaining that confidence to try again thanks to all the characters in this drama.

I can’t believe this drama also had me rooting for the development of the relationship of the main leads (though I always knew they would end up together). I had the chance to see a really pure love with a mature approach to the way they handle their relationship, which stays really true to the fact that they are in their late twenties. And my heart absolutely broke for the second leads, not completely shattering until Jung Kyung’s flashbacks of her time in love with Hyun Ho.

I’m sad I didn’t watch this sooner, but maybe I put it off knowing I would be a hot mess once I did.

I am not really one to critique dramas heavily and I was tearing up too often to find an outwardly flaw anyways. I am not certain I will have the courage to watch certain scenes again because of the power they have against me.

A well-casted, well-written, inspiration piece for me. I am attached. Whole heartedly attached.

And as a post script: this is a very comforting drama for a rainy day.

Post post script: I thought this was going to be a “do you like Messi?” pt. 2 hahahahaha (don’t kill me, but wfkbj stans, wya?)

#it's literally a blog post y'all #don't open unless you're reading for boredom lmaooo #idk why i feel so compelled to write this #do you like brahms?#queue bc i know how to do that now

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professorspork · 4 years ago

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Just wanted to add something to the Penny revival through the aura machines theory. One of the questions that would happen then would be narratively of who keeps the Maiden powers. But uh - the first Maiden we met was one with split powers. That would be one way to deal with that and frankly given the focus on teamwork and partnerships... And how the entire idea of Penny being around is her being with Winter - the two splitting the power/burden of being the Winter Maiden fits.

IT’S FUNNY THAT YOU BRING THIS UP. I’ve actually been talking to @theseerasures about this for like two days now.

I mean firstly, I do think that for what it’s worth in this particular instance, Winter would be happy (/desperate) to return the full Maiden power to Penny, and have little desire to keep any for herself. PENNY, on the other hand, highkey believes in Winter and might insist-- you’re my friend. There’s enough room for two.

but either way, we’re due for a major shake-up in how all of this is supposed to work. between the Pyrrha gambit, the Raven reveal and the Winter-Penny-Winter switcheroo, we’ve milked Oz’s bizarre rules for just about as much drama as they can deliver on their own. Spring Maiden Yang, if it happens, is a character beat in the relationship far more than it is a story beat in the overarching plot-- at this point, really the only thing we haven’t seen is a Maiden in her prime who’s willing to do her actual job. (a fun pet theory I’m nurturing is that the Summer Maiden might be a sort of Huntressy-Ace Oppy addition to the cast, like Shade’s personal superhero. These kids could use as many adultier-adults as they can get!)

because we’ve seen so many permutations of the status quo, it’s probably time to start seeing those rules break down. we still don’t have confirmation that Cinder’s whole plan is even tenable: CAN Maiden powers stack? it wouldn’t surprise me if, fresh off the huge win in Atlas, Cinder’s able to ride her success into Vacuo and immediately move to take out the current Summer Maiden and test the theory. As you said, we know you can be half-a-Maiden. But can you be a Maiden-and-a-half? can you be two? imagine Cinder’s rage if she does everything right and kills the Summer Maiden and does her creepy vacuum thing with the Grimm arm... only for the powers to go to someone else, someone RANDOM, even, because she can’t be a vessel for it all. (or, of course, imagine the opposite: she’s right, and now she’s crazy OP. I think that’s less likely, given how much latitude the text is willing to give Cinder in how many consecutive episodes she can enjoy herself, but still on the table).

because it’s not like being the Slayer, where if you’re revived you just have two fully-powered Slayers. and it’s not like Semblances, where we’ve just now seen Ren and Qrow both unlock new abilities because they were able to grow as people and mature into themselves. Oz’s magic is finite and fixed.

so once we open the door to Winter and Penny sharing the Winter Maiden powers, it creates the possibility: why not keep going? why not break it up like the prom tiara in Mean Girls and give everybody a slice? nobody’s a Maiden if we’re all the Maiden, but a little more magic seeps back into the world. over and over again, the show has rejected Oz’s premise of hoarding power and knowledge with only a chosen few because he feared the alternative consequences; the whole world knows about Salem now. Jinn’s questions are used up-- which means the only truths from now on will have to come from trust and communication, not a cheat code.

which is another way of saying: we’re all going to have to start sharing.

#rwby #rwby spoilers #Anonymous #penny polendina

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midnightactual · 4 years ago

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Yoruichi and Loneliness

I’ve discussed Yoruichi’s official theme (雲路の果て, Kumoji no Hate, “The End of the Cloudy Road”) before. Today I got to thinking that you could very easily cut a video of her set to it that was like what we see of Spike Spiegel in Cowboy Bebop’s ending with “The Real Folk Blues”. Seeing her mostly alone, in the rain, in the dark, looking away from the point of view, just these candid moments of isolation and possibly vulnerability.

I think that that really is a core part of her character. For as much as I talk here about her strength and abilities (as I do think she’s heavily underestimated due to the subtlety with which her power is communicated), I think it’s also clear how lonely and apart she is in a world which is persistently portrayed as isolating and cold. Even by the standards of other lonely characters in the series, she’s lonely.

And I think that’s not only reflected in her appearances or her demeanor (if one pays attention), not only in her song choice, but also in how other people talk about her. There aren’t many instances of that in canon of any real value, but there are some quotes in CFYOW which paint a certain picture of how others perceive her. Note that there will be spoilers for that book from here forward. (Thanks to @mysteriousshopkeeper for providing me with the official translations I needed!)

CFYOW volume I, chapter 2:

“What? So it’s just the aristocracy being pigheaded as usual?” Muguruma said, peeved.

Muguruma was fully aware that he didn’t get along with the nobles, Yoruichi Shihōin excepted, and because they were talking about the Seiretei Bulletin, he quickly lost interest in the conversation.

Hisagi, on he other hand, acted as if he hadn’t noticed anything.

We get Kensei’s thoughts here during a discussion with Shūhei, in which she’s a named exception to his dislike for nobles, evidently not fitting his image of them as self-absorbed. While she admittedly saved his life, that doesn’t necessarily mandate getting along with her because of it—this suggests she’s different from the rest.

CFYOW volume I, chapter 4:

“And the Tsunayashiro nobles?”

“I don’t care about the world of the nobles specifically because of what they are. Kyoraku, Kuchiki, and Yoruichi are fine, but don’t want to get mixed up with the average aristocrat.”

Hisagi also knew about the unreasonable, hubristic Soul Reaper nobility. If they had been charmingly prideful like Omaeda, it would have been another story. But he had seen the nobles’ terrible actions earlier in the Central 46.

He’d heard that even the Central 46 had changed their views due to the war, but many people in the aristocratic district still obviously looked down on those in the general populace or in the Rukongai.

“It would be nice if they were all like Ms. Yoruichi.”

“I think it that would be dangerous in its own way.” Muguruma imagined a group of Yoruichis jumping around the aristocratic district and scowled. He continued, recollecting. “You know, Byakuya got all worked up as a kid when Yoruichi teased him. There was something cute about it, but he ended up maturing into the spitting image of an aristocrat.”

“He can’t help it. He’s one of the Four Great Noble Clans after all.”

“Yoruichi used to be too though.” As he spoke, Muguruma picked up the Seireitei Bulletin from his desk. He flipped through it and continued. “But I’m impressed you took the job. Sure, it was a unique situation, but I think you could have turned it down and spoken to the other companies about it.”

Here we have Shūhei contrasting Yoruichi with the arrogance and irrationality of the average noble, which Kensei seems to agree with, although he regards her as too happy-go-lucky for that to not be its own problem. This confirms the above point about Kensei’s perspective of her being different from the rest—notice that he initially marks out Shunsui, Byakuya, and Yoruichi as acceptable, only to then draw a major distinction between Byakuya and Yoruichi. While she isn’t contrasted with Shunsui, that itself is a major clue.

CFYOW volume II, chapter 9:

Though Hirako had spent some time slipping away to the living world, he was a veteran in the current Thirteen Court Guard Companies. Because of that, he was one of the people who fully understood the Four Great Noble Clans’ absolute power; he knew they weren’t all openhearted like Yoruichi Shihōin or unfailingly loyal like Byakuya Kuchiki.

And here we have Shinji, who rather plainly thinks of Yoruichi as jovial and endearing. Openhearted usually means something to the effect of, “expressing or displaying one's warm and kindly feelings without concealment”. We admittedly see nothing of Yoruichi in civilian settings (as she’s always in or around battles or military preparations), and she often wears her heart on her sleeve when it comes to feelings, but this is still an interesting way of characterizing her.

Setting aside the Urahara Shōten, Kūkaku, and Shihōin Manor itself, you’d expect the Vizard would probably know Yoruichi the next best, and their familiarity with and fondness for her (compare Kensei and Shinji’s thoughts on their fellow Taichō, Byakuya) seems to indicate exactly that. But their perspectives don’t really stack up with the real woman herself.

Yoruichi rather plainly detests Tokinada (as she reveals in chapter 15) far more than Aizen, seriously intends to kill him, and then does have him killed by sending an assassin to finish him off in the name of revenge while maintaining plausible deniability for herself. She then suggests Kisuke wipe Shūhei’s memory because he’s a loose end, which Kisuke may or may not be surprised by and find unusual. The darkness of these actions (hints of which can be found in canon as well; she quite evidently aimed to kill Askin after a certain point) doesn’t really square with how others think of her. She is not wholly good-natured.

I noted the lack of comparison with Shunsui earlier and said it was telling, and I think that because I feel Yoruichi is actually quite similar to Shunsui in being fundamentally a lonely and sort of tragic character; we simply never see it in the same way as we do with him. The narrative doesn’t dwell upon it as it does in his case. And just like with Shunsui, Yoruichi is self-evidently possessed of a certain kind of darkness to her. (Just look at some of her faces while fighting Askin.)

That nobody really sees her darkness or sadness is evidence of how alone she is. Almost no one knows her well at all. They only know their own ideas of her.

(P.S., my stance on CFYOW has softened somewhat as I no longer find this behavior wholly out of character for Yoruichi; I just find her operating around the margins unlikely after how TYBW played out with Askin. In my opinion she’d have just done what Shunsui only seemed to fantasize about and killed Tokinada in broad daylight at the first opportunity when he didn’t have Enrakyōten and before he became Tsunayashiro Clan Head. But then there wouldn’t have been a book. I also think it’s obvious she’s useless during the fights with him, much like Kisuke is rendered useless by Aura, because the book is there to show off certain characters and to establish how awesome [overpowered] Narita’s OCs are as compared to Kubo’s, as Narita did in SAFWY too. Its zeal for reintegrating certain anime elements, like how Yoruichi and Soifon interact, also still comes off as more like character assassination to me.)

#Out Of Character #Long Post #Meta #Headcanons

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justoneday-namjoonii · 4 years ago

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Don’t Breathe | 4.0

»Genre: hitman!au/bountyhunter!au || stalker!au ||

»Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, obsession, themes of potential Stockholm syndrome, mono-phobia, mature elements, manhandling, breakdowns, yandere (? i think ), he thinks it’s cute when she cries, eventually they fall in love, Disclaimer: I do not condone nor suggest stalking/kidnapping or anything of that nature, this is purely fiction.

»Summary: He doesn’t get shaky hands, he never forgets his gloves and he never leaves a trail. He was paid to get rid of everyone who witnessed the exchange between a gang lord and a politician, they were picked off, one by one. He found out a month later, he missed one. A young writer who attended the event where the exchange took place. He has to kill her. Can he do it?

✤ pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.2.5 - pt.3 - pt. 3.5 - pt. 4.0 - pt. 4.5 - pt. 5.0

A/n: will edit later^^ hope u enjoy💖

taglist: @tangledsparkles @just-another-fangurl21 @impartoftoomanyfandoms @komorebi-unnie @tangledsparkles

The city has always held dark secrets in the shape of hopes and dreams, luring in optimistic ankle-biters, wishing to really become something. And more often than not, it works out. That dreamer gets to live the reality they’ve been waiting for, and it all seems a little too perfect.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“One coffee please,” Peeking up from his phone, he acknowledges the petite waitress, “no cream no sugar.”

“Coming right up,”

He’s gone over the folder a thousand times, just making sure he didn’t miss anything. As far as information on you, he’s got all he needs, now it’s a matter of finding out what you were doing in the 24 hours before you vanished. He was able to stop by the police station and talk with the detective on the case. She wasn’t much help, but she did say Suzy had been calling her twice a day, looking for updates. Jin didn’t contact her as often but he’s been waiting for updates from Yoongi instead.

“Excuse me?” He pulled from his thoughts when he sees the woman in front of him, “Hi, I’m Suzy, you’re Min Yoongi, right?” She looks a bit unsure, he figured she’s just waiting for him to respond.

“Yes, sorry,” He stands up and shakes her hand before they both take a seat, “thank you for coming so short notice.”

“Of course, a meeting was canceled this morning so I had the time,” Sitting her purse in her lap, she tries to look relaxed but the way her brows furrow, he knows she’s worried, “I hope I can help in some way,”

“How long have you known her?” He opens up a little notepad and takes out a pen.

“Six, Almost seven years now. She was an intern for a while, she’s been writing for us for all that time. Recently, I wanted her to start dabbling in field assignments as a reporter, she wasn’t too keen on the idea but she agreed.”

She glances at the notepad as he quickly jots down little notes. “What was the assignment?”

“A press conference with a lot of the controversy regarding the parties who attended. Quite a few people who attended from some news stations and outlets like that started dying off. She doesn’t really do politics, but I asked her to write an article on it because she was there. On the morning of publication, she didn’t show up to work. The publication was at 8 so I had to look for it so we could publish it. She had been working on it for weeks but it was missing from the writer's archive, it looked like it was deleted. The physical copy was gone and her computer was too. That’s when I went to her house and she was gone...”

The deep furrow in Yoongi’s eyes has her swallowing the lump in her throat.

“She went missing the day the article was supposed to be published? Am I the first person you’ve told this to?” She nods.

“Why didn’t you tell the police about this? If she went missing the exact same day the article was to be published, that information changes the case. Knowing that others who attended this conference have died, there’s a chance she was being targeted because she was there as well.”

“I- I don’t know, I just didn’t think about it, I never would have thought she’d be targeted for posting a harmless article.”

“I’m going to assume she was being targeted because of the article, it makes the most sense. Someone at that conference didn’t want this to get out and they knew she was writing the article somehow.”

If her heart could sink any lower, it’d be in her feet. She should have never had you write that article, maybe you’d still be here if she had just listened to you. “What does this mean?”

“This city is filled with crooked people in power, there’s a chance that one of them were behind this,” He closes up the notepad and takes one sip of coffee, “I’ll do a little digging and see what I can find.” He pulls his jacket on and tucks a few dollars under his cup.

“Wait,” She stops him, “what can I do to help? I feel like this is my fault, if anything bad happened to her-”

“Don’t blame yourself for this, it could have happened to anyone. Secondly, if you could give me sources on everyone one at the conference; reporters, cameramen, moderators, anyone. Someone had to have witnessed something, and I need to talk to them.”

“Okay, I’ll work on that today.”

Police, detectives, forensic scientist, all the necessary individuals required to pursue a missing person case passed through the station, on their own assignments. One of the detectives on the officers on the case, Jaemin, slips into his office to take a call.

“Hello? Mr. Lee, I’m sorry I could get to you early,”

“That’s fine, I just had a quick question. That missing persons case, you all are getting ready to drop it right? I heard there was investigation still going on,”

“Yes, unfortunately, we have an outside source working on the case and I hear he’s good. But don’t worry, Minho, I can shake him.”

“I hope so, one little reporter shouldn’t have made a big case,” He sighs, annoyed at the thought, “she’s dead, the client got what he asked for. I want this case to close as soon as possible.”

“I hear you, I’ll make sure it happens,”

“Good.”

He hangs up the phone and glances at the man across from him, waiting for the hefty check owed for his handwork on his last job. With a deep sigh, Minho picks up a pen and writes the check quickly and tucks it in an envelope before handing it to him.

“Everything okay, boss?” Jimin takes the envelope with a peachy smile.

“Kim’s last case is causing some problems- Not an error on his part of course, the target was reported missing and an investigation is happening. It was a multiple target case but there was one target that’s just fucking it all up,”

Jimin makes a thoughtful face. “A female? Young?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” Minho crooks a brows.

“He doesn’t seem like the type but I don’t know, where’s the body?”

“He doesn’t disclose that type of information, I respect his decision to do that,” Minho sighs, looking through files of other guild members to match them with clients, “I can’t imagine it’s a pretty process,”

“Well, maybe-” He pauses, finding the thought a bit humorous, “Maybe she’s not dead, y’know, just a theory,” He purses his lips, “but maybe not, his record is so clean, I doubt he’d leave a witness to tell the tale of whatever he does to them. I don’t blame him,”

“He told me that she’s dead, there’s no doubt about that.”

“Well, if he won’t disclose the body, how can you be sure? And you said he killed the other targets and there’s evidence of that, why is she the only one gone missing?” Jimin makes a nonchalant observation and Minho starts to really think about it, could Taehyung be hiding something? That’s not like him, he’s one of his best. He’s never had to doubt Taehyung, every assignment he’s been given, he’s completed without flaw. He can’t believe Taehyung would do anything to put the organization in jeopardy, he won’t believe it.

“Jimin, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

The smell of blueberry pancakes tantalizes your senses, your eyes sleepily follow his movements from the fridge to the stove every few minutes. He’s making late breakfast because he said he was in the mood for some brunch. You finally get a glimpse at the tall stack of pancakes next to the griddle and you sigh, it looks so good.

A few days have gone by, and the sleeping arrangements have been different. Some nights, he’ll tell you you can sleep in the spare room and others he’ll have you sleep with him, it’s not entirely unpleasant when you’re with him. He makes you answer questions and tell him about your hopes, dreams, fears, and everything in between. Generally, he's been more lenient with you, not chaining you up so often, letting you roam around a little bit to get some exercise. Lately, he's felt more like your companion than your captor. You’re beginning to see parts of him that are so human. And you’re starting to believe that he’s not lying to you, he’s genuinely trying to protect you. It’s hard to believe that that’s where you’re head is.

He has music on, playing soft study-like songs that make you feel calm. You tried to keep from grinning, like you’d try to contain a cough in a quiet classroom. He sways to the rhythm gently, tapping his foot and flipping the fluffy breakfast treats. How he hums to the song absentmindedly, it reminds you of how Jin used to hum while studying or doing anything really. Taehyung’s voice is really nice, it’s smooth and comforting

“Y/n, come taste,” He turns and holds a fork up with a piece of pancake on it, beckoning you to come to have a bite. You go to him of course, happy to sample what you’ve been smelling for the past thirty minutes. When you come to stand by his side, eye-level with his shoulder, you wait for him to put a piece on a fork for you.

“Say ah,” He holds the fork to your mouth and as silly as you know you might look, you don’t care, you just wanna eat. Your mouth opens and your eyes go wide when it finally meets your taste-buds, “good?”

You nod, it’s as good as it smells. You wonder why you haven’t tried to cook like this for yourself before. Work seemed to consume you, you can admit that. Sometimes, a coffee would suffice as your breakfast. And at night, a drink and a burger with fries from the restaurant down the corner would satisfy you. But cooking, making something for yourself, it hasn’t happened in a while. You used to do it a lot when you first moved when you and Jin were spending a lot of time together. It’s different being by yourself, it’s sometimes easier to over-treat yourself with fast food or quick little meals from local places. Seldom do you get to enjoy a homemade meal made just for you. He’s smiling down at the two plates he’s making when you look up from your daze and for some reason, you feel shy but a little, happy?

No, stop it. You’re not supposed to feel happy, don’t allow yourself to sink further into that deceiving head-space. Into the space that makes him the source of humanity, the reminder that you’re alive. Finding yourself looking forward to seeing the light in his eyes, hearing the bass in his voice heavy on your ears. It feels good, you relish in it. Yes, you’re still trying to stay on his good side but these positive feelings, they feel too real.

“Let’s eat somewhere different today,” He gives you your plate with a cup of syrup, a fork, the works. “I think I need a change of scenery,”

You’re not sure where’s he’s planning to have this breakfast when he starts walking upstairs. For a moment, you think he’s going to his room but then he walks to the room where he’s yet to open since you’ve been here. Your stomach turns, you’ve been wondering what was behind this door.

When he opens the door, he waits for you to enter first, a smile ever so present on his face, he’s in such a good mood.

You walk inside and the size of the room alone is huge but you’re more surprised by the canvases propped against the wall. The white sheets spotted with colors and a bit bunched at the edges, it’s an art studio of some sort. Is this what he does when he’s home? There’s one canvas on a tall easel and it looks unfinished so he must’ve worked in here not too long ago.

He takes opens the French doors to the balcony and takes a seat on the floor. You do the same, holding your plate above your lap in the same way he’s holding his. The smell of the paint doesn’t bother you too much because of the fresh air, and the blueberry pancakes outweigh the smell as well. “Thank you for breakfast.” You whisper, now cutting into your three fluffy stacked pancakes, what you more interested in at the moment honestly.

“You’re welcome,” He grins to himself, “other than what I’ve been making, what do you like to eat? I’m getting groceries tomorrow,”

You don’t respond, too busy staring out the window in a daze and eating as if he weren’t there. He calls your name to get you to glance at him, just to make sure you can hear him. “Nothing,” You deadpan, “I’m okay...”

“There has to be something you want.”

“Fine,” You set your fork down, a little annoyed, “um, chocolate chip cookies, the ones with the chunks, and almond milk.” Hoping he’s satisfied with your answer, you finish the last bite of your food and continue to enjoy the view outside.

He takes your plate and sits it in on his so he can take it downstairs, leaving you to the peaceful room by yourself. You’re just now realizing how large his land is. There are other large homes nearby but they’re a fair distance away.

It’s been a while since you felt the sun on your bare skin or the soothing breeze dance past you. You’ve missed this, running in the early hours of the day when the air is just right. The first people you used to see were a handful of dedicated adults jogging, some accompanied by their dogs.

This paint room has a super tall ceiling, makes you feel like you’re in a museum. When you look at some of the paintings on the floor propped against the wall, you smile. It looks like he likes to paint faces, distinct expressions on faces. Then there are flowers, the basic artist subject. There’s a long wooden desk with paintbrushes, pens, pencils, paper, a lot of paint.

He comes back to the room, but his presence is oblivious to you for a little while, until his stumbles over a stray paintbrush and you look back at him.

He straightens up, his big eyes staring you down as he walks over to you. “Do you like to paint?”

“I’ve never really done it before, maybe when I was little but that’s about it,” You watch him open up a case and pick out a few brushes. He opens a few tubes of paint and squeezes a small amount on a pallet, then sets that down in front of you, “is that for me?”

“Mhm,” He nods. Gently taking the canvas that’s covered with a sheet from the easel, he puts it on the floor with some of the others. He opens up the closet to look for a nice-sized blank canvas for you to use. You pick up a brush and absentmindedly brush it against your skin to see how soft it is.

“Here we go,” He adjusts the canvas onto the easel, “come stand here,” He gestures to the little space directly in front of the easel and you oblige, curious.

“You want me to paint something?” You look back at him, a little confused.

“Yeah,” He stands next to you, staring at the blank canvas before looking at you, “only if you want to.”

This is probably the most interesting thing you’ve done since you got here, you figure he’s starting to trust you more. You take a moment to pick a brush, given you have little to no knowledge about this craft, you choose a random one. Not too big, not too small.

He watches you debate over which spot of paint you want to dip the brush in, you decide on blue. A dark blue with a little bit of white. At first, you try to draw a flower, something easy, but it proves to be harder than you anticipated. When you think the brush will make a nice little crescent shape for a petal, it makes an unappealing squiggle. As menial as it seems, its frustrating that it’s not coming out the way you envisioned in your mind. After about five minutes of trying to fix it, your patients get peeled down to its last layer.

“Ugh,” You withdraw your hand and just stare at the canvas, a deep frown on your face, “it’s not coming out right...”

“You have to give it a chance,” He gets up from the bar-stool he was sitting on in front of the desk, “take a step back, and think about something beautiful that little mistake could become.”

Giving up on your small brush, you squeeze a glob of paint on the pallet and exchange the brush for your fingers. He tilts his head when he sees you rub your fingers in the pallet and then drag your hands down the canvas. Coming up behind you, he tries to get a better look at what you're doing. You’ve dipped your hands in different blues and you covered the canvas completely, eyes focused.

Your hand stutters when you see his long fingers mimic the movement that you’d been doing. Being that his size nearly doubles your own, his chest is just centimeters from you. His arms comfortably reach the canvas, as if you weren’t an obstacle.

“What’re you doing...” You sigh, making gentle brushing motions alongside his, “This is my painting.”

“Oh, so you do want to do this?” His fingers stop all movement, “I didn’t think you cared that much, I’m sorry,” He pulls back, ready to wipe his hands but you grab his wrist with your paint-covered hand.

“I’m kidding,” He didn’t seem to mind getting the paint on his skin because he didn’t get upset, “you’ll probably make it look better anyway.”

It’s tearing you up. How this feels nice and how you don’t want him to stop. Just standing here, so close to him, and watching his fingers dance across the canvas, it’s torture. When your hands bump, both of you laugh and it makes a pretty burst of blue.

He dips his hand in the lightest shade on the pallet and presses it on the edges of the canvas before you let your hand fall from the art-work. It takes a minute, but he stops putting on the finishing touches and steps back to look it over.

“Hm,” He grabs two rags from the floor, giving one to you and keeping the other for his hands, “I like it.”

You try to wipe your hands clean but they still have a bluish tent. “What about this does something for you?...”

“I like capturing a moment in time, making my thoughts into something visual and tangible, it’s therapeutic.”

You stare at the painting in an attempt to see something poetic, or anything other than a bunch of blue paints smeared on a canvas. But in your futile attempt, the thought that he might think you’re enjoying this comes to mind, does he think you’re enjoying this? Giving you art supplies to keep your occupied like a little child, you shouldn’t be offended but it does feel a bit patronizing.

“That’s probably why you write, yeah?” He asks, leaning against the stool. “I’ve read all of your articles, you have a beautiful way of expressing yourself through words.”

“It doesn’t always feel that way,” You toss out an honest answer, “I wouldn’t call it therapeutic, but I do enjoy it...”

“I was hoping this room could be an outlet for you, somewhere for you to clear your mind.”

Lately you’ve been falling into theses moments of zoning out and you just feel like you’re losing your mind. But that’s when he comes behind you, wraps his arms around you and you instantly come back. And it goes like this, almost every day. He gets closer, you let him, and you start to feel more like he wants to trust you.

“What does our painting mean to you?” He shuffles you forward, getting you closer to the painting with his arms still secured around you.

“You tell me first,” You counter.

He takes a look, head tilting a bit, “It makes me think of my childhood, it wasn’t a very colorful one. I was taken from my mother as a toddler after the courts deemed her an unfit parent. She was in a bad place, had no business having a kid anyway.” He rests his head atop yours, mentally slipping into his past to reveal it to you.

“I was in foster homes until I was a teenager, went from house to house every few months. The people who'd come and take me home were either trying to get money from the state or looking for another helpless kid to work for them. I didn’t know it then but I wanted stability, I wanted someone that I could depend on but never got it. I ran away when I was a teenager and depended on my self and here I am.” You can hear a smile in his voice, but you’d dare to say it was pain out of pain.

“It’s all blue, blue can mean stability or loyalty, that’s how I see it.” He let’s his hands slide down your arms and back up to your shoulders to give them a squeeze. “Also, we made it together, so that’s special in itself. Now, your turn,”

“Um,” You purse your lips, “it’s nice...” You answer as if you didn’t know any other words, you’ve never been good with speaking anyway. You rather write paragraphs than ramble on.

“It is,” He agrees, “but how does it make you feel?”

“I don’t know,” You frown, pulling his arms off so you can walk off, “it’s just a painting.” It’s cold not having his arms around you but you reason that you need the shock.

You don’t want to start thinking deep, knowing about his past, sympathizing. You need to look like you don’t care. Does he buy it? Probably not, but sometimes he doesn’t like to force you to talk, it puts you in a foul mood and he notices.

“Just when I think you’re about to open up,” He tsks, shaking his head, “you remind me of the situation, and how you want so badly to make this uncomfortable for both of us.” His cheery mood is faded and you know you screwed this up.

You defend yourself nonetheless. “I’m not trying to make this uncomfortable for anyone, I’m already uncomfortable.”

“You’re such a liar,” He turns you to face him and steps in front of you to eliminate the space, “a bad one though.” You look up at him, trying not to let him intimidate you into backing down.

“I’m not lying.” Wow, that’s the best defense you could come up with.

“You are,” He pushes his hand through his hair, a stressed furrow in his dark brows, “I’m glad we ended up with each other, really I am. But when you act like this, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little,” He leans down, breathing against the apple of your cheek almost. “because I know it’s not how you really feel.”

Taking his time, he looks your face other, and this is what kills him the most. He gets so close to your face and everything in him wants you to lean in, he waits for the moment that you lean in and eliminate the space between you two.

Ding dong. You’re saved when the doorbell rings and you use this as your chance to slip away from him. He drops his head and sighs, this was bound to happen, he sort of regrets approaching you anyway. When he leaves he closes the door and leaves you wishing he was anyone else. You could hate anyone else right now.

When he checked the cameras on his phone, he was surprised to see that it was non-other than Park Jimin, what does he want? The bell rings for the second time and he rushes to silence it.

“Kim,” The man smiles, and Taehyung takes in his casual attire, meaning he was off today just like him, “I was beginning to think something happened to you,” His eyes intermediately go to Taehyung’s blue-tinted hands, “sorry to drop in unannounced like this.”

Taehyung makes an offended expression almost, he can’t hide his physical reaction to the concern, it seemed fake. “Didn’t have my phone on me, what do you need? It’s my day off,” His tone isn’t rude, but genuinely confused.

“I, uh,” Jimin rakes his mind for the story he’s supposed to tell, “my cuff-links! I left them in the bathroom that night,” His smile looks a bit too plastered, and when Taehyung doesn’t invite him in he let’s out a nervous laugh, “they’re expensive okay, rubies, can I grab’em?”

Taehyung opens the door wider so he can come in. He just hopes you have enough caution to stay hidden until Jimin leaves.

“So,” Oh no, he’s making conversation, “been doing some painting?” Jimin disappears into the small hall where the bathroom is to get his “cuff-links,” or so he says. Assuming Taehyung was hiding someone in the house, that evidence wouldn’t be in the guest bathroom. He has to stay in there a little longer, he hasn’t looked around well enough.

“I was,” He was trying to do a little more than that.

“Found’em,” He opens his hands to show the cuff-links that he planted just now, “Hey, can I get some water?”

“Sure,” Tae goes to the sink to wash his hands and Jimin leans on the large marble island, waiting patiently. Two plates. That’s the first abnormality that he notices. Two place-mats at the table and two sets on dishes in the sink, but it doesn't seem like he’s had any guest, there’s no car in the driveway.

“Y’know, I heard about that missing girl, one of your targets,” Jimin throws it out there, seeing if he’ll take the bait and give a reaction, “I bet that’s stressful.”

“It’ll blow over,” He opens the covert and takes out a glass, “how did you know she was my target?”

Damn, he shouldn’t have said that,

“You know I’m close with Minho, he mentioned it. He said it wasn’t your fault though, the investigators have an outside party helping, that’s why it’s not closing as fast. I have a little question for you,” He grins, “you don’t have to answer but Minho said it was a young girl, a writer, apart of a multiple target case, how did you do it?”

Taehyung sets the glass in front of him. “It doesn’t matter how I did it, as long as it’s done.”

“You’re as stiff as they come, Kim,” Jimin decides to lay off before Taehyung grows anymore suspicious, “I don’t do target eliminations but if I did, I would spill some details sometimes.” He takes a few gulps of water and looks at Taehyung who hasn’t stopped staring at him for the last few seconds.

“Well, thanks for the water,” He makes his way to the front door and Taehyung is more than happy to walk him out.

“You’re welcome,” He watches Jimin pass through the door and when he sees him get in his car, he closes the door with a sigh of relief.

He doesn’t go into his art studio for hours after Jimin leaves. He settles for busying himself with going over his next assignment over twenty times.

It’s getting harder and harder to keep this up, he never thought he’d get to this point. Something wasn’t right about that, Jimin isn’t his friend, and he’s never approached him like this—he knows something. When he makes his way upstairs, he tries to brush it off but here you are in his sanctuary to remind him.

“You were gone for a long time, who was that here earlier?” You mumble, barely sparing him a glance from your gaze off the balcony.

“No one you need to worry about,” He’s upset, that much you can tell, “I need you to go back to the basement for a little while, so you need to use the bathroom and eat.”

“What?” You can’t be hearing him correctly. “But why?...”

“Because I said so,” He stands in the doorway, arms crossed and posture uninterested, “let’s not have a repeat of last time,”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong...” The light drains from your eyes and anxiety pits in your stomach. “Is this because I wouldn't tell you what I felt about the painting?... Taehyung, I-”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” You walk inside and tears start to burn at your eyes instantly. You walk over to him and look to him with pleading eyes, hoping he’ll find it in his heart to change his mind. “Taehyung, I hate being down there, I’ll go to the other room, I won’t bother you...Please just don’t make me stay down there.” Tears stream down your cheeks and

“There’s an outside investigator who’s looking for you, the police are looking for you, and soon enough the man who hired me will be looking for you too. I’m trying to protect you and make you comfortable but you only like the benefits of getting close to me, you don’t actually appreciate that I’m giving you so much.” His tone is cold, no longer filled with that tinge of adoration and warmth.

“I do appreciate it!” You didn’t think he’d get so upset, you’re trying to save yourself now. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I don’t-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” He cuts you off, hands reaching for your arms but missing when you pull away. He grabs your arms with more than enough force and pulls you to him, and this time it hurts, “Don’t fucking pull away from me.”

“B- but,” You whine, wiping your tears as you try to comprehend why he’s acting like this all of a sudden. “Taehyung, please-”

“Shut up!” He lashes out, eyes dark and voice louder than it’s ever been before as his grip on you just tightens. “Stop whining like you’re hurting because you’ve made me feel a lot worse than this. You think I don’t notice what you’re doing? I’ve let you push and pull for as I could,” The volume in his voice seems to increase his physical size somehow and decrease your own, “but your little game isn’t fun anymore, I’m fucking sick of it now.”

“But I’m not-” You try to speak but he clamps a hand over your mouth and the horror of your worse nightmare washes over you. He’s trying to hurt you.

“Be quiet.” He walks forward until your back is pushed up against the wall, letting his hand fall from your mouth slowly so he can take your trembling wrist in his hands.

“All this time, there was so much I could have done, that I’ve wanted to do, but I’ve waited patiently...” By the way he keeps biting the inside of his cheek, it’s clear that he’s teetering on the edge of something.

“You’ve been starting to want it too and that’s why you push me away so hard, for some reason you like to deprive yourself.” He cracks a smile and looks up at you’re teary eyes, cooing at the sight of you falling apart.

“But you won’t admit that to yourself, or me. So, the best thing I can do for us is to lock you back up.” You shake your hand but he nods, a cynical glint in his gaze when you lean your head back to stop some of your tears.

“Why’re you shaking your head no? That’s what has to happen. Here’s how it’ll work; I’ll blindfold you so you don’t even have to see me and I won’t have to see those pretty eyes anymore. Maybe even gag you so I don’t have to hear your sweet little voice say another word. Then I’d have the pleasure of taking you upstairs and giving you a bath each and every day, you wouldn't want to see scary-Taehyung, right? So that blindfold will have to stay on. You’ll just have to trust that the only eyes and hands on you are my own. And every day I’d come down to feed you and you’d know that I’d make your life a living hell if you dared say one word. There would only be a hand full of sounds I would allow you to make,” He tilts his head, amazed by how much color had left your face.

“How does that sound? You wouldn’t have to be around the big scary-Taehyung anymore, is that what you want?”

Your lips tremble when you attempt to open your mouth and say something, it’s too scary. He’s scary. All this time, you’ve been waiting this out, trying so hard to stay calm and get close, but not too close. And this is the result.

“Answer me.” You shake your head, fearing the sobs that would erupt from your mouth if you spoke. But he doesn’t care, “Ah-ah, I’m not gonna treat you like a little baby just yet, answer me with your words.”

“N- no...” You push out your answer, chest heaving from trying to breathe through your cries.

“No,” He scoffs, mocking your answer, “well had you been the target for anyone other than me, that’s what would have happened to you. You either trust me, or you don’t, you can’t have it in the middle anymore.” Hands still firm on your arms and knee still anchored against you so you can’t move, it’s suffocating. “You have to choose, do you trust me or not?”

“I- I trust you...” You sniffle, nose burning red and your sight blurred from your tears.

“Ah, I don’t believe you,” He drops his hands from you, “I think you need to learn your lesson in the basement until I think you can be honest-”

“No!” You throw your arms around his waist and wail into his chest like a baby. “I- I trust you! I do, please don’t put me down there-” You hiccup, “I’m sorry, I really do trust you, I know you’re only trying to protect me, I get that now. I- I just want to stay with you, I wanna be with you.”

You want to be with him, a sentence he never thought he’d hear you say. He was just trying to scare you into revealing your true feelings but he didn’t expect you to cave that fast. He returns your affection, wrapping his arms around you gently. “Yeah, that’s what you really want?” You nod vigorously, your grip around him so tight it would take a hundred men to pull you off.

“Yes,” You look up at him, and just the quick, the Taehyung that you know is back. Those soft eyes, that gentle smile that wants nothing but to see you smile, make you happy. This is the only Taehyung you ever want to see.

He caresses your hair, pushing it back from your flushed face. The way you’re staring up at him, it makes him feel like you’re the only people in the universe and he’s swimming in a galaxy made of the stars in your eyes. He wants to eliminate that little space. But you beat him to it. You’re on your tippy-toes and that pesky little space is eliminated and he plunges face-first into the seventh heaven that is you. You have to show him and yourself that you trust him, you want to prove it. Your eyes are sealed tight and you’ve given up all control in favor of him doing as he pleases.

“Mh,” He leans down to lessen your reach and puts your hands around his neck. Breathless, his lips start to tingle and he bites down to regain a more familiar feeling. You’re so soft, just like he imagined. It’s all too much but not enough all at once.

He carried you away with loving arms, leaving all of his feelings to tip over like a bucket of paint and spill over the blue-stained sheets

* * *

“Hey boss, I went to his place this morning,” Jimin finally got the call from Minho, “did I see anything? Not really. There were two placemats at the table, two sets of dishes, it kind of looked like he had someone over but there was no one that I could see. Maybe he had someone over last night, I don’t really know,”

“Did you ask about the target?”

“I did, but he gave me a bland answer. He said it doesn’t matter how it’s done as long as it’s done, his usual, sorry I couldn’t be more of more help,” Minho thanks him for his efforts before hanging up the phone.

“I’m just so scared for her,” She plucks her third tissue from the box in front of her, “I haven’t slept in days.”

Jin drove all this way to sit with your mother, he called her and she said her husband out on business. He couldn’t imagine being alone when your child is missing, the thought alone hurt.

“It’ll be alright,” Jin sits at with your mother, who at one point he thought had a chance of being his mother-in-law. “They’re doing everything they can to find her, she’s a fighter.” He grasps her hand.

“I know,” She sighs, crumpling up the tissue and throwing it in the bin, “you came all this way, have you eaten? I feel like cooking something.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you-”

“Please, I know you have the same favorite meal as Y/n, let me make it for you.”

“Alright, thank you,” He smiles, watching her leave to the kitchen with a bit more light in her eyes. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he slips it out.

Min Yoongi: I talked to Suzy today and I can almost guarantee that her being missing is related to the handful of reporters who died at a conference she attended a few months ago. Why she was the only person that went missing makes me suspect an alternative motive. I’ll update you if anything changes.

Yoongi slips his phone back in his pocket and walks into the police station, it’s late but he hopes the cop over your case is still in. When he walks up to the front desk and asks, the receptionist points him into the direction of the person he’s looking for.

“Min,” The man smiles, extending his hand and dropping his conversation with the Sargent in front of him.

“Cha Eunwoo, so you’re the lucky guys on this case,” Yoongi has known Eunwoo since his days at the academy. He went FBI and Eunwoo went police department, both choosing paths that fit them the best in the end.

“Yeah,” He scratches the back of his neck, dismissing the guy he was talking to, “I know you’re working alongside us, a personal favor?”

“Something like that, is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Yoongi doesn’t notice, but there’s a pair of lingering eyes that watch him and Eunwoo moves to his office.

“What’s going on?”

“I talked with the girl's supervisor today,” Yoongi walks around the desk, looking out at the pretty sunset, “I was informed that she went missing the exact same day an article of hers was supposed to be published. This article held details from the conference that have never been revealed. The article's physical and digital copies are gone. Cha, this doesn’t seem like you’re average missing persona case, there’s something bigger going on,” he rests his hands on his hips, bottom-lip tucked between his teeth. “I don’t want to tell her family that just yet, not until I’m sure.”

“You know what,” Eunwoo makes a thoughtful expression, “you could be right. There has been speculation around this case that the abduction was planned for a while now, I think for her sake we should look into that. Thank you Min, this could really change the nature of this case and it’s probably gonna get bigger, especially if we bring the parties at the conference into question.”

Jaemin was hanging outside of the hallway but runs to the restroom when he hears footsteps approach the door. When he’s sure there’s no one else in the stalls he frantically pulls out his phone and makes a call.

“Hello?”

“The case is about to blow up, the PI is onto us and I think the organization is about to be in jeopardy.”

“Damn it,” He sighs, “what do you suggest we do?”

“You have to tell Kim to reveal the body.”

#taehyung smut #taehyung stalker au #taehyung angst #taehyung scenarios #taehyung fluff #taehyung fanfic #bts angst #bts au #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fanfic #taehyung assassin #bts assassin au #don't breathe

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seungmvnnie · 4 years ago

Text

flipped; teaser

teaser length; 1k words

a/n; reminder that this is just a teaser that i’m releasing for my 400 followers celebration, the completed fic will be posted on the 30th of November!

For you, it was true love.

It was a hot summer’s day, the day Chenle moved in. You could remember the feeling of the sun on your face as you basked in its warmth, the pavement on which you sat almost searing your skin as the moving van pulled up to the house opposite yours. You had recalled that your father had told you to always be kind and helpful, which is why you had thought it appropriate to skip across the road to the nice looking family and offer a helping hand.

“There’s some valuable things in those boxes. Don’t touch them.” His father had scolded as you reached for one of the boxes that were stacked on their lawn.

“Maybe you should run home? Your mom’s probably worried about you.” He sneered, staring down his nose on you. Resilient, you stared back.

“My dad knows I’m here.” You had replied simply, before turning to Chenle.

“Want to push one together?” You asked, pointing at one of the heavier ones. Chenle scrunched his face up at you, looking to his father for answers.

“I think your mom wants your help in the house, Chenle.” His dad had replied, not so subtly winking at him, as if to say, ‘escape from the crazy girl while you can.’

He seized the opportunity, turning on his heel and running towards the house, where his mother stood in the doorway, when the most ridiculous thing happened. Not only did (y/n) (y/l/n) follow him, but you grabbed his hand.

“Oh, hello! I see you’ve met my son.” His mother had called out, a small smile growing on her face as she observed the sight of the two 7-year olds connected by their hands.

Chenle, having no clue how to escape the situation, did the most mature thing a 7-year-old boy could do. He hid behind his mother.

Who did you think you were? He had been here for less than 10 minutes and he had some crazy girl trying to hold his hand.

Of course, for you, you really had thought you were being kind. The boxes on the lawn did look intimidatingly heavy but you were sure with the help of the cute boy stood next to them, you could help get them into the house. You hadn’t picked up on the fact that it had taken Mr Zhong all of 10 seconds to determine that you weren’t worthy of their time and when he had sent his son inside to help unpack, you thought maybe it would be a good idea to chase after him, see if he wanted to play for a bit before he was stuck unpacking boring boxes. You had grabbed his arm to stop him from running into his house, when he turned around and moved his arm out of your clasp, grabbing your hand instead.

That night you lay awake, thinking of the boy who was walking around with your first kiss.

tag list; @mikasrecs @sunflowerhae

#nct dream #nct dream x reader #nct #nct x reader #nct dream imagine #chenle #nct fluff #nct dream fluff #nct angst #nct dream angst #nct au #nct dream au #chenle au #chenle fluff #chenle angst #zhong chenle x reader #chenle imagine #chenle x reader

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jjkpls · 4 years ago

Text

crayons ‘hana’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 4.5k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

> Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> next

**words in italics are spoken in Korean

It's a grey day.

The Sun is acting up. As if It had been vexed deeply and now, no matter how loud the kids are calling after It, It just won't budge. Hidden behind the thick clouds, not hinting a tiny ray through the heavy shower, It won't show the tip of Its nose today, you have no doubt about that.

It takes some time to persuade the kids of that fact though.

The better half of recess is spent arguing, they just won't admit that for today, the break will be taken in class. It renders most of them gloomy, unable to accept the harsh reality, even if they've lived before -back in the beginning, when you were still too lenient, letting yourself drag into endless quarrel leading to stupid and quite irresponsible compromises- the traumatizing experience of standing in the middle of a storm. You still remember the awful concert of cries and the race to pick every kid somehow induced in a panic paralysis, one under each arm, to bring them to safety in urgency -thank god, Jeon Jungkook had been there, with his stature, able to stack up five of them at the same time, incredibly useful, pretty much life-saving. What you remember even better is the severe scolding you received from the principal, who thought -as you should have- that no matter how bad the children insisted, they shouldn't be playing outside in the rain.

You knew that. They just wouldn't believe you and you thought that, maybe, they just needed practical proof. No harm was supposed to be engendered. And quite frankly, none occurred. Children sometimes just enjoy being dramatic and it was the perfect, quintessential occasion to do so, especially if the principle is in earshot -which she was.

In any case, you learned your lesson. However, they did not.

Charlotte, standing on her pretty polished pearl white shoes -that you know, for a fact, that you'll get in trouble if her mother comes to pick her up to find them ruined by the terrible weather-, chin up high, hands tucked to her side, won't stop arguing with you as the main spokesgirl for the class. Apparently, it's “unfair”.

And it is unfair. Weather is not meant to be fair and you have not a single take on it. Try to explain that to a five-year-old.

“Ok, everyone, listen up!” Everyone's little heads swing forward like those car bobbleheads, wide eyes ogling you with burning impatience and clear, obnoxious delusion. They're all waiting, expecting you to open the door and let them free into the wild. “Let's make a deal, alright? Who wants to make a deal?” And everyone, even if they, for the most part, have no clue what's going on, wants to -except for Charlotte who's eyeing you with a suspicious glare and for Jimmy who's hiding in the corner, a sad scowl on his face. “You know that I don't have any power over the rain. But I do have powers over how long recess will last.” You act smug as you say that, their little impressed faces adding to the effect. It becomes painful to conceal the giggles blooming in your chest. “Since you already wasted half of your time, I have a proposition for you. You'll stay twice as long on break, meaning until it's 3:45,” You explain, pointing on the big clock hovering your desk where the long hand will be standing when the break ends. “if you can stay calm in class, ok?”

The announcement sends them in a fury, the simple idea of having a longer break overwhelming them with hysterical joy. So much for staying calm and collected.

Fortunately enough, I've been gifted with overall sweet children. It doesn't require more than a collecting "shh" and a reminder of the term of the bargain for them to quietly divert into groups, colonizing different lots of the classroom. Some ask for books, for paints or crayons, for the plushies and the toys they brought along to school -even though they're not allowed to- and a tranquil atmosphere rises and sets itself upon the room.

It's very nice, even for you. Sitting at your desk, watching over them with a distracted eye, you wonder if you'd be allowed to spend the rest of the day like so. They're talking, laughing and creating, sharing, being kind to each other and this whole ambience, slower than usual, calmer, more peaceful seem greatly beneficial for them. They don't feel any kind of pressure from having to learn, having to follow a predesigned, normative rhythm. It's pleasant and healthier than usual. Even if you try your best, constantly, to render every single day as filled with positivity through the required productivity as you can, you can't help sometimes stress and tension from blooming. It suffices one Kevin to come to class, sleepy and upset from a bad night, triggering a Charlotte who ends up scowling and nagging at everyone all day, and then everyone is in a terrible mood. Exercises are a pain to go through. Keeping their attention on you a quasi impossible challenge to overcome. Bringing their spirits up an unreachable, delusional aspiration.

But here and now, spending their time and energy on what they want with their chosen friends, in the comfortable warmth of the safe classroom, with the rain gently drumming on the windows, you can sense peace and joy and it fills your heart with content to the brim, or, almost to the brim.

Your heart could be spilling out with joy if it wasn't for this one, tiny pout adorning one tiny chubby face. Jimmy hasn't budged much from earlier. He had to leave his own desk to relocate at the very end of the room because a few girls decided to set up their library on the adjacent table.

His posture is the same though. Sitting quietly, his back pressed into the corner, hands tucked together against his belly, his big dark eyes are observing his classmates attentively. You read fear but also curiosity that's eaten up by something else, maybe sadness. It's a heartbreaking sight you're unfortunately too used to witness.

Jimmy arrived two months after everyone else. You don't know much about him. Because you haven't had the occasion to meet his parents yet, but mostly because he hasn't spoken a word since his arrival. His pouty mouth, shaped like an adorable button, hasn't opened once. Not even that one time you tried to have him participate and had him tearing up and crying, overwhelmed as he felt under the attention. He just sat silently, eyes drawn downwards, munching on the inside of his cheek, while tears ran down his round cheeks while all the other kids watched, as bewildered as you.

You almost quit your job that day. Certain you were not cut for it, somehow, finding out only now, at 26 years old, that you were a horrible, cruel person and your vocation and higher call were just all a blatant lie.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that today, once again, he’s hiding in his corner. You've tried a few things before. You didn’t just watch, waiting on time to operate and break his thick shell on its own. You've consulted the principal, colleagues, the internet. You've looked for clues, for tricks and after having tried quite a few, with little to no success at all -you've made him look up to your eyes, a thing he had been incapable of before-, you've decided to lay off a bit of that zeal.

You were getting too invested, even as this child’s teacher and you knew it wasn’t a good idea to pursue. As for him, you didn’t want to harm him in any way. No matter the benevolence and kindness and softness you put in every single one of your interaction, you thought, he seems so wounded already, you could break him, without meaning to, by simply trying too hard to smother his hostile edges.

You calmed down.

It tastes like defeat, coating a heavy layer in your throat, it never ceases to remind itself to you each time your eyes fall upon the sad pout and curious eyes.

Today is no different.

Everything would be perfect if only, for once, he could mingle with his peers and if you could, for the first time, see the shades of his smile. If he even knows how to smile.

Rising from your chair, you pick up a few pencils from your personal collection -the precious ones, unbitten at the top, unbroken at the tip, tall and seemingly unused. You don’t ever lend those to the kids as you know they’re not mature enough, and they won’t be for a long time to come, to care for your stuff the way those crayons need to be cared for-, a few white sheets and a sharpener and quietly make your way to him. He catches you and your intention from afar, his gaze fixed on you as you get closer.

He doesn’t utter a word, nor adumbrate a movement as you crouch next to him, soft smile, soft gestures. It’s a bit hurtful to think about it this way but it’s like approaching a wild tiny, tiny helpless creature -you're terrified to see it flee away.

“Hey Jimmy,” You say kindly, ignoring pointedly Charlotte who’s watching you (you can see her from the corner of your eyes) so that she knows to not interrupt or try to interfere in any way. “Would you like to draw a little?” You lay the material in front of him. His whole attention is offered to you and while you're glad you’ve reached that point where he can actually look at you, you can not help but wish he’d look away as his heavy stare suddenly makes you feel anxious. “Those are my personal crayons. I’m sure I can trust you to take care of them well, right?” He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. You're not sure if he’ll even pick one of them up. You know he won't in front of you anyway and not wanting him to feel cornered and pressured, after another sugary sweet smile, you wave him goodbye and let him be.

The afternoon goes on, calmer than usual. It's as if they were brought to a state of peace so deep, they're now willing to accept any unfairness the world has in store for them. When the school bell rings, the children quickly run to the racks, grabbing their coats and little bags. A few of them start piling up at your feet, whining for the teddies and toys and lip balms they brought to school this morning and that you had to hold hostage as they are not supposed to bring them to school.

“Could we have another recess like today, miss? Tomorrow?” You see the shimmery eyes, the pressing pouts and impatient wiggling of the butts, waiting as patiently as they can for an answer. You're glad they had a good time today, still, a part of you can't help but regret it all. That part, conscious from the start, of how it'll all come back to bite you in the arse. No matter how cute they are, those little monsters always end up munching your arm up to the shoulder if you only do as much as tend an open hand their way.

“We'll see.” You say, waving them off. You don't mean to be so misleading but there's no way you're sending those kids home crying hysterically because they haven't heard the answer they were looking for.

Quickly they're all out of the class, seen outside to their carers by Adrianne, the lovely woman who helps out you, along with all the other teachers, with the kids every day.

There's only you and a little mess that you're able to tidy out quickly. In the corner, lay the little pile of papers and the crayons that had been obviously unused. Your heart squeezes briefly uncomfortably but you were not expecting any different from him. Since he arrived, two months ago, Jimmy has only drawn or traced letters or painted or built anything when the rest of his classmates were doing it too. You assume it's because he feels like he can't refuse to do something everyone else is doing. When it's just about him, when it doesn't concern directly the course, when it's just for pure personal entertainment, he simply would not do it.

You notice something. If he didn't draw anything on the sheets, he touched the crayons. They're piled very neatly, all tips turned the same way, one next to the other on top of the papers. What a sweetheart.

What a lovely, lovely kid.

It sends a rush of hope and determination back into your heart. You're not utterly desperate. It might take time. Maybe you won't be able to make significant progress until the very end of the year, when you'll have to say goodbye to him once he changes classes, but you don't despair to reach him, eventually.

And maybe that's all the universe needed -the conviction that you're not holding into this kid in pure vain- to offer you a generous little push. The magical manifestation comes in the form of Jimmy himself, escorted by Adrianne whose hand hovers few centimetres atop of his dark mop of hair, standing in the doorway, eyes drawn to the ground as if he's in trouble.

“Jimmy's father is running late and I-” She winces a little, grimace accentuating the lines carved on her face around her easy smile.

“You want to ask me something, don't you?” You tease knowingly. She looks embarrassed until she catches your wink, understanding she's probably fine to ask you anything.

“It's Felicia's birthday and I promised I'll be home early...”

You have to contain yourself, to not sound as ecstatic as you feel, to not drop to the ground, hands held high in gratitude towards the sky, settling for a simple: “Okay, I'll stay with him.”

“Are you sure?” She asks because she's nice and considerate but she's already turned her body towards the hallway. It doesn't take much more convincing to have her disappear.

It's only Jimmy and you now.

You're giddy but anxious. He doesn't even raise his head once she's gone. He just stands there, little raspberries tinting his cheeks and you're filled with a fondness tightly intertwined with sadness because he shouldn't look this guilty when he's done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Come have a seat.” His black eyes raise high enough for a split second, just to see where your hand is patting before quietly, he makes his way to the chair adjacent to yours. You've laid the papers and the crayons you'd picked up from the ground, an idea had come to you. There's no chance you'll have him draw something for you but you could draw for him.

You don't know if it'll have the same effect as it does on the other children. It's this special, unique teacher power that turns every single one of your shitty doodles, gifted to one of them, into a priceless, beautiful gift. It's the funniest thing and one of your favourites. The feeling is like the one you get when they fight and have to make serious arguments and deals to decide who will be the lucky one to hold the teacher's hand today.

Surely it's ridiculous but it does flat your ego grandiosely.

You're not expecting this kind of reaction from Jimmy, you'd just like to create some sort of contact, an interaction. Staring down at the white sheet, you're left speechless, nervous. It's been a while since you've sat in front of one of those, with no clear indication of what you were supposed to lay on it. Quite frankly, your crayons you only use to grade. The feeling is terrifying and you realise, gulping, that you didn't miss it. Maybe that feeling is the reason why he didn't pick up a pencil to draw himself. Was he filled with the same irrational paralysis that comes with the fear of the unknown?

“I'm not really good at drawing, to be honest with you... Do you like cats, Jimmy?” His big eyes watch you carefully. No answer. He simply munches on his lips, waiting for you to fill in the silence. “You probably do. Or, I hope you do because cats are what I draw best. Let's see.” You mumble, picking up a blue pencil to start -another consequence of the unusual anxiety you're feeling, suddenly picturing cats being blue.

It takes him a hot minute to open up the slightest. Actually, it takes about half an hour. Half an hour of you talking on your own, making conversation for the both of you; of you struggling to draw the cat you were certain you knew how to draw; of stopping every now and then to go over the basic body shape of a cat. It starts in the form of him snorting discreetly -you almost miss it- when you almost curse, fishing your cellphone out of your back pocket to look for the ugliest but easiest drawing of a cat you can find online for reference, tired of erasing and redoing the same damn curve of the cat's neck and messing up each time. It continues with him accepting to chose the next colour for what you keep calling “our cat”. He picks a deep purple for the back of the kitty, a bright yellow for the paws and apple green for the eyes. It's kind of funny looking but in a way you've done it together and your heart is filled to the brim with happiness. When it's done, sort of, you're ready to grab a new paper, hoping that maybe, on this one, he'll feel comfortable enough to grab a pencil himself and leave an actual mark on his own but the universe taps gently but firmly on the tip of your fingers, reminding you to be thankful for what happened today but not to be too greedy.

It's the tall and dishevelled man, stumbling loudly through the door that interrupts and determine the end of today's progress. Jimmy raises on his seat on reflex, running into the man's -you assume to be his father- legs. The man seems a bit uneasy, with his trench coat poorly buttoned, his dark hair messy with a thick strand sticking up to the roof, forehead crossed with worrisome lines. He reaches for the little boy, carrying him up to his chest, smacking a big kiss on his forehead; Jimmy's short arms are reaching far, far away, wrapping as much as he can around his father's neck and the previous wrinkles simply fade away.

“I'm so terribly sorry!” He apologizes, voice remarkably low, sounding lovely somehow even through the tension straining it. “I had this meeting that just lasted forever, I'm so, so sorry. It won't happen again.”

“No it's totally fine, don't worry about it!” You might be screaming a little bit because the big, impressively built man is now bowing with Jimmy draped around him like a koala and you feel so embarrassed because 1) no one has ever bowed to you, 2) you sincerely didn't mind staying a little bit later (especially given it happens more often than not) and 3) you were glad, you feel fortunate for the chance you just had to spend more time with Jimmy and see a spark of something you've never seen before. The reason you made a good improvement, you believe, is because the circumstances were favourable. Having a class filled with twenty-five other rambunctious kids that require great attention, at all time, doesn't, ever, allow you to bond with the boy. “Please don't, it's fine.” You insist, forcing him with wide gestures to stand up straight again. “Jimmy is one of the sweetest kids of my class, honestly, it was no bother.”

The dark eyes, perfect imitations of the ones Jimmy carries, display a lovely glint at my comment. He attempts to look at his son who’s snuggling in the crook of his neck, smiling softly.

“Is that right, Jiminie? My good boy.”

Jiminie. Without knowing what he says, the sonority of his words sounds so gentle and lovely, you can tell why the boy turns all sheepish.

There's a loud kiss pressed to his cheek and you can hear a high giggle, shy but sweet, as Jimmy squirms a bit in his dad's arms, pressing a hand to his ear. The scene is so, so adorable, you would cry if only you were not too worried to give off a terrible portray of an unbalanced and ugly-crier of a teacher to this father.

Father that you’re meeting for the first time.

And this fact, lost in the middle of a storm of agitated thoughts, manages to find his way to the surface after a little while of just awkwardly standing there, not really knowing what to say.

“Mr Kim, actually, I'm glad you're here. I meant to- meet and maybe have a little conversation with you, I don't know if Adrianne told you-”

“Yes, yes, she did. Of course. I apologize, I was supposed to get back to her with a date but work has been pretty- hectic. I've just changed job and-” You nod, genuinely understanding. If you don't know much about this man, nor this family in general, you can tell from the layers of fatigue that even the tender smiles he generously grants his son can't diminish, that he's not having the best of times. “It's not that- I don't want you to believe that I'm not invested in my son's education, it's really not the case-”

“Oh no, I don't believe that!” Quite frankly, you'd say that to any parents that come to you with these kinds of doubts, it's probably the worst thing you can do to a parent to criticize their parenting, their love, especially when you know from experience than most, even the ones that mess up and scar, don't commonly mean to. Parents are just adults and adults are just humans. Trying to figure shit out and actually not knowing jack shit about much. As a teacher, of children that young too, you owe to help them turn their progeny into the best versions they can be, as a team.

But this dad, standing there, distress and something akin sadness shading so much of his face, there's so little room for softness, a hand tenderly massaging the back of his boy's hair, you have no doubt, whatsoever, that it's not the case. That he tries and probably struggles, with whatever their circumstances are, but means the best. “I really don't. It's just I'd really like- I mean, I need, to have a little meeting with you. I receive every parent at the beginning of each year, it's important for me to understand better the child...” You would point out that in Jimmy's case, it's absolutely necessary given his behaviour but you don't want to say it in front of him. You've been reassured before by the principle that you weren't to worry too much. Jimmy was not, in any case, in any kind of danger at home, she had made sure of that after you first came to her with your concerns.

It's supposed to be a case of extreme timidity. It's confusing. Still, you were ready to accept this as the plain simple explanation if only you could talk to his father, have him confirm it and validate with your own personal impression. “I understand that you're working and don't have much time to yourself and that it's a bit- I mean, even as adults, no one likes to have to attend a teacher's meeting,” Only the corner of his lips twitch a little, yet you gladly accept it as a win. “Would it be possible for you to make just a little slot in your schedule for me? I won't take too long, twenty minutes at most? Whenever you can! Before class if you want or after, in the evening, sometimes I'm still here until 7. Or at lunch! Absolutely whenever is good for you.”

“That's very kind.” Is all he says.

You don't know what to say to that. You're not sure he is right. You are especially invested in your work and your pupils. You've been told before that, maybe, you should lay off a bit -you're told each time you cry at the end of a school year, thinking about all the faces you adore but won't be seeing every day anymore. But most teachers are, you want to believe. Min Yoongi, from first grade, wouldn't be as generous with his time, that's for sure. He'd probably come up with a date that'd fit his agenda and if possible inconvenience the most the parents' schedule and demand that they do make the time and be present, guilty-trip them if they seem reluctant. But that's just him, being a lazy cynical asshole. You want to believe he's an exception and any other teacher, in your shoes, would act the same way.

That being said, the way he's saying it, wide eyes sort of laced with a certain confusion, serves to thicken the compliment.

“Whenever is fine.” You repeat, lacking a direct response to his words. There's a tiny curious eye, picking from the collar of the trench coat, observing you attentively. You smile to Jimmy, picking up the drawing of the cat you've drawn earlier and handing it to him. “I'll let you off now, Jimmy is probably starving.”

After a few seconds of just staring at it, Jimmy sneaks a hand out to accept the drawing, face instantly burying further in the fabric of his dad's clothes, all shy and embarrassed.

“Thank you. Thank you very much for today and for any day really. I promise I'll make sure to meet you very soon.”

“Sure, perfect. Jimmy, see you tomorrow?”

“You say goodbye, Jiminie?”

He mutters something you don't quite catch, enshrouded as he is in the fabric adorning his dad, but his father and you decide that it's the answer you were waiting for. A wave and a stumble down the hall later -one that nearly gives you a heart attack as the prospect of the man actually eating shit with tiny Jimmy still in his arms hit you-, they're gone, out of the school and on to their way home you assume.

You're entirely alone now. Giddy as a school girl overly excited about something mundane that doesn't require this type of enthusiasm. You're not precisely sure why. It's a storm. Again. An overwhelming storm of emotions. In the mix of it all, you can decipher the loud, brilliant thoughts regarding the tiny shy little boy, and a future brighter than the one you used to picture for him. One where he's not scared of everyone, where you can hear his voice and see him giggle without his dad for him to hide behind. And something else.

You're not sure.

You don't suck at your job, you decide, as you think back about the adorable chubby finger pointing shyly at the crayons he wanted you to use.

A/N : as always, a lot of love send your way, thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoy it :)

#btswriterscollective #thekimlinenet #bts fluff #bts drabble #bts fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon drabble #namjoon fanfic #my writing

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captainsimagines · 4 years ago

Text

Titanic || H.S

Part Five || “No Me Queda Mas”

Disclaimer: I do not own the pictures I use for title cards. Obviously.

Warnings: This book contains mature themes and discussions, such as gun violence, emotional and physical abuse, attempted suicide, mentions of blood, character deaths, heavy sexual content, and reference to the real maritime disaster of the 1912 cruise liner Titanic.

“Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.“

Both Harry and Drake were up by seven in the morning, energetic and absolutely starving. They made sure to dress as quietly as they could, careful not to wake their other two roommates. They were men of the same age, around their late twenties, heading to the states to escape religious persecution. They had arrived later that day after they had picked up the remaining passengers from Ireland, both men talkative and equally as excited to start a new life. The four men chatted into the deep hours of the night and discussed a variety of topics. Perhaps the funnest topic they covered was women.

The two men were traveling with their girlfriends and since they were not legally married, they had to bunk in separate living quarters. Except their boyfriends had splurged what money they could to give them the best comfort as possible, and Harry learned their girlfriends were staying as second-class passengers. Drake made the joke about how first and second class weren’t all that different, and that these boys were living every poor man’s dream of being with a woman of practical royalty.

“They scream louder than any woman.”

“What do you mean?” Harry questioned.

“I mean,” Drake nudged his shoulder playfully, “they’re so touch-deprived that they practically melt from any man’s touch.”

“Man, shut the hell up!”

Everyone continued to joke and tease, and Harry wondered if that was indeed true. He had only been with two other women before - his first when he was seventeen and a woman he thought he loved at the age of twenty-four. He prided himself on the noises he caused, but he didn’t quite understand what Drake meant. Did upper-class women really not experience pleasure as often as women in love? Did upper-class women even fall in love? Do upper-class men not know how to perform? He understood the point of the joke, and although slightly misogynistic, Harry pondered on the societal gossip that sometimes proved true. It wasn’t like he was ever going to experience it to compare.

He and Drake tip-toed outside their room and locked it behind them. Breakfast was available until ten, but they wanted first dibs on the freshest stuff there.

It was a buffet style breakfast. They stacked their trays up high, first come - first serve, with buttered bread, sugar cookies, chicken noodle soup, and milk.

“They’re holding out on us. I saw them lugging buckets of grapes and strawberries up to first-class.”

Harry chuckled and sipped his milk, “Because they’re first-class.”

“Either way, this bread is delicious.”

And over breakfast they chatted about their past trips, skills, family, and aspirations. If it was possible, Drake spoke more than Harry. Once a conversation reached its end, Drake would easily glide into a new one. It was quite refreshing to speak to someone who didn’t shut you down or didn’t know how to carry a conversation. Harry paused Drake, however, when he mentioned that he was a trained carpenter.

“You build things?”

“Buildings. I build buildings.”

Harry shoved him, “That’s what I meant!”

Drake laughed along, “Yeah, my father was a carpenter. I built my Montana ranch from the ground up with my own two hands.”

Harry felt like meeting Drake was fate. Now he didn’t have to grovel and beg some New York carpenter to oversee the construction of a London business. If Drake agreed to help Harry build his bakery, he would at least trust the process more. A few sips of soup and some sugar cookies later and Harry considered Drake a closer friend than those he met on the playground.

“I have a proposition.”

“Well, Mr. Capitalist, I’m all ears.”

Harry grinned, “Would you like to help me build my family’s bakery? I would pay you generously and provide you housing during your extended stay in New York.”

Drake mimicked the act of deep thought, leaning forward and swishing around his cup of milk. “Hmm, a generous offer.”

“Or do you have to be back in Montana immediately?”

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“My brother has the ranch covered. I can write to him and let him know I’ll be bringing in a little extra cash.”

Harry jumped in his seat like an excited child, “Is that a ‘yes’?”

Drake chuckled and tried not to spill his milk as Harry shook his shoulders excitedly.

Drake was around five years older than Harry, thirty-two and thriving, so it made sense that he had this feeling of being an older brother to Harry. He was actually the youngest of his siblings, having older brothers at his side since birth. It was a blessing, and in a weird twist of plot, he felt like an attentive older brother sat here at breakfast. The way Harry’s bright smile lit up any room and the way he acted as if everything happened for a reason - he was almost tempted to give this kid the rest of his sugar cookies.

“Sure, man. I trust you’ll pay me.”

Harry nodded and while overflowing with joy, he slid his sketchbook in front of Drake and began reviewing the first couple sketches of the type of building he had in mind.

You had been kept up late by your mother’s final walk-through of your stay room, complaining there were not enough towels and not enough space for your accessories on the bedside table. She acknowledged the vastness of the ship and its wonderful hospitality, but there was always something wrong in her mind. And all you could do was nod your head as you sat impatiently in the side chair as she worked the midnight crew through each fix.

So excuse your slow responses and tiny yawns at breakfast. The tables were beginning to clear out, with many still entering for early tea or a late meal. The breeze passed through the open doors and nipped at your cheeks, waking you up slightly from the boring chatter.

As the others spoke, you couldn’t help but think about yesterday and what weird a kiss you and Cal had shared. Was it supposed to feel good? You knew Cal had other women before as he was turning thirty-six just a week after your scheduled wedding. He was never so playful, especially not in front of waiting staff, so you pondered what that change in attitude could possibly mean. Or perhaps you were thinking too much, and he really just had a lapse in judgement.

You could make out talk about the weather, America’s current stock market, and ideas about what the cooks were going to prepare later today. Speak on topics that never interested you and never will interest you carried on for a few more minutes before everyone began ordering their second course. You pulled a cigarette and its holder from your handbag, expertly placed the cigarette inside the silver and inhaled the cooled, mellowed smoke. It woke you up instantly, also calming any nerves from the night before.

You didn’t like when Cal smoked and dusted your flooring, but the presence of a holder made all the difference. No mess, no stains on your fingers - just tranquility.

Your mother cleared her throat quietly as to only alert you, watching the other occupants of your table carry on with their conversation. She unfolded her napkin and placed it carefully across her lap. “You know I don’t like when you do that in public.”

Instead of rolling your eyes at her absurd worry, you inhaled the smoke deeply and exhaled across her view, clouding her face in your personal stress release. It was a power move, a move that you were allowed to execute since she was in control of literally every other aspect of your life. A little smoke shouldn’t anger her as much as it did, but any ounce of independence you still displayed could be interpreted as plain disobedience. And disobedience of your own family meant it resulted in disobedience within a marriage. But before you could establish dominance in one area of your life - your own body - Cal reached over to pull the cigarette from its holder and extinguished it on one of the side plates. You narrowed your eyes, ashamed of the control he proved he had.

“She knows,” Cal chuckled, ignoring your look of embarrassment and instead calling over the waiter who was making his rounds.

A woman you had met briefly yesterday as she boarded from Ireland, Molly, was invited to sit at your breakfast table by one of the men here, yet you couldn’t remember which one. She was a small woman, dressed in a comfortable dress that didn’t quite match the occasion of a late breakfast, but she wore it proudly. She was sweet, strong-willed, and almost always proved louder than anyone else in the room. You liked her personality as it was entirely different from everyone else you had ever met. Although your mother called her “new money” with a nasty grimace on her face, you only saw her for what she was - independent and vocal.

But here you were now, being dehumanized in front of practical strangers, and you looked up to see Molly’s surprised expression. She lowered her arm to extinguish her own cigarette on her ashtray. To continue smoking freely after you had been refused your tiny refuge seemed wrong, improper even. But you didn’t acknowledge her action, ears perking up as Cal restated your breakfast order.

“We’ll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mint sauce.”

You absolutely hated lamb. Any type of meat, really, and the thought of having to stuff it down so you wouldn’t starve maddened you.

“You like lamb, right Sweetpea?”

You plastered a thin, wide smile as you turned to your fiancé, your face almost comical and proving so as Cal took it as a real ‘yes’.

By now your little squabble had gained attention from all at your table. Molly began laughing loudly to cut through the tension, raising her water glass to take a quick sip.

“You gonna cut and chew her meat there too, huh Cal?”

Your mother turned to her sharply but Molly was unmoved, deciding to change the subject to something more interesting. Cal interlocked his fingers together and rested his hands above his belt buckle, looking across the table at Molly with a more calm look compared to your mother, but still hardened with displeasure.

“Say, who thought of the name ‘Titanic’? Was it you, Bruce?” Molly asked.

Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, seemed ecstatic to receive questions about the ship. As of that month, it was his greatest accomplishment and current world wonder, his newborn creation that deserved any and all praise given. He nodded happily and swallowed the piece of fruit hurriedly to answer Molly’s question.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, cleaning his mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Andrews here built her from the ground up!”

Thomas Andrews, a shipbuilder and main architect for Titanic, was shy with any compliment he received, deciding to accept the praise quickly and return the attention back to Ismay. “But the idea was all Mr. Ismay’s! He envisioned a liner so grand in scale...”

You began to drown the conversation out. Cal insisted on dining with specific groups of people. From your point of view, it worked almost like a ranking. Ismay and Andrews were certainly important people on this ship and had first hand experience with such social circles, but they were no John Jacob Astor. The most Cal and your mother did was share morning greetings with Astor, who dined with his wife in a more private section of the same dining hall. Cal had always maintained your titles of royalty, saying that only a few dollars here and there separated you from a higher connection. And at dinner time your group expanded, including around ten others who were just as respectable.

“I wanted to convey sheer size with her name! And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength,” Ismay spoke.

You sucked in a low breath, ready to make a select few laugh and others seethe. “Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay?”

Mr. Ismay turned to you in silent astonishment, surprised by the first complete sentence you had spoken all breakfast. But he smiled and shook his head ‘no’ at the name. You felt your mother reach her hand under the table to cup your arm.

“His opinion about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Your mother’s fingernails dug deep into your forearm. “What has gotten into you?”

But Molly and Mr. Andrews enjoyed your comment, laughing under their breaths.

You smiled sweetly and tore your arm away from your mother, standing and excusing yourself from the table. Both Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews stood out of respect for your departure. You exited the room to walk out on deck.

Cal took in slow breaths to steady his rising anger, avoiding other’s eyes so that they wouldn’t notice the effect you had on him. But Molly, with her rapid wit and steady toughness, wouldn’t let Cal live this down.

“She’s a pistol, Cal. Hope you can handle her!”

Cal crinkled his eyes and chuckled as to brush off your misbehavior. “I might just have to mind what she reads from now on, don’t I?”

Mr. Ismay sat down and readjusted his tie. “Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?”

It was bullshit that third-class passengers were barred from touring certain areas of the ship. All Harry wanted was a better view of the ship’s structure so he could outline it. He mainly drew portraits but he had promised his mother he would show her his drawings of the best parts of the ship, like the grand staircase, fashion, the giant steam funnels, even the food. But third-class passengers weren’t allowed in first-class areas without the proper approval, having to eat from a choice of about four foods each day and reduced to simply imagining what the giant clock looked like.

So Harry doodled anything he found interesting - the dogs who traveled down to third-class to take a shit, the coast of Ireland as Titanic sailed past, and third-class passengers with their children, card games, and instruments. He was currently drawing a man holding his daughter up against the railing to see the water, focusing on the detail of their clothing and their happy expressions. Drake watched Harry work his magic, grinning every single time Harry drew the next precise detail accurately. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, but Drake swore that every human wanted to have this specific talent. Anyone who disagreed wasn’t human.

“I can’t believe you got the eyes right,” Drake scoffed, inhaling smoke from his reduced cigarette.

Harry grinned at the comment, smudging the charcoal over the two foreheads to create the shading. Looking from the models to his paper, he completed another detail that impressed his friend. He was almost finished, brushing his index finger over certain parts. Drake greeted some friends he met at last night’s dinner as they walked past and rested in the surrounding benches. He motioned them over to Harry’s work.

Drake nodded in approval at all the compliments Harry received, “Do you make any money off your drawings?”

It’s quite possibly every artist’s worst nightmare, to scribble incorrectly over a good drawing, completely ruining the fine detail it took too long to accomplish. But as Harry’s pencil scraped over that crumpled piece of paper, the air around him and the water under him spoke to his artistic desires, telling him to wreak havoc on his flimsy sheet and to never stop. The somewhat endless black line did indeed stop once it reached the edge and to the fabric of his tan pants, leaving a light but visible charcoal mesh on his only pair. His eyes, as well as his clouded mind, ignored his major mistake and instead focused on the yellow fabric that begged to flap higher in the cool, ocean breeze.

His eyes traveled through every detail- the white lace clinging to the base yellow, the pearls hugging your waistline and wrapping around your backside to function as buttons, the baroque beauty of your neck and the lace wrapped around it, your brown skin glistening underneath the sun, and your red lips sculpted into a memorable pout - all of it entered Harry’s viewpoint in what seemed like forever but only took a mere second. One glorious second for Harry to stumble into a world he knew he could never abandon. The curl in your hair, the frown on your face, the gentle nature of your grip on the forbidden first-class railing - all of it a disastrous craving that would for sure develop into a blister on the lip if Harry didn’t get a smell of your lavish locks and accidentally brush the tip of his nose against the priceless diamonds draped through each curl, or get a taste of the red syrup staining your plump lips and accidentally bite it a little too hard to muster a moan of pleasure rich women kill to produce, or get to feel the touch of your fingertips against his palms, his face, his chest, his back as you left streaks of bright red. These prohibited images knocked against the padded confines of his thick skull and he felt like he completely violated the law with such an absurd idea.

But as you furrowed your eyebrows and focused on another focal point - Harry himself - he felt as if every inch of your being was worth being imprisoned for. His forbidden sweet creature.

You stared at the stranger briefly before looking back at the waves beyond the bow of the ship. Yet, you continued to feel his powerful gaze. You didn’t feel uncomfortable with his locked stare, but you wondered if he was possessed, spiraling through a trance that you had become a victim of. Was his gaze good or bad? Was he seriously entranced or judging your physique? Walking away would break the spell, but you stayed glued to the railing for some reason, watching the waves make way for Titanic’s many entrances.

You heard the voice in your head instruct your view to stay on the water, but you disobeyed for once, unaware of such a lovely decision until you locked eyes with your third-class admirer. You have always gotten attention from anyone you encountered, both pleasant and unpleasant, but attention nonetheless. And the waves of this particular admiration traveled through the misty breeze and onto your blushed cheeks, pinching them with a silent yelp, a plea, an almost beggarly request for your consideration. So you obliged its want, gazing across the third-class gatherings to the man sitting on one of the few benches on deck, surrounded by confused and teasing passengers who looked between you and him, wondering if you were going to break first from the rare situation. A situation that many never considered legitimate, possible, or even appropriate. But the lot of you were on the blue waves and the bubbly foam and the impressive craft of a thousand good Irishmen that welcomed the rare and extraordinary.

He was attractive - his short hair dancing in the air one curl at a time, his broad form rising to sit up straight when he realized you were also admiring him, and his eyes never blinking as to not miss anything you might do. And he had this magnetic pull, almost as if he was screaming at you to come down and speak with him. You felt somewhat disgusted with yourself, imagining a normal conversation with a normal person, a very handsome person, whose gaze alone made you feel a tingle at your fingertips and caused a tiny grin to break on your face. It wasn’t appropriate to be thinking of another man this way when you had never felt this way for the man you were to marry. And yesterday’s kiss did not equate to the powerful senses you were currently experiencing.

You hoped he didn’t see your grin, but Harry did. He caught it instantly, his heart pounding and his hands instructing him to quickly sketch the curve.

By now Drake was waving a hand over Harry’s face to see if that broke off his view, but Harry simply leaned forward, unaware of the obstruction and oh so enchanted by that tiny grin you hadn’t dropped.

“Oh, forget it, Harry! It’s like angels flying out your ass to get next to the likes of her.”

To be seen, thought of, recognized as a human being and not glossed over as some extra - the recognition of plain existence excited you to new extremes. And just as your mind told you to unlock the first-class gate and venture over to your admirer, real life interrupted in the form of Cal’s tamed grip on your upper arm.

You dropped your gaze quickly, hoping Cal did not realize your original viewpoint, and looked down at the unwanted physical connection between you.

"Why must you defy your mother’s orders and misbehave in front of friends?”

You pulled yourself away from his tightening grip. “I have already received this lecture from my own mother. I do not need to hear it again.”

Cal let out a low chuckle, “Then why must you not listen? You embarrassed me.”

You fought the urge to yell and relay yet another disapproving tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m not feeling well this morning.”

And with that fake apology, Cal hummed in sympathy and tugged you in for a short hug. “Why didn’t you just say so? It could have saved us the humiliation.”

You sucked in a harsh breath at his choice of words to avoid the frustrated tears, pulling away and patting his chest as you excused yourself to your stay room. He groaned as he suspected he had done something else wrong, but did not dare to follow you this time.

Drake shook his head in discontent, “A man like that should be grateful to have a woman like her.”

Other passengers shared their agreement, whistling and all. They teased Harry and shoved him playfully, congratulating him for the impossible. And as you walked from Harry’s eyesight back into the ship, he rejoined the conversation briefly before he began a simple illustration of your eyes.

Drake sat back down on the same bench as Harry as all the chatter died down, looking over at Harry’s paper. He rolled his eyes and smiled.

“She really did a number on you, huh? I’m all for going after the unreachable but this is truly unreachable, boy-yo.”

Harry stopped his tracing to look up at Drake, “I know… but she saw me, too.”

Drake furrowed his eyebrows, wondering if Harry was simply awestruck or serious. And with a slight chuckle of disbelief, Drake muttered, “that she did.”

A moment passed before Drake spoke again, deciding on letting Harry live in his little fantasy for the rest of the day. He tapped Harry’s stack of papers with his index finger. “I’m sure you’ll do her justice.”

And Harry did.

If you stood in the middle of the room and screamed at the top of your lungs, you were certain no one would even look up. Because besides your impressive attitude you were known for, your problems seemed minuscule compared to others. No one seemed to piece together why you were the way you were, opting for society’s sexist explanations instead of simply asking you.

Just a few hours ago you were seen and not looked over quickly - you felt appreciated and noticed. Now, even in a room with hundreds of people and many sat at the same table as you, you weren’t even acknowledged. Perhaps it was because you never spoke - you couldn’t blame them for not noticing you then. But then again, when you did speak and Cal silenced or interrupted you, discrediting even opinions, no one minded.

They were the same endless parties, the same narrow people, and the same mindless chatter. Like they flipped a switch each night and wiped their slate clean, ready for the same routine the very next day with no complaints at all. And it frightened you that this would remain your routine, the same routine you had already lived for twenty-two years, with no way out and no ‘off’ button.

You felt as if you were floating away, heavy and lightweight at the same time, feeling yourself blink every few minutes. Your eyes focused on one point - the ashtray in the middle of the rounded table, even as people from surrounding tables came to greet your mother and Cal. You kept track of time by the impressive height of the gray ash, some landing outside the tray and onto plates. It grew higher… and higher… and your food was barely picked at, Cal was reaching over you every so often to tap his cigarette on the tray, and your mother was on her fourth glass of champagne.

They didn’t see that you weren’t eating. How does someone not notice that someone isn’t eating at a dinner?

You reached over for your champagne glass, your hand shaking slightly as you downed the rest of it. Everyone’s voices were becoming silent, like you were covering both ears or going deaf, and as Cal reached over to give you a kiss on the cheek, your eyes were suddenly heavy.

“Please, excuse me, Cal. I need to run to our room really quickly.”

Cal paused his conversation with Astor to turn to you. “Are you alright? Would you like me to escort you to the cabin?”

And you smiled, “I’ll be fine.”

It was a really nice gesture, but in Cal’s mind it was simple chivalry.

You stood up, your feet sore and the nerves bunching together throughout your legs. The laughter seemed to grow as you exited, and now those nerves shocked you into running.

You barged into your stay room, ignoring the obvious worry the staff gave you, their questions of tea or more blankets flying over your head. You simply speed-walked past them, hiding your face behind your curls so they would not see your very real tears, staining the powder on your cheeks and leaving visible streaks lighter than your natural color. You leaned back on the door and tried to drown out the drunken laughs and loud violins. Controlling your breathing was easy at first until you opened your eyes and saw a mass explosion of gold, the intricate designs of each piece of cloth, the carvings in the wood encasing your mirror, your freshly made bed that Cal had jokingly suggested he’d crawl into late at night. You swallowed the itch in your throat, walking to the make-up table to drop the pins you began tearing from your hair. One-by-one you let each curl fall to your shoulder, their lost weight causing your headband of diamonds to fall to the floor. You silently deliberated what the name of your maid was, cursing yourself for forgetting when she had so nicely introduced herself last night. But then her name slid from your tongue, and you almost cried from the sudden joy.

“Trudy?” you called, starting to hyperventilate. “Trudy?”

You reached behind you to unbutton your dress, but your shoulders just wouldn’t bend far enough. Suffocated, you clawed at the loose hanging jewels instead, pinching and stretching the skin on your back that you could reach.

“Trudy!” you began to choke on your breath, yelling louder each time you called the maid. So you tugged and ripped the silver necklace from your neck, threw your jewelry box across the room, and tossed a few perfume bottles you had packed so delicately against the wall.

“I can’t... I can’t,” you cried, knees partially crumbling beneath you as you leaned against the chair. You lifted your head to witness your disheveled look, hair a mess and mascara smudged just below your water line. Lips quivering, an intense wave of self-pity and self-hatred drowning your thoughts, exclaiming the few words that actually made it through your sore skull. You listened to them, repeated and mean, basically ordering you to listen and to follow.

“Ya no queda mas.”

There is nothing left.

You were indeed a follower - and you were going to oblige.

And so you abandoned everything, opening your room door and running through the crowded hallway full of oblivious passengers who swam in the bliss of a full stomach and buzzed fingertips and toes.

You ran across the deck to the stern of the ship, careless as to who or what you toppled along the way. Of course everyone took an interest, calling out to see if you needed assistance. But as you left their eyesight, their worry diminished and they assumed someone else would offer a hand. One right after the other, they allowed you to cross their paths and leave it in an instant.

Harry lay on a third-class bench, staring up at the starry night. With a cigarette in one hand and the other stuffed away warmly in his coat pocket, he wondered just exactly where in the hell that damn ‘Big Dipper’ was. Or the little one. Hell, any constellation for that matter. He loved watching the night sky, but the city smog hid most of the stars. Now, with only the steam from the funnels blocking his view, he focused on every star individually, losing track of them as time passed, each one beginning to look the same in size but different in brightness. They formed all kinds of shapes in Harry’s mind, but he could not find those documented ones the astronomers raved on about.

He could have sworn he saw the rectangular shape slightly, its handle coming into existence as the sound of sobbing arrived and left in a flash. He lifted himself up, cigarette hanging from his pink lips and eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He watched as you continued running, pausing to catch your breath at one of the benches.

He recognized that beautiful brown skin anywhere.

His feet hit the deck floor immediately once he saw that you weren’t stopping, instead walking towards the stern railing and looking over into the water. He jogged lightly, careful not to make much noise as you contemplated such a drastic decision. Perhaps you were going to change your mind, step away, take a deep breath and go back to your endless desserts and musical concerts. But he quickly hid behind a pole when you checked to see if anyone had followed you, slightly disappointed in the fact that no one did, and stepped onto the railing and swung a leg over.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, his mind racing and thinking of a way to calmly and safely get you back onto the deck without frightening you. If he were to jump out now, you were for sure going to let go.

You turned around once more and back toward the water, this small gesture of goodbye to the ship and all on it finally settling within you. The waves were dark, not light blue like they were during the daytime. And they sounded louder and more angry, taunting you instead of offering tranquility. The thought of jumping when the sun was out danced around in your head, a more vibrant suicide seeming better suited for your needs.

But maybe you deserved to die in the dark with no other sound besides the unnerving crashing of water and massive propellers in a never ending motion of slicing. You thought about Cal and almost immediately recoiled, the last thought before you died an unhappy thought and not at all what you wanted it to be. Perhaps your mother or your father. Trudy. No one seemed to properly fit, so you settled on the image of your famed racehorse as you leaned away from the railing, hanging off and ready to fall. Your racehorse, dark brown and majestic, waiting for you to come home.

“Don’t do it.”

You gripped the railing tight, unaware that your initial hold was so loose, and you were moments away from leaving your misery behind.

You whipped your head to see who had followed you, stunned that this person was not from the first-class - the class that prides themselves on their selflessness and courage. He was from the third - the class that truly embodied all things selfless and are crucified for it.

“Stay back,” you begged, raising one hand up as if to physically stop him, but you quickly regretted it as you felt the tough winds push you ever so slightly. “Please don’t come near me.”

Harry contemplated his next move, inhaling some final smoke from his cigarette and stepped closer. He showed you the cigarette, stepping towards the railing to throw it overboard.

It was smart, you thought. He was going to come closer, you knew that. But to do it so discreetly as to not scare you - you were kind of grateful.

“Please just leave me alone,” you sobbed, looking back down to the rushing water. “I’ll let go.”

Harry stood dumbfounded, hands in his pockets and worry etched into his face. He remained calm, however, trusting in himself to sweet talk you back over the railing.

He cleared his throat, “No, you won’t.”

You scoffed, newly formed tears threatening to leave your eyes. “What?”

“You won’t do it.”

This time you looked up to the starry sky to gain clearance in thought but were intrigued nonetheless. Either you could snap at him and jump, or you could listen and come back over the railing. All you wanted to do now was sleep, as your head began feeling heavier by the second.

“What are you going on about? Don’t presume to tell me what I will or will not do! You don’t know me.”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, still trying to calm the situation down as easily as he could. But as your hands turned whiter as your grip strengthened and your voice began to crack, Harry knew he had to convince you this was not the answer.

He didn’t quite understand it - wanting to end your life at such a young age. By the look of your clothes and make-up, Harry could tell you had most material things the people in third-class would kill for. But there were sparkly tears on your waterline, contradicting the image of glory and wealth you so effortlessly portrayed, and the sounds of crashing waves waiting to gobble you up - the sense of you, the mere idea of that glory and wealth, - it absolutely bombarded any quick wit or joke Harry’s mouth was thinking of spitting. All rational from here on out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry spoke, bringing his hands up to breathe warm air into them. “I just don’t want you to experience the dip, is all.”

You stayed silent, staring at him as he stared at you.

“You know the water’s freezing. If you were to survive the fall, the cold would probably hurt more.”

Now your bottom lip quivered and the sudden realization of how cold the night air actually was hit you at that exact moment, and you internally begged for the stranger to step closer. “How cold?”

Harry shrugged, still trying his best to remain casual. “Most likely a couple degrees over.”

You stared at the black abyss beneath you, “I bet that would hurt.”

Harry chuckled lowly, taking the risk and stepping closer to you that a simple turn of the head was enough to see his whole face. And it dawned on you, swiftly and surely, that this was the boy who could not seem to stop staring at you earlier. He was much more handsome up close, and his voice was the final piece of the puzzle. “Exactly. But if you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in there after you.”

You laughed dryly, “You’re crazy. Absurd. The fall alone would kill you.”

Harry smirked to himself, focused on the way your wavy hair flew in all directions. He was getting you to speak more. He was buying time. So, he removed his jacket and warm vest to prove his statement.

“Yeah, it would hurt,” Harry shrugged, finally stepping close enough to hang across the railing with you. He glanced down to your shivering feet, fearful that the heels would unlock themselves and send you free falling. “Trust me, you don’t want to do this-”

“And how do you know that? Maybe I want to… die.” It resonated as a question in both your minds, the sinking sensation overwhelming your chest.

“We all die someday. I think the best part is not knowing when.”

You observed the boy’s face, studying his expression to somehow gain a better explanation as to what he possibly meant. You swallowed more tears, this time speaking in a low whisper.

“I can easily predict when.”

Harry actually felt his stomach clench.

You continued, “It’s probably already planned, with as many as two-hundred guests in attendance, and an open bar.”

Harry shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s difficult to respond to that.”

You gave him a small smile, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Whether you meant that in a sincere or disrespectful way, Harry was hurt by the comment nonetheless.

“I know you’re angry, but trust me,” he redirected, an attempt to forget suicidal intentions and reasons and focus on the actual present moment itself. “Water that cold, like right down there… it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, can’t think-”

You closed your eyes, eyebrows scrunched and suddenly so very cold. “Okay, please stop.”

Harry watched as your skin produced goosebumps and your grip tightened even more. It was a sign of victory, he thought. “I’m just hoping you’ll save me the swim by coming back over the railing.”

You sighed deeply, the air you expelled turning into the cold breeze itself, mixing with the shaky breaths of the one person on this whole damn ship to hear your screams. And you didn’t even physically cry out.

“Come back with me. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this.”

You reached your arm over to prepare for the turn, but instead of gripping the railing like you expected, a warm hand gripped yours instead, tightly, and his thumb immediately began rubbing your knuckles in a soothing motion. He helped you turn back toward the ship, hands now gripping both of yours.

He smiled up at you, his eyes almost watering from the unnoticed stress that was building within him. You grinned slightly, giving a small shrug of the shoulders as the silence broke.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Harry grasped your hands tighter, “Hey, me neither. Do you know how many rats welcomed me in my cabin yesterday?”

You laughed (somewhere between a laugh and a snort), forgetting momentarily that the two of you were standing in dangerous positions exchanging quiet words.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I’m Harry Styles.”

“I’m-”

“An absolute blooming rose.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, the moment passing with an awareness of peace from the sudden declaration of recorded beauty. You told him your real name anyway, absolutely loving the way it sounded in a british accent, his british accent, but the ‘blooming rose’ reference remained number one. There, with your body still on the wrong side of the ship and his hands now clutching your upper arm and elbow to begin pulling you over - there you were actually content with your current life.

“Up you go.”

You raised one leg to step up a rail, unaware that the beaded lace part of your dress was longer than the rest. It caused a severe slip, and before you knew what was happening, you were falling. You screamed, one hand barely catching the railing and the other arm suffering Harry’s grip and digging nails.

“Harry!”

Harry cried out in distress, almost going over himself. He locked his feet to the ground and against the ship, thighs pressed against the railing, and attempted to pull you up.

“C’mon, you can do it! You gotta climb, too!”

You followed his instructions, trying to climb the railing like a ladder with your free hand. But as you got higher and your legs remained swinging mindlessly against the wet ship, you slipped lower.

“Help me! Help me, please!” you yelled, to Harry and to anyone else who would hear, the ocean now loud with the outrage of your absence.

Harry could feel his heart exploding from the adrenaline spiking as he looked down at your terrified face, relying solely on him to save your life. The whole time he spoke with you he was frightened of the possibility of you letting go or accidentally falling, but now that he could visibly see that you most certainly did not want to die this way, he was mortified.

“I got you, okay?” Harry waited to shout again until you looked back up to him. “I got you.”

You nodded the best you could, the tears still dripping from your eyes and nose, determined to hear his frightened voice.

“I won’t let go! I promise. Now, pull yourself up!”

It took everything in you to support your own body weight with a corset strangling you at the same time, but you gripped the rails and then Harry’s shoulder. The corset made it more difficult to breathe, but you compiled the last pinches of energy and strength within you and aided Harry in your rescue. You groaned as your knees stabbed into the top bar, but the feeling of Harry’s arms wrapping around your waist to pull you over fully eradicated that pain. You two toppled over onto the safe deck, rolling over each other with a loud thud. Harry stayed glued to your waist while you gripped the deck with your nails.

In such a climactic moment, the two of you didn’t notice three members of the crew running toward you with no clue as to what just occurred.

“What’s all this?”

Your dress had ripped slightly, and due to your bedroom tantrum and the high winds, your hair was in absolute disorder. You had no coat on, tears streamed down your face, and a third-class man was hovering over your trembling body. And the crew failed to detect the similar shaking of Harry’s large frame or his scared expression, instead pointing a finger at him and labeling him the guilty party.

“Don��t you move an inch,” a crew member warned, stepping toward Harry and dragging him away from you. Two of the men swooped in to scoop you up, checking for signs of harm.

Your frantic eyes searched for Harry, but he was already looking at you, slightly disappointed and eager to prove himself innocent without throwing you into the cold water himself by revealing the truth.

Finally, they have met lol. xxMoni

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