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venenatd · 3 years ago

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atsumu x reader; motion sickness - chapter three.

summary; atsumu wants to get to know reader better, and somehow convinces her to take him to the ice rink

content warnings; nsfw content, public sex, unprotected sex (nothing will come from it), dom/sub undertones

a/n; i hope u enjoy!! i think from here on out i get more into the swing of things and much prefer my writing so i hope u do too! reblogs/thoughts are v appreciated <3

ao3 | series masterlist | main masterlist | 18+ minors dni

Choosing to wake up alone means the bed is cool and spacious. You can roll over and feel nothing. Sheets fold against your body, swallowing you whole. No need to tug them away, they are all for you. You push the thoughts away too, the idea that there could have been a warmth to tuck into. All throughout your routine you ignore how someone else could fit into it.

Breakfast alone stings a little more, the hotel full of families and teams. You’re more aware now at the buffet, of the many muscular men that stand around in groups. They pile plates high of the day's energy. Wildebeest at the watering hole, you note to yourself. If there was anyone to eye roll at, you would. You notice you don’t see a certain head of toned blond hair. Not that you’re looking for it, you remind yourself.

People watching is best done on your own however, and your eyes flit between young couples, children spilling honey down their chins, and people desperate for the relief of caffeine.

Alone is safe and comforting. An observer, as Faiz would often call you. Watching and analysing and playing with the stories in your mind. You can live through the honeyed child, the tired parent. Give them a job, a goal, a life. It’s fun to enter their space, if for a moment.

The moment ends as Faiz breaks into your thoughts, fragments of faux futures shatter around you. “I have a challenge for you today.”

“Oh?”

“I want you to trust me,” the cheeky glint in his eye makes you want to do anything but.

“You already know I do.” His overjoyed energy is infectious, and your morning of distraction in other people’s brains has been replaced. You can feed off him to feel full. “What are you planning?”

“So, before you ask he’s down,” he begins, grinning at your raised brow, “but I think you should work with Makito today.” You chew on your toast for a minute, thinking through what Faiz is really asking. Or telling, as is more often when it comes to your coach.

“It’s for p—”

“Passion, you dumbass.”

“—ssion, isn’t it? Oi.” you go to flick his forehead, but he’s too quick and instead gets yours. “Ow, Faiz. Insulting and hurting me? Your favourite skater?”

“My favourite skater you may be, but you also need to score well. And I’ve got a plan.”

He drones on for a while, about how working with Makito is going to help create an environment where you’re performing for someone in particular. If you are embers, he will try and find someone or something to breathe the fire into you. You see how much he’s thought about this, and hey, you’re willing to give it a go if it might help.

As you make your leave from the hotel restaurant, you bump into something. Firm and tall and moving in such an ecstatic manner that it’s almost difficult to believe it’s so early in the morning. The someone grabs your shoulders, almost picking you up to move you to his side. You fluster, and they lean down to you.

“Sorry, sorry! Apparently way too hungry for breakfast,” his voice is deep but keeps the same energy as his movements. “Wait, do I know you?”

And then you see it. Another flashback to your night of heavy drinking. A shock of white and black hair, and bird-like features. “Barely, I think. I was drinking with your,” you’re not sure what term to settle on, “teammate, I think? Atsumu?”

“Yes, Tsum Tsum’s girl! Hey!”

“I’m not—”

“She’s not—”

And there he is. Sun gold hair still damp from an early shower. He looks like the warmth you were missing that morning. You didn’t miss it, you correct your runaway thoughts. It’s just a feeling you were once used to.

“Oh. Awkward. Well, breakfast calls!”

Like that the owl flees the nest.

“I should get going,” you say, shuffling past him as an attempt to run from the atmosphere. You don’t need to talk about it, or what you did. Hookups are a lot easier when you’re not both staying at the same hotel.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he calls after you, waiting a second for you to turn. You shouldn’t turn around. Not if you don’t want to give him the chance to offer again. But it’s like his voice has a command over you, and you pause briefly. He rewards you with the easy curl of his lips and the way it shows in his cheeks. A small flash of hope in his eyes. “I’ll teach you a spike for a spin.”

At least there’s someone for you to roll your eyes at now.

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“Glad ya keepin’ up.”

Atsumu is quickly realising that you don’t quite speak your mind. It’s always you won’t take no, you don’t have to. It’s so far never been, I’m interested, I want that. There’s something about the way your brain is wired that makes him curious. Not that he would tell you about the other women that have flit through his life, but his type usually falls under demanding, high strung. Osamu would tease him that he dates reflections of himself. They could barely be considered dates, if he really looks into it. It’s always to bars and parties, his ‘date’ enjoying the expensive alcohol or his teammates.

Maybe he does have a jealous streak. When he goes for those who throw themselves at him, he never quite expects them to do the same to his teammates in turn. It’s nice to be wanted though, if only as a stepping stone.

If you are not demanding, it would only be natural to assume you are easy or effortless. But you are not that either. You need persuasion and nudging to agree to the course you want anyway.

You are a curiosity, Atsumu thinks as you enter the rink together. His practice isn’t till late, your schedules are so perfectly mis-aligned.

The not-boyfriend from the bar is here too, pushing off the seats to greet you. Atsumu stays back and lets you explain the situation, giving a polite nod when Faiz is introduced as your coach. He relaxes more when Faiz gives him a grin, one that spills with knowledge of late night escapades.

“So, you’re the guy?”

“Am I the guy?” he questions you, and as your eyes once again move to roll, he speaks again, “y’know, your eyes might get stuck like that one day.”

“I told her the same thing!” Faiz laughs, patting Atsumu’s back. “She’s always doing it too, as if I’m so below her.”

“Both of you should stop talking.” It’s cute, he thinks. Your little pout that you probably think looks oh so stern. Brows knitted and a finger to your temple. A kindergartner would laugh in your face.

“Faiz, I hate to break it to you. But she didn’t deny it.” His hand squeezes Faiz’s shoulder, a look of woe playing on his face. The coach responds with a hand clasped to his chest, stepping back as if your words have shot him.

He mutters your name under his breath, as if shocked by the revelation. “You’ve been using me all this time? And here I thought we were friends.” Faiz looks between you, lips trying so hard to fight a smile, and the beaming blonde next to him. “And him? You’re using him for se—”

Your eyes widen, and your hand immediately goes to slap your palm over Faiz’s mouth. “Okay! Okay, I get it! Very funny Faiz, very funny Atsumu. You’re both first class athletes and comedians.”

There’s murmuring that comes from the fingers covering Faiz, and you open them just enough for Faiz to let you, “was it any good at least?” before you close them again.

Atsumu goes to open his mouth, goes to prod more fun in your direction. But your hand goes from Faiz’s mouth, to his hand, and you’re pulling him and his words away.

“Please not in the locker room,” Faiz calls in your general direction, to which you pull your signature middle finger back at him.

“Are we gonna do it in the locker room?” Atsumu asks, praying the slight element of hope is hidden by the teasing. How easy it would be to guide your hand in his, move it towards your waistband.

“You wish.” He does.

“I like your coach.” Atsumu leans against the rows of lockers, watching you swap shoes for skates, “seems more fun than mine.”

“He knows me better than anyone. And he’s honest, doesn’t hide anything,” you speak as if it's routine. A question that has an automatic answer. “I already regret letting you two meet.”

“Oh c’mon, Golide,” he trails after you, admiring how on earth you can walk so comfortably on blades. “We both know you enjoy it.”

“You need me to say it?” you question as you step on the ice, whisking away before he can respond.

Maybe he doesn’t need you to say it, but he certainly wants you to. There’s elements of your attitude that Atsumu wants to learn. Why you very clearly have walls up, and how he can seep into the cracks.

Faiz comes to stand next to him, both of them watching as you move across the ice. Now you do seem effortless. Atsumu is sure it takes huge effort for you to push yourself across the ice, but somehow it looks like you prefer it to walking.

“So,” Faiz begins, and Atsumu knows the tone of the protective friend, “you like her?”

As much as you can after hanging out with someone a couple of times. Atsumu knows he’s become curious. Is that liking you? It sounds like something a teenager would say. So far he knows he likes aspects of you. Your smile, first of all. The banter between you both is easy, it keeps him on his toes. Your moans and sarcasm are both equally sweet.

“Something like that.”

Faiz hums thoughtfully and Atsumu thinks he’s not going to do it, and that he doesn’t need to make any promises. “Just be nice to her. She deserves that.”

It’s a weird way to phrase don’t hurt her, but Atsumu nods nonetheless. Just like that the men are back to smooth and easy jokes and discussions of career.

Eventually another man, the other not-boyfriend Atsumu recalls, joins them, and Faiz bids his goodbyes. They both go towards you on the rink, and so your new lesson begins.

Makito is almost giddy to work with you. His movements are too quick and too erratic for you to feel calm. Your head is usually clear in practice. Knowing where the exact places your skates should be, the extension of your hands. But it’s fogged doing it with someone else, as well as knowing two pairs of eyes are watching.

You had begun by simply holding on to one another, doing the most basic of motions to make sure you were working together well, and that no one was going to trip over the other. Deeming it a success, Faiz had moved onto the next challenge.

“Remember, this is all about feeling with Makito,” he instructs, putting both your hands on each other, “I want to see you responding to him. Acting the part.” Pretending to be in love is what he really means.

You both move across the ice, you’re meant to be jumping into Makito’s lap and the two of you leaning back to balance the weight. The idea is to make it look sexy, alluring, erotic. All words that you think far from describe you.

From the edge of the rink Atsumu wolf whistles, and he imagines the eye roll, although he’s not sure he likes the idea of that so much when you’re seated in someone else's lap.

“Makito, how did that feel?” Faiz quizzes.

He winces, looking sheepishly towards you before he answers. “Like she thought she was going to fall.”

“Did you think you were going to fall?” He directs the question your way, but you think he knows the answer. Curse him understanding you inside and out.

“I- I don’t know. Trying so hard to look romantic I didn’t think about much else.”

It goes on like that for long enough that you’re both sweating. The same song plays on repeat as you go through set movements again and again. It makes it feel like both so much and so little time is passing. Even Atsumu is just flicking through his phone now. Why did you say yes to him coming again? You know Faiz can feel your agitation, the way you bristle each time he instructs you to look a certain way. If trying your best was enough, you’d be done by now.

“Go. Take a break,” Faiz instructs. He’ll give you some time to cool off as he always does, letting you work it out isolated. It’s what works best for your brain. A whole other routine, walking away and turning music up far too loud. Stewing in it all. Absorbing yourself in the negative feelings until you can push them away or find something to distract yourself from them.

It feels like you should be alone this time. Too many wrong buttons pushed and you could snap at someone only to regret it. Too bad for you that you said yes to your newest irritant.

“You looked awesome” Atsumu begins, looking up from whatever feed he’s swiping through. He can barely finish the sentence before your face causes him to falter.

There are two pairs of steps echoing down the hallway, the creak of a rusty hinge swinging twice. Hopes of a lonesome sanctuary in the locker room are dashed.

“Hey, you okay?”

His face is full of concern, which puzzles you. Your fingers struggle to unlace your shoes. Must you struggle with everything when it comes to your profession? Maybe a distraction would be better.

“Goldie?”

The nickname bounces around in your mind, coupled with I’ve got you. Your shoes are off and next comes your sweater. Tugging it over your head and discarding it unceremoniously on the floor.

“Do you need anything?”

Perspiration still clings to your body, coming down from your workout on the ice. He is standing there, so big, so broad. It’s like a magnet is drawing you closer. He is a distraction wrapped in an aggravatingly handsome face and strong body.

“Yes, I do.”

His eyes flick down to your chest, heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat. Not the time, Atsumu. You’re looking up at him through your lashes, and his lips part, thinking about- not the time. He thought it was annoyance in your eyes, but the darkness seems to hold a different weight. Fists are balled by your side, and he’s not sure if you’re holding yourself back from punching a wall or something else.

“Fuck me, Atsumu.”

“What?” His brain is short circuiting, he thinks. ‘It’s not the time’ he repeats again and again. He’d promised to be nice to you and suddenly he’s not sure if that means talking you down or engaging with you in all the ways he wants to.

“You wanted to, right? Just fuck me.”

All of your body language is screaming at him to grab you and pull you in. Your palm crosses against his pectorals, your fingers curling to tease your nails down past his naval.

“You want me to beg Atsumu?” On tip toes you can push your body against his. Low and whispered against your voice is at the shell of his ear. “You want me to say please?”

The tensing of his muscles underneath his shirt makes you not want to pull away. You want Atsumu to want you. No, you want him to need you. To show you that you’re good for something. So you fall back on your feet, starting to turn away, heart dropping for a moment when he stays still. Maybe you’re the desperate one.

But then his hand grips around your arm, pushing you firmly against the row of lockers. His mouth crushes yours before you can even think of teasing him. Gripping under your ass, he brings your legs around his waist. You smile into the kiss as you notice he’s already half hard.

He almost growls into your sigh, realising that he does not have easy access to you like this. Slow ruts against you, easily bringing you against his crotch as Atsumu keeps you stuck between his body and the lockers. He needs convincing to let you away from him for even a second. “Say it again.”

“Please Atsumu. Please fuck me.”

It tips him over, sends him into some sort of feral need for your cunt. Dropping and rotating you, pushing you back up against the cool metal.

Fingers rip at your leggings and panties, rolling them just far enough down your ass. You think he may manage to leave you with bruises when he grabs your hips again. He is always on you, whether it’s his tongue on your neck, his hands pulling down your cami to cup your tits.

Your hands scramble behind you, desperately trying to pull at his pants. He’s quick to entertain you, bringing them down and tugging his cock a few times.

Foreplay be fucking damned. You think you’re wet enough, or at least the stretch and burn of Atsumu buried inside you will be enough to sedate your over active mind. “I need you inside me. I n- need you to fill me, ‘Tsumu.”

As much as Atsumu wants to treasure your body, give you all that you deserve, the pure desire that fills your voice drives him into a new space entirely.

His head presses at that tight ring of muscle, letting himself be lathered in your slick. Gathering spit in his mouth, he pushes it between his teeth to let it slowly drop on his cock. You whine, begging more and more. Pushing yourself back on him as best you can with your waistband keeping your thighs pressed together.

Atsumu’s thumb pushes his spit around your already stretched hole, then moving down to press against your clit. It’s enough for him to fully sheath himself, giving you the delicious burn you were hoping for.

You’ve never been fucked like this. Never been needy enough to beg for it, and fuck, maybe it’s because Atsumu seemed so eager to make you feel good before. Maybe it’s that you know you don’t have to feel anything more than his length pushing against your satin walls again and again. You’ll go home, and all the deranged things your mind made you do can stay here.

Words fall from your lips, you’ve been the one talking- begging so far. “Harder, please, please, please, fuck yes.” One large hand is holding your elbows together behind you, the other plucking at your nipples or passing over your clit. He can’t make his mind up, each one drawing a new sound from you until you're babbling under him. Going from nothing to having Atsumu smacking his hips against your ass, oversensitive everywhere as you’re grabbed and played with.

“Yeah? You can’t even beg for it anymore, huh?”

Glazed over eyes look back at him, as if his cock has been a complete shock to your system.

But you’re defiant. “P-Please,” he makes out through your gritted teeth.

It makes him think of things you both could do. Things that need safe words and more trust than he feels you’re willing to give.

He’s close, feeling his abdomen and thighs tingle and tighten. There’s some part of him that wants you to be open to ideas, open to the trust that they’d need. He would need it.

Quick thrusts slow. Atsumu moves deep and slow, his hand letting your arms go and wrapping under your chest. He almost fully pulls out before driving back in, leaving you gulping for air in short gasps. His fingers massage your clit, and instead of mocking you he’s whispering encouragement.

“You feel so good, so, hah, s’fuckin’ good. Wan— wanna make you feel it all, wanna make you feel good.”

You don’t even realise your satin walls are fluttering around him, but Atsumu does. The tightness of your pussy around him makes him want to fill you up with his cum, and then he realises. No condom. Fuck. He looks at your fucked out face, eyebrows raising in bliss.

More whispered praise against your ear, and now you can feel it too. The coil in your stomach that’s making you tighten, making you open your eyes in surprise. He’s not saying it, but all you can think about is Atsumu saying “I’ve got you” because you’re so sure he does. Holding you up and close to his body, wanting you to also feel the pleasure you can see etched across his handsome features.

Before you realise it’s happening you're falling, spasming around his cock. Repeating “‘Tsumu, ‘tsumu, ‘tsumu” in a rapturous melody. Moans echo around the locker room, and Atsumu’s pulling out from between your plush folds, leaving you to clench around nothing. His cum coats your ass, jerking himself off to completion, wishing so hard it was your cunt milking every drop from him.

Slow and sweet kisses pepper your shoulder and neck, the cheek that isn’t pressed into the metal. “You feel good?” he says softly between pecks.

“Yeah, I… I needed that.” His thumbs massage into your hips, as if he’s working out the bruises that will definitely be there tomorrow. It’s another show of care that leaves you unsettled. “Feel better without your cum on my ass.”

Atsumu lets out a low chuckle, and he steps back to admire his work. A pretty painting, if he says so himself. Tucking himself away, he has to leave you standing awkwardly to run and grab tissues. There’s sincerity in how he cleans you up too, not quick and hurried as he should be. His fingers smooth over the curve of your ass, leaving more kisses in his wake.

Once you’re clean, he neatens your hair and pulls your leggings back up. You smooth out your smudged mascara and you both head back towards the rink. It’s too quiet for too long, but before you can interrupt the silence he does.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Hmm?” you hum.

“You said you needed it. Frustrated about something?”

The cold hits you both as you push open the doors into the rink. Makito and Faiz nod at you both before going back to their conversation. Probably about how much you suck at anything close to passion, you think, the feelings you’d just managed to smother becoming too quick to resurface.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” His eyebrows deepen and his brown eyes are full of so much sincerity you can’t help but go on. “So, I did pairs skating for a while, like what you saw earlier.”

He lets out little hums as you talk, reassuring notes of interest. “But then I moved to singles, and lost the spark and, uh—”

“The passion.” Fuck Faiz and his fucking passion. Atsumu grins at him for a moment, and you’re waiting for the onslaught of teasing to begin, but it doesn’t. His eyes return to you, his smile stays, dropping from cheeky into something softer.

“That. Passion, the desire, the,” you gesture wildly, “the stuff that turns it from spins and jumps into a performance.”

“And that’s what you were doing with your friend?” Atsumu points at Makito.

“The lift? Yeah, seeing if I’ve still got it in pairs.”

In a flash Atsumu is lifting you for the second time today, grabbing you by the waist despite your “hey!” Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the breath being pulled from you as he manhandles you easily.

One large palm spreads across your back, and your body is running on it’s latest experience, curving back. Is he also thinking about what just happened, thinking about how he was going to take you like this? His face still holds onto something dark, his eyes lingering with lust. You pray your own doesn’t betray you, that you can feign it as surprise.

“That’s it! That’s the look!” Atsumu and you both turn to your coach.

His eyes wide and excited, both hands pointing at your face. Faiz is almost jumping up and down on the spot. “That’s what will make people notice! You did it!”

Your cheeks warm, watching Atsumu try to lean back also, replicating what he saw Makito do earlier. He’s strong and beautiful and everything you’re sure many women want. But with his eyebrows drawn in deep concentration, trying so hard to be elegant… He looks utterly ridiculous. Like that you’re giggling, hands having to loop around his neck to keep yourself from laughing your way to the floor.

You sound so good when you laugh. The challenge of getting it out of you is what first caught Atsumu. A smile made his drunken self feel gooey. Now sober, the noise of you trying to even your breathing as you give him a full bodied laugh. It makes him want to cup your face, marvel at your eyes creasing, the way the corners of your lips curl.

“And it’s gone again.” Faiz sighs, but it’s warm and full of so many emotions but not disappointment.

Eyes full of sweet browns and honey catch you off guard. He’s looking too intently at you. Your smile fades, body going more rigid in his hands. Atsumu lets you drop, making sure you’re steady before his hands move from your waist.

Practice starts back up, Atsumu watching from the sidelines. He can’t hear the discussion well enough between the trio on the ice, and soon his attention splits back between you and his phone.

His thumbs move quickly, typing out a ‘you’ll never believe what just happened’ to the MSBY group chat before he pauses, and presses against the backspace. To share what just happened feels wrong. It felt a little too personal. You needed him for a moment. If he was to tell the team, it’d be a fun anecdote. There’s the chance they could piece together it was with you, and if he can convince you to come to a game…

Atsumu doesn’t want to mess it up.

So instead his fingers take him to a different message, and start to type again.

Me // 11:21am

>> oi, i got a question for u

Samu🍙 // 11:24am

>> yes you need to wash everywhere. including there.

Me // 11:24am

>> ok

>> guess i’ll ask someone else

>> scrub

Samu🍙 // 11:24am

>> don’t be a baby

>> what’s up

His quick typing stops for a moment, watching you jump into Makito’s lap once more, and then the three of you are grinning and high fiving.

Me // 11:25am

>> have u ever liked someone

>> like liked

Samu🍙// 11:25am

>> are you 12 years old

>> i’ve had literal girlfriends

>> i’m trying to get ready for the lunch rush and you’re asking me about crushes?

Me // 11:25am

>> is a few days too soon to know

Samu🍙// 11:26am

>> depends i guess

>> you like someone?

Atsumu doesn’t know how to respond to that, so just hits the call button.

“I told you I’m tryna be prepared,” Osamu immediately berates his older brother, talking about how there’s only so much time before he’s going to be swarmed.

“Well, if ya shut it for a minute, I’d be able to talk.”

“Fine. So who’s my favorite twin crushin’ on?” he asks the question in a song, making Atsumu regret the call in the first place.

“I’m your only twin, dumbass,” he mutters, interrupting Osamu before they go off topic again. “I don’t know if I like her. We’ve hooked up a few times,” a gross comes from down the line, “but she’s just cool. I don’t know, dude. I just want to get to know her more.”

“So what does it matter if you like her? Just get to know her.” Coming from Osamu it seems simpler. Sometimes his thoughts can run off, get muddled and confused and overwhelming. But Osamu’s always been the calmer, the one who can keep him on track and call him out when he needs it. If Atsumu is a boat in a storm, Osamu is the anchor.

A few more words are spoken back and forth, general housekeeping to know what’s happening in each other's lives, before Osamu has to work, and Atsumu is left with his thoughts. There’s still that annoying doubt at the back of his mind. A little worm that’s dug so far down, even with someone else helping it’s hard to get out.

What if you don’t like him?

You apologise for his cold rosy cheeks and how long he had to sit and watch. He reassures you that he had fun, the both of you headed back outside into the heat of the city. You fall into place easily next to one another, walking by the river rather than ordering a car back to the hotel. Atsumu had persuaded you, protesting that without the warmth of the sun, how could he ever regain feeling in his nose.

“Next time you’ll have to get me on the ice.”

“You already impressed Faiz so much, are you sure you’re ready for the career change?”

“I’m sure a publicist could work it,” he’s quick to respond, holding hands out wide in front of the both of you, “I can see it now. The great Miya Atsumu conquers the ice skating world. Is there anything he can’t get gold in?”

“Real humble, Miya,” you say with an exasperated smile.

“Miya?” he echoes, “and here I thought I was gonna get a nickname.”

You’re either looking up at him with a quizzical stare or the afternoon sun is in your eyes. Either way Atsumu notes that it’s a cute expression, one that brings out the flecks of colour in your irises.

Pausing for a moment, people shuffle around you, going about their days in the city. Bringing his lips to your ear, you can feel the width of his smile on your cheek. “‘Tsumu, ‘Tsumu, please ‘Tsumu” he whispers the whines - your whines - much to your dismay.

Pushing him away, you’re only reminded of the hard planes of his abs, and now there’s definitely heat rising in your face. “Shut it Miya,” you wish you said with more defiance. Your grumble let’s him know he’s won your embarrassment.

“Thought ya liked it when I talked,” he teases, twisting you around by the shoulder to keep walking. The way you try and avoid eye contact only makes him want it more, and deciding between poking fun and giving in is all too difficult.

You come around quickly though, Atsumu using his seemingly effortless charisma to smooth over jokes, bring you back out of your shell. There’s a feeling that he can, innately, get people on his side. Despite his seeming arrogance and over-confidence, he takes the quips you throw at him on his shoulder. Letting deep chuckles spill off his tongue and reassuring touches whenever he responds in a similar jest.

Atsumu tugs you left and right, pointing your way back to the hotel with ease. The walk proves longer than the twenty minutes Google Maps promised you, trusting Atsumu when he says he ‘knows these streets like the back of his hand’. He does know them pretty well, at least knows that right turns should in fact be left. But the banter and laughter you two are sharing is doing more to him than the sun. It’s still surface level, discussions about plans for the week, where your home is. There’s a segment featuring each of your favorite colours, foods and films.

“Really? Rear Window?”

“What? It’s a classic!”

“The fact that you’ve even seen it surprises me.”

He goes on to explain that yes, it was the only film available at the hotel, but that he admired the determination of the main character. You wouldn’t have pegged him for watching anything considered old, or classic, let alone admiring the story. “And Grace Kelly, right?”

“I mean,” he begins sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck “yeah but—”

Your giggles quiet him.

Eventually you’re back where it began, standing outside the hotel looking at one another.

“So, are you goin’ give me your number or am I goin’ to have to beg you for it?”

“Oh, there’s a chance you’ll beg for it?”

You don’t miss the glint in his eyes, flashing quickly before it passes. “Is that a no, Goldie?”

It would be easier if it was a no. Your hands are acting on want, pulling your phone out and handing it to him with contact screen open before you can think too much about it.

“You better text me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Atsumu hopes that you will. Maybe asking him to a meal or if you need him again, to your room. He settles that want next to another. No running before you can even walk. Like Osamu said, just getting to know one another.

Afternoon practice is long. Time spent sweating and running and jumping for hours away from his phone. He’s thinking about hyper active teammates, making sure he’s setting just right for them. Touching you right. All of his energy spent on the blue and yellow ball before him. Spending his energy on you. Then he’s on to letting his mind be consumed by proteins and carbs and what he can eat over the next week. Maybe just a film in, rather than dinner out. Thinking about Kiyoomi who’s acting all analytical, watching the group and remarking on Atsumu’s performance.

“You seem distracted.”

But he’s not, of course. He can laugh it off and joke around with Bokuto in the locker room. Purposefully not thinking about earlier in the day. His heart wouldn’t race when he finally can open up his phone. It wouldn’t thump in his chest when he checks his notifications.

Unknown Number // 5:48pm

>> i can’t think of anything cool to say so

>> hi tsumu✨

#atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader smut #haikyuu smut #miya atsumu #atsumu #atsumu miya x reader #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #haikyuu x y/n #atsumu smut #atsumu fic #atsumu multichapter #haikyuu fic #ven; motion sickness

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bufomancer · 3 years ago

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Comparing Pacman Frogs, Tomato Frogs, and Chubby Frogs

Pacman frogs, tomato frogs, and chubby frogs are perhaps the three most common terrestrial frogs in captivity. At just about any pet store or reptile expo you’re bound to find at least one of these delightful little fellows. While they’re relatively similar to each other, they’re not identical, and their ideal care in captivity will look somewhat different. Today we’ll be going through some of the main points regarding their care and comparing and contrasting the three species!

This is NOT a care guide, just a brief overview of some of the similarities and differences between these frogs and how that will influence their optimal care as pets. It is critical to do in depth research prior to acquiring your new pet. Additionally, “pacman frog” can refer to any of 8 different species in the genus Ceratophrys as well as any hybrids thereof. In this article we will only be talking about the one most common in captivity, Ceratophrys cranwelli. While their congeners share many similarities, their care is not identical and they should not be treated as interchangeable.

Lastly, please do not share the above graphic without the included written text here, and please attribute myself as the author, as well as the photographers of the frog images.

With that out of the way, let’s get into the details.

Cranwell’s Pacman Frog (Ceratophrys cranwelli)

Pacman frogs are native to the Gran Chaco region of South America, a hot, semi-arid expanse of land containing forests, wetlands, and savannas. During periods of extreme temperature or dryness, pacman frogs burrow into the soil and encase themselves in a thick protective layer of skin until conditions are more suitable. During the day they are often found partially buried with their heads exposed. They are ambush hunters and will find a place where they can both find prey and hide from predators. Insects will walk right past the motionless frogs, unaware that they are being watched- until they strike. They are nocturnal and primarily active at night. During this time they may move to find water, or a better place to settle in the morning. When it is breeding season they gather in temporary pools of water to seek out mates and lay eggs.

Pacman frogs are generalists, eating anything they can get their huge mouths on. Invertebrates, other amphibians, reptiles, and small rodents are most common but even crabs have been found on occasion in the stomach or gut of a wild specimen. They are solitary and cannibalistic, and must be kept singly in terraria. Otherwise, you’ll quickly end up with just one pacman frog anyways, especially if there is a notable size difference. Female pacman frogs have no qualms about attacking males whom they do not want to mate with, though this species is not difficult to breed in captivity with the right seasonal cycling and a little effort. Their powerful bites can draw blood, so be careful during feeding and handling.

The ideal terrarium for a pacman frog has a deep layer of substrate for burrowing into, mixed to mimic the sandy soils of their native habitat. A large water dish is very important, large enough for your frog to soak its entire body in. While you want a few plants (live or fake), they do not require a thick jungle. It is good to provide a hide or two for them, but typically they will burrow into the soil with their heads sticking out instead. A halogen bulb is best for daytime heat; they typically require no additional heating at night. It is also key to provide UVB in the Ferguson Zone 1 range. Many issues with frogs burrowing constantly are resolved when proper lighting is provided, encouraging their natural cryptic basking behaviors. Be sure that there is room for your frog to choose between full exposure, partial exposure, and zero exposure to the lights.

A male pacman frog grows to roughly 3-3.5 inches, whereas a female can grow to 5-6. Males may be kept in an enclosure with a minimum of 360 square inches of floorspace, such as a 20 gallon long terrarium. Females should be kept in an enclosure with a minimum of 650 square inches of floorspace, such as a 40 gallon breeder terrarium. Height is not very important except to provide a deep substrate and safe distance from lights. Your frog may use minor climbing opportunities such as rocks, the tops of hides, and broad branches, but they’re certainly not tree frogs.

Pacman frogs can live 10-15 years in captivity.

Tomato Frog (Dyscophus guineti)

Tomato frogs are endemic to Madagascar, in swamps and moist forests. Their red, orange, yellow, and brown coloration blends in with fallen leaves. Captive bred specimens are generally selected for the boldest reds and oranges, like a ripe tomato. Tomato frogs breed during the long rainy season and lay their eggs in pools of water. At night they roam the forest floor hunting invertebrates, while during the day they hide in the leaf litter. They are often found in soggy areas of land near slow moving bodies of water.

Typically, tomato frogs, male or female, max out at 3.5 inches though specimens just over 4 inches are not unheard of. Generally, a terrarium with 360 square inches of floor space is suitable for a single tomato frog, but an individual on the large end of the spectrum would benefit from an upgrade. Of course, you can go as big as you like for your frog no matter their size!

While they are not considered to be truly social, they lack the same bloodthirsty instinct as pacman frogs and can sometimes be successfully maintained in breeding pairs or groups. Small tomato frogs may become prey for a larger one, but they are not as cannibalistic as pacmans. Cohabitation in captivity requires a larger than minimum enclosure and special care to prevent competition over resources, such as fighting for the prime basking spot or to soak in the water dish. This can be solved by providing multiple larger water dishes, and a large enough basking zone for all individuals to share without being crowded on top of each other.

The ideal terrarium for a single tomato frog includes ample substrate to burrow into, and a layer of leaf litter on top. You may find they snuggle into the leaf litter rather than actually burrowing all the way into the soil layer. They will appreciate plenty of vegetation to hide beneath, and a large water dish for soaking into. A drainage layer is recommended to prevent buildup of harmful bacteria from the damp conditions tomato frogs prefer. Ensure that parts of the terrarium remain drier, rather than the whole setup being waterlogged. A halogen bulb is ideal for daytime heat, in most homes supplemental nighttime heat is unnecessary. Include access to UVB in the Ferguson Zone 1 range and ensure they have the room to choose between full exposure, partial exposure, and no exposure to the lights. Tomato frogs may not use hides, but it is good to provide one or two anyways. Usually they are right at home nestled amongst the leaf litter and various foliage in the terrarium. They are a little more agile than pacman frogs and may use minor climbing activities, but they are also primarily terrestrial.

Tomato frogs live on average 5-10 years in captivity.

Chubby Frog (Kaloula pulchra)

Chubby frogs are native to the forests and rice fields of mainland Southeast Asia. Despite their wide range and prevalence in the pet trade, their wild behavior is minimally studied though there is still some interesting information to be found on them. Multiple papers have recorded chubby frogs and their congener, Kaloula taprobanica, several meters up in trees. This suggests that they may potentially be best described as semi arboreal rather than solely terrestrial. While all species, no matter how terrestrial, are capable of climbing here and there, scaling trees is a little different from clambering over hills, logs, and other obstacles in your path.

In any case, those papers should be taken as evidence that chubby frogs in captivity should be provided with climbing activities, which is why a 29 gallon terrarium is recommended as the minimum enclosure size for a single chubby. It has the same base dimensions as a 20 long, but an extra 6 inches of height. A 24x18x24 inch terrarium would be even better. Chubby frogs are quite small, typically getting no larger than 3 inches.

They are the most placid of the three species, with many keepers maintaining them in pairs and groups without issue. Their small mouths make it difficult for them to cannibalize each other, though care should still be taken to prevent stress from competition over resources. Their diet primarily consists of ants and similarly sized prey, though in captivity they can take suitably sized crickets, roaches, and small worms.

The ideal terrarium for a chubby frog includes deep soil with a layer of leaf litter. They should have plenty of foliage for hiding in, though live plants should be hardy enough to withstand a squashing from a small but chunky frog. Broad branches can create climbing opportunities, which are sure to be appreciated- just be aware as primarily nocturnal frogs you may not see them being used! A halogen bulb is ideal for daytime heat and typically no supplemental heating is needed at night. UVB should be provided in the Ferguson Zone 1 range and as always your frog should be able to choose between full exposure, partial exposure, and no exposure. A large enough water dish for soaking in is required.

Chubby frogs live on average 5-10 years in captivity.

Conclusion

Pacman frogs, tomato frogs, and chubby frogs share a lot of similarities- they are Ferguson Zone 1 animals, they are insectivores, they are primarily terrestrial and nocturnal- but they are not identical. They are different sizes, live in different habitats, and use their environment differently. Their ideal setups are a little bit different. All three of these frogs make great pets, and are a delight to care for and observe. Knowing what makes them similar and what makes them different is key to figuring out which you would most like to own. Maybe you even want one of each!

The information above is, once again, merely an overview and not a replacement for in depth research on their care. This information has been compiled from a variety of sources such as websites containing habitat information, scientific papers about these species, images of the frogs and their habitats in the wild, personal experience with caring for these frogs, discussion with keepers and breeders, discussion with those living in the native ranges of these frogs, and more. Below are a few resources to get you started with learning more in depth about the care of these frogs, but by no means an exhaustive list.

If you have any questions, please ask.

Pacman Frog Resources

Image used in graphic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/adrian-afonso/1664147176

iNaturalist photos: https://www.inaturalist.org/taxa/22844-Ceratophrys-cranwelli/browse_photos

Vera Candioti, María Florencia. "Morphology and feeding in tadpoles of Ceratophrys cranwelli (Anura: Leptodactylidae)." Acta Zoologica 86.1 (2005): 1-11.

Grayson, Kristine L., et al. "Effects of prey type on specific dynamic action, growth, and mass conversion efficiencies in the horned frog, Ceratophrys cranwelli." Comparative Biochemistry and Physiology Part A: Molecular & Integrative Physiology 141.3 (2005): 298-304.

Souza, Paulo Robson, et al. "A voracious female during the courtship of Ceratophrys cranwelli (Anura: Ceratophryidae) in the Brazilian Chaco." (2014).

Schalk, Christopher M., et al. "On the diet of the frogs of the Ceratophryidae: synopsis and new contributions." South American Journal of Herpetology 9.2 (2014): 90-105.

Miller, Mark D.H. , Webb, Kempton E. and Martin, Gene E.. "Gran Chaco". Encyclopedia Britannica, 20 Feb. 2015, https://www.britannica.com/place/Gran-Chaco. Accessed 15 August 2021.

Tomato Frog Resources

Image used in graphic is my own, © Aster Laurel Montor

iNaturalist photos: https://www.inaturalist.org/taxa/25152-Dyscophus/browse_photos

Monroy, Jenna A., and Kiisa C. Nishikawa. "Prey location, biomechanical constraints, and motor program choice during prey capture in the tomato frog, Dyscophus guineti." Journal of Comparative Physiology A 195.9 (2009): 843-852.

Brenes‐Soto, Andrea, and Ellen S. Dierenfeld. "Effect of dietary carotenoids on vitamin A status and skin pigmentation in false tomato frogs (Dyscophus guineti)." Zoo biology 33.6 (2014): 544-552.

Segev, Ori, et al. "Reproductive phenology of the tomato frog, Dyscophus antongili, in an urban pond of Madagascar's east coast." Acta Herpetologica 7.2 (2012): 331-340.

Andreone, Franco, Vincenzo Mercurio, and Fabio Mattioli. "Between environmental degradation and international pet trade: conservation strategies for the threatened amphibians of Madagascar." Natura 95.2 (2006): 81-96.

Chubby Frog Resources

Image used in graphic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/rushen/20253335546

iNaturalist photos: https://www.inaturalist.org/taxa/326303-Kaloula-pulchra/browse_photos

Vyas, Raju, and B. M. Parasharya. "Painted Frog (Kaloula pulchra) from Anand and Surat, Gujarat, India." Zoos’ Print Journal 19.4 (2004): 1444.

Kanamadi, Ravishankar D., Grish G. Kadadevaru, and Hans Schneider. "Advertisement call and breeding period of the frog, Kaloula pulchra (Microhylidae)." Herpetological Review 33.1 (2002): 19.

Major, Tom, et al. "Observations of Arboreality in a Burrowing Frog, the Banded Bullfrog, Kaloula pulchra (Amphibia: Anura: Microhylidae)." Current herpetology 36.2 (2017): 148-152.

Soud, Rakesh, et al. "Defensive and burrowing behaviour of Kaloula assamensis Das et al., 2004 and Kaloula pulchra Gray, 1831 (Microhylidae)." frog leg 18 (2012): 48-50.

Bhattacharjee, Partha Pratim, et al. "Sighting of Asian Painted Frog (Kaloula pulchra) from West Bhubanban (near Agartala city), West Tripura district, Tripura." (2011): 18-19.

Lalremsanga, H. T., Saipari Sailo, and R. N. K. Hooroo. "External morphology, oral structure and feeding behaviour of Kaloula pulchra tadpoles Gray, 1831 (Amphibia: Anura: Microhylidae)." Science and Technology Journal 5 (2017): 97-103.

Ganesh, S. R. "Arboreal behaviour in the Indian Painted Frog Kaloula taprobanica parker, 1934." Herpetotropicos 8.1-2 (2012): 67-70.

#reptiblr #amphiblr #tomato frog #pacman frog #chubby frog #kaloula pulchra #ceratophrys cranwelli #dyscophus guineti

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ravenlesslangblr · 4 years ago

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I have heard and researched this question so so many times, but you always sort of arrive at the same conclusion - it depends. And the answer is never clear, because it is true. It does depend. It depends on you as a language learner and it depends on the languages you are learning, it depends on how you learn best and how fluent you want to be in those languages.

So, with this guide, I am going to try and figure out why you, specifically, should or should not study multiple languages at the same time. We’ll weigh up the pros and cons, we’ll look at a few standpoints and I have included a little test at the end of this! Buckle up, kids. Long post ahead, quiz is at the bottom!

Let’s start with the very general pros and cons: Pros - it’s fun, it’s engaging, there is little to no harm, we do multiple things at the same time all the time, it may make you feel more productive Cons - it slows down the language learning process, some say it completely hinders your acquisition, one language will always be favoured

The majority of opinions regarding studying multiple languages at the same time favours acquiring one first to a certain level (usually a lower intermediate B1 of CEFR) and only then starting with the other. And while I agree and that is probably the most reasonable thing to do, you don’t always have to be this rigid about it, as in, there are a few exceptions. 1. If both of your languages are linguistically close - you should probably be quite proficient with one before you start learning the other, otherwise you are risking confusion and frustration at some point. 2. If you’re just learning for fun and you don’t have any pressure (exams, moving to a different country, etc.), I’d say go for it. No harm done! 3. If the target language is mutually intelligible with a language you know very well or with your native language. Also go for it.

4. If you want to try out two new languages to later decide, which one you prefer. You get the gist. There are many exceptions to this rule of thumb. However, there is a disparity of opinions on the internet - as always. Here they go from - “go for it! It might be more difficult, but it’ll be worth it!” - to “You will never speak another language well enough if you just glance towards another language during the 20 years it’s going to take you” I am exaggerating, but I am not. Some of these people are genuinely shaming other people who have multiple languages at an A2 CEFR level. Oh well, everybody has an opinion. Most of the opinions you will see are - “you can’t have two full-time jobs at the same time”, “your brain needs to create habits and you cannot jump back and forth between multiple languages”, “it’s okay if it’s done well”, “don’t do it if you’re serious about language learning” However, you don’t know what these peoples’ language backgrounds are, where they grew up, if they’re bilingual, etc. So now that we got ourselves even more confused - should we then go on and learn multiple languages at the same time anyway? If you’re still not sure or if you just want to really know for yourself if it’s a good idea, let’s take the test! 1. How much time do you dedicate to your language(s) daily? 2. Are you able to split this time between two or multiple languages in a fair way? 3. Are the languages you are trying to learn similar to each other? 4. Are you starting both languages from scratch? 5. Are you okay with possible slower acquisition? (i.e. do you have any commitments, exams, deadlines to learn the languages?) 6. Be honest, are you a good multitasker? 7. Do you work or feel better when your brain is more stimulated? 8. Do you take the languages you’re learning extra seriously? 9. Is language learning fun for you? 10. Have you learned another language before?

Here’s the number of points you get with your answers: 1. 1 point for less than 15 mins a day, 1 point for anything more than 2 hours, 0 points for anything in-between 2. 1 point for no, 0 points for yes 3. 1 point for yes, 0 points for no 4. 1 point for yes, 0 points for no 5. 1 point for no, 0 points for yes 6. 1 point for each 7. 1 point for no, 0 points for yes 8. 1 point for yes, 0 points for no 9. 1 point for no, 0 points for yes 10. 1 point for no, 0 points for yes

The verdict! Take it with a grain of salt, please. It’s just a test I have made. If you scored anywhere between 1-5 points and you considered everything in this post, then learning multiple languages at the same time might be the good decision for you! If you scored around 6-7 points, I’d probably think about it some more. Anything above 7 points - I don’t think this is necessarily a good idea for you!

I would very much appreciate any feedback I can get on this post! Whether you agree or disagree with your results, whether you feel like it has not been personalised enough. I really want this to be helpful, but it’s also just me who created this, so it cannot be a one-size-fits-all, as much as I’d like it to be!

#language learning #polyglot #multilingual #studyblr #langblr #learning multiple languages #mine #IT'S HERE

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gukyi · 5 years ago

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four weeks | kth

summary: four weeks. that’s how long you’re trapped on campus after missing your flight home because of a grossly overtime final. and as you’re walking around your empty campus, thinking that you could sink no lower, you find yourself alone in the art building with a certain freshman-year-dorm-neighbor from hell, and he’s got an offer that you don’t think you can refuse: he’s staying on campus this winter break as well, and he’s happy to let you live with him.

or, four weeks is all it takes to fall in love.

{enemies to lovers!au, roommates!au, college!au}

pairing: art and chemistry double major kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, comedy, the whole nine!! word count: 20k warnings: alcohol consumption (be safe!), unwanted sexual advances (not between main characters and not at all explicit), and a ton of college tomfoolery. a/n: i’m finally finished with my very first semester of college! it was a lot, but finishing this fic was a treat after my damn finals, which were very stressful. this is part of the stranded for christmas collab, and i’m so honored to be doing this with such amazing, talented writers! please give them and their fics lots of love, and enjoy this super fun train wreck of a fic!

Admittedly, Global Politics in the Twentieth Century has never treated you particularly well.

Your lecturer is about as interesting as grass growing, the readings are low quality scans of book pages with the tiniest font and absolutely no line spacing, and any friends you had in that class in the beginning of the semester dropped out of it by the time mid-September rolled around, leaving you trapped due to societal pressures and a History and Politics general education requirement you still have yet to finish.

But, of all the things you could imagine Global Politics in the Twentieth Century doing to you, like charging you an exorbitant $200 dollars for a textbook you would never open anyway, burning your house down, or even straight up just murdering you, this is by far the worst.

It’s bad enough that your final for Global Politics in the Twentieth Century is on the last possible day for finals at the latest possible time, but when the clock strikes 8:00PM and you have just about fucking had it with this semester, you realize that no one else is standing up.

This panic intensifies as you begin thinking of all of the terrible things that could be the reasoning behind this: you’re just the dumbass who finished their final first and got all of the questions wrong, the clocks have yet to adjust to daylight savings and you think that it’s 8:00PM when really it’s 7:00PM, or, worst of all, your final is running overtime.

You have only ever heard of horror stories about overtime finals. Things like having to cram the next three-hour final into one hour, or having to reschedule the final to some other time that is equally as conflicting. Stuff that is, to a normal human being, a minor to moderate inconvenience at best (and to an overdramatic college student—pure, unadulterated hell), but when this is the last final on the last day at the latest time, there are no other finals to be had. No other school-related scheduling conflicts barreling into you.

It’s just your luck, really, that on the last day of the semester, at the latest time you are allowed to be here, Global Politics in the Twentieth Century would come back to bite you in the ass one last time. As if all the times you dozed off in class (or just plain skipped), forgot to turn in your reading analyses, and showed up late to your recitation are finally catching up to you. Like the very worst kind of karma that could ever befall you.

Well, to be fair, it’s not as if the rest of the day has treated you any better. The entire time you’ve been awake on this fine December day has been an absolute trash can of a day.

This is how the beginning of your very last day of the semester played out:

Your alarm went off at 8:00AM sharp, purposefully set that early so you could wake up and have a productive day studying before your final at 6:00PM.

You hit snooze and ended up waking up around 11:33AM.

You scrambled out of bed very inelegantly and attempted to get your life together before noon so you could at least have six hours worth of a productive study day before your final.

You remembered that you hadn’t packed yet, so you spent the next hour frantically stuffing your belongings into the singular carry-on sized suitcase meant to last you through your month-long winter break.

You also realized that you hadn’t done your laundry for the week (well, week and 6 days…), and you obviously want to bring clean clothes back home so you spend the next two hours doing your laundry and finishing up your packing.

By the time you finally managed to get the time to study, the panic had fully nestled itself into your bones, so you could not focus and spent the next three hours staring at your study guide and praying that osmosis would kick in so you could actually retain information.

You left to go to your final five minutes later than you should have and then ran across campus (with absolutely no dignity left) in order to get there on time.

You arrived at your final just in time, only for there to be technical difficulties with printing the exam because your professor is a procrastinator, just like you are.

The next thirty minutes were then spent contacting the IT department, attempting to fix the printer, having to go print in another building, and then coming back with the final exam to a room of aggravated students who thought that they would be thirty-minutes into the exam by now.

You are taking the final exam. It’s stupid difficult and you’re absolutely going to tank it.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about half an hour.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about an hour.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about an hour and a half.

And on your very last day of the fall semester, your final runs overtime by two whole hours because of some mystic force determined to ruin your life, and your flight heading back home took off fifteen minutes ago.

You know, it could be worse. You could have failed all of your classes. Instead, you paid an exorbitant $500 to miss your flight, fail your Global Politics in the Twentieth Century final, and end up trapped on campus for all of winter break because you don’t have the money to buy another plane ticket at such late notice (or at all).

So, it could be worse.

You trudge out of your final exam and try not to burst into tears on your way back to your dormitory. Barely anybody is left on campus now that finals are officially over, but you still want to save that last shred of dignity. As you’re walking down the pathway, you begin to feel wet splotches on your face. For a moment, you think that they are fat tears rolling down your face, but you look at the cobblestone beneath your feet and realize that instead, it’s raining.

The perfect weather to match your mood, if you’re being honest.

Not wanting to get caught in a downpour, you end up taking refuge in the coffee shop connected to the art building on campus. It’s a genius business design, if you say so yourself, because there is no one more dependent on caffeine than sleep-deprived, eyebag-laden art students. Surprisingly enough, there are still people behind the counter bustling around, so you use the last of your university dollars to order a peppermint hot chocolate to warm your insides (but not your cold, dead soul).

From there, you take a quick detour to explore the art building, a building you have, admittedly, never really taken much of a look at. It must be empty now, with everyone off campus—except you, of course—which gives you the perfect opportunity to wallow in peace while admiring art.

Walking inside, you stare at your reflection in the enormous glass walls. Look at your tired eyes, slouched shoulders, lips pressed thin, and hands warmed only by the heat of your cardboard coffee cup. Count each acne mark and hair out of place. It’s almost like you’re watching yourself as you look in the mirror, a third person standing in the background. The audience. Like the person who’s looking back at you isn’t you at all.

It's quite artistic, actually. Ironically enough.

But no matter how picturesque, how cinematic this particular moment of your life is, nothing can really soothe you after missing your flight, failing your final, and pretty much having the worst day of your entire life.

Just then, you hear footsteps echoing down the halls.

You assume that it must just be a professor leaving their office, or even maybe one of the hardworking security guards, but as you watch the glass walls to catch a glimpse of who's passing by, you realize that it's not a professor, or a security guard, or even a very large mouse scurrying across the floor.

"I thought I would be the last one in here," Kim Taehyung says when he spots you, stopping in his tracks with a canvas about half the size of him underneath his arm.

"So did I," you muse in response, not really wanting to turn around to save yourself the trouble of talking to him.

Still, Kim Taehyung has always been one hell of an observant guy, so by the time he's stopped behind you, he's already peering into the reflection of the glass windows to look at who he's talking to.

"Y/N?" He asks, walking up to you with his eyebrow raised. He comes over, standing next to you as you look at each other's reflections in the glass. "Never thought I'd see you in here."

"Me neither, to be honest," you say. Seeing as you aren't a visual studies major, you never really considered the art building to be a location of top priority. Until now, that is.

The last time you spoke to Kim Taehyung was the last day of your freshman year, when everybody was getting ready to move out, packing up their belongings and removing the fifteen thousand Command hooks stuck to their walls. You and him made eye contact as you placed the last of your boxes for the semester into those enormous Residential Services carts, glaring at each other from your adjacent rooms.

“First year flew by, didn’t it?” Taehyung asks, smirk lacing his features.

“Thank God it’s over,” you tell him.

“Not gonna miss me, huh?” Taehyung winks, and it makes you want to take this cardboard box filled with all of the notebooks and lined paper and folders you used throughout the year and chuck it at his head.

“Miss you?” You ask with a scoff. With the final box finally out of your room, you can officially lock the door behind you, closing the chapter on your very first year at university. “Please. Nothing makes me happier than the fact that I don’t have to live next to you anymore.”

“Why are you still here?” Taehyung asks, tapping his fingers on the side of the canvas underneath his arm. “Thought you’d be off campus by now.”

“I had a late final,” you say, pretending that your life and every aspect of it is fine when it is, in fact, not fine at all. The best case scenario is that Taehyung accepts your bullshit answer for what it is and heads off to do whatever it is that he does, leaving you alone so you can wallow in pity and ponder the meaning of life. The worst case scenario is that Taehyung stays.

And Taehyung has always been very good at picking the latter.

“Ah, sucks, for what class?” Taehyung asks. You can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just wants to interrupt your personal self-wallow time for as long as possible.

“Global Politics in the Twentieth Century,” you tell him with a sigh. You don’t want to have to hear, say, read, or write that name ever again.

“Oh, really? I took that class last semester,” Taehyung says with an eyebrow raised, surprised. “I thought it was super interesting.”

As if you needed any more proof that you and Kim Taehyung are exact opposites in every way. You are hardly surprised that Kim Taehyung enjoyed Global Politics in the Twentieth Century—not when the two of them have so much in common, like inconveniencing you, being annoying, and sort of always having it out for you. It’s like they were meant to be together.

“I can’t say I thought the same,” you say pointedly, lips pursed into a tight line.

“Ah, well, I never did peg you for a history buff,” Taehyung says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Why are you still on campus? I thought art students had to turn in their final projects on the first day of exams,” you ask, turning the focus onto him. It’s obvious that he has no intention of leaving you alone, so your next best option is to interrogate him until the tension between the two of you is so suffocating, so thick and heavy, that he wants to leave.

“I had a couple of chem finals after I finished up my art classes,” Taehyung says. Right. You forgot he was doing a double major. “And, my parents are actually travelling this winter break, so I was planning on staying on campus. Didn’t really want to go back to an empty house, you know?”

After the day you’ve had, you can think of nothing better than opening the door to your home, knowing that you have the entire place to yourself and can spend the night in your bedroom, watching Netflix.

“You’re staying on campus?” You ask. Great. The only two people who will be on campus this winter recess are you and Kim Taehyung. Fantastic.

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, clearly unaffected. He seems particularly unbothered by the fact that he can’t go home, almost like he’s been looking forward to having the entire university to himself. “You’re about to head home, then, aren’t you? Just taking a quick break in the art building?”

Well, almost to himself.

The chances of running into Taehyung this winter break, despite being probably the only two people on campus, is still slim. It’s a big campus, and there are people who are not part of the university that walk on campus all the time.

And still, you don’t know what you’ll do if you lie to Taehyung and tell him you’re about to fly home, and then bump into him at the local coffee shop. You might just perish. That might be what happens.

So, for once in your life, you suck it up and tell the truth. For once.

“Actually, I missed my flight because of my final running overtime, so I’m sort of stuck here,” you tell him, and as the words leave your lips it feels like your whole body gets weighed down, like you’re cemented to the floor.

It’s only then that Taehyung actually turns to face you, so you aren’t standing shoulder to shoulder and staring at the rain pattering on the pavement outside. You look at him, meeting his eyes and to your surprise, they aren’t filled with mirth. He hasn’t got this pleased grin on his face. He’s not milking this situation for what it could be milked for at all. He could be standing here, bathing in the satisfaction of your timely demise, and he’s not.

He actually looks quite sad.

“Really?” He asks, genuine.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s then that you accept your fate, resign yourself to the fact that you’re trapped on campus with no way (and no money) to get home, and try to look for the silver lining. “So, I’ve actually got to get going, grab my stuff and everything.”

“Oh, do you live off campus?” Taehyung asks. “We should get together sometime this break. Who else are we gonna talk to, right?”

Spending time with Taehyung on your lonely-ass winter break sounds like the absolute worst thing in the entire world. It’s been two years since the last time you were forced to be within fifty feet of each other, so even having this conversation is taking you by surprise.

“No, I’m still staying on campus. But my dorm is closing for the winter break, so I need to go and find an Airbnb or something to stay somewhere,” you say, feeling your heart break at the notion of spending even more money this winter break after having watched your $500 dollar airplane ticket get flushed down the toilet.

Taehyung stays silent, eyes gazing at the lines between the linoleum tiles on the floor. He’s stopped tapping on the side of his canvas, a painting which you still haven’t fully gotten a glimpse of. In the quiet of the art building, the dust settles, and you wait for Taehyung to say something. Anything.

After a few more seconds, you decide that the two of you have been standing in awkward silence for long enough.

“Well, I’ll see you around, I guess,” you say nervously, letting out an unnatural and forced laugh as you turn on your feet and begin to head towards the exit. You have no idea where you’re going to go or what you’re going to do, but what you do know is that you have to be out of your building by noon tomorrow, so you’ve got less than a day to figure it out.

And then, Taehyung says the worst thing he could possibly say at this given moment:

“Do you wanna stay with me?”

You stop dead in your tracks.

“What?”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Taehyung immediately clarifies, as if that makes the offer any less sudden. “But I live in an off-campus apartment year round, so you could always stay with me if you’d like. You wouldn’t have to book an Airbnb or anything. But you don’t have to.”

You close your eyes, feeling your chest rise and sink as you inhale and exhale. You can’t believe you’re actually considering his offer. You can’t believe that Taehyung would willingly offer up his personal abode, his private apartment to you, the freshman year next-door neighbor who knocked on his door every six hours to tell him to shut the fuck up. You cannot believe that you are on the verge of accepting.

“Are you sure?” You ask, both eyebrows raised. Yes, the idea of free lodging and no-hassle appeals greatly to you, but you’re not so certain that Taehyung or you actually want this. After all, you spent all of freshman year hating on each other’s living habits as personal hobbies of yours. “You don’t have to offer just because I don’t have a place to stay. Seriously.”

“No,” Taehyung says, taking a step towards you. It’s barely a foot, but it feels like he’s a thousand miles closer to you than he was before. “I mean it. If you want to stay with me, you’re welcome to. I have a futon in my living room that you can sleep on. I’m being serious.”

You cannot believe that he’s asking this.

You cannot believe you’re considering this.

You cannot believe you’re about to say yes to this.

“You really mean it?” You ask one more time, just so you can be certain. You’d hardly be surprised if this whole thing was just a mindfuck.

“I do,” Taehyung says. “No matter what, I don’t think anybody should be alone for the holidays.”

“Then yes,” you say, letting Taehyung catch up to you as you begin to walk towards the exit, step by step. “I’d really appreciate it.” You turn to look at him, your eyes meeting his own chocolate brown ones, nearly ink black in the dark. You can’t offer much, certainly not anything to top this gracious proposal, but you smile, and he smiles back, and you think that’s enough.

Your first order of business is trekking back to your dormitory and grabbing your fully-packed suitcase. At least spending an hour shoving as many of your belongings as possible into a tiny carry-on has its benefits despite you not setting foot in the airport.

“Been a long time since we’ve done this,” Taehyung comments mindlessly as you walk through campus, following the cobblestone path as a shortcut to his apartment.

“Done what?” You ask snarkily. “Hung out with each other?” You scoff. You and Taehyung spent all of freshman year skirting around each other, desperately trying to avoid contact while also banging on each other’s doors every ten minutes. It was essentially two semesters worth of shouting at each other through walls and sneering when you actually locked eyes.

“Talked,” Taehyung simplifies, because he’s right.

“Isn’t that what we were aiming for?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, turning to look at him as your suitcase wheel skips on a stone out of place. “I thought we had reached that consensus already.” It’s been a year and a half since you last spoke to each other. You were almost confident that, without any overlapping classes, you would be able to keep that streak going long after graduation.

As it turns out, things change.

“I don’t know if we ever actually agreed on that,” Taehyung says, thinking back. “Almost like it went…” he pauses, and you can’t be sure if it’s for dramatic effect or because he actually doesn’t know what to say. “Unspoken.”

The irony is not lost on you. In fact, it hits you smack dab in the forehead as you watch Taehyung’s curious expression morph into the sleazy frat boy one he wore so much back then. He looks very pleased with his pun. It makes you want to sock him in the face.

And as it turns out, some things never change.

You resist the urge to punch him in the shoulder because he offered you a place to stay for this break and you sort of (actually, really) owe him big time right now. But that doesn’t mean you can’t send a disapproving frown, which seems to do the trick.

“I distinctly remember how you were so excited to never have to live next to me again when we moved out,” Taehyung says like he’s remembering a fun trip to the zoo. Almost like he looks upon the last time you ever interacted with each other fondly.

You mentally sigh. If only freshman year you knew what was going to happen in the middle of your junior year. If only your final hadn’t run overtime by two hours. If only you had booked a later flight.

If only.

“I don’t remember that at all,” you lie like a liar, saying the words as the picture of you snarkily spitting them at Taehyung at the end of your freshman year plays in your brain on repeat.

“You sure about that, Y/N?” Taehyung says, turning to look you up and down. He’s always been such a people reader, and you’ve always felt so helplessly transparent in front of him. Even back then. Even now. “Because I don’t really think that your memory is that bad.”

“Nope, no, I don’t,” you say quickly, trying to get Taehyung to stop eyeing you like you’re a question on an exam that he thinks is suspiciously easy.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter then, does it?” Taehyung muses as you round the street corner and his apartment complex comes into view. “Since we’ll be living together, anyway.”

“Miss you? Please. Nothing makes me happier than the fact that I don’t have to live next to you anymore.”

Before you can wheel your cart down the hallway and kiss your freshman year goodbye, Taehyung opens his mouth and says one more thing. You almost don’t hear him, too busy reminding yourself that you’ll never have to see him again, but then he says, “One day, Y/N, you’re going to realize that we’re closer than you think.”

When you walk into Taehyung’s apartment, your eyes zero in on these three things: the navy blue futon pushed up against the wall by his television and the fact that it doesn’t look like the kind of used furniture from off of the street that most college kids typically resort to, the little wooden kitchen table that looks straight out of a family-owned Italian restaurant (looks like the two of you will be eating dinner together), and the paintings on the walls.

“Did you paint these?” Is the first thing you ask once you’re inside, putting your suitcase up against the wall as Taehyung takes off his coat.

“Those? Yeah, I did them early last year. My walls looked so damn plain without anything on them.”

In freshman year, Taehyung seemed like the kind of artsy hipster who shopped at Urban Outfitters and put vinyl records on his wall with Command Strips but never actually listened to them.

But the pieces on his walls aren’t vinyls of bands like Arctic Monkeys and Modern Baseball. They’re paintings, oil and acrylics and even a bit of charcoal. Still life and portraits and shadows.

You had never seen one of his paintings before. You never imagined you’d ever want to, or even get the chance to. And now, you’re standing in the middle of his apartment, and you’re surrounded by them.

“They’re…” You trail off, eyes bouncing from wall to wall as you take all of them in. There’s at least ten, one, if not two on each wall in sight. His bedroom is probably filled with them. His apartment’s not enormous, rather small since it’s only got one bedroom, but the paintings make the whole place bigger. Make it feel full of life.

“They’re alright,” Taehyung finishes. He’s already grabbing extra blankets from the storage closet in the side of the wall. “They were assignments we had during the semester so I figured that they’d be put to good use on my wall.”

“It’s very impressive,” you admit. “Kind of a flex, but an impressive flex.” There is something so perfectly Taehyung about the fact that he’s got art all over his walls, but they’re his very own pieces that he has framed and hanging, on display for the entire world to see if they’d like.

“They’d collect dust otherwise,” he says with a shrug. He tosses two blankets and a pillow your way, letting them plop onto the futon. “Are those enough blankets? It can get fucking cold in here, so I don’t want you to freeze to death or anything.”

And for a moment, you think that Taehyung has actually outgrown his asshole-y freshman days, maturing into someone with an actual moral backbone.

“How considerate,” you say sarcastically, “but I think I’ll be alright. I’m a big, strong girl.”

“Just don’t come crawling into my bed if you want a taste of that weighted-blanket life,” Taehyung says, pretending to flip his hair. “Though, I wouldn’t blame you if you did want to sleep with me.”

With a pillow right at your disposal, you waste no time grabbing it and chucking it straight at Taehyung’s face. He easily dodges, having spotted the move from a mile away, and chuckles.

“Come on, Y/N, you can do better than that,” he says disapprovingly, shaking his head as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Your arm was much stronger back in freshman year.”

Scowling, you watch as he puts on the kettle to boil, letting the water begin to bubble as he goes about his business like he doesn’t have a guest in his living room that absolutely can’t stand him.

And you realize that maybe Taehyung’s a couple of years older, a couple of years wiser, but that doesn’t make him a couple of years any less unbearable.

If you were a sleep-deprived engineering student three cans of Monster deep who, in their 4AM haze, invented a time machine to go back to freshman year, and you told your eighteen-year-old self that you would be living under the same damn roof as Kim Taehyung in two years time, freshman year you would probably sock you in the face. And ask you if you changed majors. Which, you did.

It’s not a far reach to wonder why. By the time October rolled around, the two of you had already established yourselves as archenemies until the end of time.

It was a natural progression, really. Two tiny dorm rooms right next to each other, two beds pressed up against opposite sides of the same paper-thin wall, and two disgruntled freshmen trying their hardest not to die of alcohol poisoning.

Now, you don’t have a track record for going to sleep at a reasonable hour. In fact, you don’t think you’ve gone to bed before 11PM since middle school. But is it really that irrational of you to want to get some well-deserved shuteye at two in the morning after a long day of procrastination and a long night of doing the studying you should have done during the day? Your roommate is fast asleep across from you, having gone to sleep at midnight like a regular college student who has her life together, which means that she’s immune to the fact that right next door, you can hear nothing but pounding drums making the very linoleum floor of your dormitory shake.

Scowling, you scramble out of bed, sliding on your shoes to go give a certain Kim Taehyung a bit of a reprimanding.

Why the fuck does he listen to heavy drums at two in the morning? What the fuck is he doing? Does he not own headphones, or anything that might restrict the sound to his own two ears and nothing else? Does he not have any respect for the people next door to him that might also have to listen to the sound of a thumping bass while they’re trying to go to sleep?

Some of you have 9AM’s tomorrow morning. And by some of you, you mean you.

You quietly shut the door behind you so as not to wake your roommate, dead-bolting it so you don’t get locked out and have to trudge down to the Help Desk looking like a tired piece of non-recyclable garbage, and immediately bang on Kim Taehyung’s door. He hasn’t got a roommate, and you know he’s awake, which means that if he doesn’t respond, you’ll know why.

Surprisingly enough, he does, opening the door and immediately grinning once he sees who’s on the other side, like he can’t get enough of the fact that his mere existence bothers you.

“It’s 2AM,” you tell him, in lieu of a greeting.

He checks his watch. “That it is.”

“Would you mind turning down the music? I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“This late, Y/N?” Taehyung asks, an eyebrow raised. “No wonder you’re always so cranky.”

“Maybe it’s because my next-door neighbor plays loud fucking music when I’m trying to go to sleep!” You say, already beginning to raise your voice like a loser who can’t control her emotions.

Which is exactly what you are, actually. So this is very on brand for you.

“Hmm, never thought about it that way,” Taehyung says innocently. He’s got a gleam in his eye that says otherwise.

“I’m being very nice to you right now, Kim Taehyung. Please turn your music down. Because it’s loud and you’re probably bothering other people as well,” you say, restraining yourself. If you were any more sleep-deprived you’d storm into his room and pound in his face like it was the fucking drums he’s listening to.

“But you’re my only neighbor,” Taehyung says, a bitter reminder that you were unlucky enough to be the second-to-last room in the corridor, and he, the very last one.

You inhale, trying to not lose your cool despite having probably already lost it. Kim Taehyung makes you want to tear your eyeballs out. Or buy heavy-duty earplugs off of Amazon Prime. The thing is, one of those options costs you money, and one is entirely free. So, it’s not difficult to see which one you’re leaning towards.

“Taehyung, please turn your music down, or so help me God. I’m asking nicely,” you can feel the carbon dioxide paths coming from your nose as you breathe, in and out and in and out.

“Just for you, Y/N,” Taehyung says with a grin. God. You could just straight sock him in the face right now. “It helps me focus, but so does getting to see you.”

“Perish immediately,” you tell him sharply before pulling the door shut, marching back off to your room.

True to his word, Kim Taehyung does turn off his music. Or puts in headphones. At least he’s conceded.

That is, until you wake up to a crash of glass later that morning at 7AM, coming from only one direction.

The fact of the matter is, everything you and Taehyung did that year bothered the other so immensely that hatred, pure, unadulterated dislike, was really the only thing that could have come out of it.

“You still listening to loud ass drums in the middle of the night?” You ask, eyeing the speakers by Taehyung’s television as you sit on his couch (as far apart from each other as possible) and eat some leftover spaghetti.

“I invested in some AirPods as a treat to myself last year, so yes, but don’t worry,” Taehyung says. He’s mindlessly flicking through the available Hulu options on his TV, severely unimpressed by every one of them.

“Wow, AirPods, sounds like you’re moving up in the world,” you say callously. “At least I don’t have to listen to it with you anymore.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it helped me focus,” Taehyung says, all matter-of-fact about it. “It was from a Spotify playlist of modern orchestral music. You should give it a listen, it really gets you into the zone.”

“My relationship with classical music has, unfortunately, been tainted by a certain someone,” you remind him, taking the time to shoot him a glare just in case he doesn’t already know who exactly is at fault.

“What a shame, you might actually like it,” Taehyung says sadly, shaking his head.

“So what are the speakers for, then? If not for your fuckin’ drums,” you ask, motioning to them again as you slurp up the last of your spaghetti. It’s not as if you’ve got some sort of sacred reputation to protect in front of him. He’s seen you at your best (the first day of freshman year, when there was still light in your eyes), and at your worst (2AM, coming out of a drunken stupor, and bedhead-ridden). Like an ex-boyfriend, or something.

“My friends really like singing karaoke,” Taehyung says. He points to the bluetooth microphones underneath the television as extra proof.

“Why does that not surprise me,” you muse to yourself. Taehyung always struck you as someone that needs people not to calm him down, but to elevate his already boisterous personality. Friends who are equally as unabashed as he is.

“Since you’re here for a whole month, we should try it some time,” Taehyung suggests, taking the empty bowl from your hands and heading back to the sink to wash up.

“You need help with that?” You ask, immediately getting up because even if Taehyung has a tendency to drive you up the wall, you’re still going to be a good guest.

“No, don’t sweat it,” Taehyung says with a shrug. “You know, I have karaoke for All I Want For Christmas Is You. Super seasonal, right?”

You dust off your hands from where you’re standing, loitering in that weird halfway point between his kitchen and his living room. Checking the clock underneath his television, you realize that it’s already past ten. And while you haven’t gone to sleep this early in a while, being in Taehyung’s apartment makes you feel all sorts of strange. Subdued and exhausted, too grateful to be your normal aggressive and witty self. And after such a long goddamn day, passing out on his navy blue futon seems like absolute heaven.

“Not right now,” you say, shaking your head. Karaoke is something that friends do with other friends. And despite currently living under the same roof, you and Kim Taehyung are not friends.

(But perhaps you will be. And that’s the scary part.)

You sigh, absolutely tanked. It’s been a stupidly long day. “Maybe later.”

Living with Taehyung is a sort of strange limbo you never, in a million years, pictured yourself in. You aren’t close enough to be friends but you’ve matured out of being the true enemies you had both envisioned the yourselves as in freshman year. The both of you walk around his apartment like you’re afraid to talk to the other, waiting patiently for the bathroom when the other person’s inside, trying to keep yourself busy with nonexistent work (it is winter break, after all) and the apps on your phones.

This is the sort of thing you dreamed of when you were a freshman. A Kim Taehyung that you could co-exist with peacefully. Someone who didn’t spend every waking moment of his life making every waking moment of yours unbearable. You used to find excuses to sleep overnight in the library (it was open 24/7, after all) just so you wouldn’t have to go back to your dorm and see his stupid face. Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch minding your own goddamn business and doing two totally unrelated activities. In silence. The only noises being his refrigerator/freezer combo when it starts making ice and the sounds of your fingers hitting the keyboards on your laptops. Maybe he’s playing a video game on the Playstation 4 he keeps out in the living room, but he has headphones on and isn’t saying a word.

It’s a very strange sort of limbo indeed, because no opportunities arise for you to become friends nor do any arise for you to become enemies. At this rate, you’ll live together for the month-long winter break and when it ends, you’ll go back to never speaking to each other again.

And that, strangely enough, makes you sad. Makes you want to reach out to him, try and build up a relationship that last ended in absolute chaos so that when you leave this place, it won’t have been for naught. You will have gained something from it, no matter how small.

But just like usual, Taehyung beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says one day, walking into the living room and already pulling on his overcoat. “You free right now?”

“Yeah, why?” You ask, shutting your laptop as you turn to him. He’s all dressed up and you’ve been wearing the same hoodie for the past forty-eight hours.

“Let’s get hotpot. I’m freezing and I want some hot soup and meat.”

So, you go and get hotpot.

Like any normal university with more than approximately three East Asians enrolled, there’s a hotpot place right off campus that many a college student frequent. You have, admittedly, not been since freshman year, but this winter break you seem to be reaching back into all of those memories anyway, like a can of worms. Memory worms.

“I’m starving,” Taehyung says as the two of you sit down. He’s already opening the menu, eyeing all of the different ingredients he can order for a simple All-You-Can-Eat fare. “Plus, I’ve been craving hotpot for weeks now.”

As if on cue, his stomach grumbles and you can hear it from across the booth.

“Even my tummy knows,” Taehyung says, placing a palm to his belly to soothe it. “Have you gotten hotpot before?”

“Yeah, but it was a while ago. I just never had the time to go for a whole two hours and pig out on food,” you say with a sigh. It’s been so long that you barely remember what it tastes like.

“Then we’ll spend every minute that we’re allowed to here, eating as much food as we want and gaining a few pounds while we’re at it,” Taehyung says, determined. The waiter comes by to pour you both some water and he already begins to order, pointing to about fifteen different things on the menu before the waiter whizzes off.

“I don’t think I heard a single word you told that guy,” you say candidly. Taehyung listed everything off so quickly that it went right over your head.

“I just ordered a lot of food, so be prepared,” Taehyung says like it’s a promise. He’s got this glint in his eye, one that tells you that you should be glad you came on a fairly-empty stomach because it’s about to be filled to the brim.

And prepared you are. Within five minutes of Taehyung ordering, there are plates and dishes and boards of food in front of you and a steaming pot of broth in the middle. There’s so much on the table that you can hardly see the marble table top underneath.

Taehyung dives right in, clearly an experienced hotpot eater. He grabs two bowls filled with various sauces and pops a couple of the vegetables into his mouth as he waits for the broth to boil. And when it begins to bubble, he immediately begins dumping everything in sight into it, from meat to noodles to vegetables. It all looks ridiculously appetizing.

When the first round of hotpot is over and done with, you already feel yourself starting to get sleepy just from the consumption overload. Taehyung, on the other hand, has apparently no limit and is already ordering more, pointing to another fifteen things on the menu.

“Never thought we’d be doing this, did you?” Taehyung asks, and you can hear the knowing tone in his voice. Like he already knows how you’re going to answer him.

“I have to admit that I never did,” you say. It must the food that’s softened you up. No wonder Taehyung invited you to a place where you can literally eat as much as you want in a two-hour timeframe.

“This is nice, though, isn’t it?” He asks.

And for once in your life, you agree. It is nice. Not just the food (though the food is very nice) but being with someone on a winter break that would otherwise be overwhelmingly lonely. Eating out with someone, even if it’s someone with whom your relationship isn’t all that strong, isn’t that sturdy. It’s nice. Because it means that, somewhere along the way, you both wanted something to change for the better.

“It is.” You nod. “Way better than all the times we fought during freshman year.”

“Remind me why we never went to our RA to resolve things like we should have?” Taehyung says, but he doesn’t make it sound like you both made a mistake. He asks because he’s curious, and because the past is the past.

“I think we were both too fucking prideful for our own good,” you say, shaking your head. You now would disapprove of you in freshman year so strongly. “We thought that we could either resolve it ourselves or spend the rest of our lives hating each other.”

“Isn’t that crazy?” Taehyung asks, holding up his water like it’s a glass of vintage red wine from the 1800’s. “That we thought that we could just spend the rest of our lives hating each other?”

“I was prepared to do it,” you say, taking another piece of meat from the hotpot in front of you, letting the steam waft from it like a tiny campfire. “With how big this school is, I was convinced that you and I would never have to see each other again. Never have the opportunity to change how we felt about each other.”

“But that’s not how life works, Y/N,” Taehyung tells you, looking into your eyes like he’s trying to reach into your soul, pick apart the memories of freshman year and watch as your relationship deteriorated as each day went by. “It doesn’t matter if we see each other every day for the rest of our lives or if, after this, we never say another word to each other. You will always have the opportunity to change how you feel about someone, even if you aren’t with them. Even if you aren’t seeing them at all.” He takes a deep breath, and reaches over the steaming pot of soup to nudge your shoulder with his finger, ever so slightly. It makes you look up at him, meet his dark brown eyes with your own, foggy from the steam. “That’s what makes us human, Y/N. We’re human because we can change.”

Your heart, still and silent, begins to thump.

“Do you wanna go to New York?”

“Today?”

It’s early in the morning on Christmas Eve, and the two of you are wide awake after Taehyung’s neighbors a floor below him called the fire department as an early wake-up call for the entire complex. You’ve always been a light sleeper—Taehyung made sure of that in freshman year—but even he woke up as the fire trucks pulled up to the fire lane next to the apartment building. He came stumbling out of his room in nothing but a t-shirt two sizes too big and sweatpants hanging low on his hips, locks of his hair sticking every which way, face illuminated by the blue, red, and orange lights of the emergency vehicles beneath the window.

And he stayed like that, even as the noise died down and the sun rose. He marched around looking like he had just rolled out of bed, barely sparing himself a second glance in the reflection of his refrigerator.

“Yeah,” Taehyung responds like it’s obvious. “If we hopped on a bus now we could make it there by nine and spend the day there. How about it?”

“You mean, right now?” You ask, just as clarification. College and its many features have forced you to grow used to spontaneity, but it usually came in the form of “I’m hungry, so I am going to eat an entire bag of Hot Cheetos at this exact moment” or “Yes, my bank account is crying but these pants are very cute,” and not, “Do you wanna go to New York?”

“In a bit. Buses leave from here every hour to go to New York, especially since it’s the holiday season. Tickets are ten dollars. We could do it, if you’d like,” Taehyung says casually, like he’s suggesting that the two of you go grocery shopping or something else equally mundane.

“Just for the day?” You ask, a girl of both many questions and a shocked expression.

“Sure,” Taehyung says with a shrug, biting into a tomato as if it were a goddamn apple. “We can go to a museum or two, eat a nice lunch or dinner, and go ice skating at Rockefeller. See the tree, too. It’ll get us in the holiday spirit, don’t you think?”

And normally an outing to New York would have you planning weeks in advance, organizing reservations and buying tickets for entry into exhibits, but it’s winter break and you’ve got more free time than you know what to do with.

And maybe you’d hate to admit it, but you need someone like Taehyung to get you off of your ass and out of the house, do something fun and spontaneous like college students do in the movies.

Taehyung is practically a movie portrayal of a college student in real life. He’s spontaneous, secretive, sage. He’s artsy and worldly, paints but is also extremely smart and well-educated. He lives in a quaint off-campus apartment by himself and spends his days making friends and keeping busy. He loves to tease you, and has that sort of lopsided smirk that all casanovas do. And he is, as much as you’d hate to admit it, always been something of a looker. He’s got the same sort of handsome, classic look that young European men in paintings from the eighteenth century have, a portrait of them in the prime of their lives. One wink and he’d send every preteen girl in the audience to their knees.

And you? Well, you suppose you’re the tragically unlucky female lead who has to live with him until classes resume.

Taehyung’s standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter island as he scrolls for bus tickets on his phone. “There’s a bus leaving from the station in thirty minutes. Think we can make it?”

It might be the fact that you’ve been holed up in Taehyung’s apartment for the past forty-eight hours that makes you say yes. Or it’s the desperation to do something, anything, literally anything, to keep yourself busy this break.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that little voice in the back of your chest, one buried in the depths of your heart, that makes you go. Because there is something so wonderfully exhilarating about being spontaneous. And there is something even more exciting about it being with someone you know.

You grin. “Let’s do it.”

Two hours later, the two of you are standing outside Penn Station in New York City, staring at the road signs to try and orient yourself. It’s chilly and a little windy, but the sun beats down regardless, shadows of skyscrapers cast along the streets.

You pull out your phone to pull up the Maps app, looking up directions, but Taehyung just begins to walk down 7th Avenue, not a care in the world.

“Where are you going?” You say quickly, scrambling to catch up to him. This early in the morning, your breath still turns to fog as you jog towards him to meet his abnormally long strides.

“Do you want to go to the Met, MOMA, or Guggenheim?” Taehyung asks simply, like he’s trying to decide which type of Doritos to get in the chips aisle.

“Uh…” you are, admittedly, not that particular to the art that you’ll see. Art does not have as much of an immediate relevance to you as other things in your life, like your bank account, or your final semester grades. “Why don’t you pick the museum, and I’ll pick the restaurant we go to?”

“Deal,” Taehyung says, that same devilish gleam in his eyes, a trick (or two) up his sleeves. Only this time, you aren’t afraid of what he’s got in store.

You find that you are very much looking forward to it.

Twenty minutes later sees the both of you standing outside the gigantic glass doors of the MOMA, surrounded by a pitch black exterior about as edgy and contemporary as the pieces of art inside.

“You never struck me as a modern art kind of guy,” you tell Taehyung as the both of you walk inside, glass windows and ceilings on every side of you and a bustling crowd right in front of you. Modern art seems rather stuffy. And perhaps, two years ago, you would have equated Taehyung to such, but now, stuffiness couldn’t be the furthest adjective to describe him. He may be a little obnoxious and overwhelmingly charismatic, but he is certainly not stuffy.

“I prefer Impressionism and the subsequent periods,” Taehyung tells you, another fact you never knew but happily stow away. “But I am, admittedly, a bitch for modern art, no matter how goddamn stupid it is.”

“Good to know we’re spending our money on a museum that will definitely be worth our while,” you say dryly, taking the two tickets from the woman behind the desk. You pick up a map while you’re at it, almost certain to get lost in this maze of a museum, but Taehyung is already zooming off, forcing you to scurry through the herds of people just to keep up his pace.

“Do you know where we’re going?” You ask, entirely serious. You fumble to open up the map and suddenly you’ve got a piece of shiny paper larger than your backpack in your hands, overwhelmed.

Taehyung stops, the two of you standing right by the middle of a doorway, blocking everybody’s path. And he places his hands on top of yours, lowering the map as you gaze up at him, wondering why the heck you haven’t moved to the side so you aren’t inconveniencing the thousands of people roaming the museum. His brows are soft, a little furrowed, like someone began to knit them together but then forgot halfway through. Like he’s thinking. Like he wants to tell you something.

“No,” Taehyung says softly, large hands enveloping yours as he begins to fold the map back up, “I don’t know where we’re going.”

You open your mouth, about to prove your point, but Taehyung continues.

“But I don’t need to. Because we’re supposed to get lost,” he tells you, honest, candid, and true. “That’s the whole point. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.”

You scoff, heart a little warm on the inside but wit still sharp. “You sound like an infomercial for a cruise.”

Taehyung laughs, tilting his head back in the way that says that he means it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Please. We don’t need a map. We can guide each other. All we need is faith, trust…” He pauses, leaning in and waiting for you to finish his sentence.

Begrudgingly, you give in, mostly because he’s too naturally charming not to. “And pixie dust.”

Taehyung grins, satisfied, before he catches you by surprise, takes your hand in his, and pulls you into the elevator.

Much like the corrupt businesses whose main offices are only a few minutes walk away, you go from the top down. Taehyung says that it is like a very, very long slide. You say that it’s an extremely slow walk.

He’s an art student. You don’t really know what else you were expecting. He stares at each piece until it bores into his eyes, fills up another cup in his soul, overflowing with color, with light and meaning and everything in between. Every now and then, he and you stop at the same one, inspecting each and every detail, and Taehyung will lean to the side and whisper in your ear.

He will tell you what he thinks of the medium, what he thinks of this piece and what he thinks of the positioning of that specific object. He tells you not how he interprets it in the eyes of the artist, but what it means to him, and how he perceives it. And, as the hours pass, you realize that, while you have been in museums before, you had never felt like you were truly there. And here you are, standing in front of priceless pieces of art with a boy in love with art beside you, and he holds your hand as he takes you through what brings him more joy than anything else.

(Well, besides perhaps, chemistry.)

When you reach the first painting and sculpture floor, Taehyung lets out an audible gasp.

You round the corner and before you know it, you’re standing in front of what could very well be the most famous painting of the nineteenth century.

“I forgot it was here,” Taehyung says distantly, like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. In the ink black of his pupils, you can see the oil painting reflected, the thick blue and yellow brushstrokes, each and every line on the canvas.

“Now, this piece I’m familiar with,” you say, standing next to him and staring up at The Starry Night, an artistic feat, worth more than probably a hundred times your tuition, and a legacy. The legacy that The Starry Night left behind is one that you see still reflected today. You see it in all of the other people in this little room, clambering over one another just so they can get a glimpse. You see it in the little children who draw self-portraits in art class, Sharpies and markers and crayons littering the page.

And you see it in the boy next to you, who loved something so much he knew that he would be doing it for the rest of his life. He would be following a legacy, forever, until he forged one of his own. You look not at the art but as Kim Taehyung gazes at it, memorizing each and every stroke and imprinting it onto his brain. And you finally realize what art means: passion. It means that it fills you up, flows through your blood and into your heart, consumes you. And it means that the only thing you can do to prevent it from eating you alive is to spread it, and let others get a taste of the madness.

“It really is beautiful, isn’t it,” you muse. You don’t know much about art but when there is something so mesmerizing, so stunning, in front of you, it’s difficult not to notice.

You feel Taehyung turn his head, letting the gaze of his piercing brown eyes rest upon your figure for a split second before he turns back. “It is,” he says.

The way that the two of you go through art museums, by the time you emerge, it’s already dark and the streets are beginning to empty as tourists and cityfolk alike find places to eat, walking into every bar, restaurant, cafe, and house on the hunt for a good meal, whether homemade or curated. You had spent nearly an hour in the gift shop alone, laughing at the overpriced t-shirts and kitschy pillows.

“Where to next, m’lady?” Taehyung asks as you push open the glass doors and let the biting cold hit your noses.

“You know, we were so busy in there that I didn’t even have time to find a nice place to eat tonight,” you admit sheepishly.

“That’s alright,” Taehyung says with a shrug. “I like surprises. Spontaneity is my thing.”

“You don’t say,” you comment sagely, making Taehyung roll his eyes.

Knowing that it’s nearly impossible to get a reservation now, you and Taehyung make your way south, following the flow of traffic heading towards Times Square and keeping an eye open for any places that look relatively nice and busy, but not too busy, the perfect sign of both a delicious and available restaurant.

After walking for a few blogs, cuddling together (in a totally platonic way) to preserve as much body heat as possible in the now freezing weather, air no longer warmed by the sun’s rays, you stumble upon a tiny hole in the wall Mediterranean place. You can’t really see anything inside due to the fog on the window, forming from the combination of cold air and hot, but Taehyung does a quick google search and says that it’s a modern Mediterranean restaurant that specializes in pizza. Google says it has two dollar signs. You hear the word pizza, and everything pretty much goes out of the window.

“Hi,” Taehyung says as you squeeze through the little hallway to get to the host, voice warm and silky. “Table for two?”

“Your last name, sir?” The man asks.

“Oh, we don’t have a reservation,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. You two are college students. It’s not like you plan ahead anyway.

“That’s okay, we still ask for every customer’s name for a more personalized experience,” the host says. He leans forward, eyes wide, waiting for Taehyung to respond.

“Kim,” Taehyung says simply as the host gathers two menus and a wine list.

“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Kim,” the host says, and you open your mouth to correct him (Because you are not married. You’re not. You’re not even dating. This is not a date. It’s not a date, right?), but Taehyung puts a finger to his lips and tells you to zip it. It’s almost like he’s enjoying this.

For the rest of the evening, the wait staff all address you and Taehyung as Mr. and Mrs. Kim, which is absolutely outrageous for multiple reasons: you are college students, you both look like college students, you��re not dating, you don’t act like you’re dating (other than the hand-holding and cuddling which was purely out of survival and nothing else), and most importantly, you’re not interested in each other like that. That part is obvious. Isn’t it?

When you order a glass of champagne each they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When Taehyung has a question about one of the ingredients on one of the pizzas they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When you order your food they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When they come by to clarify Taehyung’s request of no anchovies they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When they bring these massive pizzas and place them down on your table, wishing you a pleasant meal they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Mr. and Mrs. Kim, they call you.

“Everything alright, Mr. and Mrs. Kim?” Your waiter asks as you’re plowing through your individual pizzas very inelegantly.

“Yes,” Taehyung grins cheesily. “Thank you very much.”

He’s positively beaming.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” You ask, a single eyebrow raised.

“This pizza is really good,” Taehyung tells you.

“Not that,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You know that Taehyung knows exactly what you’re referring to, he’s just being annoying about it, as per usual. “The whole ‘we’re married’ thing. You like it, don’t you?”

“The “Mr. and Mrs. Kim’ thing?” Taehyung says with a smile. He’s relishing in the feeling, especially when it’s obvious that you’re not as keen on the collective nickname. “I fucking love it. You don’t?”

“We’re college students,” you remind him.

“So? That means that they think that we look old enough to not be college students. I consider that a win, especially because Jimin always says I look twelve,” Taehyung says with a shrug.

“We’re not married,” you add. It’s the truth.

“You’re right, we’re not, but Mr. and Mrs. Kim has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I love the way that it sounds,” Taehyung says. He basks in it.

“We’re not even dating, Taehyung,” you say with a sigh, exasperated. Doesn’t he get it? It’s weird, being Mr. and Mrs. Kim, because you never have been. There never was a Mr. and Mrs. Kim. And quite frankly, there never will be. “We’re not even interested in it.”

“Who says?” Taehyung asks, and the path he’s directing this conversation down is not one you’d like to take. It’s rocky and bumpy and unclear, hazy with fog. You don’t do fog. You like when things are clear cut and visible.

“I do,” you say with a frown. “Are you interested in dating me, Taehyung? Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to date you right now. Or, like, at all.”

Taehyung pauses. His brows are furrowed again, but all the way this time. He stares down at his pizza, and he contemplates. You sit there and watch him, feeling the weight of every second as it passes by. Were you too harsh? Maybe you were. But it was the truth, and he deserves something honest, even if it’s brutal.

“Oh,” Taehyung says, like he wasn’t expecting those words to come out of your mouth. What you said has been lingering between you like smoke, refusing to dissipate. “Well, I—I guess that makes two of us.” It’s obvious that there’s something else there, just underneath the water, but you don’t press further. It sounds like he’d rather keep it hidden.

When you leave, the waitstaff bid you goodbye exactly as you had predicted.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. and Mrs. Kim,” they say cordially as you and Taehyung pull on your coats and hats and gloves and head out the door.

“You too,” Taehyung says softly after a few seconds, like he was waiting for the words to fade away before speaking. “Thank you.”

Your bus leaves from Penn Station at 9:30 that night, and it’s barely seven. Plenty of time for you to continue exploring, see Times Square all lit up like it’s New Year’s Eve, go up to the top of the Empire State Building, or even take a peek into Central Park at nighttime, when the moon is high and the lanterns are lit.

“How about we go ice skating?” Taehyung suggests as the two of you walk along the pavement, side by side. Your hands are buried deep into the pockets of your coat.

“At Rockefeller?”

“Sure, why not?” Taehyung says. That sentence pretty much sums up your trip to New York thus far. “I’ve always wanted to go skating and see the tree during Christmastime. When else will we get the chance?”

Five minutes later you’ve paid for rental skates, a locker for your shoes, and a ticket to the rink. Visible right next to you is the enormous tree, the lights twinkling and cameras flashing as everyone scrambles to get their Instagram picture to prove that they actually went to the tree at Rockefeller Center in New York City.

When the zamboni is finished and the employees have skated over the ice enough to increase the level of friction, Taehyung and you balance on your skates as you walk towards the entrance. Slowly, everybody begins to glide on, wobbling at first before eventually getting the hang of it. There are a couple of small children holding onto those little penguin skate assistants, laughing as their older brothers and sisters guide them along the ice.

“I’ve never skated before,” you admit nervously, about two seconds before you’re about to enter the rink.

Taehyung’s mouth drops open. “Never?”

“No,” you reiterate, even more nervous than before. “I have no idea what I’m doing, I just said yes because like you said we’re in New York and it’s nearly Christmas and we should just seize every opportunity that we have and—”

“Y/N,” Taehyung says, calming you down as he ushers you away from the entrance so you aren’t blocking other people’s paths. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry,” he tells you, holding onto your wrists to make you look up at him. “I can show you how to. It’s easier than it looks, I swear. I won’t let you fall. You just have to trust me, alright?” He shakes your wrists to catch your attention, make sure that you heard him. “Alright?”

Deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

“Alright.”

Everything is, in fact, not alright. No matter what Taehyung says, ice skating is way more fucking difficult than it looks. Taehyung steps onto the ice and it turns into second nature for him, gliding around a small circle to get warmed up as you cling onto the side railing like an idiot. You have no idea how to move, you have no idea where to go, you just shuffle along the railing with the rest of the children who are far younger than you, also trying to skate for the first time.

This is embarrassing.

“You’re a liar,” you tell Taehyung pointedly as he circles around, coming up to rest next to you. You’d point at his chest for emphasis, but you’re afraid you’ll fall without both hands on the railing at all times. “This is—” you pause, remembering that there are children present, “—very difficult.”

Taehyung just chuckles. “You have to be brave, Y/N, come on,” Taehyung implores. He holds out his hand, motioning for you to let go of the wall and take a leap of faith.

“No, I will not be brave. Please let me be weak,” you beg, scared for your life. One wrong move and you’d go splat in the middle of the rink and embarrass yourself in front of all of New York City.

“Come on, Y/N,” Taehyung says, holding his hand closer. “You said you trusted me. I told you, I won’t let you fall. Come on. Be brave.” And then he adds, leaning in to meet your eyes, “for me?”

He’s always been too charming for your own good.

Tentatively, second by second by painstaking second, you remove your hands from the railing, first the left and then the right, as Taehyung pulls you right next to him, holding on tight.

“See?” He asks as you begin to move on your own, Taehyung’s short glides pulling you along the ice. “Look, it’s not that bad.”

“I am scared for my life right now.” You blink.

“Focus on me, okay,” Taehyung says, making you meet his eyes once more. “Eyes on me, alright. You’re doing fine. You’re skating, isn’t this fun?”

“I am terrified that I am going to perish on this very rink,” you repeat for emphasis.

“Look, Y/N, look! You’re skating!” Taehyung tells you, and finally you glance down at your feet and realize that they’re beginning to move on the ice, all on their own.

“Oh my God! I’m skating! What the—heck!” You say, eyes widening in excitement.

“I knew you could do it,” Taehyung says, hands gripping on tight. You can feel the warmth from his palms seep into your own, feel the back of your hand burning from the touch. “You just had to trust me.”

“This is so cool,” you say, immediately very pleased with yourself. “I’m such a pro, I can do anything. Who said skating was scary?”

Taehyung opens his mouth to respond, but you shoot him a warning glare and he zips his lips.

“Watch this, I can even do it on my own. You’re gonna be very impressed, Kim Taehyung, just watch me!”

Within the next moment, you’re letting go of his hand and pushing yourself away from him, gliding along the ice ever-so-slightly as you begin to balance on your own.

But power is short-lived, and much like every leading male in Greek tragedies, your hubris gets the best of you, and you face the ultimate demise.

The moment you attempt to pick up your left foot, your right toe pick gets caught in a dip of the ice and you go toppling over, collapsing onto the ice in a cold, bruised ball.

Luckily, your coat takes most of the hit, its length preventing your knees from hurting into the next century, but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. Ashamed of yourself and even more mortified to have to face Taehyung after boasting about how amazing you are, you slowly push yourself off of the ice, wobbling like a baby deer.

“What was that, Y/N?” Taehyung says with a raised eyebrow as he skates over. He’s clearly just recovered from a laughing fit.

“Fuck off,” you mutter, and you don’t even care if children hear you. “I got excited.”

“Clearly,” Taehyung notes, eyes wide and knowing. He holds out a hand, and before you even have time to think of a snarky retort your palm is reaching out for it, letting him pull you up off of the rink. “Here. Come on.”

One hour and two fairly bruised knees later, you and Taehyung are taking off your skates and relishing in the feeling of your feet, flat on the ground like feet should be.

“You alright?” Taehyung asks. You didn’t have any massive falls following the first spectacle, but you admittedly, still cannot ice skate very well. You’ll have to figure out a way to learn.

You round out the night by going to look at the Christmas Tree. Now that it’s fairly late, the massive families with young children have all gone home, leaving only the young adults left to bask in the glory of the peak of Christmas decorations.

“It seemed bigger in photos, didn’t it?” Taehyung asks as the both of you crane your necks to look at the tree in all of its glory. “Like it was the size of a small tower.”

“Yeah,” you agree. It looks somewhat disappointingly small, now that you’re here in front of it. “Today was a lot of fun, Taehyung. Your spontaneity paid off.”

“When does it not?” Taehyung asks, proud of himself. He even has enough of an ego to do a little hair flip, making you shake your head disapprovingly. “But I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I certainly did.”

“What was your favorite part?” You ask.

“Definitely when you were in your prime for one moment and a puddle on the ice the next,” Taehyung says, and for that, he earns a punch to the shoulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But I did really enjoy ice skating.”

“Yeah, because you can actually do it,” you remind him.

“What about you?”

You think. This day has been so long, from getting woken up by Taehyung’s irresponsible neighbors and the entire city’s fire department outside your window, to hopping on a bus to New York, to museums and restaurants and ice skating and the city, you feel like you’ve lived three days in one.

“The museum,” you finally decide. “I’m not really an art person, but I thought it was lovely. Nice and heated, too.”

“Yes, the best part about the Museum of Modern Art was its modern, state-of-the-art central heating,” Taehyung repeats, making you laugh. “I’m glad you liked the museum. I was worried you’d think it was too stuffy.”

You had thought that too. And then you watched someone fall in love with each and every piece, right in front of you, and you realized that there’s more to art than putting a price tag on it and critiquing it. It’s passion, materialized. It’s real.

It’s Taehyung.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I thought it was beautiful.”

On Christmas Eve, it snows.

Correction: On Christmas Eve, it snows a lot.

Correction for the correction: On Christmas Eve, it blizzards.

When you listened to “White Christmas” last night, this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, if you were being honest. Maybe an inch or two. Maybe even just a flurry. But certainly not nearly two feet worth of snow, effectively trapping you inside of Taehyung’s apartment complex until the next day because not even the snow plows are allowed to go out on the roads. Not until the snow stops.

“Good thing we don’t live on the first floor, right?” Taehyung asks with a laugh that late afternoon, taking a peek out of the window to stare down at the white expanse below you. “I’d hate to be those guys.”

“It must be so cold,” you say sadly. You’ve spent the better part of today huddled up in as many blankets as Taehyung owns in his apartment and you have no intention of shedding even one of them. Not even as you sweat right through your pajama shirt from high school.

“We can just make dinner here, tonight,” Taehyung says, fishing around in his kitchen to see what the options are. It’s already beginning to get dark even though it’s not even five o’clock. God, you hate winter.

“What are we making?”

Taehyung fumbles through the cabinets and his fridge, hunting for anything that might make a good meal. Eventually, he pulls out two cartons of Trader Joe’s vegetable broth and every vegetable in his fridge.

“Wanna make soup?”

Soup is very easy to make. You set the broth to simmer, chop up vegetables, and dump them in the pot.

But the idea of you and Taehyung sharing his tiny kitchen space, both with knives in your hands is, well, a recipe for disaster.

Luckily no knife mishaps occur, but, like the children at heart that you are, you eventually end with pelting uncooked lima beans at each other in the most adult version of a food fight you have ever had in your life. No fuss, no mess, no tomatoes or key lime pies or spaghetti doused in sauce getting chucked across the kitchen floor, the dinner table.

No, your little food fight ends with you and Taehyung kneeling down on the tile as you pick up each little lima bean, gathering them in your palms.

You make to toss it out but Taehyung stops you.

“Wait,” Taehyung says, a hand on top of yours as it hovers over the trash can, “don’t toss them out.”

“Huh?” You ask.

“I’ll feed them to the birds,” he says, taking the pile from your hands and placing all of the lima beans, along with his own, in a Ziploc bag.

“You have a porch out here?” You ask, looking around. You’ve never seen it.

“No.” Taehyung shakes his head. “They land on my bedroom window sill so I feed them.”

When you were in freshman year, you remember how Taehyung always left his window open. You know this because even though yours was always closed, anytime a police car, fire truck, ambulance, or particularly loud motorist drove by, the sound was always loudest on the wall of your room that bordered Taehyung’s. You hated how he always left his windows open, even in the winter. Wasn’t he goddamn cold?

And now, even though it’s Christmas Eve and there’s a blanket of snow outside nearly two feet deep, Taehyung will go and open his bedroom window again and feed the birds lima beans like a fucking Disney prince, and it makes your heart flutter, ever so slightly.

You end the night sitting on Taehyung’s couch, only a foot or so of space in between your bodies as he multitasks, channel surfing and gulping down your homemade soup.

“I haven’t made soup in a while, but damn, this is good,” Taehyung says, drinking the rest of it before getting up to help himself to seconds. He sticks a hand out to take your bowl as well, and wordlessly you hand it to him.

“It’s my magic touch,” you tease. It was not. Taehyung did most of the work. You don’t have much of an affinity for cooking.

“It’s my chemistry brain,” Taehyung corrects. “Chem is basically like making soup.”

“But it can kill you,” you tack on.

“But it can kill you,” he agrees, returning to the couch. This time, when he sits down, he plops right down next to you, your sides touching as you sit in front of his television, slurping up homemade vegetable soup. “How’s your major? What is it, again?”

“English with a minor in Psych,” you say over a mouthful of carrot.

“Sounds like too much reading for me,” Taehyung comments. “I’d only like picture books.”

“Yeah, wonder why,” you tell him sarcastically. “But it’s going well. I’m thinking of maybe adding Consumer Psych as another minor since there’s a lot of overlap, but I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.”

“Sounds busy,” Taehyung comments.

“Almost as busy as visual studies and chem,” you remind him. “Seriously, do you ever sleep?”

“Inspiration is a fickle mistress and the will to do my chem problem sets, even more fickle,” Taehyung muses like the two subjects aren’t the absolute bane of his existence. “But yeah, I mean, I made it this far.”

“Our majors are so different,” you comment. They are. Encompassing all sides of the college major spectrum, from STEM to art to humanities. The only thing you’re missing is a business minor. But only snakes would ever be interested in something like that.

“It’s nice,” Taehyung decides. “Because this is forcing us to talk with someone with whom we don’t already share all of the same classes with.”

“I couldn’t imagine taking the same class as you,” you say, not because you’d hate having to be in the same room as Kim Taehyung or dread the potential to be paired up for group work, but because your tastes are so different. They’ve always been different. Art, English, chemistry, psychology. Headphones or speakers. Closed windows or open. It’s always been opposites with the two of you.

“Maybe I’ll take a psych class so that way we can,” Taehyung says.

“Maybe I’ll take an art history course,” you retort.

“You’d really take an art history course? They’re awfully boring, and I’m an art major,” Taehyung says, in disbelief.

You ponder it for a moment, but then nod. Yes, you would. Even if it sent you to sleep. Because it looks genuinely interesting. “After today, I wouldn’t mind it. You showed me a lot about art, Kim Taehyung. More than I thought I would ever learn in my lifetime.”

Taehyung sighs, shutting the television off. You guys weren’t watching it anyway. You hardly realized it was on. He looks down at his empty soup bowl, and then at you. He always does that—always looks somewhere else before looking at you, like he has to muster up the courage by first staring at an inanimate object. And then he says, “You’ll never stop learning about art. Neither will I. It’s a constant cycle, learning and relearning and changing your mind and revisiting old pieces. Because art is all around us.”

He looks at you, like he’s trying to say something else but doesn’t have the words. “You just have to look for it.”

New Year’s Eve is often a time of reflecting on the year that’s passed, making a list of goals to achieve once the clock strikes twelve. Thanking your friends and family, your loved ones, for being there for you this year, and promising to be there for them as well next year.

To you and Taehyung, it’s literally your last chance to get piss drunk this year without repercussions. You’ve never stayed here, at your university in the city, for New Year’s Eve (obviously). You’d be interested in getting all dressed up to go out. Taehyung would also be interested.

And so, after a day of slouching around and making half-assed resolutions you know you won’t keep (like managing your time better. As a college student? Impossible.), you and Taehyung decide to get dressed up and go out, pulling out the winter jackets you don’t care if you lose, or if they get trashed, or if they stain with vodka. All you want is to lose your goddamn mind in a tiny club with a bunch of other wasted young adults who don’t want to stay at home on the last night of the year.

You are, unsurprisingly, a self-proclaimed not-a-going-out person, but tonight is something of an exception. It’s your last night to do this this year, and honestly, you can’t really think of a better way to end the year. There’s been plenty of ups (that A+ on your paper on the ethics of Beowulf, yay!) and plenty of downs (Global Politics in the Twentieth Century, yikes), and no better way to say goodbye to them all than with alcohol in your system. But even if, during the regular college season, you’re something of a stick in the mud, you remembered to pack a nice party dress just in case, so you tug on a little black velvet mini-dress that sparkles rainbow in the light, covered with tiny glitters that get stuck in your hair and never come out.

As you’re fishing around for some tights that you don’t care about so your legs don’t freeze off in the cold, the door to Taehyung’s bedroom opens.

Out he walks in all of his New Year’s Eve glory, a full black ensemble complete with structured belt and a leather jacket. You turn around to look at him and he stops dead in his tracks, eyes blinking like he doesn’t know where to look. It gives you a clear view of him and his simple yet extremely flattering outfit. He looks like Danny Zuko. He looks like a boy you would avoid in high school.

Funnily enough, seeing him now draws you closer to him.

“Wow, hot stuff, you clean up nicely,” You comment, tugging on some black tights with a hole in the back that no one’s going to notice.

“I could say the same thing about you,” he adds on, a hand coming up to rub at the nape of his neck. “I didn’t even know you had this.”

“I packed it just in case,” you say with a shrug.

“Came in handy, didn’t it?” He asks. He comes up to stand by you, holding his arm out for you to wrap yours around, two people on a mission to not remember most things about this night. “You ready to go?”

Stuffing your phone and wallet into your purse, you quickly link arms with him as you walk to the door, your black boots clopping on the floor like the obnoxious high-heel owner you are.

“Yeah, you ready?” You ask, doing a quick double check. You’ve got everything.

“Let’s fuck some shit up.”

And fuck some shit up you do. By the time you reach the club that Taehyung had found online, you can already hear the bass pounding through the walls, feel the ground shake from the speakers alone. Go big or go home, you suppose.

As you expected, the club is already packed with bodies. Every young adult within a twenty-mile radius is out tonight, eager to spend the last night of the year doing what young adults in the primes of their lives do best: drink. And you and Taehyung are no exception.

Like everybody else entering the club at the same time as you, you make a beeline for the bar, already itching to get something into your system. You don’t love being drunk, and you like the taste of alcohol even less, so you just order a simple cocktail that should keep you occupied for a while.

Taehyung, on the other hand, well. He seems to harbor the go big or go home mentality quite firmly. It’s obvious that he’s here to do one thing and one thing only, which is not remember what he did when he wakes up tomorrow. You watch, a little impressed and a lot nervous about what exactly he’s trying to achieve, as he downs several shots in a row, pays the bartender, and immediately pulls you into the crowd of people dancing in the center of the room.

“The more I move, the faster my body can process the alcohol,” Taehyung tells you as your cocktail sloshes around in the glass in your hand. It’s an alright cocktail. A little too sweet for you, but you suppose that that’s your fault.

“Wow, when you said you wanted to fuck shit up, you meant it,” you comment as Taehyung dances, jumping and swaying to the beat of whatever Top 40 pop song is blaring from the speakers. You can barely hear the music over the volume of the rest of the club, people shouting to speak to each other, the sound of feet hitting the floor.

Within approximately fifteen minutes, Taehyung is already fairly tipsy and eager to keep going, bubbling over with excitement.

You convince him to dance a little longer before he goes back to get more, trying to make sure at least a bit of the alcohol he had at the beginning of the night goes through his body. The song changes to something much sultrier, like honey dripping from the speakers themselves, and suddenly, the entire club’s atmosphere changes.

“I love this song,” Taehyung says, and it must be the lack of control that causes him to place a hand on your waist and pull you in close to him, making you gasp.

“Wow, okay,” you comment, blinking. Taehyung rests his chin on your shoulder, leaning down as he holds you tight, your bodies swaying in tandem.

“You don’t mind this?” Taehyung asks.

“Not if you don’t,” you respond. He’s practically drunk, and you’re even a little buzzed. There are worse things you could be doing.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” He inquires aloud. It’s a good thing that you can’t see his face, can’t watch the haze in his eyes, otherwise you might lose your footing and collapse.

“What is?”

“This,” Taehyung repeats unhelpfully.

The next three minutes are some of the most confusing ones of your life as Taehyung rests a hand on your waist, palm rubbing up and down as the two of you dance together like it means something to the both of you.

But it doesn’t, does it? You chalk it up to both of your minds not being as sharp with some alcohol in your systems. That must be it.

When the song ends, the mood disappears as well, and Taehyung’s back to his bouncy, tipsy self. He’s practically stumbling over himself once he determines that it’s time for more shots, and you’ve never seen Taehyung drunk before but you can tell that he’s nearly there. You’ll probably put a hard stop on the drinks after this round, since Taehyung is the one most familiar with the way back to his apartment and you wouldn’t mind going home and sleeping after this.

“Come with?” Taehyung asks as he eyes the bartender like he’s the love of his life.

“No, it’s alright, Tae,” you say.

“You never call me Tae,” Taehyung comments mindlessly. Even when he’s nearly drunk, he still picks up on the little things.

“I guess the alcohol is making me soft,” you admit. “You go. I’m gonna find the bathroom and hope that nobody’s having sex in it.”

“Okay,” Taehyung singsongs as you pull away from him, looking for a dingy hallway to go down. “Be safe.”

“You too, I’ll be back soon,” you promise him, and that’s when you go rushing down the hallway.

Things are certainly weird down here. It must be the feeling of the new year looming over your heads. Like this is the last night to do everything wrong without regretting it in the morning. The bathroom is, luckily enough, empty, so you rush in and splash your face with some water, not caring about if your makeup runs. You’d sweat it off, regardless. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and this feels so stupidly like a goddamn romantic comedy that it makes you want to laugh at the irony.

Beautiful male art student lead gets drunk, confuses hardheaded and impenetrable female lead who doesn’t believe in love and supposedly hates beautiful male art student’s guts. Tension ensues.

Your life may as well already have a shitty Rotten Tomatoes rating stamped on top of it.

After collecting your thoughts and praying that that white stain on the wall isn’t what you think it is, you leave the bathroom and scurry down the hallway, eager to find Taehyung and make sure he isn’t bouncing off the walls after a second round of shots.

He’s not.

Instead, he’s still standing by the bar as a beautiful young woman speaks to him, long dark hair resting against her shoulders and a model-esque smile on her face. She’s leaning in with a suggestive look in her eyes, a hand coming up to rub at the side of his arm.

You furrow your brows as you watch them from afar, a little hurt by the fact that beautiful male art student lead is confusing hardheaded and impenetrable female lead even more, but then you notice Taehyung’s hesitance. The way he backs up a little when she gets closer. How he stiffens when she touches him.

And, well, fuck that.

“Tae,” you say, rushing up to him faster than you’d like to admit. “There you are, I was looking for you.”

The girl next to him frowns at the sight of you, and it’s clear she feels no shame to hide the immediately dislike. Sure, you don’t have model proportions or a smile whiter than snow, but you have morals.

“Who’s this?” You ask, trying to be nice.

“Nobody,” Taehyung tells you, and his hand immediately interlocks with yours. Standing next to him, you can feel as the tension fades from his body, his whole demeanor relaxing now that you’re by his side. “She just wanted to talk.”

“Are you a friend?” She asks, because she knows.

“I’m a special type of friend,” you say. There’s no way she’ll leave Taehyung alone otherwise. And this is definitely on the cocktail you drank (and nothing else, you swear!), but you even reach up to plop a kiss on his cheek for proof. Taehyung’s eyes widen as you do, but he plays it off as catching him off guard and grins, wrapping an arm around you to pull you even closer. “Can we help you?”

The girl is absolutely pissed, which means that you did your job.

“No, it’s alright,” she hisses through gritted teeth before turning her sights on someone else. Someone without a friend to protect them.

“Thanks,” Taehyung whispers once she’s gone. Even though she’s probably not coming back, Taehyung keeps you close, a hand on you at all times like you’ll fly away if he doesn’t hold on tight.

“Of course,” you tell him. “You’d do the same for me.”

“She scared me,” Taehyung says, and if his red face is anything to go by, it’s clear that he’s pretty much reached his alcohol intake limit. “I’m glad you came.”

“I could tell you didn’t want to talk to her,” you say.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Taehyung says, and it’s definitely the alcohol that’s erased his filter. “I was waiting for you to come out of the bathroom and she just came up to me and started flirting with me. I think she wanted to get in my pants. I didn’t want her to get into my pants.”

“I know.”

“I’d much rather be with you than with her. Than with anybody else. I would always want to be with you, instead.” He tells you, keeping your hands firmly intertwined as you lean against the bartender counter.

And well, huh. That’s different. Taehyung’s aforementioned lack of a filter means that any thoughts that run through his mind immediately turn into spoken words, but you weren’t expecting those words. You never thought you;d hear them, not in a million goddamn years.

“Okay, Tae,” you say, patting him assuringly. He’s just drunk. That’s all.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Taehyung tells you firmly, pushing your comforting hand off of his shoulder and turning to face you directly. “I mean it.”

“I know, Tae.” you reassure him. It’s easier than trying to fight him, especially when he’s this hammered. You check the time on your phone. Maybe it’s time to leave. If you go now, you’ll be able to make it back by midnight. “Let’s go home, okay? I’m ready to go home.”

Wordlessly, Taehyung nods, and the two of you leave the club before people are even thinking about ringing in the New Year.

When you reach Taehyung’s apartment, he takes off his leather jacket to hang on the coat rack and turns the television on. Only three minutes to midnight.

“I had fun,” you say, trying to lighten the conversation. The way back was silent, the only noises the sounds of New Year’s Eve parties on every block you turned onto. Taehyung kept his face forward and his eyes ahead, even as you tried to huddle close to him to conserve the warmth.

“It was sort of fun,” Taehyung halfheartedly agrees.

“Did you drink too much?” You ask. His face is still beet red.

“I don’t think I drank enough.”

Two minutes to midnight.

You frown, brows furrowing. Why on Earth would Taehyung want to drink more? What would change if he had another shot, a can of beer or a little cocktail?

Slowly, you begin to peel off your own layers, resting your coat on the back of the couch and slipping off your boots. The both of you stand in his living room as the TV begins to buzz with excitement, the broadcast of Times Square lighting up the otherwise silent, tense atmosphere. He’s only a couple of feet away but it feels like he couldn’t be farther from you.

One minute to midnight. Everybody begins to count down, and you feel yourself holding your breath.

“Will you be alright going to sleep?” You ask. Even if Taehyung’s still drunk, he’s far less bouncy than he was at the club.

“I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, beginning to walk past.

Three.

“Okay.”

Two.

“Okay.”

One.

Something overtakes Taehyung, something quick and brief. He stops right next to you and flinches, like he wants to lean in and do something, anything, goddamnit, but stops himself before he goes through with it. Everyone on television is cheering, but this apartment couldn’t be less festive even if you tried.

Taehyung sends you a small smile as the world rings in the new year, dashing off to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

And you stand there, in the middle of his living room like the goddamn fool you are. Turning to the television, you watch over and over as every couple in Times Square kisses, clip after clip after clip, and like a goddamn idiot, you wish that Taehyung had done the same.

The end of winter break approaches faster than you’d like it, just like it does every year. Before you know it, there’s less than a week left before classes resume and you go back to the daily college life. Less than a week left before you can go back to your dorm and pretend like this year’s winter break mishap never happened.

Less than a week before you and Taehyung go back to never seeing each other.

You’re sitting at his kitchen table, clearing out your backpack and recycling every paper, every syllabus and assignment and study guide from last semester, doing a deep cleanse of your life (because holy shit, you need it), when you come across the purchase you had made at the MOMA.

“Taehyung,” you call out before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah?” He asks from where he’s sitting on the couch, reading a James Joyce book. You love that novel. It was one of the very few you read for fun last year.

You take the small paper bag in your hands, walking over to the couch. “I almost forgot about this, but since winter break’s starting to wind down, I just wanted to give you this as a thanks. For everything.”

“You got me a belated Christmas gift, Y/N?” Taehyung asks as you hold out the gift, clearly something thin like a posterboard or an art print.

“If it means I don’t have to buy you two things, then sure, consider this a belated Christmas gift,” you say with a laugh, sitting down a foot away from him as he slowly opens up the packet. “It’s sort of cheesy and very basic, but I just wanted to get you something nice as a thank you.”

Out Taehyung pulls is a print of van Gogh’s The Starry Night, big enough to fill up the empty spaces on his walls, so every inch of his apartment, of his life and his home, is filled with art.

“Oh my God,” Taehyung says, mouth agape. “This is…”

“It’s basic, I know. But I know how much you loved seeing it in person, so I thought that a memory of that would be nice,” you say, trying to ease the nervousness that has bubbled up inside of you.

“It’s wonderful,” Taehyung says, and you swear you’ve never seen him so happy, other than perhaps when you saw the real thing. “This is so fucking thoughtful of you.”

“I just—you told me a lot about the art we saw that day, but when we reached this painting, you were speechless. And I sort of knew, then, that it was your favorite piece. Because you didn’t have to explain it with words,” you tell him. “I could just tell. It was like your whole body warmed up the moment it came into view.”

“I’m touched, Y/N.” Taehyung beams. “This is all an art student could ever want, really. To be able to know that their love for art meant something to someone else.”

“I just wanted to say thank you for everything. Taking me in, cooking me food, being really nice me despite me entrenching on your living situation.” You smile.

“I was happy to do all that stuff,” Taehyung tells you honestly. “I’ve had a lot of fun this winter break, even if we’re still trapped on campus.”

You loved getting to go home for winter break your freshman and sophomore years. You loved being able to escape from the college mindset and just relax, no deadlines, no assignments, no worries.

But looking back on it, you think that you’ve had the most fun this winter break, stuck at school, a five-hundred-dollar plane ticket short, with your dorm neighbor-slash-nemesis from freshman year. Never have you done so much in so little time.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, thinking back fondly. It feels like this winter break has lasted for years, but also as though it went by in the blink of an eye,

“I have something for you as well,” Taehyung says, scrambling up to dash into his room. “Consider it just a Christmas gift, because I don’t really have to thank you for letting you stay at my apartment for free for a month.”

“Roast me, why don’t you,” you muse jokingly, rolling your eyes as Taehyung fumbles around in his bedroom before he emerges with an equally flat, similarly-sized gift wrapped up in some spare tissue paper.

“I don’t recall you buying anything at the MOMA,” you tease as Taehyung hands you the gift, settling back down on the couch to watch as you open it.

Slowly, you peel back the tissue paper, and when you reveal what he’s wrapped up for you, it drops to your lap.

It’s a portrait of you, done entirely in pencil. It’s you smiling, with your eyes closed, lashes fluttering. He’s memorized your entire face, drawn it neatly onto this piece of sketch paper, like he was just passing the time and suddenly he had a picture of you on his hands. He’s even remembered where your freckles go.

“What’s this, Tae?” You ask, like you don’t already know.

“Uh, it’s you,” Taehyung says sheepishly. “I wasn’t planning on drawing you, I didn’t have a gift in mind, but I was practicing sketches the other day and an hour later I looked down and I had drawn you. And I felt bad for not telling you, because that’s weird, so I thought that you could see it.”

“You drew a portrait of me? Just randomly, from memory?” You ask, looking down at the sketch in your hands like it’s just ruined your life.

“Yeah, so?” Taehyung asks. He looks terribly nervous.

“So, that’s—people don’t just do that, Taehyung. You don’t just draw a picture of someone purely from memory while you’re practicing sketching,” You say, reeling back as he tries to lean in, attempts to explain himself.

“What do you mean? I did that. I thought of you and I drew you, what’s so bad about that?”

“I don’t know if you missed the memo, Taehyung. I told you in New York. We’re not dating, Taehyung,” you tell him, so firm and certain in your conviction that you hardly pay attention to the way his shoulders sink. “We’re barely even friends. I’m not interested in you like that. Please don’t think otherwise.”

“Don’t tell me what to think,” Taehyung snaps, and he’s mad. Really mad, not like the fake anger from freshman year when you tried to get back at him by being an equally-annoying neighbor. “Don’t tell me how to feel. I drew you, Y/N. Not because I’m obsessed with the idea of us getting married, or because you’re my muse or some bullshit like that. I drew you because I thought of you, and I draw what I think of. Don’t tell me what to fucking think.”

“Do you like me, Taehyung?” You ask, on the verge of shouting.

Taehyung’s furious. “So what if I do? Huh? What difference does it make? You’ve told me over and over that you don’t like me back, so why does it matter? It’s not like I’d ever have a chance.”

“I told you because I didn’t want to confuse you,” you hiss, standing up and beginning to grab your belongings. It’s clear that this conversation is turning sour.

“Confuse me? You didn’t want to confuse me?” Taehyung shouts. “You did a damn good job at that. Telling me in New York that you hated being called Mr. and Mrs. Kim, but holding my hand as we walked around the city and looked at art together. Kissing my cheek in the fucking bar but then patting me like on the back like I’m just a sadass friend of yours. Can you blame me if I was confused, Y/N?”

“I told you,” you say again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Taehyung bites. “I’m sorry that I fucking fell in love with you, even though half of the time you acted like it was alright. My mistake.”

“It was your mistake. I never said I wanted to date you,” you tell him firmly. You refuse to take the blame for something you had made so explicitly clear.

“Can you fucking blame me for being hopeful?” Taehyung asks. He’s standing up, about to head back into his bedroom, absolutely furious. “You held my hand and kissed me on the cheek and I thought that meant that you felt it, too.”

“Taehyung—”

“Keep the portrait, Y/N,” Taehyung spits. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

He slams his bedroom door.

It’s a good thing you made friends with some upperclassmen when you were a freshman.

After packing your belongings into your little suitcase and standing in the lobby of Taehyung’s apartment complex, you remember that one of your old friends who had graduated last year still lived in an off-campus apartment since he would be beginning graduate school at the same university.

“Yoongi?” You ask when you hear him pick up your call.

“Y/N? What’s up?”

“Long story,” you say with a sigh. “Would it be alright if I stayed with you until school started?”

“Holy shit, you’re on campus? What the fuck, yeah, sure, you know where I live. I’ll be here whenever you stop by,” he says without question.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside his door, double checking to make sure you’d got the right apartment.

You barely get the first knock in before the door swings open to reveal Min Yoongi himself, clad in all black and looking very tired.

“Are you okay?” You ask. He looks exhausted.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, ushering you inside.

“Have you been up all night?” You ask, resting your suitcase against the wall.

“I took a brief nap between two and three, but yes, I have been,” he says like it’s natural.

“You’ve always been a chaotic sleeper,” you say with a shake of your head.

“The grad school grind stops for no one,” Yoongi says with a sigh. “What’s up? Why are you on campus?”

“It… it’s a long goddamn story. Do you have time?”

“I have a piece due for a small indie band tomorrow at noon that’s barely finished,” Yoongi says.

“Oh,” you say. You suppose the story can wait. Yoongi offered up his abode to you until classes resumed if you needed it, and there’s no way in hell you’ll be going back to Taehyung’s.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh’? I got loads of time,” Yoongi says. He plops down on his couch and motions for you to sit next to him. “Tell me everything.”

Yoongi has always been a particularly good listener. Not just to other people’s words, but to music, to the sounds of the chords and the notes of the piano. He has an ear for things that most others would never notice.

It’s the same thing for when he’s doling out advice.

“To clarify,” Yoongi says when you’re finished telling your story, thirty minutes later. You had warned him that it would be a long one. “You had once hated his guts, but no longer hate his guts?”

“I stopped hating him after freshman year,” you admit, more to yourself than to Yoongi. It’s true. The moment the two of you stopped seeing each other, everything dissipated.

“And now you like him.”

“We’re friends,” you say, tentatively. Maybe less than friends after the disaster that just went down in his living room.

“But he drew you a portrait of yourself,” Yoongi mentions.

“I said that it was complicated,” you say with a frown.

“It doesn’t sound that complicated,” Yoongi says. And maybe he is a graduate student with more life experience under his belt than you, but you think that it’s pretty complicated.

“What do you mean?”

“It sounds like he likes you, and you like him. I wasn’t really interpreting it in any other way,” Yoongi says casually.

You reject the notion immediately. “I do not like him.”

Yoongi frowns. “Would you really be here, in my apartment having a relationship breakdown, if you weren’t confused about your feelings for him? Really?”

“I just needed to get out of his damn apartment, that’s all,” you say, avoiding eye contact. Yoongi has this very annoying habit of being extremely reasonable all of the time, and it bothers you immensely.

“Sure, okay. Y/N, I’m not gonna dictate how you feel and try to change your mind, or anything. But if you can look me in the eye before the end of your break and tell me, one-hundred percent honestly, that you don’t like him, then I’ll believe you,” Yoongi tells you simply. “How about that?”

It sounds like a very doable deal. Maybe it’s not doable right now, but it certainly seems possible in the future. In the future, specifically.

“Fine. But you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” you tell him matter-of-factly. Why does he care? It’s not like you’re worried about it.

As it turns out, you’re worried about it.

You’re worried about it because even though you’re not in the same room, not in the same building, not even on the same goddamn street as him, you’re thinking about him. Thinking about how much fun the two of you could be having right now as you relish in the last couple days of your winter break before the cold reality of school hits.

Think about the things you could be doing. Exploring, going out to restaurants, finding new little gold mines in this city that you call home. And instead, you’re moping around your friend’s living room wishing that the two of you hadn’t ruined the whole thing.

Maybe you had been too harsh. Taehyung has a right to be mad at you for lashing out at him. How was he supposed to feel? You held his hand and kissed his cheek and pretended that it was still freshman year, that the two of you were still just two people stuck together by unfortunate circumstances. Acted like nothing had really changed despite the years going by. Going through with all of these adventures with him knowing, in the back of your mind, that once classes started back up, you’d probably never make an effort to see him again.

Drawing a portrait of you says one thing, but dancing around him says another. Every time you fucking see Yoongi in his own goddamn home you try to muster up the bravery to tell him that you don’t like Taehyung the way that he thinks you do, and you can’t.

He sets up his pullout couch in his living room for you when you go to sleep that night, you dream of Taehyung. Envision him wandering the halls of a nameless museum, priceless pieces of art hung along every wall, from van Gogh to Monet to Picasso. He turns back around so you get a view of his face, dream up his curly black hair and soft eyes, sparkling with wanderlust as he roams the corridors, stopping to spare a quick glance at every painting he passes.

And then at the end of the hall, he pauses in his tracks, looks up at the painting on the wall. You watch as the camera zooms in on what he’s looking at, what made him stop in his tracks the moment he laid eyes on it.

It’s your portrait. A simple piece of paper out of a sketchbook, graphite on the coarse canvas. It’s barely more than a line drawing, your eyes here, your nose there, the little freckles that decorate your skin. It’s only in one color and still, even now, it leaves you speechless. Taehyung made that. He drew that, line by line. He made that for you.

You wake up in a cold sweat at seven in the morning. Yoongi’s fast asleep in his bedroom, and you know he won’t be waking up until the hour on the clock reads double digits. Frantic, you scramble through your backpack until you pull out the sketch paper a little bit larger, a little bit thicker than the rest, still wrapped up in tissue paper.

Pulling the paper away to reveal the canvas, you stare down at it in the hazy light of the sunrise, small rays beginning to stream through Yoongi’s window. Your fingers trace along each line, picturing Taehyung as his pencil scratched along the paper, over and over until it looked perfect. Taehyung made this. He sat down, thought of you, and drew this.

A picture may be worth a thousand words but this one doesn’t say a thousand words. Instead, it only says three.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you flip the sketch over to see if there’s anything else he’s drawn. There isn’t, but you find a little note in the bottom right corner.

Y/N,

I hadn’t realized that I had drawn you until I was nearly finished with this. My bad, but it was too late to stop. I don’t know if I’ll ever give this to you, or if I’ll just have a guilty conscience for the rest of my life, but just in case I do, I want you to know this: art inspires me, and you are no exception.

Tae ♡

When Min Yoongi wakes up that day and trudges out of his bedroom, he finds you sitting on his pullout couch, staring down at a sketch in your hands. When you turn to look up at him, he sees your red eyes and wonders how long you’ve been out here, crying.

“I can’t do it, Yoongi,” you tell him.

“Do what?” Yoongi asks, even though he already knows the answer. Why else would you be letting your tears drip onto your portrait?

“Tell you that I don’t like him. Because I do. And I can’t lie to him like that.”

Yoongi grins. He knew you’d come around, like you always do. You may have quite the stubborn streak, but you’ve got a big heart, and it always gets the best of you.

He sits down next to you, glancing down at the portrait. It’s gorgeous. Taehyung did a wonderful job. He looks at you as you cry over a sketch of yourself, and he thinks that, even if he doesn’t really know this Taehyung character, the two of you will make a perfect pair.

“You should tell him that,” he tells you with a nudge. You look up at him, scared for your life. “I think he deserves to know.”

The night before winter break ends, you ask Taehyung if tenants of his apartment complex are allowed on his rooftop. He says no, but also says that his landlord is out of town for the holidays.

In the biting cold of a mid-January evening, you climb up the stairs of his apartment complex and push open the heavy metal door to the rooftop, a gust of wind nearly blowing you right over. Looking around, you spot Taehyung in nothing but a sweater and a scarf, sitting on the edge of the rooftop and looking out over the city.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He turns around to find you standing next to him, wrapped up in a long coat, gloves, a beanie, and a scarf.

“I’ve got a warm body,” Taehyung tells you, looking back out into the sea of lights.

“This is scary, isn’t it?” You ask, sitting down next to him. Your feet dangle off the ledge, and normally you’d be insistent on sitting in the middle of the rooftop where no danger can befall you, but this feels a lot more personal.

“Why did you want to meet me up here?” Taehyung asks, all business.

“I just wanted to talk,” you tell him. “You know, since it’s the last day of winter break and all.”

“It went by fast, didn’t it?” Taehyung muses.

“I remember failing my final and missing my flight like it was yesterday,” you remember fondly, laughing. It seemed like the end of the world at the time, but there’s always a silver lining. You just didn’t know what it was, back then.

You think you have a pretty clear idea of it now.

Taehyung chuckles, letting the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you gaze out at the rest of the city. Taehyung’s apartment building isn’t particularly tall, but it’s got enough height to it that it feels like you’re looking out over a place you hardly recognize. There are so many things you don’t know about this city, despite having lived here for over two years. So many things you are aching to find out, and only one person you’d really like to do it with.

“What’s your New Year’s Resolution?” You ask randomly, interrupting the quiet that had befallen the both of you.

Taehyung jumps at the sound of your voice piercing through the atmosphere, caught off guard. You lean in, expecting him to answer.

“Oh, um, I guess to draw and paint for fun more. A lot of the stuff I’ve been making in school I’ve been doing because I had to,” Taehyung says quickly. It’s sort of obvious that he made up the resolution on the spot. “Uh, what’s yours?”

You press your lips into a thin line, smiling to yourself. “To be honest.”

Taehyung scoffs at that. “Believe me, Y/N, you are more than honest. Brutally so.”

“To others, yes,” you reason. You always were a tell-it-like-it-is sort of person. “But I’m not very good at being honest with myself.” You swing your legs slightly as they dangle over the ground below, kicking into each other. Taehyung turns to look at you, waiting for you to continue. “Yoongi says I’m a very stubborn person. I always have been. Once I determine something is the way it is, it’s very difficult to change my mind.”

Taehyung chuckles to himself. He’s probably quite familiar with that aspect of your personality.

“But I realized recently that sometimes, things change without you even realizing it, and that instead of being afraid of those changes, you should embrace them. So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to be more honest with myself, because I think I’ll make everybody around me, including myself, happier.” You continue.

“Good for you,” Taehyung tells you mindlessly, turning back to face out towards the city.

“Kim Taehyung, I’m not finished talking, yet,” you demand, forcing him to look back at you. “I hated you in freshman year. You were the worst thing to happen to me that year, annoying and full of yourself. And I didn’t know you in sophomore year. We stopped talking and decided that it was better if we never did again.”

He lets out a little huff of breath, visible in the cold night air.

“But I do know you now. You offered me a place to stay when I missed my flight after what might have been the worst final I have ever taken in my entire life. You took me to New York, and we made vegetable soup together. You let me hold your hand and kiss you on the cheek, and you drew me a portrait,” you say firmly. He looks up at you and finally, finally, his eyes aren’t foggy. There’s no haze, no mist. You look into his eyes and you can see yourself reflected in the ink black of his irises. He’s beautiful. He’s sitting on the ledge of the roof of his apartment building in the middle of January with nothing but a sweater and a scarf on, and he’s beautiful. “You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Before you can even take another breath, Kim Taehyung places a cold palm on your scarf-covered cheek and pulls you into a bruising kiss, his other hand wrapping around your waist as you shuffle along the ledge, closer and closer. And even if his hands are cold and his lips are chapped, his mouth is warm and soft, wanton and desperate. You beam at the feeling of his lips on yours, wrapping your arms around his neck as you ring in the New Year for real. This is how it was supposed to be. This is what you had been waiting for.

When you part, Taehyung’s lips are a cherry red to match the tip of his nose. His brown eyes are twinkling, and not from the light pollution of the city.

“Can I be honest, too?” Taehyung asks. He’s got the biggest goddamn grin on his face. “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words are music to your ears. “My honesty is rubbing off on you,” you tease. “Because I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Smiling, grinning, positively fucking beaming, Taehyung wraps his hands around you and kisses you again. It warms your heart from the inside out, blossoms like a tulip in spring. When you started this winter break, you thought you had reached your lowest point, but you’re finishing it on a high that you hope never fades. He loves you, he loves you, and most importantly, you love him back. And as it turns out, the movie where beautiful male art student lead and hardheaded and impenetrable female lead are stuck with each other for four weeks has a happy ending, after all.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

#taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #v fluff #v angst #v scenario #taehyung scenario #bts imagine #taehyung imagine #v imagine #bts au #taehyung au #REPOSTING BC IT WASNT SHOWING UP IN THE TAGS #w: four weeks

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trulymadlysydney · 4 years ago

Text

Somewhere In Time: Eight

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”

-Henry David Thoreau

Previous Chapters HERE

***Please Do Not Repost Without Permission***

1:38pm, January 6th, 1925

Roni finds herself much more confident as she wanders the streets today. She’s got the wad of Harry’s cash in her pocket that he’d left on the dining room table for her-- along with a note that told her to spend it on something delicious for dinner. She isn’t exactly sure where the supermarket is, but somehow she doesn’t have any sort of problem asking for directions now.

The tension between her and Harry had subsided by the morning. Something about the rest of the night following their confessions of how they felt for one another felt too intimate-- too fragile to be spoiled with any other words. And that had been fine by Roni; she had already been feeling vulnerable and was worried that even the smallest thing would send her rocketing into the moon with embarrassment. Harry had seemed to be on the same page as her, and the only communication between the two for the next few minutes had been soft kisses-- expressing everything they’d wanted to say without words.

They’d fallen asleep holding one another, and Harry had woken Roni with a soft kiss this morning before slipping off to work. The dynamic between them feels different now in the best kind of way, but somehow Roni can’t seem to shake the vulnerability she feels.

The afternoon air feels colder than usual, and looking back Roni realizes she should have snagged one of Harry’s coats from his bedroom closet before she’d left. She settles instead for wrapping her soft coverup a bit tighter around her shoulders and shoving her icy hands into the pockets, putting a bit more pep into her step as she walks against the wind.

The supermarket isn’t very difficult to find, and Roni is delighted in herself after only having to ask one woman for directions. The building is much bigger than she’d anticipated and she feels only slightly overwhelmed upon entering. She picks up a small basket and scans the aisles for a place to start.

Harry had only requested “something delicious” for dinner, but he hadn’t specified what he enjoyed-- which, up until now, Roni hadn’t seen as a problem. Admittedly, she hadn’t given much thought to the situation, and now that she’s faced with seemingly endless aisles, she’s hit with the realization that she can’t just microwave something and call it a day.

She doesn’t have too much trouble getting a few things into her basket, and she begins to form a general idea of something delicious she can make for the two of them to share. She wants to make sure the evening is romantic, so she splurges a bit and buys a few new candles to light and place in the middle of their table.

It’s when Roni finds herself debating between two different brands of milk that she suddenly gets the unshakeable feeling of being watched.

She grows instantly nervous, praying to God that it isn’t Howard again (or someone else who’s decided to be equally creepy). She halts her movements, hoping that the feeling will pass. When it doesn’t, however, she turns slowly on her heel to find where the feeling is coming from.

Roni is instantly relieved when she’s greeted by a small girl-- seemingly no older than about six. The little girl looks nervously up at Roni, as if she wants to say something but is too afraid, and Roni smiles warmly at her.

“Hi there,” she greets in the voice reserved mostly for children.

The little girl takes her bottom lip between her teeth as if contemplating if she fully wants to commit to talking to this stranger. Roni offers her a gentle smile, trying to express to her that she isn’t going to hurt her, and the little girl softens a bit. She points shyly at Roni’s hand.

“I like your ring, ma’am,” she says quietly.

“My ring?” Roni glances down at her mood ring, and tries to hide the sudden jolt of panic down her spine when she realizes that mood rings haven’t yet been invented. She smiles sweetly back at the child and decides that the best course of action would be to explain it to her. “Thank you!! It’s called a mood ring.”

“A mood ring?” The child speaks at a more normal volume now, and she takes a hesitant but curious step in Roni’s direction. “What’s that?”

“Well,” Roni says slowly. “You put it on, and it changes colors according to what you’re feeling.”

The little girl’s eyes stayed glued to the jewel on Roni’s finger, and she lets out a soft but astonished little gasp. “Really?”

“M-hm! Would you like to try it?”

Now the child’s eyes shoot up to meet Roni’s, and her smile deepens. “May I, please?”

“Of course!” Roni twists the ring off of her finger and hands it to the child, placing it in the center of her palm. “It might be a little bit big for you, love. Close your hand around it,” she closes her own hand and the child follows, “and now hold it to your chest. Like this.” Roni demonstrates her words and the little girl mirrors her eagerly. “There you go!” Roni beams. “Now we just wait for a couple of seconds.”

“How do you know what the colors mean?”

“I used to have a guide,” Roni explains. “But then I memorized it and I didn’t need it anymore.”

“Wow,” the little girl breathes, looking down at her tiny first as if it contains all the secrets of the universe. “Is this magic?”

Roni chuckles softly under her breath. Because sure, it’s just a cheap stone that changes colors due to some type of reaction to temperatures or something of the sort. (She’s never actually looked into it really.) But she remembers being this little girl’s age. She remembers the magic she thought was inside of the mood ring every time her mother wore it; the magic she believed her mother possessed. She remembers how absolutely mind blowing this concept was to her, and thinks how incredible it must be to a child in 1925.

So she nods. “It is,” she says quietly. “But it only works if you believe in it with all of your heart.”

The little girl wastes no time in squeezing her eyes shut tight and Roni works to suppress the giggle threatening to bubble out as she watches her. She takes this time to really look at the child, trying to identify the strange but familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. There’s something about this little girl, maybe she’s famous or she’s a child in one of the yellowing photographs on the book shop wall. She’s got dirty blonde hair and a tiny nose, and Roni is almost certain she’s seen this child before, but she cannot put her finger on where.

Roni is completely lost in her thoughts when the little girl peeks one brown eye open and looks back at her. “Is it done yet?”

Roni laughs, taking the child’s fist in her hand and tapping her fingers to signal her to open them up. “I think you should be all set, let’s see what you got!”

Both the child and Roni peek at the stone in the little girl’s hand, trying to decipher if the color they see is purple or pink. “I think it’s pink!” The little girl says excitedly. “What does that mean?”

“Pink means you’re happy!” Roni beams. “Are you happy?”

When the child nods, her blond curls bounce. “M-hm! I want one of those rings for myself so I can show Linda at school! Wouldn’t she be surprised?”

For a split second Roni considers offering the ring to the child. As quickly as the thought comes, however, it is replaced with a mental slap to the face. On what planet would she feel comfortable enough to give her mother’s ring to a stranger? And anyway, if she were to give it to her, what would happen to her timeline? Mood rings aren’t invented yet and won't be invented for another fifty years or so. So Roni laughs, albeit a bit uncomfortably, and nods. “Oh I’m sure she would be, love! But you might have to wait until you’re a bit older.”

The little girl frowns. “Why?”

And truthfully, Roni doesn’t have an answer. Not any answer that would make any type of logical sense, anway.

“Well, it’s--”

“There you are!” The sound of heels quickly approaching saves Roni from her current predicament, and Roni rises to her feet when she hears them.

A well dressed woman comes scurrying down the long aisle, dressed in a coat and heels and also looking strangely familiar. She doesn’t even seem to notice Roni at all, her eyes are glued to the little girl and she seems both relieved and annoyed.

“How many times have I told you not to wander away from me?” she says as she approaches. She takes the little girl’s hand in her own. “You scared me half to death!”

The child nods up at Roni. “But this nice lady was--”

The woman sighs, obviously frustrated, and cuts her off. “You can’t go around talking to strangers like that. I’m sure this nice lady is very busy, so you apologize for bothering her right now.”

“Oh it’s no problem!” Roni speaks up. “Honestly. We had a lovely conversation.”

The little girl beams. “M-hm! And she showed me her magic ring!” She holds the ring up to her mother and Roni holds her breath, praying that this woman thinks nothing of the ring that has yet to be invented.

Luckily, the woman seems quite disinterested. “Judy, darling, you give this nice lady her ring back at once.”

Roni’s blood instantly runs cold at the woman’s words.

Surely it can’t be…

The little girl, Judy, sighs defeatedly. She doesn’t look up at Roni again, but she holds the ring out for Roni to take. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

Roni moves as if in slow motion, taking her ring back and placing it numbly back on her finger. She swallows thickly, looking from the little girl to her mother. The girl’s mother makes eye contact with Roni for the first time in this entire interaction, and suddenly a strange look crosses her face as well.

Roni recalls a story that her grandmother had told her when she’d first started showing interest in time travel.

“To answer your first question,” she says, “I don’t know what I believe.” She gives Roni’s hand a squeeze before adding pointedly, “But, I know I met someone when I was a little girl. She was… this beautiful woman with the kindest heart. And she had a mood ring, similar to the one your mother wore. Those hadn’t been invented yet, which hadn’t occurred to me until I was several years older. And she seemed…” Judy trails off again, smiling to herself. “Otherworldly. I don’t know how to explain what I saw in her. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Was it mom?” Roni’s voice is hardly above a whisper, and Judy shakes her head.

“It definitely wasn’t your mother. I don’t know who she was. Just a stranger, I think. But I could just tell that she knew something I didn’t. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. Where she came from. Where she went.”

The way Judy’s mother looks at Roni is all the confirmation Roni needs.

She’s meeting her grandmother and her great grandmother, and they have no idea.

“I’m--” the mother stammers, “I’m so sorry, darling, what is your name? You look awfully familiar.”

Roni clears her throat, trying to cover how nervous she is. “Veronica,” she says. “Veronica…. Styles.”

It’s the first name she can think of, and she fears (most likely irrationally) that if she reveals her true last name, something in her timeline will shift. So she sticks to her guns, hoping that she doesn’t seem suspicious.

The older woman blinks a few times, obviously trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. There’s a long pause that feels like hours, and Roni’s face grows uncomfortably hot. She doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until the woman speaks.

“Forgive me for staring,” she says, “it’s just that…” She trails off, shaking her head.

Roni blinks, forcing a stiff smile. She wants to say something-- literally anything at all, but nothing is coming out. The woman laughs in spite of herself.

“It can’t be,” she says, as if to herself.

Roni can’t help herself. “What can’t be?”

“Oh, I apologize. It’s just that… well, you look an awful lot like my sister Hazel.”

In spite of the tension, Roni can’t help but to laugh softly in disbelief. Her entire life, her grandma Judy had told her that she looked like “Aunt Hazel.” Hazel had died a few years before Roni was born, but even from the pictures Roni was shown, she knew the resemblance was uncanny. Which is why this is all the proof she needs.

“Oh really?” Roni smiles, trying to keep the conversation light and casual. “Oh how very interesting. Did you know that it was proven that there are roughly seven people in the entire world who look exactly like you?”

The woman blinks back at Roni, then laughs hesitantly. “No, I’m afraid I hadn’t heard that.”

“Oh.” There’s a brief pause, and then Roni laughs awkwardly. “Well in any case, maybe I’m miss Hazel’s doppelganger!”

“Yes,” the woman says, still eyeing Roni with a nervous smile, as if completely unsure about her still. “Well in any case, I’m so sorry that my Judy bothered you.”

“It was no trouble,” Roni says. She turns down to Judy. “It was very lovely chatting with you Judy!”

Judy smiles shyly up at Roni, and her mother nudges her. “What do you say, dear?”

“It was nice to meet you, ma’am,” Judy mumbles.

The older woman finishes up the conversation and guides Judy away from Roni, not without glancing back over her shoulder a few times back at this bizarre girl with the bizarre ring who looks bizarrely like her sister.

Roni has to resist the urge to glance back as well, trying desperately not to make the situation any weirder than it is. She can feel herself growing dizzy, and the moment that Judy and her mother are out of her sight, Roni grasps onto the shelf to balance herself.

This situation may just take the cake as far as surreal experiences over the past few days goes. Roni had pictured this very story in her head many times, wondering what the “beautiful woman” her grandmother had described looked like. The thought, however, was never actively at the front of her brain-- rather, it was tucked away in the corners of her mind. And now to find out that it was, in fact, her this entire time, she feels faint. She laughs in disbelief, shaking her head as she tries to process what just occurred.

Roni is brought from her thoughts when she hears somebody clear their throat. She looks up to see a stern looking woman glancing expectantly at her, and realizes at the same time that she is blocking the canned soup.

Roni straightens up immediately, straightening out her dress. “My apologies,” she mutters, scooping up her basket and making her way hurriedly out of the aisle.

----

It takes Roni about twenty more minutes to finish up her shopping, and as she heads out into the cold day she dreads the walk home; even though it isn’t far at all, she has tons of bags that are already leaving marks on her arm. She takes a deep breath and blows it out in a puff of air that is visible in front of her before beginning her journey.

“Roni!”

Roni freezes in her tracks just as quickly as she began when she hears her name being called from behind her, and she prays that it isn’t another member of her family. She turns slowly as she hears footsteps approaching her, and is relieved to find Daisy Hartford scurrying towards her.

Daisy seems out of breath when she reaches Roni “Hello, dear! So nice to see you!”

She envelops Roni in a hug, and kisses her cheek, taking Roni by surprise. Roni smiles warmly, strangely comforted by Daisy’s presence. “Daisy! How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, just fine!” Daisy speaks quickly and excitedly. “Larry has taken over the shop today, so I was finally able to get out and complete some errands. You know your Harry is such a quick learner, we basically cut his training short! And he’s in good hands with my Larry. I stopped in for a bit this morning and the two were chatting like old pals! Isn’t that funny? Harry and Larry?”

Roni giggles, her head practically whirling from how quickly Daisy is speaking and her heart full because of course Daisy and her husband have fallen under Harry’s spell. She nods. “Harry is quite the hard worker,” she agrees. “I’m awfully proud of him.”

“As you should be, honey! And Larry and I just adore him. We’ve been talking about having you both over for dinner sometime soon, in fact!”

Daisy’s words are a bitter reminder of how short Roni’s time here remains, and she has to swallow down the lump that begins to rise in her throat. She laughs, brushing it off. “Yes,” she says, “That would be lovely.” Immediately an idea pops into her head that helps her both change the subject and calm some of her anxieties.

“Hey, speaking of dinner…”

“Yes, dear?”

Roni doesn’t know why this makes her so nervous to ask, but she knows she’ll be glad she did. “Well, I’m fixing a chicken for dinner this evening, and--”

“Ooh!” Daisy squeals, clapping her hands together. “I love a good chicken dinner!”

Roni smiles. “So do I! But the trouble is, I’m not a very good cook.” It isn’t exactly the truth, but for the life of her Roni cannot seem to figure out a better way to explain to Daisy that she doesn’t know how on earth to work many of the gadgets in these old fashioned kitchens. She continues her speech. “I’m not terrible, it’s just that… well, cooking these rather large meals for two has proved more difficult than I’d imagined.”

Daisy giggles. “I know what you mean. Before I married Larry, I had no earthly idea how to cook. I had to buy dozens of cookbooks, and even then I would still ruin the meals sometimes! It just takes a bit of practice, my love. I’ll let you borrow some books if you’d like!”

Roni shakes her head. “No, no. You keep your books. I was just wondering if maybe you’d have any advice for me? I never really get to do this sort of thing for Harry, so I’m trying to surprise him and make it special, you know?”

Daisy squeals again. “Well darling, why didn’t you say so? I just love surprises. Of course I’d be willing to help you!

Roni lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Daisy. You’re an angel.”

“Oh it’s nothing, honey! Why don’t you come with me to my place? I’ll write down one of my favorite recipes.”

“That would be lovely! I want to impress him, you know?”

Daisy nods enthusiastically. “I know!” she giggles. “What are you going to wear?”

Blood rushes to Roni’s cheeks at Daisy’s words. She only has two dresses, both of which Harry not only has seen her in but bought for her, and she suddenly feels self conscious. “I… I was just thinking of wearing this.”

Daisy gasps dramatically, as if Roni has just told her something completely awful. “Oh, honey, no! I mean, not that you don’t look beautiful of course, but this sounds like a special occasion. Haven’t you got anything more… I don’t know, vibrant?”

Roni knows that Daisy means no harm, but she can’t help but feel a little bit hurt. Still, she giggles. “I’m afraid not,” she says. “When I moved in with Harry I…” she trails off, trying to come up with the perfect way to describe this. “I had to leave a lot of my clothes at home. So, this is really all I’ve got.”

“Oh you poor dear.” Daisy frowns, but it is quickly replaced by her bright smile before Roni can even take offense. “Say, I’ve got an idea! We seem to be about the same size, and have I got the perfect dress for you! The color will go so beautifully with your complexion. I bought it for one of my first dates with Larry but I haven’t worn it since. Oh honey, you’ll look like an angel in it! It was made for you, I’m sure. Say yes?”

Roni smiles at Daisy’s generosity, but she does feel bad. “Oh, I don’t want to put you out--”

“It’s no trouble!” Daisy reaches for Roni’s hand, tugging a bit. “Oh, you’ll look divine. Like a dream! And I can do your hair for you if you’d like! Harry will die when he sees you. Simply die!”

Roni giggles to herself. Truth be told, she does want to get all dressed up for Harry. She knows he would be so surprised and pleased to see her dressed head to toe in an authentic dress that isn’t one that he bought for her. Plus, her inner child is begging her to play dress up, just to see what she’s going to look like in the end. It sounds fun, and Daisy seems far too enthusiastic for Roni to turn her down.

So she nods. “Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t, doll! But we’d better hurry, Harry gets off at 7!”

----

It doesn’t take long to get to Daisy’s house, and the interior of the small bungalow looks exactly how Roni would picture Daisy’s home to look. It’s well decorated, with everything in its place-- and it smells floral. The window sills are littered with plants, and the shelves with books. One book lays open in the middle of the coffee table, which Daisy apologizes for. “I always tell Larry to clean up after himself but… well, you know men.”

Daisy tells Roni to make herself at home while she puts her groceries away, and Roni marvels at the tiny kitchen. She observes all the plates and dishes that would be considered antique in her day, and the cookbooks with recipes that she can hardly even read. She stops when she notices the camera from the book shop sitting on a ledge, with a few black and white photographs scattered around it. Beside the mess, a large black pen sits— which Roni figures Daisy was using to date the photos.

Some of the photographs are of Daisy and Larry, smiling together and doing various things around the house. Some are pictures of patrons at the book shop. And then, a picture that makes Roni’s heart instantly skip a beat.

There’s the picture of Harry, standing in his little cap beside the pile of books, taken yesterday at the shop. The picture that Roni had looked at countless times in the future. Now her favorite picture to ever exist.

She squints to see the date that Daisy had written on the bottom, and it makes her giggle.

“You got it wrong,” Roni says.

“Hm?” Daisy turns, only halfway listening as she busies herself with the groceries.

“The date. On this picture of Harry. You wrote 1924. It’s 1925.”

“Oh!” Daisy smacks her forehead, wincing at herself. “Silly me. I keep doing that! Can’t seem to remember that it’s the new year!” She drops the loaf of bread she’s currently holding onto the counter and makes her way over to Roni. “I’ll scratch it out and correct it now.”

“Wait!” Roni doesn’t mean to speak with such a sense of urgency, but when she does it takes both her and Daisy by surprise. Roni scrambles to think of an explanation— a way to put into words the fact that she’s always seen this photograph dated 1924, even in 1999. If something as simple as that changes now, she’s afraid of the domino effect that could potentially change other things as well.

So Roni laughs, almost uncomfortably, trying to brush off her sense of urgency. “I just… feel like that would ruin the whole… aesthetic?... of the picture. You know?”

Daisy’s face scrunches up. “The what?”

Roni tries again. ‘Well I mean, it’s just such a cute picture. I think if you were to scratch out the date and rewrite it, it’ll make it look… well, sloppy. Do you know what I mean? I say just leave it. No ones going to really notice. If anything it just makes it look like Harry’s worked for you longer, you know? Which isn’t a bad thing. I feel like that’s actually a great thing. For you and the company.”

She’s rambling. She knows she’s rambling, but god she’s so nervous the more she thinks about this. As little of a deal as it may seem, she really doesn’t feel like messing with the fabric of her future like this. If the photograph is dated 1924 in 1999, then that must mean it was never corrected. And that means--

Daisy giggles, taking Roni from her thoughts. “My goodness,” she says. “You’ve got it so bad for this boy, haven’t you?”

This takes Roni by surprise, but it’s a welcome change of subject. “Is it that obvious?” She shrugs.

“Oh, darling. I see the way you look at him. And look at you now! You see one picture of him and you’ve gone all silly!”

Roni isn’t sure if she should take offense or not, and Daisy laughs again. “It’s a good thing! Means you’re with the right man. I get the same way around my honey.”

The heat radiating off of Roni’s cheeks is almost uncomfortable, and she giggles awkwardly. Because Daisy does have a point. Daisy beams. “See? Look at you, just the mention of his name and you get as giggly as a school girl. It’s adorable.”

“Yeah,” Roni says. “I guess so.”

“But you are right, I suppose.” Daisy nods her head. “It would look sort of sloppy wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Roni says, and Daisy nods again.

“Right. Well, then, I suppose I’ll just have to leave it then, won’t I? Sort of like a fun little secret for just us! Although it isn’t a very funny secret.”

“No,” Roni agrees, “it’s not. But it’s like a hidden easter egg that only we know about!”

Daisy claps her hands together. “Oh, Roni, I just love the way you think!”

Roni laughs, taking Daisy’s hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. As Daisy lets her residual giggles die down, she speaks. “Now, don’t you think we ought to get started? Not that we have a lot of work to do, what with your natural beauty and all. But there is so much to teach you, in such little time!”

“Yes, I reckon we’d better get on with it.”

Daisy needs no other encouragement, she’s already squealing and dragging Roni back into the kitchen, rambling on and on a mile a minute about everything they’re going to be doing. “First we’ll get the recipe squared away. Then I can do your hair, while you copy down the recipe with a pen. Then we’ll dress you. Oh I just can’t wait to see what you’ll look like! And then--”

Half of Roni wonders what exactly she’s gotten herself into with this plan. But Daisy seems so excited, and she knows that Harry will be, too. So she allows herself to relax into the moment, still relieved that the fate of the universe (and the inaccurate date on the photograph) is safe for one more day.

---

It’s about 7:30pm when Roni finally hears Harry’s keys in the door, and the nervous feeling in the pit of Roni’s belly only intensifies. After leaving Daisy’s, she’d spent the better half of her day cooking, setting up the apartment, and overthinking everything. Daisy had given her all the tools she needed for success tonight, but something in her is causing her anxiety to completely spike. The long candles on the table flicker vigorously, and the soft music of the victrola in the corner of the room echoes softly. In the five seconds that it takes Harry to get his door unlocked, Roni’s thoughts run a mile a minute.

What if Harry thinks her outfit looks silly? What if the meal tastes like garbage? What if the house doesn’t smell good enough? What if--

Roni doesn’t have time to continue worrying when she sees the door open, and when Harry walks in, her heart rate increases.

He looks cold, his nose red and shiny and his curls extra curly under his little cap. He doesn’t seem to notice anything different at first, and he seems a bit winded as he locks the door behind him. He begins removing his coat, turning on his heels and then stopping dead in his tracks when he sees Roni.

Roni smiles nervously back at him, looking like an absolute vision. She’s in a pink silk dress that fits her perfectly, hugging her every curve in the exact right places. The fabric shimmers in the dim light of the apartment, and the soft frills along the trim of the skirt make Harry’s heart skip a beat. While Roni had hand copied Daisy’s favorite chicken recipe, Daisy had insisted on styling Roni’s hair (which Roni had happily agreed to), and now it looks so perfectly gelled and in place. In perfect 1920s fashion, it’s wavy at the top and curled at the bottom-- just ghosting against the top of her bare shoulders (both of which are just begging to be kissed). Harry can tell she’s nervous and feels a bit out of place, but that makes her look all the more adorably beautiful, and he practically runs to her the moment he gets his coat off.

Harry goes to hurriedly drape his coat on the coat rack, but he misses and it falls to the floor with a thud. Roni giggles, and in a blink Harry has closed the space between them, kissing her smile and pulling her in by her hips.

Roni’s bubbly giggles die down as she kisses him back, but neither of them can contain their smiles. Harry pulls away but doesn’t once remove his hands from her waist. “Veronica,” he breathes. “Bunny, what is this?”

“Do you like it?” Roni steps back, taking the skirt of her dress in her hands and giving it a little swish. “Do I look alright?”

“Baby,” Harry breathes, eyeing her up and down and taking his time with it. “You’re a vision.”

Roni’s cheeks grow hot, and she giggles nervously. “Never had my hair done this way before,” she admits. “I thought it might look silly, but I actually kind of like it.”

“It suits you,” Harry says, nodding. He’s beaming at her like she hung the moon, and it makes her giggle.

After a long beat of silence, Roni squirms under Harry’s gaze. “Why are you staring at me?” she pouts.

“Is that not what you want?” he replies, matter-of-factly. His dimple pops, looking extra kissable, and Roni wants nothing more than to reach up and poke at it.

“Well--”

Harry steps forward, raising his hand to lightly trail his fingertips along the skin of her exposed arm. He scratches lightly at the strap of the dress against her shoulder, smiling when he notices the goosebumps prickling her skin. “Can’t believe you did all this for me.” He leans forward, ghosting his lips along her neck. “Why?”

“I just… wanted to do something special,” Roni says quietly, fidgeting softly with her ring and barely glancing up at Harry beneath her lashes. “I don’t want to focus on like, the bad stuff. I want to be happy right now while I’ve still got you. Is that okay?”

Harry doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry so he settles on gripping Roni’s hips and pulling her impossibly closer for a long kiss. She’s so lovely, and she looks and smells like an absolute dream. When he pulls away, Harry buries his nose in the crook of her neck just to get a whiff of what smells so deliciously like Roni and some expensive perfume he’s never learned the name of.

“That sounds lovely, honey.”

She smiles at nothing in particular. “Yeah?”

When he pulls away, he’s got a soft-eyed expression mixed with an overwhelmed smile on his face. “Yeah.”

Roni frowns. “Now don’t go all misty on me. I’m serious. The whole point of this was to not do that! To just pretend for like, one night that everything is okay.”

Harry chuckles, slipping a hand around Roni’s waist and pulling her closer again. He presses a velvety kiss to the wrinkles on her forehead, and smiles when he feels them soften. “I haven’t gone misty,” he says. “Just… just lucky. That’s all.”

Roni sighs, enjoying the feeling of his lips against her skin. Something about all of this feels so strangely right; the clothes that she never thought would look good on her, the way her hair is done up with multiple pins practically stabbing her scalp, the gentle music from this era playing softly through the apartment. She refuses to think about what’s coming in the next few days, and fully immerses herself in the daydream that she is, in fact, Harry’s wife.

She clears her throat, busying herself instead with the food in the kitchen. “I made us some chicken for tonight with some roasted vegetables! Although now that I think about it, I suppose I should’ve asked if you even liked chicken. Which, if you don’t, that’s completely fine. We can have something else. But the veggies should be good!”

Harry laughs. “Slow down, my sweet girl. Why are you so nervous?” He takes a step towards her. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I just… want this to be perfect, you know?”

“Well,” he says, “if it’s even half as good as it smells, then I’d say it’s more than perfect.” He grins. “Even if it’s not. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Roni smiles, obviously proud of herself. “And!” she says, turning to flip the stove off. “Daisy taught me how to work the victrola. It’s not as hard as it looks, but it did take me a minute to figure out. It’s kind of intimidating.”

Harry doesn’t respond, he just watches her with the biggest, cheesiest smile on his face as she continues to ramble about her day. He really doesn’t know why she seems so anxious about all of this, and he’s hardly listening to her as he admires how beautiful she looks. The mere sight of her-- dressed like this, cooking for him, going out of her way to ensure that this is the perfect evening-- is enough to call tears to his eyes, and he has to refrain from thinking too hard about the situation lest they spill down his cheeks.

With oven mitts that are far too big for her hands, Roni removes the chicken from Harry’s humble stove, and Harry’s mouth waters at the sight of it. “How did you--”

“Daisy,” she answers. “She gave me the recipe.” Roni looks at him with eyes the size of saucers. “I hope it’s good.”

“Please,” Harry says, closing the space between them. “Stop worrying.” He leans in, kissing her nose softly before speaking again, just above a whisper. “I love you.”

His words make Roni’s heart skip a beat. She’d nearly forgotten their love confessions from the previous night, and now hearing Harry say these words to her again makes her just as giddy as before.

“I love you, too,” she says, and Harry hums-- leaning in to kiss at her neck.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, too.” Roni giggles.

“One more time? Didn’t quite catch that.” He presses a kiss to the shell of her ear and she laughs loudly.

“I love you, you lunatic!” She squeals when Harry squeezes at her hips, pinning her to his body. “No!”

Harry laughs, freeing her finally but only enough to take her hand in his. He twirls her under his arm, admiring the way her skirt swishes in the light. “God,” he says, “this dress makes you look like a princess.”

“You mean I didn’t before?” She teases.

“No, no, you did, but this-- wow.”

It’s all so amusing to Roni. He hadn’t thought much of the skimpy, futuristic dress she’d arrived in. But this dress, one that exposes only her bare shoulders and nothing more, has him utterly gobsmacked, and she’s so endeared by it.

“I made sure to get one that showed a bit of skin.” She pokes at his tummy. “Know you’re into that sort of thing.”

Harry snorts. “Please. You could wear a burlap sack and I’d be into it.”

“Oh yeah?” Roni wiggles her eyebrows. “Kinky thing, aren’t you?”

This time, Harry’s face does twist up in confusion. “Kinky?”

“You’ve never heard that word before?”

“No I have, I just… feel like I haven’t heard it… in the context that you just said it? What does it mean?”

Roni grows a little bit self conscious, but she laughs in spite of herself. “It means like… you’re into some crazy stuff in bed. Like, you’re turned on by something other than just… vanilla stuff? I guess?” Harry stares blankly back at her, and her cheeks grow hot. “You knnoooow,” she tries again. “Kinky!”

“Are you kinky?” Harry asks, lips curling up into his signature dimpled smirk.

And shit, this is not the conversation she’d been expecting to have with Harry tonight.

Not that she’s complaining, of course.

“I mean…” She involuntarily swallows the lump in her throat, and it makes an almost choking noise. Harry beams. “Yeah. Kinda. Yeah.”

“Really?” Harry leans casually against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “What sort of things do you enjoy?”

Roni averts her gaze, focusing on the cooling chicken on top of the stove. She has an answer for him, of course, but she’s realizing that it’s much harder to put into words than she’d been anticipating. At home with Oliver, they’d been together for so long that they sort of grew into their kinks together. They learned what the other liked without ever having to really articulate it much. But now, having to explain it, to have to put it into words for Harry while he’s grinning at her-- and looking like that-- makes Roni’s skin itch.

“Veronica.” Harry softens a bit, but his dimple never leaves his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me, bunny.”

And now she frowns. “No, no! I want to. I just… I don’t know, it’s weird. I’ve never had to like, communicate it before.”

“I see.”

Harry doesn’t say anything else, but he watches her with a look that is both simultaneously daunting and comforting. Roni licks her lips and takes a deep breath.

“I’m into like… fairly normal kinky stuff, I guess. Like nothing too wild. But I like being--” her voice goes significantly quieter, “-teased… and… sometimes choked….”

Harry visibly tenses, but he remains as cool as possible-- his smirk only deepening. “Choked, huh? Never thought anyone could enjoy that.”

“It’s pretty common,” Roni explains quickly. “Like, I swear people like it. I’m not weird.”

“Never said you were weird.” Harry’s eyes twinkle, and Roni becomes painfully aware of the heat that is radiating off of her cheeks.

“Um…” she continues again, still hesitant. “So yeah. I like that. And sometimes I like being… uh….” She practically whispers the last word. “Spanked.”

Now, Harry does physically react. He raises his eyebrows, and his bottom lip juts out as if impressed. “Y’like being spanked huh? Never knew anyone who enjoyed that either.”

“I mean, if you think it’s weird--”

“It’s not weird,” Harry insists, shaking his head. “Believe me. It’s probably the least weird thing I could imagine. Will you relax?” He closes the space between them once again, taking her hand in his and bringing her knuckles up to his lipps. “It’s probably one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard in my life, if I’m honest. And I don’t even understand why.”

Roni chuckles. “That’s kind of the point, I think. No one really gets why. But it’s like, taboo, you know? And that’s the fun of it.”

“Mm.” Harry grins. “Anything else I should know about?”

Roni’s stomach twists at his words. “Um…” She gulps. “I mean…” Her voice is so quiet that Harry has to lean in closer to hear her. “I like being tied up.”

“Tied up? Like… restrained while you’re being fucked?”

Roni turns her head to hide her embarrassment. “I mean when you say it out loud it sounds kinda funky but--”

“No no!” Harry assures her. “My god, bunny, no. Are you joking? M’getting hard just thinking about seeing you all tied up for me.”

“A boner before dinner?” Roni teases, trying to lighten the situation to cover up her obvious nerves. “After I worked so hard?”

“That might be part of it actually,” Harry chuckles. “A delicious meal made by a delicious girl who likes to be… what was the word? Kinky?”

Roni giggles. “Kinky. Yeah.”

Harry grins. “Yeah. Fucking love it.”

There’s a charged silence that lingers between the two of them, and Roni grows increasingly anxious (in the best sort of way). She clears her throat. “Anyway! Dinner is going to get cold, so we should probably--”

Harry cuts her off with a heated kiss directly to her still open mouth. He’s smiling, and it makes Roni giggle, especially when he reaches up to cup her cheek. When he pulls away, it's with a strained effort, and it makes him smile even more to realize Roni doesn’t want the kiss to end either.

“It smells delicious, bunny.”

“I hope it is.”

“It will be.” Harry grins. “Shall I set the table?”

Roni beams. “I already did, my love. All you have to do is get comfortable and come join me.”

“Get comfortable?” Harry smirks. “Y’mean I can come back naked?”

Roni squirms as she lets out a scoff to cover her embarrassment. “What-EVER. No! That’s not what I meant. Go put on some comfy clothes.”

“Well, you don’t look very comfy.”

“I am!”

“Are you? Sure you wouldn’t be comfier naked?”

“Harry.”

Harry giggles like a little boy and dodges the towel that Roni snaps at his behind. “Alright alright. I’ll be right back.”

“You better be, little shit.”

Harry scurries out of the room while Roni rolls her eyes and turns to the chicken on the stove. She works her hardest to prepare it, trying not to allow her thoughts to linger on the way he looked in his work clothes-- his cute little cap hanging sideways on his head, parallel with the smirk on his cheeks.

Roni serves up their plates, lighting a few more candles around the room and setting everything on the table perfectly. She tries to contain her joy when Harry re-enters the room. He licks his lips the moment he sees his plate on the table, and he beams at her. “Looks delicious, Veronica. You and the meal.”

Roni smiles as she sets her drink down beside her own plate. “Yeah?”

Harry grins, pulling her seat out. “Yeah.”

Roni giggles, wasting no time in settling herself into the seat. “You’re so cute, Harry. Fuck.”

This makes Harry snort as he helps Roni push her seat into the table. “That’s all you, princess.”

Roni grows visibly embarrassed, which only causes Harry’s smirk to deepen and his dimple to pop even harder. “Like that, don’t you? ‘Princess.’”

“It’s just cute, is all. Never been called that before.”

“Well,” Harry says, taking his own seat, “It suits you.”

Roni squirms in her seat, and Harry jokingly fluffs out his napkin. He juts out his bottom lip in a smug grin, tucking the napkin into his shirt collar and causing Roni to laugh.

“So formal,” she comments.

“Seems fitting. Would you like me to tuck yours in for you as well?”

The connotations behind his words do not go unnoticed by Roni, and he beams, causing her to roll her eyes.

“Anyway,” she says, embarrassment prickling her ears, “Bon appetit.”

Harry moans the moment he shovels the first fork-full of chicken into his mouth, despite Roni’s warnings that it’s going to be hot and he needs to blow on it. He’s making obscene noises as he chews, and whether it’s for dramatic affect or not, Roni isn’t sure. In any case, though, it does wonders for her ego the way he’s rolling his eyes and licking his lips.

“Veronica.” Harry speaks before swallowing. “Baby. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Roni grins, realizing that she still hasn’t even taken a bite because she’s been too busy blowing on the chicken and eyeing Harry anxiously. “Yeah?”

Harry swallows. “My god,” he says, not a trace of over exaggeration on his pretty face. “I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a meal this delicious.”

“I’m so glad!” It touches Roni’s heart and also kind of makes her sad. This meal really isn’t anything out of the ordinary, and she realizes that he’s so happy because she made it. He’s lived alone for years, and she knows he’s hardly (if at all) been loved like this. He’s only had to take care of himself, and she wonders if he’s ever had someone in his life to care for him like this.

“I mean it,” Harry says. “I could cry. Never tasted anything this good in my life.’

Now Roni giggles. “It’s just chicken, my love.”

“No, you must’ve put something special in it. Extra love or something, I don’t know. I don’t know what you did, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Roni’s curiosity gets the best of her. “Harry?”

“Mm?” He hums around another mouthful.

“Have you never had… a woman in your life?”

Harry snorts at her question, but he slows his chewing for a brief moment, considering her words. He doesn’t seem to take offense, which is a relief. He thinks about his answer as he chews, waiting to speak once he’s swallowed. “I have. Sort of.”

“Yeah?”

“Had a girlfriend a few years back. She was older. We didn’t date for very long. She would’ve never done anything like what you’ve done for me tonight.”

Roni grins. “What, make you dinner?”

“Well, that, but also…” Harry gestures vaguely towards Roni. “This. What you’ve done with your hair. And the dress. You’re so thoughtful. She never was.”

Roni reaches forward, placing her hand lightly on Harry’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright!” Any trace of sadness on Harry’s face is immediately wiped clean and replaced with a smile. “Worked out anyway. She cheated on me. Twice. So. Obviously she wasn’t very happy either.” He chuckles, preparing his next bite already.

Roni only frowns. “That’s awful, Harry.”

“Was pretty awful, yeah. But I’m glad now. Taught me a lot, you know?” He smiles at her. “Just glad I have you now.”

“Yeah,” Roni says quietly. “Me too.”

The rest of the dinner is just as lovely as the start, and Roni does have to admit that she did a pretty damn good job with the food. Harry talks about his day at work while continuously complimenting Roni’s cooking, and he also listens-- completely intrigued-- when she mentions the little girl at the grocery store.

“No kidding,” Harry says. “You really think it was your grandma?”

Roni nods. “I do. I know it was her, because I grew up hearing the story of the lady in the grocery store.”

Harry grins. “Sick!”

His words make Roni giggle. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

Harry’s cheeks go the lightest shade of crimson at her words, but he takes it in stride. “Can’t help it,” he admits. Your futuristic verbiage inspires me.”

After dinner, Harry refuses to allow Roni to touch a single dish. He washes them in the kitchen sink, jokingly shoving Roni out of the way every time she tries to help.

“You worked so hard on dinner,” he insists. “If you so much as look at these dishes one more time, I’ll—“

“You’ll what?” Roni challenges, with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “You won’t do anything. You looooove me too much.”

Her teases are childish but they make both of them giggle. Harry doesn’t say anything, instead just dipping his hand into the soapy water and flicking some suds onto her. Roni shrieks, and Harry grins. “I do love you,” he says, before she can get a word in. “Too much.”

Roni busies herself with picking another record to play while Harry finishes up the dishes, and she tries to keep her questions to a minimum. She’d had no issues with this earlier, why is she struggling with it now?

Although, to be fair, it had been fresh in her mind earlier. Now all of her thoughts are clouded with Harry and how absolutely delicious he looks right now.

Harry, of course, sees her struggling. But he knows how stubborn she is, and he knows that if she wanted help she would ask for it. So he just chuckles quietly to himself as she tries to figure it out, and he grins when he hears her let out a triumphant “A-HA!”

After a few more seconds, the song whirs to life. Harry recognizes it almost instantly, and he lets out a cackle. “Veronica--”

Roni is swaying her hips, bopping around the living room while I’m Just Wild About Harry fills the silence. Harry watches her dance with an amused expression, and she laughs, singing along to a few of the words. “It’s a good song, huh?” she asks. “Never heard it until today. Daisy showed me. She actually lent it to me so I could do this. Neat, huh? How like, accurate to our situation it is and stuff.”

Harry shuts off the water in the sink, drying his hands before making his way slowly into the living room. He takes Roni’s wiggling hips in his hands, and laughs when she doesn’t stop dancing. “This is my song to you,” she states. “I’m just wild about you, lover boy.”

Harry giggles, swaying a bit with her as well. “Well,” he says, “The feeling is mutual.”

Roni continues to bop around the living room, with Harry only half heartedly dancing with her. He watches her intently the entire time, and his stare makes her almost nervous. She tries to stay as playful as possible, but the way he’s smirking at her makes her giggly and excited. Finally, she groans. “Whaaaaaat?”

Harry throws back his head and laughs, taking her hips in his hands once again. “Just love you,” he admits, kissing her forehead. “Can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You’re staring at me like a weirdo,” Roni points out, and the smile on her face lets him know that she isn’t upset about it in the least.

“Can’t help it,” he says. “Have you seen yourself?”

“You’re one to talk!” Roni hip checks him and he snorts. “Anyway, you’re being very rude not participating in this dance with me.”

“I’m dancing!” Harry insists.

“Yeah, but not enough! You know, if there was a song that was like I’m Just Wild About Roni or something, I’d be shaking my little ass all over this house.”

Harry chokes on a laugh, and Roni immediately kisses against his open mouth. “Come onnnn,” she giggles, “You’ve gotta get into it!”

Harry watches her, an amused smirk on his face, and she turns it into a game. She wiggles her hips tauntingly, moving closer to him and then backing away when he reaches for her. It makes him chuckle, but he holds on to his facade as long as possible. “If you keep moving like that, I’ll cum untouched,” he teases.

“What, like this?” Roni wiggles ungracefully, and Harry laughs. He can’t stop himself from launching forward now. He takes her hips in his hands, squeezing and yanking her towards him-- causing her to squeal.

“Harry!” she giggles, stumbling into his arms. “Fuck!”

He laughs heartily as he steadies her, wrapping his arms around her and successfully trapping her against his body. She squirms in a half-hearted attempt to escape, but he holds her steadfast, kissing her temple a few times until both of their giggles settle down.

When the aftershocks of Roni’s giggles have subsided into soft hums of contentment, she lifts her head to smile at Harry. The way he’s looking down at her causes him to get the most adorable double chin, and she noses at it softly. He squeezes her tighter, pulling her in to button their lips together.

The kiss grows more intense with each second that passes, and Harry’s thoughts begin to run wild. With a gentle touch, he trails his fingertips slowly up Roni’s back, testing the waters by gripping the back of her neck firmly. He feels her stiffen only slightly, her breath hitching softly in her throat before she relaxes into his grasp. She lets out a barely-there groan when he squeezes, and he knows he’s got her.

“Can I tell you something?” Harry breathes, using his other hand to squeeze teasingly at her ass.

“Hm?”

“I couldn’t want you any more than I do tonight.”

He can feel the heat radiating off of her cheeks, but he doesn’t even give her a chance to respond before he’s gripping her neck tighter, gently guiding her backwards a bit. They stumble awkwardly through the living room together, never once breaking the kiss.

Roni giggles, and even Harry can’t help but to smile, when their teeth knock together-- making a noise that echoes somewhat uncomfortably. It’s then that Harry notices the song has come to an end, and he gets an idea.

He pulls away slowly, heart melting when he sees Roni lean in for another kiss before realizing he’s stopped. She looks up at him with doe eyes, and he almost forgets what he was even going to say.

“Got an idea,” he says. “Going to set the mood.”

“The mood is already set, baby,” Roni insists, but Harry is already moving. He’s hurrying over to his records, thumbing through them haphazardly until he lets out a quiet-- but triumphant-- “Ah! There it is.”

Roni, growing impatient and almost uncomfortably wet, tries to catch a glimpse of the music he holds in his hands, but it’s no use. So she lets out an indignant huff that causes Harry to smirk.

“Patience, pretty baby,” he coos. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

Something about the tone with which he presents these words to her causes Roni to shiver, and she doesn’t even mean to moan the way she does-- light and airy and almost pornographic sounding (but in a sweet way). The moan doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, because of course it doesn’t, and he chuckles to himself just out of her earshot.

“Can’t make love to my girl without a good song playing.”

“Can’t you, though?” Roni teases, and Harry shoots her a cheeky glance over his shoulder before busying to work switching out the records.

“Well, I mean, I could,” he says, “but what’s the fun in that? Besides…” He drops the needle in place, turning around with a smirk as the slow, sexy song begins. “...Gonna need something to drown out her screams from how good m’making her feel.”

Roni giggles nervously— not because what he said was funny, but because she knows he’s right, and the anticipation mixed with the thick tension charging the air is making her tummy twist.

Harry turns slowly on his heel, a mischievous grin on his face as if he’s about to pounce on her. Roni takes a cautious step backwards and Harry confirms her suspicions, bounding for her and immediately devouring her in kisses.

It starts out playful, but the kisses soon grow hungrier and hungrier— and then suddenly they’re groping at one another like two horny teenagers left unsupervised for the first time. Roni haphazardly tugs at the buttons of Harry’s shirt while he uses his hands to guide them both awkwardly towards the sofa without opening his eyes or removing his lips from hers.

There is a gentle bump when the back of Roni’s legs hit the sofa, and Harry gently turns them both around. He plops ungracefully onto the couch, large ringed fingers on either side of Roni’s hips as he tugs her onto his lap. She complies with little persuasion needed, straddling his waist and cupping the back of his neck with her hands. Her thumbs brush against the untamable curls at the base, and he shivers ever so softly when she purposely scratches. All the while their lips never separate, and as Harry licks his way into her mouth, Roni leans impossibly closer to him.

His fingers squeeze the fleshier part of her hips before ducking lower to the curve of her ass, cupping it gently beneath his palms. He pulls away only slightly when he speaks. “Jesus, Veronica.”

“Is this okay?” Roni bumps her nose playfully against Harry’s and he chuckles.

“‘Course it is. Just never seen anyone so perfect. Think you were made for me.”

“Think so, too,” Roni mumbles against the base of his throat, dragging her lips up the sensitive skin and nibbling gently at his ear.

Harry hums low in his throat, squeezing Roni’s ass through the thick fabric of her skirt. “This fucking dress,” he mumbles, and Roni can hear feel the vibration of his voice as she kisses against his neck.

It makes Roni smile to herself at how easy it is to turn him on-- especially wearing something as simple as this. This dress, of course, is incredibly beautiful but in her time it would be considered far too modest and less than sexy. Harry, however, is transfixed on the sight before him, and he seems completely head over heels in love with Roni as he trails his fingertips along the frills on the skirt.

Roni allows Harry a few moments of wonder before she gets right back to work, leaning in and sucking the spot below his ear. “You’re one to talk,” she mumbles, trailing her lips up to the shell of his ear. She takes his earlobe between her teeth and nibbles gently, and Harry involuntarily squeezes at her hips, causing her to roll them against him.

Harry tilts his head, taking Roni’s bottom lip between his own and sucking. Just as his tongue begins to gently trace its way into her mouth, his big hands slide up her back tenderly-- causing her to shiver. She gulps, opening her mouth further and allowing him to lick his way in, greeting his tongue with a graceful swirl of her own. He hums again, and she can feel a faint whisper of a grin tugging on his mouth.

As Roni rolls her center along his ever growing bulge, he chuckles almost darkly against her lips. “Christ,” he mutters, “What are you doing to me?”

“Feel good?” she asks, lips ghosting his.

“Going to make me finish before I’m ready,” he admits. “You’re a devil.”

Roni hums. “Kiss me again.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice, and he leans in to button their lips together once more. He allows his hands to gather up all the ruffles along the trim of her skirt, bunching them up in one hand so he can lift it effortlessly. Roni’s’ backside feels instantly colder, and she glances down to the spot where her core meets his. He gulps, realizing that she’s wearing stockings and no underwear, and Roni instantly grows embarrassed.

“Gonna make a mess on your pants if we keep going like this,” she admits breathlessly.

“S’okay,” Harry says, eyes glued to her pussy. “It’s fuckin’ sexy.”

With his words, Roni gives another harsh roll of her hips, and Harry’s head falls back onto the couch. He closes his eyes for a split second, trying to make a mental image of the sight of her juices slick against his trousers, and then licks his lips before speaking.

“Wanna--” he gulps, “--wanna try something. Can we?”

“Anything,” Roni whispers.

Harry doesn’t speak again, launching right into whatever it is he wants to try. He takes Roni’s hips in his hands again and shifts her, ever so slightly, until she’s straddling only one of his knees. She takes care not to accidentally knee him in the balls, which proves hard with his ever growing bulge getting bigger and bigger. She already feels soaked, and she grows embarrassed at the slightly sticky stain already forming on his trousers.

“Harry, what--”

“I want to watch you,” he breathes, looking up at her from under his lashes. “Want to watch you try and get yourself off on my thigh.”

Roni lets out a breath. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

“But I want you to.” His stare is so intense, she has to avert her eyes, and he leans forward to gently bump her nose with his own. “Please,” he says. “Just try for me.”

Roni eyes him hesitantly, before positioning herself better and beginning the rocking of her hips. Her breath comes out shaky, and it’s Harry who lets out a low groan. His eyes flicker continuously between her face and her pussy, and the mere sight of him makes her all the more wet.

“Feel good, princess?”

Roni shivers at her new nickname. On any other occasion, she feels she would’ve found it cringey, but now, coming from his lips, it makes her fucking melt. Roni nods, taking her bottom lip between her teeth and focusing as much as she can on getting the friction she’s craving. It does feel good, but truth be told it’s nowhere near enough, and she doesn’t think she’s actually going to be able to get herself off by this alone.

“I--” she breathes, already feeling winded, “I need more.”

Harry raises his knee slightly, and Roni rolls her hips a bit harsher, inhaling sharply at the slight increase of friction.

“Like that?” Harry asks quietly.

Roni nods. “M-hm. Just like that.”

“You’re a vision, Veronica,” Harry breathes. “Look at you.”

She gives an extra hard rock of her hips. It still feels good, but all she wants right now is him. She reaches forward to take one of his hands from her hip and gently guides it down to her clit.

Harry grins. “Needy,” he tuts.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Feels good but… it’s not enough.”

There is something different in Harry’s eyes tonight, and it excites Roni more than she’s willing to admit. He gently rolls his fingers along her clit, and she arches her back. She gulps.

“Why don’t we see how far we can take this,” Harry says slowly, “Until you can’t possibly take it anymore.”

Roni whines when Harry pulls his fingers away, laying her head down to bury her face in his neck. “You tease.”

She can hear him chuckle softly, reaching to grip her hips and guide her along his thigh. “And you thought I was bad the other night.”

“Gonna ruin your pants.”

“Don’t care about my trousers,” Harry states. “Already said that. Want you all over them.”

Roni wiggles a bit uncomfortably, searching for that friction against her clit again. She bites lightly at the spot on Harry’s neck that she knows makes him whimper, and she tries to refrain from leaving a mark.

“Can’t believe how wet you are,” Harry breathes. “Can feel you through the fabric.”

“Harry--”

“Keep going,” he says. “Please, honey.”

It almost seems that Harry is getting more pleasure from this than Roni herself is, and she bites at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. She knows this is driving him crazy, and she realizes that, despite all the sex they’ve been having the past few days, this might just be the kinkiest he’s ever gotten with her, which somehow turns her on even more.

Roni throws her head back, giving a particularly hard roll of her hips and letting a long moan drip from her lips when she hits her clit from a good angle. “God, baby,” she whines.

Harry licks his lips and squeezes her that much tighter. “Tell me, princess.”

“Please…” She’s wiggling ungracefully now, trying so hard to get some friction. She reaches once again for his hand, completely unashamed of how desperate she must be coming across. But Harry gives the back of her hand a little slap before pulling it away.

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh,” he says. “What did I just say?”

It makes Roni shiver, the tone he’s using and the darkness in his eyes. Obviously he’d been paying attention to what she said she liked earlier because he’s brought out the big guns now. It fuels Roni even harder-- lights a fire under her ass that makes her want to disobey him more just so he can put her in her place.

“Please,” she whines. “It’s not enough.”

She goes to reach for his hand a third time, and this time he’s quicker than her. He takes her wrist in his hand-- wrapping his fingers fully around the width of it, and bends her arm at the elbow so that he’s got it pinned behind her back. He does the same with her opposite hand before she even has time to process it, and effortlessly holds them both in one of his large fists.

Harry tuts at her, shaking his head. “Why is my girl suddenly being so bad?” he asks. “Hm? Not doing what she’s told. Surely she’s not asking for a spanking… is she?”

Roni groans, her hips growing tired from the constant movement, and she rests her forehead on his shoulder. “Harry… please baby--”

He gives her wrists a tug, securing her even tighter. He bumps her nose with his own, teasing her. Roni chases his lips with her own, begging for a kiss, but he keeps his face just out of reach. He chuckles darkly, sending a shiver down Roni’s spine, but then he speaks so tenderly it melts her heart.

“Is this still okay, honey?”

“Of course it is,” Roni whispers. “Wish I could touch you, but--”

“But you like being restrained, don’t you princess?”

He speaks so formally, which somehow adds to the eroticism of the moment. Roni has never experienced anything like this. She moans, uninhibited. “I do, Harry. I really do.”

“Of course you do,” he chuckles darkly. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

He is looking at her intensely but there’s a hint of curiosity behind his eyes that makes this all the better. He’s testing the waters, and it’s working for Roni in a way that nothing has ever worked before. “I’m your good girl,” she pants. “Please touch me.”

“Ohh,” Harry tuts. “Now, bunny, you can take a little more teasing can’t you?”

“I can’t,” Roni whines.

“You can,” Harry says, bumping her nose with his own. “Know you can.”

Roni lets out a cry that makes even her feel pitiful. She’s never like this-- truly-- but Harry makes her feel something unlike anything she’s ever experienced. “Fuck, fuck fuck,” she whimpers in frustration, her hips growing tired from their movement. She struggles against Harry’s fists, but he’s got a firm hold on her, and he grins sadistically.

“Getting tired?”

“I’m close,” she pants, “But it isn’t enough. Harry-- please--”

“Hm.” Harry narrows his eyes, blinking slowly at her as he watches her struggle. “You have been good, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Roni cries.

“Wasn’t actually asking you, sweetheart.” Without warning, Harry uses his free hand to smack lightly at the side of Roni’s bum, causing her to gasp. There isn’t enough force to actually hurt her, and the layers of her skirt sort of soften the blow, but it leaves behind a little sting that causes an involuntary moan to escape Roni’s lips.

Harry looks up at her from under his lashes, a devilish smirk on his face but a hint of innocence in his eyes. “Was that okay?”

Roni nods, gulping harder than she intends. “Yes,” she moans, “it was perfect. Do it again.”

Harry smiles, his dominant side vanishing for just a moment as he leans in to press a kiss to Roni’s lips. “I like this kinky side of you.” He denies her request, kissing the corner of her lips as she squirms against his lap. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Roni can’t help the moan that bubbles up from her throat when he reaches down to rub at the spot he’s just slapped. How could someone be so sexy, yet so incredibly sweet at the same time? Her clit is practically throbbing, and the spot on Harry’s trousers that is consistently being rubbed by her core grows hotter and wetter by the second. She’s relieved when Harry lets go of her wrists-- using one hand to take her hip and the other to rub against her clit.

The whimper that leaves her lips is filthy and pathetic, and Harry uses the hand that rests on her hip to guide her movements while he rubs against her clit. He watches her face intently, with his lips parted ever so slightly. His cock is plumping up nicely in his trousers, and Roni squirms a bit more in an attempt to place some friction on it for him. She fights to keep her eyes open as Harry rubs circles on her clit, and her eyes roll back in her head when he gives a particularly fast rub.

His own breathing picks up intensity, and he subconsciously licks his lips as he watches her. Roni starts babbling, voice on the verge of tears as she grinds against Harry’s fingers, and he silences her with another harsh slap to her bottom. She yelps, and he moans low in his throat.

“Go on, princess,” he says, voice thick and dark. “Use my thigh. Use my fingers. Cum all over me, baby, know you can.”

It’s only a few more seconds before Roni’s thighs are quivering, and she has to hold onto Harry’s shoulders to keep her balance while her orgasm washes over her. Her head lulls dully to the side, and her vision goes white hot. She doesn’t even try to quiet her moans, she lets them pour out long and full while she grinds her pussy against Harry, riding out a most delicious orgasm.

And not once does Harry remove his eyes from her face.

When the orgasm has finished, she collapses, spent, onto Harry’s shoulders. He removes his fingers from her clit (not ignoring the way she twitches as he moves) and notices his hand is sort of cramping. Using his free hand, he scratches tenderly at her back, giving her a few moments to catch her breath. He trails his hand down gently to the spot on her ass that he’s smacked, and he gives it a gentle squeeze, soothing over the stinging as best he can.

They both seem to realize that the song has long since ended, but neither seems to care. After a few more moments, Roni hardly makes any effort to move. But Harry can tell she’s still needy for him by the way she begins suckling at his neck. He allows her to trail a few wet kisses along his skin there, before leaning back gently. “Veronica? Hey, baby, can you sit up for me please?”

Roni lifts her head slowly, and the dazed out, blissful look in her eyes is almost too much for Harry to handle. He smiles, kissing at her eyelids and loving the way her lashes flutter closed. When he pulls back, he scans her face again. “All this from one orgasm?”

Roni nods sleepily. “Want more,” she says. “Please.”

“Ohhh,” Harry says with a grin. “My needy girl. Look so pretty right now, you know that?”

“Felt good,” Roni mumbles, already fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. She stops when she looks down at his trousers, frowning when she sees just how soaked she’s gotten them.

“What?” As soon as Harry’s asked, his eyes are looking at the same thing hers are, only he’s grinning and she’s not.

“Messy,” Roni observes quietly.

“Mm.” Harry hums low in his throat. “But I asked you to, didn’t I? Told you I wanted it.”

“Yeah but--”

“And it felt good, didn’t it, baby?”

“Oh my god, yes,” Roni says, a shiver running down her spine as if the mere thought of it is causing aftershocks. “I don’t understand.”

Harry reaches up, trailing his fingertips delicately along her shoulders, tickling at her back lightly, and scratching tenderly at the back of her neck. “What? What don’t you understand?”

“How every time is just… so fucking good. I don’t know how you do that. It’s never been so intense, or.. Or…” She runs out of words, lost in thought and melting at the way he’s touching her skin.

Harry smiles patiently. “Or what, baby? Say it.”

“Just…” Roni shakes her head, still at a loss for words, and she giggles at herself. “I don’t know, Harry. You’re just so good. I love it. I love you. That was incredible. I mean, seriously, that was so intense yet so simple. It literally was--”

“Foreplay,” Harry says, cutting her off. His fingers wrap gently around her throat, giving it a slight squeeze that makes her jaw drop. “That was just foreplay, baby.”

In an instant he’s moving, never once removing his hand from her throat. He’s squirming to get his pants undone with one hand, but given the somewhat awkward position he’s in, he can’t. Roni wastes no time, reaching down to do the job herself, and Harry beams. “That’s right,” Harry says, his voice low in the back of his throat. “Get me undone, will you?.”

Roni fumbles with the zipper and the button, but she seems in a daze with the way Harry’s hand feels around her neck. He’s almost worried that he’s doing too much, maybe squeezing a bit too hard or whatever, when he hears it.

“Harder,” she whispers. “Harry… Can you choke me harder? Please?”

Harry can’t even attempt to hide his surprise. “H-harder?” he stutters.

“Please,” she whines. They seem to remember at the same time that her hands are on the buttons of his pants, and she hurries to finish the job she started.

As soon as his pants are unfastened he removes his hand from her neck and scrambles, somewhat awkwardly, to get them off. Roni has to shuffle off of him briefly as he kicks the pants off, and before she can even do anything, Harry is yanking her by her hips back on top of him. She shrieks as she falls onto him, minding his now bare cock tickling between her legs, and she reaches behind her to undo the buttons of her dress.

“Now me,” she breathes. “Let’s get this off so I can—“

Harry reaches up, taking her hand in his. “No,” he says quietly. “Leave it. Wanna fuck you in it.”

Roni shivers, licking at her lips before gulping and smiling faintly. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Harry nods, lowering her hands. “May I?”

The fact that he’s even asking melts Roni’s heart, and all she can manage is a soft nod. Then Harry’s off, gripping her hips and shuffling both of them so that she’s hovering over him.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, brushing their noses together before Roni shifts slightly, sinking down onto him.

He instantly lets out a moan as she sinks lower, and her breath hitches as she tries to adjust to the size of him. She grips his shoulders, and Harry doesn’t dare move-- giving her a moment to get used to the feeling. She licks her lips, and Harry bumps her nose with his own, coaxing her as gently as he can.

“Doin’ so good,” he says softly. “Feel good?”

“Mhm.” Roni sighs, “Feels so good.”

“Can you move, bunny? Need a minute?”

“It’s good,” Roni breathes, kissing at his jaw. “I’m good. Fuck.”

She starts rocking her hips gently, which takes Harry by surprise. He inhales sharply through his teeth. “Fuck, baby,” he whines, practically choking on his own pleasure. “Keep going.”

Roni rolls her hips again, shuddering when she manages to sink just a fraction of a bit deeper on him. She glances down at where their bodies are connected-- although it’s mostly covered by the thick fabric of her skirt.

Harry seems to read her mind, because he removes a hand from her hip and presses it gently to her lower abdomen. “Feel me here?” he asks. “In your tummy?”

Roni nods, obviously overly-sensitive, as tears brim her eyes. “Feels so fucking good,” she whimpers.

Harry is almost shocked at how filthy they’re being. Sure they’ve talked dirty before, many times, but tonight feels different. Especially now that Harry knows what Roni is really into.

Which reminds him…

Harry reaches up under Roni’s thick skirt, gripping at the skin of her ass and digging his nails in, only slightly-- before giving her bare skin a nice smack.

Roni gasps, clearly taken aback, and Harry grins against her mouth. “Y’like that?”

He isn’t only asking because it’s part of talking dirty-- he’s also asking because he’s genuinely curious that he’s doing alright. Although, if the moans dripping from Roni’s pretty lips are any sort of indication as to how she’s feeling right now, Harry assumes he’s doing a pretty decent job.

Roni nods, head lulling back as she rides him. “Fuck—fuck!”

Harry rubs over the spot he’s just smacked before striking another blow. Roni hisses through her teeth, whimpering a soft, “oh god, Harry” through choking moans.

Harry gulps, clearly losing his composure but trying with all his might to keep up the dominance act. “Love the way you squeeze me when I do that,” he groans. “Could get used to that.”

Roni lets out a pitiful grunt, dropping her head to rest her forehead against Harry’s shoulder. “Please,” she cries. “Feels so good.”

Harry grips onto her hips so tightly it makes her yelp, and he’s certain there’s going to be bruises left behind tomorrow. He guides her hips gently as she rides him, and he trembles with each roll of her hips.

Roni tilts her head to sponge wet, lazy kisses along his neck and the underside of his ear, and the sound of her labored breathing turns Harry on more than he’s ever thought possible. She takes his earlobe lightly between her teeth, and he can’t help the little moan that escapes between his grunts as he relishes in the feeling of both pleasure and pain.

It’s what Roni says next that practically tips him over the edge.

“Harry?”

“Mm?” Harry closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her walls clenched tightly around him.

“Choke me.”

It takes Harry a moment to blink back the fog in his eyes and actually comprehend what she’s asking, but once he’s processed it it’s a request he is all too happy to comply with. He trails his hand up her arm before clasping his fingers on either side of her neck. The way her breath hitches in her throat at his actions is enough to make him want to scream.

“Of course, baby.”.

As smoothly as he can manage, he gently guides her off of him by her hips, lazily kissing against her mouth as he lays her down on her back. His prick immediately misses her warmth as they awkwardly get situated on the couch.

Harry reaches down to take her legs in his hands, draping them over his own shoulders and leaving her entirely exposed up to him. He licks his lips when he sees exactly how wet she is, and she squirms a bit— realizing what a vulnerable position she’s in. Harry smiles reassuringly down at her, muttering a quick “fuck, you’re beautiful,” and delighting when she visibly relaxes.

Roni wiggles a bit more, using her elbows to position herself correctly against the throw pillow on his couch, and Harry holds his throbbing cock in his hand, ready to reinsert it as soon as possible. As soon as he thinks she’s ready, he positions himself as best as he can, but Roni holds up a hand to stop him.

“Wait, careful!”

Harry raises a confused eyebrow at her, and she gestures down to the skirt of her dress that’s now pooling, unladylike, around her hips. “It was your idea to keep this on,” she points out. “But it’s not my dress. So don’t get it dirty.”

Harry chuckles. “I’ll try,” he says, feeling a bit of the intensity between them melt (in the softest way). “No promises though.” He moves to insert himself between her thighs again, but she stops him again.

“You break it, you buy it.”

Harry grins, amused, down at her. “What?”

Roni, realizing Harry has probably never heard that phrase before in his life, giggles and shakes her head. “Nevermind. Just fuck me. But like, you know, carefully.”

Harry’s grin turns into a deep smirk that makes Roni’s thighs twitch. “Like I said,” he says, teasing at her entrance with his tip, “no promises.”

He enters her quickly, causing them both to gasp at how sensitive they’re feeling— especially with this new position leaving her far more open to him than before. The sound of her gasp, however, reminds Harry that he’s got a job to do. So he reaches down, wrapping his large hand gently around Roni’s throat, and squeezing the sides.

It’s uncharted territory for him, of course, but the look in Roni’s eyes is enough to make him realize that maybe he has a thing for choking as well. Her hair is disheveled and her mascara is a bit smudged around her eyes, although that seems to be the least of her worries. She doesn’t look scared; if anything her face looks almost challenging. She blinks up at him and mutters a single word.

“Harder.”

A curl falls into Harry’s face and he stares dumbly back down at her, processing her request. “Harder, baby?”

Roni reaches up, grasping at his wrist and squeezing. “Harder.”

Harry gulps, tightening his grip around her throat. He is careful not to fully block her airway of course, focusing the pressure instead on the sides of her neck. She shivers letting out a garbled moan.

“Fuck,” she rasps. “That’s it. Fuck me, please.”

And who is Harry to deny her?

He keeps his grip on her neck tight, leaning forward into her so his torso is almost against hers, and she squirms from her spot beneath him. Harry can feel her heels kicking into his shoulder blades but the dull ache they leave behind feels good and only fuels him to move faster.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “fucking hell.”

He allows his weary head to drop, burying his face in her neck and suckling at the spot beneath her ear. His grip loosens, but he has to grab onto the throw pillow beneath her head with his other hand for support.

“Gonna cum,” he groans. “Veronica, I’m--”

“Cum for me,” Roni chokes out in a whining little cry. “C’mon baby.”

Harry lets out a grunt far louder than intended, and he knows he’s only got a few seconds left. He slows his thrusts, despite everything in him screaming at him to speed it up. “Where do you want me?” He pants out.

Roni opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out flatly and blinking innocently up at him. The sight beneath him is so fucking filthy that the act of pulling out of her is almost enough to finish him off.

She twitches at the feeling of his absence before he scrambles to get himself positioned just right— lowering her legs and straddling her awkwardly while she sits up, and positioning his hand at the base of his cock.

It only takes a few pumps before he’s coming, thick hot ropes right into her tongue. He tries to aim as best as he can, but a few drops inevitably land on her cheeks and in her hair. She waits patiently for him to finish, moaning filthily at the taste. Harry’s nearly blinded by his own pleasure when he feels Roni wiggle beneath him, and he remembers she has yet to have an orgasm of her own.

Harry removes his hand from her throat as his orgasm comes to a stop, pausing briefly to catch his breath before reaching down to rub at her clit. She jolts at the contact, then immediately lets her head drop back.

“You going to cum for me now, honey? Hm?”

Roni wiggles her hips against the vibrations of his fingers, paying no mind to the way she knocks the throw pillows off of the couch. “Feels good,” she gasps, “feels so good.”

Harry thinks maybe he should choke her again, and he moves to do so. However, no sooner is his hand raised than Roni is coming, hard and quick and loud. Her toes curl and her back arches, and she lets out a wet moan that has Harry’s own tummy clenching. Her thighs quiver deliciously, and Harry notes the beautiful little goosebumps that prickle at her skin.

Desperately, Roni reaches for his free hand, clumsily interlacing her fingers with his. Harry takes her hand willingly, giving it a strong squeeze to hold her steady. Her orgasm is powerful, washing over her like a violent storm, and Harry gives her hand another squeeze in order to ground her.

Harry knows she’s finished when she collapses against the cushions, and he allows his fingertips to linger against her clit a few moments longer-- if only for purely selfish reasons. He wants to make her moan like that again. He wants her to feel good.

Harry doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest starts aching, and he allows himself a few gulping breaths-- hardly daring to move until Roni has come back down to earth. He watches her intently, giving her as much time as she needs to recover (and delighting in the way her thighs quiver with aftershocks). After a few moments of heavy breathing, Roni opens her eyes and gives Harry the sweetest smile he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Hi,” she rasps out.

Harry chuckles, giving her hand another steady squeeze. “Hi-ya, Princess.”

Roni swallows, cheeks growing hot, and Harry can tell that she’s a little embarrassed suddenly. He smiles, pulling the skirt of the dress down to cover her exposed bits and perhaps make her feel slightly less vulnerable.

“I do like that, you know,” she says softly. “‘Princess,’ I mean.”

Harry nods. “Yeah? Well I’ll have to keep that in mind then, won’t I?”

His words are a gentle blow to the stomach as Roni remembers once again that her time left here with him is short. Harry seems to remember this at the same time, because he lets out a soft, nasally sigh and allows his eyes to close for just a moment.

“Anyway,” he says, his cock flopping triumphantly against his thigh and making Roni giggle. “We should get cleaned up. Think the tub is callin’ our names, don’t you?”

Roni smiles, sitting up a bit. “A bath sounds heavenly,” she sighs. “Thank you.”

Harry nods, moving like he’s going to get off of her but stopping himself. He wants to savor this moment-- really take it all in. Remember the way she looks beneath him, fucked out and messy but as pretty as ever. Hair perfectly styled to fit the times but lovingly tousled by the intense lovemaking they’ve just shared. Roni squirms a bit under his gaze, then laughs softly.

“What?”

“Can I say something without you getting annoyed?”

Roni’s smile drops, and she narrows her eyes. “Uh… probably not,” she teases.

Harry laughs. “Just… gonna miss you. That’s all.”

Roni frowns, sitting up on her elbows. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that tonight.”

“We weren’t,” Harry says. “We aren’t. I just… you know, I had to say it.”

“Did you have to, though?” There's a hint of playfulness in Roni’s toni, and it makes Harry laugh again.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew,” he says. “That’s all.”

“Well for the record,” Roni sighs, “I’m really going to miss you too. But we’re not talking about that.”

“No, we’re not.”

There’s a moment of charged silence, in which the two lovers smile playfully at one another-- their eyes doing all of their communicating for them. Roni tucks her lip between her teeth mischievously, as if there’s something more she wants to say, and Harry simply cannot take it anymore. He’s so overwhelmed by how much he loves her, and so giddy at how easy it is to be comfortable and silly around her. (And the fact that he’s going to miss her so much only pushes him to want to do everything he can for her.)

In one swift movement, he’s up, picking her up by the hips and clumsily yanking her up off the sofa. She squeals, stumbling as she’s swept off her feet and into his arms. “Harry!”

It’s almost silly how awkwardly he stands, his prick hanging limp and proud while he holds her. She squirms in his arms when he begins walking, trying her best to get comfortable— which proves to be very hard with the heavy skirt weighing her down.

“What are you doing?!” She giggles.

“Carrying the princess to her royal bath, of course.”

Roni rolls her eyes. “Oh my god. You’re so embarrassing.”

In retaliation, Harry moves like he’s going to drop her, causing her to screech and hold on to him tighter. “Harry!”

“Careful,” Harry giggles, kicking the bathroom door open with his foot. “Or I’ll drop ya!”

Contrary to his words, Harry sets Roni gently down on the counter, pressing a soft kiss to her nose before moving to turn on the faucet.

“Now then,” he asks. “We haven’t got many options as far as soap goes. What would you like?”

“What are my options?” Roni swings her legs daintily.

“Lavender,” Harry says, matter-of-factly.

Roni waits for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, she snorts. “Hmm… not sure I like that. Got any vanilla?”

Harry grins right back at her, testing the water from the faucet with his fingertips. “Lavender it is.”

They spend the rest of their night like this, laughing together while sharing lazy, wet kisses and washing one another. Roni comments on a particularly nice bruise she’s left on Harry’s shoulder and Harry admires how red Roni’s behind is.

“Got you pretty good then, didn’t I?”

After the bath they take turns rubbing lotion into one another’s skin— which of course leads to another session of lovemaking, much gentler and softer than before. It doesn’t take Harry long to fall asleep on Roni’s chest, breathing in sync with her and relishing in the way that she scratches gently at his scalp.

Roni takes a long whiff in through her nose for what feels like the fiftieth time this evening— taking in the delicious scent of the beautiful sleeping boy on her chest and trying to ignore the thought that keeps lingering in her mind.

She loves him. And she is really, really going to miss him.

#Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One Direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU #Harry Styles fluff #Harry fluff #One Direction fluff #fluff #Harry Styles smut #Harry smut #One Direction smut #smut

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x0401x · 4 years ago

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Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #11

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Delicious Recipe

I would soon be at an age where I could envision my 50’s. My only daughter was a college student. I didn’t think of myself as too much of a passionate clerk, but I was fond of my current job at a mass retailer. Said shop was on the line of so-called “luxury supermarkets” in a way, so it had many products that weren’t available at supermarkets in my neighborhood, which meant stocking shelves was a hassle, but it was fun to look around. It had things such as assortments of high-quality cheeses or pouches of cold soup called vichyssoise. Since the shop was within walking distance of one of the largest stations in Tokyo, its clientele was diverse and there were many first-time customers, but on the other hand, that was exactly why it was so easy to remember the face of repeating customers.

“Hmmm...”

The young man glaring at the syrup shelf for a while now, who seemed old enough to be a university student, was actually a regular customer as well. Said regular – who stood out like a sore thumb in this shop, which had an overwhelming elderly customer base – always asked for simplified receipts. The name on them was “Jewelry Etranger”. Must be from a jewelry store. I believed him to be about as old as my daughter.

He was pacing back and forth in front of the shelf. Even though he usually came to buy snacks such as youkan and cookies, he was groaning in front of the cocktail syrup shelf today. Was it for private use instead of an errand? While I was staring at him, our eyes met, and with an apologetic face, he came over to my counter. There were no other customers.

“Hum, excuse me.”

As I welcomed him with a “yes, what might it be?”, he asked for a strange piece of advice.

“I want to make melon soda.”

“Haa.”

“The kind that you can quickly make into cream soda, with vanilla ice cream floating on top...”

“Haa.”

Then wouldn’t it be all right if he just bought the melon-flavored shaved ice syrup and carbonated water over there and mixed them in the appropriate proportions?

Before I could say this, he cut off, a crease rippling between his brows as he furrowed them, “I want it to be tasty. Very tasty.”

“Haa.”

A tasty melon soda. A very tasty one, no less. What kind of melon soda would that be?

I fumbled around my memory for the latest experience I had with a melon soda. The last time I had gone to a fast food was when my daughter was about ten years old. It had already been quite a long time. But I didn’t think there were any revolutionary changes in taste since then. It was carbonated, green and simply sweet. It didn’t have the same variety as tea or coffee. As if pressed with a stamp, melon soda was just melon soda. It was different from those confusing flavored-tea leaves.

He had actually already bought the melon syrup, he told me. But no matter how he changed the proportion of carbonated water, it didn’t have enough of a punch to it.

“I did some research at bars about how different the taste was from the melon sodas that we drink out there, but I kind of couldn’t tell... I think it might be best if I mix it with something. That’s why I’m looking for syrup, hmmm...”

With the exception of standard syrups for shaved ice, all syrups we handled were meant for cocktails. Bottles of vivid colors, in flavors such as apricot and mint, were lined up there. But I didn’t know whether any of them could be the secret ingredient for melon soda. The prospects were dim.

For starters, why had he decided to make something so troublesome by hand? To the point he was thinking of purchasing a bottle of syrup that was by no means cheap.

Of course, I didn’t say such things in front of the customer, but as if seeing through my hesitation, he smiled, as though a bit embarrassed. “No, hum, I have a friend who likes cream soda. She will be coming to the shop I work at one of these days... so I wanted to surprise her. Ehehe,” he laughed, looking happy.

I would guess that I did nothing but blink silently for a moment. It was an astonishingly good motive. I didn’t know what kind of friend she was or what kind of shop she would be visiting, but if nothing else, she seemed to be someone important to him.

If it were me, that would probably become a memory to last a lifetime.

A secret ingredient for a sweet juice. What suddenly crossed my mind was a time when my daughter was still little. A time when she caught a cold. I once made her a sweet juice when she didn’t want to take her medicine. I had a memory of being troubled as she was reluctant to drink water, saying it was painful. This had happened either in September or October, so there was still some leftover shaved ice syrup from the summer in our fridge. Making sugared water using it as colorant apparently gave it a special vibe, so she cheered up and drank it. Was it just sugared water? Hmm, if I wasn’t mistaken, in order for it to feel refreshing in the mouth, I had added—

“Ah, lemon juice.”

“Eh?”

“Mr. Customer, I’m not a bartender or anything, so I might be giving a wrong guess, but...”

Lemon went surprisingly well with sugared water.

As many cocktail recipes had lemon juice in them, I believed it strained the flavor that tended to unilaterally turn into “sweetness”. I didn’t think there was freshly squeezed lemon in the melon sodas of fast food shops, but if he was in pursuit of tastiness, wasn’t it a possibility?

When I told him this, he looked at me with a happy face, bowing his head with a “thank you very much”. And so, when he was about to leave the store without buying anything, he came back as if remembering something, lining up in front of the register and buying a package of specialty cookies from a certain place. When I was about to make the receipt, he told me he didn’t need it today, so I could tell it was his own pocket money.

“Really, thank you so much,” he said with an uplifting face, and this time, he exited the shop for good.

I didn’t think the suggestion I gave him warranted such consideration, and yet, what a proper child he was. His mother certainly must be happy to have a son like that, I thought, but afterward, I changed my mind, as he might surprisingly not be like that at home. My daughter, too, was an unfettered general at home, but the boyfriend that she discreetly brought over at the end of the previous year said some dreadful things about her, such as that she was a “refined young lady”. I thought they wouldn’t last for long, but it seemed they were still dating. It might be that people possessed many sides, just like those stylistic syrup bottles. Like the gemstones sold in jewelry shop. And he had showed me a wonderful, brightly shining side of his.

As a clerk, I wished from the bottom of my heart that his peculiar act of hospitality would go well.

On Thursday morning, while I was extremely busy with stocking items, someone called to me with an “excuse me”. Even though I wished people wouldn’t talk to me at times like these, I couldn’t let it show on my face. When I turned around with a “yes, what might it be?”, my facial expression froze up. A blond, blue-eyed man was standing there. He was such a beautiful man that you’d end up asking yourself if it was okay to be breathing the same air as him. My face stiffened. He was speaking in fluent Japanese.

“Do you have canned cherries?”

“Eh, hah—aah, cherries?”

“Cherries. I need them urgently,” he said with a sour face.

Whatever might be the situation that required such a pretty young man, who looked like he had fallen from Heaven, to purchase canned cherries, it was beyond me. Anyway, with a manner of walking that looked like a frantic penguin, I guided him to the canned fruits corner and bowed with an “it’s this way”. He smiled as if relieved, leaving me floored.

“Much obliged.”

You’d think of it as an ordinary expression, but it was difficult to describe this with any word other than “bombshell”. His smile was like the glowing summer wind. As a result, you’d find yourself wondering about even unnecessary things, such as if this person had lived a life full of hardships. Was he an actor? Could be a model. His beauty was so removed from this transient realm, so I couldn’t think he was someone from the same world as myself. If a person like him were playing the hero in a tragic drama, I had the feeling that the audience would be a bit turned-off. As in, wouldn’t the role of charismatic villain suit him better? After a brief moment of escapism from reality, I came back to my senses and returned to stocking the items.

Once the checkout of the canned cherries was finished at the register, the elegant man left the shop while cursing someone’s carelessness with an “honestly, that heedless guy,” using a word that even a Japanese person seldom would.

At that moment, for some reason, the figure of that regular customer boy suddenly surfaced in my brain. The one who had told me he wanted to make melon soda. The kind that could quickly be made into cream soda, with vanilla ice cream floating on top. Melon-flavored soda aside, if you wanted to make a cream soda, the cherry was the last thing you should forget - that was what I had always been thinking, but unfortunately, he hadn’t showed up in the shop yet ever since then. Well, someone who had been so obsessed with the melon flavor probably wouldn’t do something like forget about the cherry, but there were instances such as the blond Onii-san of today. If he ever showed up again, I would make sure to mention the cherries.

On that day’s afternoon, I finally gave it a thought, and just as I was going home, I went into a family restaurant for the first time in ten years, and while tasting an awkward embarrassment, I ordered a cream soda. I had actually been wanting to drink it all this time ever since I saw him. My first cream soda in a while had the painfully sweet flavor of childhood.

#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #housekishou richard #jeweler richard #the case files of jeweler richard #nakata seigi #richard ranashinghe de vulpian #richard ranashinha de vulpian #richard #jr short story collection #tsujimura nanako #yukihiro utako #novel #my translation

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deafaq · 5 years ago

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Comprehensive guide to writing deaf characters

Despite not being intented as a blog resource for writers, we get a lot of questions regarding how to write deaf characters. (and by a lot, I mean like half of questions are about writing)

Since lot of these questions are similar anyway, I wrote up this guide for anyone intending to add deaf characters into their writing. From now on, we shall only answer questions related to writing which AREN’T covered in this guide.

Please, keep in mind that deaf people aren’t a hive mind and this guide is based on our personal experience. We recommend a sensitivity deaf reader if you plan to make any deaf character a big part of your story.

Rest of guide under the cut.

Medical basics

- Deafness can be caused by many factors.

- For people born deaf, common causes are: genetics, illnesses of mother during pregnancy (and meds taken), complicated birth, premature birth, etc.

- For people who become deaf later in life: old age, noise damage, several infectious illnesses (for example meningitis), medication (cancer meds or certain antibiotics), tumours on auditory nerve and in brain, chronic inflammations of middle ear, etc.

- Most people with hearing loss still have some degree of hearing

Terminology

- “deaf” – person with hearing loss

- “hard of hearing” – person with hearing loss, still has some degree of hearing

- “Deaf” – person with hearing loss who is proud of their deafness, is member of Deaf community and culture, communicates in sign language

- “deafened” – person who lost their hearing in later life, often as adult

- “deaf and dumb” – old terminology, now considered insulting

- “hearing impaired” – medical term, often disliked by deaf people

Compensation

- Most hard of hearing and some deaf people wear hearing aids. Their function is similar to glasses, they enhances the remaining sense.

- Hearing aids are often pricey, not covered by insurance and need batteries to recharge

- They can be colourful, however most people use brown to make them less noticeable

- They need to be taken off for sleeping and bathing

- It’s considered rude to touch another’s person hearing aid. Hearing people should not try them out, as they can damage normal hearing.

- Cochlear implant are more complicated, require surgery to insert. They compromise of two parts – inner part (under skull), which stimulates hair cells in cochlea, and outer part (outside on the head and ear), which is sound processor, microphone and battery. Both parts are connected via magnet.

- Hearing via CI is more electrical than normal hearing and doesn’t sound same. After the operation, users must train their hearing and attend many sessions where CI is adjusted. It can take years for users to hear speech or use telephone. Success is very individual.

- CIs are often disliked and criticized by Deaf community as they are seen as a threat to Deaf culture and language. There is also a question of consent – for CI to be successful, children must be implanted at young age (1-7 years) and the decision is usually made by their hearing parents.

- Other compensation: Vibration and light alarms, alarm clocks, baby monitors, door bells. Special phones and headphones. Etc.

Communication

- Children who are born deaf cannot naturally acquire spoken language. (aka from their parents/family) It cannot be learned by lip-reading. They learn it as a second language, often at school.

- Despite the stereotype of deaf people being also mute, most deaf people can speak. However, they often have so called “deaf accents”, because they cannot hear themselves speak. Because of that, some deaf people prefer not to talk, to not be mocked for their accent.

- Natural language of deaf people are sign languages. They are not universal, they have their own grammar and rules, they are not simple pantomime and they are not easy to learn. (see Sign Languages)

- Not all deaf people use sign languages, especially those who become deafened later in life.

- There are specific communication system, which combine spoken languages and sign languages, often used in education. They usually use signs from sign languages and spoken language grammar. The most common is Pidgin Signed English (PSE) or Signing Exact English (SEE). Some deaf people use them instead of sign language, since they grew up with it.

- SimCom is simultaneous communication, speaking and using sign language at the same time. As its basically using two languages at one time, it’s difficult and one language often starts following grammatical structure of other.

- Lip-reading is taxing, difficult and often based on talent. It must be taught. To properly lip-read, there must be good light conditions and you must be able to see the face of speaker.

- Some deaf people use writing to communicate with hearing people – either with paper and pen, or on phone. This way of communication is often time-consuming.

- Deaf people often use interpreters to help them communicate. They usually accompany the deaf person to doctors, authorities, important meetings, etc.

Sign language

- Sign languages are natural languages and not created by one person. They appeared organically over time.

- Every country has their own national sign language. The ones most known and researched are ASL (American Sign Language), LFS (French Sign Language), BSL (British Sign Language), AUSLan (Australian Sign Language). There is about 137+ sign languages in the world.

- Grammar in sign languages is based on 3D spaces and use of face expressions and movement of body. Signs are composed of hands in specific shapes, their movement and placement on the body.

- Most sign language have their own finger alphabet. Most common are one-handed (ASL, LFS) and two-handed (BSL, AUSlan).

- Sign languages are not inferior to spoken languages and can express the same things.

- It takes time and dedication to learn any sign language. Usually at least 3 years for being able to communicate properly and more than 5 to be fluent.

- You can sign with just one hand (that’s how deaf people communicate while eating or holding something, for example)

Education

- Until 1970s, the most common way of teaching deaf children was oralism, a teaching tradition which supressed and forbid the use of sign language and insisted on deaf children learning to speak. It is still often used, despite the fact that many studies prove it fails to properly educate deaf people.

- Modern research has proven that use of sign language in education is beneficial for deaf children and helps them to better understand the material.

- Deaf children can either study at school for deaf or be integrated into regular school. Deaf schools used to be very common in past, as they were only available means of education for most deaf people. Kids lived in dormitories. Whether sign language was/is used there depends on the school. Some even had/have deaf teachers.

- Nowadays, most kids study in regular school along with hearing kids. If the school is good, they offer proper compensation – eg. interpreter in class, note taking services, hearing devices, etc. Some schools still sucks, however.

- Integrated kids can suffer from isolation, bullying and discrimination from teachers.

- There are colleges in USA which focus on deaf students and sign language. The most famous is Gallaudet University, Washington, D.C.

Family

- 90% of deaf kids are born to hearing parents. Hearing parents often struggle with the disability of their child. In general, lot of hearing parents prefer to give their kids CI, to make them more “hearing”.

- Deaf parents generally have hearing kids. Those kids are then called CODA – children of deaf adults. CODA often speak sign language well. In general, they are either very involved with Deaf community or not all and avoid it all costs. Lot of CODA children become interpreters.

- Every family is different in how they communicate. Some use sign language. Some only spoken language, requiring the deaf member to lip-read. Some use combination of two or create their own home signs. If only certain members of family learn to sign, it’s usually mother or some other female family member (sister, grandmother).

Deaf culture/community

- A community of Deaf individuals who use sign language as their primary means of communication, are proud of their deafness and their culture. They do not see their deafness as disability/disease, but something that connects them, makes them different from others.

- Deaf people often meet up in clubs, there is big emphasis on community, meeting together, communal experience, etc.

- Term “Deaf gain” is used – what deafness gives us, instead of the usual what deafness takes away from us. What is important is “seeing”, not “absence of hearing”.

- Deaf culture has its own set of social rules/etiquette. Deaf people are generally more blunt and to the point than hearing people. There are special rules for getting attention – eg tapping on shoulder, turning lights on and off.

- There is a big tradition in storytelling and poetry in sign language, especially ASL. Other visual art – videos, paintings and sculpture are also popular.

- Deaf community has lot of members who are LGBT+ and has its own deaf organizations for said people. Generally, deaf community is more accepting when it comes to LGBT+ issues then general public, although exceptions exists.

- Not every country has a strong Deaf community – the biggest one is in USA. In some countries, deaf people are isolated.

Discrimination

- Specific term for discrimination against deaf people is “audism” (not to confuse with autism). General term for discrimination against disabled people, “ableism”, is also used sometimes.

- Deaf people often face discrimination especially when it comes to access to information and unwillingness to offer proper accommodation to them.

- Movies/Tv shows/videos lack subtitles or closed captioning. Video games have no alternative way of showing audio cues. Lectures, festivals and public events are often without interpreters.

- There have been numerous cases of arrests and deaths of deaf people after encounters with police due to communication.

- Hospitals and doctors are often without interpreters and neglect to inform the deaf patients properly. Access to authorities and courts is also problematic.

- Deaf people have difficult time finding employment due to prejudice. Even if they do find a job, employers often refuse to offer proper accommodation.

- Many deaf people also struggle in education – see above.

Common mistakes and stereotypes when writing deaf characters

- Lip-reading as a superpower, which makes deaf person basically hearing anyway

- Wearing Hearing aids at night and/or other people touching them and taking them off.

- Cochlear Implants presented as “cure” or “miracle” which makes a deaf person into hearing person

- Being able to learn sign language in record time (aka in several days)

- “Happy” ending being deaf person losing their deafness via cure/miracle/magic

- Deaf people being bitter and lonely (yes, there are deaf people who are bitter and lonely, but it’s not our defining trait and it’s not *that* common)

- Using deafness as a “cute” trope to increase angst levels in your story because being deaf sucks, right? ( -_________-)

- Deaf person only having hearing friends (it’s often the opposite, aka most friends of Deaf people are also Deaf). Same goes for dating.

- Superpowers or magic that basically cancels out deafness

- Creating your own Name signs for your characters (pls really don’t)

- Sign language = English with signs

- Framing the narrative as a “person overcoming their disability”

- Including deafness as a punishment for the character

- The only deaf character in the story is the villain (“bonus” points for ‘deafness turned them evil’)

- Inspiration porn – see the link

Also, keep in mind that:

- Deafness isn’t a disease and isn’t actually contagious (can’t believe I have to say this)

- We very rarely date people who don’t bother to learn how to communicate with us.

- Deaf people can and do drive. We also travel. Use internet. Swim. Read.

- “Shockingly”, we can tell apart yawning and screaming.

- People who were born deaf think in sign language and asking about it really doesn’t make you a philosopher

#deaf #hard of hearing #sign language #writing deaf characters #writing #mod t

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rosesisupposes · 4 years ago

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Mist Connection (Sleepxiety)

read on ao3

Virgil's always been told to be careful in the fog. “Never stray from the path, no matter what you think you see or hear!” He's sure his Aunties are just superstitious. And yet...

pairing: Virgil/Remy (Sleep)

content tags: brief mention of parent death/disappearance; fae-like setting; Remy Is A Flirt; kissing, background best friends analogical

word count: 4,072

⁂

Virgil has always hated the fog.

He stomps down the country road to his house, trying to make his footfalls louder.

He knows it's superstitious, but the thick, cloying clouds make him feel claustrophobic, like anyone or anything could leap out at any time.

And then, of course, there are the stories.

All his village Aunties talk of disappearances, a last sighting of a poor soul walking into a thick bank of fog and never being seen again.

“Be careful, lad,” they warn him. “Never stray from the path, no matter what you think you see or hear!”

Virgil rolls his eyes at them, smiles indulgently are their old tales. His friend Logan is always quick to point out that all these stories happened just before he was born, so it can only be passed down in rumor.

But a part of him believes, and so he dons his heaviest combat boots, zips his bomber jacket over his hoodie, and he keeps his eyes glued to the ground in front of him, watching each step to stay on the path.

He’s sure the legends are really about caution- the woods here are dense, and difficult to navigate even when it’s clear. It’s all too likely those sad disappearances were just folks who got disoriented and blundered in all the wrong directions.

But then again, one can never be too cautious.

It’s probably because he’s dwelling on those tales that he hears it.

“Virgil...”

Distinctly, a voice. Saying his name. It sounds... familiar, somehow. But who?

He pauses, listening hard. He hears nothing, though, and keeps on. He’s close to home.

He looks up, peering for the porch light. But then he sees- eyes? No, not quite eyes. They’re far too big, for one, but they also look too... blank.

“Virgil!” The voice says again, and now there’s a mouth along with the maybe-eyes. He’s not imagining- there’s certainly a face, of some kind, and it’s speaking to him. By name.

Virgil hesitates. He’s had several nights in a row of not great sleep- maybe he’s just tired and seeing things? But all the voices of his Aunties are yelling in his ear to look away, to keep moving.

The only problem is, the face is directly in the path where he needs to walk. He can only avoid it by going off the road. And that, he knows, is a far worse option.

So he takes a deep breath, looks down, and keeps walking forward. He keeps his eyes fixed at where the cloud meets the ground, at the edge of the little circle of visibility he has in each direction. It moves with him, as fog always does.

But when he chances a glance up, the face is still there. And now it’s more defined, a head shaped in the mist. And now he sees that the large eyes are in fact glasses. That makes sense.

Why am I trying to apply logic to a trick of my eyes in the fog? he asks himself angrily, and he firmly roots his gaze to the ground once more, stomping on.

“Virgil... wait, please!” the voice says again. More words now? Can he still call that just a trick of a tired mind?

Through the mist, he can make out the slightest nimbus of light from his porch lantern. He knows where home is, and it’s close.

So it can’t be too risky, right?

“Who do you speak to?” he asks cautiously, not wanting to confirm that this hallucination knows his name.

“I speak to you, Virgil!” the hallucination says, and its mouth is defined enough now for him to see a smile. The mist is rippling, more and more forming into defined shapes, giving it a neck, and shoulders, and a steadily-growing torso.

“Who are you? What are you?” Virgil asks. He tugs at his hoodie until the hood is free from under his jacket, draping it over his ears and head.

“You don’t remember?” the form asks, pouting. “Am I that unmemorable?”

“And what am I supposed to remember?” Virgil asks guardedly.

“How we met, babes! It seems so recent, but you’re so much bigger now...”

Virgil frowns. Something deep in the recesses of his memory stirs, like a whisper of a dream from many years ago.

The form has grown enough to have arms and the beginnings of legs. “Take my hand, you’ll remember,” it says, extending its newly-formed limb.

“Oh yeah? I’ll remember, and what else? Do I look dumb enough to go around shaking hands with every fog-creature I see?” Virgil crosses his arms resolutely, and the form droops slightly.

“I mean you no harm, hon. I just want to talk.”

Virgil says nothing, just taps his steel-tipped toe.

“Fine, no, sweetie, you don’t look dumb. Just familiar. Hm, do you have an older brother or father who looks like you? Did I skip a generation again?”

The more defined the form becomes, the more human its voice sounds, no longer an ethereal echo but a drawl. Virgil’s not quite sure if he should be reassured or more freaked out by that.

“Can’t help you there,” he replies. “If I have any siblings, I’ve never met them. And ditto on the dad.”

Finally, the form is complete, head to toe. It appears to stand on the ground, but it clearly cannot detach from its cloud completely. “Then clearly, introductions are in order.” It looks at Virgil for a moment, then grows a very similar jacket around its torso. “You may call me Remy.”

“Okay, fog-boy,” Virgil replies, arms still crossed. “You’ve been calling me Virgil, feel free to continue.”

“Virgil. I’m glad to have found you. I’ve been looking for you, you see. Or at least, I think it was you. You haven’t always been this big, right? Humans are weird.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Strong words for a - man? Entity? - who just grew a body out of a cloud. But yeah, I grew the human way. I was a kid. Now I’m not. Are we done?”

“No, please!” Remy says, arms raising as Virgil starts to walk forward. “I can’t- if you go too close to the lantern I won’t be able to speak to you. I- if we did meet, touching my hand would bring the memory back, nothing more. I swear I mean you no harm. Please?”

Virgil hesitates. It’s a risk, for sure. But haven’t the aunties always said the fair folk cannot lie?

“Does it have to be your hand?” he asks.

“No, any part of this form will do.”

“Then turn around,” Virgil orders.

Remy obeys.

Virgil steels himself, still considering the possibility that he could just run to his house now. But curiosity takes hold, and he reaches out to lightly brush Remy’s shoulder. It feels odd, still a cloud, but gives more slowly, like memory foam. And then- he remembers.

He’s a child again, no more than five or so, and he’s lost on the way home. Auntie hurt her leg and couldn’t walk with him. He’d insisted he was able to walk the quarter mile himself. But then the fog had rolled in. He’s cautiously proceeding, staying on the path, but he’s terrified.

He hears a voice, calling his name, and follows it. A smile dances in the mist around him, and the voice tells him it will guide him home, only take its hand.

Virgil wraps chubby fingers around the cloud hand dangling from the mist, and true to its word, the porch light is soon visible. Another Auntie is on the porch, looking frantic, but calms when she sees him.

Virgil lets go of the hand, and he’s back in the present, hand dangling in mid air behind Remy’s back. He frowns in confusion.

“So I met you. And you helped. Why? Everyone not a child knows the mist isn’t friendly.”

Remy turns back around, looking hurt. “And did Everyone ever try buying me a drink first?”

In spite of himself, Virgil snorts in laughter.

“You’re a cloud, can you even drink?”

“No,” Remy replies, pouting, “but they could have made an effort!”

“Fine, so you’re not that bad. Can I go home now?”

“No- please, you’re the first one to hear me in... Goddess, even I’ve lost count.“

“So what,” Virgil asks with a shrug. “Did you just want to chat? Cause small talk ain’t my jam. I have a date with a conspiracy theory marathon.”

Remy droops. “I can’t keep you. Go, then. I’ll return to being alone and formless, reviled by the locals, my reputation cruelly smeared!”

“Holy shit, drama queen much?”

“Why yes, I am a queen! Thank you for noticing!” Remy replies, perking up.

Virgil rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but be a bit charmed by this odd creature. He dusts off a stump at the edge of the road and sits. “Fine. I’ll give you five minutes. Why can’t everyone hear you? Why does everyone think the mist will make us humans disappear?”

Remy’s feet leave the ground as they wriggle in happiness. A flick, and a chaise starts to melt into being out of the fog next to Virgil, giving them a place to elegantly flop down.

“I don’t know why they can’t all hear me,” they admit. “It only seems to be people who are... special, in some way. I think there’s been one a generation, but time’s a bitch and I don’t like her.”

Virgil smirks but doesn’t reply, nodding for them to continue.

“The disappearances... I think time might be an issue again? Time or space. One of those. Maybe both. I thought all humans were returned to the same moment and spot they left, but apparently I’m not the only one who gets messed up?”

“So... wait, what are you, exactly? Are you of the gentle folk?”

Remy sniffs. “How dare. My manners are so much better than theirs. Did I ask for you name? Have I whisked you off to my court? No ma’am!”

“Jeez, touchy! If not fae, what are you?”

Remy ruffles their hair, and it wisps around as if in a breeze. “I think you humans would call me, hmm, a spirit? Elemental? I’d tell you my actual name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

“Try me.”

Remy smirks, then makes a sound like the wind over a heath, the dampened noise of waves lapping at a shore, and the tiny sound of goosebumps forming in the clammy air.

“Okay, you’re right, I can’t pronounce that.”

Remy smirks deeper. “So anyway, I keep waiting to find one of you who can hear me properly, but most people just hear echoes I think? And that freaks out the poor lil human brains.”

“Wow, can’t imagine why,” Virgil replies drily.

“Hey, it’s not easy being ignored and invisible to everyone who passes you! Not that I’d expect you to understand-“

“Of course I understand,” Virgil says with a shrug. “That’s most of my life since the Aunties decided I was raised enough.”

Remy pauses. “What are ‘Aunties’. Are those... food?”

“...they’re people. Why would you think food?”

“Humans do weird things, okay?”

“Sure, whatever. Aunties are all the ladies in town who collectively took care of me when I was a kid. Because no parents.”

“And parents are- the ones who made you?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Well, how can you not have them then?”

Virgil shrugs. “They didn’t stick around, I guess. I was dropped off at the wardlings house when I was a baby. I’ve only ever had the Aunties, and my best friend Lo.”

“Low?”

“Logan.”

Remy scratches their cloudy head. “Have I seen this Logan?”

“Nah, he was a pen pal, now an internet pal.”

Remy smiles, bemused. “I will pretend I know what any of those words mean!”

“I’ve never met him face to face,” Virgil explains.

Remy’s own face falls. “So you are also lonely.”

Virgil, about to shrug philosophically, pauses. “I- yeah. I am. It’s mostly fine, I’m an introvert. It’s fine.”

Remy sits up from their lounging position and stares at Virgil, or appears to. The glasses over their eyes are opaque, and the gray clouds of their face are hard to read.

“Do you think, maybe- I was so excited to be able to talk to you, Virgil. I would like to do so again, if you would allow it.”

Virgil looks down. The Aunties would absolutely screech in dismay at this entire situation, let along agreeing to repeat it. But- it hasn’t been unpleasant. It’s been intriguing. And Remy saved him, all those years ago.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he replies, looking up with a smile. He’s rewarded by a smile on Remy’s face that’s so bright, it almost seems like a second lantern.

“Until next time, Virgil- wait, humans have family names, correct? What is yours?”

Virgil is standing to walk home, but smiles wryly. “You need a family to have a family name. I was found in the doorstep in the middle of thunder and rain, so they’ve always called me Virgil Storm.”

“Until next time, Virgil Storm!” Remy says. They hesitate, then move through the mist closer to Virgil. “This is how humans say goodbye, I believe,” they say, and then Virgil feels that odd sensation of dense clouds touching his cheeks, one that distracts him so much that he’s barely aware of Remy leaning in until lips of clouds are pressed against his.

When Remy finally withdraws, Virgil’s mind has come to a complete stop, and it’s not until his body has fully faded back into the swirling mists that Virgil is able to make himself move.

He walks into his house, shucks his layers and boots robotically, and collapses on the couch. He stares at the TV as it plays his conspiracy marathon, but his eyes don’t take in a single minute of it.

A fog person just kissed me. The thought, with no useful additions, circles endlessly through his brain, even as he falls into a restless sleep.

⁂

Virgil pays an unusual amount of attention to the weather after that... well, unusual night.

He checks the humidity every day, looks for fronts coming in that might bring in a bank of fog, asks the local farmers their predictions. He never mentions why he’s so interested. Certainly not to the Aunties, but also not to Logan. His friend can tell he’s a little distracted, but not enough to be a real concern.

Virgil’s not quite sure why he won’t even hint at it, but he knows it’s at least partly because, well. He’s not convinced it was real.

He had been very tired, so there’s a non-zero chance he did imagine it all. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

But when he’s lost in thought, he keeps realizing that his hand drifts to his lips and the sensory memory they still hold.

A week later, the forest eases under a coverlet of soft clouds curling close to the ground. From the minute the mist gathers, Virgil is sitting on his porch, peering into the growing fog with anticipation and nervousness.

When he can barely see the first tree, he double checks the porch lantern and walks out, checking over his shoulder until he’s fully surrounded by dense, swirling clouds.

He waits, looking around him, but sees nothing, and hears nothing.

“Uh, Remy?” he says aloud, feeling self-conscious. “Fog-spirit? It’s, um. Me. I mean, it’s Virgil.”

A weight in his stomach is insisting that it was all a sleep-deprived hallucination, and that he’s speaking like a fool into empty air. The rest of his stomach not currently sinking through his knees twists into elaborate pretzels.

Just as he’s giving up hope, turning to go, he sees smooth orbs sticking out of the amorphous clouds. The smile follows, already smirking.

“Oh babes, don’t tell me you mist me!” Remy drawls.

Virgil wants to run to them, to reach out and confirm that they’re really real, but he restrains himself. “I wasn’t sure you’d show,” he says with a deceptively noncommittal shrug.

Their body forms faster this time, and they lower their glasses to stare at Virgil for a moment. “Oh hun, don’t even try, I know what it’s like to be waiting breathlessly for someone to return.”

Virgil finds himself breathless anew, caught by the sight of Remy’s revealed eyes. They glow softly, like the hazy haloes of twin lanterns somewhere in the distance behind them.

He coughs, finding his thoughts again. “Do you even need to breathe? As an- elemental, was it?”

Remy sniffs. “No, but I can if I want to. I’ve made myself lungs before! It was weird. I don’t know how humans do it.”

“We don’t exactly get a choice,” Virgil replies drily.

“And yet, Virgil Storm,” Remy says, drifting closer, “I think it’s really you who’s taken my breath away.” They cup Virgil’s cheek again, and this time Virgil’s sure his brain has absolutely ceased functioning.

“...erm. Uh. Yes?” he stammers, his cheeks flaming in stark contrast to the cool, humid touch of Remy’s fingers.

“What is this color, Virgil?” they ask softly. “It reminds me of- lady slippers. Early spring peonies. But with the warmth of a midsummer rain.”

“It’s called a blush,” Virgil mutters, still demonstrating the affliction.

“You didn’t do this last time,” they comment, still holding Virgil’s cheek in one cool hand.

“Last time, you hadn’t already kissed me,” Virgil says to the ground, the heat in his cheeks bursting out even more.

“Did I upset you?” Remy asks, a dark line of clouds showing a crease in their forehead.

“Not- upset, no,” Virgil manages. “You surprised me, though. Kind of a lot.”

“Surprises can be good or bad, yes? Was it a good or bad one?”

“It was, uh. A good one.”

“Would it be better if it were not a surprise?” they ask, and there’s mischief in their misty smile.

“Absolutely,” Virgil breathes, veins thrumming.

Remy leans in, and they’re kissing him again, and he’s... god, this is objectively the weirdest thing he’s ever done, and yet he can’t bring himself to care even a bit.

He kisses back, this time, feeling the odd, pleasant sensation of cool lips giving under his without dissipating. He reaches up and finds he can cup Remy’s soft, cloudy cheeks too.

A tiny, insuppressible voice in the back of his head wonders if an elemental has a tongue, or if that’s something they’d have to grow for the occasion.

The question definitely interests him, but there’s a second, louder voice.

Breaking off, it’s the second voice that tumbles out of his mouth. “Do you kiss everyone who can see you?”

Remy pauses. “I- well. Technically, yes?”

Virgil steps back, arms coming up to guard himself off. The heat in his cheeks feels like ice now. “So, what. I’m just another human conquest?”

“No!” Remy says, and there’s clear distress in their voice. “No, not at all, it’s just- I admit, I have not been... entirely honest?”

Virgil narrows his eyes. “Start talking truth now, then. Or I’m walking away right now.”

Remy holds up their hands in defeat and surrender. “I was mostly truthful, I swear. I don’t know why some people can hear me, but I know why you can. And only two people ever have.”

“And why can I hear and see you?”

“Because of the last person who could.”

“And who was that?”

Remy takes off their glasses, meeting Virgil’s eyes with theirs. “I believe it was your parent.”

Virgil’s ears roar as his brain struggles to process this announcement. His parents? The ones he never even looked for, since no one had any leads? There’d been no note, no memento, no witness of who’d dropped him off. And he has his Aunties. But he’s never stopped wondering, fantasizing about dramatic backstories that he’d never confess to in a million years.

“Who are they?” Virgil asks, in a small voice.

“They were- unique. They heard us, after generations in this village who couldn’t or refused to. They lingered and talked, and didn’t run away in fear.”

“You talked to them?” Virgil asks, hope bursting out of his throat. “What was their name? What were they like?”

“I didn’t, no,” Remy replies with a small shake of their head. “Not until much later. No, they talked to a different elemental, a mentor of mine.”

Virgil stares. "There are... more of you?"

Remy smirks. "Not of me, hun, I'm one of a kind. But yes, there are other elementals. Fog's not the only thing in the world, sadly."

"What was your mentor's element, then?"

Remy sobers, and reaches out to clasp Virgil's shoulder. "Thunderstorms. They were the Thunder Spirit."

Virgil stiffens. "Wait, does that mean- the rain, when I was dropped off?"

"It was them, yeah," Remy says softly.

"What-" Virgil's voice is rough. "What happened to the other one? The human?"

Remy sighs deeply. They drop their arm to their side, and their body follows, falling to sit suspended in their soft clouds. "They disappeared, having you. None of us knew it would happen. They just... melted into the storm. Your parent, the elemental, they were able to save you, but they couldn't save their lover. And my mentor, Thunder- they couldn't care for you, not the way you needed. So they dropped you off and saw that you were picked up safely."

Virgil feels his legs giving out. His parents- not in any of his daydreams had they been, well, magic. He'd thought- maybe if they were, they wouldn't have left him. Or they would have come back.

Distantly his brain wonders why he's not on the hard ground, and he realizes Remy has sent solid clouds to hold him up despite the jelly his limbs have become,

"...why didn't they come for me?" he asks his knees, tears leaking down his cheeks. "Thunder- why didn't they find me, all these years?"

The clouds of Remy's cheeks have grown darker, and small raindrops drip from them. "They were devastated, Virgil. They loved your parent, truly and utterly, and they blame themself for their death. And we experience time differently - it hasn't been that long, for them. They haven't recovered. But they asked me to watch over you, to make sure you were safe."

Virgil swipes at his cheeks. "Doesn't that make you a creep, then?" He glares at the foggy entity in accusation. "Watching me since I was a kid, then kissing me?"

"I was barely a 'kid' myself when they asked me to, I swear," Remy protests. "They were like my- what was your word - Aunties? They looked after me, showed me the ropes of my powers as a new being. I promise to you, I wasn't leering then, I was new and young and, perhaps, interfering more directly than the elders wanted by taking your hand all those years ago.

"There'd been too many oddities of humans and the mist," they continue. "Disappearances. Our cousins the fae causing mischief when we weren't watching. So the elders created me, to survey all that the mist touches."

"So. What. Your love is pure or some shit," Virgil drawls, acid dripping off his words.

"Yes," Remy answers simply.

If they'd qualified, or justified, Virgil could be more defensive, could refuse to believe it. But they just stare at him, glasses off, glowing eyes sincere.

"Oh," is all he can manage in response. Maintaining eye contact has a strange side effect of making his cheeks heat up, so he has a staring contest with his boots, instead.

"Babes, please look at me?" they ask gently.

Virgil can't ignore such a polite request, can he?

But it's a dirty trick. How can he maintain a tough, self-righteously angry exterior when Remy is smiling at him with so much liking in their eyes that the orbs might as well be glowing hearts?

"Can you forgive me, Virgil? For not telling you everything sooner?"

Virgil resists for all of a second before breaking into a broad grin. "You could convince me, somehow."

Remy grins, and lifts Virgil off his feet, fully suspended in the low-hanging clouds. "I'll do my best to be very convincing."

Virgil, the son of a Thunder Spirit and their human paramour, laughs, and pulls Remy in to kiss him again, and again, and again.

#sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #ts remy #ts virgil #omg look y'all i finished something #and it's sfw #fog spirit remy #half-human virgil #urban legends #country legends #roses writes fanfic

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