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sei-hoe · 3 years

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manager pt. 5

hello all! as always thank you for your love on this story. i hope you like this new chapter! leave me a comment, i love reading your thirsty thoughts! also i recently remembered that shiratorizawa is a dorm school lol, so from now on i will write it as such oopsie. also!! i got all official and made a banner for this series, im so official!

Fem Reader X Tendou Satori & Fem Reader x Ushijima Wakatoshi

CW: blowjob, angst, jealous themes, manipulative reader, language, implied sex, spit kink

WC: 2.6k

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

Clingy. That was the word you would use to describe Tendou as of late. During school he was walking with you in the hallways, during practice he was standing next to you, after practice he was walking you to your room. It wasn’t necessarily annoying, just strange. His change in behavior was sudden and unprompted, at least in your mind.

You had been the Shiratorizawa volleyball club manager for about a month now and your outlook had changed drastically. What used to feel awkward was now second nature. You used to flinch at what now was commonplace. Being “used” wasn’t what it used to be. Now it was something you looked forward to at the end of practice and you had actually become...dare you say it...friends with these guys. Friends with extreme benefits that is.

But still, Tendou was different. You’d catch him staring at you in a way that was different from the other guys. You’d catch him staring as Ushijima would carry you out of the gym on his back and straight to the locker room. He’d have a look that you used to not be able to identify in his eyes, you knew now it was jealousy. It was the same look that you’d found on Ushijima’s face about a month ago.

From Tendou’s perspective, it seemed as though Ushijima was hogging you, whisking you away after practice day in and day out. You would always walk out of the locker room with wet hair and another one of Ushijima’s shirts on. It was infuriating and just wasn’t fair. Tendou had barely been able to talk to you recently, hence his rather clingy behavior. But you were in heaven. You were in Ushijima’s presence daily and were able to care for him how he deserved. However, he had made it very clear that you were not his girlfriend as he didn’t have the time for such a commitment. Another price you were willing to pay.

_____

Another grueling practice ended a little bit later than usual, you noted the dark sky through the windows towards the top of the gym walls. You were working on a bit of homework when the final whistle was blown signifying the official end of practice. You stood up and began packing up your bag as the team approached the bench for a meeting. Tendou was the first to arrive by the bench, coming up behind you for a hug, wrapping his arms around your upper stomach and resting his chin on your head. His chest felt hot and sweaty against your back, instantly raising your body temperature. You giggled, knowing exactly which sweaty athlete this was. You and Tendou had become quite close, despite spending less time with him sexually, at least, during the last month. It seemed as though you were never really alone anymore and Tendou was always around you. It was nice, he had become a great friend to you. The two of you were always flirting back and forth and unlike Ushijima, it seemed as though Tendou really cared about you, both emotionally and physically. He always made sure you came before him and that you were alright after one of your umm...managerial obligations, whereas Ushijima didn’t care if you came at all. Long story short, you always enjoyed the time you spent with Tendou.

A few words were said per the usual by the captain and practice was dismissed. Tendou, still holding onto you from behind, moved his hand further down to your lower stomach, began rubbing gently, and craned his neck down to whisper in your ear, “ya wanna get outta here?”. You could hear the smirk behind his words as his hot breath blew against your ear.

“Mhm”, you murmured eagerly, missing your time with Tendou.

“Good”, he hummed in response, “because there’s something I’d like to give ya,” He accentuated his dirty talk by moving his hand even lower, “right here.” To say you had butterflies was an understatement. It was crazy what a couple of words could reduce you to, but here you were.

You walked back over to the bench to pick up your bag, but was intercepted by Ushijima who had a proposition.

“Come back with me to my room”, he offered, stepping close enough to make you crane your neck up. You looked behind you at Tendou, he was laughing with Semi, unaware that you were about to ruin his night. It’s not that you didn’t want to fuck Tendou, you did, very much actually. That’s just how whipped you are for Ushijima.

“But I already told Tendou that I’d-”, you started.

“Go make up some excuse and then wait for me outside of the locker room.” he interrupted while he started for the gym doors. Ushijima was hardly in the mood to share you tonight, or ever really. You watched him leave while standing and staring, awkwardly contemplating what to say to Tendou. You mustered up the courage to walk over to him, smiling and saying goodnight to Semi as you passed him on his way out.

“Hey, umm, I just remembered that I’ve got a ton of homework that’s due tomorrow and I just think I should probably-”

“What did Ushijima just say to you?” he caught you off guard with his question, although you should have been expecting it.

“Nothing, I just have a lot of homework.” you quickly replied.

Tendou rolled his eyes, “Come on, we’re closer than that, you don’t have to lie to me.” His hands were placed on his hips in an annoyed fashion.

You remained silent, thinking of anything you could say to ease the tension.

“Ok, I’ll say something then. Are you dating Ushijima or something?”

You shook your head.

“Ok...so then last I checked you were still the team manager, would that be correct? Meaning you’re not just Ushijima’s to play with? Cuz there are other guys on the team that are stressed out too, if that’s what we’re even calling it anymore.”

You blushed at this choice of words. “You don’t understand, I-” you started again.

“I think I do understand actually. And just so you know, he’s never going to give you what you want. You think you’re the first girl to fall for him?” He scoffed. “I mean, fuck,” he ran his taped up fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “It just gets old, ya know?” Tendou looked so hurt and angry. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it promptly and turned on his heel to leave. You reached to grab his arm before he could slip out of your grasp.

“Wait, Tendou...please.” you whispered into his sleeve, despite being the only two left in the vast gymnasium. “I don’t want things to be like this either. You,” you paused to collect your thoughts. “You’re my friend and I love all the time that we get to spend together. I always have the best time with you. But I can’t help liking Ushijima. So please don’t be mad at me,” you prayed into his arm, still gripping at his sleeve.

He finally turned around to face you, taking a deep inhale, he looked down into your wide, pleading eyes while exhaling through his nose.

“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” he looked away from you.

“Look at you, how?” You prodded, widening your eyes and moving closer to him.

“You know exactly how.” he smirked, bringing his hands to rest at your sides, lightly rubbing his thumbs in soothing circular motions. Beginning at the bottom of his abdomen you begin running your hands up his stomach, to his chest, shoulders, and finally around his neck. Standing on your tippy toes you pull him down to your level.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you breathed in his ear.

“Please,” he replied, his hands making their way down to your ass.

“You’re the one that I think about. It’s your hands that I imagine are touching me when I’m touching myself. You always make me feel so good, Tendou.”

“Ughh why are you doing this to me?” He whined, tipping his head back. It was then that you noticed the prominent tent in his pants, poking you in the stomach.

You’d never seen Tendou so flustered in the short time that you’d known him. He was usually the one making you flustered, not the other way around. It was a nice change of pace. It was also refreshing to know you had a kind of power over him, the kind to make him lose his mind.

“You sure you can’t bail on him?” He asked, hope gleaming in his red eyes. It made you pause to think about your options, a wicked idea popped into your head.

“Come wait with me?” you began pulling his arm towards the gym doors. He looked confused, but followed you anyway. Maybe you needed to give Ushijima a little push, it’s only a bonus that you get to makeout with Tendou too.

_____

The concrete bricks felt cold against the backs of your legs as Tendou shoved you against the locker room corridor hallway, the entrance to the room just around the corner. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, protecting it from the hard brick while the other pressed bruises into your waist. His chapped lips scraped against yours in a heated kiss, tongues fighting for dominance, his eventually winning as you whined into his mouth. He broke the kiss to stroke his own ego, his hands trailing down your sides to play with the waistband of your shorts.

“So you really think about my hands touching you when you play with that cute little cunt?”

“Please Tendou”, you moaned in response.

“I think you’ve had enough attention for today, fucking teasing me for the last fifteen minutes. Hell, the last couple weeks actually. You fucking rile me up just to go fuck some other dude. You like being a little slut? Hmm?”

You were at a loss for words. As much as his words were turning you on, you knew there was some truth behind them. He was onto your antics and done with them.

“You think I don’t know why we’re making out right by the locker rooms? Are you trying to make Ushijima feel like he’s missing out or something? Being all cute with me to show him how good of a girlfriend you’d be? Well fuck that shit. Get on your knees slut.”

He removed his hand from your waistband and brought them to your shoulders guiding you down to your knees. You couldn’t even rest on your calves, you had to stand up as tall as you could on your knees to be eye level with the imprint in his shorts.

“Fuck, it doesn’t take much, does it?” He scoffed as he pulled his shorts down to reveal his hard, heavy cock.

“Aw you didn’t think we’d take it this far, didja? Better make this quick if you don’t want your boyfriend to catch us!” Tendou tilted his head to the side, a smirk plastered on his face while he caressed the top of your head.

You opened your mouth to lap up the precum on his tip, swirling your tongue along the soft skin on the head of his cock.

“Nah, I don’t feel like being teased anymore today.” Tendou spoke as he readjusted his grip on your head, scooting you back until you were trapped between the painted brick wall and his body. You didn’t have a moment to adjust before his cock was plugging up your throat, making you gag around him. The pace started brutally, shoving in and out of your mouth. It was all you could do to keep up, running your tongue against the engorged vein on the underside of his cock. He never eased up until you tapped his thigh signifying you had enough.

“Too much?” he condescended. You looked back up at him with watery eyes, swallowing as many breaths as you could before it all started over again.

“This would have been much nicer for both of us if you hadn’t ditched me, I would’ve made you feel so good, baby.” He paused to take in your appearance, you looked so pretty like this. Your hair was a mess, eyes watery, lips so fucking swollen, drool dripping down the sides of your mouth, your chest heaving, and he had a great view down your shirt. Is this what his captain got to see everyday? The thought filled him with rage. If he had known he’d come to feel this way about you, he would’ve just asked you out, not asked you to be the manager. Ushijima wouldn’t have ever noticed you had it not been for him! Fuck, that’s annoying.

“Ya ready for a little more?”

You smiled at him through bated breaths, nodding your head. Things hadn’t gone exactly to plan, but you were still having a good time. You opened your mouth, closed your eyes, and stuck out your tongue, ready for whatever he had to give you. Tendou bent down into a squat until his mouth hovered just above yours. You felt something warm and sticky hit your tongue, you opened your eyes only to find a thin line of spit connecting Tendou’s lips with the liquid pooling in your mouth. Did he just spit in your mouth? Before you could say anything he was back on his feet, cock in his hand, rolling it in the spit laying on your tongue. He inched his way back into your throat, watching your eyes water with every thrust of his hips.

“Fuck you’re gonnna make me cum if you keep looking at me like that.” He continued thrusting, your throat convulsing around his cock.

“You’re gonna leave here with a tummy full of cum, ok sweetie?” His breaths and thrusts were becoming stuttered, he was close.

“You’re gonna fuck Ushijima with my cum swirling around in your stomach.” He whimpered, talking himself into an orgasm. With his hips giving one final thrust, you felt the back of your throat flood with cum. Tendou held his hips flush to your mouth for a few seconds, emptying himself completely into your stomach. He hissed as he pulled your head off of his now oversensitive cock.

“Lemme see.” he sighed. You stuck out your tongue, displaying your empty mouth to him.

“Mmm good girl.” He offered you his hand to help you up off of your knees. He tucked himself back into his pants as the locker room door creaked open.

“That’s my queue!” Tendou pulled you in for one final kiss, moaning as the taste of his cum hit his tongue. And with that, he shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders and took off walking down the hallway.

_____

You walked face first into a warm chest when you rounded the corner leading to the locker room door, looking for Ushijima. Looks like you had found him. His hair was still damp from the shower, his body was warm and humid through his clothes.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked.

“Yea-” you cleared your throat. “Yeah!” That’s better. Your voice was horse and your throat was sore.

Ushijima noted your appearance. Your hair was messy and your makeup was smudged. Your lips were bright red and your chin was glistening. He took your hand in his to begin the quiet walk to his dorm room. He heard footsteps in the opposite direction, only to turn around to see Tendou walking away from the two of you, a slight pep in his step and unknownst to Ushijima a smug look on his face.

#tendou satori x reader #tendou satori x reader smut #tendou satori smut #tendou smut #tendou x reader smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader smut #ushijima wakatoshi x reader smut #ushijima smut #shiratorizawa #shiratorizawa smut

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bloomingjungwon · 3 years

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soap ☾ lee heeseung

��𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here is first installment of the melanie martinez inspired fics! pls enjoy my lovely flowers!!

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst

washing your mouth out with soap; the symbolic meaning of "cleansing" after saying something you shouldn't have. you should've kept your feelings to yourself and held your toungue. you're now in a situation where you want to wash your mouth out with soap'

listen here

fifteen years of friendship. something you and heeseung had shared in common. from your awkward elementary days, to experiencing the uncomfortable change of puberty, and being there to witness each other’s “glow ups”, you’d say heeseung and you have been through thick and thin.

for you however, it was a painful friendship, but you never told heeseung. after realizing you were most likely in love with him in middle school, you just kept it to yourself. it never seemed to cross his mind anyway; the fact you could have feelings for him.

and that’s what made this friendship so painful. the fact that it was only a friendship. the fact that heeseung only saw you as a younger sibling. he only loved you platonically, and you knew it. you knew it deep down but never wanted to believe it. you’ve begged yourself multiple times to push your feelings aside for the sake of this friendship, but it didn’t hurt any less when you saw him with another girl. so you made it a mission to rid your feelings.

for a while, it worked. you stopped seeing heeseung as a love interest and got yourself a boyfriend. all was going great until you started imagining your boyfriend as heeseung. the way you’d rather have heeseung’s fingers interlocked with yours. the way you wished it was heeseung holding you from behind.

and over time, that’s how all your relationships ended. you’d fall in lust over and over again, just for you to end it because all you could think about was heeseung. you hated yourself for that. while you’re over here trying to maintain a relationship, heeseung had no problem with the girls he went out with.

laying down on your couch, the same thought played like a broken record in your mind. should i tell him how i’ve felt these past years? with the gut feeling of knowing how he feels about you, you knew the situation could end bad, but you hated the uncomfortable thought in your head. stressed and ready to pull your hair, you sat up and grabbed your phone off the table.

heeseung, i’m coming over in ten minutes.

alright, let me know when you’re here.

as best friends, it was normal for the both of you to just drop by whenever, whether one was busy or not. taking advantage of this, you made your way over, same thought still playing in your mind. it probably isn’t the best for you to be driving with your mind all over the place, but you wanted to settle this once and for all. just throw it all out. before you knew it, you were parked in front of his house,

one big breath in, and one big breath out. you texted heeseung you arrived and headed out of the car. sixteen footsteps. that's how many it took you to get to his front door from your parking spot. you’ve been to his house so many times, the amount of steps became a routine to remember. however those exact same sixteen steps you seem to always take seemed longer than usual, your anxiety eating at you and making the walk feel like a mile.

heeseung was already at the door before you could even knock. silent nods were exchanged and you let yourself in. out of habit, you dragged yourself to his bedroom, him following. you laid down his bed, staring and burning holes in his ceiling.

“is there something you need or are you just here because you’re bored?” he said after breaking the silence.

even more silence. all your thoughts threatening to come out of your mouth. god i feel like throwing up. i feel it coming out my throat. “i have something to say.” you said, barely whispering.

“do share.” he said, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway. you prepared yourself, and sat up, reverting your eyes to the floor. you refused to make eye contact with him.

“i think… no. i know, im in love with you. i have been. always have. it’s always been you heeseung.” you managed to blurt. he continued to stare at you, daring not to say a single word. the silence was killing you, threatening you more to spit out all your words.

“all those guys i’ve dated, i’ve never felt love with them. for months, i kept imagining them as you, and i know it’s fucked up, but i guess that’s what love does to you. i don’t feel the same way with them like i do with you. and maybe i’m being biased because i’ve known you all my life, but i wake up everyday and my first thought is you. i’m constantly thinking about you when i’m not supposed to. i see something and immediately think, “heeseung would love or hate this”. my heart feels like its been punched millions of times everytime i see you with another girl and i can’t help but wish that was me with you.”

tears fell down your cheeks, rolling down to the floor. you counted each one. nine of them have fallen. have you been speaking that long or were you just crying too much? with all your will, you finally looked up to him. his face said it all. this was not going to end well for you. shit, i said too much, it overflowed. why do i always spill?

heeseung whispered your name. “i don’t know what to say. the only thing i can think of is i’m sorry.”

although you were expecting this, it didn’t hurt any less. “you know i love you, platonically. as if you were my little sibling. it’s just how i’ve always seen you throughout my years of knowing you.”

“you don’t need to apologize. i just.. i just needed to get this off my chest because i couldn't hold it in any longer.” you stood up. “i think i should get going now. thank you for listening to me.”

heeseung wasn’t sure if putting his hand on your shoulder was a good idea, so he refrained himself from doing it. “thank you for telling me. i’ll walk you to the front.” he said. “it’s okay, i can do it myself. bye hee.”

with a sad look of pity, he replied “bye, and again, i’m sorry.” you cringed. stop apologizing, it makes me feel worse. without looking back, you made your way to the door.

sixteen steps. sixteen dreadful steps to make it to your car. you started your car and mindlessly drove around and until you were in a secluded area. turning off the car you pulled your seat back to lay down. you began to silently cry, cursing yourself for letting your feelings get in the way. you felt worthless, hurt, and dirty. i wish i never spoke. now i gotta wash my mouth out with soap.

#enhypen au #enhypen drabbles #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fic #enhypen headcanons #enhypen imagines #enhypen reactions #enhypen scenarios #enhypen angst #enhypen #enhypen heeseung #heeseung #lee heeseung #enhypen x you #enhypen x heeseung #enhypen fluff

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hrina · 4 years

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1923, Pt. II - The Week

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 8.4k REQUESTED: perhaps? idek anymore

hey yall, here’s PART 2 of the historical/groundskeeper!AU :) i really hope u guys like it, i spent the past two weeks trying to make it the best that i could. anywayyyy im sure everyone knows the drill by now: support content creators by reblogging their work and/or offering feedback! happy reading 💚💚💚

warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3

PART I: The Day

~*~

July 7th, 1923

It’s hot.

You set your glass of water back onto the little table to your left. Excess condensation coats your fingertips; you wipe them against your forehead, hoping that it will be enough to cool you down. No such luck—the droplets provide a momentarily chill before sinking into your skin, leaving you feeling just as scorched as before.

You recline against the cushy yellow lounger, closing your eyes and tilting your face up to the sky. The sun beats down against your cheeks. The thin, cottony material of your dress is pasted to your thighs; you flex your legs slightly, hoping that the fabric will unstick.

In the distance, Apollo and Artemis—no longer confined to their pens—roam around the small, girded pasture adjacent to the stables. The fountain in the middle of the back lawn is about one hundred feet away. Skinny streams of water shoot out from the stone hands of a carved angel, spilling picturesquely into the upwelling below.

You crack one eye open slowly, letting your focus drift over to where Harry is crouched on the cobbled staircase of the porch. Sweat glistens on the nape of his neck as he furiously scrubs the steps clean.

Your thoughts retreat to the night before, when he’d kissed the back of your hand whilst standing in that very same spot. As though triggered by the memory, your knuckles begin to tingle.

Harry sits back on his haunches and drags his forearm across his face, wiping away the excess perspiration on his skin. His white shirt is soaked through with moisture. When he lifts his attention from the ground, your gazes lock for a brief moment. Immediately, your open eye snaps shut.

And you can’t be entirely sure, but you think that he may have smiled.

You lay in silence for another five minutes or so, indulging in the occasional sip of water as the heat of the summer envelopes your body. You only sit up when someone clears their throat from behind you, pulling you from your tranquil daze.

“Good afternoon,” Martin says. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort, casting a looming shadow over your torso.

“Hello,” you reply. You try to mask the disappointment that threatens to seep into your tone. A small part of you—a tiny, microscopic part—had been hoping that he was someone else.

“Thought you could use something to drink,” he says, plopping onto the recliner to your right. Your attention falls lower—two glasses are nestled comfortably in his hands. The caramel-coloured liquid inside each cup glints alluringly, sloshing over a trio of ice cubes that have already begun to melt.

“Is that…scotch?” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly.

“Yes,” he says. He extends an arm, offering you one of the glasses. “Fancy a taste?”

“I’ve had it before,” you say smoothly, shaking your head. “Truthfully, it’s not my favourite. Besides—” You gesture to the little table on your left. There’s still a bit of water residing in your cup. “—I already have a drink.”

Martin’s face falls.

“Thank you, though,” you add, not wanting to sound rude. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

That seems to bolster him a bit, you think, because his shoulders straighten as he shoots you a satisfied smile.

You clear your throat, gazing pointedly up at the sky. “Where’s Andrew?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Martin taps one foot against the floor. He’s wearing a pair of shiny black loafers—they’re new, you guess, and extremely expensive. “He’s in the middle of a call. Private business pertaining to Markham Motors, I believe. It doesn’t concern me—not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you echo.

He chuckles, nodding proudly. “Your brother is remarkably ambitious. Once our two companies merge, I reckon that we’ll be unstoppable.”

“How exciting,” you murmur, reaching over for your water. You raise the cup to your mouth, expelling a soft sigh. “You must be thrilled, I’d imagine.”

“All in a day’s work,” he grunts, setting one glass of scotch down onto the ground. He lifts the other to his lips, taking a delicate sip.

You sit there awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Martin’s eyes roam the wide expanse of your backyard, jumping from the stables to the fountain and back again. He pauses, then, humming pensively when he spots Harry polishing the stairs less than fifteen feet away.

“It’s a bit…unconventional to be dining with the help, is it not?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow nonchalantly.

You stiffen and glance over your shoulder—Harry is on all fours, scowling as he scrubs a particularly stubborn stain from the bottom step. His chestnut hair tumbles onto his forehead, twisted into pretty ringlets. A spark of heat blazes up your spine.

You turn your attention back to Martin, only to find that he’s also watching the other man work. It’s different, however—his look is judgmental, austere. His thin upper lip curls in disdain and his eyebrows cinch together, radiating condescension.

“We are…” You choose your words carefully. “…a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” he acquiesces, tilting his head to the side. “But does it not distress you, somewhat? Inviting them into your home, making yourself and your possessions vulnerable?”

Something gross festers in the pit of your stomach. You bite back the sound of disgust that threatens to spill from your mouth.

“No,” you state curtly. “Not at all.”

Silence falls over the two of you, thick and poignant and tremendously uncomfortable. After a long, tense moment, you sit up, dusting off the skirt of your dress and releasing a faint groan. “I think I’ll be heading in, now.”

“As will I,” Martin replies, jumping to pursue you.

You stand, clutching your glass of water in one hand. He quickly reaches out with extended fingers, trying to take it from you. Though chivalrous, the action is weak, and you both know it.

“Here, let me—”

“No, it’s quite alright—,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I insist—”

“Mister Russell, really, it’s fine—”

The cup, slick with condensation, slips from your grasp and shatters loudly against the floor. You gasp when a jagged shard slices against your ankle. Pain flares up your shin; abruptly, you fall back onto the lounger. You angle your leg to the side, surveying the damage with wide eyes. The cut is about an inch long; blood drips from the injury, seeping down toward the sole of your bare foot. Bile gathers on your tongue.

“Good God!” Martin exclaims unhelpfully. “You’re bleeding!”

“I can see that,” you snap, bending down and pressing your fingertips against the laceration.

Heavy footsteps approach. When you cast a glance over your shoulder, you find Harry stalking toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment.

“What happened?” he asks, but when you hold up one hand, he freezes in his tracks.

“Be careful!” you warn, your voice strained. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“What happened?” he repeats. His gaze lands on Martin, and his nostrils flare unnervingly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” the other man protests, retreating a few steps away. “It just fell!”

“Go back inside,” Harry commands. “Check all the lavatories—there may be spare bandages in one of the cupboards.”

Martin frowns—you get the feeling that he’s not exactly used to being ordered around. “Now, you listen here—”

“Mister Russell!” you interrupt shrilly, fixing him with a stern glare. “Do as he says. Please.”

Martin closes his mouth and purses his lips, nodding tersely. He nearly trips over himself as he stumbles back into the house.

“He’s useless,” you mutter, bloody fingers slipping against your skin.

Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he situates himself on the opposite edge of the recliner, beckoning you closer with a quick flick of his hand.

“Face this way,” he instructs. “There’s no glass on this side.”

You obey him wordlessly. He gets you settled back into the chair, guiding your right leg over his thigh so that your foot lays comfortably in his lap. With no hesitation whatsoever, he grasps the white fabric covering the jut of his shoulder and gives a mighty tug. The sleeve rips cleanly at the seam. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.

“We’ll use this,” Harry says, pulling the material down to his wrist. “Just until he returns with proper bindings.”

“Alright,” you whisper. It takes every ounce of willpower in your body to avoid staring at his naked arm—golden, sweat-slicked skin stretched over smooth, corded muscle. A frighteningly large part of you wants to lean forward and sink your teeth into his bicep. You swiftly curb the urge, swallowing heavily and trying to focus your attention on something—anything—else.

“How did this happen?” Harry asks.

He balls the fabric up and dabs cautiously at the blood dripping from your wound.

“He was—well, I don’t even know, really,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “He was trying to be gallant, I suppose.”

“‘Gallant’?” he parrots, gazing down at your leg. “He fancies you, then?”

“Yes.” You pause, rethinking your answer. “No.” You sigh. “Perhaps; I’m not sure.”

He smirks. Despite the pain pulsating up your leg, you wiggle your toes and nudge him with your knee.

“What’s so amusing?” you ask, puzzled.

He simply chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s just that…you’re a bit oblivious, that’s all.”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, you balk and say, “I beg your pardon?”

Harry laughs. Gingerly, he wraps his torn sleeve around your ankle, applying a gentle pressure to your skin. You wince, curling your fingers into fists. His hands—though rough and calloused—are surprisingly tender with their movements. He’s slow and practiced, treating you as though you’re made of porcelain. Your heartbeat quickens; you hope that he can’t hear the way it thunders beneath your ribs.

“You’re rather clueless when it comes to gauging a man’s affections for you,” he explains. He makes it sound as though it’s a phenomenon of which you should already be aware.

You narrow your eyes and purse your lips.

“Tread carefully,” you tell him, though you can’t hide the sardonic undertone in your voice. “You’re wading through dangerous waters, here.”

“What I mean to say is—” Harry clears his throat, shrugging coolly. “—since yesterday’s arrival, that fool’s chattering hasn’t ceased. Building oneself up with words…that’s the sign of a boy aiming to impress a girl.”

“You don’t sound too keen on that method,” you note.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Excellent observation. I am not.”

“And why is that?” you ask, cocking one eyebrow challengingly. “How exactly would you attempt to make your affections known?”

Harry places one of his palms on the skin just below your knee. You jump at the contact, shocked by his brazen move. Having his hands on your ankle is one thing—but your knee? It’s risky, bold, nearly scandalous…and with the way he’s looking at you, it’s clear that he knows it, too.

“Building oneself up with words is a boy’s game,” he tells you. “But building oneself up with actions…that’s the sign of a man aiming to impress a woman. It may be a bit unconventional, but—” He pins you with a deliberate stare. “I work for a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You say nothing. Harry’s green eyes pierce your face, peeling you open layer by layer. You’ve stopped breathing, your chest completely still. Goosebumps erupt across your arms. Instinctively, your concentration falls to his lips: twin pink petals, sinful and alluring and so incredibly—

“I’ve got the bandages!”

And just like that, the spell is broken. You drag your gaze away from the man in front of you, turning to the side and watching as Martin jogs back over with a thick spool of gauze clutched tightly to his chest.

“Here,” he pants. He passes the roll to Harry, who clears his throat loudly and begins to unwind the bindings with swift, proficient fingers.

Martin then fixes his attention on you, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“Are you alright?” he asks, shooting you an expectant look.

“Fine,” you croak out, though the blood roaring in your ears sincerely begs to differ.

You blink yourself out of your stupor, running your tongue over the roof of your mouth and exhaling shakily. Harry has turned back to your ankle, replacing the makeshift bandages with proper ones. You glance up at Martin and nod your head, praying that he can’t see the flustered agitation brewing in your eyes.

“Yes, Mister Russell, I’m fine. Thank you.”

July 9th, 1923

The library is your favourite room in the house.

It’s quiet, peaceful, and is accompanied only by the rarest of disturbances. Lydia’s never really enjoyed reading—she can’t sit still long enough to do so. Andrew hasn’t stepped past the threshold in years—he’s been too busy running Markham Motors. So, that just leaves you, along with the freedom to choose from the hundreds of books lining the shelves. You’ve dabbled in fiction and non-fiction alike, soaking up the words from the page just as the ground soaks up rain from a storm.

The library has become your safe haven. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You trod over to your favourite spot to read: a small alcove in the wall, decked out with fluffy cushions and tucked right up against a wide window. It gives you a perfect view of the driveway and the front lawn down below. You’ve spent hours in this little nook, absorbed in novels and poems and biographies. You’ve passed entire nights curled up next to the windowpane, having dozed off in the middle of a story. It’s become a tradition of sorts, despite the dull ache in your neck that always ensues when you stir the next morning.

The book in your hands is heavy as you sink into the mess of pillows. Bright, natural light streams in from the window to your left. You release a soft sigh as your fingers flip to where you’d last left off during your previous visit.

She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me—

You scoff and roll your eyes. You’ve read this story a dozen times; you already know how it ends.

For the next twenty minutes, nothing matters save for the adventures of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You allow yourself to get lost in the world of Pride and Prejudice, eyes hungrily raking over every printed detail. You’re only pulled out of your reverie when a shrill, jubilant cry pierces through the silence.

Instinctively, your head snaps toward the direction of the noise. Through the spotless windowpane, you spy Harry and Lydia standing on the lawn. Harry is holding a brown hose, angling it downward and watering the grass beneath his feet. Your sister is next to him, babbling and gesturing animatedly with her hands. You smile at the sight.

You slip your thumb between the pages of the book to mark your place. The novel is forgotten as you study the scene playing out below.

Harry is wearing an ashen blue button-up and a pair of black trousers. A thin white undershirt peeks out from beneath his collar. He smirks at something that Lydia says, ducking his head and trying to conceal the fond expression on his face. She throws her hands up in the air and twirls around—when she staggers slightly, Harry holds out his arm. Her fingers dig into his elbow to regain balance, and the two of them dissolve into giggles. Warmth unfurls in your chest.

Harry tilts his head back, surveying the cloudless sky with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. His attention turns to the house, then, sweeping absentmindedly over the fair bricks and stone accents.

Suddenly, his gaze darts forward. You freeze when his green irises lock squarely on you.

Hot humiliation creeps up your neck, because of course. Staring at him and remaining undetected is a luxury that few can afford.

Your lips part with a soft gasp, and your shoulders stiffen. The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up slightly—so faint, you think it may just be a figment of your imagination. The gilded copy of Pride and Prejudice rests in your lap, abandoned. It mocks you and your preoccupation—your fascination—with the man on the ground.

Harry shoots you a small, mysterious smile, and lifts his chin. You sit up straight, processing his request.

“I shouldn’t—,” you start to say before remembering that he can’t actually hear you. You clench your jaw and shake your head, hoping that he’ll be able to register the movement through the glass.

But his teasing expression only deepens as he beckons you again. A ragged exhale falls from your lips, and a tepid swell of adrenaline floods your veins. You snap your book shut, tucking it against your chest and pushing yourself away from the window. You swear that your heart skips a beat when your feet hit the floor.

Don’t rush, don’t rush, don’t rush.

It’s hard to maintain a measured pace, especially when such a big part of you just wants to take off and sprint down the spiral staircase. You force yourself to dawdle, to smooth your fingers over the bannister and descend slowly. Your palms are clammy as you make your way across the foyer, eyes glued to the large double doors on the opposite wall.

And then you’re outside, the sun beating down against your face and the breeze blowing gently through your hair. You saunter toward the edge of the large portico, leaning against the stone railing with your novel still clutched tightly to your sternum.

“Dee!”

Lydia whips around, taken aback by the call of her name. Upon recognising you, her features morph into a mask of quizzical mockery.

“Where have you been?” she asks, jogging over.

“I was reading,” you say, shrugging indifferently. After a short moment, you add, “Beth’s looking for you.”

“Me? What for?”

In the periphery of your vision, you spy Harry approaching. Water leaks from the nozzle of the hose; he gathers a few droplets onto his knuckles before smearing them across his sweaty forehead. You bite your tongue to suppress a snort.

“Dinner, I believe,” you lie, turning back to your sister. “It’s your turn to choose, is it not?”

Lydia’s eyes light up. “You’re right! It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

Her feet smack loudly against the cobbled steps as she races toward the door. Before disappearing inside, however, she skids to a stop, spinning around and raising one arm high above her head. “Goodbye, Harry!”

Harry smiles, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Goodbye, little bug.”

A moment later, she’s gone.

And a moment after that, you find yourself sincerely regretting your decision to send her away. Harry observes you with raised brows and a knowing smirk on his face. You gnaw anxiously on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. A long beat of silence ensues.

“Hello,” he finally says.

You exhale quietly, relieved. “Hello.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agree.

You lean against the stone bannister, peering down at him. The breeze picks up, gusting through your thin skirt and blouse. A small part of you notes the theatrical romanticism of it all: his being on the ground, the butterflies flapping around in your stomach—

“Do you always spend the majority of a nice day locked away in the library?” Harry asks. His pretty irises twinkle alluringly when your gazes meet.

“I—no,” you stammer. “I was just…reading.”

“As one does in a room full of books, I’d expect.”

Embarrassment blooms in your chest.

“Yes,” you say softly. “Precisely.”

He grins.

“How is your ankle?” he asks, motioning toward the bottom of your leg.

“Oh.” You look down, flexing your foot. “It’s healing. I should be fully rehabilitated in a few days.”

Harry chuckles, nodding. You purse your lips and try for a smile, but you’re afraid that it resembles more of a grimace.

“What’ve you got, there?” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the novel tucked between your forearm and your chest. You’re grasping it so tightly that you’re surprised the skin of your knuckles hasn’t split.

You clear your throat, revealing the embroidered inscription on the front cover. “Er—Pride and Prejudice. It’s my favourite.”

Harry hums. “Mine, too.”

And though it is extremely impolite, you can’t stop the look of shock that makes its way onto your face.

“You’ve read it?”

He chuckles sheepishly, dropping his chin. “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he suddenly says, lifting his eyes from the ground and fixing his unwavering gaze on you, “and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you—”

“—from this day on,” you finish, breathless.

He smiles. Zaps of electricity surge down your spine. The two of you are silent, tripping over unspoken murmurs of indulgence. You scrape your tongue over your teeth, clueless.

Harry is the first one to break.

“I should get back to work,” he announces gently. He gestures to the hose hanging limply from his hand and gives a perfunctory shrug.

“Of course.” You nod, inhaling deeply. “I should get back to…”

He smirks when you trail off. “Reading?” he supplies.

“Yes,” you blurt. “Yes. Exactly.” You hesitate, drumming your fingers against the auburn cover of your book. “Good day, Harry.”

“Good day, miss!” he calls as you begin to walk away. You pause and cast a glance over your shoulder, an admonishment dancing on the tip of your tongue.

For the hundredth time, Harry, you mustn’t feel obligated to address me in such a formal—

But then you register the mischief on his face, and the realisation sinks in.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” you ask.

Crinkles dig into the corners of his eyes.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand,” he says, tilting his head to the side in faux-confusion. You wipe a clammy palm against the waistband of your skirt and bite back a small smile. Harry’s playful expression deepens, poking a cavernous dimple into his left cheek.

“Have a little compassion on my nerves,” you say, pulling another quote from the novel clasped against your body. “You tear them to pieces.”

His lips twitch, impressed and amused.

“What a shame,” he counters, snickering quietly, “for I dearly love to laugh.”

July 13th, 1923

The past hour of your life has been spent rolling around in bed and resenting your glaring inability to fall asleep. You’re not really sure why you’re still awake after midnight, but you’ve long since given up on trying to solve the mystery that is your body’s biological clock. Smooth satin sheets tickle your bare legs. You groan into your pillow and push yourself up from the mattress, tossing your feet over the edge and shivering softly when they land on the cold hardwood floor.

You wrap yourself up in a thin silk robe; the hem falls only an inch or two above your knees. The rest of the house is silent as you quietly exit your room and pad across the hall. You tiptoe down the spiral staircase; a brief moment later (during which you slip on some comfortable footwear), you’re stepping out into the backyard, greeted by gentle zephyrs and temperate summer air.

As you hop down the porch steps and begin the familiar trek toward the stables, you note the blanket of stars dotting the clear night sky. They twinkle happily, winking at you as though they know something that you don’t.

You shake your head at the thought. They’re stars. Big, flaming balls of gas floating in space, stationed millions of miles away. They know nothing.

Your ears perk up as you approach your destination, struck by the low stream of words carried by the breeze.

“…lilies, and dahlias, too. They tend to bloom during the summer…”

You freeze, feet stalling in the dirt. Leaning in closer, you catch deep murmurs of a faceless voice. The stranger continues to list off different types of flowers; when a soft chuckle laces through the air, your eyes widen in disbelief.

Is that…?

Sure enough, when you creep into the stables, you find Harry standing in front of Artemis’ pen, running his fingers through her shiny mane. His back is to you, shoulder blades flexing beneath the dark button-up adorning his torso. The sleeves reach his biceps, stretching slightly whenever he lifts his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying as you inch closer, hopelessly engrossed in the pseudo-conversation. “Sugar cubes are a bit of a rarity in my home. I haven’t any others.”

A twig snaps beneath your foot. You wince.

Harry whips around, startled. Upon recognising you, he blows out a heavy breath. Tension leaks from his body, and twin pink spots form on his cheeks. You stare at the blush colouring his face, mesmerized—you’ve never seen him look so dumbfounded.

“Er—,” you say. You raise your hand in an awkward, half-hearted wave. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he replies.

A beat of silence ensues.

“What are you…?” you trail off, trying to keep your voice level. “Were you just—?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. A sheepish chuckle tumbles off his tongue. “I....I understand it, now. Talking to one’s horse is rather soothing.”

“She’s not yours, though.” Your response is blunt, unfeeling.

Harry’s nostrils flare, and his feet scuff against the ground. Now that he’s facing you, you’re able to get a better look at him. A white undershirt peeks out from beneath his button-up, leaving his collarbones exposed. A gold chain glints around his neck, illuminated under the dim light. He’s wearing brown trousers and those same black boots, but you think that he may have polished them, finally, because they’re considerably tidier than before.

“She’s not,” Harry agrees, swallowing nervously. “My sincerest apologies. I can see that I’ve crossed a line—”

You can’t stifle the giggle that bubbles up in your throat. Harry hesitates, fixing you with a bewildered expression. At last, you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head and waving away his regrets.

“I’m only teasing,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Breathe, Harry.”

He exhales raggedly, ruffling the curls at the back of his head. “Jesus. You frightened me.”

“Good. Perhaps you’ve finally learned your lesson, then.”

“My lesson?” he echoes, cocking his head to the side. “And what exactly would that be?”

“To avoid sneaking up on others at night,” you say. “Especially if they’re in the midst of conversing with their horse. It’s a very private exchange, you know—endless confessions have been made under this roof.”

Harry laughs.

“I think I’ve supplied my fair share of confessions, tonight,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I can leave you to do the same.”

“No,” you blurt out. “Wait.”

He pauses, shocked by your immediate refutation. You purse your lips as hot shame unfurls in your chest.

“I just meant,” you start, hastening to make amends, “you can stay, if you’d like. Besides—” You shrug. “It’s far more pleasant talking to someone who can actually talk back.”

~*~

“Harry. No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And I’ll be right next to you. I won’t leave your side.”

You gnaw apprehensively on your bottom lip as he frees Artemis from her pen. She trots out and whinnies softly, tossing her head to the side. He shushes her, dragging a comforting palm over her back. You step closer, mirroring his movements and glaring at him with terse, squinted eyes.

“We’ll go slowly,” he says, fixing you with an earnest look. “A few steps at a time. That doesn’t sound too daunting, does it?”

After a long, overwrought moment, you surrender.

“Very well,” you say. You point at him accusatorily, extending your arm over Artemis’ body. “But as soon as I want to stop, we stop. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Harry leans forward, bumping the pad of your finger with the tip of his nose. The contact makes you gasp. He pauses as well, having realised the implications of the thoughtless action. You swallow heavily; he clears his throat and averts his gaze.

“I’ll get the saddle,” he says.

His heel scrapes loudly against the dry dirt when he turns; you watch as he marches toward the pair of brown saddles hanging on the wooden wall. With a mighty groan, he heaves one from its rusted, metal hook, gathering the leather in his arms before making his way back over to you.

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.

“You’re very welcome.”

You migrate to the side, petting Artemis’ mane as Harry slips the saddle onto her back. She huffs; you coo at her, holding her face in your hands to keep her calm. Harry spends the next several seconds strapping everything in place. After he’s finished, he gives a gentle tug, ensuring that you won’t slide and fall to the ground once you’re ready to mount.

“All set,” he says, squaring his shoulders.

You glance over at him with wide, frightened eyes. When he meets your gaze, his stoic expression melts into a pool of concern.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, stepping closer to you.

“I—” Your throat burns. “I haven’t ridden in three years, Harry.”

“I know,” he says solemnly. He offers you his left hand. “Do you trust me?”

Your response is immediate. “I do.”

“Good.” The corners of his lips curl upward. His tone is unreservedly honest when he speaks again. “I won’t let anything happen to you, miss; I swear it.”

You slide your palm against his. A sharp tingle races up your arm, sending your heartbeat into a frenzy. You fight to keep your breathing even as Harry pulls you closer, positioning you in front of him and placing his fingers on your waist.

“Ready?” he murmurs. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear.

You nod.

He grunts as he lifts you. You kick out one leg, slinging it over Artemis’ back and pulling yourself up. Once you’ve settled into a comfortable position, you peer down at him, shoulders taut and ankles locked.

“Breathe,” Harry reminds you. He leads by example, inhaling deeply; you imitate him, trying to ignore the thin sheen of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.

“What do I do, now?” you ask after a thin stretch of silence.

He chuckles good-naturedly, cocking one eyebrow. “You’ve forgotten?”

“No,” you say indignantly, frowning. “I just—”

You break off when he takes your hands and guides them forward. Your fingers wrap around the reins dangling from Artemis’ neck. You fist the leather firmly, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat. Harry’s nostrils flare as he retracts his arms. You’re fascinated by the way his tongue darts out of his mouth, swiping over his sunburnt lips.

“A few steps at a time,” he says, repeating his former words.

You nod, blowing out a shaky exhale. Gently, you dig your heels into Artemis’ belly and click your teeth. She snorts and takes a step forward; the air is swiftly knocked from your lungs.

“I’m right here,” Harry pipes up. He lays one palm against the back of the saddle, keeping pace. “I won’t let you fall.”

Gradually, you make it out of the stables. The distance can’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet, but it’s a start. You tug softly on the reins, and Artemis stops abruptly. The sudden pause has you lurching forward in your seat. You squeak; quicker than a lightning strike, Harry is there. His hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you steady.

You look down at him, and your gazes lock. Jade eyes gleam beneath the lustrous night sky. His attention falls lower, and only then do you realise that the hem of your robe has ridden up your leg. Most of your thigh is exposed—smooth skin on total display, mere inches from his face. You release an inaudible gasp, shifting your hips to the side so that the silk slips back down.

A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitches enticingly. He removes his touch from your back and turns away.

“Beautiful evening,” he says stiffly, peering up at the stars. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You clear your throat. “I’d like to dismount, now. Would you mind?”

He shakes his head and hums. “Not at all. Hold onto me.”

You place your hands on his shoulders, and he curls his fingertips into your waist. Wordlessly, he lifts you from Artemis’ back. You yelp when your ankle snags on one of the saddle’s leather straps. He stumbles backward, wrapping his arms tightly around your midsection and grunting in surprise. When you eventually regain your footing, your eyes widen at the compromising nature of your position.

Harry is clutching you against his torso, his face buried in your neck. Warm puffs of air leave his lips and coat the column of your throat; the sensation sends shivers down your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, chest heaving with difficult, onerous breaths.

It’s a stance that should only be shared between lovers, you think. Between a husband and his wife.

Harry is not your husband.

And you are not his wife.

The two of you break apart almost immediately, choking on hasty, half-formed sentences.

“My apologies, miss—”

“No, you needn’t—I should have been more cautious—”

“It’s late; you must be spent—”

“I’m not ready to leave.”

Harry freezes, his jaw agape. Several seconds elapse before he can find it in himself to muster a reply.

“I beg your pardon?” He’s breathless, swept away by your confession.

You shift awkwardly.

“I’m not ready to leave,” you repeat. You clasp your hands behind your back and fix him with an even stare. You hope that he can’t hear the slight quiver at the base of your declaration. “I—I wish to spend more time with you.”

He blinks. “With me?”

You nod. “With you.”

“What…?” He hesitates. “What would you like to do?”

You shrug. “Anything.”

Harry puckers his lips, lost in thought. After a prolonged moment of deliberation, his features light up. “I know a place.”

“‘A place’?” you parrot, brows knitting together.

“A place,” he confirms. “You trust me, do you not?”

“You already know the answer to that question,” you say, scoffing quietly. “I believe I’ve made myself abundantly clear.”

He chuckles. You tug on the sleeves of your robe and grate your slippers into the dirt. Harry watches you with careful eyes.

“Do it now, then,” he says, nodding encouragingly. He holds out his hand once more, beckoning you closer. “Trust me, now.”

You chew on your bottom lip, gracing him with a curt bob of your head. Artemis huffs as you wrap her reins around your wrist and slide your fingers against Harry’s palm. He pats your knuckles gently, guiding them to the crook of his elbow.

“Shall we?” he asks. It’s impossible to read the emotion in his voice.

Your response of endorsement is meek. Gone is the confident woman from a minute ago: the one who stated what she wanted without a second thought. She slips through your grasp easily, disintegrating into a pile of dust and leaving nothing behind.

“We shall,” you choke out.

Harry’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, and Artemis’ hooves clunk against the ground as he leads you off into the night.

~*~

“This is so…”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“‘Nice’?” You spin on your heel slowly, taking in your surroundings. “It’s incredible.”

The water trickling through the creek is crystal clear. A few shiny rocks peek out from the shallow stream, gleaming in the moonlight. You peer up at the stars—hundreds of diamonds, perfectly visible thanks to the large gap of the clearing. Crickets chirp along the edges of the bushes, and yellow-green fireflies ride the breeze.

“How did you find this place?” you breathe.

“It may sound foolish—,” Harry begins. He holds one hand out; you transfer Artemis’ reins into his palm. “—but I can’t remember.”

“Really?” you ask, stunned. You trail after him as he leads your horse to a nearby tree. He loops her leather harnesses around a thick branch, tying a proficient knot and giving it a few experimental tugs. Your gaze remains glued to his hands: the way his fingers work deftly, the way his knuckles flex with each pull—

“Really,” he says. A soft sigh tumbles from his mouth as he steps back. “Come with me.”

You follow him to the middle of the clearing, trying to anticipate his next move. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to drop to his knees. He falls backward, spine meeting the grass with a faint thump. You gasp, staring down at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” Harry hums, shooting you a playful smirk. He crosses his arms behind his head—you try to avoid staring at the prominent bulge of his biceps. “The weeds won’t bite.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, nodding quickly. “Alright, then.”

Daintily, you lower yourself to the ground. He watches you with an amused expression on his face.

“What?” you say, pouting.

“Nothing.” He snickers quietly. You tuck your ankles beneath your thighs as he turns to the side, propping his head up with one hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, miss, but…I presume that you don’t often make it a point to lay in the grass.”

“That would be an accurate presumption,” you say, laughing softly. Harry smiles.

“You should spend more time outside,” he says absentmindedly. “You’re always cooped up in the house.”

You cock one eyebrow teasingly. “Do you wish to see more of me, Harry?”

“Absolutely not,” he replies, humour evident in his tone. “I am simply trying to instill some sense of adventure into your life.”

The corners of your lips kink upward. In a matter of seconds, however, your delight melts away, replaced by a somberness that you can’t seem to shake.

“I was far more adventurous before the accident,” you murmur, dropping your gaze. You reach out, fiddling with a few blades of grass in an attempt to avoid Harry’s doleful eyes. “Now, I…I’m afraid of everything, it seems.”

Silence hangs in the air between you, filled only by the steady symphony of chirping crickets.

“If I may ask—,” Harry starts, shifting closer. “—what happened?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Artemis shoved me off.”

“She did?”

“It wasn’t her fault!” you say quickly, holding up one hand. “She got spooked, I suppose. And I wasn’t expecting it, so…I fell.”

“What frightened her?” he asks, anxious creases digging into his forehead.

You shrug. “I don’t know. But since then, I’ve been uneasy about riding. If I’m oblivious to what alarmed her the first time, who’s to say that it won’t happen again?”

He nods. “I understand.”

You sigh, plucking a piece of grass from the dirt and twirling it between your fingers. “I wish I could be more like Drew,” you hum distantly. “Someone who throws themselves into their trauma instead of shying away from it.”

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You frown. “He—he never told you?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t a clue. What is it exactly that you’re referring—?”

“Our parents,” you say softly.

Harry’s mouth clamps shut. He inhales deeply, gracing you with a curt nod. You take his silence as an invitation to elaborate.

“They perished in a car accident,” you murmur, looking away. “My father was head of Markham Motors, at the time. He had overlooked a flaw in the latest model, and when they finally took the vehicle out for a drive, it—”

You break off, unable to continue.

Harry reaches forward, covering one of your hands with his. A puff of stale air catches in your throat. You glance down at him timidly, hoping that he can’t identify the flustered distress on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, squeezing your fingers tenderly. “That must’ve been awful.”

You exhale shakily. “It was.”

For the next few minutes, the two of you say nothing else. Instead, you melt into your surroundings—the grass brushing your legs, the slow trickle of water in the creek, the dim buzz of fireflies drifting in the wind. At the edge of the clearing, Artemis snorts, lowers her head, and begins to graze.

At last, you decide to break through the stillness.

“Enough about my family,” you say. You recoil, subtly pulling your hand away. Harry is far too distracting. You’re afraid that if he touches you one more time, tonight, your poor heart will give out. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he replies. He settles back into his previous position: spine pressed flush against the ground, arms tucked coolly beneath his head.

“How are you?” you say. “How is your sister, in Paris?”

He peers up at you with raised eyebrows, impressed. “You remembered?”

“Is there a particular reason as to why I shouldn’t?”

Harry chuckles. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, go on, then.” You rest your chin on your palm. “What is she like?”

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

You scowl. “Harry.”

“Right, right.” He sighs, smiling fondly up at the sky. “She’s…she’s lovely, really. She just got engaged, as a matter of fact. I haven’t met her fiancé, but he’s stellar, based on how she describes him in her letters.”

“That’s wonderful,” you say. Your gaze drifts longingly over the bridge of his nose. “Send her my blessings, will you?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, mouth twisting in a roguish smirk. “I reckon she’d find that a bit odd—the two of you have never met.”

“Oh.” You purse your lips, bashful. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Harry laughs; you’re captivated by the dimples embossed into his cheeks.

“I’m only joking,” he tells you, waving away your concerns. “She’ll appreciate that very much. I’m sure of it.”

You don’t reply. Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, until his next words slice through the tension like a knife.

“She and I used to do this almost every night,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Come outside,” he says, shrugging. “Lay on the ground. Stare up at the stars.” His irises glaze over with a forlorn look. “We always raced to see who could find the greatest number of constellations.”

“Really?” You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by his confession.

He nods. “Really.”

“Have you found any, tonight?”

He smiles. “Why don’t you come down here and see for yourself?”

The soil is surprisingly comfortable. You join him, resting your back against the grass and gazing up at the night sky. It’s an endless tapestry of diamonds—sparkling, infinite, beautiful. Your chest swells with a deep, relaxed breath as it all sinks in.

“Anything?” Harry asks expectantly.

You squint. After a long moment, a dejected sigh falls from your lips. “No. I’m not very good at this.”

He laughs. You watch, enthralled, as he lifts one hand and points to your left, singling out a curved cluster of stars.

“See these ones, over here? Shaped a bit like a hook? That’s Scorpius.”

“‘Scorpius’?”

“It means ‘scorpion’ in Latin,” Harry explains. “Scorpius was sent by the gods to kill Orion. He was then placed in the sky to advise mortals against the perils of vanity and pride.”

Vanity and pride.

You bite your lip and turn to the side, tucking a palm under your cheek. The action draws Harry’s attention; he does a double take, stunned by the sudden, close proximity of your bodies. His mouth quirks up into a coy smile as he mimics your position, brows furrowed in diluted mystification.

“What is it?” he asks.

You shift, swallowing heavily.

“I’m afraid that I’ve been unfair to you,” you say softly, gazing straight into his eyes. “I—I’ve misjudged you terribly, and for that, I must apologise. I was a fool.”

“You needn’t—,” he starts, but you press on.

“You are kind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “You are intelligent, and clever, and you have more class in a single finger than most men have in their entire bodies.”

“Miss—”

“I was wrong about you, and I regret allowing my biases to blind me in such an atrocious manner. Can you ever forgive—oomph!”

Harry’s kiss is passionate, bruising. You stiffen, muscles locking in astonishment. One of his hands rests on the ground, providing balance; the other is on your arm, calloused thumb stroking your skin through the thin silk of your robe. You’re frozen, unable to react, because his lips are on yours, and he’s touching your body, and you’re nearly certain that you’ve died and entered the afterlife.

When Harry pulls away after a few short seconds, he’s stupidly sheepish. His eyelashes flutter open, and his stare immediately floods with remorse.

“I—forgive me,” he stammers, tripping over the words. “That was deplorable. I should have asked—”

Roughly, you grab his face between your palms. His cheeks are soft and smooth, jawline dotted with the faintest hint of stubble. The two of you exchange a look—electric, charged, thrilling. A single, critical moment ensues, during which a distinct quote emerges from the deep recesses of your mind.

A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of.

The words echo in your head as you abandon all semblance of common sense, yanking Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kissing him again.

July 14th, 1923

“Quickly! We haven’t got all day!”

“Patience!” you call from the top of the stairs. You guide one last strand of hair into place before hurrying down the flight.

Lydia is waiting for you on the main floor. You set your hands on your hips and fix her with a stern glare, huffing at her eagerness. She sticks her tongue out at you. When you open your mouth to admonish her, she whips around and scurries through the large double doors, disappearing into the backyard.

Upon stepping outside, you find Martin and Andrew already sat on the patio. Lydia settles into one of the chairs around the table, smiling brightly and beckoning you over.

“There you are,” Drew says as you approach. “Beth should be out with dinner any minute now.”

“Do you know what she’s prepared?” you ask, tucking yourself into your seat.

Andrew shrugs and emits a noncommittal sound, clueless.

“Very well,” you sigh, casting a shallow glance across the table. “Good evening, Mister Russell,” you say, tipping your chin in Martin’s direction.

“Good evening.” He beams, tugging on the lapels of his yellow blazer. “Haven’t seen you all day—where have you been hiding?”

You cluck your tongue, tugging nervously at the hem of your dress. “I hardly think it fair for a woman to disclose her spaces of refuge.”

“Stop being so cryptic!” Lydia laughs. She turns to Martin, declaring matter-of-factly, “She was locked up in the library. It’s her favourite room in the entire house.”

Martin hums, diverting his gaze back to you. The expression on his face is indecipherable. “You read?”

You nod. “I do.”

A subtle movement in the periphery of your vision catches your attention. You turn your head to the side, and your heart nearly stops when you spot Harry making his way across the lawn. It appears as though he’s done for the evening, hands caked in grime and shirt speckled with dirt. He steps onto the dusty trail leading into the woods, beginning his journey home.

You haven’t spoken to him since last night—since he kissed you, and then you kissed him, and then the two of you kissed each other until you ran out of air to breathe. He led Artemis to the stables and walked you back to the house just as dawn broke, lighting up the sky with faint hues of pink and blue. You remember sharing a final embrace at the base of the steps before bidding him goodbye, flashing a smile and disappearing inside without another word.

“Would you excuse me?” you say, pushing away from the table and scrambling up out of your seat. “I just—I need to ask Harry about the lilies that he planted yesterday—I’ll only be a moment.”

You scamper off without waiting for a response.

“Harry? Harry!”

He pauses at the call of his name, turning around gingerly. When he spies you hurrying over, his eyes immediately drop to the ground.

You stop in front of him, tilting your head to the side. “Hello.”

“Hello, miss.” He doesn’t lift his gaze. The realisation makes you frown.

“How—how are you?” you ask, licking your lips and clasping your hands behind your back.

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”

“I—” Your nostrils flare. “I’m alright. I saw you walking home, and I just wanted to—”

“Forgive me.” Harry cuts you off swiftly. He refuses to look at you, still. “I’m weary. It’s been a long day.”

You recoil slightly, stunned by his candour.

“Of course,” you splutter, nodding. “We were both up quite late last night; time evaded us, I suppose—”

“So, you understand,” he says, stepping back. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

You open your mouth to stop him, but your voice betrays you. Your chest grows tight when he lifts two fingers to his temple, offering up a half-hearted salute.

“Harry—”

He finally meets your gaze, and something inside of you breaks. His eyes are dull and gloomy, revealing nothing. You want to rush forward, to take his face in your hands and hold him close. To run your nails through his hair and smother him in a flurry of hard, worried kisses. To ask him why he’s acting this way. He had been so happy last night—what changed?

But the others are watching from the patio, and you’re a goddamned coward, and you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

“Enjoy your dinner, miss,” Harry says. His tone is emotionless—it makes you want to cry. “Take care.”

~*~

PART III: The Month

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #ok idk what else to tag it as lol #gentle reminder to rb the fics you like :) hope yall enjoy #harry writing #farmhandrry

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headheartbellarke · 4 years

Text

HOME | Charlie Gillespie

Requested by anon: "Hi! If request are open can you do a charlie imagine where him and the reader (she/her) met on a project a while back and have been friends for a while, but the reader kinda had a crappy home life so she gets overwhelmed by charlies family being so loving and perfect and she basically breaks down and feels like she doesn’t fit in and isn’t good enough for him? please and thank you so much, ur writing is amazing!!!"

PAIRING(s): Charlie Gillespie x fem! reader

WARNING(s): mentions of abuse, trauma, anxiety, angst, fluff

WORDS: 2,036

SUMMARY: charlie takes co-star and girlfriend y/n home for christmas but that leads to self doubt in her (im so bad at these) [note: this takes place in 2021]

As Charlie pulls out the key from the ignition, I sigh, wringing my hands nervously. He unbuckles his seatbelt and faces me, giving me a bright, happy smile.

“My family is so excited to meet you.” He says, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

“What if they hate me?” I whisper.

My boyfriend, Charlie, and I first met on the set of Charmed – we were both in the first episode, but I left it after that due to scheduling conflicts with my other show, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. I had been a part of CAOS since its first episode – I played the role of Sabrina’s cousin, Sarah Spellman.

Back then, we were just friends. After I left Charmed, we would text and call each other occasionally. Whenever we were in the same city, we would meet up – but that was hard considering we both had quite different lives. So, we didn’t think of each other as more than friends – sure I thought that he was attractive, but that’s it.

But, in 2020, after CAOS was cancelled, I got a call from the casting director of Julie and The Phantoms: she was the one who had previously cast me in CAOS, and she believed that I’d be perfect for the role of Julie’s British cousin who joins her school after her parents relocate to LA – I also play Reggie’s love interest.

I texted Charlie immediately after my manager finalized all the details for the new role. He had been excited and when shooting started in 2021, we were pretty inseparable.

After a few weeks, I had developed a major crush on him ad the rest of the cast had also picked up on that. They were also convinced that Charlie liked me (which I didn’t believe at that time but later found out that it was, indeed, true) and they used to tease us about it all the time. Finally, a couple weeks before production ended, he asked me out on a date and it’s been really, really great so far.

We’ve been dating for about nine months now and honestly, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s my home – all my life I’ve always felt lost, but I feel like I truly belong with him.

Now, he laughs. “Baby. I promise you – they already love you. My mother’s been bugging me to bring you home ever since we started dating, and you’ve already met Megan, and she loves you.”

“If you say so.” I say, still not convinced.

He grins and we get out of his car and face his childhood home. I take a deep breath, shaking off my nerves. He knocks three times on the front door, and it opens immediately after.

A petite, blonde woman steps out, with a wide smile on her face. She opens her arms as Charlie yells, “Mamacita!”

“Mon chéri. Ça fait trop longtemps!”

“Je vous ai manqué!”

I have absolutely no idea what they are saying, but the scene in front of me is so heart-warming. Charlie’s mother is genuinely happy to see her son – one can tell by the way she’s holding him, almost like he’s a little child. Charlie is quite a couple inches taller than her, but he’s nestled his face into her shoulder.

I can’t stop a grin from breaking out on my face. It’s honestly rather lovely. But I also feel a slight pang in my heart knowing that no one ever greets me like this when I go home.

They separate from each other and she squeezes his shoulders, looking at him with so much love that I have to look away. I have never seen a mother look at their child like that, with such intense love. That’s dumb, I know. Mothers are supposed to love their children. But all my mother ever looks at me with is disappointment, anger, disgust, and – you get it.

She notices me next and claps her hands. “You must be Y/N!”

“Hi, Mrs. Gillespie. It’s so nice to meet you!” I extend a hand toward her.

“Aw, come here! You’re gorgeous.”

She pulls me in for a hug too, and for a moment I’m engulfed by the smell of white musk and the feeling of warmth.

We pull apart and I smile at her, genuinely. All my anxiety has washed away.

“My son is always talking about you, about how pretty you are and –”

“Let’s go inside!” Charlie quickly cuts her off, eyes widened as I laugh.

“But I wanna know what he says!”

Mrs Gillespie winks at me as Charlie turns scarlet. “I’ll tell you when he’s gone.”

***

Another roar of laughter erupts around the dinner table.

Honestly, I’ve never seen a family like this – a family so connected, so loving. All of Charlie’s siblings – from his three older brothers to his little sister are here for Christmas Eve, and all of them are teasing each other, telling childhood stories, and just having the best time. I was, too. That was until I suddenly realized how I don’t fit in here.

Everyone here grew up completely different than I did. When I was young, about two years old – my dad left my mom and I for another woman. I haven’t seen him since – although, he sends me a postcard and some money on holidays and birthdays. He’s travelling around the world with his new wife and is apparently ‘happier than he’s ever been.’

The reason he left is because kids ‘freak’ him out and he isn’t ‘ready’ for that kind of responsibility. I mean, it wasn’t like he was fifteen when he had me: he was twenty-seven, and already married to my mother for about two years then.

Naturally, my mother blames me for her divorce. I was born out of an accidental pregnancy, so my mother made sure to remind me every day that I was unwanted, and my birth was what ‘pushed’ him to leave us. Every single day, my mother told me that I shouldn’t have been born, that I was a mistake, that I was worthless, unlovable and so, so many more horrible things. She used to drink like crazy, and if I accidentally faced her in that state, she would sometimes hit me.

Years and years of abuse and all that childhood trauma led me to develop a fear of abandonment, trust issues, intimacy issues, anxiety, and depression. Throughout school, I had been closed off, unable to form relationships and friendships with other people. I had feared anything and everything – I couldn’t even maintain eye contact with people.

Of course, when I auditioned for CAOS and moved away to LA, away from that toxic environment, I got help and turned my life around. (My mother was incredibly happy to see me go since she had married another guy and now has a family with him – so I was the only thing left that reminded her of my father.) I learnt to accept, prioritize, and love myself – but I’m still working on that, of course.

But, I know, deep down, no matter how well I am, or how happy I am – there will always be a part of me that’s broken. I’ve grown to accept that, accept the fact that I’ll always carry the trauma with me.

But Charlie doesn’t. He’s lived a good life, and he deserves someone who can give him their everything – and that’s not me.

As much as I hate to say it, I’m not good enough for him.

He senses a change in my demeanour and squeezes my hand under the table. I give him a weak smile.

***

“Y/N/N, what’s wrong?”

I look up at my boyfriend. He has a look of concern on his face as he takes a seat next to me on the couch.

I sigh into the quiet. Everyone has fallen asleep, except Charlie and I – we are seated in his living room in front of the fireplace.

“Nothing. I’m just really tired.”

“That’s not true, Y/N. You were fine throughout dinner – oh my god, it’s the ice cream, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The pistachio ice cream that Maman made. It was weirdly bitter, eh? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

I purse my lips. “No, Charlie. The ice cream was great.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been down since desert.”

“It’s not the ice cream, babe.”

“Okay, then, what is it?”

He looks at me expectantly, and I can sense that he’s feeling anxious.

“I just – I realized that I don’t fit in.”

He furrows his brows, but before he can say anything, I start speaking again. “Charlie, you have such a loving and perfect family. And you know how I grew up. What I went through. So, you know that I’m not used to this. I’m not – I’ve never seen love like this in a family, you know. And I don’t fit in here! While your mother was being so nice to me, I kept wondering when she’s going to scream at me. Or when your father was genuinely interested in me, I kept thinking that maybe he’s trying to find a way to get rid of me. It’s just – it’s just the way I grew up, and I’ll always be like this, Char. Your family is so nice, and it shocks me, honestly. And I think that maybe it’s better if you date someone who grew up the way you did, someone who’s like you. Because I have been broken my whole life, and I don’t think that I can give you everything that you need. I don’t think I’m good enough for you. You’re the best person that I’ve ever met, and I think you should be with someone who’s worthy of you.”

I whisper the last part, and feel a teardrop fall into the space between my collarbones. I look down because I’m too afraid of what he might say.

I hear him breathe out heavily and I feel him take my hands in his.

“Don’t you ever say that.”

“But it’s true –”

“Y/N. Don’t you dare doubt yourself. You are good enough. No, you’re perfect. You’re the strongest woman I know. I completely understand why you feel what you’re feeling right now.”

He scoots closer to me and cups my cheeks in his hands. “And it’s okay. It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to feel shocked. That doesn’t make you a bad person, nor does it make you not good enough. In fact, it makes all the stronger – you went through so much as a kid, and still, you have space in your heart for me. You know, I never doubt the fact that you love me, ever. Because you always make me feel special, make me feel good about myself and always make sure that I’m happy. You always go out of your way to take care of me, and you always make me feel at home. I don’t want anyone other than you. I love you so much and I never, ever wanna lose you.”

I think I’m fully crying now, as Charlie continues, “It’s okay to feel that way. Take your time. But I’m never leaving you. You’re my person, and you’ll always fit in with me, baby. Always.”

“Charlie…”

I look at him properly, and I can see the pain in his eyes as a tear traces along the curve of his cheek. He sniffs, saying, “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine being with anyone other than you.”

“Why are you so good to me?” I whisper, my throat still tight from the emotions.

“Because you deserve someone good, and I can only hope that I’m good for you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder as a sob escapes my body. “I’m so sorry, baby. So, so sorry.” I keep whispering that, while he rubs my back, saying ‘it’s okay.’

“I love you so much, Charlie. Honestly, thanks for being so good to me. You have no idea what you mean to me.”

I can feel him smile as he says, “I think I have a pretty good idea, yeah.”

***

jatp requests are open <3

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miss-choco-chips · 4 years

Text

Bird Watchers

It was something like an open secret in Gotham, that even though all it’s heroes were open to help no matter the situation, each one of them had a special affinity to certain matters.

For example, children from all districts knew to yell for Nightwing if they found themselves lost and scared. Small business owners often painted little Oracle symbols on their doorsteps, to warn away possible thieves with the knowledge that Gotham’s cryptic hacker had their eye on them. Working girls would send a quick prayer to the Red Hood before seeing their seediest clients; and as such, knew who to call for if things took a turn for the worst.

And Red Robin… well. His was a very specific bunch.

---.---

Warnings: depression, suicide attempts, overdose comic-typical violence (discussed, not explicit). Hurt-comfort all the way, baby. There’s also one scene, with the redhead, that I copied from the comics.

(it’s almost 2 am, I wrote half of this in one go, don’t @ me for mistakes. I’ll edit tomorrow. Maybe.)

---.---

The first time he stopped a suicide, he had just turned thirteen. The suit still felt wrong, too loose in all the places where Jason’s bigger presence would have been a better fit. Too small, too brainy, not brash enough, not good enough.

He would never think himself worthy, but he was all Batman had. There were no other candidates, not ones he could have thrown the job at without risking Bruce’s identity, so he’d have to make do.

But even so, he had been gaining a little confidence over the past few months. His training with Shiva, and Dick’s and Bruce’s focus on making him as ready for the streets as humanly possible, had ensured he never encountered a situation where he couldn’t handle himself, or get back up in time to avoid any casualties.

Except for right now.

“Hey! Don’t do it, please!”

Yeah, maybe yelling at the man precariously balanced on the edge of a how many feet tall building wasn’t his wisest moment. He’d berate himself later. Now was freak out time.

Said man stumbled for a second before regaining his footing and turning to look at Tim. He couldn’t be more than forty, with a bit of an overgrown beard and tired eyes. He had something clutched in one hand, tanned and calloused from work, the other over his chest, probably due to the scare of having a bat suddenly appearing behind him.

“R-Robin…”, he gasped, shook out of whatever reverie he was going through for a second. “W-what… I mean, why are you…?”

‘Okay, Tim, breath. Can’t call B, he’ll notice, get startled and jump. Can I catch him if he does? My grappling hook is made to withstand more than my weight, but if I can’t handle the strain of swinging us both to safety…’

He couldn't risk it.

“Good evening, Mr…?”

Surprise and good manners made the man automatically answer, “Ed. Ed Harrinson.”

Encouraged, Tim took a tiny teeny step forward. Ed’s entire body shock and he leaned backwards. Tim froze, fear keeping his breathing and heartbeat hostages for the time being, stopping the first and kick starting the second.

“Mr Harrinson, I’d like to ask you to step away from the edge? I’ll call an ambulance for you, and…”

“No!”, the man screamed, suddenly over his surprise, a look of determination trying to masquerade his obvious exhaustion. “If you call an’one, I’ll jump.”

Tim wisely kept the ‘you were gonna do it anyway’ to himself. He nodded slowly, hands emerging from the confines of his cape to show Mr Harrinson the lack of a communication device.

“I won’t, then, but may I come closer? Please?”

It was on the last word, high pitched and wavering, that the man cracked. With wary demeanor, he waved him over, pointing to a patch of rooftop a little far but close enough for Tim to feel comfortable- or as comfortable as he’d get, in these circumstances.

As he approached, he could feel the man analyzing him. The little gasp when he stood by his side didn’t go unnoticed.

“You are… smaller than I imag’ned. Too small for a bat. My boy’s taller than you” he mused, likely to himself, but Tim grasped onto that bit of information and clutched at it with both hands, desperately.

“I’m short compared to my peers, so maybe I’m the same age as your son. How old is he?”, he asked, in his most conversational tone. Fear still had a grasp over both his lungs and heart.

Something in the man’s face shifted.

“He… he just turned fifteen.” Older than Tim, then. Ed continued, “He’s… ”, in a second, the sadness was replaced by pride, “he’s grown up p’tty well, if I say so m’self. A fine young man, that kid. He’ll go places.”

For a beat, Tim tried to imagine his own dad here. As much as he’d hate to see Jack in Mr Harrinson’s place, he couldn't help but wonder if he’d be talking about him the same way Ed spoke about his son.

He… didn’t think so. If on the verge of death, thoughts about his son would probably be the farthest from his dad’s mind.

“You sound like you love him very much. He’s a lucky guy” he said sincerely, a tendril of hopefulness still twisted around his stomach. His hands weren’t shaking any longer, finding solace in the fact that the man in front of him didn’t look like he was about to jump right that second.

Mr Harrinson’s face fell.

“Got served an’ unlucky hand, with an old man like me”, his eyes went back to the abyss, to the empty, poor litten streets below them. “Go ‘way, kid. Leave m’ be. Notta business what I do. Gotta do this f’r my kid.”

Fear came back, full force.

“I- Sorry, but I can’t help but think about your son”, he blurted out, the only bit of information he had about the man was his only tendril of hope. “Someone who loves his child as much as you seem to must be a good father. A father that… would be missed dearly, if lost so young.”

Mr Harrinson looked even more devastated. Tim was doing this all wrong, wasn’t he?

“There’s no other way t’ keep’im safe!'' he yelled, and for a minute Tim thought he had decided to jump then and there. Instead, he dropped to his knees, hands to his head, paper still clutched in one fist. “They’ll get to him if I don’t! Once I’m dead, they’ll just leave’im alone!”

Tim crouched next to him, tentative.

“Who is ‘they’, sir? Maybe I could help…”

Ed was already shaking his head.

“Nay, they said not to go to the bats. Kill my boy, they will, if I do. Seen them offing others for less, so I believe them.”

“Ah, but I’m too short to be a bat, am I not?” he smiled, wobbly at best but sincere. “Besides, who’s gonna tell them you spoke to me? I”, he gestured to his mask, “know how to keep a secret.”

He considered for a beat, before tired shoulders fell, defeated. He offered the slip of paper towards him, unseeing eyes on the street below.

Robin read the note carefully, noting the sloppy penmanship and cheap paper as well as the message itself.

“Mr Harrinson…”

“I know”, he whispered, “I know working for the Black Mask wasn’t my best idea. But m’boy needed to eat, and the landlord was gettin’ impatient. And now, for whatever reason, boss wants me dead. And if I make ‘im dirty his own hands, he’ll dirty ‘em twice and send me with my son for company to the other side. Felix is too young, and he’s good. Can’t let ‘im pay f’ his old man m’stakes, ya hear me?”

Tim thought his words over carefully.

“Mr Harrinson… I don’t think this comes from Black Mask himself”, for one, Blackie wasn’t one to avoid blood on his gloves, nor to send such a shitty note. The man lived for the drama, like most A-listers did, and he’d never forgo the aesthetic of an expensive peachment and beautifully worded threat. Also, if he wanted this man gone, he would have put a bullet in his head the second he clocked in; and if it were revenge he was after, he wouldn't have gotten a warning note but his son’s head sent to him instead.

He folded the paper and put it into one of his multiple pockets, free hand going to the man’s shoulder.

“I know Black Mask’s M.O, mister, and this is not it”, no need to spook him further by describing what it was, though. “Probably just a colleague who wanted your position, or has a grudge for whatever reason. And that, I can help you with. If you work with me on this one, we can both make sure Felix has his Dad making breakfast for him tomorrow morning, and all the days after that. After all”, he smiled, no longer uncertain now that he had firm ground to work with, “your son is going places, and he’ll have to be well fed to reach them, right?”

Mr Harrinson’s smile must have had magical properties, Tim thought. There was no other explanation for the way it returned his breath back to his body.

---.----

The next time he saw a jumper, a few months later, he was slightly more ready for it. Bruce had congratulated him on his work with Mr Harrinson, and the subsequent raid they could make on one of Black Mask’s warehouses thanks to the man’s information, but Tim hadn’t been satisfied until he had read every single mission report on the batcomputer about attempted suicides. And succeed ones, too. Need to know what went well and what didn’t, after all.

So when he saw the fifty-something woman crying on top of a tower in City Hall District, he didn’t almost-crash in his attempt to get there in time. He landed softly, making just enough noise to let her know she wasn’t alone, but careful to not startle her.

“It’s a little cold up here, Lady. If you’d like, I can walk you home?”, he tries for cheeky, despite the cold fear nesting in his stomach like a grumpy, spiteful bird.

The woman, sitting by the edge, turned her head to look at him. The movement called attention to her long, strawberry blonde hair, neatly braided, and her pretty diamond earrings. The face under her perfect make up was gaunt and pale, tear tracks cleaning paths of skin to his trained eye.

Despite him interrupting what probably were very private thoughts, she smiled at his approach, kind and polite. It didn’t reach her eyes, but the intent to put him at ease was generous enough.

“I may be a lady, but any adult worth their salt would insist on walking the young child home, instead of the opposite. Besides”, she patted the rooftop under her,” I live here, so it’s not a long walk at all.”

Tim stepped closer, carefully.

“May I sit?”

“I could use the company for a bit”, she accepted, head turning back to the city below.

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, before Tim’s soft voice broke it again.

“Is there anything I can do to help convince you not to do it? Please?”

The lady smiled. “You are a very sweet boy.”

“That’s… not an answer. Can I at least know why?”

“Won’t it torment you, in the future, if we speak now?”, she asked a question of her own, turning to face him again. Despite her words, there was nothing but kindness in those deep green eyes. “If you don’t know me, I’m just another one who jumped. If we talk, I’m afraid I might stay with you long after I’m gone. You are too young for that kind of weight.”

Tim swallowed.

“That’s easily solved, Miss;”, Dick’s rule of thumb; if unsure, always call a lady Miss before Mrs “don’t do it.”

She spared him a long, meaningful look, and he slumped over.

“Not my best, I know, but I’m kinda freaking out now?” She wasn’t like Mr Harrinson, no motive he could see, no strand to pull and unravel her pain. “Please, just… why?”

She patted one of the hands gripping his own knee. His other hand rushed over hers, sandwiching her cold, slim fingers between his gloved palms.

“There’s nothing left for me. I have a nice job, live in a pretty side of town, have friends, and still… it feels so empty. So… Meaningless. Why even bother?”

Tim chewed on her words silently. He was way out of his depth. A tangible, physical problem? He could solve those, no biggie.

Depression, though… that was a different giant to tackle. Was he even prepared enough to?

A strong gust of wind made the lady with braided hair shiver. Without thought, Tim unclasped his cape and draped it over her slim shoulders.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, head tilted like a curious woodland animal. Tim felt strongly protective of her, of this kind, sweet lady, who said she had it all, except the one thing that mattered to her.

“I’m used to it”, he shrugged. “This suit is very warm, but cold air often trickles down from the neckline and… well. Gigs of the job and all that.”

The lady tutted, frowning for the first time since Tim arrived.

“That won’t do, young man. You need a scarf. The nights will only get colder from now on.”

He shrugged again.

“I just… don’t have the time to buy one. And I had one, but… There’s these kids who often hang out by the park, and they were so cold, I just couldn't swing by and ignore them. So I gave them my scarf to share between them. I’m just kinda bummed that I don’t have more to make sure they all stay warm.”

The braided haired lady hummed for a second.

“Well… I knit”, she started, carefully. “I don’t have children or grandchildren to give my final products to, so they’ll go to waste after I’m gone. If you’d take them out of my hands, you’ll do me a favor.”

Tim wanted to say no, unwilling to make this any easier for her, but the chance of getting her away from the edge was enough to quell his voice.

She went and came back within minutes, a big cardboard box balanced over her shaky arms. He rose to help her, meeting the woman halfway through the roof, a good distance away from the abyss.

“This red one would look good with your suit… oh, and the green one, to keep with the theme! Or maybe the yellow one… Shame pink would be such a bad fit for your colors, because that wool is the best I worked with…”

Tim’s hand carefully took said carf out and looked it over. There were about six others in the box.

“I could take this to those kids I mentioned before… It’d still not be enough for all, but more to share between them means less cold.”

She hummed again, looking at the unfinished projects on the bottom of the box.

“If… If you give me a few days…” she muttered. “I mean, I’m in no rush”, a hand vaguely gestured towards the rooftop’s edge. “I could spare a few days finishing those, and you could take them to these kids you spoke about… and maybe, I can help make a few children less cold with this silly hobby of mine.”

Elated beyond words, Tim nodded vigorously, waxing poetry about her work and about just how excited little Ellie would be with this soft, pretty pink scarf.

His patrol route could use a few detours, after all, if that meant keeping Braided Hair Lady away from her roof.

---.----

He was just returning from a late supply run when he bumped into The Cats.

It was in an alleyway, a block off from Mrs Eloise Denvarow (formerly known as Braided Hair Lady). The older woman had caved after three months knowing each other, of Tim passing by her apartment once every other night to pick up her baked goods or knitted masterpieces, to distribute between street kids and working girls, and told him her name. It was said in passing (“Stop with that ‘Lady’ thing, honey. It’s Eloise”), as if lacking importance, when in reality it meant the world to him. Sure, he’d already known, having run a background check on her the minute he came back to the cave after stopping her from jumping, but there was that implicit vow between them, that she wouldn't tell him her name and jump, wouldn’t make him carry its weight on his shoulders forever, so it was… it was a promise, on her end, a reassurance, and Tim wasn’t even embarrassed that he cried in her arms like a baby for ten minutes.

So here he was, a month after that, still riding that high, when the desperate call from below caught his attention.

There were two teens on the dirty ground, nested among cracked bottles and old newspapers. The girl was lying in the boy’s arms, with him screaming for help.

“Robin! Thank fuck!”, he almost sobs, arms visibly tightening around the girl. Tim wants to ask how he knew to call for him, and if the proximity to Mrs Denvarow’s place was luck or not.

But it wasn’t the time to ask.

The girl was pale, which only highlighted the bruises on her face. Someone with a big fist punched her. It doesn't seem likely, considering just how distraught the other kid is, but he checks his hands just in case; fortunately, too small for that kind of damage.

She’s also breathing erratically and, when he puts a gloved hand to her neck, he realizes just how crazy her pulse is.

Fear Toxin? Except Scarecrow is still in Arkham as far as he knows, and even if he had gotten away recently, he needs time to develop his precious chemicals. Joker’s Venom and Mad’s Hatter drugs don’t have quite this results, and Ivy doesn’t usually attack street girls just for kicks; they are also too far from her usual turf for her to be a viable suspect.

So, that leaves very few choices.

“Overdose?”, he ventures a guess, hand already fumbling through the pockets on his belt.

The other boy sobs harder, nodding while looking down at the girl in his arms. Tim gently takes the girl from him to position her straighter, to help her down the vial he finally found in his belt. It was supposed to help flush out any chemical in a few minutes, tops; they usually used it when a new type of Crazy Criminal Drug made its way to the streets and they didn’t have the time to properly prepare an antidote. It was strong, and vicious in its path to devoid the body of any and all external agents, which was why it wasn’t a preferred method; who’s to say the civilian in need of a flush isn’t in some important medicine? The Big Flush, as Dick calls it, lacked any kind of finesse or discrimination.

But it was their best shot right now, so there goes nothing.

There’s silence while they watch the girl’s progress. He doesn’t bother asking if he called for an ambulance; they are obviously minors, probably homeless, and even if the Wayne Foundation takes care of children’s hospital fees, they’d avoid it to keep themselves out of the foster system.

But then, the kid kept talking.

“I… I found her near Grant Park. I… I didn’t know what to do, so I dragged her here. She/” and then he breaks again, hands grasping one of hers, as if letting go meant he was giving up on her and he couldn't bear it.

“Grant Park is only five blocks away,” Tim thinks out loud, mind already a mile away “and Moench’s Row illicit night clinic is about the same distance from there as this place. Why did you bring her here?”

“She… Alley… Oh, her name’s Allison, by the way. And I’m Thomas. Tom.” Introductions, miraculously, seem to do the trick here and calm him down. “Nice to meetcha.”

Tim’s not deterred by his toothy grin, but he has to admit he’s kinda cute. Like, stray cat cute.

Huh. Alley, Tom, cat… Yeah, that checks.

“What happened with Allison?” he presses softly, one arm still keeping Alley up and against his chest, the other hand on her pulse point, taking note of the way the heartbeat seems to be stabilizing. The puking fest was gonna start soon.

“She… It was on purpose.” Tom confesses, eyes going clouded for a while. “She tries to not be home, yknow? I met her in kindergarten, and even then she’d try to hide behind the teacher’s desk in hopes they’d forget about her and close the building with her inside. Anyway, we pretty much live on the streets these days, and Alley… she’s very depressed. I convinced her to see someone a while ago, even stol/ I mean, earned the money for it myself”, he’s quick to correct, eyes glancing up to see if he was smooth enough to cover it; which he wasn’t, but Tim was in favor of letting that small one go, “and they gave her a prescription for antidepressants. She’s been kicking it down the road, but she’s gotten a lot worse and I wouldn't lay off her case about it, so she sneaked back home to get some money from her folks to pay for it.”

By the way the kid looks at her bruised face with unmeasurable guilt, Tim knows she didn’t go unnoticed.

“And… I don’t know. We were supposed to meet up by the Commerce Street Highway, but she was late, so I walked around for a bit and… I saw her there, on a bench. She was/ she was still conscious then, and she told me… she said ‘these aren’t what the doc gave me, but they took the pain away all the same’.” Again, Tom chokes on his own emotions. If he had any free hands, he’d try to put one on his shoulder for comfort. “I don’t even know what she took, or where did she get it from!”

Tim has heard whispers of loan sharks and drug dealres camping toghter by the Fashion Distric, just north of Grant Park, so he can make an informed guess as to how that happened. Also, he now knows what he’ll do the rest of the night, once these kids are safe.

When Tom has gotten a grasp of himself, he pushes again.

“So, why did you bring her here?”

He shrugs, a bit abashed.

“Well… I mean, everyone knows about how Mrs Denvarow is the one giving clothes and food away, and that you help her distribute it. Well, not everyone, but… you know, the street kids. We flagged her building with a yellow skull and everything.”

A yellow skull grafitti, Tim’s mind translates, is the street equivalent of a ‘don’t fuck with this place’ sing. A sort of protective sigil. He wonders how he missed it.

“And… This is kind of your thing, right? So I figured you’d be better prepared to deal with it than some overworked clinic that might even not have enough free equipment to help us. Good think I did, too” he gestures at his friend, whose face is now looking flushed; a sign both of growing health, and of the upcoming puke. Tim’s quick to turn her so her back is to his chest, head tilted down just in case.

As if rehearsed, Alley chose that exact second to empty the contents of her now flushed stomach. Tim would need a sample of that, to catch the responsible dealer.

Tom held her hair away from her face while Tim kept her steady, and she blinked bearily at them after it was done, still not completely lucid but a world away from the girl she was ten minutes ago.

“She’ll still need a hospital.'' Tim informs Tom sternly. The boy had taken his friend in his arms again, softly rubbing her back to help with the uncomfortable ache leftover after puking your guts out. “The Moench’s Row clinic should be able to help with any side effect, but she’s safe for now.”

He nods, thanks Tim again and again and politely refuses his help to take her to the clinic. They part ways, both parties probably thinking this would be the last time they saw each other.

Still, their situation sticks with Tim during the rest of his patrol, and he decides to stop by the clinic, just to check on them. His knuckles still ache from the absolute beating he delivered to the ones who gave Alley the money and sold her the drugs, so he’s in better spirits and hopes to spread it to the kids.

Alley is awake when he visits, and her shy, little smile is enough for the rage inside of Tim to die down. The bad guys dealt with, the civilians safe, everything in its proper place.

He sleeps a bit better that night.

---.----

He almost doesn’t see him.

Actually, he probably wouldn't have, deeply lost into his own head, had the guy been anything other than a redhead. That exact shade of orangy-brown auburn, that he would have to pick up from his workbench at Titan’s tower after Bart had decided to ‘keep him company’ during his all-nighters.

It was ironic, how now he would give anything in the world to have those same strands of hair fucking up his experiments, if only for the impish, ‘please-don’t-kill-me-I’m-an-angel’ smile he would receive in exchange.

“Hey”, he greets, landing softly at the man’s right, sitting a few feet away from him, too tired to even stand up on common ground. “What’s happening?”

He shouldn’t be doing this. He really, really shouldn’t. His own mental health was less than stellar, and even thinking about it made him feel worse. He didn’t deserve to feel bad, not when civilians were in the hospital after his latest fuck up, Cass was missing, Cassie barely hanging in there, the family a mess with Damian’s lovely introduction, and… well. Every other person he knew…

Point being, there must be someone else, in a better inner place, that could speak to this guy. But since no one seemed to be patrolling this route, Tim could only hope to stall him long enough for a more capable vigilante to show up.

The guy looks startled, then angry. He has green eyes, he notices, under the glasses. Not sure why that sticks to him.

“What are you doing here? You’re not going to try to stop me, are you? You’re not going to swing down and catch me in mid air or something, are you?”

He seems defensive, but Tim notices a bit of hesitancy. He has worked with less.

(He wishes he had more energy to do more with what little he has)

“No. If I did, what’s to stop you from doing it again later, or tomorrow? I can’t be with you every second. If you want to do this, you are going to, no matter how much I don’t want you to. And I don’t want you to, just so we are clear.”

The guy still looks suspicious, but he hasn’t taken that last step forward, so… a win?

“I just needed to sit down for a minute. ‘been thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up lately, and…”

Auburn-hair deflates a little, turning away from Tim to examine the night sky. “Well, that makes two of us.”

The bat signal lights up the night. His newfound companion looks at it, then him. “Do you need to get that?”

“Nah. Batman will, and if he needs help he’ll call me.” Tim shrugs. He needs a coffee-power-up. He needs to sleep. He needs for his loved ones to not be dead.

He needs to see if there’s anything he can do for this guy.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re doing this? So someone can go to your family and friends to let them know?”

After all, if it was him who did it (and… wasn’t that food for thought?), he’d like Bruce and Dick to know why. To not… to not blame themselves.

Redhead looks annoyed again. Uh. A short fuse, this one.

“Don’t try any psychology, or try to make me feel guilty about hurting anyone… this isn't about anyone but me.”

He shouldn’t say it, but… “That’s pretty naive, but whatever. Tell me anyway.” He smirks a bit, then “Unless you’re in a hurry or something.”

He hears the guy (he really should ask his name) as he tells his story. A cold, clinical part of his mind recognizes the symptoms described almost unconsciously by the guy as depression. He would know, after all. The other part of him, the part that made him Robin, that made him human, discarded the label; there was much more to this guy than his illness, and he would treat him like it.

“So here I am,” he finishes, now sitting side by side with Tim, both their legs hanging above the bustling city. “Now’s when you tell me how stupid this is. That other people have much bigger problems, there’s hunger and war, and I’m weak because my problems are nothing next to stuff like that.”

Tim thinks of a father, desperately thinking his death would save his son’s life, when in fact it would have only made it worse. He thinks of a woman, so full of love and warmth, looking into the abyss and feeling empty inside. He thinks of a couple of kids, one hanging to life with nails and teeth, the other hanging to her just as fiercely.

He thinks about himself. About looking at a future version of himself, hating what he sees, and deciding to drown the bud before it can even flower. He thinks of sickly green water, of cloning equipment in a laboratory, of a phone falling to the ground after delivering him with more bad news.

He’s still in a bad place, still probably not the most capable person to be doing this, but a part of him is sure this is the right answer. The only answer.

“No. Your problems are worse than anyone else’s, because they are yours. I’ve... felt bad like you have, and some pretty bad things have happened to me.”

Red hair looks as tired as Tim feels, so it’s a surprise that he has enough energy to glance at him worriedly, hand stretching a bit in his direction in a half-formed attempt to comfort.

“You guys make it look so easy, swinging around, having fun… Things get bad for you, too?”

Tim looks down, and smiles. It’s a sad, bitter thing. He thinks about parents lost before ever connecting to them, about a girlfriend going away, a sister lost to the madness of their lives, about two best friends gone, one even dying in his arms.

He gives no details. Doesn’t talk about it all, just shares a little bit of himself. It’s only fair, after hearing about this guy’s demons. Misery loves company, doesn’t it?

“So what do you do? How do you deal with it?” the guy asks when he’s done, looking at Tim by the corner of his not-very-dry eyes.

Tim forces himself to remember. “One of the things I’ve learned is that it gets bad for everyone sometimes, Superman, Batman… everyone. I remember that I’m not alone, that things do get better. Sometimes on their own, most times when you work at them. And when I have trouble remembering those things, I find people to talk to.”

Most of those were dead, but Tim is hit with the epiphany that not all of them are. He still has people. He still…

“And you’ve got people like that? That you can talk to?” asks the guy, tone both worried and hopeful. Tim stands up, does his best to look calm.

“Yeah. Your folks, and old friend, even a trained counselor you’ve never met before… someone who has a totally different perspective because they’re not as close to your problems as you are. Maybe they give you advice, and that’s great… or maybe they just listen. Sometimes, that’s all you need. Anyway, that’s how I deal with it when things suck. And it works. Want to come down from there and give it a try?”

The guy gets back to his feet, as Tim watches from behind. Having been in this situation before, the fear grabbing a hold of him isn’t new, but it's different. He thinks he's too worn down. It takes the edge off of any emotion.

Except hope. Hope still hurts like a sharp knife when it’s snatched away. He prays it won’t be, right now.

Green eyes (Jason- that’s who they reminded him of) look down, deep in thought. Then he turns, smiles at Tim. There’s hope in him too.

“Yeah, why not?”

They get down together. He gives him a few numbers and they have breakfast together. The guy promises to call his English teacher, at least. Tim promises himself to call his brother.

At least, he still has Dick.

---.----

He’s been putting off doing his rounds since he came back, he knows. But…

It changed him, a bit. Going around the world, dealing with his grief while staying on his toes, ready to break down one second and having to field off attacks from all sides the next, with the Demon’s honeyed whispers echoing in his ear and mind.

He’ll never tell anyone, just how tempting it had been. How much he had wanted to reach for that offered hand. To lay his head on someone’s shoulder and let the responsibility bleed from his.

Tim will never tell anyone, but he’ll always know. And it’ll always make him hate himself a little bit more.

So, he’s different now. And he’s scared- that the people he gave hope to, that he talked with, that he could never stop thinking about, even halfway across the world- that they won’t like this new, worn down him.

That Mr Harrinson the Good Father, Braided Hair Lady and her sweaters, the inseparable Stray Cats, the girl with the bright yellow cardigan, the kid with the scarred wrists, the woman with beautiful star-like freckles that she’ll hopefully pass on to her baby, the gentle giant man with calloused hands, the petite but fierce young teen with defiant eyes and dead name, the soft spoken girl with the loudest laugh, auburn-haired boy and his hopeful and sympathetic green eyes… and so, so many more. They all knew him, maybe not at his best, but certainly better than now. The boy that kept them from jumping had been a bright, magical Robin. The teen that came back to their city was dark, weary Red Robin. It felt kinda like he had cheated them, returning this broken version of himself to their doorsteps.

But he had to go check on all of them. Even if Cass (and it was such a relief, that even after he lost everything else, the return of his sister could at least be a speck of light in the mist of misery surrounding him) had promised to do so, there were so many of them… and she couldn't possibly remember everyone, all the time. And if anyone had fallen through the gaps… if anyone had stood on a rooftop, waiting for their Robin to save them, only to think ‘nobody cares’ as he didn’t show up…

Tim gets sick only thinking about it. If it did happen, then he needs to know. He has to carry their names with him, that’s the least he can do for failing them.

So he’ll go check on them… anytime now. Soon. The moment he gathers enough energy to climb back to his feet and get his grapple hook out.

...The city looks full of life, beneath him. Like it feels the return of its Knight. The end of the internal quarrel among it’s vigilantes, that almost tore it all apart. The relief in Nightwing, the hesitant peace in Red Hood, the mellowing of Robin.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the worst ways)

Maybe it also feels Red Robin’s emptiness. Maybe that’s why it's so lively down there, like the ground is calling to him, just as it did when Ra’s broke the window with his body.

He thinks... he won’t have to check on anyone, if he jumps. And that way, there will be no name to carry with him to his grave.

“Robin!”

“Stop!”

“Don’t do it, please!”

He startles. Hadn’t even noticed when he got to his feet, nor that one of them was hanging over the abyss. The fact that he wasn’t alone on that rooftop any longer hadn’t even breached his usually perfect spatial awareness.

They didn’t call for him, but the voices sounded distraught, they were close, and he was a former Robin, so he turned around, tired, but with obedience and service too ingrained in him to consider denying help to whoever it was.

It turned out, he wouldn't need to go make his rounds any longer. His rounds had come to him.

There were… too many people on this roof. It was way too crowded.

“Robin!”

It was one voice now, not a mixture of them, so he could identify the one yelling his former alias. Allison broke from the mob of people (and there were more still, filling in from the open rooftop door, like a never-ending stream…) to run to him, looking like she might have just jumped into his arms, if not for Tom clutching her hoodie to stop her a few feet from him. Good move, considering he was still balancing precariously on the edge.

“Alleycat?” he whispered, a little blown. She looked so different (magenta looked amazing on the tips of her hair, and she totally pulled off that lip piercing), but he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He’d been so relieved, when she first opened them after that dangerous overdose.

“We were so fucking worried, dude”, came from Tomcat just behind her, still gripping her hoodie (still keeping her safe; some things never change).

“I…”

“Where were you?” Maddie, not longer yellow but still wearing a cute cardigan, stepped up too.

“I’m… I’m not Robin”, he blurts out. They… knew it was him? It… like, obviously there was a new Robin, Damian was (still, but probably not for much longer) smaller than him, but to immediately know that he was…

“Yeah, no shit. I’d know that long hair and noodle limbs of yours anywhere, kid. Known you too long to be fooled. And the new kid’s really trigger happy with that lon’nife of his... You’re still the Robin I prefer, and fuck if I understand the name passing you heroes do” Mr Harrinson spoke from the back of the crowd, one hand clutching his kid’s shoulder, the other arm around…

“Braided Hair Lady?”

Eloise smiles at him, soft and warm as ever, a little shy when his eyes go to the arm hugging her close and back to her. He recognizes some of her handmade scarfs around the necks of plenty of people on the roof.

“I… wasn’t aware you all knew each other.”

A petite young teen steps forward, walking until they were shoulder-to-shoulder with the Strays.

“Most of us met through the app, and then introduced the others. There’s more, of course, but not everyone could meet here. Samantha’s baby was born just two months ago, so she chose to stay home, but we promised her pictures, so you’ll have to say cheese soon birdboy. Also, I found my name. I’m Cal.”

Allison’s smile broadened and she sneaked an arm around Cal’s waist.

“They are the new Straycat. Calico cat’s are the cutest shit ever, aren’t they?”

Well… Having someone as badass as Cal watching Tom and Alley’s back would sure make Tim feel a lot better about both kids being out in the streets.

Were they still on the streets? He’d need to find out and fix that, soon.

Then it hit him. “What app?”

Auburn-hair smiled from his place, at the front of the crowd just behind the Cats.

“Felix over there,” he pointed over his shoulder at Mr Harrinson’s son, who smiled shyly at Tim, eyes shining in gratitude and admiration like they always did when Tim did his rounds and checked on his dad, “defended you in a GothamHeroes forum once. Some bratty douchebag was complaining about you landing over his car or something and this kid went for his fucking troath.”

“I was in that chat too,” spoke Tom, smiling a little too savagely for a kid that sweet. “He tore the idiot to shreds, speaking about how you saved his dad’s life and took it upon yourself to make sure he was still okay even weeks after you met. I mentioned how you saved Alley and Mrs Denvarow, we exchanged numbers… then we met Cal during one of our rounds handing out Mrs D’s scarfs and food. They were weary of everyone else, but trusted us because they heard you talk about the clothes and baked goods... And Cal’s friend Gina worked with Samantha on the streets and told them about her story...”

“Soon, it seemed like people personally saved by you were just… popping out of the snow like daisies” Blair laughed, and it was still the loudest, brightest noise. The night seemed a little clearer, the air a little fresher for it. “Felix made his own private chat and added us, and we added everyone else we knew… The word went around about it, and more and more people joined in…”

“It’s really a wonder how you had any time to fight crime, seeing how often you were apparently comforting jumpers on the roofs” Ailbert, still as gigantic and gentle as always, raised a hand from the middle of the group. He had a little girl on his shoulders, probably the baby niece he had taken in after his sister’s death.

“Then the new kid appeared and Gotham went to hell on a basket, and no one saw you around any longer”, Elijah, wrists no more scarred than the last time he saw him, his arm tangled with Maddie’s, went on. “We were… well, we were a bit confused.”

“Speak for yourself, Cal jumped Red Hood one night, held him at knife point and demanded to know what the fuck happened to our Robin. We were like, zero chill.”

“Sorry, they did what?” Tim was definitely in the twilight zone now.

“No thoughts, head empty, only murder”

...Tim needed to give Jason a quick call. Also sign Cal up for anger management. And probably, judging by the way both Alley and Tom were looking at them, get one of the adults to give them the talk.

Mrs Eloise smiled at him, and like always it served to calm his nerves. That woman was a different kind of magic than Alfred, but magic indeed. “Anyway, dear, what matters is that we were worried about you. And then this incredible young man, Aaron,” she waved at him, and he winked one of his green eyes in response, “suggested we kept in closer contact with one another, so anyone who spotted you could inform the others.”

Aaron shrugged, his auburn mane of hair bobbing with the movement. “It just seemed like it’d be easier to have an alarm set up, since messaging everyone would take so long… and then someone suggested making a map of Gotham so we could have clearer routes for the kids handing out Mrs Denvarow’s stuff… and someone wanted a shared blackboard to write theories on where the fuck you were with others… and a few demanded a space to share photos, possible sightings or old selfies with you… It kinda spiralled and I thought it’d be less of a chaotic mess if I made an app that could do all of that, instead of all of us using multiple apps for the different fixtures everyone asked for… Since this is Gotham, we also added some Rouge Alarm for whenever a criminal was set loose. It helped keep us safe, and if we knew when crime was happening, we could pay attention to which heroes answered the call…”

“And then, you fought that firefly guy the other day”, Felix said, still by his dad’s side, still looking as awed as ever when looking at tim. “I was in the crowd, and I recognized you within a minute.”

“I don’t really understand technology that well, and the group chat was such a mess that day” Ailbert lamented, but he was still smiling. They all were.

That hit Tim then, hard.

They all looked so happy to see him. To have him back. They had been waiting for him to be back, banded together to make sure they’d all know when he did.

“You looked so sad the last time we saw you” Blair added softly, sadly. “And… when you saved Aaron, you told him about such sad things…”

Elijah winced “And I heard the Midnighter fell from Wayne Tower a few weeks ago, but then he was never seen around again, and your suit looks kinda similar, so that was probably really you… and, that fall…”

“We were very worried” repeated Eloise, but her eyes didn’t lose their warmth. “But you’re back now, and we can keep track of you and each other now, so it’s all good. It’s wonderful to have you back, love.”

This was an out of body experience.

Something must have shown on his face, because Cal snorted.

“We adore you, you dumbass. You are our hero.”

Alley smiled. “You are our Robin.”

Tim fell into her arms, and away from the roof’s edge. The rest of the crowd was upon them in seconds, all eager to pat his back or joke about the cowl hiding his hair from their hands.

He met eyes with Aaron, over Alley’s shoulder. He looked like the hope Tim had helped plant in his heart all those months ago had flowered, and the petals filled his heart.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the best ways)

“You should download the app too, so you always have someone to talk to. Look it up. It’s called BirdWatchers, because we’ll always look up and out for you. Because when we wanted to jump, you lended us your wings to fly instead.”

It was like this fucker wanted Tim to cry.

“Welcome home, Red Robin.”

#My writing #Tim drake #batman fanfic #red robin #trigger warning:#depression #suicide attempts #discussion of suicide #overdose #mental illness #hurt comfort #Tim doing the comfort and being the hurt #until he gets the comfort #happy ending #wholesome #I swear the tags are scary but it IS wholesome #Tim drake centric #my writting

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

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kimnjss · 4 years

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groupie love | jhs

⤑ series: groupie love

⤑ genre: angst, rapper!hoseok x youtuber!reader, idol au.

⤑ rating: pg13.

⤑ word count: 3.1K

⤑ warnings: unresolved problems with a very simple solution.

⤑ A/N: first, hi :( you guuys, there’s only one more update left until the end of this! (this was a mini series, idk if i said that) but oomg, i can’t believe it! im also a tad bit female sick (monthly) so my brain has been all over the place, so real sorry if this chapter follows that example :/ - either way, let me know what you think!! x

A full week had passed since you last spoke to Hoseok. To be completely honest, you had stopped being upset with him... all it really took was for Jimin to make you realize that you were being a tad bit irrational and should've given him a chance to speak. You couldn't see that at the moment, too wrapped in the thought of him leaving for six months right when things were starting to get good between the two of you.

A relationship barely started and now you were going to put it to the long-distance test? A test that many couples... who have been together longer than the two of you have, did not survive. No matter how much fun he thought it would be, going along with him wasn't an option either.

Joining him on tour meant abandoning your responsibilities here to trail behind some guy so he could achieve his dream. The fact that he even asked you to do something like that put a sour taste in your mouth... until you were quickly realizing that wasn't his intention at all.

In realizing that you were quickly seeing that you didn't know him as much as you thought you did. Relationship still so new, there were many things that were left in the dark when it came to each other's personalities and thought processes. So whisking off behind him on a tour... for six months... when you barely knew him?? definitely off the table.

Long-distance would have been your best bet because there was no way you were going to throw away the whole relationship. Hoseok was different from the other guys that approached you. He saw you in ways you had never imagined and made you feel comfortable being yourself... no way were you going to just give that up. You two haven't even got to the good part yet.

So, yeah you weren't mad at him anymore... stopped being mad at him literally a few hours after hanging up the call. Why then did a whole week pass since the two of you had last spoken? You had expected him to call you back after you cut the call short, he didn't. And at the moment you didn't want him to.

But when the anger was disappearing, you were kinda hoping he'd fall into the chase. Give you a call and try to calm you – not as you needed it. Good thing too, because it never came. Chopping it up to him being busy, you went to bed... hoping to wake up to a missed something from him. And when morning came, the only thing lighting up your screen were emails from past subscriptions you always ignored.

The entire day passed without contact and you hoped that maybe in this hour he would message you, call you... check-in to see if you were alright!? Nothing, absolutely nothing and you felt like you were going insane checking your phone every fifteen minutes.

Why not just contact him, right? That would be so much easier and save a bit of your sanity, but that's not how it was supposed to work. You were the one that was upset, therefore, he had to contact you and apologize that way you could tell him that it was okay and everything could go back to normal. That was how it should work, right? Right!?

Wrong.

To pile on to your many mistakes in the past seven days, you kept your dry phone stress from Jimin. Not intentionally, entirely... he was busy too (mostly with Yoongi) and it didn't really slide into conversation well. If you had told him sooner, he would've been able to explain to you why your theory was crazy and you should probably just call the man instead of waiting around for him to make the first move.

It wasn't until you two were hanging out and he was able to notice your frantic glance each time your phone lit up. “He probably thinks you need space,” Jimin told you, the idea never dawning on you... was Hoseok waiting for you to call him? Checking his phone every fifteen minutes as you had been? Because he thought it was you that was supposed to make the call?

So you called him, that night after Jimin was leaving. Hummed along to the dial tone as you waited to hear his soft voice on the other line. “Why are you calling?” It wasn't him, your heart sinking into the pits of your stomach at the sound of the woman's voice on the other line.

Maybe, he wasn't waiting for your call... maybe he had followed your anger charged advice to find a different groupie to take on tour with him. Maybe you didn't mean anything to him at all.

“Hello?” The woman repeated, growing impatient with your silence. Half a mind to hang up the phone and never talk to him again, but you needed answers. Needed to know who this lady was but refused to hear it from anyone but him.

“I need to talk to Hoseok,” You replied plainly.

“Obviously, this is his phone. What do you need?” Wow, this woman was rude. Did Hobi know that she was so sour? Surely, he couldn't be interested in someone with such a d-list personality, it didn't match his happy.

“Excuse me, but I-,” Your words were being cut off by the words overlapping yours, a breathless Joon speaking into the phone. “Yn!?” Namjoon was there too!? What? And breathless? Were they... all three of them!? “Where's Hoseok?” Ignoring the surprise in his tone when he first answered the tone. Your patience was wearing thin.

“Studio, he left his phone in the practice room. I'm walking there right now.” He let out a huff of breath and you heard some shuffling on the other end. “So... where you been? Haven't heard from you for a while,”

Maybe he was waiting for you to contact him first. If he hadn't been, surely his best friend wouldn't be asking you where you've been... right? “Yeah...” You reply lamely not knowing what else to say. Not really feeling like you owe Joon much of an explanation, especially if your boyfriend hadn't even received on yet.

There's more shuffling, a murmured conversation being had away from the phone so you can barely make out what they're saying – but you don't doubt that they're talking about you. A minute passes before the phone is being handed off and you're finally hearing Hoseok's voice.

“Hey,” He did not sound happy to hear from you. “You good?”

A little caught off guard you spare a moment to think over what he's asking you. Were you good? Had you been 'good' at all this week? Was it possible that you were so not good without hearing from him that just the sound of his voice instantly had-

“If you're good then...” He's trailing off, obviously impatient with your silence. Wouldn't be the first one today. It was like you couldn't find the right words, only now realizing that this was all your fault and you had no idea how to fix it.

“No, wait,” Your words are rushed with the fear that he's going to hang up the phone any second. “I...I should've called you. Like before now. But, I want to talk? Is it alright if we meet up to talk?” Maybe if you were able to see him in person, it would be easier to explain yourself... you always felt at ease when you were with him.

“I'm a bit busy right now but-,”

“Oh, right! Yeah, you probably have a whole bunch of things to do... I guess, then-” A laugh was slipping through his lips, a sound you had no idea you missed so much until this moment.

“-But, we can meet up tonight. I'll be done around here at like nine.” So sure he had decided that he didn't want to talk and was using being busy as an excuse... you really had to stop interrupting people. Something to work on. Your heart was fluttering though, at the thought of seeing him again. Being able to touch him, kiss him, talk to him, and see that bright smile on his face.

If you were able to make him smile... you had a lot of things to work through, but you were hopeful. “Okay, yeah. Tonight works, that's good.”

“Great, I gotta go... working, you know? But I'll stop by tonight.” You're agreeing, saying goodbye quickly before ending the call.

Not as horrible as you thought, you were going to get to see him and everything was going to work out. With a quick glance at the time, you were just now realizing that nine was only a few hours away. The need to speed clean your house, getting rid of the evidence of a week worth of moping as quickly as you can.

You tried to think of all you wanted to say as you cleaned, no idea where to even start... all you knew was you missed him and couldn't wait to see him again.

You tried to act natural, not put as much weight on seeing Hoseok again as you normally would. Wanted to act like you weren't nervous for his reaction, scared to tell him that you were sorry and the reason why... how childish he might think you after explaining you had ghosted him because you had been waiting for him to contact you first.

Even despite you wanting to keep your cool, that didn't stop you for getting ready for his arrival as if you were about to be whisked away on some magic date night. After a quick cleaning of your house, you spent the rest of the time waiting for him making sure that you looked good for him.

You had done your makeup the way you knew he liked, wore something that you were positive would grasp his attention. Your hair was even done to his liking, noting how he preferred when you wore it down more than anything. All of this, done in hopes that he'd be so mesmerized by you that he'd forget how stupid you've been acting for the past seven days. One could only hope.

It wasn't until there was a sharp knock at your front door that you were putting the finishing touches on your look. Might've even stayed in the mirror longer if it wasn't for him showing up at exactly 9:18.

With a deep breath, you're making your way to the front door. Hoseok stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets and teeth nibbling at his lower lip. Just seeing him and all you want to do is wrap your arms around him and pull him close, not realizing how much you had missed him until this moment.

His eyes are on you the moment you're pulling the door open, a small smile spreading on his lips. “Hi,” His voice is soft and you return his greeting before moving to let him in. He turns to watch you push the door closed and you feel the awkwardness begins to settle in your chest.

Were you supposed to talk first? Get out an apology before the time rattled on. How were you even supposed to start this? You knew exactly what you wanted to apologize for, wasting the little time the two of you had left with your petty thoughts. How were you to come out and say it, though? It was like the words were stuck in your throat.

“Look, so... before you say anything,” His voice was breaking you from your thoughts, eyes lifting to look in his direction. He looked nervous like the roles had been reversed. “I wanted to apologize to you... I wasn't thinking when I asked you to come along with me, you know? I just thought it would be fun, but obviously, I offended you with the offer... so I'm sorry,”

He was apologizing? He felt bad? There was nothing that he needed to apologize for and there he was because you had been too busy with your inner monologue to get on with your apology. Now you had this boy standing in front of you looking sheepish for no reason at all.

You had to fix this.

“No, you don't have to apologize, honestly. It bugged me at the moment, but only because I didn't properly think it over. I know why you asked... and I should've thought more about it instead of blowing up on you like that,” You took careful steps in his direction, taking your time with closing the space between the two of you.

There was confusion riddled in his features as if he couldn't understand why you were the one that needed to say sorry. He had been so focused on how he had made you felt, he didn't even take the time to think that you might've been in the wrong. The blame game wasn't something he liked to play.

“I'm also sorry for the way I ghosted you... I was ready to talk to you the day we got off of the phone but I had been waiting for you to contact me first... I know it's stupid, but I just felt like you should've? Since I was the one mad at you... I wanted you to check,” It sounded even more stupid when you were saying it out loud.

Embarrassed tinted your cheeks pink, but Hoseok didn't seem to notice. Even if he had, he was ignoring it. “You wanted me to call you?” You nodded, avoiding his gaze. No doubt he was pinning you with the same furrowed brow look Jimin had given you when you first told him.

You're caught off by the laugh that leaves his lips. Gaze lifting to find him shaking his head, shoulders shaking as he lets out laughs. Now it's your turn to look confused, face contorted as you stare at him. “What's funny?” You're asking as he takes deep breaths to calm his laughter.

“I just... I had been waiting for you to call me. Wanted to give you space or whatever and figured you'd call when you weren't mad anymore... you weren't even mad to begin with, though? That's hilarious to me.” You didn't get it, but he was smiling that pretty smile of his so you had no choice but to agree. His laughter is slowly dying down and he's looking at you, reaching out to grasp your hand. “Come here,”

Hoseok easily pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you in a warm hug. He tried to ignore it, but in the week that he couldn't see you – he had realized how much you started to mean to him. Simple things like holding you close, he was yearning for and not much could make up for it.

“This fight was stupid,” He's declaring, leaning back so he could get a good look at your face. His hand lifts to push the hair from your forehead, pressing his lips against it afterward. “I'm leaving soon... we shouldn't waste time like this,”

Arms lifting to wrap around his waist, you're nodding your head, cheek resting against his chest. “God, I missed you so much...” He's trailing off, fingers toying with the ends of your hair.

You had missed him too, and you tell him. Not being able to mask the sadness in your voice. A whole week passed without seeing each other and you were like this. Would you be able to survive six whole months without him? It hadn't even been long, but he had become such a big part of your life.

“I think I'm gonna miss you too much when you leave...” He's pulling back at the sound of your words, nodding his head as his hand cradle your face. Hoseok stands there looking at you for a while, taking in your sad eyes and tiny pout. The look squeezing his heart but only making him that much more determined to make things work for you.

“Be my girlfriend,” The words tumble from his lips so smoothly, you're not even sure you hear him right. He's continuing before you have a chance to answer. “I like you a lot, Yn. And I know the next six months are going to be hard... but I think they might be a little easier if I know I have my girlfriend waiting up for me, don't you think?” He's smiling big and you're sure yours matches his.

Girlfriend. Not fuck buddy. Sidepiece. Groupie. Hoseok's girlfriend. Which came with so much more. Pushed all your insecurities away, solidified things. Just a label, but it came with such security, something that you had no idea you needed so much until you were entering this situation-ship with this man.

“I'd love to be your girlfriend,” You were grinning hard now, it is covered by his soft lips. His large hands slipping into your hand, tangling in the loose strands as he held your lips to his. Kissing you softly and slowly, as if you two had all the time in the world to enjoy each other.

You really wished you did.

He's pulling away all too quickly, but not before leaning down once more to press a gentle peck to your lips. “Things are going to be really hectic these past few days... but we'll make it work.” He sounded hopeful, you were too. “And I cleared my schedule for tomorrow... might set us back, but I wanted to spend the night with you.”

Despite having zero knowledge of how this conversation would go, Hoseok held a lot of faith in you... in your blossoming relationship. Felt like things would work out for you if the two of you made sure to work together on things. It would be a bit of a learning process for you, he could tell but he was willing to work at it with you.

“I'd really like that,” You say, leaning up on your toes to press your lips back onto his. Ready to make the most of tonight, no matter what you did. Just wanted to be with him and make up for lost time.

Stock up on all the smiles, the hugs, the kisses that you could because in a few weeks. Your six-month challenge would be starting, you needed to memorize what his lips felt like while you still could. Ready to cherish every moment until he was getting on that plane.

– he’s ½ of the famous rap duo, the 94′s. when stumbling upon a pretty youtuber, he’s quick to decide he wants to have her. but one night with her just doesn’t seem like enough.

⬿ masterlist ⤳

taglist: @randomkoalablog @smoljams @dee-ehn @angjeon @moarmynation @diminieshoe @butterflylion @withlovestudyblr @uxwi @hazefilter @honeyoongles @flantasticpr @ratking101 @jinhitwhore @thisistrashperson @hehehehahahohohuhu @jaiuneamesolitaiire @hellotherehoneybee @bangtansonyeondayyyum @okaysoplshelpme @rather-not-sayy @betysotelo18 @bluefaeriefury @tae165 @kookiesjoonies @bangtansbun @koostime @justastupidnick @ashleyjoyx @kooinluv @alpaca1612 @sw33tnight @taefect94 @houseofarmanto @flantasticpr @amoreguk @kim-ji-hyeons-world @mochibabycakes @beeeb05 @tommasauras @diorhobii @kimsouthjoon @korkanswers @samros95 @soulstaes @masterpiecejoonie @melonmochi @aizuwusho @marifujioka @elliemeetsevil @thesunisup-theskyisblue @thecityrain @alterlovess @leovaldezisfire @pastelpinksunflower @xctvme @itsrapmonstanotdancemonsta

A/N: timestamps are important throughout the fic!! if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask! also if you asked to be on the taglist and aren’t on there, it’s because tumblr sometimes doesn’t let me tag ppl for some reason.

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shortprince-cos · 4 years

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The Woes Of An Emo

Summary: Virgil wants at least one rehearsal to not go wrong. Also, he's a simp. Also, I apologize in advance.

Warnings: Angst, mental breakdown, anxiety, swearing, miscommunication. Tell me if I need to ask anything else!

Note: Happy Asides day!!!! (hopefully it is, this was written in advance) Remember to tag your spoilers for a week and to respect everyone's opinions!!!!

{Masterlist} {Previous}

Chapter 7: Typical Day?

~~~~~

By next Monday, everyone knew that Patton and Logan were dating. They kept holding hands in the hallway, walking each other to class, and even flirting in front of everyone.

Virgil was a little jealous, though he didn't want to admit it. They were just so cute doing those couple-y things, and Virgil wanted to do that with someone. Well, not just someone, Princey and/or Roman.

Right. Roman. Virgil almost forgot about his crisis for a minute. He has confirmed that yes, he does apparently have a crush on Roman. Great. The guy he just rejected. Wonderful. The guy who probably didn't want anything the do with Virgil at the moment. Perfect.

How could he not, though? Roman, who got almost every lead in the musicals. Roman, who called teachers out on their unfairness. Roman, who's eyes lit up whenever he talked about Disney or musicals. Who could fight someone for hours if he had the motivation. Who, when he flirted, could drop his voice so unbearably low it sent shivers down Virgil's spine.

And oh goodness, Princey. Princey is amazing. He talks like he'll run out of time. Types like Virgil's the most important thing in the world. He also loves Disney and musicals and talks about them like theres no tomorrow. He just cares so much about Virgil, letting him vent about his anxieties, and even tells Virgil all of his deepest secrets and insecurities.

Oh, heh, guess we've been rambling, huh?

Needless to say, Virgil was not doing that good. The amount of stress was driving him mad. Everything was just too much; waiting for Princey to be better, trying to not get overwhelmed by Patton's friendliness, trying not to make everyone mad or disappointed with him, finding out he actually does have a crush on Roman, hoping Roman isn't mad at him, being the prop master for the musical, and even just schoolwork. It was exhausting.

By next Friday his dads wanted him to stay home and take a 'mental health day', but Virgil couldn't miss rehearsal or he'd probably get kicked from the show.

Speaking of the show, Virgil was currently sweeping up the auditorium seats when he heard a familiar voice.

"Virgil!" Gabi the stage manager called. "Please clean up the prop room, the actors messed up the organization."

"Yeah, sure. I'll lock up too, if you want?"

Gabi handed Virgil the keys. "You're a lifesaver, Virge. If we were getting paid, you'd get a raise."

"It's no problem." Virgil said bashfully.

"Thank you anyway!" Gabi said as she walked out of the auditorium.

So Virgil made his way over to the prop room, and started cleaning up the fiasco that the actors left behind.

It wasn't until fifteen minutes later when his phone buzzed, alerting him of a message.

He quickly looked at his phone to find a message from Princey! Virgil hasn't heard from him for awhile, so he was getting a little worried, but apparently he was doing a little better if he was talking to him again!

princeofyourdreams: call me please

Or not?

That was...not a normal message. Virgil's anxiety immediately spiked at the thought of calling Princey.

onthevirgeofananxietyattack: princey, u know how i feel about random calls

princeofyourdreams: i know im sorry but please

Virgil hesitated. Princey sounded not ok and obviously Virgil had to do something, but the idea of calling him was a lot to handle, especially when Virgil was, as his username said, on the verge of an anxiety attack because of everything going on at the moment, and one more bad thing could probably break him.

He hit call anyway.

"P-Princey?" Virgil asked nervously.

"Hey anx." Princey was obviously crying, and Virgil's heart shattered. But...something was familiar.

"Are you ok? What's wrong?"

"Everything. Everything's wrong. It has been for so long and I tried so hard to be ok but now I'm really not ok." Princey was full on sobbing now, and Virgil didn't know what he could do to help.

"Hey, hey. It's ok, just focus on my voice ok?"

Roman just sobbed more in response, and Virgil swore he heard an echo from somewhere.

It must be his imagination.

Virgil softened his voice. "Hey, Princey, it's going to be ok, whatever's wrong right now will be ok in the end, I promise."

"How-" He choked "How can you say that when-when you don't even know what's happening."

"Just tell me and I can help." Virgil wandered out of the prop room to pace while talking.

"If I tell you, you-you won't care. I'm surprised you don't not care already." He gasped for some more air as Virgil heard something shifting in the men's dressing room.

"Princey breathe." Virgil turned to the dressing room door. "I care about you. I promise. I won't stop caring about you for something like this."

Princey took a big breath. "THEN WHY ARE YOU PLAYING ME?!" He screamed, and so did the dressing room door.

Suddenly everything was silent except for the heavy breathing over the phone and through the door.

What did that mean? Was he mad at Virgil? What did Virgil do? And, oh yeah, was Princey actually behind that door?

Well, screw anxiety, theres only one way to find out.

He knocked on the door, and heard the knock through the phone.

"P-Princey?"

"Y-Yeah?"

Virgil took a deep breath and opened the door.

"...Hey, Virgil."

~~~~~

{Next}

HAHAHAHAHAHA THAT'S RIGHT! IT'S A CLIFFHANGER! Y'all knew the angst was gonna spill out at sometime, I'm just surprised that it took this long! Sorry this one is really short, I didn't really know what to do to get to this point. So I just wrote Virgil simping for two paragraphs lol

@irritating-lady-knight I hope you liked your small cameo! Surprise!

Thanks to @thefingergunsgirl (Emma! Ily!) for beta reading this chapter! It was a big help!!!!!

Taglist in reblog

Reblogs are appreciated!💖

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #kawaiikat54 fic #twoae fic #the woes of an emo fic #prinxiety fic #prinxiety #ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts roman #roman sanders #sanders sides high school au

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warmau · 4 years

Text

☆ [nostalgic] summer romance!au taeil~ happy late birthday moon man!! | find others here: johnny | haechan

part of you is sad that the closest you’ll ever be to him is at a safe distance

peering out of the window and into the baseball field below

you can kind of make out the details of his face from here, but you can’t see the birthmark on his neck or the glint of starlight thats always somehow in the deep back of his eyes

you can see the worn-out back of his uniform jersey - spelled out in hand-stitched letters - moon

but part of you is happy that you can at least enjoy the comfort of knowing he’s nearby

just the little whisper of the fact that his joy is minutes away from yours

you lay your head down on the desk

its the last day of classes and summer is begging you to go outside and enjoy it

but summer also means you wont see him anymore, even if youve only been seeing him from far away

not seeing him at all is a feeling you cant wrap your head around - no matter how many times youve tried to

“what are you doing?”

a hand comes down on the corner of the desk and you peek up to see the familiar, yet frowning face of your friend doyoung

he’s got the same baseball uniform on - he’s the pitcher for the schools team

“sorry, im about to leave-”

you slowly pull yourself together and up out of your chair, but doyoung interrupts before you can gather your things

“no, im asking what are you doing? this is the last day of classes and unless you tell taeil how you feel - you’ll have to wait months to see him again!”

im ok with that, admiring in secret is kind of a talent of mine

is what you want to say

but its too late because doyoung has taken you by the wrist and is tugging you out the door and down the stairs

you have just enough energy to pull away when you both come to a stop in the middle of the sandlot

taeil turns just as you want to break away, he smiles and says your name

doyoung lets go and everything around you looks like it might start floating, taeil included

because you didn’t even know he knew your name

“well, ill leave you two alone”

doyoung disappears - not that you pay any attention - all of your senses feel like they’re being overridden as taeil comes closer

his black short bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat from practice, his skin glows under the hue of the afternoon sun

“do you have any plans for today?”

“n-no. i was just going to walk home.”

“can i walk with you?”

he swings his bat over his shoulder and waits expectantly for your answer

at this close a distance, its all visible

the birth mark - the universe in the dark browns of his eyes, the little blemish on the side of his cheek

you swallow a lump thats threatening to close up your throat

“sure”

you’re both walking slow, the other members of the baseball team have already trotted passed you

throwing whistles and waves your way before disappearing into the summer air, some people have passed you as well - on their way from work or classes

but still, that feeling like everything is gently out of place, lingers over you

because you don’t get it - why are you here? since when did your crush have any sort of interest in you?

“i asked doyoung why you never come to any of our games.”

taeil suddenly says, looking at you from the corner of his eye

his smile is a little teasing, and so is his tone, but it doesnt stop you from flustering

“oh- i just - i have book club so-”

“don’t worry, he told me.”

“im starting to worry about what else he told you,,,,,,,”

you murmur without a second thought, before covering your mouth with your palm

but its too late, you know taeil has heard you, and that smile widens a little more

“he told me, even though you dont come to any games, im your favorite player.”

you both come to a stop at the same time

“so ive been thinking about it, why id be your favorite if you dont even like baseball.”

you think youre shoulders start to shake a little, maybe its your imagination, but you think you can feel nervousness creep its way all around you

hes talking so casually, but you dont know what it means and you dont want to be told - on the last day of school - that your feelings have been discovered and rejected

you were sure you could just carry them on with you until graduation and then never tell taeil how much you really did like -

“and i think i know why.”

he takes a second to tuck his bat back into the pocket of his bag, then he reaches out and locks your fingers with his in a safe, steady grasp

he starts walking and you have to push yourself to stumble after him

because you cant believe it but ,,,,,,,,,, you didnt get rejected

in fact you think this means,,,,,,,,youve been confessed to too

taeil doesnt kiss you when he drops you off at your doorstep, he asks for your number and tells you to meet him on the weekend to watch him train at the park

you expect a message on saturday morning, but you get one fifteen minutes later

by the way, i like you.

sorry if i didnt make it clear, im bad at these things.

but,,,,,,,,i like you. i really like you.

who knows how many times you reread those messages, holding your phone close to your heart and then bringing it up to mouth the sentences over and over

on saturday, you see taeil and doyoung - both already with their baseball equipment on

taeil is swinging the bat as he warms up when doyoung pulls you aside by the elbow

“so, are you guys dating now?”

“all he did was walk me home do-”

“but he likes you, and you like him!”

doyoung’s wide eyes are searching for an answer and you just feel a shyness overtake you because, well, you dont know what this is

youre just happy to be here - beside him

but doyoungs question does weigh on your mind, even when the training is over and its just you and taeil and hes offering to take you somewhere for dinner and you blurt out;

“is this a date?”

taeil chuckles

“i hope it is - arent people who are dating supposed to go on dates?”

the summer descends into hot, long days - and before when the stickiness and heat used to irritate you, now youve found yourself falling in love with it

laying on a park bench, eating ice-cream and watching your boyfriend practice until the fireflies came out

then you’d sit up, watch him take his hat off and abandon his bat in the grass

stretch out, exposing the strong lines of his arms and back before joining you on the bench, getting kisses for another day of practice well spent

sometimes he’d end practice early, or show up at your doorstep when you didn’t plan to meet and take you to the beach

splash around in the waves and then rest his head on your stomach under the umbrella - shared towel spread out beneath you

he’d fall asleep there, and you’d open up a book you’d brought with you - only distracted when taeil finally shifts awake and presses kisses to your skin

you learn how to hit a homerun with his arms wrapped around you for support

you learn that he harbors an extensive collection of LPs that you shift through when the summer rain has come out and he cant go out to the park, instead you’re on the floor of his bedroom picking dreamy songs to play and dance to, washing out the sound of thunder from outside his windows

you learn where taeil is most sensitive, right below his ribcage - when you end up splaying your palm on the skin there an digging your nails in just a bit - he makes a sound and grabs your arm, pulls you down to muffle out some string of curses against your lips

you learn a lot that summer, but most of all you learn that you were never happier pinning from a distance than you are from experiencing the real thing

you hate to admit outloud, but you thank doyoung for giving you the push to finally enter the bubble around taeil you never thought you’d be welcome into

and doyoung just grins, says “i told you so”

and forgets to mention that he’s actually known about not only your feelings, but taeil’s all along - ever since a home-away game where taeil had asked doyoung before they’d climbed onto the bus

“whose your friend? the one whose always looking out of the window?”

when the summer starts to shift herself into the fall, and the heat dwindles down

you find yourself wearing that shirt, the one with ‘moon’ handstitched on the back, as taeil wraps a hand around your waist and tugs you into his side on the bus ride home

you go back to classes soon, and your time will be short between schoolwork and his practice

he presses a small kiss on the top of your hand and you want to give him back the shirt before you get off at your stop

but he stops you, those starlight eyes sparking, “you should keep it.”

so you do

you keep it and are amused when you see taeil get a new one, this one doesnt have his name handstitched on the back though - its printed in shiny black letters

you run your hands over the name sometimes when you miss him

waiting for a latenight call with good news

“we won the game!”

you rub your sleepy eyes and murmur that you’re so happy, before you two hang up you hear him whisper - like he always does

“i love you, i hope you dream of me”

even now, all these years later, when taeil’s become an all-star player for one of korea’s biggest baseball teams

and you’ve fallen asleep watching one of the live games

when he gets home, your husband kicks his shoes off and drops his bag

sees you spread out on the couch

the sports channel glaring

that old uniform shirt from his high school days tucked in your arms

he leans down, kisses your forehead and he whispers

“i love you”

you shift

eyes opening to meet his with a half smile and yawning as you say;

“i was dreaming of you.”

#im late i know............but it was like so hard to write this without being like taeil [breakdown]#nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct au #taeil scenarios #taeil imagines #taeil au #member: taeil #sfw #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 au #nct 127 imagines #taeil #nct 127 #baseball!au #happy late birthday my baby T___________T

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me, 1/10 (Gottrosenali) - Writworm42

A/N: Hi all!! I saw an infographic a while back of 10 types of orgasms people with vaginas can have, and got inspired to write this! I don't remember where the infographic was from (in my infinite wisdom, I took screenshots of the infographic, but not of the source lmao), but I hope you enjoy this!

PLEASE DON'T TAKE THIS AS EDUCATIONAL OR INFORMATIONAL!!!! THIS FIC IS ESSENTIALLY PORN. PORN IS NOT EDUCATIONAL, AND NEITHER IS THIS FIC!!! If you're looking for reliable sex ed info, check out scarleteen, they're a great resource!

Title from Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me from Rocky Horror Picture Show. Thank you x10000 Holtz for dealing with my dumb ass while I was writing this and for beta-ing <3

Denali misses Mik when he’s gone; both she and Rosé do. It’s hard not to, when their boyfriend has such a big presence in their lives all the time. Whether he’s starfishing on their bed and hogging all the covers in his sleep, chattering away to fill silence in the apartment, or just making his presence known by ruffling Denali’s hair as he walks by or tracing absent-minded hearts on Rosé’s arm while they’re piled on the couch to watch TV, Mik is a constant, someone who’s always at arm’s reach to enjoy. It’s comforting, something about him that neither Denali nor Rosé would ever want to change.

It’s a strange feeling when he’s away, one that neither of them particularly like. Like something is missing, something they can’t quite feel balanced without. Like the minute he leaves, they’re waiting for him to come back again.

It doesn’t help that Mik has been traveling so much for work lately. Fashion Week season has descended upon the world, and between New York and Paris and Toronto and Milan, Mik has been so busy that he hardly has time to pick up his phone. Add in time zone differences along with Denali and Rosé navigating their own busy schedules, and it might as well be a long distance relationship, one that is barely existent at this point. Denali knows it’s selfish to get upset about it; she still has Rosé, after all, so she can’t imagine how alone Mik must feel. But she can’t help it; the more Mik slips away, the more she wants him back, so bad that it hurts sometimes.

But there’s also a different kind of ache she and Rosé feel when Mik is away, one that may be a little superficial, sure, but is nonetheless one that Denali is particularly bad at leaving unattended. One that once again, she knows must be worse for Mik, seeing as he’s completely alone right now.

At least on the occasions that all three of them are free, it’s a lot easier to scratch that particular itch.

Michelada: guys im so horny

Denali rolls her eyes, shaking her head and laughing a little to herself as she reads her boyfriend’s message. He’s still in the UK right now, and if her math is correct, that means that it’s only around 1 PM where he is. As in, he’s probably still at work. When she says so, though, he seems unperturbed.

Michelada: hasn’t stopped you guys before

Michelada: sooooo

Michelada: sensing a double standard here

Denali hears Rosé cackle from the bathroom, and then her phone pings again.

Rosita: i mean

Rosita: im not opposed to shenanigans, you know that baby ;)

“Don’t encourage him!” Denali calls out, but of course Rosé doesn’t listen; she never does. The next text Denali gets is a picture of Rosé taken in the bathroom mirror, naked as the day she was born with an arm covering her tits.

God.

Michelada: ugh rosie don’t do this to me :((

Rosita: i thought u were horny, baby?

Rosita: gotta make up your mind xo

Another ping, and a second pic of Rosé comes through, this time biting down on one of her fingers through a devilish smirk. Denali shifts a little in her spot on the couch; as much as she doesn’t want to give in, it’s tantalizing, knowing that Rosé is just a word of permission away from being right next to her like that. And the fact that Mik could very well get caught, that they’ll be distracting him enough that he might falter, might give himself away?

Nali: i think it’s time you went on break, angel

She follows it up with a pic of her own, angling it so that both Mik and Rosé will be able to see right down her shirt. She hears a little gasp from the bathroom, and smiles to herself; Rosé is so easy, it’s almost funny. Both she and Mik are.

There’s a pause, and Denali almost wonders if Mik has been caught already, or if he’s changed his mind. She’s about to ask, but then the bathroom door opens, and she looks up to see Rosé coming towards her.

“Rosie…” she starts, but she doesn’t have time to get her full sentence out before there’s another ping.

Michelada: i have fifteen minutes

“Just enough time,” Rosé grins as she comes up behind Denali, drapes her arms over her shoulders and leans in to kiss the shell of her ear and letting out a little laugh when the sensation makes Denali squirm.

A call comes through not even a second later, and they’re greeted by the sight of Mik shut in a bathroom, cheeks already pink and pupils already dilated with lust.

“That was quick,” Denali smirks, but Mik doesn’t respond. One look behind herself, though, and Denali knows why.

“He’s only got fifteen minutes, D,” Rosé winks, clearly enjoying herself as she continues to play with her own tits, trailing her hands over them and palming them while grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Gotta maximize on that time, right?”

Well. She does have a point. And it’s not just Mik who’s mesmerized by the sight in front of him; watching Rosé continue to tease, still grinning cockily, is absolutely tantalizing, and Denali can’t help the sudden urge to touch her girlfriend that runs through her, making her shiver.

“Wanna touch, angel?” Rosé coos, taking her hands off herself long enough to grab Denali’s face, tilt her head up to look her in the eyes. “It’s okay--all you gotta do is say please.”

She swallows hard, mouth going dry as she nods, eyes trailing back down to Rosé’s bare tits. “Yeah. Yeah, I wanna… Please, Rosie, please can I touch you?”

“Of course you can.” Rosé purrs, coming around the couch slowly, teasingly, before coming right up to Denali, giving her a soft kiss as she throws a leg over Denali’s lap, easing down to straddle her.

“Hi, baby.”

There’s a whine behind them, one that jerks them out of the bubble Rosé has created, and Denali suddenly remembers Mik’s presence over the phone, that he’s watching everything going on.

“I think our sweet boy feels left out, Rosie.”

The remark is as much a taunt as it is a reminder, and Denali can’t help but peek over her shoulder to see how Mik is holding up. Sure enough, he’s already starting to come undone, cheeks flushed pink and mouth gaping open as he takes in what’s happening before him. His camera obscures what’s going on below his chest, but Denali knows Mik well enough to know from his stiff posture that he’s just waiting for permission to let go completely.

“Is that so?” Rosé turns to look over her shoulder, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Poor baby, can’t even be close to us while we have fun. I hope you’re not touching yourself just yet, angel—it’d be a shame to get this over with too quickly, don’t you think?”

Mik swallows hard, but shakes his head, sucking in a sharp breath that’s just audible enough to go straight to Denali’s core.

“No, mommy, I’m not.”

“Good boy,” Rosé purrs before turning back to the blonde she’s currently straddling, looking her up and down discerningly.

Not even a heartbeat later, she starts easing off Denali’s lap, clicking her tongue when Denali squirms at the loss, lifts her hands to try and stop Rosé from moving.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she grabs Denali’s hands, gently places them back onto her lap. “I’m just moving so Mik can get a better view. See?” She sits gently next to Denali, wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her close. “Now, what d’you say we get you out of this pesky shirt, huh?”

Denali only nods, rushing to throw off her shirt as Rosé creeps her hands between Denali’s legs, lightly teasing her through her pajama pants.

“I’d suggest you start rubbing over your pants, baby boy.” Rosé throws the command back to Mik without even looking at him, too focused instead on increasing the pressure she’s placing on Denali’s pussy while bringing a free hand to her tits. Denali hisses in pleasure when Rosé’s fingers trace around a nipple, pinching lightly and watching with glee at how Denali’s hips buck at the feeling. Mik’s dissatisfied whines only spur Rosé on, though, and she ups the ante by leaning down to give Denali’s other nipple the attention of her tongue, sucking and nipping at the hardened bud.

“Rosie…” Denali gasps, only for the redhead to separate herself from Denali’s tit, coming up to lock eyes with her as she shakes her head.

“Look at Mik, sweetheart,” Rosé murmurs, her hands still moving, still working Denali up. “Look at what a mess he is watching you.”

Mik’s face is screwed up in frustration, pouting mouth trembling as his arm moves lightly, teasing at what’s going on out of the frame.

“What do you think, D, should we take pity on him?”

“Yes,” Denali answers without hesitation, closing her eyes in pleasure when her generosity is rewarded by Rosé finally slipping her hand below the waistband of Denali’s pajama pants, dragging light fingers along the blonde’s already-slick slit.

“You heard her, baby. You can touch yourself over your underwear now.”

“Thank you, mommy,” he gasps in relief, followed by a shaky breath when he dips his hand into his jeans.

“Don’t thank me, thank Denali,” Rosé simply shrugs. “Speaking of,” she turns her attention back to the blonde next to her, “How ‘bout we take things up a notch, huh?”

Denali doesn’t have time to ask what Rosé means before the older woman’s fingertips are making contact with her clit, tracing fast, yet light circles around it.

“Oh, fuck--”

“God, you have no idea how much this turns me on,” Rosé’s voice takes Denali’s breath away, low and husky in her ear as she continues to rub Denali’s clit. “Watching you and Mik like this, already such messes for me… fuck, makes me wet just listening to you whimper.”

“Why don’t you join us, then?” The idea clicks into Denali’s head instantly, and she has to admit, she loves the way Rosé’s eyes cloud over in confusion for a second, the redhead hesitating for a moment as she tries to figure out what Denali means. It’s the perfect opportunity for Denali to reclaim some power, grab Rosé’s hands and push her back to flip their positions so that Denali is straddling her.

“Mik, baby, you can play with yourself for real now,” she turns back to the camera and winks before wriggling out of her pajama pants, grabbing Rosé’s wrists and pinning them to her sides before closing the distance between them with a rough kiss. Behind them, Denali hears something close to a thank you from Mik, cut off by a strangled mewl that tells her he’s already close.

That’s okay; this shouldn’t take long.

Denali’s hips move naturally as they rut up against Rosé, their kiss deepening steadily as the two move in tandem against each other. Rosé traces her hands down over Denali’s back, down to her ass, and smirks against Denali’s tongue when the blonde moans at the touch. For her part, Denali isn’t exactly being gentle, either; while Rosé uses her grip on Denali’s ass to push her closer, force her to grind down harder, Denali snakes a hand into Rosé’s hair, tugging at the strands just to make her gasp.

“Love it when you make those sounds for me,” she breaks their kiss to suck a bruise onto the curve of Rosé’s neck, almost moaning herself from the way Rosé’s hips stutter at the taunt.

Behind her, Denali hears Mik curse from the phone, and she’s unable to resist looking back as she and Rosé continue to move against each other, their pace staying steady as Denali watches the sight on the other line.

Mik is a vision, one arm slightly out to capture the sight of his body as he gets himself off. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and his lip is swollen from the way he’s biting it, desperately trying not to make too much noise. His hand works patterns on himself that Denali knows well, ones she taught him, ones she experimented and trialled and perfected on his skin. Watching him now, Denali can’t help but speed up a little, a cue that both Rosé and Mik seem to take as they match her pace.

“ Fuck ,” Rosé hisses after Denali turns her attention towards her again, knowing that if she watches Mik any longer, she’s going to come right then and there; she doesn’t want that. She wants to come with Rosé and Mik both, all together.

Luckily, she knows exactly how to speed things up.

“What?” she coos, tracing a finger along Rosé’s cheek, trailing it along her jaw. “Are you close, Rosie? Gonna come for me and Mik already? Aww .”

Rosé nods, whimpering as Denali’s touch continues to travel over her body, down the line of her neck and then tracing along her collarbone.

“You’re so cute, you know that?” Denali continues between gasping breaths, channeling every bit of focus she has to keep the ability to speak while keeping up with the rhythm of Rosé’s hips, now becoming erratic from desperation. “Always acting all big and bad, like you’ve got control, but you just need to be put in your place, don’t you?”

The moan Rosé lets out is positively sinful, and when Denali looks back at Mik, his face is so red, his hand moving so fast that Denali knows he’s about to explode.

Time to finish things off, then.

“I’m gonna count to ten, then you’ll get to come, okay?” Denali says it loud enough for Mik to hear, but she doesn’t wait for a response; she doesn’t have the patience to.

“One… two…”

When ‘ten’ finally leaves her lips, Denali lets go, crying out loud enough that she’s afraid someone in Mik’s studio might hear what’s going on through the bathroom door. But she can’t help it; Rosé continues to grind against Denali through both their orgasms, and by the time Denali comes down fully, she’s too tired to do anything but collapse next to the other woman, completely spent.

“Fuck, you guys,” Mik’s breathy drawl jerks them both back to reality, and Denali can’t help but smile when she sees what a state their boyfriend is in; his clothes are mussed and cheeks are flushed, and there’s a dot of blood on his mouth from where he must have bitten through his lip trying to keep himself quiet.

“All better now?” she teases, laughing when he rolls his eyes, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I mean, I probably look like a mess, but yeah, I’m not horny anymore.”

“Give it five minutes,” Rosé mutters to Denali with a wry smile.

“Hey, I heard that!”

“Go and get cleaned up, babe.” Denali swats at Rosé as she addresses Mik, who’s busy pouting at them. “Call us when you’re done work, and have a good day, yeah?”

“Alright, bye gorge.” Mik sighs, and then just like that, the call is over, and Mik is gone again.

At least, mostly; not two seconds later, there’s another ping, and Denali checks her phone to see another message from Mik. More specifically, a picture of him in the mirror, still a mess, smiling and blowing them a kiss.

Michelada: gonna be thinking about u guys for the rest of the day

Michelada: love u sm <3

It’s not the same as having him next to her, not in the least. But as Denali stares at the picture, feels Rosé shuffle closer to look at it, too, it feels like enough.

#s13 #denali x gottmik x rosé #gottmik #rosé #denali foxx #poly #trans character #f/f/m #smut #thrill me chill me fulfill me #writworm42 #tw mommy kink #rpdr fanfiction

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fizzingwizard · 2 years

Text

of course I had a two and a half week vacation in march, right when moominvalley season release was allegedly gonna happen... and it never did...

then on the VERY LAST DAY of my break, "hey guys! guess what show releases tomorrow!" like WHAT x'D

it's april 1st and the season's out and it was my first day back at wooooork aaaaaahhh x'D

being an adult sucks hahahahaha

but its not like i can watch it anyway lol im not in the uk. gotta wait till i find it somewhere >_>;

and being back at work was pretty good, random stuff under the cut

got my new class list and i do indeed have the student i was dreading... fingers crossed there but the rest of the group is already so cute and i cant wait to teach them. who knows, maybe the difficult kid will have matured a lot over the last month...

also met new coworker who is cool. and the atmosphere was a lot lighter than it usually is on first term days. we even got new computers which i am suuuuper excited about, the old ones were so. crappy. just the worst computers you can imagine. took ten min just to turn on and another ten to load a single webpage. if you had a fifteen minute break you were screwed. even if you had thirty min you could accomplish next to nothing. it was such a pain because we generally only get breaks (by which I mean prep time) in 15 or 30 min blocks and we have an INORDINATE amount of paperwork. my dude we teach pre-k! why this endless slog through paperwork xD the struggle is real

but now we got shiny new computers and it comes as a total shock! but a pleasant one. less pleasant was the company trying to stick me with our electric piano. we have one but it broke because of being wheeled around to different classrooms, and apparently the only solution anyone can come up with is "keep it in fizz's classroom instead of in the hall." one: how on EARTH does that stop it getting broken since it will still need to be wheeled around from room to room?? and two: where in my teeny tiny classroom do you want me to put a whole ass piano with wires and breakable bits?? first of all every corner of our room is being used, we already do not have enough storage space or enough space for the number of 1-3 year old kids which is upwards of 30. my room stores all the nap cots for two classes. then even if we figure somethign out, there is no way the kids are not going to accidentally break that piano no matter how hard we try to steer them away. i mean even if the kids are good, the pianos gonna get paint on it from crafts. i swear that it will even if we cover it. i am always finding paint and stickers in the most random of places. and last but not least, my classroom is also a nap room (hence the cots). we aren't allowed to even have water bottles on the shelves in case there's an earthquake and the things on shelves fall and hit the sleeping kids. but you want us to put a piano in there? a piano is less dangerous in an earthquake than a water bottle????

lit i told my coteachers "i will fight this." lol i was boiling over. i am not having that piano in my room. if there is no place to put it where it won't break, then either the company needs to pay for repairs when they happen (which so far is not even once a year, yet they actually rejected the maintenance application the first time we sent it -__-), or they need to not have a piano at all. "but the music teacher needs it" yes im sure she does but thats got nothing to do with me! i didnt decide my 2s need to take music lessons! thats the companies choice! that they knowingly made for their busiest school with the largest class size and teeny tiny rooms with absolutely no storage space at all! the company knows all that and yet they're just like "You guys figure it out." Well ok, im figuring it out. the piano can stay where it was last year and get moved around like usual. there is zero benefit to putting it in my room, it only makes HO feel better about spending money on the maintenance (for now - just wait till next time it breaks 9_9). on top of that it would adversely affect my class which is the number one thing i care about here. im fortunate in that our team leader agreed with me and actually went to bat over this even harder than i did. still not sure whats gonna happen but i do intend to block that piano coming in my room unless someone comes up with a reeeeally good idea for how we're gonna fit it in tetris-style without causing problems.

but otherwise a good day, lol

#fizz's life

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dreamiesdotcom · 4 years

Text

slow | n.jm, l.hc

summary: Jaemin likes some things slow — slowly walking from your houses to school, slowly drinking warm drinks, slowly putting puzzle pieces together, slowly dancing to Jisung's upbeat playlist, slowly baring yourselves of masks, slowly learning to trust — but slowly falling in love, he's not very sure.

word count: 2563

a/n: this is based off this post of mine (as per @flirtyhyuck 's request) and im here to say that im sorry this wasnt supposed to see the light of day

"Can you please tell Jeno to tell his best friend to stop staring at mine?" Jaemin almost growls, pulling your chair over nearer to him. You whine a little at being closer to the scent of his coffee, scrunching your nose up and pulling away. He gasps at the rejection but you smile at him and reach for his hands instead. He rolls his eyes and faces Renjun, "Please."

"Na, you know I don't talk to people. I'm allergic." Renjun grumbles. "Talk to Jisung instead, he's been hanging out with the music kid for a project."

"He's older than you, and he has a name," Jisung grimaces over a cup of hot chocolate. "His name is Mark. Mark Lee."

"See?" Renjun shrugs as if to prove a point. "He even knows his 'name'."

"But this is so unfair!" comes the inevitable whine from the younger. "Chenle is friends with Hyuck-hyung!"

"Chenle is friends with everyone. Whatever, one of you needs to do it." Jaemin sighs, turning his chair to face you. He raises a brow, "What're you thinking?"

Your hand still loosely wraps around his, and he slowly entwines them together.

Warm. It's warm like a cup of whatever the hell it is Na Jaemin is drinking. What were you thinking, though? A while ago, there was a lot — random numbers, other subjects, an article you read yesterday, the way Jisung's eyes shined at the mention of Mark. Right now, there's only one; Don't catch feelings.

Those thoughts are regular and they were haunting. These days, they're not as incessant as the past few months, but they still come and they are unbelievably strong — don't catch feelings. Something tells you that it's too late and you already did. Something tells you that you are stupid.

But, what if things worked, right? He's soft and kind and he's lovely. You fit in a lot of things and you disagree in some but that's just perfectly balanced, isn't it? He won't hurt you — oh, how he won't do that. He never will. Na Jaemin, this magical boy — what if?

"Damn, Lee Donghyuck is really in love with you," someone chimes loudly, and you don't even need to see who's rushing to your table before Jisung groans in disdain and makes space for this odd friend. Chenle makes a vague motion, asking people to look away. "He talked my ear off about how pretty you looked while painting at Art's class. He's whipped."

What if, huh? You turn away from the idea with a smile. Don't be silly...

"No, he's not, Chenle." You reply to the boy but keep your eyes at Jaemin, smiling still. "I wasn't thinking about anything. That was me spacing out."

Jaemin rolls his eyes again, seemingly moodier than usual. His soft giggle later makes you laugh, though. Oh, how weak this boy was. How weak he became when someone smiled at him. Or maybe, only when a specific someone does it.

"What do you mean 'No he's not, Chenle'?" The brat refuses to get the hint and live him down. He makes a quick show of turning around to the other side to check Lee Donghyuck and his friends' table, then pointing at them, "He's staring at you."

"He's not!" You hiss, glaring at the people who are either eavesdropping or watching or worse, both.

"Is, though." Jisung shrugs. "I bet he writes you love songs."

"Does not!" you glare at the duo, begs Jaemin through your eyes to tell them to stop. Unfortunately, Jaemin is already gushing at the two. You stomp your feet to get their attention, "We don't even know each other!"

And that was a lie. Renjun's eyes read those words, he must've known. He probably knew about the accidental bumping into each other at the playground, or the awkward laughs you two share at the convenience store; maybe he saw him helping you with Mathematics at the library, or he stumbled upon most of your accidental meetings; those were by coincidence, right? They had to be. Renjun's eyes also read another set of words: Don't break his heart.

But how can you not? You weren't in love with him. You were in love with somebody else, and you wished that the sunshine boy didn't adore you like that. Why does Renjun care about Hyuck? They haven't even spoken to each other. You sigh, and at that very moment, you hear the door open and close. Donghyuck and his friends left. The room mourns the lack of the warmth of their muffled laughter.

"You know what, I'll just go see Lee Donghyuck." You huff your cheeks, palms slamming on either side of the table. Jaemin startles, tries to speak, but you're already cutting him off with a much more determined gaze.

"I have his number from when Chenle got it for me. I'll go home, change clothes, ask him to meet up and I'll prove you guys wrong." you stand up, tearing away from his stare. "It'll drive me crazy if I don't."

"But we—" he bites back a sigh, but you notice the way his hands attempted to reach up and pull you back down to your chair. It seemed like a quiet plead to hang around. He smiles, "Do you need a ride?"

That day you told him no, and you pinched his cheeks instead of your usual kind of goodbye; that one where you pout and tug at his sleeves, wishing for fifteen more minutes without words but only your eyes, knowing you'd meet each other tomorrow but not quite wanting to even part.

If Jaemin knew that it will be the moment where everything begins to change, he knows he would have held you tight and never let you go.

You officially got together with Donghyuck on the 24th of December. Jaemin isn't interested in knowing how it happened, but he briefly remembers the next few days after that: everyone talking about Donghyuck's sweet voice, Mark and Jeno playing the guitar, and a kiss under a mistletoe. Renjun and Jisung gave him as many sweets as they could manage to find, though they quickly realized that he isn't gonna give up on his little role of a boy not broken. Chenle was the one who talked him down, smacked his head, hugged him tight, and told him to snap out of it.

It was sure as hell disrespectful and he got an earful after that, but it did help Jaemin. At that moment, there was a silent agreement between the three that it was all that mattered: Jaemin accepted the pain and knew that he wasn't alone in all of this.

Heartbreak felt bitter and it wasn't kind, but Jaemin knew that much. Chenle's been saying those things to him for a while now — especially if it's because of someone you're close to. Even more if you haven't confessed yet, hyung. Damn it. It hurts so much — he said so many times Jaemin couldn't bother count. He never learned this, though, and he never even thought that he'd be in this situation: right now, he should be making a homework. Right now, he just realized that a heartbreak is even more extremely cruel if you never even realized that you had feelings until the moment you're hurting.

He looks down on his open notebook, glares at the unanswered question before ultimately giving up. Beside him, Renjun lost himself in a book and Chenle fell asleep. He searches for Jisung only to find him with a very familiar-looking boy — Mark Lee — shyly talking behind a bookshelf. Jaemin grits his teeth and wonders what the hell it is that this group has that he keeps losing his friends to them.

Sometimes, Jaemin falls into the ways of an escapist, as Renjun said once. He and his big words were normal. What's not normal is his daydream — it wasn't the two of you and your friends in Neverland, and it wasn't his imagination of how future plans would unfold — because sometimes he tends to do that, imagine how things would go. Right now, he's not thinking of that sleepover at Chenle's. He's not drinking up the image of a long, aimless drive (that will certainly happen. Jisung won't allow it not to happen), stargazing and exchanging theories on extraterrestrial life (that will definitely happen once again, because of Jisung as well, but now with the help of Renjun). His daydreams center on rain clouds today.

In his mind, you're both in some comforting cottage in the woods and there's a thunderstorm. The scent of petrichor and deep wood mixes with a calm and cozy atmosphere. You're tucked safely in his arms and he has you all to himself; right now, in his mind, he can be as selfish as possible. You're talking and laughing over sweet little nothings, and Jaemin has to catch himself a little so that even if he continues to fall, it wouldn't be as fast. He likes some things slow. He likes soaking up certain moments just as much as he likes the other events' turbulence. With you, he loved everything slow.

Slowly walking from your houses to school. Slowly drinking warm drinks. Slowly putting puzzle pieces together. Slowly dancing to Jisung's upbeat playlist. Slowly baring yourselves of masks. Slowly learning to trust.

Slowly falling in love, he's not very sure. More often than not, he would ask himself in his mind: 'Would it all be different if I fell in love faster?'

Maybe there were some things that needed to be rushed. Some things that needed to be instantaneous. He laughs inside his mind and asks again, 'Can this heartbreak be quicker, then?'

The false memory is ruined.

Jaemin comes back down to reality at the scent of roses. His shoulders ache a little from leaning at the lockers, so he stands properly and meets your confused expression. Roses. Chocolates. Letters. You. You look awfully flustered and the pink hue in your cheeks becomes bolder and bolder each phrase your eyes read. Jaemin smirks and takes a peek.

I don't know what went through my head or whatever hopeless romantic spirit decided to posses me today, but I love you. And I miss you. Let's have a date?

Cheesy. His grin grows wider but he promises himself that it's the last. He won't look at you so lovingly again. He won't feel like this anymore. Donghyuck is bratty and headstrong but he was kind and he cherished you, ready to give you the world — Jaemin finds that he can do that, too. Except that it's Donghyuck whom you intensely love. He promises himself that he'll get over you but only because he knew that he's bad at promises.

"Against Hyuck?" he drawls as if to make a joke. His laugh sounded way too wounded for it to be funny, though, and he leans to the lockers again because his knees buckle at your gaze, the one that slowly makes him melt all the damn time. "There was never really a chance for me, huh?"

He thinks you'd run away and go as far as possible from him from then on. He thinks you should — he implied that he liked you. He implied that he wanted a chance. He implied that he hoped for it. When you didn't do anything but tear your eyes away from the lovely note, he assumed you've taken it as a joke, that you were dense — that you were dense again. Instead, you tilted your head to him, "This is where it gets painful."

He aches to ask what it is that you meant, but he found that he couldn't speak. He's tongue-tied and he couldn't move, couldn't find the right words to say. It's as if his ability to make a sound was stolen from him. He's unaware of the world because all he can see is tender gazes and all that he can listen to is a gentle voice, then the words he never thought he'd hear — you were staring at him and then you sighed.

"You did, once."

A series of unexpected events have already unfolded, but this probably was one of the top three. He doesn't know where he gets the strength, but he stands straight again. He tears all the what if's and what could've been's and what will never be away for this moment, and he doesn't dwell on the fact that you loved him. That there was a chance. That he completely missed that chance because he was so afraid, so scared of falling in love and ruining all that you both have slowly built together. He doesn't understand how he even got to crack up at that realization, but he does — "And that was a perfect exchange. Jisung would love that."

You wink at him in quick humor, but you laugh at him with unrest, "Why Jisung?"

"He's into this kind of thing these days." He shrugs. "Speaking of, isn't it weird how Jisung all so suddenly likes sappy movies? Is he going through something?"

"He hasn't said anything. Maybe he's not yet ready to share with the class, Jaemin." You reply, smirking, "Are you playing detective, or are you nosy?"

"I'm concerned." He lights flicks your forehead. You giggle as he does that, eyes fluttering shut, and his heart stings again. When you open them, he's staring at you.

The look in your eyes screamed of honesty and pure truth. Jaemin understands, he always does. And he knows too, he knows that you're aware as well. He knows that you saw the same sincerity in his eyes and you knew that every single bit of that intense moment was true. At that, he swings an arm at your shoulders and led the two of you to the exit, opening a talk about your other friends and plans of meeting at 12 pm at the usual for lunch, then he cracks a joke, and you genuinely chuckle.

"I used to daydream about us," used to be said to prompt a laugh. On a normal day, that was the joke that makes you fall over and not the multiple bizarre versions of "Why did the chicken cross the road?". On a normal day, you two would talk hours and hours about daydreaming about each other, some sappy and some downright comedy. On a normal day, that's the topic you both center around as you walk your way to your other friends.

Today wasn't a normal day, though, because today you shine under the sun brighter than others, and you look very stunning in yellow. Today wasn't a normal day because you didn't take the normal route, instead, you made a turn to bid someone a quick farewell. Today, "Do you think there's another world where we're together?" doesn't feel like a question elicited from Renjun's multiverse theories and "If you knew, would you try?" isn't just a verse from Jisung's surprising secret stash of self-written poetry. Today, "You were a dream that shined brightly above me and just like the fate of a gazer and a star, you are so far from my reach" isn't just something he read out of the book Chenle reads.

Today, Jaemin watches you fall in Donghyuck's arms like it was all you were meant to do, and his heart breaks.

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