#I realized like halfway through coloring this that I fucking hated the brush I used for line art but eh
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Anyone want another Tang screenshot redraw? No? Too bad, you’re getting one anyway.
(Minor S4 Special Spoilers under the cut)
Now that the season 4 special has officially released in English I finally get to share this. I’ve had this in my back pocket since I was spoiled from the China release and I’m happy to finally share it. I just love our resident nerd boy so much. I’m obsessed with his new fluffy hair and, I swear to god, if they don’t let him keep it I’m going to riot.
#lego monkie kid#lmk tang#monkie kid#HE’S SO PRETTY I LOVE HIM#LOOK AT THE FLOOF#HIS HAIR GOES POOF#I’m holding onto the hope that they’ll let him keep the hair#it seems stupid to give him a whole new haircut for all of like#8 minutes of screen time#then never use it again#ESPECIALLY WHEN HE LOOKS SO AMAZING WITH IT#I’m not as happy with this one as I was with the last Tang redraw#but whatever#I realized like halfway through coloring this that I fucking hated the brush I used for line art but eh#lesson learned#I’m just trying to improve one step at a time#lego monkie kid spoilers#lego monkie kid season 4 spoilers#lego monkie kid season 4 special spoilers#lego monkie kid s4 special spoilers#spoilers#monkie kid spoilers#monkie kid season 4 spoilers#monkie kid season 4 special spoilers#monkie kid s4 special spoilers#monkie kid s4 spoilers
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Wingman Wayne - Ronance Edition pt4 :D | Read from the beginning | Read on ao3
It hasn't even been five minutes since Robin came home from work, when the phone in the hall starts ringing. And she has some suspicions about who the caller might be.
She squints at the phone like it's personally offending her, considers for a few moments to just let it ring – but she can't. She doesn't want to be a completely cruel person, this is already gonna be awful enough as it is.
'Hi,' says Nancy, sounding slightly breathless, when Robin picks up the phone. 'How was your day?'
'Um – gr...ay.'
'Gray?' Nancy repeats, confused.
Robin flinches. She had meant to say “great” but decided halfway that that would probably sound weirdly enthusiastic regarding the conversation they were about to have so she changed it to “okay” and – yeah. This is embarrassing.
'Yeah – I mean, the weather. Was. Very bad. Lots of rain and shit.' She cringes at herself, talking awkwardly about the goddamn weather, glad that Nancy isn't able to see how beet-red she has gotten so at least some of her dignity will stay intact.
'Tell me about it,' Nancy says, 'I got soaked at least three times today, it was the worst. But I was thinking...' There's a slight pause before Nancy continues, 'If we're feeling optimistic enough to believe the forecasts, it'll clear up by the weekend, so maybe we could go for a walk or something? There's this tea garden at the other side of the woods, I know a nice scenic route from Lover's Lake, what do you think?'
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Robin squeezes her eyes shut. Why, oh why, did Nancy have to come up with the most fucking perfect date idea in existence? God, she can almost touch the scene in her head: walking side-by-side with Nancy, the sun filtering through the leaves and shining a golden light onto Nancy’s curls, her cute nose going slightly red from the early spring sunrays, their arms brushing together every other step until Nancy will feel brave enough to grab Robin's hand and lace their fingers together; the flowers blooming in all kinds of pretty colors in the fields surrounding the tea garden, the taste of mint or some herbal melange on her tongue, Nancy's hands wrapped around her mug as she laughs at something insanely funny Robin is telling her...
No. No. Her stupid brain should most definitely not be going there.
She sighs.
'I have to tell you something,' she blurts out, before weakness can overpower her and make her say something stupid like Yes, this is the best idea ever, I’d love to go with you, can I please kiss you already?
'Oh.'
And in that single word, she can already hear the disappointment dripping from Nancy's voice. Damn it, she hates this so fucking much.
'Yeah, it’s not good... So, um, remember that I told you how my best friend is the one who set me up with you? The one whose boyfriend is Mr. Munson's nephew?'
'Oh God,' Nancy says, sounding truly horrified. 'You're actually in a relationship with him and cheating on him?'
'What – no, God, no!' Robin exclaims. 'Why is that the first thing that comes to your mind?!'
'I don't know, you sounded so ominous so I just went straight to worst-case scenario!'
Nancy is perfectly mirroring Robin's own panicked energy and she realizes she has to keep her head cool now if she doesn't want this whole conversation to become even more of a mess.
She takes a deep breath and continues in a somewhat more collected voice, 'Okay, so maybe not worst-worst-case scenario, then. But um... He didn't actually know anything about you when he set us up. So we only found out today that he – Steve – had been trying to set me up with his ex.'
There's a silence. 'Steve Harrington is your best friend?' Nancy then asks.
'Yeah, crazy, right,' Robin confirms. 'I'm really sorry, Nancy. I had so much fun with you last night, seriously. And you're really cool and badass and generally amazing. But I'm not gonna be dating my best friend's ex. I can't do that to Steve. I mean, I basically know everything about what went down between the two of you, and it's not like he harbors any resentment – I actually think he still respects you a lot – but... It still feels wrong, you know?'
There's a sigh, distorted through the phone. 'Yeah, I get that,' Nancy says, in a small voice that's kind of breaking Robin's heart already. 'Honestly, that completely makes sense. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to add to his hurt either. I already did that more than enough, back when - you know.‘ She sighs again. ‘For what it's worth: I had a lot of fun with you, too, yesterday.'
Pt5
Taglist: @munsonsuccubus @messrs-weasley @shrimply-a-menace @booksandsience @sadcanadianwinter @mightbeasleep @theysherobinbuckley
#don't mind me rambling about stranger things#fruity ficlet#ronance#robin buckley#nancy wheeler#stranger things
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see through
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
a/n: i dont have much to say other than that it's 1 am and i needed to get this out of my system. chapter 4 of play the game is underway, i promise. also, there will be a pov switch in this fic!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. = POV change!
wc: 4.1k words
[ neighbor!bucky barnes x fem!reader ]
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
-
Every Friday night, without fail, you saw the light filter into your apartment.
Notice how you said night?
Yeah, it was almost two in the morning, by the way.
And why was there light coming through the chiffon curtains you had hanging on the rod above your window?
(Great choice on your part, by the way.)
Well, because of your neighbor.
You've seen him a few times, actually. Usually on the street outside your buildings, or just out and about. Never spoke to him, though. He was quiet, kept to himself. Didn't seem very friendly or willing to exchange a greeting if he ever saw you.
But you never took it personally. Maybe he was having a bad day. Every time you saw him.
But that's besides the point. The point right now is that you can see the lights blaring in your room. From the apartment across from yours.
Should it even be possible for light to travel that far? I mean, we don't even live in the same building. You think to yourself as you watch the colors dance in the dark.
You debate getting up and yelling out your window to tell him to shut that shit off or to invest in some blackout curtains. You were tired of sacrificing your sleep every week.
But then you decided against it, because you quite frankly could not be bothered to get up from the warmth of your bed. You'd tough it out for the night, but the next time you saw him, you'd have a few words for him.
-
The next morning, it was almost ten when you woke up. You didn't have your shift at the coffee shop you worked at until three, so you took your time in making your way out of bed.
You noticed the curtains of your neighbor's apartment were still open, but you could see his figure moving across the room. He was clearly on the phone with someone, and he didn't look too happy. You wondered what could have him so angry at such an early time of the morning. He seemed like a person who could use someone to talk to, someone who he could vent to.
But before you let your thoughts get ahead of you, you turn away from the window, heading back into your kitchen to eat breakfast and get ready for the long day ahead of you.
-
"Hi, what can I get started for you today?" You ask as brightly as you can muster at the moment. You were halfway through your shift, another three hours until close.
"Uh, just a large black coffee." The gruff voice says, and it takes you a second until you look up and look closely.
It was him.
"O-okay, that'll be $3.27." You say, and he hands you a five dollar note before grumbling,
"Keep the change."
"Thanks, and your name?"
He gives you a look that's asking, 'what the fuck do you need my name for?'
"For the order." You try and salvage your dignity, because it feels like the stare shrunk you to a speck of dust.
"James."
That's all he all but growls before turning back to find a seat.
As your coworker takes over the cash register, you grab the biggest cup and fill it with his desired coffee.
You try to not think about it too much, but the anxiety you feel rising up inside you and just calling his name to give him his coffee feels absolutely ridiculous.
"Are you just gonna stare at the cup or give it to the customer?" The voice of your coworker, Jenna, rings in your ears and you look up at her, snapping out of the trance you were in.
"Sorry, I'm just a little out of it today, I guess."
"Everything alright?" She asks, and you nod.
"I'm fine, it's just... that's my neighbor." You nod your head towards where James is sat, in the corner by the window as he watches the raindrops run down the expanse of the glass.
"The one who doesn't let you sleep?"
"Yeah, but I don't think he'd take it too kindly if I tell him about that. He seems to have a lot on his own plate anyways," You explain, and she just nods.
"Well, that sucks, but you still need ta' give the guy his coffee." Jenna smiles and walks back to what she was doing before.
You gently slide out from your spot behind the counter and walk to his table.
"Here's your coffee, James. Enjoy, and- uh, let me know if you'd like anything else." You tell him while placing the steaming cup in front of him.
He murmurs a thank you that you barely catch, but you don't quite have the time to sit and wait for more of a reaction.
For the next several hours, James sits right where he was. He doesn't do anything in particular, either. He just watches outside, as the rain continues to pelt down on New York City, and as people come and go from where they were.
Eventually, about an hour left until close, you offer another cup of coffee.
"Do you want a refill? On the house." You ask gently, waiting to see if you'll get brushed off again.
"Uh... are you allowed to do stuff like that?" He asks, and you're a bit taken aback at the sudden concern.
"I don't think you should worry yourself too much, James. Free coffee's free coffee." You smile lightly, and grab the cup before filling it up without his confirmation. You could tell he wanted to say yes but didn't want to seem rude.
"You didn't have to..." He grumbles, and you simply shake your head.
"I know, but you've been here a while, and what kind of employee would I be if I let a customer sit here without any sustenance?" Your lips ply into a tiny smirk, trying to get him to loosen up a bit.
He seems so guarded, defensive. Like any moment, he's ready to run if need be, you inspect to yourself.
"You'd just be a regular employee, Y/N." He says, but the way he says your name makes a shiver run down your spine; and you can't tell if it's a good or bad one.
You unconsciously look down at your name tag, pinned to your black apron that's branded with the café's logo.
"Well, I felt like being nice. I hope you can deal." Your voice comes out short, but he knows you mean no harm.
As you walk back to the counter, you see a small smile playing on his lips, but he doesn't allow it to manifest on his face. You take that as a small victory for your last hour of work.
(bucky's pov).・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The girl who works at this café is annoying.
But she's got a nice smile. And she's nice to me, Bucky thinks to himself.
He sips on the new coffee you'd just poured for him, without his consent, he thinks bitterly.
But it was a nice gesture.
Why can't you just take a nice gesture?
Because your brain's been scrambled eggs for 70 years. You don't know what to think about anything these days.
He watches you fiddle with the espresso maker, cleaning it with a rag, which you then dip into a bucket.
You look extremely familiar to him, but he can't exactly pin where he's seen you before.
Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, trying to recall where he'd seen you, but for a moment, he comes up with nothing.
Ever since he's been living back in the real world, he hasn't been outside too much.
He goes on the occasional walk, or goes to the tower to see Steve and Sam.
But other than that, he spends a lot of time in his Brooklyn apartment. He watches movies that Steve suggests, or he invites Steve and Sam over to have beer and watch TV with him.
He hates how lonely it gets, though.
Bucky wishes that he had someone.
Someone who could understand.
And don't get him wrong, he loves Sam and Steve. They fill in the gaps in his days, and they make them better.
Sometimes, thinking about having something to do that day is what makes it. He likes having something to do, something to plan for for when his friends come over.
But it feels like a teeny, tiny part of his life is missing. A person shaped-hole in his heart.
But Bucky doesn't spend too long thinking about it, or it'll send him into a spiral about failure and how he needs to 'push himself to get out there more.'
Or that's what his therapist says.
"Hey, we're about to close, and we usually throw the pastries out at the end of the day. Do you wanna take these home, by any chance?" Your voice rings in his ears, snapping him out of the impending slippery slope of his lack of love life.
He hesitates to answer for a second, looking at the brown paper bag pinched between your fingers.
Bucky can tell you were nervous when you spoke to him. He knew he made you uneasy, and it killed him inside.
He hated that. He just wanted to have a normal conversation with someone. But everyone seems to know who he is.
Who he was.
"Uh, what is it?" He croaks, unsure of what to say at your gesture.
"It's a few cookies and a chocolate croissant."
"Sure, I'll take 'em." Bucky simply answers, watching as you hand the bag over with a soft smile and watches you walk back.
You sweep up the floor and put up all the chairs, except for the one Bucky's sitting on. You leave his table alone, and bid farewell to your coworker who was scheduled to close with you.
Bucky doesn't know what drives him to do it, but he gets up after he sees you walk out the door, and follows you home.
Damn, if you like a girl, you usually ask for her number or somethin'. Not follow her home to make sure she's safe, you idiot. Bucky's inner voice speaks and sometimes, he wishes it would just shut up because he knows he has no game nowadays, but this is all he knows to do.
He realizes the way you're walking is familiar, and not at all of the way he was supposed to be going. That made him feel a little better, less like a creep. He's about half a block behind you, and when you turn onto the same street he lives on, he's really confused.
Did you know he was behind you? Are you trying to play a trick on him?
But before Bucky can speak up or say something, you walk right past his building, and into the one right next to it.
All of a sudden, images of you right on the street in front of your buildings flash through his head. He's seen you because you're his neighbor. Bucky's seen you right there, getting ready to start your run through the neighborhood, or probably on your way to work, now that he's seen where you work.
But he feels like there's somewhere else he's seen you; somewhere familiar.
He shakes his head, wondering why he's so caught up in you. He thought you were beautiful, but he feels a pull to you that he's never felt with anyone else before.
Bucky's hands move to unlock his door, sliding the key in and twisting the lock open.
He enters, staring at his dark apartment. It's moments like this, when he spends a long day alone, that he wishes there was someone.
Someone to come home to, to hug, to kiss, to share dinner with.
Some to fall asleep with at night. Someone to keep the terrors of the dark away.
But there was no one.
And then his mind thought back to you. Your hair, your face, your warm hands that touched his while you passed him the brown paper bag of treats.
Bucky wishes he was man enough to ask you out. Not even that, just to talk to you. Have a normal conversation, to get to know you.
But that wasn't in the cards for him anytime soon, he thinks.
For now, he focuses on taking things one at a time. And right now, all he wanted was a nice, warm shower and to get at least three hours of sleep tonight.
He's in his room, forgoing the lights for now, before he looks out his window.
For a moment, he believes his eyes are playing tricks on him.
There's absolutely no way that you are standing right there, right outside his window.
Well, in your own apartment, of course.
And there's absolutely no way in hell that Bucky is watching you undress right now.
As soon as you pull off your top, Bucky turns around before he could get more than a peek of your black lace bra, and he feels a burn in the pit of his stomach.
He can't tell if it's shame, guilt, or arousal.
(y/n's pov).・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You couldn't stop thinking about James all day.
After yesterday, you wondered why you couldn't shake this feeling about him.
He'd made it quite clear that he's not a people person. Or maybe he just wasn't a you person.
But again, you tried to not take things too personally these days.
Sometimes, you wondered, though, as you looked through your bedroom window to his some nights.
You imagined what it would be like, watching one of those movies with him at night. Making dinner with him. Having coffee in the mornings before work, wondering what he did for a living.
You chastise yourself for your thoughts, thinking that you were crazy for these ideas you were coming up with out of nowhere.
As you pull off your clothes to get ready for bed, you feel the same emptiness fill your heart when your head hits the pillow, and another day has gone by where you're all alone.
-
The next day, your shift was at ten in the morning so you were up early.
You took your time in rolling out of bed. The warmth of your duvet was holding you down, and you couldn't help take a peek out your window.
You see that the room facing yours is finally housing a body in the bed. In all the time you'd been living across him, you've only seen him on the floor.
You feel a warm flutter at that. Whatever reason led him to actually sleep in the bed last night was, you hope you played a role in it.
-
You make your way to the café, and although walking in the rain wasn't ideal, you made it, somehow.
You clock in and head to the register, ready to take the millions of orders that come in through the day.
"Hi- oh! Welcome back. What can I get you?" Your tone of voice made it clear you were surprised, but was trying to not let it show.
"Uhm, just the same as yesterday, and... Can I get a chocolate croissant?" Bucky's gruff voice tells you.
You ring him up, wondering if you should say something about him being your neighbor. Although, he didn't seem too keen on looking you in the eye right now, and you wonder if you did something to make him uncomfortable yet again.
He seems to have this issue quite often.
Little do you know, this time, it isn't because of you or anything you did.
Well, nothing you did on purpose.
Nothing you were aware of at the time.
Anyways, you tell James to go take a seat and that you'd be right out with his order.
"Here you go, James," you place the plate and mug on the table, and this time, when you hear him say something, you turn around with furrowed brows.
"Sorry, I didn't catch what you said." You apologize, waiting for him to repeat himself.
"I- nevermind, it was stupid anyways. You probably have to get back to work." He mumbles while looking back down at his pastry.
"James, whatever it is, you can tell me." You offer with a kind smile. "I can come sit with you during my break, if you don't mind?" A hopeful smile crosses your face.
"Uh, I- yes, yeah, that would be nice." He struggles for a moment, but finally nods his head in confirmation along with his words.
"Alright, James. I get off in an hour for my break." You simply tell him with a soft grin, and you can practically feel his eyes burning into you as you walk away.
The blush creeping up your cheeks also stays there until the remainder of your shift.
-
As you plop in the chair across from James, you inspect him for a moment.
He was attractive, you'll admit.
Okay, he was more than attractive.
"So, James, where are you from?" You ask, your own cup of coffee in front of you on the table.
"Well, I'm Brooklyn born 'nd raised. Never was a time I didn't live here. You?" His lip twitches, looking out the window fondly.
"That's nice. I moved here when I was nine, so I guess I've been here a while. But no matter where I go, there's nowhere like home." You smile.
"There really isn't, huh? This place is irreplaceable." He gives you a crack of another smile, and you find yourself yearning for more from him. Just a tooth, something.
"Well, do you live around here?" You ask, deciding to play coy. You wanted to see what he'd say.
"Uh, yeah, actually. Over on DeKalb and Clinton." He clears his throat, the hint of a smile on his face melting right off.
"Huh, that's so funny. I live on those streets too." You grin, waiting to see his reaction.
"O-Oh really?" James doesn't really know what to say without giving away that he knows where you fucking live.
"Yeah, isn't that funny? Which building?" You're pressing, and you know he knows, but you're having your fun right now.
"T-the uhm... I live in the Washington." He's now making zero eye contact with you, and you're close to breaking.
"What a coincidence! I live in the Oakley!" You're in a fit of giggles when his face drops, you just can't help it anymore.
"James, can I tell you something?" You ask in a coquettish manner.
"Yeah, I suppose you'll tell me even if I say no." He gives a tight smile as a joke.
"I don't wanna sound like a creep, but I knew you lived in the Washington."
"Oh," James releases a breath of relief, "thank God. I knew you lived in the Oakley, but I didn't wanna sound like a stalker either." He says.
You laugh, sliding a hand on top of his resting on the table.
"Y'know, you do this really annoying thing where you leave your movies running on full brightness on your TV, and I can see it through my windows at night." You laugh at the incredulity of the situation.
"Oh... I never even thought of that. I'm sorry, Y/N." He looks genuinely remorseful, and now you feel bad for any bad thought you've had about the man that lives across from you.
"It's alright. No big deal." Your smile does a good job of convincing Bucky that you truly weren't bothered by his actions, but he still felt bad.
"Y'know, maybe I could make it up to you?" He asks, and you feel a blush moving up your chest. "Like, maybe over dinner?" His voice is timid, you can tell by the way he tilts his head down while speaking.
"James," you slide your hand into his this time, your smaller one resting in his large metal one. "I'd love to go out with you sometime."
Before he could react, you stood up from the chair.
"My break's over, but I get off at 3." You lean down and pull a pen from your apron, scribbling your number onto a napkin. "Here."
You walk away before he could say anything, but there's something about him this time that you notice.
He's blushing, too. And he's smiling. A bright, white, blinding smile.
You think of that smile throughout your whole shift, until you see he's still waiting for you when it's time to go.
"So, do you like Chinese or Italian better?" He asks with a crooked smile.
-
bonus scene:
six months later
You and Bucky are laid across your bed, the TV blaring a movie that neither of you are paying attention to. Your head is resting on his shoulder, leg thrown over both of his, and his hand running through your hair.
"You wanna know somethin' doll?" Bucky asks, and you feel his chest rumble under your head.
"Yeah, everything okay?" You ask while leaning up on your elbow to get a good look at him, trying to gauge his mood.
"Everything's okay, just remembered something." He laughs, his hand moving to hold your jaw in it. You shivered at the touch, but smiled fondly at the action.
"When I first saw you at the coffee shop, that first day when you gave the free coffee and pastries... I followed you home."
Your brows furrow and it's clear that you were confused as to why.
"I wanted to make sure you got home safe, and then it turned out that you lived right next to me. So I went up to my apartment and wondered what I'd done right in a past life to have you live right next to me, and then I saw you lived right across from me." His face was tipped upwards, like he was replaying that night in his head.
"You followed me home just to make sure I was safe?" You asked in disbelief that he did something so nice for you, when at the time you thought he hated you.
"Of course, sweetheart. It was dark out and there 're some real jerks out there, y'know." One corner of his mouth lifts up in a soft smirk. "Didn't want anything to happen to ya."
You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, appreciating his gesture.
"I really thought you didn't like me back then, so this is a nice little secret you've been hiding from me." You giggle when he pulls you back in for a real kiss.
"Yeah, well, I don't think I could'a hated you if I tried, baby. You're too sweet. And at the time, I was still getting used to being out in the open without being a national security threat." You both laugh lightly, dropping your head down.
A moment passes where you bask in his words, letting them soak in. And then a thought hits you, and you can't help but become more curious. Now you need to know the answer.
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, hon." Now Bucky's brows are pulled together, and you reach up and smooth out the wrinkle with your thumb.
"Did you ever... see me doing anything in here? Like, I usually keep the curtains open, and even if they're closed, they're pretty see-through..." You trail off, giving him time to craft his response.
You have a feeling you know the answer, considering how he turns red like a tomato in an instant as words leave your lips.
"I... there was this one time, but I swear, I wasn't trying to peep on you or anything, it was the same day I followed you and I just so happened to look into your window, and you were getting undressed, but I swear, I turned away as soon as I saw what you were doing, baby-" He was rambling, trying to save himself from sounding like a complete creep after all he's just told you.
"Did you like it?" You ask, innocently, but he knew what you were trying to do.
"I-I- You were getting undressed, sweetheart, of course I liked it... are you kidding me?" Bucky's grasping for the words, trying to make you understand.
"Well... we could always recreate it, but maybe in the same apartment this time?" You cock your head to the side, your doe eyes stirring a feeling in his abdomen.
"I think that's an excellent idea, honey." Bucky's hands grasp your waist as you slide on top of his lap. "After all, I am a hands on learner."
-
fin. i hope you enjoyed!
#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes smut#bucky imagine#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky fic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes reader insert#neighbor!bucky#bucky barnes au
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how do gods workout? (thor x reader, smut)
Summary : Thor joins you when you are boxing in the training room, and you end up asking him questions about the way he works out.
Pairing : Thor x female reader.
Words : 1,614.
TW : Smut. Dirty talk, unprotected sex, grinding/dry humping, fingering, oral (male receiving), squirting, choking.
Note : This is my first time writing about Thor. It turned out way kinkier than it was supposed to be.
I’m open for request, just check the submit new stories button on my page. ♡
The training room was empty when you walked in. You were used to coming here so early that no one was awake, yet. Wearing your sport bra and a pair of black leggings, you tied your hair up in a ponytail before doing a quick warm-up. Once your body was ready for some exercices, you started boxing and kicking the bag in front of you. Lately, it was the only thing that helped you with your stress and your frustration.
After what seemed to be forever but was probably only fifteen minutes, you heard the door open and saw Thor enter. You hated working out when one of the Avengers was in the room. Inferiority complex, you believed. Nodding your head when you heard his ‘hey’, you tried to focus on your session.
Truth was, you had never really been close to Thor. He had that intimidating aura that was constantly radiating from him. He was a god, after all. He came from another world. He could control thunder, and his evil brother tried to subdue the whole planet. Frowning, you looked towards him as you saw him sitting down on one of the workout bench.
“Wait“, you interrupted, getting his attention on you again. “You work out?“
“Yes, of course.“
Thor seemed baffled by your question, so you stepped closer, trying to explain your point.
“But you’re a god.“
“I know I am. That doesn’t mean I got this body because of my powers. You should have seen my dad.“
You chuckled, not sure whether it was a joke or not — was a god allowed to joke? Silently, your eyes lingered on his chest and down to his sculpted abs. He was wearing a t-shirt that was probably two sizes too small for him. You should probably have thanked whoever helped him out with shopping on earth.
“I’ve never seen you working out.“
“I usually do it at night, in my room.“
Once again, you chuckled, looking up at him and positive it had to be a dirty joke. His straight face made you realized how serious he was about it, and a soft ‘oh’ escaped your lips before your cheeks turned red.
“Do you mean… working out with somebody?“ You asked him, thinking he was just bragging about the amount of girls and boys he was spending his nights with, probably.
“No, I’d rather work out alone, actually.“
Your eyes widened and your face went scarlet at the thought of Thor having some alone time in his room.
“You mean… Wait, what are we talking about?“ You asked.
“Working out. Isn’t it the topic of the conversation?“
Once again, he looked perplex. You paused only to make sure this time, you were understanding each other.
“You weren’t talking about sex?“
“Hell no“, he said, making you smile. “Why would I be mentioning that I do it by myself, in my room and at night, if I was talking about…“
He stopped halfway through, frowning.
“… Never mind, I get it now.“
Bursting into laughter, you covered your mouth with your hand. It seemed to ease Thor who smiled, visibly amused by the turn this conversation took.
“Well, I do sometimes use this type of… workout, too.“
“Just to be clear, you are talking about sex, now?“
He laughed, and for some reason a couple of butterflies flew in your stomach, making your face blush again.
“I am.“
It took both of you a minute to calm your giggles. You breathed out when you finally felt calmer, facing Thor whose eyes hadn’t left your face since you started talking to him. He must have seen all shades of red coloring your cheeks, by now.
“What about right now?“ You finally asked, but your sincere eyes shared how serious you were about that question.
“Well, I’m definitely not in the mood for some fun time by myself.“
Hesitating, you took a step closer to the bench. Maybe it was how early it was, or the few exercices you had time to do before he arrived that made you feel powerful, but you didn’t feel like letting go of what you wanted right now. And what you wanted was him.
“But you’re not by yourself.“
You expected him to frown, or laugh, or have any kind of reaction. Instead of it, he stayed quiet for a few seconds, enough time for you to start feeling ashamed about how bold you had been. But just when you thought about running away from this room, Thor grabbed your wrist and pulled you in, locking your lips with his. You sighed in surprised, giving his tongue access to your mouth before completely letting go of any form of control over your own body. Giving in to Thor’s actions, you grabbed his shoulders to maintain your balance as he settled you down on his knees, still sitting on the bench. As his lips were devouring yours with hunger and envy, his strong hands moved under your bra to cup your breasts, making you moan in delight. He knew what he was doing and how to drive you absolutely insane, as if he was reading your mind. The only moment his lips left yours was when he put his mouth on your breast, licking and sucking at your nipple to get it hard and sensitive for him.
“Fuck, Thor.“ You groaned, arching against him to give him more access.
As your hips pushed closer to his, you felt how hard he was under his shorts. You shivered in anticipation, realizing how big he seemed to be. Teasing him, you started moving your hips against his shaft, earning a soft groan as he bit down on your nipple. You ground against him harder, feeling yourself getting soaking wet through your leggings. His hips met yours frenetically, and you could tell he was already enjoying this. Your moans became lourder as you felt the familiar tickling in between your legs.
“Wait, please. I want you inside me.“ You begged, trying to move away from him, only to have Thor’s arms slamming you against his strong body again.
“I’m going to bend you over this bench and fuck you senseless until you cum screaming my name.“
And he did. Before you could realize, you were bend over the bench, ass facing the blonde man and your legs spread for him. Of course, he tore your legging and panties up, which caused you to moan louder. Filling you with one quick thrust right after he pushed his shorts down, you had confirmation about how big he was, his cock brushing your inner walls as he kept going deeper.
“Do you like it?“ You asked, turning your face to see him.
He was sweating, his hands grabbing your waist only to pull you towards him at each thrusts. Everything about his face screamed pleasure, from his closed eyes to the way he was biting his lip down, almost making himself bleed. Feeling bold again, you gave a hard thrust towards him, letting him entering you harder than he expected it.
“I said, do you like being inside me.“
“Yes, fuck yes. I do!“ He groaned as he leaned towards you.
One of his hand grabbed your breast that was bouncing to the rhythm of his hips, and the other one rested on your throat, making you gasp at the thought of it. You felt your core clench around his cock, making it harder for him to move.
“Oh fuck, love. You want me to choke you, don’t you?“ He asked, as his grip tighten around your throat. “You need my hand around your throat while I fuck you hard and make your pussy squirt for me.“
You knew he was right. He must have been, because you felt so close already. Thor pulled out and made you whine to the loss. But he quickly freed your breast to push two fingers inside of you as his other hand tighten again, making it harder for you to catch your breath.
“There, love. You better cum for me, harder than you ever had, okay?“
You nodded, and his fingers curled inside you, hitting your spot and making you scream in pleasure. You felt your legs shake as he pushed faster, his thumb finding your clit to rub it at the same rhythm. This man knew how to finger a woman. Eyes closed shut, your walls tightened around his fingers when you neared your orgasm, and he choked you as his fingers paced up inside yourself.
“I’m coming!“
That’s all you were able to scream before silently coming against his hand, making a mess of everything as your juice squirted out on your legs and on Thor’s hand. He kept fingering you, making it hard for you to gain some control back. You just kept shaking and coming, O-face attesting of how lost you were in the pleasure he was giving you. It was probably one of the best orgasm you ever experienced.
“Good girl.“
You took a deep breath when he let go of your throat and took his fingers out of your pussy only to lick them clean. Still panting, you kneeled in front of Thor, looking up at him.
“What are you doing?“
“Helping you finish your workout.“ You said, licking the tip of his erected cock.
He moaned loudly, grabbing your ponytail right before you put his whole length inside your mouth, inch by inch, making him buck his hips a couple of time. You only took it out when you gaged.
“Open your mouth, I’m close.“ He ordered, and you obeyed.
Mouth opened, tongue out, you watched the god of thunder’s fist working fast on his cock as he reached heaven.
“God, yes!“ He screamed as he came undone, emptying his hot seed on your tongue.
You licked him clean and swallowed, as he was catching his breath, before wiping your mouth clean with the back of your hand.
“That was a good work out, I think.“
Thor nodded, looking down at you before helping you back on your feet.
“We should do that again, later. But we need to find you new pants, first.“
#thor#thor x you#thor x reader#thor smut#thor imagine#thor odinson#thor odinson x you#thor odinson x reader#thor odinson smut#thor odinson imagine#chris hemsworth smut#chris hemsworth imagine#avengers smut#avengers imagine#marvel smut#marvel imagine
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can i be gentle?
Words: 7.1k
Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin
Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery
Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking
Ao3 link in source
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Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.
Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.
He should be dead. He should be dead.
(Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.
He doesn’t feel relieved.)
The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.
They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.
His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.
He’s alive.
Jon is not.
.
.
.
“It’s because of him, you know.”
Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well.
Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”
“What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.
He answers anyway.
“Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”
It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.
Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.
Jon was.
Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”
Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.
It’s answer enough.
Tim doesn’t ask again.
.
.
.
They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.
Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.
The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.
Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.
.
.
.
They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.
Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.
“Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout.
Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”
There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”
“Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”
“Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.
“I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”
“Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”
“Do I still want to kill myself?”
Martin winces.
“Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”
Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”
Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”
Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”
Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”
“Uh huh.”
They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.
Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.
.
.
.
Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.
It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids.
See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.
A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.
It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks.
He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.
“Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.
Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.
“Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”
“No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”
“Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”
Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”
Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.
He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.
Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.
“Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”
Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”
Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.
“It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”
He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”
He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.
It’s okay.
.
.
.
The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.
He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does.
He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.
There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean.
Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.
“This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”
“We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”
“What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.”
He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous.
“We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”
Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”
Basira doesn’t follow him.
Martin does.
They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.
Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”
Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”
“Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”
Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair.
Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”
“Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.
The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.
He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.
When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.
It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.
Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.
.
.
.
“Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”
Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”
Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”
Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.
Almost.)
“What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”
“Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”
Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”
“Tim.”
Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”
He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.
“Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”
“Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”
Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”
Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”
Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”
Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”
“It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.
Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.
“I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”
Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”
Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”
“Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”
Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”
“Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”
Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.
.
.
.
Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.
.
.
.
“Tim?”
Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”
The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”
Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”
Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”
Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”
Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”
Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.
Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”
Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”
Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”
Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”
Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”
Oh.
“Jon—”
“Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”
Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”
Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”
Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”
Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”
Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”
“I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”
Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”
Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”
A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”
“Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”
Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”
“Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”
“Mm, they are very nice flowers.”
“Damn right they are.”
Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”
Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”
Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”
.
.
.
Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air.
The view is just as good as he remembers.
There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.
Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.
Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”
There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways.
“I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.
“It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.
Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.
“Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”
“I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”
“Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”
“What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”
“Why not?”
Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”
“What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”
“I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”
Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”
There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”
Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”
Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”
Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”
Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”
Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”
Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”
When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”
“Oh,” Jon says, barely audible.
Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”
Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”
Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”
Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”
Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”
Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”
Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly.
After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky.
“Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear.
Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”
They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.
.
.
.
Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.
“Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.
Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#tim stoker#martin blackwood#creators are revealed now so i can post this!#very exciting#blood cw#body horror cw#injury cw#hospitals cw#suicidal ideations cw#more cw in the body of the post as well#my writing#my fic
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Annabel Lee; Matthew Gray Gubler
a/n: I usually hate wedding imagines BUT fuck I watched Jim and Pam’s wedding scene again and just had to. Then I got carried away...
description: just getting married to mgg
You ran your fingers down your corset, gripping the red roses in your right hand almost too tightly. The doors that led inside the hall were shut, but you could hear the murmur of the guests awaiting the ceremony to start. Your bridesmaids- your sister, and Kirstin- and his groomsmen- Shemar and Steve- stood before you, casually chatting. Everyone was waiting for your cue, which you weren’t quite ready to give. You needed a few more seconds to breathe.
Your dad (or whomever, I know some of y’all got daddy issues) tapped your elbow, “You ready, honey?”
You looked at him with wide eyes, feeling your breakfast in your throat. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m gonna vomit. Everywhere.”
Kirstin overheard your confession. She turned on her heel, worry in her eyes. Your sister followed her over to you. The three of them crowded you. Your sister set a hand on your shoulder, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothings wrong. I’m just nervous,” you confessed as your hand landed on your skirt. You kept feeling the dress as if to ground yourself.
“For what?” Kirstin prompted.
You shrugged, “I don’t know. Like, everything. Like, yeah.”
“Girl,” Shemar interjected, “that man is so in love with you, it makes me sick. You’ll be okay.”
Steve added, “Oh, for sure. He never shuts up.”
Your face flushed and a shocked-in-love expression flooded it, “Really?”
“You look like the equivalent of the gushy eyed emoticon,” your sister laughed. “I think you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I think I’m okay,” you breathed out.
Your sister smoothed your skirt before returning to her position with everyone else. Your dad tucked his arm into yours, “You ready?”
“Ready.”
The doors swung open. Steve and your sister began to float down the aisle, but stopped halfway down. You couldn’t see him over Steve’s head, but you saw Paget at the top of the aisle, smiling proudly. She glanced down to her left and you saw just the slightest bit of brown hair flop in the air. You smiled widely, but became confused when the organ stopped and an upbeat song came on.
Your sister spun around towards you. She leaned around Kirstin and Shemar and winked. Suddenly, she started dancing to the Bruno Mars song. You groaned, tossing your head back and leaning your weight in your dad. Your forehead landed on his shoulder and he chuckled, patting your hair.
You peaked up to see Kirstin and Shemar join their flailing dance movements. Some of your family and friends were pulled up to dance with them. Your eyes flicked across the room, watching everyone engage in the loving moment. Your eyes found the front of the room and landed on Matthew’s.
He was grinning dumbly, hands crossed in front of his tux. He had shaved for the occasion and his hair was short. But, his personality still showed through the little crooked bow tie at his throat and his bright red Converse. His left foot was tapping along to the song and he tossed his head back to laugh. When his head came forward again, his eyes met yours.
He literally gasped, eyes widening. He hit Paget with his shoulder, nodding towards you. She looked at you and you briefly met her eyes, smiling so wide. She gushed to Matthew about you, and he only said, “I know.”
Your dad pulled you forward, urging you to dance with everyone else. You resisted a little, embarrassed by all the eyes that were landing on you. But, you grabbed his hands like you were a little kid again, giving in the numerous spins he tucked you into. He dipped you, letting your head fall towards the floor as a guttural laugh fell from your lips. When you were lifted back onto your feet, you shook your hips and spun around on your own.
You had made it about halfway down the aisle and the song was halfway over. You let go of your dad’s hand, finding Matthew’s eyes again. You needed to touch him, to hold him. You balled up your dress in your hands and ran up to the risers. He grinned down at you, about two steps up from the floor.
“Well, hello,” his cheeky voice remarked. You held out your hand and he didn’t hesitate to grab on. You pulled him into the aisle, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. He swung you round and round, rocking side to side as the song continued on. Everyone looked towards you, still dancing.
Eventually, the song winded down. Matthew held your hand as you climbed up the steps, feet aching in your heels. He straightened out the bottom of your dress, drawing awes from the crowd who was settling down. You let out a hasty breath, feeling somewhat sweaty from the dancing. Matthew stepped up beside you, Paget standing between you.
“Alrighty, then,” she remarked, brushing off Matthew’s shoulder. The room laughed a little at what had just happened. Once they silenced, Paget looked between the two of you. “So, I have the awesome honor of officiating these two’s wedding. Matthew officiated mine and Y/N sang a song at the reception. They hadn’t been together yet, but at the reception, they danced for hours. I remember talking to Gube after the night ended and I mentioed Y/N. He told me that he was planning on going to buy her roses the next day, that he was going to show up at her apartment with the proposition of going to Vegas and getting married.”
Matthew held your eyes in his, lips pressing together as a sheepish expression came over him. Your eyes widened, squeezing his hand in yours. “What?” You mouthed. He shrugged, eyes flicking away cheekily.
Paget laughed at your interaction, “Yeah, don’t worry. I talked him down. I told him to bring you a coffee, considering she’d drank plenty that night. I told him, coffee and roses. And ask her to dinner. He called me the next night and told me that they were going to be painting birdhouses that weekend. I told him that he was literally the weirdest man I had ever met. And then he called me again on Sunday and told me that they’d kissed. And, despite me urging him to wait, he went out and bought this ring.”
Paget held up the ring that was going to be on your finger room. You gasped, looking up at the piece of jewerly. Tears flooded your eyes at the realization. Matthew tugged on your arm slightly, drawing your watery eyes back to his.
Paget continued on through her speech, though you could barely focus on anything but his eyes. They were so, so thoughtful and loving, and you just wanted to hug him. He kept you grounded by rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, the rough edge of his thumb soothing your senses.
When it came time for your vows, you thought you were going to burst. You went first, “Um, okay, I had it written down, because I knew I would ramble, but I kinda just want to ramble.”
The guests chuckled at your words. You continued, “When I first met you, I thought that you were just the coolest person ever. You wore these big, colorful shoes and patterned socks which you always made sure were visible when wearing pants. You had all these cool kimonos that you’d wear on set all the time and you always made sure everyone laughed at least once a day, no matter if the scene we were shooting was sad or terrifying. I was so intimidated by you because you were this really successful actor who everyone in Hollywood says is some heartbreaker, but then I was eating cheese on set and you came up beside me and started talking to me about birds. Like, rattling off stupid facts about birds. And I think that’s when I was in love with you.
“But of course, I didn’t really know it. I was kinda just blindly finding companionship in you. And then, one day, you walked into my trailer one day after shooting and told me about this Edgar Allen Poe poem. You pulled out your journal and showed me this pen drawing of me, like, my face! And beside it you had written, ‘tell Y/N about Annabel Lee.’ And that’s when I knew I was in love with you.”
You took a moment to sniffle and draw your thoughts. You noticed Matthew’s bottom lib wobble and a thin line of tears fell down his chin. You reached up and wiped at his cheek with your thumb. He leaned into your hand.
“Matthew, everyday with you is a literal adventure. You force me out of my comfort zone in the best way possible. Without you, I think I’d still be avoiding phone calls with people in general. You’ve taught me to be fearlessly brave and to love myself more than anyone else. Except you, of course. You, I love more than anything. More than everything. You are larger than life and bigger than any stupid argument we could ever have. I love you.”
A bout of silence followed as Matthew attempted to refrain from sobbing. He thought about what to say before beginning with, “I bought a pair of socks with dinosaurs and hearts on them just because of you and this stupid song you showed me about dinosaurs being in love. This was before we got together. You told me how much you loved them and even though they cost like $20 and I couldn’t find them again, I let you have them.”
You gaped at the man, a slightly annoyed smile present. Of course. He winked at you and went on, “I always did stupid stuff like that. Like, going out of my way in the morning to get you those mini pancakes from the coffee shop that I lied and said was right across the street from my apartment. You didn’t know that until. You also didn’t know that I went to three different states to find you a birthday present that was literally just a blanket. But it was so worth it to see you curled up on the couch with it. And then, of course, there’s the little things, like filling up your car with gas and pretending like you just hadn’t known you didn’t use that much. Watering your plants without you knowing. Always making sure I buy you the same type of food I’m getting even if you’re not hungry because you are hungry.”
Laughter came again. Matthew shook his head, eyes crinkled, and he continued, “I’m not boasting about how great of a partner I am. No, I’m just telling everyone, telling you, that I love you. I would and do go to the ends of the Earth for you because you are my world. I don’t know how else to end this than to end it with our true beginning; ‘For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee.’ You are my Annabel Lee.”
Everything moved on pretty quickly as you recited more repetitions and slid the rings onto each other fingers. Eventually, you were being prompted the room as Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Gray Gubler.
“That sounds ridiculous,” he leaned into your ear.
You giggled in response, squeezing his shoulder. Paget announced that you were to kiss and, as if he couldn’t be more dramatic, Matthew swooped you across his body. He dipped you, leaning down as you held onto his hand and shoulder and kissed you deeply. The room erupted into applause.
And you lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him.
#mgg fluff#mgg x reader#mgg imagine#mgg gifs#mgg#mgg oneshot#mgg fanfiction#mgg blurb#mgg x y/n#matthew gray gubler x reader#Matthew Gray Gubler fluff
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ROSE COLORED GLASSES: PART ONE
SERIES RATING: R (cursing, smoking, alcohol use, violence, PTSD, and sex)
WORD COUNT: 19.5k (long boi)
CATEGORIES: boxer!Harry, gang/mob!Harry, 1920s!Harry, Peaky Blinders!Harry (?)
As the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham, there were expectations of Cicely King: an advantageous marriage to save her father’s business, for one. But Cicely had never been one to follow orders. So when she woke up after an accident in the home of Harry Styles, the illusive boxer, she took it as an opportunity to escape her life. What she didn’t intend on was falling in love with him.
MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | PART TWO
a/n: IT’S HERE!!!! Cicely and Harry dropped into my head and have lived in there rent free ever since. strap yourselves in for a ride, my friends! this story is hugely inspired by Peaky Blinders, and i willingly admit that characters and elements of the story resemble parts of PB, including Cicely’s appearance (Grace). thank you @hsogolden for making this beautiful banner, and thank you to @bfharry @harrysclementines @stellarboystyles and @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this, ilysm!
historical notes: i’ve got a couple of things to alert the public of for this story. 1. this story is set in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, UK in 1920 or so, and i did as much research as possible on the area, but it is by no means all accurate. imagery and descriptions of the neighborhood are largely my own. 2. Church Hulme was the name of Holmes Chapel until 1974, so it is used in this story. 3. The Magnificent Ambersons is an actual book that was a bestseller in 1918. you can read it here.
without further adieu, here is part one of ROSE COLORED GLASSES - come talk to me about it in my asks! pls reblog and share with your friends 💕✨
The cool spring air swept around Cicely like a cloud, the hem of her skirt ruffling in the wind. She was miles from home, the landscape around her having turned to just rolling hills of green, just the way she liked it. Here, she could finally breathe. At home, all she could smell was fear and secrets, while here, out in the open, she was anyone and everyone. It was just her and Joseph, her beloved horse, on the empty road.
Father had told her it was going to rain when Cicely pushed her way out of the house, stomping away from him in anger at the news he had given to her, but she hadn’t given it a second thought. She loved rain, loved being caught in it and getting drenched, not minding the weight of the water on her skin. If anything, it made her finally feel something, even if it was cold. In hindsight, she probably should’ve thought twice about going out so far in the rain, Joseph being a bit skittish as he got older, but now here she was, having ridden over halfway between her estate and the city, and she could feel the droplets falling onto her blond coiffed hair that her maid, Polly, had done this morning.
She sighed and looked up at the sky—it was grey and angry, the wind swirling around her. It was going to be a downpour, she suspected. Joseph stopped when she pulled on the reins, and she considered whether she should turn for home or find somewhere to ride out the storm. It seemed to be coming soon, after all. She glanced around and there was just open space of hills and trees, but none large enough to provide any sort of suitable protection. Plus, she was closer to the city than home, anyways, so maybe it was better to just keep on going the direction she was heading. She could stay with friends in town if need be.
So she dug in her heels and Joseph continued, her urging him to go faster as the rain began to come down harder around her. It was like a curtain, the combination of the rain and the dark skies making it hard to see very far in front of her. The water licked down her face, and her chiffon blouse was sticking to her skin, the one her maid had made her promise not to get dirty, as it had just been mended for the second time. But she could make no promises—it was her favorite one, after all. And now, it would most definitely be ruined as dirt road beneath her turned to mud and it splattered Joseph and her clothes. She held fast though, wishing now more than ever that her father let her wear the new fashionable pants to let her ride more easily because side saddle was simply not cutting it at the speeds she was urging Joseph to achieve.
All of a sudden, a crack rang through the clouds, bolts of lightening littering the path far ahead. But the sound was enough for her to tense and Joseph to whinny, his front legs leaving the ground, her hold on the reins slipping as she was thrown from the saddle.
The last thing she remembered was the sight of Joseph taking off into the rain, saddle empty and reins flying around his body.
Harry could barely see in the storm, the downpour causing sheets of rain to fall on the windshield, his vision completely obscured. So he inched along as slowly as he could without endangering his ability to drive—or the car, since it was a gift from Josiah—and kept the headlights on full blast. He was exhausted after a weekend of fights in the town over, ones that left his body aching in ways he preferred to ignore. But he had a pocket full of earnings and he knew Josiah would be happy with that, so he paid it no mind.
He was running through the fights, thinking about the missteps and wrong moves he had made, spots for improvements, when he saw a girl lying down on her back in the mud a few feet in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes immediately. What the fuck was a girl doing out in a storm like this? When she didn’t move as he sat in the car, surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was dead. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been killed on a road, left there to be found by the next car.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the car, lifting his hand to shield the rain from his face. “Miss?” He called into the storm, eyes drifting over her body. She looked well to-do—her blouse seemed to be some type of lace material that the girls he knew were always fawning over, skirts bright and recently washed. What was she doing out here, alone and in the mud? And how had she gotten there?
He took a few paces closer to her, and she didn’t make a move when he brushed the hair away from her face. Hesitantly, he leaned down, an ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing—which she was, to his relief. She must be unconscious, although he could only begin to imagine how she had gotten that way. But Harry wasn’t the type to leave a young woman in need, alone on a dirt road in the middle of a storm. So he bent down, slid his aching arms under her body, and lifted her from the mud, cradling her against his chest as he walked back to the car.
She fit perfectly on his back seat when he tucked her knees in closer to her chest, blond hair draped over the seat. He grabbed his coat from the passenger side and draped it over her body, her skin cold to the touch from the rain. The thought crossed his mind of where he should take her—the police, perhaps? Or maybe a hospital? But Harry hated both of those establishments after years with Josiah. Plus, if she needed any protection, in town it was best if it came from Josiah anyway. The police were useless, a bunch of pompous assholes too big for their britches, Harry thought. And a hospital, Harry believed, was where people went to die not where they went to be healed. So he decided to take her to his flat, despite the fact that the prospect went against most principles he was raised on.
Although, everything Harry did went against his childhood principles.
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was green peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t a wallpaper she recognized, and as she came to, looking around the room, she realized this was definitely not a place she had been before. Her heart seized as she inspected her surroundings. She was in a wire-frame double bed, a red duvet cover pulled around her shoulders, a soft light coming in the heavy curtains against a small window in the middle of the room. Clothes littered the floor—men’s clothes, from what she could tell—and a rug sat in the middle of the room amidst the chaos. An ashtray and the butts of cigarettes laid on the bedside table next to her, as well as a glass of water. Maybe it was a stupid choice, but her throat was raw and so she took the glass, gulping down the water without a second thought.
Faintly, she could hear the sound of a whistle. Tea, she realized. Someone was making tea.
Which meant she was not alone.
Her hands dove under the covers, inspecting the clothes on her body. Everything was still intact, her green skirt and the lace blouse she had put on, every button done up exactly as she had left it. She didn’t have her shoes on, but on closer inspection, they laid on the ground next to the bed, but her stockings were still clipped to her garter at least. A sigh left her mouth at the prospect of some semblance of safety in this foreign place.
She tried to remember what had happened last—she had been riding through a storm after a fight with her father. Then, there was a bolt of lightning, she thought to herself, piecing together the memories in her fuzzy brain, and then remembered Joseph bucking her from the saddle. She couldn’t keep herself on, so she let go, knowing that was better than being dragged along. The last thing she remembered was Joseph riding away, her lying in what she believed to be mud.
Which would explain the brown marks all over her clothes.
Polly was going to kill her for the stains.
The whistle she had heard earlier suddenly stopped, and she heard the thud of something. Then, a soft hum of a song she recognized from the gramophone her father had in the sitting room. After a few beats, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wood floors, the creak of the footsteps growing closer and closer. Someone was coming. She was going to finally discover who had picked her up off of the road and where she was—hopefully it was some nice old lady and she was in their son’s room.
But instead, a boy about her age stopped in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, wide eyes at the sight of her sitting up in bed. His brown hair was tousled in soft curls across his forehead, and just trousers, a shirt, and suspenders adorned his body, his feet bare. His shirt sleeves were pushed up and she could see tattoos on his arms, something she had never seen in person before, just in photographs and magazines.
He was, she thought to herself as he stood there in shock, quite handsome.
“You’re awake,” he finally said, voice croaking in his throat. “I—uh, sorry, would you like a cuppa?”
Cicely considered the question for only a beat before nodding. He seemed nice enough, judging solely from his embarrassed reaction to the croaky sound of his voice. The boy disappeared and she waited patiently in the bed, flexing her toes to bring some feeling back into her limbs. She wondered how much time had passed—it seemed to be daylight out, so maybe not much time at all.
The boy returned, a second tea cup balanced in his other hand, his face more serious and put together than before. “Here you are,” he said, making his way over to her, his presence instantly changing the feeling of the room. Before, it was small, but not too small. Now, with his large frame and dark eyes, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space.
“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the cup with cold hands. It was chilly in the room, probably from the draft coming in from the windows and her skirt which was still a bit damp in spots. The tea, though, was delicious on her tongue, plain, just how she liked it.
The boy grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to the edge of the bed before sitting down, eyes darting between the tea cup and her face. “I’m Harry, by the way.”
“Cicely.” She took another sip of the tea before resting it on her lap. “Is this your flat?”
“Yes,” Harry said, eyes glancing around the room. “My room too—sorry about that. It’s just me here, so I didn’t have anywhere else to put ya.”
So no wife or family then, Cicely thought, filing the information away for later. It was interesting, a boy of his age living alone. He must have moved away from home and made decent enough wages to get a place of his own, she decided, eyes fluttering around the room to see if she could pick up on any other clues about him. But she couldn’t find anything. “How did I get here?” She asked after leaving them in silence for a few moments, the curiosity getting the better of her.
Harry placed his teacup on the nightstand as he spoke, eyes avoiding hers. “Found ya in the road in the rain. Cold as ice and unconscious, all covered in mud. Didn’t want to leave ya out there, so I brought you here—thought I could take you home once you came to and all that. Call your husband.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought, and Cicely couldn’t help but smile internally at the thought of him thinking she was married.
Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. And not for a while, if she had any choice in the matter. “No husband,” she informed him, thumbs brushing over the duvet. “How long have I been out for?”
He pulled his lip into his mouth and Cicely didn’t know if she had ever seen something so enticing. “Almost a day.”
A day? God, her father would have her head. He probably thought she was dead after she didn’t come home. Although it wouldn’t be the first time she had let him think that, her flair for escaping after an argument a reoccurring personality trait that her father despised. Which of course, was exactly why she did it. “I hope I wasn’t a bother,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Harry shook his head, and Cicely studied his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the high rise of his cheekbones. He had a bit of scruff around his lips, which looked soft and pink and she tried not to think about what they would feel like. Cicely didn’t usually pay men all that much mind—sure she noticed them, but did she study every feature on their faces like she did Harry? No. She was intrigued by him, the rings on his fingers and the tattoos on his arms, the way he licked across his bottom lip. And perhaps that was why Cicely made no mention of needing to go, or that she should call her family.
“Are ya hungry?” Harry asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.
At the concept of food, suddenly her stomach grumbled and she blushed, embarrassed at the sound, but Harry didn’t even react to it. “Yes, actually.”
He stood immediately, wiping his palms on his trousers as he did so. “I don’t have much here,” he said, taking their empty tea cups with him as she walked towards the door. “But I’ll put something together.” She watched him, unsure if he wanted her to follow. She was a bit curious as to what the rest of the flat looked like, she had to admit. “Ya comin’?”
Cicely scrambled to follow him, her stocking-clad feet nestling into the rug by his bed. Her skirt was crinkled from sleep and she straightened it as much as possible before sighing and exiting the room and into the hall. When he turned down a set of stairs, she realized that what she thought to be a flat was actually a little townhouse. When she reached the base of the stairs, she found that the rest of the home wasn’t much—dimly lit, only one other window in what seemed to be a small sitting room and a kitchen. A table was pushed to the side, two chairs tucked into it, a plate with crumbs on it sat on one side. The green wallpaper from the bedroom covered all of the walls of the home, and when she looked around, she saw a noticeable absence of most personal effects. He had only one photo up on the side table next to the couch, of what Cicely assumed was his family. Next to it laid another ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, an empty whiskey glass.
At the sound of a plate on the counter she turned to see Harry placing a slice of bread on a plate and tenderly spreading jam across it. Cicely tried to imagine her father even entering a kitchen and she had trouble with the idea, while here was Harry making her a slice of toast. The thought was actually quite endearing, despite the fact that Harry had not once smiled at her.
“Thank you,” she said when he set the plate down on the table, grabbing the dirty one and taking it to the washbasin in the corner. Harry didn’t reply, so she took a bite. The jam wasn’t quite as good as what she was used to and the bread was a tad bit stale, but it was food all the same, and she didn’t mind all that much. As she ate, she watched Harry wash the plate, dry it with a dishrag, and place it back in a cabinet that held a few dishes.
He turned around when he was done, eyes trained on her with an intensity she was beginning to grow accustomed to from him. “I have work in a bit. Can I drop you someplace before that?”
Should he? Yes. Did she want him to? Not in the slightest. She pushed away the plate, and tried to figure out how to say this. “Would it be a bother if I stayed?”
Harry blinked at her a few times, his face finally changing from the usual intense stare that he gave her to one that was more curious in nature. “Is home not safe for ya?”
Cicely tried to decide whether or not she should lie to him. He seemed kind, generous, probably understanding, despite his inability to speak to her for very long periods of time without stretches of silence. Maybe he would understand that her desire not to go home wasn’t because home wasn’t safe, but because the life that was waiting for her was one she despised. So, she decided not to lie, but not to tell all of the truth. “No, it is. I’m just not eager to go back right now.”
“Oh.” Harry twisted a large gold H ring around one of his fingers, contemplating her words, before looking back up at her. “If ya want to stay, ya can. Know what it’s like to wanna hide for a bit.” Before she could request more information, he came towards her, snatching the plate and taking it back to the sink. He seemed to be awfully set on a clean kitchen, despite the messy state of his room. “You’ll have to come with me tonight, then.” He still had his back to her, so she couldn’t study his face as he said the words that piqued her interest.
Most girls would have probably requested to stay home, but Cicely wasn’t most girls. “Ok,” she replied, pushing back the chair. “Could I—uh—wash up somewhere?” The prospect of a bath sounded utterly delectable, although on second thought, she didn’t expect him to have a bath quite like the one she had at home.
Harry whirled around, eyes looking everywhere but her. “Yes. Um, there’s a basin in the washroom. Don’t have the water for a full bath right now, but…”
Cicely realized what he was so flustered about—he was embarrassed. Perhaps he had realized that her social station was a bit higher than his, that in her home they didn’t have to go fetch water somewhere, that she could have a bath relatively whenever she liked. And when she did it, someone else filled it for her. “That’s fine. I’ll manage.” She stood and made her way towards the washroom, following his directions, and shut herself inside. It was dark in there too—far less than she was used to. A silver bathtub was on one wall, and a smaller basin on a pedestal, a toilet in the corner. It was simple, bare bones, but she didn’t mind too much. Her father had put in running water when she was an infant, so she had never washed without it, but she decided it wasn’t too much of a change.
Quickly, she undressed, making sure the door was locked, and hung her clothing over the lip of the bath so it didn’t touch the floor. She took a rag and dipped it into the water, exhaling softly at the feeling of the cool water on her skin. There was some mud on her skin from when she had fallen, although she thought that perhaps Harry had washed some of it off—there wasn’t quite as much as she thought. A small mirror allowed her to wash the crust of mud from her forehead, and by the end of her washing she felt rejuvenated, even if it wasn’t a proper bath. Slowly, she slipped back on her clothes and considered for a moment the idea that she might need to purchase some more. Her clothes were stained from the mud, and she imagined she wouldn’t quite be able to get it out.
Although it would’ve been convenient, she didn’t imagine Harry had extra ladies clothes lying around for just this purpose.
She ruffled her hair slightly, the curls unfortunately having dropped for the most part, and sighed before letting herself out of the washroom. “Harry?” Cicely asked, turning the corner into the kitchen, where he stood, holding a glass of what she thought was a whiskey, a cigarette between his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a set of ladies’ clothes lying about, would you?”
Harry furrowed his brow before taking the cigarette from between his lips. “No—why?”
Cicely gestured at her stained clothes. “Mine are a bit dirty, and I wouldn’t want to wear them to your place of work like this.”
The chuckle that left Harry’s lips surprised Cicely in more ways than one. One, that he was laughing at all, for she didn’t find it to be a laughing matter. She didn’t want to make a bad impression to whoever his employer was, especially if she was going to have to be there. Second, his laugh was sweet, syrupy, one that rocked his shoulders, and made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to. “You wouldn’t want to wear your Sunday best to my place of work, love,” he told her, tapping his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You’re fine the way ya are, but we can track down some clothes for ya tomorrow.”
Where would he work where her appearance would be adequate? But rather than question him, she just nodded. “Well, I’m ready,” she told him.
“Gimme a mo’,” he told her, tucking his cigarette back between his lips before heading out of the room. Cicely decided to check out the sitting room a bit more, investigate the people in the sole photograph in the whole home. She picked up the photograph and studied it, a man, woman, and young woman, probably a few years older than Harry, stood outside of a family home, a younger Harry nestled between them. It was curious to see him younger, his face less defined, an obvious softness to his facial features. But what stuck out to her the most was the uniform he wore.
He had been in the war. Of course. Her father had avoided it because of a years old injury to his leg, although she had secretly always throught he had gotten his doctor to make it seem more severe than it actually was. Many of the men her parents had set her up with, including the horrid one they were currently trying to force her to marry, were in the war, but when she asked them about it, they only talked about their medals, heroism, the beauty of France’s countryside. But she also knew most of them had been officers, their social ranks earning them a certain level of protection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for Harry who had none of those privileges.
Footsteps came from behind her and she turned, dropping the photograph back to the table when she saw Harry in the hall watching her. He had changed while she was looking at the photo, a charcoal jacket over his shirt, a pin with a J on it buttoned to the lapel that she thought was a bit curious. He had a bag over his shoulder, and she wondered what was inside. “You were in the war,” she said, not acknowledging his appearance.
“Just like everyone else,” he replied, his response a stark departure from how the men she knew would’ve replied. “Come on, we’re goin’ to be late.” She followed him out, wishing she had a hat or a small purse with her at the very least, but she had nothing but her dirty clothes and scuffed boots.
When they stepped onto the street, the sight of a wide and long street, row houses lining each side met her gaze. They were in working class Birmingham, she thought to herself as Harry locked the door behind him. Most men would’ve made to put their arm through hers, but not Harry—he just began walking, letting her catch up to him, struggling to keep pace with his longer legs. His bag swung at his side as they walked, and Cicely took in their surroundings, the silence stretching between them. It was dusk and women were calling their children inside, the games of football on the street breaking up. Two young children squabbled until their mothers separated them, tugging their little hands inside. Doors shut behind them and Cicely snuck a glance at Harry. His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, most likely adjusted to their surroundings.
He didn’t want to talk, she understood from his body language, and she decided in a choice completely against her normal mannerisms, not to push him.
Cicely didn’t know what she expected from Harry’s place of work, but it was definitely not a boxing ring in an empty warehouse. She could hear the shouts and laughter of men from outside, and she had looked at Harry with confusion written all over her face when they approached the warehouse, but she followed him inside anyways. The smell of stale beer and sweat overwhelmed her immediately, and she had to squint in the darkness of the entryway. The ring had some lights rigged up around it, some chairs around it, but it was by no means someplace fancy.
So this was what Harry had meant by her not wanting to wear her Sunday best.
“You work…here?” She asked, turning to Harry, who stood beside her, watching her take in the surroundings. He nodded, offering no additional information. “And you box?” Another nod. “Is this legal?”
That’s when he gave another one of his chuckles, and then under his breath he said, “Doesn’t need to be, love. Josiah McClemmons runs it.”
Cicely may not live in Birmingham proper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know who Josiah McClemmons was. Everyone did. He basically ruled Birmingham, especially the working class neighborhoods, having built up his stronghold there. Her father complained about him at least once a week, about the violence and bloodshed in the city where his garment factories were. Although, Cicely had always thought to herself, her father probably shouldn’t complain too much because a dead husband meant a wife who had to work to feed her children, which meant a larger workforce for her father.
From the way Harry was greeted, Cicely assumed he was the reigning champion, the usual fighter here. Which meant that he was probably McClemmons’s payroll, if she had to extrapolate. “Do you work for McClemmons?” She asked when the few men who had come up to them walked away.
Harry adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and then nodded. “Could say that.” His eyes darted around the establishment, taking in the sight, before resting back on her. “C’mon, I’ve got to get changed and don’t want ya waitin’ out here.” He ushered her over to a man standing against a wall who wore a J pin on his lapel like Harry, which she now realized stood for Josiah’s name, a brand of who they worked for. “Tommy,” he said, the man’s gaze turning and settling on them. “This is Cicely. Keep an eye on her while I change?”
Tommy stood up straight immediately and when he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, Cicely couldn’t help but smile. “Pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady,” Tommy said to her, a wink gracing across his face.
When she turned to speak to Harry, he was already gone, a few paces away towards a door. “Is he good?” She asked Tommy, turning back to her new acquaintance.
Tommy’s eyes widened. “The best,” he informed her before taking a sip from a mug of what she assumed was beer. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never seen ‘im fight ‘fore.”
Cicely agreed, the prospect of a sweaty Harry in the ring a bit more enticing than she perhaps wanted to admit. She was able to get some information on Harry out of Tommy, the combination of a pretty girl and a mug of beer not a combination meant for secrecy. He fought with Josiah McClemmons’s youngest brother in the war, the experience making them nearly brothers, and came back to Birmingham with them. No one knew where Harry was from, but people had a number of guesses, everything from London to Liverpool. Apparently before the war he had been learning to fight, and the war sharpened his skills, so when they came back it seemed natural that Josiah would use the rings as a way to make money, using Harry as his prized fighter.
She couldn’t help but think it made Harry sound a bit like the Spanish bulls she had learned about in a magazine, a caged animal. But Tommy assured her Harry loved it when she asked, so she tried to put her mind at ease.
“Who is he fighting?” She asked Tommy after refusing his offer for a beer of her own.
“Peters—a local bloke,” Tommy replied. “Harry’s expected to win.”
Cicely gathered as much from the grumblings of his name that she could hear when the betting started, money flying in the air. It was fascinating to her, and she thought that she also fascinated the men—she was the only woman in the room and she tried not to squirm against the wall she leaned against.
But then, she heard a cry go up, and Harry’s opponent came out of a door, trailed by two men. “He’s massive,” she told Tommy as she watched the man walk to the ring.
Tommy grunted in response. “Harry’s fast, though.”
She hoped he was fast enough. Peters crested the ring, pushing himself between the ropes. One of his men handed him some gloves and Cicely watched as he pulled them on, his massive chest glistening under the gas lighting.
All of a sudden, a louder cry sounded, whoops and hollers of Harry’s name, and her gaze flickered to the door she had last seen him go into. There he was, walking towards the ring, a determined look set on his face. Tattoos littered his body and Cicely realized the few she had seen were a mere teasing of the real deal. And seeing Harry without a shirt on, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tanned skin in the light, she couldn’t help but think he was even more attractive than she had thought.
A man helped Harry into the ring, and when he stood up, she caught sight of tape covering where his nipples should be. What in the world? She turned to Tommy and pointed at Harry. “What is the tape for?”
Tommy guffawed immediately, beer sloshing in his mug. “He’s got ‘em pierced.”
“What?”
She expected Tommy to tell her he was joking, but instead he nodded. “Got ‘em done durin’ the war, apparently. Some dare from his mates. Now he’s gotta have ‘em taped up or they’ll get ripped out.”
Cicely truly didn’t have the words for a response to that. She turned back to the ring, eyes set on the two pieces of tape over each of his nipples, entranced by the idea of them being pierced. She had heard rumors from her friends of ladies getting them done, but men? Why on earth would they want them done? She had never understood it on women, but the prospect of them on men completely confounded her imagination. Although, her best friend had told her it made them more sensitive, so perhaps that worked on men as well.
The thought was tantalizing at the very least.
“Sure ya don’t want a beer, love?” Tommy asked.
She had grown to quite like his company. He was a bit crude, but for some reason she liked that he didn’t treat her like she was made of glass like most of the men she knew. Her gaze darted between Harry, standing in the ring, and Tommy’s mug. “You know what? Sure.”
Tommy beamed. He was overjoyed at the idea, and Cicely was as well. She had never actually had beer before, just sips of champagne and wine here and there when she snuck it from her parents or during parties. But nothing as normal as beer—she didn’t even think her father drank it, to be honest. Perhaps that was why the idea was so exciting to her. Tommy left her on her own for a few minutes and she tried not to let the stares that still lingered on her bother her. Instead, she watched Harry, listened to the announcer, some chap in a jacket and askew flat cap, read out their names and weights. The part about Harry being the reigning champion stuck with her.
Cicely had never seen a boxing match before. Sure, she had heard of them, but actually been to one in person? Never. And much less one that was definitely illegal and held in a warehouse, a bunch of drunk men betting and still in their work uniforms. It made her heart race and she liked the feeling—usually she just got it when she rode Joseph, who she hoped had gone home to her estate.
“Here ya are.” Tommy had reappeared, a full mug of beer in his other hand for her. “Got ya somethin’ my sister likes.”
Cicely took the mug. It was heavy, heavier than she was expecting. Would she even be able to drink it all? She stared at the murky brown liquid, the foam on top, and then up at Tommy who she could tell was stifling a laugh. Fuck it, she thought. And took a long sip. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Sour, sure, but it was also refreshing. A bit heavy, and considering she had only eaten some toast today, that wasn’t a negative thing. “It’s not bad,” she told Tommy, who gave her a grin in response.
She was about to say something else when she heard a bell sound—she had been so focused she had missed the start of the match. Whirling around, the first thing she saw was Peters’ arm fly through the air. The breath knocked from her chest at the possibility of Harry getting hit, but to her pleasant surprise he ducked it completely, feet helping him to move away from his attacker. The crowd cheered and Cicely took another sip, the action of having the drink in her hand helping calm her nerves as she watched Harry dance around Peters, ducking at every punch. She could see the frustration in Peters’ eyes, and the focus in Harry’s eyes making her scream out his name along with the men in the room.
She could feel Tommy’s eyes on her as she did it. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that surprise was written all over his face. If Cicely was going to be at a boxing match for the first time in her life, drinking her first beer, she was going to enjoy it. And watching Harry take a swing—and make contact—at Peters was exactly the excuse she needed to scream his name again.
The match passed quickly, and by the end of it Cicely had reached the end of her beer and her and Tommy were laughing at the fear in Peters’ eyes as Harry’s punches landed. He was winning by a long shot, and she had to admit, she was proud. During the whole match she had barely been able to take her eyes off of him, gaze trained on the sweat dripping down his cut body, his broad shoulders and tattooed skin glistening. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat, and for some reason she had the innate desire to twirl it off of his forehead and see what he did.
She also desperately wanted to see his nipples without the tape.
Desperately.
He was beautiful in the ring, his steps almost like choreography she had learned as a child to all of the dances she had to know for parties. Except Harry looked like a natural up there, his body moving before Peters made the move, as if he could read his opponent’s mind, his reflexes faster than anything she had ever seen before. She had a million questions for him the minute he stepped out of the ring, but the first thing she wanted to was clean the blood off of his body—blood which was a mixture of Harry’s and Peters’.
The end of the match happened so quickly that Cicely barely caught it. One minute, Harry was boxed into a corner, his arms up to protect his face, and the next, he was throwing a powerful punch to Peters’ face, the sound of bone crunching at Peters hit the ground so loud she could hear it over the men yelling in the ring. The announcer counted and she watched Harry’s chest rise and fall, his breathing ragged. Everyone else was staring at Peters, but her eyes were glued on Harry. And then, his lifted to her, their sight lines catching from across the room, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile at her.
As much as she wanted to rush to the side of the ring as many people did, she waited where she was. She knew Harry would come find her eventually, since she was sleeping in his home, as weird as that sounded in her brain. So she turned to Tommy while she waited, her bones feeling light in her body. “He’s good,” she said, her words slightly slurring. Huh. That was weird.
“Told ya!” Tommy replied, taking her mug from her. “Forgot to ask you, love, how do you know our fighter?”
Her eyes trailed across the room to Harry, who she noticed was making his way towards them, a towel draped around his neck. “He saved me,” she said, watching his body flex as he moved. And her words were true, but in that moment she didn’t know quite how true they were. Only later, would she look back on the moment she met Harry and consider how he had changed her life by picking her lifeless body up on that dirt road in the middle of a storm.
Harry had fought the desire to look at Cecily throughout the match, and now that he was done he couldn’t stop. She looked so relaxed, leaned against the wall with Tommy laughing, her blond hair messy and her eyes bright. It was if his feet were carrying him towards her without a second thought, weaving through the crowd of sweaty drunk men in pursuit of the girl made of light. The closer he got, though, the more he noticed how she stumbled on her feet, how rosy her cheeks were, how loud she laughed.
Fuck.
Tommy had gone and gotten her drunk. Tommy might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t make him the smartest bloke in a room.
As he reached them, she took an uneasy step and Harry was there immediately. His hands fit around Cicely’s waist like it was the place he belonged, the lingering smell of perfume in his nostrils before he could clear the fog of his mind. “Ya okay, love?” The words slipped from his mouth, the pet name he had never called a single woman before just finding his way into his speech, as if his brain knew that she was special. He sure thought so.
Cicely turned her head, her gaze catching his and a smile broke across her face. “Harry! You were incredible!”
“Thank you,” he replied, gingerly removing his hands despite the fact that all he wanted was to hold onto her hips for the rest of time. “Tommy, did you give her beer?”
“He did,” Cicely answered instead, a hiccup escaping her mouth. She rushed to cover her lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks at the sound. “It was quite tasty.”
“I’ll bet,” Harry said, giving Tommy a hard look that Tommy only shrugged at. “I’ve got to change and get you home,” he told her, processing the situation here. Although he trusted Tommy with his life, in this moment he didn’t trust him not to give Cicely more beer.
Before he could say anything though, Cicely was speaking, her fingers brushing across his arm. The feeling sent sparks up his spine, delicate compared the touches he was used to, the ones he had just experienced. Her fingers weren’t callused, but soft, as if she hadn’t seen a day of work in her life. Which she probably hadn’t. “Can I come with you?” She asked, eyes on his, a slight pout on her lips that drew his gaze in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.
“While I change?”
She nodded. “I’ve got some questions about the match that I want to ask you.”
Harry glanced at Tommy who he could tell was barely holding back a laugh, a grin on his face that told Harry he would never hear the end of this exchange. “Fine,” Harry told her, the word coming out gruff. “Tommy, I’ll see you later.”
Cicely slipped her fingers around Harry’s wrist as he stepped away, and he tried to resist the immediate urge that came over him to rip them off, the touch something he hadn’t experienced in ages. The feeling of a woman’s hands on him was one of the things he had not indulged in when he came back from France, preferring drink and alcohol to drown the memories in. The prospect of one of them experiencing him at night, while he slept, was enough to make him frightened enough to avoid the concept.
So when Cicely touched Harry, even in the simplest of ways, it stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something that he hadn’t experienced since before his life changed, since before he saw men die in front of him, his friends lose limbs and call out for their mothers in their final moments. He had always thought that his ability to feel had died on the battlefields of France, but with Cicely’s fingers on his skin, perhaps he was wrong.
She didn’t remove them, either, as they moved through the throngs of men. When they reached the hallway that led to the room where he got dressed, though, he had no reason to let her continue touching his skin. So he wrenched his hand from her grip, as much as he wanted to let her touch every inch of his skin if she could continue to make him feel something again.
“I need to wash off,” he said when he shut the door behind them. “Wait over there.” He pointed to a couch in the corner of the room. Usually it was an office of some kind, but for Harry it was his dressing room. A basin of water sat on a table, cold and full, and he was itching to wash his sweat-coated skin. Surprisingly, Cicely followed his directions, and so he turned to the basin, using a rag to rinse off his skin, the feeling of the cold water like heaven on his pores.
“When did you learn to box?”
His head perked up at her voice. He could barely see her in the dimly lit room, but the outline of her was enough, her legs thrown over the arm of the couch in a complete unladylike way. “I was sixteen.” He surprised himself with his honesty, but in the room with just Cicely, for some reason he let a piece of his past slip through.
“Do you like it?”
The question had Harry pause. Did he like it? He cupped some water and ran it through his hair, the sound of the water dripping into the basin filling the silence between them. “It’s a job,” he told her simply. It was the best answer he had. He didn’t really have the luxury of considering whether or not he liked his job. It paid the bills and earned him a reputation that meant no one tried to talk to him, which was all he wanted. After France, all he wanted was to be left alone, save for a select few.
He was focused on his thoughts and the murky water in front of him that he didn’t see Cicely move from her position on the couch. Suddenly, she was there, her fingers dancing across his back that faced her. “Hand me the basin,” she said, voice firm in his ears.
Harry considered fighting her, but his body exposed him. His body craved her touch on his skin, and so he slid the basin to the side so she could reach it. The rag was wrung, and then she was brushing it over his back, reaching the places he couldn’t reach. He could smell her perfume, the faintest taste of beer on her tongue as she breathed lightly in his ear, the traces of jam on her breath from the food he had given her hours before. It made his fists clench against the table and he hoped she didn’t notice.
They stayed that way, Cicely brushing the rag across his skin, wiping away his sins from the night. Her fingers brushed a cut once or twice and he hissed, stopping her in her tracks. She halted her motions each time and wrung out the cloth with fresh water, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch he had never felt. She murmured how they needed alcohol when they got home, how she needed to properly clean the wound. It was something his mother would’ve told him, he thought to himself, a thought he quickly pushed aside as he clenched his jaw.
“Turn around,” she said, voice so quiet he barely heard it above their breathing.
And Harry did as she said. She had made him pliant under her touch, his desperation not to let her stop clouding his ability to speak. His bum pressed against the table and his eyes caught hers in the dim lighting, the gaze that passed between them making Harry stop breathing for a second. But when she brushed the cloth over a bruise, the wince that fell from his lips drew him from his fog.
The rag criss-crossed his body, covering the area he had already cleaned, but he didn’t stop her. It was only when her fingers brushed over the tape across his nipples that his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. But her eyes zeroed in on him, a determined look in her eyes that made him pause. “Let me see them.” Her words were gentle, but firm.
That made him release her hand, and he sucked in a breath and she pulled the tape from his nipples, the air on his sensitive skin making his stomach clench. He stood there under her gaze as she looked at him, the bars through each nipple that he had gotten on a dare. At first, he had been embarrassed of them, regretted them because they hurt like hell and scratched against his uniform. He considered getting them removed, or just ripping them out, but each time he paused. Paused just enough to let the thought pass, and his best friend’s voice entered his mind. “Who gives a fuck, anyways?” And that was the voice that made him keep them.
Now, it was too late to turn back. He was a boxer and the moment he stepped into the ring with taped nipples, it became something he was known for. The stories circled, tall tales that made Harry chuckle to himself, but he never told the truth. He liked the mystery around them. They became a sort of badge of honor, something that set him apart.
But he had never experienced a woman’s gaze on them, and he couldn’t help but fear her reaction. Would she be disgusted? Ridicule him?
Cicely, though, just looked at them, and then up at his face. “What do they feel like?” She asked tentatively.
It was a question he had never been asked before, actually. And one he didn’t quite know how to answer, because after two years with them they had become normal to him. “They heighten everything,” he replied honestly. It was about the only answer he could give.
This seemed to pique her interest. “Can I touch them?”
Fuck yes, his body screamed, desperate for her fingers on the most sensitive part of his body. His gaze zeroed in on hers, searching her eyes for a hint of a possibility she would ridicule him. But instead he found just genuine curiosity. And perhaps a hint of desire. So, he told her, “Yes.”
When her fingers grazed the bars, her warm touch on the cold metal that ran under his skin, he tried not to flinch, but it was difficult. Her touch was like a lightning bolt through his body, setting every one of his nerves on fire. Holding in the desire to moan was one of the hardest things he had done, and as she touched the other, fingers curiously exploring his skin, it became more difficult. And then she whispered, “I like them.”
Harry’s eyes snapped from where her fingers touched his skin to her eyes, and he found her already looking at him. He watched her lick across her top lip, the flush to her cheeks and wide eyes that stared at him making his body boil. It was too much. He pulled away, desperate for space, for something to allow himself to calm down.
Cicely must have sensed the change in his demeanor, because she immediately stepped back, the rag dropping into the basin of dirty water. Sweat, grime, and blood all mixed together and Harry thought as he looked at his reflection in the water that a mixture had never described him more.
“Let’s go, I need to eat,” Harry said, bending to grab the shirt from his bag on the floor.
Cicely didn’t reply with anything but a nod, and when he had laced his boots she followed him out of the room. The warehouse had emptied out, just some of Josiah’s boys around to help direct the cleanup. Harry knew he’d stop by the office tomorrow to get his cut of the winnings, so he didn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he pushed open the front doors and led Cicely out into the nighttime Birmingham breeze of coal and horse shit.
Cicely awoke to the sound of someone moaning and talking. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the darkness in Harry’s bedroom, her mind taking a second to gather her bearings and remember where she was. Then she heard the sound, something that resembled an injured animal, the edge of fear and pain that made her skin crawl. Last night Harry had given her one of his shirts to sleep in after she said she wanted to wash her clothes and leave them out for the night, and the cotton material bunched under her thighs and she swung them over the edge of the bed. She paused to see if she heard the sound again.
This time, a scream ripped through the house, and Cicely knew something was wrong. She pulled open Harry’s door and moved through the hall, eyes searching to see if she saw anyone, but it was empty. And then she heard it again, and this time without the barrier of a wall, she could tell who it was.
It was Harry.
Her feet didn’t bother to avoid the creaks on the stairs as she moved down the stairs to where he was asleep on the couch. The only light was the faintest bit from the moon, high in the sky, and it was just enough to make out the pained expression on Harry’s face and the thrashing of his body on the couch. He was talking to himself, something about the dark and the word No repeated over and over again, his voice cresting in panic.
It was a nightmare, she realized as she crouched next to him on the floor.
“No, please, it’s too dark, please—“
“Harry,” she said firmly, hands reaching out to grip his wrists to hold his arms to the couch cushions underneath him. “Harry, wake up.”
His eyes didn’t open though, and his body only trashed more under her. She didn’t know what to do, how to wake him up. The only thing she could think of was how when she was scared it helped when she felt safe. She didn’t know what made Harry feel safe, but for her, it was when her mother held her. So carefully, she lifted Harry’s shoulders, trying to avoid his arms trashing as she did so. Once she was seated on the couch she tugged him into her, letting her arms wrap around his chest and pin down his arms.
She murmured his name over and over again, softly in his ear to try and rouse him from the dream. “It’s Cicely,” she told him, “You’re safe, Harry, you can wake up. Wake up, Harry, you’re safe.” With their bodies this close she could feel his heartbeat, the way it raced in his chest. What was he experiencing? Where was he? She wanted to rouse him, pull him out of it and bring him back to her, but she was powerless.
After a few tries, she saw his eyes flutter open, his arms immediately trying to himself free from her grip.
“It’s me,” she said softly. “Hey, hey, it’s me.”
“Cicely?” His voice was rough from the screaming and it broke her. It was raw in a way she hadn’t heard from him, honest and open. Nothing protecting him from her.
She could feel his heartbeat slowing already, and the thought put her at ease. “Yes.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and Cicely just ran her hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him as much as she could. His breath was ragged, big inhales of air and deep exhales, but it was becoming more normal as time passed. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually said, voice small in the room.
But he had nothing to apologize for, Cicely thought to herself. The last thing he should do is apologize—it’s not his fault. “It’s okay,” she told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
That made him pull away from her arms, her skin immediately missing his. Her arms fell to her side and Harry sat up, swiveled, and laid his face in his hands. “No,” is all he told her, not even lifting his head.
She didn’t know what he needed from her in that moment, but she knew she would do anything. Somehow she had only known this boy for a day, and yet the sight of his pain made her heart break. “Do—do you want me to stay?” It was the only thing she could think of to help, and if it would work then she would do it.
But he shook his head. He didn’t want her there. And the last thing she would do is push him after what had just transpired, so she stood, the hem of his cotton shirt reaching an unladylike mid-thigh. When he finally looked at her, she saw that he noticed, his eyes falling to the place where the material ended and her skin began. She tugged at it, hoping he didn’t judge her—she didn’t exactly stop and think about getting dressed, she just moved. “I…”
“Looks good on ya,” he said, words reverberating in Cicely’s mind.
She stood there, as still as stone, trying to figure out what to say to him. No man had ever seen her like this, and she had always been taught that they shouldn’t. And yet, the idea of Harry seeing her exposed legs, her hair messy from sleep, her in his shirt, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. So she didn’t disguise the blush that she could feel in her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Try and get some sleep,” she told him, and then she turned away, heading up the stairs and back to his room.
When she looked back from the third stair, Harry’s eyes were transfixed on her figure, gaze locked on her. For a moment, she held it, letting him watch her, but then she turned her head and went the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Harry behind in the darkness.
Harry didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The prospect of having the dreams again (although he got them most nights) and Cicely waking up again was too frightening a thought for him to allow himself to go to sleep. Instead, he ended up having a glass or two of whiskey in the wee hours of the morning, smoking too many cigarettes on the doorstep, and thinking. His thoughts revolved around Cicely, weaving in and out of the snatches of moments they had spent together—of which there were few—and the bits he knew about her. Which was very little. He didn’t even know her last name, where she was from, or why on Earth she was out in the middle of a rainstorm, lying on her back in the mud. He hadn’t asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or push her to talk, because he had this feeling that she was more than some spoiled rich girl.
The fact that she was rich was an assumption on his part, but one he felt was probably right. First, there were her clothes, which were nicer than any he had seen a girl around here wear, boots that looked like they were new, unscuffed. Then there was the way she looked at his neighborhood—as if she had never seen something like it before. When she had walked out of his room and into the rest of the house, he had had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should be embarrassed, and at moments he was. But as they spent more time together, he began to get the feeling that even though Cicely may not be used to the way he lived, she didn’t seem to care all that much.
It intrigued him, the way she looked at his world. The way she had watched him during the match, the feeling of her eyes on his skin something he couldn’t shake, the way she had adapted to Tommy like a chameleon, blending in with ease. The way she had slid into the booth at the pub last night where they had eaten a late meal, complete disregard for the fight breaking out in the corner, her focus only on him and their meal. He kept expecting her to fit into the mold he had created for her, but she continued to slip away. And he didn’t quite know what to make of it.
Or the fact that she seemed to want to stay. When she had asked him if she could stay, and she said she didn’t want to go home quite yet, he immediately jumped to the worst of conclusions. That her father hurt her, that something had happened, and she was running from a past as dark as his. But then he reminded himself that she had money, wealth, status. Problems like the ones he knew didn’t exist in their world. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to cast her in a mold of wealth and opulence he had read about and encountered on a handful of occasions, people who used people like him and tossed them aside when they had had their fill. But the world wasn’t fair.
He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, the sounds of horses and distant rumble of cars, clap of house doors as men left for work telling him that the day was beginning. It was time for him to see Josiah and pay a visit to Nellie, who he hoped wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Inside, Cicely was still asleep—he couldn’t hear any footsteps from upstairs—so he decided to dart out while she was still sleeping. With any luck, he’d be back before she awoke.
The walk to Josiah’s offices was a well-remembered one, the row houses, shipyards and factories he passed old friends. He waved to the children he passed on their way to work or school, and nodded to the men he knew from matches or Josiah. He lived deep in Josiah’s territory, a requirement for what he did, and as a result every man was on Josiah’s payroll in some way. They all knew when to turn their heads, when to lock their doors, and when to pull out their guns. It used to unnerve Harry, but with time it became as normal as the nightmare that plagued his sleep.
He knocked on the back door as he was trained, a nod to Cyril when the door opened. People congratulated him on the match last night, and he didn’t respond. They all knew he was quiet most of the time, knew not to expect lengthy replies. Before France, he used to not shut up. Now, he preferred to think rather than talk.
Josiah’s door was ajar, his ankles propped up on the desk, the telephone stand in one hand, the handset in the other. His eyes darted up as Harry opened the door wider, shutting it quickly behind him. Josiah never changed much—a mustache on his upper lip, hard brown eyes that only lightened if he had enough drink in him, lips that curved into a smile when someone made a very bad mistake. He wore exclusively charcoal suits, saying black was too common, and he wanted to stand out, and a dark blue tie every day, a silver pocket watch chain tucked into his vest. Josiah had built his operations from the ground up, a man of barely 25 years of age when he came back from France, determined to make a name for himself and protect the community that had been, in his eyes, murdered by the British government for a war they had no business being conscripted for. His hatred for the government ran deep, deep enough to line the pockets of the police across southeast Birmingham, especially in Balsall Heath.
“Alright, but don’t fuck it up, ya hear?” Josiah said, nodding for Harry to sit in the leather chair across from his desk. It was the chair where Harry had sat during many conversations, both good and bad. “Yeah, okay.” Josiah hung up, resting the telephone back on the desk and running a hand through his longer dark brown hair. He picked his cigarette up from where it was burning in the ashtray, and swung his feet off the desk. “Heard ya won,” Josiah said, finally speaking to Harry.
Harry took the offer of a cigarette and nodded. “Peters wasn’t as bad as everyone said.”
“Mhm. I’ll tell Billy that when I see him.”
“He was Billy’s?” That was a surprise. Billy had been on the rise in the neighborhoods bordering Balsall Heath, his power growing to become something threatening to Josiah’s operation. So for Harry to be fighting one of Billy’s boys was unusual to say the least. Josiah didn’t usually like to risk the fights turning into something more—at least, not when they weren’t meant to be.
Josiah nodded, pushing aside a stack of papers and resting his elbows on the oak desk. “Newer kid. I was promised no trouble, thought I’d take the gamble.”
“Warn me next time, eh?” Harry wouldn’t have had Cicely within a mile of the warehouse if he had known his opponent was one of Billy’s. The prospect of guns coming out while she was in the room made his skin crawl.
But Josiah just chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Goin’ soft on me, boy.” Harry hated it when Josiah called him that, but he always had. So he wasn’t going to start correcting him now, even though he was anything but a boy. “Heard ya had a girl there.”
Cicely. He knew Josiah would hear, but he had hoped he’d have a bit more time. “Yeah.”
Josiah wrenched open a door, reaching around for what Harry hoped was his pay. He wanted to get out of this damned office. Harry tolerated Josiah for Jack’s sake, but in truth Josiah had always been a bit too much of a wild card and a short fuse for Harry’s liking. But he gave Harry work, so he didn’t let his feelings get in the way. Plus, most men were short fuses after the war. “Where’d she come from?”
Harry chose not to answer, and thankfully Josiah didn’t push. He knew Harry didn’t like to talk, and most times he didn’t push too hard. “D’ya have the money from Manchester?”
Josiah didn’t reply, just pulled out a stack of bills, crisp and ordered, and placed them on the desk. “Manchester and last night,” he said and Harry took it, folding the bills over and shoving them into his pocket. It was more than most should carry, but Harry was anything but most people. “Don’t spend it all in one place, yeah?”
Unable to help it, he rolled his eyes, the tension in the room lifting. Josiah smirked and Harry pushed back the chair, the thought of getting back to Cicely making him eager to leave. “When’s Jack back?”
Josiah pulled a ledger from a drawer before responding. “Sunday.”
Harry nodded. Jack had been in London since last week, working on some deal that Harry didn’t have the status for the details on. “Tell him I’ll come by?”
“Sure.” Josiah didn’t look up as Harry took his leave, shutting the door behind him and giving Josiah’s secretary a nod. Next was Nellie’s, which he hoped would go smoothly, at least.
Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Nellie stared at him when she opened the door, hair swept up on her head, clothes disheveled as usual. She cocked her hip against the door and rolled her eyes at him before asking, “What d’ya want, Harry?”
It had been over a year since he had rejected her, and yet she still treated him like he had broken it off with her after months. When in actuality, she had been the one to pursue him, and he hadn’t had it in him to tell her he wasn’t interested until she tried to kiss him. To say the least, things had been icy ever since. “Can I borrow some clothes?”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Clothes for who?”
“A girl.” To her credit, she didn’t react to that news with anything but a sigh.
“What happened to hers?” She asked, opening the door wider. He stepped inside, the sound of children from upstairs wrapping around him, the sound making his body itch. It was too loud.
“Mud,” he replied simply, looking around for something to keep his hands busy, but he turned up empty. “So?”
Nellie pointed to the couch in the sitting room, a bit sunk in and worn with love. “I’ve got some that no one picked up. What size is she?”
Harry sat down the couch, folding his fingers together. “About yours.”
Nellie gave him another pointed look, but said nothing. She just disappeared to where she kept the clothes she mended for ladies, and he had to sit there and listen to her younger siblings squeal and yell up the stairs. When she reappeared, she had a few things in a stack for him, which she set on the table next to him. “There.”
He looked at the stack, the fabric without anything around it. He would have to walk home with them under his arm. “No wrap?”
“No,” she replied, and he decided that she purposefully didn’t give him any. “3 shillings.”
Harry pulled the coins out and pressed them into her hand, taking the clothes and tucking them under his arm. “Thank you,” he said, and headed for the door, knowing when he wasn’t wanted.
“Bye, Harry,” Nellie said, and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which he didn’t deserve, but wasn’t the type to protest. He checked his pocket watch—a little over an hour had passed since he left home. He wondered if Cicely would be waiting for him.
Walking into his home to find Cicely in his kitchen in nothing but his shirt made Harry stop in his tracks. While he knew he had seen her like this last night, last night it had been dark. In the dark he couldn’t see the lines golden curl of her hair, the milky white of her skin that seemed to go on for miles. It should be illegal, he thought to himself, to look as beautiful as her.
“You should put some clothes on,” he finally said, words gruff in the distance between them.
Cicely looked down at her legs and then at Harry. “I was waiting for you to come back, hopefully with clothes. Which I see you did.” She nodded at the stack of clothes under his arm and Harry knew he should move to give them to her, but he was frozen in place.
Seeing her in his kitchen, a plate with a piece of bread on it, an open jar of jam on the counter next to it, tea in his cup, it made him wonder for a split second what it would be like if she stayed. Like, really stayed. He knew that what was happening wasn’t permanent, that eventually she would have to go back to wherever home was for her. But having her in his home was making him realize that perhaps he didn’t like being alone as much as he had thought.
“Harry?”
His thoughts cleared and he jolted into action. He set the clothes on the table by the door and walked into the sitting room leaving her make her own decisions. Space, he thought to himself, he needed space from her. It was a push and pull inside of him—a pull that drew him to her and a push when he got too close. He stood by the fireplace, eyes trained on the black metal of it, as he listened to Cicely move through his home. Across the room to get the clothes, feet creaking on the stairs as she went up. When he heard her door shut he let out a breath, his body softening, tension leaving him.
The prospect of breakfast was enticing—he hadn’t eaten this morning. Porridge was what he had every morning, and this wasn’t the time for that to change. He shrugged off the jacket he had on, dropping it onto the couch, and headed for the kitchen.
When Cicely reappeared, the porridge was done and he was pouring it into two bowls, one for each of them. “Did you make me breakfast?” She asked, and his eyes drifted up to her. Nellie’s clothes fit her perfectly—a bit more snug on the curves of her body, but he wasn’t complaining.
“S’just porridge,” he replied and took the two bowls to the small table. He returned to the kitchen to grab his cup of tea, and he immediately felt her presence next to him as she picked up her own cup, left on the counter. Somehow he would have to get over the tension that raked through his body whenever she got near, but he didn’t know how he would manage that.
Cicely turned away from him and he followed her to the table, eyes trying to land anywhere but her body. She pulled out a chair and smiled at him softly. “Thank you. I’m not used to men cooking for me.”
Harry realized that him making breakfast for both of them meant they would have to eat together, that they would be forced to talk. The idea made him falter as he went to sit, but he forced himself to do it anyways, knowing that she would probably make him. “Mum taught me,” he mumbled, chair scraping against the floorboard as he say.
“Is that her in the photo?”
He knew exactly which photo she was talking about—the only one he had up. “Yes.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dipped her spoon into the porridge, taking a bite. She was probably used to better quality, an actual chef maybe (he had heard rich people had those), but she didn’t give any indication that it was bad. Instead, she just took another bite before opening her mouth again to speak. “Where are you from?”
Harry didn’t tell people where he was from. It was a decision he made when he came to Birmingham, to leave his past behind him. The photo was up in his sitting room because he would’ve felt like shit for not putting it up, not because he particularly wanted it there.
“Harry?” She prompted, gaze fluttering over his face.
His grip tightened on the spoon in his palm, eyes on the food in front of him. “I don’t talk about my past.” Why did he want to tell her? He could feel it on the tip of his tongue and he tightened his jaw, trying to keep it from tumbling out on its own accord.
Cicely considered his statement as she sipped on her tea. “What do you talk about?”
The question made him look at her, her brown eyes already waiting for his. “What d’ya mean?”
“If you don’t talk about your past, then what do you talk to people about?”
He didn’t talk to people, he thought to himself. That was how he dealt with it. He only spoke to people who he felt safe with—Jack mainly, sometimes Tommy, Josiah if forced. They all knew his past, knew not to share it around. “Dunno.”
The sigh that slipped from her lips made Harry grimace. He had disappointed her and he didn’t like the feeling. “How about this? I tell you about myself, and you do the same in return. We each get a question.”
The idea was enticing, mainly because Harry desperately wanted to know more about her. She was like a period to him and he wanted to know everything that came before it in the sentence. Was it worth telling her about his past? Perhaps. “Fine. What’s your last name?”
Her eyes twinkled, a playful grin sliding onto her face. “King,” she said, that one piece of information rocking Harry’s world immediately. The Kings were as notorious as Josiah was, just in a different way. They owned dozens of garment factories in Birmingham, controlled a handful of shipyards, one or two coal factories. Harry estimated probably half of Birmingham’s working class was employed by the King family and he assumed properly, by Cicely’s father.“Where are you from?”
“Church Hulme,” he told her. “Who is your father?”
He searched her expression to see if she recognized it, but she didn’t seem to. And why would she—it was nothing but a small farming town, some local businesses and a forge. “William King. How old are you?”
So she was the daughter of the head of the King family, an heiress to a fortune larger than anything he could imagine, no doubt. He knew the Kings had only daughters, but he didn’t know how many, or if Cicely was the oldest. The importance of staying up to date on the lives of the King family was never something he felt inclined to do, but now it was vital information. “22. How did you end up on that road?”
“I went riding,” she said after taking another bite of porridge. “The lightning scared my horse and he bucked me off. I must have passed out when I hit the ground.” Cicely considered him for a moment before speaking. “Where did you fight?”
Harry’s blood ran cold at her question. It dredged up memories he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re done,” he told her, pushing away his finished porridge and standing abruptly.
“Harry, wait.“ Her hand wrapped around his wrist, catching his arm as he stepped away, and the feeling of her skin on his made him have to close his eyes to get his breathing under control. Did she know what she did to him? “I’m sorry.”
“‘m not talking about that,” he said, not budging from his position.
Cicely’s thumb brushed across his forearm, the thinner skin meaning he could feel the press of her fingers on his body. “That’s okay,” she said, voice soft. “Will you come back?”
Although he probably shouldn’t, he opened his eyes and turned back around. “Why don’t you want to go home?”
Her hand dropped from his wrist immediately at his question. “My father is forcing me to marry Clifford Stevens. Do you know who that is?” Harry shook his head. He didn’t exactly keep up with high society Birmingham circles in his free time. “He’s thirty and disgusting. He never even acknowledges that I might have a brain, much less that I’m a human being. If I marry him I’ll end up shut in his estate to raise his children for the rest of my life and I would rather die than sentence myself to a life like that.”
Clifford Stevens immediately became Harry’s least favorite person in the world, with the second being William King. To sentence a girl as kind, spirited, and open-minded as Cicely to a life as a glorified hostage was deplorable. “Why is your father forcing you to marry him?”
“We’re nearly broke,” Cicely said with a sigh. That was news to Harry. “Father has been losing money for years. He gambles most of what he makes away and because he’s a fucking idiot he never wins, and he hired a series of treasurers who are apparently inept at balancing the budgets. The factories are bleeding money and rather than take any responsibility for it, his solution is to marry me off with the knowledge that Clifford will bankroll my father’s lifestyle.” Perhaps it was the look on Harry’s face that gave him away, but Cicely gave him a weak smile. “Didn’t know the truth of the Kings, did you?”
“No.”
She fiddled with the cuff of her blouse as Harry considered her words. Was there any way to get out of her future? Probably not, unless she left behind everything that came with her name. Although from what she told him, it didn’t sound like there was much left. “Will you tell me about your family secrets in exchange for mine?”
His family secrets? God, where did he start. His gaze drifted across Cicely, her fingers brushing through the ends of her hair. What would she say to his answer? He supposed it didn’t hurt to tell her, since it wasn’t like she would tell anyone in his life about it. They were from different worlds, after all. “I found out when I came back from the war that ‘m not my father’s son.”
Cicely blinked at him, face softening as the words settled in. “What?”
“It’s just what it sounds like,” he said, leaning back in the chair and taking a breath. “Grew up my whole life thinking I had one father, when in reality it’s not him at all. My mum had an affair with some bloke and the man who raised me,” he spit out, hating the word father when he thought of him, “decided to keep me.” The feeling of her hand on his warmed his skin, but didn’t have the calm effect that he expected she intended. “Haven’t been back since.”
“Harry,” she murmured, calling his eyes from where her hand covered his to her face. “I’m sorry.”
It was the first time someone had told him that, now that he thought about it. He had told Jack, who said, Fuck mate, that sucks. Want another pint? And that was that, but he didn’t mind it. Somehow though, Cicely’s compassion made his chest ache, his throat close up. He could feel tears rising inside of him and he panicked—he hadn’t cried since France and he wasn’t bloody going to start now, not in front of her. “I—I need a second,” he said quickly, scooting back in the chair and walking into the hallway, leaving her behind at the table.
He rested his forearms on the wall and let his head fall on his neck. Deep breaths in and out, his eyes shut, struggling to keep his brain together as his ears buzzed. They didn’t deserve his anger, he reminded himself for the millionth time, they didn’t deserve shit after the secrets they had kept from him. That his sister wasn’t his sister. The man who had taught him how to play football, how to tie a tie, wrestled with him as a kid, wasn’t his father. His fists clenched against the wallpaper, knuckles hurting from last night, but the pain almost felt good to Harry—it was a feeling he knew.
All of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped his head to the side to find Cicely standing there. “What?” He asked, not moving an inch, but just looking at her, trying to understand for the life of him why she was there.
Instead of responding, she ducked her head under his arm and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling his body into hers.
She was hugging him, he realized.
He was frozen, unable to move. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her skin, somehow still clinging to her despite being in Balsall Heath for almost two days. The darkness of this place seemed to not even touch her, the light from her repelling all of it away. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt loosely, but just enough to where he could feel her through the fabric, her body feeling impossibly close to him.
No one had touched him like this in years. And he didn’t know what to do, how to respond, how to act.
The only thing he could think to do was to lift one of his hands from where it was clenched in a fist against the wallpaper, and brush it down her hair. It was soft against his skin, the strands of it darting between his fingers and petting the rough calluses he had from years of hard work and fighting. They stung against his cuts from the past week’s worth of fights, but he didn’t care. The prospect of touching her was enough to push all of the pain away.
Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes finding his. She was sandwiched between him and the wall and it was way too fucking close, so Harry immediately took a step back, giving her space. “Will you show me your Birmingham?” She asked him softly, voice echoing in the narrow hallway.
“What d’ya mean?”
“The Birmingham that’s your home,” she offered as an explanation. “I want to see it how you do.”
His Birmingham, the one that he had made a home, full of people who knew him as he was now. Respected him, feared him even—because what was the line, really, between fear and respect? The prospect of her wanting to understand his world the way he saw it was one he had never expected, but appreciated more than he could say. “Okay.”
Harry took her on a grand tour of Balsall Heath, them weaving through the streets with children playing, horses and cars making their way down the thoroughfares. He showed her the factories her father owned, which he assumed she had never seen before, and he studied her as she saw the conditions of the workers her father employed. Cicely seemed to be everything her father wasn’t and he hoped that that continued to her views on labor.
Parts of Balsall Heath were more well-to-do, people who could afford to send their children to the art school opposite the public baths. But Harry showed her the parts he knew, the parts where people scrapped together money to make ends meet, where they relied on wages from people like Cicely’s father. He was thankful he had gotten her clothes from Nellie because at least at this rate she blended in more, although her nice boots still stuck out like a sore thumb. Although, he expected her being with him drew a decent amount of attention. When men stopped him to talk about a match and their children were with them, Cicely would squat and talk to them, not minding that her skirts got muddy from the unpaved roads. Harry had a difficult time understanding her when she did things like that. She was so unlike so many people of her station, and yet here she was crouching to talk with grubby children on unpaved streets with a pile of horse shit just a few feet away with a smile on her face.
For a second, he let himself consider what it would be like if she stayed. But he didn’t let that thought linger for too long.
They visited his favorite pub for a pint and she laughed at the barkeep’s jokes and charmed every man they met. Perhaps Harry should have been hesitant to introduce Cicely to so many people in his world, but at the same time he didn’t care what people thought of him. If Cicely wanted to see his world, then by God was he going to show it to her.
It was getting dark by the time they made their way back to his flat, bellies full from a roast they’d had at the pub. Harry watched her walk beside him, her eyes darting around the homes as they passed. “I like it here,” she told him, not meeting his eye. “Everyone is so nice.”
He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. “Not everyone is. See all these houses?” She nodded. “In every one of them is a man who works for Josiah in some way. There’s a gun in every one of these houses for when Josiah calls.”
“Does he call?” Cicely asked, eyes finally turning to him as they walked.
He nodded, hoping that was the explanation she sought. From the way her expression changed, he assumed it was. Harry didn’t know what to do with her naivety, because it mystified him that someone could know so little of the world around them. Although, he thought as they rounded the corner to his street, he couldn’t exactly blame her.
“Does he ever…call for you?”
“Yes,” he responded because it was the honest answer. Even though he got to avoid a lot of the action because he specifically had told Josiah when he signed on to box for him that he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it came with the territory. Sometimes they needed all the people they could, and with someone as skilled at fighting as Harry and the experience from the war that he had, it would be idiotic for them not to call on him.
They reached his house in silence and he unlocked the door before pushing it open. She stepped in, and leaned down to wipe off her boots. He liked how she had already made herself feel at home in his space, knew that he always wipes off his shoes in the entryway on the mat, because otherwise the filth from the streets ends up inside. “Do you have a match tonight?” She asked, moving to the side.
“No.” It was his night off, but he had one tomorrow.
Her fingertips grazed the table and he watched them trail, the thought of her fingers on his skin drifting into his mind. “What do you do in the evenings you have off?”
Harry considered her question. He didn’t know, really. The evenings all passed, though, somehow. Time was irrelevant to him since the nights dragged on, plagued by nightmares most of the time. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall in the dark. Sometimes he took walks. Sometimes he drank enough to where the dreams didn’t come, but that was when it was really bad. “Nothing, really.”
Cicely rotated to see him, the sliver of moonlight those shone through his curtains hitting her blond hair perfectly. “Do you do anything but box?”
“No.”
“Do you read?”
Harry hadn’t read a book since before France. “Not anymore.”
Cicely turned to his bookcase, which had collected dust from disuse. “Then why do you have so many books?”
“They make me think of my sister,” he replied, the truth shocking both of them. Gemma loved books, always had—she would be curled up on a chair all day with a book in her hands if their mother didn’t make her stop. When he was young, she would read to Harry sometimes, his childhood memories a mixture of fantasy and historical tales from his sister’s lips. Perhaps the books were his way of keeping her close.
Her fingers grazed the spines of his collection, dust falling around her. “Do you talk to her?”
“No.” He’d picked up the telephone a handful of times, ready to say the number to the operator. But then he’d think again, and set down the stand.
“I like this one.” Cicely pulled a bound volume off the shelf, her eyes dancing across the cover. “The Magnificent Ambersons.”
The name meant nothing to him. He bought bestsellers because he knew his sister did the same. Sometimes he considered reading one just to see what she would’ve thought about it. One time he almost mailed her one on her birthday. But each time, he did nothing.
“Can I read to you?”
Her voice was hesitant, nervous of what he would say. No one had read to him since the war, when his friends would read aloud their letters if someone didn’t get one. It made them feel like someone was looking out for them, even if they didn’t get a letter themselves. If it had been someone else, he probably would have said no. But it was Cicely and her voice was like his favorite church hymnal, entrancing and meditative. He would have listened to her talk for hours. So he said yes.
She directed him to lay down on the couch and he did, while she sat in the chair to the side. Harry lit a cigarette as she opened the cover, the sound of her tuning the pages the only noise except for the flick of his lighter. And then, she began. “Major Amberson had ‘made a fortune’ in 1873, when other people were losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.”
Cicely’s eyes fluttered open and at first she didn’t know why. But then she heard a shout and a long, deep moan from downstairs. It was Harry again. Her hands pushed at the duvet and she flicked on the light by the bed. As she left his room the sound of him moaning in his sleep, words she couldn’t understand reached her ears, but louder without the muffling of the door. She didn’t bother to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way to the stairs and down to the first floor, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
A scream, blood curdling and filled with anguish, ripped through the house, and Cicely flew the remaining few feet to the couch. The sound of Harry’s scream, sharp and frightened, shook her to her core. She just wanted him out of there, free from the clutches of whatever demon robbed him of his sleep.
“Harry!” She said, loudly, jostling his shoulder to try and rouse him. Unlike last night when she had knelt by the couch, Harry wasn’t flailing around. He was stick-straight, as if held in a straight jacket, but she could feel his pulse racing when she pressed her fingers to his sweaty skin. It was almost more frightening—seeing him unmoving but mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The only part of him that moved was his head, ever so slightly shaking back and forth, a stream of Nos leaving his lips.
“No,” he mumbled, “please, it’s too dark, please.” His words from last night were back again, and she wanted to know where he was. What endless circle of hell he had found himself in and how to dig him out of it.
She decided to do what she had done before, and tried to lift his shoulders from the couch. But this time, Harry’s body was so tense that she couldn’t lift him, as if he had made himself a thousand pounds. As he let out another loud groan, she grimaced—she had to wake him, she just didn’t know how. “Harry,” she said again, “wake up, please. Please, Harry.”
But her words didn’t seem to do anything, because the next thing she knew his scream was filling her ears, the sound ripping at her heart. Her body seemed to move without her knowledge as she threw herself on top of him, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her palms cupping his face. “Harry,” she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Wake up for me, please. It’s Cicely. It’s safe, I’m here.”
Somehow, that seemed to rouse him, because his eyes fluttered open, his hazel eyes meeting hers in the dark. She was inches from his face, and she wondered if his sight was filled with her face just as hers was. “Cicely?”
“It’s me,” she said, brushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. “You’re safe now.” She could feel the sigh that left his body intimately, her skin touching his in parts. That was when she realized how close they were, how completely improper her position was. She was on top of him for Pete’s sake. Her knees were on either side of him, their most intimate parts just inches from one another. If her elbows weren’t propped up on his shoulders, her chest would be touching his.
She scrambled to move, but Harry’s hands moved to her hips, halting her in place. Her eyes flickered to his, trying to read him, decipher what he was doing. Usually she had a hard time reading Harry, understanding what he wanted and needed. But now she had no problem. She watched him lick his lips, his pupils still blown out from the dream trained directly on her. When his grip didn’t shift from her body, but his thumbs brushed across the shirt she wore—it was his—and she knew.
He wanted to kiss her.
Cicely had never been kissed. Boys had tried, but they’d been disgusting, as had every other man she had ever known, and she had no interest in them. Until Harry, she hadn’t ever understood romance novels, the attraction people described in them. Every man who had ever showed interest in her had been boring, unattractive, and more than anything, just made her want to run in the opposite direction. But Harry made her want to race towards him at full speed, the darkness in his gaze and warmth in his heart made her want to know his stories, the way he looked at her made a part of her heart race that she had never felt before. He made her feel alive, as if she had been sleeping for nineteen years, just waiting for him to arrive.
One of his hands moved from his hip, inching through the air until his knuckles softly brushed across her jaw. Her heart was beating in her chest so fast she wondered if she was going to pass out again. It couldn’t be possible to go this long without breathing, right? Because Cicely didn’t know the last time she had taken a breath, all of them swallowed up in the look on Harry’s face.
She wanted him to kiss her.
Desperately. With every bone in her body. Cicely wanted to know what he tasted like, what it felt like when he kissed her. She wanted to know everything about him, to uncover every piece of him like gifts on her birthday, ripping back the pieces of wrapping paper walls that kept him from her.
“Harry,” she whispered, her voice one she had never heard before. It was soft, yearning, the encapsulation of everything she wanted in that moment.
He seemed to understand, because his fist uncurled, his palm moving to cup the side of her face. Slowly, his hand moved around her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the feeling of his callused hands on her skin alighting every inch in her body. Then, he pulled her head into him, his fingers on the back of her neck, delicately pressing at her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and perhaps hers were supposed to, but she wanted to see every moment of this—she wanted to know what he looked like when he kissed her.
When he did, his wet lips meeting hers, it was like returning home after a long trip, a homecoming she had been waiting for her whole life. Her eyelids shut, lost in the feeling of him, of the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey on his lips, the smell of him that she had grown to look forward to when she walked into the room he was in. Fingers drifted from her neck to her hairline, and he lifted his chin, changing the angle, and Cicely fell into the kiss. Her arms gave out, elbows falling from his shoulders to the cushions of the couch, her body suddenly flush with his.
Harry’s hand moved from her hip to curl around her lower back, tugging her impossibly close to him as their lips parted and met again. It felt like there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them and Cicely didn’t want any. Their noses were pushed against each other, foreheads touching, lips moving in a dance they somehow both knew by heart. She pushed her fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp lightly. A sound left his throat, and Cicely went to move her fingers, thinking she had hurt him.
“Do it again,” he mumbled.
Cicely’s eyes flickered open, studying him with her lips just a centimeter from his. He looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—it was a look she had never seen but one she wanted to see for the rest of time. So she brushed her nails across his scalp and slotted their lips back together, squeezing his hips with her knees. Under his shirt she could feel his heart racing, and she wondered if he was as affected by what was between them as she was. Because for her, it felt like her world had become Harry, even though she had known him for only two days. Somehow, he was her every thought and she didn’t want another thought to grace her mind ever again.
Harry shifted his head, nudging at her jaw and pushing it up so that her neck was stretched out. In rapid succession, he pressed soft kisses to her jaw and Cicely’s head lolled back to make room for him because it felt so good to have his lips on her skin. Then, his tongue flitted out and licked over her pulse point, making her squirm against him. His hands gripped her tightly in response, before ducking his head down, pulling the collar of her shirt to the side, and nipped at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.
A breathy moan left Cicely’s mouth, mixed in with the undertones of Harry’s name. It seemed to spur him on, because he opened his lips and sucked on her skin softly. It was a sensation Cicely didn’t even know what to do with, how to process, but she knew it felt good, so she held his head to her skin, urging him to continue. Which he did—laving his tongue against her tender skin in between nips and harsh sucks, and when she looked down and saw the mark he had formed, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She just pulled his head up to meet hers, desperate to have his lips back on hers again.
His hands fell to her waist, clutching at his shirt that hung there. When he pulled at it, the hem crawled up, leaving her thighs mostly exposed to the cool air inside the room. But to Cicely, her flesh was burning from Harry’s touch and the cold air was welcome, and she didn’t mind that more skin than was appropriate was on show. She had a desire within her for Harry to see all of her, every inch of her skin if he would keep making her feel like this.
Harry seemed to not notice her exposed skin until his palms drifted downwards and gripped her skin, his eyes fluttering open and his lips pulling away from hers. “Cic—“
“It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing at the hair on his forehead. “I trust you.” And she did. She trusted him more than she did anyone else in her life, who had just let her down in a series of lies and cheats. He was the first person to take her for as she was, not demand her to be some prim and proper version, to show her the truth of their life, even if it was in pieces. It didn’t matter to her that she didn’t know it all, she knew enough. Enough to know Harry could never hurt her, at least, not in the ways that mattered.
His head bent, and he rested his forehead against hers, sucking in air and quick puffs. “We—we should stop.”
“I don’t want to,” she said, barely trusting her own voice in the moment. She didn’t even know what it was that she wanted, but it was everything, anything he would give her. She would take scraps at his table, if it meant one more moment in his arms.
Harry pushed her hair behind her ear, and then let his fingers fall to the mark he had left on her skin. She thought she could see a blush rising to his skin and it made her smile. “I want you to be sure,” he told her earnestly. “And I—I haven’t done this in a long time. I need…I want it to be perfect. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” It did, and the fact that he wanted her to be sure made her trust him even more. Because even though she wanted it, she had barely thought about it. Cicely was impulsive, and her impulses had a tendency to get her into situations she regretted, and she didn’t want to regret a moment with Harry. “Will you come back to bed with me at least?”
His breath shuddered, eyes closing. She could see the wheels of his mind turning, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.
“Harry,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow bone. “Your nightmares don’t scare me. I want to know every part of you, even the dark bits.” That made his eyes open, his pupils found her in the moonlit room. “Will you come to bed and tell me about them? It doesn’t have to be everything, I just want to know how to help you.”
Slowly, he nodded. She scooted back, letting him sit up on the couch. Tentatively she pulled her knees up from the couch and dropped back to the floor, coming to a standing and taking Harry’s hand in hers to help him up. He was a disheveled mess, his hair standing in all directions, and she realized it was from her. She liked it, seeing the results of something she had done on him.
With his hand in hers, they walked up the stairs to his bedroom, to the unmade bed she had been sleeping in before. Knowing he would be hesitant, she got into bed first, scooting against the wall and turning, so she could watch him get in behind her. The moment his head hit the pillow, the duvet cover around his waist, Cicely leaned into him, wanting to be close. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm cautiously wrapped around her, holding her to him. One of her hands rested on his chest, just inches from the nipples with barbells through them, the ones that she wanted to see again but didn’t know how to ask about. The bed suddenly smelled like a mixture of them, a new scent that she already adored. She hoped she didn’t have to go to bed again for a long time.
She brushed up and down his chest over his shirt, drawing light lines across his skin. After a few minutes of just lying there, Harry cleared his throat and began to tell her the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes. “I’d barely been there a few weeks,” he said softly. “It was still all new to me, the landscape of France, the sound of bullets in the distance, the smell of smoke and dead bodies in the air. We were in this open field, the only protection was an occasional tree, but we spent all of it in trenches.”
His voice was like gravel, rough in the silence of the room, and Cicely kept rubbing at his chest, hoping it would keep him calm enough to keep going. She didn’t want him to stop, no matter how bad it got. “There was this massive offensive in motion from the French, and we were a piece of it. We were supposed to take Arras, to gain a strategic advantage against the Germans, break the deadlock we were in. All of us were itching for action, something just to keep our minds from spiraling in those fucking trenches. I’d never really been in battle before, so I didn’t know what it was like. But god, the minute we started moving, when we came up out of the trenches and the firing started, it was like the world was ending.
“Everyone around me was dropping, partly from the German fire, but more so from the shells from the air. It was so loud—they don’t tell you that, how loud war is. Your ears never stop ringing, and you’re almost able to like, drown it out for a second? But then something goes off near you and your whole body is jolted and it draws you back to the Earth. And I was just trying to like, reload my gun, right? And keep my body from shaking. Jack was there, and he was telling me to keep it together—that’s how we met actually. He found me on the field, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t reload.
“It went on like that for days. Weeks, even. We made it three or so miles on the first day, but we also lost so many fucking men. We had to figure out who was gone, and it was easier to figure out who was still there. We made it into the town and there were all these houses with no roofs, tanks covering every inch of the road. It was like walking through the end of the world. And you can’t sleep, but you also can’t do anything but sleep because it’s this bone exhaustion you’ve never felt before in your whole life.”
Cicely could feel the fast beat of his heart and his voice was speeding up, the anxiety settling into his bones. “I’m here,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where her head laid. “I’m still here.”
His head shifted, tilting to his chin rested on the top of her head. “I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I feel like I did, on that battlefield. Everything I knew before that moment was gone. It was just echoes of the dark trenches at night, the feeling of rats crawling across your boots and the niggling feeling that you can’t go to sleep because something might happen. And the death...I think I stopped believing in God on that battlefield, because how could any God ever want that many men to die? And for what, a few measly miles that didn’t even fucking matter in the end?”
“How many did you lose?”
He paused before answering, but when he did his voice cracked as he said the number. “158,000. There were conflicting numbers, but that’s the one I heard the most.”
Cicely couldn’t even wrap her head around that number. What did 158,000 people look like? Who were all of those 158,000 people? Who were their families, their children, their loved ones? How many lives were changed forever by those days? “I’m glad you survived,” was all she could think to say. She didn’t want to say she was sorry because that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Not in comparison to everything that had happened.
“For a long time I wasn’t,” he said.
“What changed?”
His fingers brushed through her hair, tender, soft caresses that made her eyes flutter shut. “A girl who showed me there was still someone left inside of me.”
Cicely looked up at him, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the light bruise on his cheekbone from the fight the other night, the curls of his hair. “You know what I see when I look at you?” He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Someone who has experienced more pain, hurt, and loss than any one person should be allowed to. But who still manages to be kind, to be generous, to care. Someone with a life worth living, someone who is worth loving.” She reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back slightly. “Someone who is worthy of everything in the world.”
She felt the tears on his cheeks when he kissed her, their lips molding together just like before. His hands gripped her face, as if he couldn’t have her close enough, and she didn’t blame him. She wished with every kiss she could drink away the pain inside of him, pull it from him piece by piece until none remained. But she couldn’t. She could only hold him and tell him who he was to her, that he was everything to her, someone she didn’t know was waiting for her out there in the world. But who now she couldn’t imagine a life without.
The days melded together in beautiful technicolor. Seven days had passed since Cicely had woken up in Harry’s bed, and each one made her more thankful it was him who had picked her up on the road. She stood in the crowds during his matches, cheering his name with Tommy and becoming less floaty every time she had a pint. At the end of each night, Cicely cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin with a tenderness he had never experienced, pressed kisses to his forehead and told him how good he did. Each night in the pitch dark, she chased away his nightmares with reminders that she was there, she was real, this was real and the battle wasn’t. He clutched the shirts of his she continued to sleep in and held her close, letting the beat of her heart and the exhales from her chest lull him back to sleep.
He hadn’t slept this well since before the war.
Cicely had discovered a new routine. While Harry was meeting with Josiah and Jack, training, or just generally out of the house, she went next door and helped teach the Rollings children to read. She had stumbled on Pippa and Clarence the morning after she had kissed Harry, almost stumbling over them in the daze she carried. They were playing outside and she had a book under her arm, a plan of finding the nearby park and reading for a few hours. But when she stopped and apologized, Pippa asked what she had, and at the sight of the words and Cicely’s description of what a book was, she was intrigued. After asking their mother, Cicely began to spend her mornings with the children curled up on their couch or at their small table, or even on their front steps, teaching them their alphabet and how to sound out words, how to form sentences and read them on the page. They were ravenous for learning and their mother was happy to see her children entertained by someone who wasn’t her for a change, so Cicely quickly became a fixture in the house.
When she had told Harry, he gave her a small smile, the first one she had seen, and a quick peck to her forehead. It was exactly what she needed from him, a vote of support and nothing more. In the afternoons she washed the blood stains from Harry’s clothes and towels, or carried water into the house and ran herself a bath, a task well worth it. One time Harry almost walked in on her and the flush on his cheeks made her almost let him in. But that wasn’t how she wanted him to see her naked body for the first time, so she squealed for him to shut the door and he did, none the wiser.
After he had told her about France, about the demons that followed him into the night, the secrets between them fell away. It was if a damper had been lifted, and at night when they laid in bed, he shared more about his past and she told him of her family, the life she was supposed to live. She tried to avoid the topic of the future, because it made them both anxious. It felt a bit like they were living in a bubble, as if the outside world and its pressures were nonexistent. One morning Harry brought up how they hadn’t heard anything from her family, and Cicely nodded in reply. She had thought about it many times, and she didn’t quite have an answer for it. Although maybe Harry was just so far from the expected answer that she would never be found.
Just as she was starting to settle into the prospect of her life becoming this permanently, her past came knocking. She was with Pippa and Clarence on Harry’s front steps, their own ones being swept by their mother. A book was spread open on her lap, one she had found at a bookstore for children, and she was helping them decipher the sentence. She could feel eyes on her, which at face value wasn’t something to worry about—people were always looking at her, at the new person in the neighborhood, although once they found out she was Harry’s, they stopped. But this time, the feeling of someone watching her didn’t let up.
So when they reached the end of the page, she looked up in search of whomever was so interested in her. And what she found were the eyes of a policeman, the black uniform and intent stare raising the hair on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it meant, that this wasn’t some normal policeman, because the ones in this area normally didn’t pay her any mind. Josiah had made clear she was not to be trifled with the minute Harry had told him that Cicely was with him, for all intents and purposes.
This policeman, though, wasn’t from around here. He stuck out, the shine of his shoes a bit too bright, the cocky attitude obvious from a mile away. He didn’t know the people or the area.
Which could only mean one thing.
Her father had found her.
TAGLIST: @autumn-sunflowers @afire-hes @harrydobedirectioning @harryinsweatersandbandanas @vapingisntmything @frindgeyy @froggystyles @magical-mischief-makers @heslilac @ursogoldenshan
PART TWO
#harry styles fan fiction#harry styles fic#harry styles one shot#harry styles drabble#harry styles writing#harry styles x reader#harry styles x mc#harry styles smut#boxer!harry#boxer!au#1920s!harry#1920s harry#boxer harry#peaky blinders x harry styles
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In Search of Something Special
So tired. Have a test on thurs. But i was so overwhelmed that i needed a distraction. I let myself write blindly and this came out. Hope you guys enjoy and sorry about the spelling errors x3
It'd been a long time since anybody had you feeling like such a piece of trash. Not so much because you had done something petty or worth the hate, but more because of how they treated you. And after months of it, it was only natural that it had you down on the floor like a beaten pup.
Years had gone by since you last had been on the dating scene. Not because of anything bad. You were just much more involved in your own life and career to bother. Now that you were back and after a handful of less than stellar outings, it was clear that nothing much had changed either.
"Chivalry is truly dead and gone." A long swig from the cold beer in your hand at least did something to lessen the sting.
"Well, someone's partying ahead of time."
Red feathers swaying downward in front of your face told you exactly who dared interrupt your pity party for one. You hang your head back and meet eyes with the Winged Hero who only hovers over you with his gaze turned down to meet yours. Any other day you would've been fine with seeing Hawks. You were fellow heroes who worked near and around the same area. And although he seldom needed any kind of help in his neck of the woods, he was always a ray of sunshine to have when in dangerous missions that seemed like too much of a hassle to do alone.
You were both around the same age give or take a few years, and though your reputations weren't near the same caliber, it was obvious from the first mission you had together that you two worked like a charm.
If only other things worked just as smoothly.
Heaving a sigh, you lift the can of beer and share a weary half-smirk with him. "Hope you're keen of drowning in booze if you're looking to join."
That characteristic smirk of his disappeared and turned into a quizzical frown without a warning as he landed.
"What's wrong?"
"Oh nothin' much." God, you'd only had about half a pack and you were already losing yourself a bit there. Certainly the heartbreak didn't help. "Just mourning how I only seem to catch total pieces of shit with honey is all."
Those golden eyes of his narrowed as if trying to decipher your mess of a sentence before they widened. Hawks approached where you sat and had a seat beside—the narrow space of your condo's rooftop where no fence kept one away from the edge just wide enough for two.
"You went on another date?"
"Yep. And was met by none other than yet another piece of shit."
"What happened?"
You sniffled, the words stuck in your throat as if not wanting to come out due to shame. Relying on Hawks had become more of a constant in your life than you'd like to admit, and he knew this too. Over time it was easy to see that aside from being good coworkers you two considered each other good friends. It was easy to talk to one another and bitch about work or any particular thing when not out catching thugs. All that made it easier to talk to him about the more intimate side of your life and get an inside on how to get a good guy.
But half a year of trying to find somebody with no fucking luck whatsoever had you're hopes running dry that there truly was any good man out there for you. And it wasn't anything new that when things went south, he was the one to answer your calls in the middle of the night. The one that the next day would come with cheap but delicious take-out from the most obscure, small diner he knew and tubs of ice cream to share for dessert over over-the-top comedy movies.
Bad as it sounded, Hawks was your fail-safe. The one constant you could count on that would be there when you needed it. And you knew how fucking horrible that was because he deserved better than to be stuck with your sorry ass.
Yet you couldn't help telling him. You couldn't break out of that cycle or from that security that he gave you.
By the time you finish telling him what happened, he's already through his third can. You already cracked open your seventh from another six-pack to have for yourself.
"You have the shittiest luck with guys I've ever seen," he says with a slight grimace.
"I wouldn't think it crazy that I was cursed as a baby or something to just die by my lonesome at this point. That would at least explain things."
Hawks leaned forward, his cheek pressing against his knee as he brought his foot to rest on the ledge. His enormous wings cradled the two of you, the tip of the one closest to you holding you back a bit by your hip. You had huffed about it halfway through your story but no matter how much you protested he said he wasn't about to leave an unbalanced drunkard unbuckled on the ledge of a roof. You hated how he babied you now. You were a hero, god damn it, you could take care of yourself just fine, drunk or not. Hawks wasn’t budging anytime soon though and you were too tired to protest much past the first minute or so.
You legs dangled over the edge and the way you swayed them underneath you had your total attention. "Is it really too much to ask for someone who’s not a complete ass? I really don’t want to live the rest of my life alone."
"Is that really so important" he asked.
For you it was.
You'd seen what a great life your parents had had over the years of a long marriage. Through hiccups, they had stayed together to work out their problems and had lived together through it all. They always said one could never live without the other and it was a promise they kept when not days after her mother died, her father followed suit.
That’s the day she learned that sadness was the deadliest kind of killer. And in her case, loneliness wasn’t that far behind.
More than wanting to avoid being alone, you just wanted to share that kind of love with someone.
"I never really wanted this life of glitz and glamour that came with being a hero," you admitted through your own thoughts. “But I worked for it because I thought it’d make me happy. It wasn’t until after my parents passed that I realized...sharing life with someone you love is the kind of life I've always wanted. Now that I know what I want all this just seems...hollow.”
“Well...you’ve got me.”
His nonchalant reply had you chuckling. “I don’t think you heard a word I just said.”
“I heard you,” he corrected. “And I meant what I said.”
A sudden heaviness hits you as you turned to face Hawks. He avoids eye contact with you as he lays down on the ice-cold concrete instead, the glare of the rooftop lights hiding his eyes behind his vizor.
“Whether it’s as friends, or as something more than that, you’re always going to have me.”
Why does he sound so serious? The way he tilted his head to let the glare disperse and finally meet your eyes told you that he was serious.
Your cheeks suddenly turn a dark color that you hope was hidden well enough in the dark of the night.
Hawks? Chicken-brained Hawks?
Now that there wasn’t a possibility that had ever crossed your mind before. At least not seriously. All you guys had ever been was good friends. Sure, the media was always asking if you two were an item from how often you were seen together in and out of work, and you always promptly shot the idea down as soon as it came up, but was there any real merit in it?
Was there?
No, there couldn’t be. You were comfortable with him, yes, and you really appreciated him for all the times he was there for you, but it just didn’t feel like...being in love.
At least not the way that you imagined it would be like. But words your father had once told you when you were but a young girl came to mind at searching for the meaning of what ‘being in love’ really was.
“How did you know mama was the one, papa?”
“When I realized what having her near me felt like.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I suppose we can say it’s a very calming feeling. A very...warm one, too. And I’ve never felt more at peace with myself and who I am than when I’m with your mother. Loving her taught me that...love is truly our one and only peace on earth. And without her, I will never know peace again.”
Peace.
That’s what your father experienced and what he called love. And...a part of you could tell that you already knew that peace. Feeling so at peace with yourself with another, so comfortable that it’s like you’ve known them all your life—yeah, that was definitely a feeling you were familiar with during long drawn-out movies nights and cheap take-out.
At the realization, you can’t help but chuckle and wonder how long this dumb bird brain had been hiding this. Or maybe he hadn’t been hiding it at all and you were just too dense and caught up in your dumb search to notice. Still...if this was the path you wanted to go through, it would crumble down walls that had been build through years of your friendship. Walls that would not come back up intact if things didn’t work out if at all. The risk was there but you also knew that something like what your parents had—that kind of loving peace—was worth the risk.
“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”
Hawks chuckled. “I’ve been told worse.”
“By who?”
“You, of course. And all have been more than accurate, I’ll tell you,” he said with another chuckle. All those laughs though didn’t last before he became somber. “But I don’t mean to push you into anything; I was just tired of holding it in and watching you get hurt so many times. But if don’t want to, we can just forget what I said and go back to how things were. I won’t hold it against you. And I promise that nothing will change between us.”
Before you can answer, Hawks stands from his seat. The wing that been caring for you the hold time brushes against your bare arm sending chills down your spine as it pulled you back from the edge ever so slightly. A single feather stays behind as he heads to the door back inside—a gesture of his that he always made a point of making without any words.
A way for you to call him if you needed him, no matter the time or place.
You hold it by its quill and twirl the feather between your fingers.
Peace. That’s what you wanted. Mine—no...ours.
Your hesitation lasts only a brief moment when you hear the door finally open and you speak out without thinking. Your voice is just above a whisper but it isn’t him you’re speaking to. Your lips brush against the single feather as you speak and you know that alone stops him in his tracks.
“A date.” The feather moves ever so slightly and you know you have his attention. Flustered, you try to make an excuse but it ends up as lame as can be. “I mean, only if you’re okay with it! Like you said, I’m not trying to force you either and I don’t know if I’m emotionally ready for another one, but...but if it’s you...I don’t think...I’d mind.”
“How does take-out and a movie sound to you then?”
His voice reverberates across the space that separates you and forces you to look back at him. Funny how you’ve never noticed how bright his smile could be, or maybe this is the first time you’ve ever seen him smiling like that.
That peace returns and is accompanied by a flutter in your stomach. The good kind. You twirl the feather around as it brushes against your lips every time making your cheeks warm with anticipation.
“Perfect.”
#hawks#bnha hawks#hawks x reader#keigo takami x reader#keigo takami#bnha#bnha imagin#hawks imagines#keigo takami imagines#bnah fic#birds of a feather collection
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2020 fic recs!! [Part 1]
this idea was stolen from @iam93percentstardust cuz i just,,,thought that this year was absolute shit and it would be nice to make a fic rec list of fics from this year that helped me through it. this will be over a range of fandoms and ships, but all fics were written this year.
fics are ordered by the month they were published. ive tried to keep to five fics per month, but this is not obviously all the fics ive read that month - i just didn’t want to make this insanely long.
im releasing the first half of this on the 1st of December, and the second half on the 1st of January 2021 - because otherwise it would just get so long (and also so i will actually have fics for December)
happy reading!! hopefully you find fics on this you haven’t read yet
***
January
The cat is mighty dignified (until the dog comes by): @five-wow
Steve and Danny find them on the pillow in the corner of the dining area, where Eddie is on his side, ass half on the floor because the pillow is more cat-sized than lab-sized, and Pickles is nestled between Eddie’s front legs, essentially being spooned and looking very I-got-the-cream about it. Pickles’ head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s head slots perfectly on top of Mr. Pickles’, like a furry jigsaw puzzle.
“They’re cuddling,” Steve points out, unnecessarily.
Or: There is a love story unfolding under the McGarrett roof.
Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America: @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah
It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.
Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again.
The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak
His Dark Materials AU
It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.
“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”
Fourteen Million to One: @tunastorks
Six months after Thanos, six months after Tony’s death, six months after Steve returns to his own timeline, Tony Stark turns up on their doorstep.
Brewed Awakening: @iam93percentstardust
Two years after he comes out of the ice, Steve is drifting through life. On his teammate's recommendation, he decides to go back to school where he meets the grandson of an old friend. He finds happiness with Tony but Steve won't be in Boston forever and someone is out to hurt the Starks. Will Steve and Tony be able to reach their happily ever after?
February
the young, the reckless and the foolish: @bruciewayne
In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.
In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.
This is them over the years, against the odds.
a giant sign: @areiton
“Think you can get him to open the weapons division up again?” his CO asks, his voice hungry and Rhodey laughs because this--
“No. Tony hung up his weapons.”
“That’s not what the suit says,” his CO objects, and Rhodey shrugs.
Tony has always had rules, rules he expects the entire world to live by.
And then there was Rhodey, slipping under them.
my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast: @nethandrake
Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.
He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either.
What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.
(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)
Just A Cold: @/delighted
There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.
Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.
An Unexpected Guide: @/Rachel500
Danny Williams has hidden his Guide status to keep being a detective, but his time of hiding is up when he unexpectedly finds his Sentinel, Steve McGarrett in the midst of a tragedy.
March
Why don’t we (Collide the spaces that divide us): @five-wow
When they finally catch sight of each other again through the milling crowds, they’re both a little worse for wear. Danny’s left side is covered in glitter and every time he brushes a hand over his hair, more blue and purple confetti rains down. Steve is- Well, Steve is randomly shirtless, which is all things considered not excessively remarkable, but he’s also covered in smudges of colorful paint and has a very nicely printed bloodred lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.
“What did you do?” Danny asks, because it looks like Steve had a lot more fun than he did.
Or: Steve and Danny accidentally end up in the middle of something entirely new.
A Little Unsteady: @finduilasclln
Written for the Tumblr prompt meme : "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"
Tony lashes out at Bucky for eating his dessert. Only, it really isn't about the dessert.
a national treasure: @starklysteve
Steve isn't looking for an apple and Tony decides his passion is to inspire young souls.
-x-
OR: the AU where Tony is a Youtuber and Steve is Captain America and somehow they still save the world together.
April
cycle through: @ambivalentmarvel
Twenty-five years ago, Tony Stark disappeared from his family home a month after the tragic deaths of his parents, Howard and Maria Stark, leaving a billion-dollar tech conglomerate without an heir and the world wondering what happened.
Twenty-three years ago, HYDRA gained another super soldier.
Ten years ago, Peter Parker’s parents died in what is ruled as a home invasion gone wrong but he knows was murder, plain and simple, because he spoke to the killer.
And in the present, Project Insight fails, and the Iron Soldier pays the price.
FOREVER-LOVE YOU-I: @/Eudoxia
Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.
Especially for Tony's soulmate.
--
Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.
(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)
come build a home out of me: @maguna-stxrk
Steve clears his throat.
“What if I went with you?” he asks nonchalantly, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his ribcage.
Tony blinks a few times, looking at Steve, his mouth ajar. “As a— As my date?”
“Yeah.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless.
“You don’t mind?” Tony furrows his eyebrows.
“I don’t. In fact, you can just tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’m sure they’ll back off, wouldn’t they?”
What.
“I— Huh?” Tony stares at him, brown eyes blown wide open.
What. What. What.
“Huh? Uh, I mean— You know, that way people will see that you have definitely moved on. Monica will see that you have moved on. Right?” Steve smiles, hoping that it masks his inner panic, because what?
Steve Rogers, what have you done?
i don’t have a choice (but i’d still choose you): @nethandrake
There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—
Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.
Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.
Anthony Edward Stark.
(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)
ua haʻalele ʻoe iaʻu (a ua hoʻomālamalama ʻoe iaʻu): @just-fandomthings
"The truth is, I was shot in the chest and nearly died, and not even three days after I was released from the hospital, you up and left-- and of those two, I'm not sure which one hurt me worse!"
(Coda to 10x22 because come on, we all need a better ending than the one given to us.)
Title loosely translates to: "You left me in the dark (you lit me up)" -- inspired by the brilliant song "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur
May
A Piece Of The Past: @hddnone
It had been so many years since Bucky had gone undercover in the Stark family's mob, he thought he'd gotten away clean.
Then Tony Stark slid into the seat across from him at his breakfast diner, and Bucky's boss has a new case for him.
the privilege of loving you: @starklysteve
“Why won’t you let me touch you?”
It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?
-x-
Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn't tell Steve and Peter
your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance): @firebrands
When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.
Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.
Bruce doesn’t like it.
IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.
This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DO
Canonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that
The Real MVP: @sword-and-stars (part of a series)
[“I have saved this Tuesday!” Sokka announces, rattling the bag upon reentry.
Zuko doesn’t even look up from his phone as he deadpans, “It’s Thursday.”
Okay, so Sokka is still having trouble getting his days right without checking. At least he’s gone back to sleeping at night! Going to bed at night is way easier when you have a cute, cuddly boyfriend who starts falling asleep around eleven o’clock. It also helps that he and Zuko are on solid gold butt-touching terms.
It’s been a while since Sokka has been on butt-touching terms with someone and it’s amazing.]
Or,
Sokka knows a guy, gets laid, and introduces Zuko to the merits of an afternoon delight.
When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it): @riotwritesthings
There’s a tiny safe house, with one tiny window and one tiny couch.
And one tiny little bed.
June
Nice Fingers: @anthonyed
A single compliment given by Tony stirs Bucky restless until he caves in and asks him out on a date.
With Steve’s help of course (whether he likes it or not).
The Darkest Touch: @starkrogerrs
This is the story of how Steve finds that it has been ordained that he is to marry a monster he cannot resist aka the God of Love himself, Tony.
It's Cupid x Psyche retold, but with thrice the amount of porn.
The Night Shift: @weethreequarter
Welcome to the Emergency Department of San Antonio General where Dr. Tony Stark joins the team fresh from his most recent tour in Afghanistan and - much to the consternation of the other staff - strikes up an instant rapport with Nurse Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, new resident Bruce Banner refuses to give up on his patient, and Dr. Sharon Carter learns something from her own patients. Throw in a pissed off hospital administrator, Clint using the coffee pot as a mug again, and a major car crash and you have, well, just another night shift.
Wind Beneath My Wings: @iam93percentstardust
Sam first meets Tony Stark in 2005 when he joins the EXO-7 Falcon program.
In jest: @/apathyinreverie
“No, babe,” Danny shakes his head with a grin. “If the apocalypse were to go down while I’m elsewhere for some godforsaken reason, then you stay put and I’m coming to wherever you are.” His grin widens. “And I expect you to have cleared any aliens or zombies or whatever else might be messing with us off the island and to have set up a nice, comfortable military dictatorship for us to rule over by the time I get back.”
It’s a joke.
Of course it’s a joke.
Until it isn’t.
(A the-day-after-tomorrow-style apocalypse AU, where the world decides to end right when Danny is visiting one of the other islands with Grace. Because, of course, it does.)
#adi's rec list#mcdanno#stevetony#buckytony#brucetony#rhodeytony#zukka#samtony#january - june#there's so many different ships on this#and different authors#and it spans three fandoms#so hopefully you guys enjoy this!!
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Golden Rings 20: A Line
The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs.
Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.
Read on AO3
It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.
That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage.
Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.
He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.
Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.
He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door.
“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.
“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.
“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.”
Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.
But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.
He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.
Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.
He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.
Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.
With a heavy tread, he kept walking.
****
In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes.
From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it.
Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.
He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.
As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve.
Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible.
Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend.
Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well.
He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer.
“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.
“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.
Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning.
It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago.
“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want.
“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”
“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.”
He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”
“I can leave right now. Your house?”
“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”
“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up.
“Good.”
****
The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.
“Now follow this road for another two miles.”
Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”
Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient.
“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness.
“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”
Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”
He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”
The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot.
No, there was one thing.
“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?”
“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.”
By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath.
Counting.
“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.
“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”
From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson.
With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest.
Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.
“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.”
He stared. “You knew that would happen?”
“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”
Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.
“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”
“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand.
“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”
“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”
“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”
He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm.
“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”
Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”
Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.
It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad.
“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”
“Where?”
“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”
Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated.
“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”
He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”
“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.
But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”
Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double.
“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”
“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.
He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”
He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”
Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”
“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”
“And I’ve had to live with that--”
“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”
“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”
Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”
“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”
“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”
He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”
Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”
“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”
“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”
A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”
He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood.
“As for Leona...?”
Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”
He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.
Until now.
Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony.
“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”
Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate.
A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again?
“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.
He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.
Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time.
Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly.
He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.
But Belle was gone now.
And Jefferson was here.
Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him.
They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.
But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.
Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.
Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.
When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered.
“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again.
It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same.
They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.
“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”
It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.
“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.
Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”
Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”
Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”
“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“To Belle?”
“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”
There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.”
“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”
In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs.
His cock.
“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”
He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.
“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”
Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”
Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”
He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”
“And I thought six months was bad.”
“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”
“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”
Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?”
“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”
He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”
“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”
Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft.
“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”
The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.
“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”
Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”
It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.
Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.
Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.
“Rumpelstiltskin!”
The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.
He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.
“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”
Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”
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𝓐h okay sorry again for the delay, my last two brain cells don’t work apparently but I really hope you guys don’t hate me too much after this one 😬
huge massive thank you to the incredible @youresogolden-h for editing ❤️
CHAPTER EIGHT: HURTS WHEN I’M LEAVING YOU (3.7K)
Harry and Y/N are friends…. with benefits, but not the kinds you’re thinking of.
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Harry placed two silver-plated keys, bound together by a thin piece of faux leather tied in a secure knot, on her thigh while joining her on his couch. She had just finished tying up her shoes when he reappeared in the living room.
She stared at the keys carefully before picking them up and looking at him quizzically until he gave her an answer.
“I thought it a bit weird if you stopped sleeping at your coworker’s place the same time I was out of town.”
She glanced at the keys again in her hand. He wanted her to come over while he was gone. To sleep in his bed without him. To simply be in his house when he wasn’t, knowing full well how his last relationship had gone and still he trusted her with something like that.
He was quieter the next time he spoke. “And if you want to come over to look at the lights while I’m away.”
He wanted to tell her it was overdue, that he’d wanted to give her keys their first consistent week together because it would have been easier. But he had been too scared of how that might come across because it was a huge step for him, letting someone in, and he was worried she might think he deserved what happened to him in the past if he was truly that reckless. But now, there was no fear at all. He trusted her with a huge portion of his life, if not all of it.
“Why are there two?” She finally asked.
He glanced at them in her palm and then back at her. “There’s two locks on the door. The smaller one,” he picked up the one he was talking about, “opens the lock on top. And this one,” he set the small key down and pointed at the next, “the main lock.”
He scooted closer to her at some point when explaining the keys and she only knew it because of how her heart raced, which was the weirdest thing for her heart to be having a meltdown over, since Harry being close was nothing new to her at this point. But here she was, hyper fixated over the way his knee touched hers and how his fingertips had brushed against her palm and how close his voice was to her ear, she could suddenly pick out the intricate details of his broken accent. Like how some words he pronounced were as British as it got, and others were a little more California. She wondered if, when he spent more time home, his accent bounced back to how it was supposed to sound.
“Should also mention there’s a security system,” he pointed his gaze to a pin-pad on the wall near the front door she had always known about, having seen him punch numbers into it countless times before they went upstairs, but never thought about in too much depth. “I’ll leave you the code. You have to put it in when you get here and before you go to bed.”
There it was. The confirmation that she was fully allowed to sleep here if she wanted to. She had assumed that’s what he meant when he gave her the keys, but it settled her worries knowing she had verbal permission to do so.
And with everything she needed to know about his home while he was away, and their sarcastic little goodbyes to one another out of the way, the only thing he had left to do was pack a suitcase and meet his team at the airport.
Amongst searching his drawers for a particular pair of jeans he wanted, however, he came across her drawer. The one that kept filling up with her clothes, whether it was various pieces from her work outfits or her spare pajamas, it had become her little space in his closet. And once his eyes landed on one of her plain heather grey shirts, there was no stopping him from smuggling it into his suitcase. Just for good measure.
Just so that when he was in his lonely New York hotel room, the nights went a little easier knowing he had a piece of her with him. It wasn’t nearly enough, however, when he still lost vital
hours of sleep and showed up to his six a.m. meetings looking and acting hungover even though he hadn’t had a stitch of alcohol.
“It’s the jetlag,” he had excused when Jeff had asked about the bags under his eyes and the third cup of coffee. He knew very well he was running on about four collective hours of sleep since Tuesday and it was getting a bit ridiculous at this point.
Thursday night was when things changed, or at least he hoped they would. Sick of going back to his room alone before eight o’clock, he finally agreed to get drinks instead. He finally had some amount of human interaction outside of work. Outside of discussions about album sales and what his sophomore era might look like.
He was done with all of it by the time he got down a burning shot of tequila that Jeff had ordered for their entire group.
“You look tired, man,” Dan planted his arm around Harry’s shoulders, practically shaking him back to life. He was a new producer they’d been working with on the album and right now Harry preferred the sting of the alcohol over the way Dan squeezed his shoulders so recklessly. It made him long for the way Y/N touched him, always careful and delicate.
“He doesn’t sleep,” Jeff offered, recalling the three a.m. text messages he’d received from Harry on Wednesday to prove his point. Harry remained quiet with a permanent grimace on his face, seeking out more alcohol.
“You need to get laid!” Dan exclaimed, shaking his poor shoulders again, and just about doing Harry’s head in. As much as he tried to hide it, a look of pure disgust rolled onto Harry’s face because for the first time in... however long, he didn’t want sex. Didn’t even want to think about it. He just wanted Y/N. That was it. If it wasn’t her in his bed, he wanted nothing to do with it.
And he realized at that point that Will had been right. He was helplessly in love with someone who might not ever love him back.
He took another shot and found his attention being pulled away from his immediate table to a flash of hair swooping halfway across the club from where they sat. It was definitely his mind, and the alcohol swimming around in it, doing tricks on him, but he could have easily mistaken her for Y/N. It was the hair, he thought. It was the exact same, at least under the piss poor lighting, but to the point where he smelled coconut in his nostrils even though there was nothing physical around him that was remotely close to smelling like her. His nose was so used to her, and missed her so much, it was making shit up out of thin air.
And with a few more shots and a little bit of flirting later, he wasn’t so alone when he stepped through the door of his hotel room Thursday night.
He wasn’t alone when he got to his bedroom, when the girl’s hands were already undressing him and he was comparing it to when Y/N had unbuttoned his shirt that one drunken night. She’d been so soft and gentle, though. So very unlike how it was now. It was going too fast for him, especially when she accidentally scratched her nails against his abs and kissed him so impatiently, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore.
Nevertheless, he was drunk and she looked like Y/N if he squinted hard enough, so he let her undress him all the way to the bed where she crawled on top of him and undid his jeans. He had no clue what her name was and although he felt horrible about it, he was positive it was better that way. Particularly when she got her hands on him and he saw stars behind his eyelids. He tilted his head back towards the wall behind them with a gasp when it was her mouth next. Her name was extremely unimportant when he pretended it was Y/N every time the girl traced her fingers across the tattoos on his hips.
Even when she was on top of him, giving him all the warmth he’d been craving, he still pretended she was someone else when she kissed him again, when she ran her hands through his hair, and when he dug his fingers into her hips.
He closed his eyes through all of it and imagined being with Y/N like that.
He was so fucking fucked.
The ding of his phone as it vibrated on the bedside table woke him hours later. It was still dark outside, that much he knew. He also knew that whatever sloppy sex he’d had was not worth it when the girl had turned the other way and fell asleep with her back facing him, several inches apart. He could have gone without the sex, but holding on to someone while he slept? That was harder to go without.
Shaking his head clear of his stupid, drunken mistakes, he pressed the button on the side of his phone, lighting the entire room with his screen before he lowered the brightness and read the text message waiting for him.
He squinted at it at first, realizing it wasn’t a message, but rather a picture. Either way, he swiped it open quickly because the least he knew was that it was from Y/N.
Tapping the picture open, he quickly saw that it was of her when he zoomed in on what she hadn’t cropped out of her face. It was her, standing in front of the mirror in his closet dressed in her typical casual attire apart from one thing.
She was wearing his bright pink suit jacket he’d worn on the Today Show a couple years ago.
He couldn’t help but smile, even wider the longer he looked at it. When he pulled the covers off of himself and sat up on the edge of the bed, he even laughed at it, as quietly as he could manage, while he attempted to tame his hair by pulling his clammy fingers through it.
While typing his message, he tried not to think about her rummaging through his closet. Her light touch spreading across the various colors and textures of his clothes. He tried not to acknowledge the overwhelming fluttering in his chest.
(Harry, 3:13 am, NY time)
Looks better on you.
He waited patiently while the three little dots from her side of the conversation disappeared and a new bubble from her popped up in its place.
(Y/N, 3:13 am, NY time)
I know.
He couldn’t help his laughter then, glancing behind him only when he heard the other girl shuffle under the hotel sheets, realizing for the first time in the past few minutes that she was still there.
Instead, he gathered himself and went out into the living room, snagging a shirt from his drawer to slip on and turning the heater up a few notches on his way out.
(Harry, 3:24 am, NY time)
Finally missed me then?
His next text was sent once he was settled on the couch without a single light on. He had the moon and his phone screen though, and that was enough.
(Y/N, 3:25 am, NY time)
I missed the heated floors in your bathroom actually.
He laughed again at her response, not having been this happy his entire trip. Not even remembering the last time he genuinely smiled since he’d been with her on Tuesday morning. It was very much needed. Even if it was past three a.m. in his timezone.
While he thought about what to say next, he slipped his shirt on over his head for some relief from the chilly room. What he didn’t expect, however, was to smell her shampoo again. And then her perfume. He smelled all of her like she was there in the room next to him. And it wasn’t his nose being a little bitch again.
Looking down at himself, he realized he’d grabbed her shirt. The light grey, oversized one. It had fit a little baggier than all the ones he had packed, but he didn’t make much of it until his senses were filled with everything he loved about her.
He was really, really fucked.
His phone dinged twice more.
(Y/N, 3:27 am, NY time)
Sorry I didn’t realize how late it was there.
Goodnight harry :)
She set her phone down on the top of one of his shelves. If his closet was anything, it was well-organized. After slipping out of Harry’s pink jacket, she neatly replaced it back onto the rack with his other nice coats. She didn’t want to know how much money she’d just squeezed herself into, but Harry didn’t seem to mind.
And she hoped he wouldn’t mind her wandering hands as she slipped them into a drawer she knew he kept his shirts in. She’d meant to go in his closet, secure her own pajamas, and be out. But she saw the bright pink and got distracted. And now she was even more distracted while she pulled out a black t-shirt of his and slipped into it instead. He would never know and she would get a little bit of relief.
Once she had it on though, and she looked at herself in the mirror, she felt horrible about it. Here she was snooping about his wardrobe like she wasn’t supposed to be doing. He didn’t give her his spare keys so she could try his clothes on while he was away. Quickly, she pulled his shirt off and folded it neatly back into its spot.
She flipped off the light in his closet after getting what she needed from her designated drawer and retreated to his bed. It didn’t look the same as when she’d left it. He’d cleaned it up between then and now, making it neat for her again just in case she ended up here at some point. She didn’t expect to actually follow through, but her own sleepless nights got the best of her and by Thursday, she broke down and made the drive up to his house. She punched in the security code to turn the alarm off while she ate her takeout she’d picked up after work in his kitchen. Then she cleaned a little bit for him, putting away the dishes drying out on the counter and organizing his collection of cookbooks that were slowly falling over.
And now she was here, standing in the middle of his room while the whole of L.A. watched her sneak back into his closet to retrieve his black t-shirt once again.
With it secured, she removed her bra from underneath and then her jeans. And the cool air on her bare legs felt too good to cover herself in her plaid pajama bottoms. So, she went without them. She had never lived alone before, but she imagined this was what it felt like. Like she was
free. She could go around in a shirt with no pants on and not worry about anything. And it’s not like he would ever have to know the shirt she was walking around in was his.
She became obsessed with the way his shirt looked on her in the bathroom mirror as she finished her nightly routines. It was just a normal fucking crewneck but the fact that it had previously hugged his body at some point and smelled just fucking like him, it made her feel all sorts of ways. She especially felt not as alone anymore while she crawled into his bed by herself. She sat upright against his pillows for a while, on top of the blanket with her legs spread straight out in front of her and her ankles crossed over each other, flipping through apps on her phone until she had enough and then stared out at his all-too-familiar view.
She missed it almost as much as she missed him. She missed the feeling of him looking at her while she looked at the city. She missed his touch that pulled her back. She missed talking to him like she’d never missed talking to anyone else before.
She missed the way he sometimes glanced at her lips. The way he had giggled when she’d practically taken his shirt off of him in her bedroom and how soft his skin had been that made her feel less guilty about the whole thing. The way his muscles pulled tight across his back. The way his arms stretched over her body, flexing when he hugged her closer.
The way she was currently lost in her dreams about him. And his back and his shoulders and the beads of sweat that might exist on his silky skin if he were to...
She shook her head clear of that image. Because frankly, she really needed to stop thinking about Harry like that. It would never happen, and she knew that. But in her head, it made sense. In her head, he liked her back. He liked her enough to more than just sleep with her. He liked her enough in her head to be on top of her, filling her up while the entire city watched.
And then it just happened. Not that she didn’t feel bad about having her hands down the front of her panties in his shirt and in his bed at just the mere thought of him, but she couldn’t quite help it. She wished he was touching her instead, something she never thought about anyone else in real life before. And with her eyes closed, teetering her head further back into his pillows, enough that she got stronger whiffs of his scent, it was so easy to imagine him doing so.
She saw his hands behind her eyelids, gentle but eager to touch her, and she heard his voice close to her ear, his broken accent telling her it was okay to let go. Her mind had completely left reality, lost to the clouds even though her body remained in Harry’s bed. Her head in the clouds was a better place to be, however. Harry was there and he liked her the way she wanted him to.
She felt it in her chest before her mind even fully comprehended what Will was saying. It was a kind of pain she didn’t let herself feel often but when she did, it was the worst kind of hurt she ever faced.
Her morning had been the best she had all week, mostly due to the events of the previous night. Then there was the text from work telling her not to come in until eleven because of a cancelled meeting that only made the outlook for her day that much brighter. She cleaned up around Harry’s house some more, throwing his clothes into the laundry, including the shirt she’d slept in, while she showered, almost succumbing to her fucking thoughts all over again, but witholding by some grace of god.
She drove home to eat before going to work, craving a bowl of her usual Lucky Charms that not a single drive through breakfast could suffice.
But, when she was at the table surrounded by her roommates again, it had all gone to shit. She wished she had just gotten that fucking McMuffin and driven her ass to work instead. But no. She had to sit and listen while Will gave them all the daily report on Harry’s personal life. The part of him Y/N thought she knew quite well, but apparently she couldn’t have been more wrong.
Will showed off photos of a girl in Harry’s car taken earlier this morning in New York and Y/N suddenly lost her entire appetite.
“Do you know who she is, though?” Violet asked, having taken Will’s phone from him to scroll through all the candid photos and zoom in to try and figure it out.
“No, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s the girl he told me about.” Will explained, causing Y/N’s eyebrows to furrow. Harry had talked to Will about a girl that he liked?
Why hadn’t he mentioned her to Y/N? Not even just last night when they were texting? Her mind started spiraling from there. She went as far as thinking that Harry might feel bad for her, that he didn’t know how to break off their situation and he’d just been stringing her along. All while he had someone he really wanted.
Or maybe he hadn’t been stringing her along at all, maybe she was just imagining something was there when it clearly wasn’t.
She shut it all off quickly before she found herself getting mad at Harry.
“He told you about someone?” Violet asked, far too invested in Harry’s love life.
“Well, not much.” Will answered vaguely, “He was writing songs about her but he wouldn’t say who she was.”
“Found it!” Violet exclaimed, sharing the screen with Will again, “It says her name is Jessica,” Violet added fuel to the fire burning behind Y/N’s eyelids.
She hated that the first thing she thought of was his journal and the way he hid it away from her that first night she’d been at his place. She stared, empty, at her half-eaten bowl of cereal until she completely lost her appetite. Part of her knew her roommates were jumping the gun. Harry could be seen with a girl and not have any kind of romantic connection. But it didn’t explain his songs. He was writing them about someone.
She felt like an idiot. Like a stupid, goddamned idiot. And worse than that, she felt the same way she did all those years ago in high school and she hated mixing Harry in with any of those feelings. But he made her feel stupid. Like she had any bit of a chance with him when he was clearly interested in someone else. She’d trusted him with so much, especially the last night she’d spent with him, and now she was doubting if he even cared at all this entire time or if he just didn’t know how to tell her he was done with her.
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When She Leaves
Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader/OC
Genre: Fluff. Romance.
Word Count: 2.1k? (I will be double checking)
Warning: Mentions of breakdowns. Mentions of abandonment. Possessive Levi. Nothing major really. Probably not even worth a warning but I still put them on here just in case. I don't want anyone to have a bad experience reading.
A/N: Hi. I'm new to writing for AOT. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. This is basically a snippet of the relationship between my OC, Eden Beckwith, and our favorite husbando Levi. Honestly, Eden is meant to be like a build-your-own-character kind of character if you know what I mean. Her physical description are meant to be vague and be imagined by the reader however they wish to imagine her to look like. Like the Y/N system I guess. I have my own vision of Eden in my head. Sometimes, a notice in advance, I will mention her height but that's just about it. *She's a lot taller than Levi by the way.*
Most of my work will revolve around them and their relationship. The ups and downs. So if anybody has any ideas, or just want to know more about Eden in general, I will love to answer questions. Eden is one of my favorite OCs and the love child of all the fanfic ideas I've had for AOT.
Lastly I will like to apologise for my grammar. I try my best to edit these but I'm not really good at it. As I go along I will most likely improve and get better at writing. For now please bare with me until I get a beta reader and/or I get better.
I will like to also apologize for maybe writing Levi a little to ooc. In this case he's already in an established relationship and therefore I headcannon that he's just a romantic at heart. Just needs the right person to let it all loose.
I think that's about it. I hope you all enjoy.
.
“Levi! Good morning!”
He was writing down requests for a shipment of earl grey tea. His attention suddenly successfully snatched by his lover walking through the door. Eden greeted him enthusiastically before she closed the door with her foot. His favorite tea set laid out nicely on the tray she was holding with both her gloved hands.
He noted her dress wear. The casual day dress Eden was wearing grabbing his attention. The beautiful light blue color of her dress contrasting with her skin. Her hair halfway pined up and flowing over her shoulder. Making her look younger than she looked. She gave him a beautiful smile as she approached his desk; setting down his tea set carefully onto the wooden surface.
‘Good morning. Are you going somewhere?” He questioned her. She never dressed like this unless it was for an important event. Like balls and visiting her grandparents.
Levi leaned back onto his chair and looked her over. She looked beautiful. It made him jealous of all the gazes she must have gotten while making her way to his office. It made him want to lock her up somewhere safe and secure. Where he knew she will be safe and no eyes but his will lay upon her.
He knew he would never do that to her, even if he desired it. After all, she was completely his and she had proven that so many ties. The possessiveness in him only pacified by her. Only completely quieted down with the things she does and has done for him. Like bringing him tea.
She ignored his staring. Eden placed the items in front of him. Side eyeing him with a pointed look, as if knowing what he was thinking. He raised his hands as if surrendering and crossed is arms across his chest. She smiled, satisfied, before answering his question.
“Actually, yes. Nana had sent a letter and asked me to meet her at Trost. You know, the bi-annual visits to the estate. I will be leaving before the bell rings at noon and will return before the week ends. Just in time for the expedition meetings.”
“And why did you not tell me beforehand?”
This was not the first time she had gone off without telling him beforehand. The first time happened during the beginning of their courtship. It had sent him into a frenzy, snapping at everyone and cleaning vigorously to the point of over exaggeration.
For days.
Nobody seemed concerned with the disappearance of their missing superior officer. All he thought to himself during those days was the worst had happened. She had abandoned him, and to an extension the Survey Corps.
It reminded him someone he personally knew.
The only one brave enough to confront him about his behavior was Hange. They, to this day, are convinced that he tried to kill them with his gaze.
After that fiasco, Levi had made Eden promise to never do that again without ing him beforehand. A promise she’s done good job at keeping. In exchange he promised to ease off on Eren during her time away. The kid being his number one victim during his borderline breakdown.
He begrudgingly accepted the conditions.
“Because I just received the letter yesterday, and we both know you will try to convince me to stay if I give you enough time of a notice- Don’t look at me like that. We both know its true and I'm determined to not fall for your trap of a body... Again.”
Eden looked him up and down before she bit her lip and wiggled her eyebrows at him playfully. He could not help but amuse her with a short chuckle before he straightened up in his seat, taking the tea cup she placed neatly in front of him for a sip.
The fragrance. The smell. The taste.
Just the way he liked it.
“It’s not my fault you get distracted by me. I say that’s entirely your fault.” He spoke after placing the cup down on it’s saucer.
Eden walked around his desk slowly, moving along sensually before arriving behind him. She leaned down, arms snaking over his shoulders and then running down his chest. She hugged him and laid her chin on his shoulder before pecking his cheek.
“I’ll give you a point for that one... Try not to miss me too much.”
Levi will never admit to it, but he always missed her terribly when she leaves.
Often, they did not meet during the day in their everyday lives. Private moments shared almost always during the evening and into the nights. Sometimes whole days and nights go by without seeing each other. Rare but not uncommon. Both occupied in their roles as senior officers during it all, but he knew that she was close by. Even during expeditions when they are literally on opposite sides of their formations. When danger is at its highest and possible death at their every step. He seemed not miss her more than what he deemed as normal for someone in a relationship.
Not that he knew much of relationships before Eden. They were each other’s first relationship and first of everything romantic.
It was only when she was away, far away, that it reminded him that he was somewhat emotionally invested in her. It made him realize how much he hated the notion of it. Use to hate. Still hated? He did not know anymore. The weakness she brought him. How he allowed her to wrap him around her fingers.
Addicting.
She was all addicting, and he could not stop himself from her even if he wanted to. He did not want to if he was honest with himself. He was tired being alone. To be left behind.
Maybe that was it. He was tired of being alone, and afraid of her leaving him behind spontaneously in whatever form. He wanted to be by her side as long as she allowed him to be there. Forever if they both could.
Is this what love is?
“Tch. Miss you? I will dance with glee when you leave. A thorn out off my side. Fucking finally.”
Levi could practically see her beam at his seemingly cruel words. Her breathy chuckle a musical note in his ear that sent delicious shivers down his spine. The vibrations of her laugh practically echoing within him as she pressed against him.
He tapped on her arm, and was promptly released from her hold. He turned to her and stared up at her soft smile that played across her lips. Eyes soft only for him; her lips parting as she was about to speak her musical tune.
Levi couldn’t help himself any longer. He pulled her closer to him, his arm around her waist. She leaned heavily against him, between his legs, and her hand landed on the backrest of the seat to steady herself. The other hand on his chest near his shoulder. Almost practically siting on his lap.
Eden raised an eyebrow at him.
‘What are you doing?” She asked him, knowing full well his intentions as he looked at her lips and the up to her eyes. She was looking down on him due to his short stature sitting down compared to her. Those beautiful orbs of hue transfixing him into her world and into the essence of her.
She was truly a beauty amongst men.
All his as he was hers.
“Is it wrong for me to want a kiss?”
“No...” Eden looked down to his lips then to his eye. Copying his motions before smiling softly, taking her own hand from his chest to caress his cheek before laying it against the skin of his neck. Thumb still stroking the recently shaved skin of his jaw and cheek. He leaned against her hand unconsciously. Seeking the warmth of her hand as he received an understand look from her.
“No, it is not... Kiss me.”
The captain did not have to be told twice. His lips softly brushing teasingly against hers in an intimate moment. It took a few second, teasing her only to feel her smile again before their lips met. Softly at first. A quick kiss before they parted.
“That’s not enough...” She complained. Levi chuckled and gave her a quick peck. And another, And then one more before he leaned away to look at her funny expression. Her closed eyes and dramatically puckered lips. He smirked, making a small noise that made him receive a small scowl from her as she opened her eyes to look at him.
“I think I’ve had my fill.” He declared, leaning back fully into the backrest of his chair. Her frown deepened.
“No. I want more my love.” There it was. The nickname only reserved for these moments between them. Private. Intimate. Just for the two of them to hear and no one else.
He brought his hand, running it along her spine to cradle the back of her head. Hair tangling between the space of his long slender fingers. She let him guide her closer to him. Surrendering herself to him for their mutual wants and needs.
“If you insist.”
It was tender, their kiss, but it quickly grew heated. She was seated completely on his lap and leaning against him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulling him close. Lips running wild with his own.
His own hands were not passive. His hand in her hair, completely tangled in its strands and pulling her impossibly closer to him. The other hand on her waist sliding down to feel her buttocks through the thick materials of her many layered dress. Not stopping their mission on feeling his lover, and holder of his heart, under his hands.
Then there was a knock.
Eden detached herself from him in a flash. He had never seen her move that quickly without the assistance of ODM gear. She quickly fixed her hair and upper part of her dress, tidying herself up too look presentable. She made her way around his desk and away from him as quietly as her heels allowed
Levi on the other hand scooted himself into his desk. Clearing his throat and fixing his own hair before allowing their visitor to enter the room. Pretending to continue his earl grey orders with his usually stoic expression. Humanity’s strongest just having a short conversation with one of the Survey Corps brilliant minds and strategists.
“Come in.”
One of their soldiers entered the room, saluting to their superiors.
“Captain Ackerman. Section Commander Beckwith. The carriage has been loaded by your coachman and is ready to go, ma’am.”
Eden turned to their subordinate. Hands clasped together elegantly.
‘Thank you. Please let him know that I will be out in a bit. Dismissed.”
The soldier saluted and promptly left the room.
Eden turned to Levi, and sighed heavily. Offering a sad smile to him.
“Well, Captain Ackerman, I will be leaving now.”
“Have a nice trip Section Commander. Don’t fall off the carriage. It will be hassle to find a replacement for you.”
Eden snickered and made her way around the desk again. Levi ignored her, but she forced him to look at her. She kissed him while holding his chin, and pulled away before he grabbed her again. Her eyes staring right into his own silver before speaking softly for only him to hear.
“Behave. I will be back before you know it my love. Don’t go crazy.”
Levi watched her leave his office after her farewell. A small wink sent his way before she disappeared from his view.
He stood abruptly from his chair and grabbed the already cold tea. He walked over to his window and looked down towards the entrance of the base where the carriage was stationed. He watched her leave the building with a few of the new members of the corps right behind her, wishing her a nice trip.
Then she looked up and smiled. Knowing he was there to watch her leave.
She got on the carriage and off it went out of the castle grounds and into nature. Towards the city of Trost.
He stared down her carriage up until it was nowhere in sight and past the castle gates. He drank the rest of his tea in cold silence before looking down on it and finally going back to his desk to place it there.
Instead of sitting back down and returning to his work. He thought for a moment before he decided. Nodding to himself, he sauntered over to his door and opened it wide before he left the office. Closing the door behind him with a bang.
"JAEGAR!"
While he waited for her to return; cleaning time was a go.
#levi ackerman#levi ackerman x reader#levi x reader#levi x oc#levi ackerman x oc#attack on titan#female oc#attack on titan x reader#attack on titan x oc#snk x reader#snk x oc#attack on titan fanfiction
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Loving You Is A Losing Game- chapter seven
i actually hate this, so ew. but i’ve forgotten that i write, so i’ll try to type some stuff up tomorrow! regardless, i hope everyone enjoys! click here to read on ao3.
TW// domestic abuse
~*~
"small town boy in a big arcade. i got addicted to a losing game."
~*~
alexandra: you do realize how crazy that sounds right?
joseph: it's not crazy at all if you ask me.
alexandra: jo, asking for lollipops for your christmas present sounds very crazy to me.
and christmas isn't for like, a while.
joseph: dude, christmas is in two weeks and one day
and plus, i'm settling on lollipops. what i really want is a pony, a shiny, pretty one with rainbow hair, you know those? that's my dream right there
alexandra: oh crap really?
yeah yeah, ha ha. laughing so much right now.
joseph: hate to break it to you, but it's the 10th alex.
and i know, what a shame i wont be able to have my pony. it was at the top of my list this year
next to an ice cream sundae the size of manhattan, obviously.
alexandra: very funny. can't you tell how much i'm laughing.
crap, got to go, robbins is letting me in on an esophageal atresia on a newborn. i'm her favorite you know.
joseph: ugh, lucky.
make sure to kick ass and not kill anyone. that would suck.
actually... your big head could use some ego deflating. make sure robbins has to save you halfway through. maybe then you'll earn some humility.
alexandra: wow, you're such great help. so nice too.
joseph: you know it ;)
she turns off her phone, a small smile on her face as she looks out the window, passing by houses that all looked exactly alike; white exteriors with a bright green lawn. the only thing that could help someone tell them apart was the door colors. her and paul had just come back from a dinner with some of his coworkers, but he wasn't talking to her so she decided to text alex. the silence in the car was tense, though she was unable to grasp the reason why.
they'd been texting non-stop since the conference three weeks ago, talking about each other's days, complaining about annoying coworkers and classmates. they really enjoyed having a friend they could just talk to because they felt like it. it was refreshing. they'd never had anyone like that before. in the past they had friends that they felt comfortable around, but it was different when you had someone who understood you so well. not to mention, being able to make self deprecating jokes about their crappy childhoods and receive a laugh in response was so much nicer than the pity stares they were both so used to getting,
she snaps back to reality at the sound of the engine turning off, cutting the music as the expensive car door opens. she sees paul angrily walk out of the car, slamming the door behind him, not stopping by her side of the car to open the door for her like he normally did. (she was actually thankful for that. she was a grown women, she could open a damn door herself)
weird, she thinks, but decides not to question it. her husband had been a bit more moody and temperamental lately, so she supposed it was just that. but the dinner seemed to go really good in her opinion. she got along with his colleagues and paul certainly enjoyed himself, getting to be around all his coworkers and interact freely. she liked to think that his colleagues liked her as well. they complimented her all evening and included her in all of their conversations. though, she did wish that they would've referred to her by her name more, rather than 'mrs. stalder' or 'paul's wife.'
she gets out of the passenger side and shuts the door behind her, walking up to the steps after she hears that paul had locked the car. she places the small clutch she had on the entry table and walks to the kitchen, seeing paul sitting at the kitchen island, nothing in front of him except tea that he had heated up in the minute or so he'e been in there. she kisses his cheek and starts talking, knowing that it would probably help calm whatever he was feeling.
she gives him a smile, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. "it seemed like the dinner went really well, all of your coworkers are super nice and-"
"you talked to steven too much." he cuts her off, sending an icy glare her way, and look she had never seen on him before shining darkly in his eyes.
she cocks her head to the side, "huh?"
he stands up from his place abruptly, making her jump back slightly. "i said," he spits out, eyes narrowing as he stares her down "you talked to steven too much."
she lets out a loud laugh, thinking that he was just joking around and messing with her. at any second he was going to join her giggling, ignoring the way his eyes had only seemed to darken the second the sounds had escaped her mouth."oh, that's funny." she says in between laughs, eyes shining with childish glee. "jesus you really scared m-"
pain.
her words get cut off by a fist coming directly into contact with her face. she feels the stinging sensation burn from her eye to her cheek, her brown eyes watering with tears as she realizes what had just happened. she lifts a palm up to touch it protectively, almost making it seem like it was more real if she touched it.
oh god, it hurt. it hurt like hell. his gold wedding band adding to the impact was sure to leave a scar by the corner of her eye. she'd been punched before, multiple times actually by foster parents and girls while she was in high school, but this hurt so much more. it was so much harder than she'd ever been hit before.
her husband just hit her.
"oh brooke, baby." paul says, taking her into his arms and brushing her hair back immediately, trying to get her to relax into his embrace. "i just got so mad. you just made me so mad brooke. you can't make me mad like that" he tells her, eyes dripping with some kind of emotion she can't place as he places light kisses on top of her sea of brown curls, ignoring the way the way she stood stiffly in his arms, a few lone tears making it's way down her cheeks.
"i love you. you know that brooke" he whispers, wiping the tears from her face, his hands feeling usually rough against her skin, his touch not easing over the bruise that hard already begun to form.
she nods. it was okay. he loved her. he didn't mean it. he just got angry. it was okay. it was fine. he loved her, it was okay.
she thought she probably deserved it. after all she'd cheated on her husband just three weeks before, and had continued to keep in contact with the man she had cheated with. it was only karma.
"i'm sorry paul." she apologizes sincerely as he cups her face in his hands, giving her a sweet smile. it wasn't his fault. it was hers.
"it just better not happen again." he states, eyes burning into hers intently, his grip on her face tightening without her even realizing it. all she really felt was numb, as if all of her senses had seemingly shut down to avoid dealing with the pain that was spreading throughout the side of her face.
she nods her head up and down as she pulls her back into him. "i'm sorry" she whispers into his chest.
he smiled.
and that's when he knew he had her.
____
alex finished scrubbing out of a surgery, shaking off the excess water on his hands, grinning internally. it was always so much better when he was able to help save a kid. the success was just that much more fulfilling. he's about to push the door open when it swings in itself, making him come face to face with cristina, the expression she was wearing was more worried looking than he'd seen in a long time. he'd known yang for a while know, and he knew whatever was about to come out of her mouth would be bad. cristina yang was never worried.
"what do you want yang?" he asks, noting how she had her hands crossed over her chest and was avoiding his gaze.
"there's a merger happening." she says, looking up to meet his eyes to let him know that she was serious.
his narrows his eyes, scrunching up his nose. "what?" he questions. a merger? as in, combing two hospitals into one?
"you just missed the announcement. apparently we're merging with mercy west." the raven head repeats, a slight trace of fear in her voice, a very unusual thing for cristina yang.
he lets out a deep breath, tugging his scrub cap off and running a hand through his hair as he leans over the scrub sink, gripping it so tightly his knuckles begin to turn white. "i can't loose this job yang." he says to her softly, making her nod in agreement.
"you and me both." with that she walks out of the room, alex not far behind her, both of the surgeons heading up to the resident's lounge to change, which was filled to the brim with chatter, all of the doctors talking about the newest topic, the merger.
meredith sits down next to him, slipping a long sleeved purple shirt over her head when she casts a glance to alex, who was sitting still looking down at his phone's empty screen, seemingly deep in thought, almost as if he was waiting for something to magically appear on it.
the blonde nudges him, snapping him out of his trance. alex sighs, resting his elbows on his knees as he buries his head in his hands. "what am i gonna do about iz?" he asks her, judging by her face that she was drawing a blank, much like him.
jesus, this was great. these past few weeks he had hardy been able to look his wife in the eye, because every time he saw her he was reminded that he slept with someone else. not to mention, he was just texting that certain someone just a few hours ago. he was really screwed. izzie had currently been home on bedrest, not being allowed to return to work until two weeks from now, which apparently would also be when the mercy westers would turn up. fucking great. he felt as if the universe was rallying against him at this point, no matter how much he knew that wasn't possible. he dug his own grave, it was just a matter of time before he would need to lay in it.
"she'll be okay." meredith reassures him, but he can tell by the look on her face that she was unsure as well. who knew would end up getting cut? they would need to pull their heads out of their asses and prove that they deserved to stay. none of them could lose their spot. not only because of their job, but also because of the people there. they were a family. they couldn't lose any more of their family. they'd just lost george, and they couldn't lose another.
"evil spawn, put on a shirt!" cristina yells, balling up a shirt from his locker and throwing it at him, hitting him square in the chest as he glares at her. he pulls on the shirt silently and heads out, not bothering to say goodbye to anybody as he leaves the lounge and heads straight to joe's across the street.
he slides onto a barstool, ordering a beer and thanking the bartender with a slight nod of his head. how was he supposed to tell izzie about the merger? he knew that if his wife knew, she would want to return to work immediately, but he knew she couldn't do that. she was still getting her strength back, and standing around on her feet all day surely would delay the healing process. he couldn't risk her getting hurt because he wasn't able to stop her.
he'd done enough recently, even if izzie didn't know about most of it. the last thing he needed was to cause his wife more harm than he already had.
he was going to tell her, he knew that, just not right now. right now he was going to sit on this uncomfortable wooden bar stool and drink his beer and forget he had any problems. he was going to forget about the merger, he was going to forget about him and izzie going at it twenty-four seven, and he was definitely going to forget about the brunette with a fake name who seemed to be on his mind all the time.
he was just going to forget everything, his only focus being his beer and the football game on the small television above the bar. yeah, that sounded like a good idea. a really good idea.
____
okay, so he forgot about two out of those three things.
he was actually doing pretty good for a while, almost a full hour with nearly a beer and a half finished. all he had been focused on was the seahawks playing against the steelers, with the steelers crushing the seattle team thirty-four to seven. not much of a surprise though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd witnessed the seahawks win. it wasn't that they were a completely crap team, it was simply the fact that one; the steelers were much better this year, and two; he hardly ever got enough time to sit down and watch a game. being a resident drained the life out of him, especially since he had finally knew that he wanted to specialize in peds. when he wasn't at the hospital he was reading up new medical procedures in magazines, or occasionally sneaking over to meredith's to watch old ellis grey tapes.
he was doing really... until he got a text message from jo.
joseph: how was your surgery?
alexandra: wow, you must be bored.
joseph: ...
what makes you say that?
alexandra: really?
joseph: i'm in med school, thank you very much. i have a severe interest in your surgeries.
alexandra: mhm, sure.
joseph: fine, i'm bored. entertain me. please.
alexandra: that sounds vaguely dirty.
joseph: oh great. how drunk are you?
alexandra: what makes you say that?
haha, two can play that game.
joseph: i'm guessing two beers in?
alexandra: shut up, only one and a half.
joseph: mhm, wasn't too far off
but seriously. i'm bored and am in need of anything remotely interesting. you just scrubbed in on a super cool surgery, i want details
alexandra: fine, baby maria duboir, two weeks old, robbins let me lead the procedure about half way through, coded once, we then shocked her at 150, and now she is stable and in the NICU.
happy?
joseph: yes. very much so
although i do think your OR stories need work
you sound like you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about
alexandra
wow. you're a real delight you know that?
joseph: oh, believe me, i know. don't even get me started on how many times people have complimented how freaking amazing i am
it's quite a common occurrence.
if i had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, i'd be living on my own private island
alexandra: i bet you would.
seriously though, tell me something. i've got nothing better to do than watch the seahawks get crushed.
joseph: i'm guessing that's sports talk, so i'm just gonna ignore that, since it hate any sport where men look like giant block of cheese, run around a court, or just run in general.
but today's been boring. went to a dinner tonight. fancy stuck-up rich people who laugh with posh accents and sip their champagne way too slowly
fucking turtles.
alexandra: sounds fun.
joseph: you suck. i can literally hear the sarcasm through the phone asshole
alexandra: that's the point. i'll take a sick kid over fancy dinner any day.
crap, that sounded really horrible didn't it?
joseph: it really did
"i'll take a sick kid over a fancy dinner any day" real charming if you ask me. night in shining amour.
alexandra
yeah yeah you know what i mean.
____
they're not sure how long they end up talking for, alex siting at joe's bar and jo lounging on the couch in her living room while her husband was in his study going over and grading tests for one of his classes. before either one of them even know it, it gets to be twelve thirty boston time and nine thirty in seattle. alex's texts had gotten much harder to read, which made sense, considering he was now on his third beer.
jo teased him about it though, finding it more enjoyable than she would've guessed to text a drunk alex than a sober one. he seemed to get increasingly flirtier the tipsier he got. not to mention, all the spelling mistakes he made was definitely one for the books. she had a feeling that it was getting a but harder for him to see which letters where which, considering a few b's were located where there should be d's, and 'm' where they should be an 'n'
alex knows for a fact he's earning many stares from fellow people at the bar because of how much he's laughing (loudly too), but he doesn't really care. if he's gonna laugh, he's gonna laugh. all he could really focus on was the fluorescent lights hanging from the bar's wood ceiling and the frankly hilarious texts coming through his phone. (okay, so they weren't that funny, but everything is always a lot more funny when you're drunk)
jo was thoroughly enjoying herself, laughing more and more as she sank into the couch, completely forgetting about the bruise on her left cheek as she typed away, grinning from ear to ear when the man on the other side responded, words misspelt and random numbers and semicolons popping up from time to time.
they knew that what they had done was wrong. they knew that what they were doing was wrong. but they couldn't stop.
if only they had stopped sooner.
#jolex#jolex fic#jolex fanfic#jolex fanfiction#jo wilson#alex karev#jo karev#jo wilson karev#cristina yang#brooke stadler#paul stadler#meredith grey#joes bar#greys#greys anatomy#greys abc#greys anatomy fic#greys anatomy fanfic#greys anatomy fanfiction#jo x alex#alex x jo#affair#loving you is a losing game#camilla luddington#justin chambers#jolex is endgame#screw 16x16#payton writes
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amnesia rewrite! (chapter 4)
ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 |
original fic
words: 2043
ao3
contents and warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, amnesia, kid!janus, Janus finally gets a hug himself, fluff,
____
Roman couldn’t help but exhale a breath as he finished up explaining the situation to Remus and Virgil, “Any questions?”
To his relief, no one said anything, Virgil just shrugging at the question. He counted that as a small victory, especially since he was awful at explaining the answers to most questions, actually, why did he keep getting posted at the task of telling people when he was so bad at it? both Patton and Logan would be better at it than him, he was sure of it.
His train of thought came to a halt when Remus spoke up abruptly, his voice both more steady and more serious than Roman’s ever heard it “if that’s the situation then I think I need to stay away from him if J-J started sobbing when he found out the old king-y dude was all-'' he made a slicing of his neck motion along with the noise to go with it -“then I can’t imagine what his reaction would be if my thoughts voiced themselves like they usually do, while around him. So unless he actually asks for me, which I don’t think’ll happen, I’ll just hang out in the dark side, ooh! and I can experiment with the stuff that got banned for melting the floors! I wonder what would happen if I put it in cupcakes-“ he giggled maniacally to himself at the realization no one would be there to supervise him.
Roman cut him off, “I think for the most part your right, I don’t know how much he can handle right now, and we don’t want to overwhelm him, so yeah okay, Though I’ll make sure they’ll be someone to check on you so your not completely to your own devices because I imagine Janus wouldn’t want his room smelling like chemicals and.. whatever else you use for your... art projects.” He told him, ignoring the last bit of what Remus said. Honestly Roman was kind of proud of his brother, he was a lot more caring and considerate than he let on.
he gave him a small smile before quietly going “I’m glad Janus has you as a friend, you care about him.”
Remus rolled his eyes like a petulant teenager, it wasn’t like he was doing something super amazing for Janus Afterall, he was just being a generally decent person, he knew his presence might hurt Janus currently so he wasn’t actively going to be around him for a minute and sure yeah he cared about him but he cared for the sentiment slime goop in his room too so it wasn’t that big a deal.
As Roman and Remus continued their conversation Virgil slipped out of the room silently, unnoticed. not offering a reason for leaving.
____
Janus walked down the corridor, fingers brushing against the walls, feeling the textures, every now and then the paint changed into a different color, he would guess it was Morality and Roman’s doing since it often went from soft light blues to vibrant reds, making only small breaks to show swirly designs in purples and dark blues. he liked to feel how the different paint changed the texture, even ever so slightly, it was kinda cool to him, and it was something to do while Roman and the others were busy-
Ow
he reeled back immediately as soon as he felt his face slam into someone, luckily it didn't hurt much as the crash was cushioned with soft fabric, regardless though embarrassment still curled up and made itself at home in the pit of his stomach as the realization of he ran into someone finally dawned on him.
After the initial shock subsided, he just started apologizing profusely “I’m sorry! I’m so so sorry!! I didn’t mean to run into you! Are you- are you okay?” He asked as he finally looked up to see who the side he ran into was,
Their face was pale and freckle-clad and.. he knew him!
He gasped excitedly as he began giddily clapping his hands “wait! Hi!! Anxiety I remember you!” He grinned, ignoring how anxiety still hadn’t spoken up, he used to be very quiet so maybe he’s just still like that, either way, he continued “actually Wait- I remember you with a different jacket.. but! I like this one. It's cool!! I like the purple patches!- oh!! Also, guess what! morality and Logic have names! Isn’t that cool?”
Virgil shrugged and Janus took that as an invitation to continue.
“Do you have a name too? I bet if you do it’s cool! Like Ummm… uh- what’s a cool name?” He pondered aloud, not able to think of anything besides names like thor-Bonecrusher or other stuff of that variety.
Anxiety once again shrugged and Janus accepted that well enough; maybe anxiety just didn’t have a name, so Janus didn’t push, but he did continue chattering on happily enough.
At some point, Virgil started to continue walking, if slowly, down the hallway, to where he was trying to go originally, Janus immediately following him like an excited golden retriever puppy as he talked about.. hell knows what, Virgil couldn’t keep track. But regardless of that, honestly, Virgil didn’t think he minded Janus’s presence as much as he thought he would, he was fully willing to just avoid him when He left the conversation with Roman and Remus, not because he would accidentally harm Janus like Remus- well he might Virgil.. tended to be way to blunt but sometimes with things that annoy him, and earlier he was pretty certain Janus would only annoy him, hell, earlier all he wanted to do was avoid Janus because he knew he was still Janus and quite honestly he didn’t want to deal with Janus.
Though honestly Janus himself, while kind of annoying and overdramatic, wasn’t.. awful, like Virgil pretended he was, he inwardly sighed before just ignoring that specific train of thought, something he was actually pretty accustomed and successful at doing.
As he got around to tuning back into what Janus was doing all he heard silence, which given any other time he may have been happy for But this silence is almost.. somber? He looked over quickly and found Janus looking at the floor as he walked, though much slower than before, hell now he was actually walking a distance behind Virgil.
He was already looking at Janus but he could only double-take as he heard a small voice go “I’m sorry…” it trailing off after a minute before continuing, obviously unsure of what it had done wrong but assuming it’d done something “I- I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry! I don’t wanna be mean I promise! If you just tell me what I did I won’t do it again I promise! I’ll be nice! I- ‘m sorry.. ’m sorry..” his voice cracked and got smaller as he wrung his hands nervously.
And Virgil could only quietly go “shit I messed up.” because he could recognize the signs as much as anyone that Janus was halfway to spiraling, and honestly, Virgil couldn’t blame him after all they were walking a very long 15 minutes because somehow the hallway went on forever, and Virgil doesn’t know 90% of what Janus said because he just stopped listening and on top of that he hadn’t even spoken a word to the kid- and that was weird to think of him as a kid, but he was, he was an impressionable, anxious kid who desperately wanted other people to like him, and that on top of anything meant he probably thought Virgil was just ignoring him for something he didn’t even remember doing.
And he could only panic quickly as Janus’s eyes remained dead set on the floor, and he didn’t know if Janus was trying to disappear into it or if it was him trying to hide the fact his eyes were starting to get glossy with unshed tears because he wholeheartedly thought Virgil hated him- and oh fuck he really did fuck up.
He tried to think of what Patton did to comfort him and in an act of pure panic brain, he scooped him up in a secure hug and hoped that would help.
The result was Janus going almost limp before starting to dry hiccup as he tried to force the tears away after a moment he just confusedly went “but- but you didn’t wanna talk to me And you were ignoring me and you looked really annoyed and-“ he started wiggling from Virgil’s hold “no- wait don’t worry you don’t have to be nice to me if you don’t like me- I promise you don’t have to!” He rushed in telling him, trying to scramble so he wasn’t leaning on Virgil and Jesus this was almost as bad as when they all went to Virgil’s room with how anxious Janus was, he could practically feel the anxiety radiating off.
And he realized he really did have to actually talk to Janus, he wasn’t gonna get less anxious just by getting a hug, Virgil wasn’t Patton he didn’t have that magical ability, so he loosened his hold on Janus just enough to get Janus to stop trying to accidentally on purpose fall onto the floor before just going “I don’t dislike you,” and just those words alone made Janus go completely still, so Virgil continued “and I didn’t mean to Ignore you I just got lost in thought, though that’s definitely not an excuse, because even if I didn’t mean to I did, but the important part is i- I like you,” he told him, not confidently, because while he knew he would be lying if he said he disliked him he didn’t have enough time to sort through his emotions to confidently say he liked him.
But regardless of how uncertain Virgil sounded, Janus still looked up at him with eyes so filled with hesitance but also soft gentle hope as he shakily went “promise? No lies?”
Virgil offered a small smile, “promise, no lies.” He repeated and Janus barreled into him in a hug,
And As Virgil wrapped his arms around the shortest side for the second time in five minutes which has got to be some kind of record- he realized hey he was a lot better at this whole comforting thing than he thought he would be, which wasn’t really saying a lot but hey.
After a while of just standing there, the awkwardness and strain of standing still in a random hallway motivated Janus to unwrap his arms from around Virgil and retrieve his face from his being buried in Virgil’s chest.
And that only made it more awkward because now they were both just standing in the hallway literally just staring at each other.
So Janus, deciding he hated when stuff was awkward just went “do you know anything fun to do? I’m bored and morality and Logic and Roman are all busy.”
Virgil visibly thought to himself about options before going “are you in a movie mood or music mood? Or if you’re in none of them we might just have to kidnap Roman and see if he has ideas.”
Janus hummed before just happily going “I like music!” practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Virgil smiled before he got an idea, “do you like my chemical romance?” He asked and Janus seemed confused at what that was but eventually decided if Virgil liked it then Janus will like it too, so Janus just nodded in reply and just Virgil grinned.
——
Later Logan had to ask them to quiet down because he needed to work and couldn’t focus and he was almost certain that they were gonna damage their eardrums since he could hear the loud shouts of the lyrics coming from the speakers while in the kitchen, though, even if he failed at getting them to turn it down he was glad they were getting along, Janus was practically bouncing with how gleeful he was, even Virgil had a small smile on his face, so logan supposed even if later they had headaches from the blasting music as long as they were still happy it would be okay in the long run.
#ts virgil#ts remus#ts janus#ts roman#roman sanders#virgil sanders#remus sanders#janus sanders#sanders sides#sanders sides writing#tss fic#amnesia#hurt/comfort#i support the freckle virgil agenda even if i only show it in small bits#amnesia rewrite#the cold one writes#sanders sides remus#sanders sides janus#sanders sides roman#sanders sides virgil#tss writing#fanfic
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Kisses and Distractions (Hawks x Reader) pt. 1
Prompt: How hard can it be for two Pro-Heroes to kiss?
a/n: theres not much meat to this since i had a random thirst call for this bird man XD i hope ya’ll enjoy this and if you want a part 2, drop a comment below :)
Warnings: Cursing
Link: part 2
Heroes. A vast majority of people wanted to become heroes. Each person has their own reason, whether it be for fame, money, power, or they were just deemed destined for it.
Being a hero, be it lower ranked or high ranked, almost always had to push their personal lives aside in order to put the civilians first. That’s what they were trained to do. Despite having classes on how to balance your Pro life and Personal life, it was always a struggle to balance things out.
Paparazzi on the other hand just loved to get the latest dirt on heroes. Be it tripping on the sidewalk, spilling their drinks, or even just hanging out with other fellow heroes. They needed the latest scoop. Though it is understandable that some of them need those to feed their families, some of them are just plain ass hats that love to ruin the moment.
Speaking of ruined moments, Pro-Hero #2 and an underground have their fair share of ruined moments. It all started when they finally told their feelings towards each other. Given, of course, that the situation was not the best.
“Is everyone safe?” You inquired to one of your fellow heroes. Both your hero costumes are covered in uneven mixtures of blood, dust, and sweat. “My area’s been cleared.”
“There’s still a few people left on the top floor.” The hero replied. His eyes now fixated on the building. Fires dancing their way out the window while smoke littered the air. There had been a random villain attack whose quirk was related to pyrotechnics. It was indeed flashy when random fireworks began to break through the windows.
“Take care of the injured.” Another hero commanded. “Hawks is doing his thing up there.”
Now, normally, you wouldn’t mind. That was his line of work and he did a pretty bad ass job with it. The only problem now was that he had been recently given a mission that caused him to use a lot of his feathers. It had only been a day and his wings were badly uneven.
One by one, the people stuck on the top floor came swooping down. Red feathers carrying one person each. Landing them as gracefully as the owner does. Looking up, your heart clenched at the sight of Hawks free falling with barely any feathers left. Seeing his feathers race towards him made you let go of that breath you had been holding.
Though it wasn’t as iconic as he usually lands, he still managed to look good anyway. Going back to treating the injured, your heart finally calmed down at the sight of him skipping towards Endeavor.
“You might as well just tell him, you know…” Ryukyu whispered. The two of you were now getting your injuries checked. Well, mostly you. “What’s there to lose, right?”
“The fact that he’s #2, that’s what’s holding me back.” You sighed as the nurse finished bandaging your forearm. “Or maybe because if he doesn’t feel the same way, he might tease me about. I doubt he’d do that but I think he might.”
After the last bandage had been placed, you thanked the nurse but asked if you could keep the blanket. Amused at your little act, she agreed and you thanked her for saving you a trip from the department store.
“You do know that blanket is dirty…”
“And blankets are hella expensive compared to laundry detergent.” The small finger gun you used on Ryukyu made her disown you. Face palming as she walked away. While you, questioned your sanity and Hawks’ effect on you. This was the first time you had ever pulled out those so called finger guns.
Your thoughts were cut when an uneven cluster of feathers framed your sight. Turning around, you were now face to face with #2. Thankfully, your face was covered with bandages. Enough to cover the blush forming on your face.
“You look pretty beat up, birdy.” His eyes scanned you from top to bottom. His fingers played with the edges of the blanket. The way he stared at you sent chills down your spine and your joints to grow a little weak.
“You’re one to say.” Somehow, you poked his shoulder. “Gave me a fright when you jumped from the building.”
“Bet you liked it.”
There it was. That wink that always catches you off-guard. Your grip on the comfort blanket tightened and you had to look away. If he would flirt even more, you would probably cave in and puke out your emotions to this birdman.
“You okay, birdy?”
“Yeah.” You lied. “Just a little shaken at the amount of, uh, injured people.”
“Such a bad liar.” His head tilted to the right. Pulling his visor’s down, you were blessed with a much clearer view of his eyes. You’ve never been fond of the color yellow but he made you think otherwise. “You can talk to me, you know that.”
‘Should I tread the waters? Fuck it.’
“I’m only a bad liar when it comes to you.” You began to trace circles on his shoulder using an index finger. Reading people wasn’t your strength but you could tell he was tense.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, birdy…” Hawks warned as he took a hold of your wrist. His gloved hand easily wrapped around it. Yet, his hold was gentle. Making sure no pain was inflicted.
‘Damn it.’ Your heart sunk. This would have to be the first time he didn’t flirt back. 'At least you kept your mouth shut.’
Letting go of your wrist, Hawks examined your features. Though you were smiling, he could see how your eyes looked sad. Part of him loved that small action you did. It felt as if electricity ran through his veins. It took a lot of mental control to stop his feathers from ruffling.
Hawks knew you liked him. He was all too aware that you were keeping things bottled up. But, he was smart enough to know that should he pursue you, you being underground would garner a lot of attention. And he knew you hated attention.
“Anyway…” You continued. Looking at the people around you. “I gotta go. Ryukyu’s waiting for me.”
“Not so fast.” Before you could turn he managed to grab your shoulders. “You misunderstood something.”
“And that is?”
“You know what happens to me if you touch me like that…” Hawks leaned in and whispered. Making sure that his feathers blocked the view from outside.
‘Oh?’ Your mind went places.
“Sadly, I don’t know what happens,” This was a bit of truth though. On occasions, you would find enough courage and comb through his feathers but usually you’d be receiving a twitch of his eye.
Hawks ran his fingers through his messy hair. A sigh to accompany it as well. When he looked into your eyes once more, your breath hitched. Maybe he already knew about your feelings. Most probably, yes at this point now.
“I know how you prefer to be lowkey.” Hawks began. “If I tell you that I reciprocate your feelings tenfold, the limelight would definitely fall on you. Making you uncomfortable is something I don’t want.”
“You like me back?”
“You may be a hero but you’re pretty blind to my attempts, (y/n).” Hawks teased. Bringing you in for a hug. “You ready to be in the spotlight if it means being with me?”
“I don’t really mind it to be honest. I was thinking of going to a few interviews every now and then but,” You scratched your cheek. This was something you had been meaning to tell him. You just couldn’t find the right time to do it. Staring at the linings of his body suit, you exhaled and shut your eyes. “I was kinda thinking of joining your agency. I mean, not for you, but mostly because I like how everything is so fast paced. Never a dull moment at Hawks’.”
“Well if that’s the case, application granted.” He gave you the go signal along with finger guns. “You can be my literal side kick.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to talk about that though. I don’t do well with team work.”
“Pushing that aside, that would make things easier for us. I can arrange things where you won’t be caught in the center of attention.” Hawks reassured you. Leaning in closer, he brushed his nose with yours. “That would mean I get to see you everyday.”
“Most probably, yeah.”
“God, I wanna kiss you so badly right now.” His feathers ruffled up. The way he pouted his lips as he stared at yours was too cute.
“I’m already wrapped around both your arms and wings,” You gave a shy smile. Seeing how your cheeks were flushed made him throw his resolve away. All he just needed was for your proper consent. “I don’t mind~”
Like a child, he smiled brightly. Once again, his feathers ruffled and even puffed up ever so slightly. Taking both his gloves off, he stuffed them into his jacket’s pocket and delicately cupped both your cheeks. His hands were calloused but you had always wanted them to touch your skin. Now, they finally were.
“I have to say, though.” He said as he leaned in. “We should’ve done this months ago.”
Seeing his golden eyes this close hit hard.
“I would have to agree on that, birdy.” You leaned in as well.
The two of you shared a smile as you began to meet halfway.
“HAWKS!”
Just as your upper lips brushed each other, the two of you froze on the spot. Confusion and irritation in both your wide opened eyes. Barely a few centimeters and contact would have been made. If you two had been given a few more seconds, you would finally be able to feel his lips on yours. He would finally taste you after how many months of deprivation.
“Cursed nuggets…” Hawks complained before letting go of your cheeks. It drove him wild when he saw the pleading look on your eyes. It yelled for him to just kiss you right there. “Don’t give me that look, baby. How dare he ruin our moment…”
Removing his wings and turning around, the two of you were now face to face with Endeavor. The #1 hero had just landed a few meters away from where you both stood. His flames danced with power as he made his way towards you.
“You realize you just ruined an important moment, Endeavor-san!” Hawks joked.
“Hawks…” You punched his shoulder. Tried, at least. He easily dodged it. Curse him and his feathers.
“Hawks. (your hero name). We have to meet with the others.” Endeavor relayed his message. Eyes focusing on Hawks then at you. “The two of you were not there for the hero count so they had to send me of all people.”
“You’re the only one who can get me workin, Endeavor-san!” The birdman replied as he skipped and flapped his uneven wings at the #1. Their relationship was always enough to make you giggle.
“Let’s go.” Endeavor commanded as he used his flames to propel himself to the air.
“I suppose you need a lift?” He teased as he offered a hand. When you accepted, he pulled you in and immediately cupped your cheek with his free hand. “Where were we?”
Smiling you leaned on to his body and wrapped your arms around his neck. Both of you breathed in and inched closer and closer.
*Ding*
“You gotta be kidding me, Chickadee…” Hawks furrowed brows.
“I’m sorry~” Taking your phone out, you read the notification only to be bummed out. Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at the news article of All Might. “Fucking notifications.”
Hawks suddenly pushed the two of you into the air. Just in time for Endeavor’s flame to hit the ground. By now, the two of you were pissed at not being able to continue a simple kiss.
Flapping his wings faster, he zoomed past Endeavor leaving a few stray feathers behind to annoy him.
So going back, how hard can it be for two Pro-Heroes to kiss?
The answer would have to be that it’s tricky. Thankfully, the two of you did not give up. As to how you two kissed, we’ll save that for another time :)
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Nothing a Lil Green Can’t Fix
→ summary: Imagine having a best friend so crazy you have to have 911 on speed dial. Turns out that you are that friend. And it's up to Park Jimin to keep you from facing disaster.
→ pairing/rating: jimin x reader | PG-15
→ genre: i love bittersweet stories 🥺 so this is basically fluff all the way but angst lurking in the background | coming of age!au
→ warnings: profanity, mentions of death, divorce, heartbreak (like pretty fucking sad shit), implied sex
→ wordcount: 19.2k
→ a/n: i had so much fun writing this! a HUGE thank you to all of my friends & beta readers who helped me not make a big embarrassment out of myself LOL. a round of applause and special thanks to @aaugustlee, @fangirlfeelz, @bangtansgalaxie, @byuncaa, @yunjikim021 for putting up with my unedited writing! (: ALSO a huge HUGE thank you to @justastar for this BEAUTIFUL mood board 🤩
♫: Who by Lauv (feat. BTS) | Say Something by Pentatonix | Inner Child by BTS
cr.
When Jimin was younger, he knew superheroes existed. After all, his own mother was one of them. She cooked, washed the clothes, taught Jimin the alphabet, ran the grocery errands, worked from home, read Jimin a bedtime story and tucked him into bed—which was her daily schedule. She was strong, loving and caring. The things every mother should be. She handled problems better than she handled her emotions, that woman.
Which was probably why she cheated on Jimin's father. Jimin was only five when he heard the shouts and screams coming from downstairs. He remembers how frightened he had been, gripping his pillow and trying to drown the sound of yelling with his blankets. Only shortly after that night, his mother had packed her bags and left. Jimin never saw her again.
But life wasn't too bad after that. You had shown up, after all.
Even though Jimin's once perfect family was ruined, he didn't mind too much. When he's with you, he forgets about all of his other problems.
You'd first waddled up to him in his kindergarten class with a green marker in hand. "Can you please color me green?" you'd politely asked.
If Jimin's mother taught him one thing before she walked out of his life, she'd taught him manners. So when you, a complete stranger, had been so polite about a request that didn't look like it'd do much harm, Jimin complied.
He helped you color yourself green. Halfway through the process, he'd said: "Why are we coloring you green?"
You'd laughed out loud, grinning as you announced emphatically, "BECAUSE GREEN IS THE BESTEST COLOR EVER!"
You hate it when Jimin teases you of your first encounter with him. Mainly because you had yelled out 'bestest' at the top of your lungs that day and 'bestest' is most definitely not a word. (You're kind of a grammar freak.) Not to mention, both of you had gotten into huge trouble for coloring you green that day. Jimin had cried when the teacher had scolded the two of you, but you had shrugged, patted Jimin on the back and boldly asked the teacher, "Would you like to be colored green as well?"
You were banished to the time out chair and your star got moved down two slots into the angry orange section instead of the happy green. Jimin had felt sorry for you, but you didn't seem like you cared that much. Your skin was your favorite color. How could you not be happy?
Later that same day, you'd declared Jimin your best friend. And then you had taught him your secret language so no imbecile could eavesdrop on your private conversations. Jimin thought you were the coolest human being alive.
Jimin still thinks you're the coolest human being alive.
He's thirteen and waiting for you outside of your house so both of you can walk to school together. Walking to school side by side has been a tradition ever since you were little, too. It was also a tradition that you were always a few minutes late.
You suddenly bust out of the door with half a bagel in your mouth and your hair a frenzied mess. "Bye Granny!" you yell as the door slams shut. "Let's go!" you exclaim to Jimin in your secret language as he nods in agreement. The two of you begin to walk to school.
"What are you today?" he asks as he looks over at your outfit of the day. You're wearing black cargo pants, a black mesh top with a black tank top underneath, big, black boots and metal chains around your neck. You like to keep your fashion choices interesting by having a different style every day. You've already tried prim and proper, goth, princess and tomboy. But this... Well, this was something definitely new.
"I'm a bad girl." You grin, chomping down on the rest of your breakfast and brushing your hands together to get rid of the crumbs.
Jimin frowns. "You're gonna get dress coded," he says but upon your disappointed look, he sighs. "You're gonna get dress coded," he says in the secret language.
"Am not."
"Are too."
You roll your eyes, flipping your messy hair over your shoulder. "They can dress code me. Fine. I'll go to school in my underwear the next day, then."
Jimin laughs, shaking his head. "They'll send you to juvie."
You snort, throwing your head back in a fit of laughter. "Oh, Jimin, I—" You suddenly gasp, hand flying into your pocket to fish out your favorite green permanent marker. Its name is Gilbert.
"Grammar error?" Jimin asks.
"Yeah," you sigh, shaking your head in disdain. "Over there."
There's a sign in front of a local coffee shop that painstakingly reads: free cakes everyday after four!
"They forgot the space between 'everyday,' " you huff, so disappointed that you forget to speak in the secret language. "Wait right here."
Jimin stops walking, watching you quickly stroll over to the sign and circling the word, 'everyday' with Gilbert and marking in all caps right next to it: NEEDS SPACE.
You make your way over to Jimin again, sighing. "When will people learn?"
"Not everyone is good at grammar, Y/N," Jimin reminds you. "I think you're being a bit of a grammar Nazi."
You scoff. "So what if I am a grammar Nazi? Do you think it's acceptable to parade around town using the wrong 'everyday?' " You throw your hands in the air for dramatic emphasis.
"I mean, everybody makes mistakes," Jimin tries.
You huff, crossing your arms. "Yeah, like your outfit," you grumble. "You forgot to hook a strap of your overalls over your shoulder."
"Hey!" Jimin says. "It's fashion!"
"It's ridiculous," you counter. "It's like you're trying to show off your man chest."
"Well, you're trying to show off your girl chest."
You gasp, gazing down at your black mesh top before realizing Jimin's actually right—this stupid top does expose a lot of you to the public's scrutiny. "Don't look there, idiot!" you say. "Perve."
"What am I supposed to do? Not look at it?"
"Yes!" you say very indignantly. "A true gentleman would not look!"
"But it's right in front of my face!"
"You know what, Jimin? You can walk to school alone!" You start dashing away from Jimin, your heavy boots thumping on the concrete.
"Wait! Y/N!"
Though you might've won the fight at that moment, Jimin becomes the real winner when you come out of your house the next day wearing a turtleneck that covers your whole upper half and modest boot cut jeans with white sneakers.
"What are you today?" Jimin teases in the secret language.
"Shut up," you mutter. "Let's go."
Jimin happily obliges, skipping his way to school as you grumble, following right behind him.
Sometimes Jimin wonders what he would do without you. You were the angelic figure that had swept him off his feet when he needed a good distraction from reality. You had stepped in when his mother had stepped out. And he loves you no matter how weird you are.
"Jimin?" you ask, your head propped against his chest as his arm wraps around you. Both of you are staring up at the blue sky with sunglasses on.
"Hmm?"
"I think I can speak to the weather," you confess in the secret language, grinning wildly as you watch the clouds shift in the blue sky. "It was probably my fourteenth birthday gift from the universe, you know?"
Jimin loves how you never grew up. You were the same Y/N he knew in kindergarten with a big imagination and overflowing creativity—only smarter, taller and more beautiful.
"You can speak to the weather?" Jimin asks.
You nod. "I'm making it sunny right now."
"Really?"
You snuggle into his chest, clinging to his warmth as you laugh. "I control it with my emotions. I'm so happy right now that the sun can't help but shine upon us."
Jimin's heartbeat quickens as you clutch onto his t-shirt, but he tries to play it off. "And why are you so happy right now?"
"It's summertime!" you exclaim, suddenly jumping up and out of Jimin's arms. "We'll be in high school this year!! And you know how much I love hanging out with my best friend."
Jimin smiles, though he wonders if you'll ever love him the same way he loves you.
"You know," you sigh as you trudge down the steps of your apartment building in a large green raincoat and white boots with a glazed donut in your hand. "I'm feeling pretty horrible today. I think it's going to rain."
Jimin nods as he looks up at the sky. Sure enough, the rain clouds are settling in, painting the sky a dark gray. "That's not a good way to start off the first day of high school."
"It really isn't," you sigh.
"Is it your granny?" Jimin whispers in the secret language as both of you begin to walk to your new school.
You flinch. "She's just... she's not feeling too well, you know?"
"I'm sorry," Jimin says. "Do you know what it is?"
"She won't fucking tell me," you groan, handing your donut to Jimin. "I don't want it. Do you?"
It's Jimin's favorite food: a glazed donut, so he takes it and munches on it. Something tells him that you saved it just for him. "Thanks," he says. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No..." You shake your head, your lips that had been set in a stern lip suddenly curving up to reveal a bright smile. "Sorry, I'm totally killing the mood. We should be excited! High school, right?? Oh my god, do you think we're all going to dance in the gym like we're all in it together??"
"That stuff only happens in the movies," Jimin chuckles as he finishes the last of your donut. But upon seeing your disappointed face, he offers: "No, we'll definitely dance around in the gym singing songs from High School Musical."
"That's more like it!" you exclaim.
Crazily enough, by the time the two of you reach the new school, the rain clouds have disappeared from the sky. Jimin looks over at you, who had taken off your raincoat to reveal a rather summery green t-shirt dress. Maybe you really can control the weather with your emotions.
Jimin admires how you don't give two flying fucks about social standards. You're brave enough to be yourself, to stray from society and not conform to stupid high school stereotypes. You're everything that he isn't. And in sophomore year in high school, you're wilder than ever before. Frankly, he thinks you're what everyone wants to be but is too afraid to be.
"Did you study for the AP chem test?" Jimin asks as he fidgets with pages and pages of notes in his hands.
You snort, tugging your favorite green jacket around yourself. "No. Why would I? It's just a test."
"But it's an important test," Jimin insists, eyes glazing over as he half listens to you and half crams last-minutely. "Last test to raise your grade before the final."
"My time's important too," you laugh. "I don't regret those six hours I spent reading yesterday. You know, I woke up so late today that I had to wear my pajamas to school."
Jimin glances down at your sweatpants and looks up at your tousled hair.
"Yeah," you say, "only had time to put on the nearest jacket. But it's kind of hot, isn't it?"
You're right. Ever since you helped nurse your granny back into top-notch health, the weather was perfect—always sunny and just slightly breezy. It matches your mood.
You shrug off your green jacket, folding it away. When Jimin notices your shirt underneath, he gasps out loud.
"Y/N!"
"What?"
"You're wearing those pajamas!" he exclaims in the secret language, frantically. "Do you wanna borrow my t-shirt or something?"
"What? No!" you cock your head. "What's so bad about my t-shirt right now?"
"Y/N, you're literally wearing a shirt with the periodic table on it. We're taking a chem test!"
"Oh, you're so funny, Jimin," you say, shaking your head. "It's just a t-shirt. No one will care."
Fast forward ten minutes later when your AP chem teacher calls you up before you sit down with your test and tells you that you need to put a jacket over your shirt.
"But Mr. Levitt!" you protest. "I don't want to be in a stuffy jacket when I'm taking a test!"
Mr. Levitt sighs, but after an intense one-minute staring contest in which you claim victory, he agrees to turn on the air conditioning. Silently, everyone thanks you (it's a hot day, after all) as you return to your seat with your jacket covering your shirt and your eyes sparkling with their usual mischief. Jimin thinks you might've elaborately planned this whole scheme out. Mr. Levitt is infamous for being a total tightwad on the AC, so maybe you thought you had to do something about it instead of studying for the test.
Naturally, you proceeded to completely bomb the chemistry exam.
"Ugh," Jimin groans the next day as you step out of your home with an apple in your mouth. "The scores are out. I got a 92%," he huffs. "That's barely gonna raise my grade."
You laugh out loud, tossing Jimin another apple that he gratefully catches. "I got a 43%. Deal with it."
"You're serious."
"I'm always serious," you giggle, twirling around in your rather nice-looking outfit. Jimin notices you took extra time to curl your hair and apply a sheer lipgloss on your lips. "Besides, you know, that test had so many grammatical errors that I couldn't possibly focus on the problems!" You scoff, shaking your head disdainfully as your eyes gloss over to remember the horror you saw the day before. "I had to whip out Gilbert and fix all the errors, you know? I didn't even get to look at half the questions on the test. But I'm pretty sure I got everything else right, though," you confidently announce. "Totally worth it. Mr. Levitt needs to learn a thing or two about dangling modifiers."
"But Y/N, you can't fail a class!" Jimin protests. He doesn't have the guts to tell you that you earned your 43% after a 13% curve—that in reality, you'd really gotten a 30%.
"I'm not failing," you giggle, "yet."
"What am I gonna do with you?"
You shrug, biting at your healthy breakfast and chewing slowly. "Anyways, do you like my outfit?" you ask in your secret language, totally changing the subject.
Jimin warily eyes your pretty skirt and button-down top. His face heats up just a little bit, but he forces himself to look away. "Why'd you dress up so much? You're going to fall down wearing those heels."
You roll your eyes so hard Jimin can see the whites of your eyes. "Google Earth always takes pictures, my friend," you sing. "If people see me walking down this street on that app, I want to look fabulous."
Jimin's learned a long time ago from experience to not believe everything you say. (One time when the two of you were six years old, you told Jimin if he waited in his garage at night without falling asleep, he'd see his father's old, battered Hyundai turn into a chivalrous robot—this was after you had watched Transformers with him at home—and Jimin had stupidly believed you. What followed was him staying up for three nights in a row, waiting for the car to morph in Optimus Prime. He was almost going to stay up for a fourth night until you had to put an end to his madness by telling him you were joking.) And there were many, many more times your large imagination had convinced Jimin something that wasn't real, was. But now, he knows when to take your words with a grain of salt.
Even so, the next day, he dresses up extra nicely. Just in case Google Earth is taking photos.
You pass sophomore year with mediocre grades, but by now, Jimin knows you don't really care much about your transcript.
Junior year is rumored to be the hardest of all in high school, a rumor that turns out to be quite true. Well, except for you.
Jimin's reading for his huge physics exam on his bed while you're propped up against the headboard, legs tangled absentmindedly with his. The two of you had been in that position for hours. Normally, you can't sit in one spot for more than forty-five minutes, but you must be concentrating on something because you'd been way too still and quiet for way too long.
"Hey, Y/N?" Jimin calls in the secret language. "You good?"
"Hmm," you hum. "Mhm."
When Jimin looks up, he sees you sewing. You must've gotten that sewing kit splayed before you from your granny. It's really endearing how much you love her and how much you're willing to do for her. She's the only family you've got left around here, and she's the one that has taken care of you since you were very young. Your granny is a lot like you, too. Jimin's heard from you that she likes watching extreme sports and hopes to become a three-time gold Olympic medalist snowboarder by the time she's dead (though she hasn't won a single snowboarding contest in her life). She loves fashion and enjoys taking you out to shop. She likes to preach that grades do not define intelligence. (It seems as though you've had that soaked in your brain for a very long time.) Her husband, Gilbert, was a grammar freak like her, but he passed away before you were born. You named your permanent green marker after him.
You don't like to talk about it, but your granny hasn't been in great health in the past few years. Jimin knows how much it's putting a strain on you, yet you insist that everything's completely fine before suggesting to embark on another wild journey.
"Are you sewing something on your favorite shorts?" Jimin asks, setting down his physics book.
You nod, tongue poking out of your lips as you concentrate. "It's a QR code."
"Oh, really?" Jimin becomes interested as he scoots closer to you so that your arms are touching.
"Yeah, so when I wear these scandalously short shorts and guys are checking out my ass, they'll see this QR code instead and dare to scan it, you know?" you smile proudly at yourself, setting down your sewing project as you lean again Jimin's shoulder. "Wanna know what comes up when you scan it?" you ask in the secret language.
"Yeah."
"Information about colorectal cancer."
"What?"
"Colorectal cancer. Colon cancer, Jimin." He notices the way your lips tremble slightly as the words spill out of your mouth. You're struggling to keep a straight face.
"Oh, Y/N... Your granny—"
"Yes," you cry out, tears starting to well up in your eyes. "Stage four, Jimin. Fucking stage four. She has about a year left."
"Y/N..."
You move in to hug Jimin, crying into his shirt as he wraps his arms around your waist, letting you cry in silence.
You don't like to cry. Jimin's only seen you cry one other time in his twelve years of friendship with you—when your granny had her first cancer scare a couple years back. To see you breaking down in front of him like this hurts him more than words can describe. You're usually so resilient; you wear a fierce smile on your face even when times are tough. But you'd have to take off your happy mask at some point.
He lets you sob into his chest, warm hands tracing circles on your back in hopes of soothing you. He never knows the right thing to say, unlike you, so he stays quiet.
It takes a few minutes but your sobs dwindle to soft sniffles, then to complete silence. Jimin holds you in his arms without complaint, savoring your warmth, hoping that just embracing you can help.
You pull away, wiping off the residue of your tears on your face with the back of your sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Jimin," you whisper, your hands tracing the wet patches of your tears on Jimin's shirt. "I think... I need to go home."
He doesn't stop you when you pack up your sewing kit and leave without another word. And he hates himself for being so cowardly.
But the next day, you come out of your house with a bright smile on your face. You're wearing the shorts with the QR code sewn on the back, proudly flaunting them to Jimin. He does everything so his eyes don't linger around your ass; in the end, he just looks away entirely.
You laugh when you see him blush, linking your arms together as you march to school. The sun's shining brightly today, but the streets are wet with the hard rain that had poured last night.
All too soon, senior year rolls by with summer just around the corner. You and Jimin make use of your lax time, no longer needing to worry about grades or academic productivity.
"You know, everyone has one deep fear," you confess, snuggling up against Jimin on the sofa in your room. "You know what mine is, right?"
Jimin nods. "Losing your granny."
"Good. Well, I think I know what yours is."
"Really?" Jimin asks, letting you rest your head on his chest as he plays with your hair.
"You're afraid of being left alone," you whisper. "You're especially afraid someone you love will leave you."
"Hmm..." Jimin hums. "Like my mother?"
"Yeah. But me too."
"You?" Jimin asks, bewildered, suddenly sitting up and moving away from you to stare into your eyes. "You're leaving?"
"Hey, relax," you giggle, shaking your head. "I'm not leaving forever. I'm just... I didn't tell you but... Granny passed away a few days ago. You know when it was raining really hard that night? Yeah, well that was because I was crying nonstop. She'd always wanted to be buried in Hawaii because that's where she met Gilbert. I'll be in Hawaii for a week—"
"Why don't you tell me anything until the last minute?" Jimin sighs. "You could've told me your granny passed away the day it happened. Why are you telling me now?" He struggles to keep his voice from trembling too hard. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her...
You shake your head, biting your lip to keep a straight face. "Because I knew I'd break down if I told you the day it happened."
"Y/N, it's okay to cry..."
"No, Jimin. It's not. I'm supposed to comfort you. I'm supposed to be the strong one that doesn't bat an eyelash when trauma comes her way. I'm supposed to be resilient, Jimin," you sigh. "I refuse to cry."
Jimin doesn't know what to say.
"I know," you say, leaning forward to grasp Jimin's warm hands. "I'm so sorry. I told you we'd go to the senior prom together. I'm so, so sorry, Jimin." You're smiling to reassure him, but your façade isn't fooling anyone—thunder clouds boom outside of your house, then the rain begins to fall. "I'm sorry, Jimin," you say again. "I want to make it up to you somehow."
Jimin had completely forgotten about going to prom until you had brought it up. You'd made those plans during freshman year, and both of you had been excited about it for all of high school. Now, it looks like those plans will be ruined. But Jimin knows how much you love your granny. She means way more than a silly prom night to you. He'll have to figure something out for himself. "You don't have to make anything up to me, Y/N," Jimin says. "I'm not going to prom, then, I guess."
"But you've been waiting for it since we were in ninth grade," you protest, shaking your head. "You were going to wear a green suit to match my green dress, remember?" you say in your secret language, a small smile playing on your lips. "I can get someone to go with you."
"It's fine, Y/N," Jimin says, shaking his head. "My dad wants me to start thinking about my future, anyway. I don't think he'll appreciate me going out without knowing what I want to study in college."
You nod. "Oh, okay, then."
"You're not going to college, are you?" Jimin whispers.
"I can't, Jimin," you shrug, a fake smile plastered on your lips. "I got a job at a restaurant as a waitress. I think I'll manage financially. You know, I think you should go into engineering or some pristine shit. You're too good at math and science."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jimin says as you cuddle into his chest again. He's known you for thirteen years now and he's never seen you this let down in his life. You're struggling to hide the gargantuan amount of pain you're feeling, but the weather is reflecting your emotions too well. Jimin never knows how to comfort you—partly because you're rarely upset, but also because he's scared you might leave him if he says the wrong words.
You're right.
Jimin's terrified of losing someone he loves. He's scared that you'll leave him one day.
Your senior year in high school is the last time Jimin sees you sad. It takes you a few months to adjust to a life without your granny, but after that, you jumped right back up and out of your misery. The years rolled on through delightful days and unforgettable nights. Both of you are 24 now and it seems like nothing has changed.
Jimin waits for you to come out of your house in your work uniform, and you do just a few minutes after he arrives.
"Hey!" you beam at him. "Hope you didn't sleep too late studying or whatnot."
Jimin laughs as the two of you begin to walk to your workplace. "I actually pulled an all-nighter studying for the mid-term," he shrugs, pointing at the dark circles underneath his eyes.
"Aww, Jimin," you coo. "I'm kind of glad I never went to college. Much less try for a master's degree. After your classes, wanna meet me during my night shift?"
"Sure," Jimin agrees. His eyes glance at your petite figure, admiring the bright look on your face and your sparkling eyes before realizing what you were wearing. "Oh, Y/N!"
"What?" you giggle. "Do you like it?"
"The manager isn't going to be happy about that, Y/N," Jimin sighs.
Your work uniform was black and red—a modest black dress with a cinched-in waist and short sleeves and a red waist apron. It was a uniform that Jimin thought made you look gorgeous, but he knew how much you hated it. You'd complained several times that the outfit was too dark and gloomy and that it made you look like a sexy vampire. And you do not like sexy vampires. (Jimin thinks that's because you always rooted for Jacob the "sexy werewolf" in the hit book series, The Twilight Saga.) But what could you do about it? The black and red uniform matched the colors of the logo of the restaurant you worked in: The Black Dress.
Yet it seems like you do not give a fuck.
You're now wearing a bright green skirt with a green fanny pack around your hips, and the white pirate blouse you bought on a shopping spree sale last Halloween. Your red waist apron is tied around your neck so it flows behind you like a cape. And to top it all off, there are green clips in your hair.
"I think I look outstanding!" you chirp, twirling around. "I'm still wearing my apron so I think I'll be fine."
"Y/N... You work at The Black Dress... You can't not be wearing a black dress!" Jimin cries. "You're going to get fired!"
"Nah, I'm not," you snort. "I think the new manager has a soft spot for me. He'll really like my rather innovative work uniform!"
"What if I come over during your night shift to find out that you're no longer working there?" Jimin protests. "How are you so sure he'll be fine with you not following the dress code?"
"Oh, Jimin," you giggle, shaking your head. "Live a little! Break a few fucking rules, will you? The manager and I are good friends. I'll be fine. We're still on for tonight, right?"
"Yeah," Jimin scoffs, "if you still have your job by then."
"I will!" you protest. "Do you wanna bet?"
"What? No!"
Jimin knows when you threaten to make a bet, you're always 100% sure you're going to win. He had lost a lot of money before he’d figured that out.
"See? I'll be fine, Jimin," you say, stopping your walking when you come in front of the restaurant. "Good luck on that mid-term, all right?" You give him one of your best grins, hitting his back encouragingly as you begin to walk backward towards the entrance of the restaurant. "You're going to ace it!" you yell in the secret language.
Jimin smiles brightly. He knows that your words of encouragement will do wonders to his score like always. "Thanks!" he calls. "Bye!"
You wave your arms frantically, nearly tripping on a rock as you do so (walking backwards is not your thing). With final grins exchanged, you head into the restaurant. Jimin watches as you leave, unable to hide the fierce blush of his cheeks. It's been almost two decades and he's failed to tell you that he loves you.
Meanwhile, you sashay into the restaurant, twirling around in your modified work uniform. "Hello, everyone!" you announce in your best singing voice.
"Good morning, Y/N," your manager offers, smiling at you as he walks up to greet you.
He's a handsome man, you must admit. In his early thirties, intelligent, good with his words and rather caring.
"It's just me for now," he chuckles. "I guess the others will come later."
"Wow, I can't believe I'm the first one here, Namjoon," you laugh. "I'm literally always the last. Isn't this the first?"
Your manager laughs as well. "This is a special day then, isn't it?"
"Every day is a special day. Is it not?"
"That's very true," Namjoon agrees. "Is that why you decided to ditch your work uniform, Y/N?" he teases. "I must say the modified version looks quite nice. Someone has a penchant for the color green doesn't she?"
"You caught me!" you exclaim, raising your hands up in mock guilt. "My best friend thought I'd get fired or something. He's such a plain Jane," you giggle. "But I love him though. He's coming over later during my night shift. Is that okay?"
"Of course that's okay," Namjoon smiles. "I thought he was your boyfriend. Doesn't he walk you here every day?"
You laugh so hard you snort. "Boyfriend? Boyfriend?! God, no! We've been friends for nearly two decades, Namjoon! I think one time we even showered together. We're literally best friends."
"Good," Namjoon grins. "Because I've been wanting to ask you out for a while."
Your eyes widen. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah. When are you free?" he asks.
"Hmm..." you think. "Well, I'm supposed to have a movie night with Jimin on Friday. On Saturday, Jimin and I are supposed to watch the water fountain show we bought tickets for like seven months ago... On Sunday I'm supposed to sleep over at his place so we can wake up on Monday at the same place, you know, so it'll be easier for Jimin to walk me here... I think I'm okay Sunday. As long as I get to Jimin's home by 8!"
Namjoon laughs at your long explanation, looking at you fondly. "I'll take you out on a cafe date. Then we can watch a movie and have an early dinner. How does that sound?"
"I like it!" you giggle. "I haven't been on a date in... damn, I've never been on a date."
"Really?" Namjoon asks, slightly bewildered. "No one's taken you out on a date? You?"
"Yeah!" you blush. "Why? Am I date-worthy?"
"You're very date-worthy, Y/N," Namjoon laughs. "Maybe everyone thought you were already taken. You know, you spend a lot of time with your best friend."
You snort. "Jimin and I hang out all the time but I never once thought of anything as a date. He probably thinks of me like I'm his sister!"
"Good, good," Namjoon grins. "So he won't be mad that I'll have to steal you away for a day."
You giggle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Jimin never gets mad. The last time he got slightly irritated with me was in senior year of high school."
"Great!" Namjoon says. "I'll see you at the cafe next door at 2?"
"Sure!" you exclaim.
"Everything's planned, then," Namjoon smiles. "Well, we have fifteen minutes left until the restaurant opens. Why don't you get dressed in your actual uniform? We have extras in the back, okay? Maybe I'll see you around today! I'm going to go check up on our chefs."
"Okay!" you nod. "Bye!" When he's out of view, you have to duck your head to hide your blushing red cheeks. When was the last time a man was interested in you? Never. You're not going to mess up on a perfect chance to date Kim Namjoon who's tall, handsome, intelligent and diligent. You don't think you can wait to meet Jimin during your night shift to tell him such good news. You might just accidentally text him right now! But you can't. Jimin's taking a test and you would be evil to distract him like that.
You've awaited your fairytale romance for 24 fucking years. Maybe you've finally found the Gilbert to your granny. Something about Kim Namjoon feels right.
You squeal giddily as you flee to the back counter of the restaurant, finding the extra black dress there as Namjoon said. You skip to the bathroom to get changed, folding up your modified uniform and stashing it somewhere in the back counter. Your radiance is obvious during your day shift—you get three times the amount of tips than usual. Namjoon even notices and compliments you on your diligence!
Usually, when your day shift is over by 4 p.m., you like to sit in the corner of the restaurant with a fresh magazine in hand and use Gilbert to correct all the embarrassing grammatical errors until it's time for your night shift. But today, Namjoon sits down across from you (because his work for today was over) and he asks what you're doing.
You spend the next two hours until your night shift explaining to Namjoon the intricacies of correct grammar. He seems to enjoy every minute of it. When you have to go back to work, Namjoon promises to see you tomorrow, which was Friday and wishes you the best on your night shift. You let out a dreamy sigh when he leaves.
How did you not notice such a great man like Namjoon was right in front of your face? Granted, it's only been a few weeks since he started working here, but still.
You're usually just a little bit tired (crazy, right? for such an energetic person like you) by the time you start your second shift, but you feel more energized than ever. By the time Jimin comes into the restaurant, you're serving the last customers and cleaning up the tables and pushing in the chairs.
"Hey!" you cry, rushing in to hug your friend. "How was the mid-term?"
"It was great!" Jimin beams. "You've been in a really good mood today, haven't you? The sun was out the whole day. Huh, and you're not fired, I see. Someone made you put on the uniform?"
"Yeah, Namjoon," you say dreamily. When Jimin makes a blank face, you clarify, "my manager."
"Oh? He wasn't mad?"
"No! He wasn't!" you giggle. "He asked me out on a date, Jimin! And then he told me to change into my uniform, but that's beside the point! We're supposed to meet on Sunday at the cafe next door at 2! This is my first date! You have to help me with what to wear!"
Jimin plasters on a giant grin for you, though his insides crumble. "That's great, Y/N! Maybe I can come over later and help you choose what to wear. Are you thinking of making it official? It sounds like you really like him..."
"I don't know yet," you hum. "But I know he's a great guy! You know how well I read people, right? He really likes Gilbert too! God, I think he's already gonna be my prince!"
Jimin nods. "Wow," he mumbles. "Do you know him very well?"
"Well, I know that his name is Kim Namjoon. And he's the day-time manager for The Black Dress," you say, furrowing your eyebrows as you try to think. "He has blonde hair... uh, he's tall and he likes to wear all black!"
"You don't know him very well, do you?" Jimin accuses, crossing his arms over his chest. "Y/N, how do you like him so much if you barely know him? Is it because he expressed interest in you? You can't just go liking people back just because they like you... You need to make judgments for yourself."
You pout, shaking your head. "It's not like that," you say. "And I made my judgment already! I like Kim Namjoon, Jimin. Besides, I will get to know him. Now, I'm gonna go close up the restaurant so sit tight, all right?"
Jimin nods, grumbling under his breath about how quickly you were moving on to like someone you barely gave a second look at. He does admit that he's a bit jealous... Who was this Kim Namjoon who just decided to waltz into your life and steal you away from him? Who was he to ask you out just based on physical attraction? Jimin can't believe you were falling for a guy you basically just met. But he does admit that you've always wanted some sort of fairytale romance. Is it too late for him to confess now?
"Why are you thinking so hard?" you giggle, making Jimin jump away from you from the suddenness. "I closed up the restaurant. Shall we go home?" You hold out your hand for Jimin to take, which he does after just a bit of hesitance.
"I was not thinking very hard," Jimin says.
"Oh, really?" you snort, swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. "You were thinking so hard, a vein popped out in your forehead! A penny for your thoughts?"
When you hold out an actual penny for him to take, Jimin laughs, shaking his head. You huff, putting the penny back in your pocket. "It was nothing, Y/N."
"Wow, I didn't know nothing made you think so hard you looked angry," you tease. "You can tell me anything, you know."
"Yeah, of course," Jimin sighs, squeezing your hand and struggling to hide his actual feelings.
Damn. If he could control the weather with his emotions, it would be raining right now.
Jimin knew you would never be one to put your dates over your friends. That fact was confirmed for him when even though you got Namjoon's phone number, you never texted him when you were hanging out with Jimin—which was practically all the time.
Your Friday movie night was a blast, as usual. The two of you cuddled up on the couch and completely lost it over a hysterical comedy. And the Saturday hangout was even better with the majestic water fountain show. When the two of you separated that night, you ended up FaceTiming in each of your houses. Like Jimin had promised, he helped you pick out a cute but modest outfit for tomorrow—something that enhanced your best features (which Jimin thought is everything) and something that would make it very obvious that green is your color. You went to bed smiling because you were excited about your date with Namjoon tomorrow. Jimin went to bed smiling because you were the last person he saw before going to bed.
On Sunday morning, Jimin woke up, texted you to have fun on your date and began to study for his advanced thermodynamics class, which was a whole fucking pain in the ass. He skipped lunch, got a snack around early evening and waited for you to come over while he watched some kitten Youtube videos.
You were supposed to be back from your date by 8 p.m. It is promptly 8:07 and Jimin begins to get a bit nervous. Should he text? Call? 8:07 is such an ambiguous time. If he calls now, he'll sound clingy, like he's trying to interrupt your date with Namjoon. Well, Jimin wouldn't mind doing that, but he doesn't want to hurt your feelings and burst your idealistic bubble. Perhaps he should wait.
You're always late to everything, anyways. If Jimin wasn't in your life, you would've been late to every single day of school from kindergarten to high school. Hell, if he hadn't banged on your door for you to come out on graduation day, you might've never graduated high school. Maybe Gilbert fell out of your flimsy dress pocket and you're looking for it? (It's happened before so it could surely happen again.)
Alas, the door of Jimin's small apartment swings open and you practically skip through, giggling and twirling around. "Sorry I'm late!" you say, rushing over to where Jimin was slouched on the couch and cuddling up next to him.
You smell faintly masculine. Jimin struggles not to make an unflattering face—that was no doubt Namjoon's cologne. He wonders what base Namjoon took you to tonight. Did you kiss him? Did you make out with him? Have... sex?
He shudders thinking about it.
No. That couldn't have happened. They were in public places the whole time. Unless...
He glances over at you who's stripping off your jewelry, socks and jacket. You're too busy tying up your hair into a messy bun to notice Jimin staring at your lips. Had Namjoon kissed you goodbye?
Jimin shames himself for having these thoughts. He should be happy for you. Besides, you weren't even that late. It's only 8:10.
"You wouldn't believe why I was like, ten minutes late," you giggle, stretching out your legs and sitting in an unflattering position that hikes your dress up to your mid-thigh. Jimin struggles not to look down.
"Really?" he asks. "What happened?"
You snort. "Okay, so—wait do you have my makeup remover wipes here? And can I borrow some sweats? I totally forgot to bring a change of clothes. Sorry!" you say.
Jimin nods. "Yeah, the wipes are in my bedroom where you last left them and um, you can find some of my t-shirts in the first drawer of the cabinet next to my bed."
"Okay, thanks, Jimin!" you giggle, quickly bouncing up from your spot. When you see that Jimin's still glued to his seat, you laugh. "I can't tell you the story when you're that far away from me! Get up! I'll tell you the story while I change."
Jimin flushes at the thought. "Y-Yeah, okay," he stutters. You tug him into his own bedroom, snatching the makeup wipes from the nightstand and beginning to wipe off your light makeup. Jimin sits down on his bed, cross-legged, attentively waiting for you to start your story.
"Okay, anyways, Joon—"
"Joon?"
"Yeah, it's like my little nickname for Namjoon, isn't it adorable? Where was I? Right!" you mutter to yourself as you furiously scrub off the remnants of your mascara. "We were coming out of the movie theater, right? I found out Gilbert wasn't in my pocket! And I was just about to turn around to tell Joon my misfortune but he was already facing me and yelling, 'I FORGOT MY PHONE!' "
You take a moment to skillfully aim the wipe into Jimin's trash bin, squealing when it goes in completely clean. Jimin claps politely for you.
"Thank you," you bow dramatically. "Oh yeah, where was I?" You begin to make your way towards Jimin's bedroom cabinet, pulling out the first drawer and inspecting your choices of nightwear and sticking your hand in the neatly folded clothes to rummage through and pick your poison. "So, naturally, Joon and I went back into the theater and—ooh, Jimin you have a few condoms in here! Are you getting it on these days?"
"Y/N!" Jimin shrieks, scrambling over and snatching the condom you were teasingly holding out before chucking it into his closet and slamming the door shut. "T-That's private."
"Oh, really?" you ask, wiggling your eyebrows. "Who's the lucky girl?"
"Come on, Y/N. I'm a virgin, you know that."
You raise your eyebrows. "It looks like you're tired of being one though," you tease.
Jimin can't look you in the eyes. His face burns with humiliation. He can't possibly explain why he had bought those condoms. Back when he was an undergraduate, he had been desperate to get over his feelings for you—so desperate, in fact, that he had purchased his first batch of contraceptives to have sex with other women and completely forget about you. But he never had the guts to try. How could he? When he was so hopefully in love with you that he couldn't imagine himself being sexually active with someone else. Er, not that he sees himself being sexually active with you. But—
I need to stop thinking about this.
"Aw, Jiminie," you coo. "It's okay to be a virgin," you say in your secret language as you sit down on the bed with one of Jimin's favorite black t-shirts in hand. Jimin believes you must've thought he was pissed off at you for teasing him about being inexperienced. "I'm a virgin too, right?" you say. "I'm waiting for my prince!"
Jimin breathes a sigh of relief. So you hadn't had sex with Namjoon tonight. For some reason, he feels much better after hearing that. "You know what, Y/N?" he smiles. "I'm waiting for my princess."
You smile so bright it lights up the room. "Good," you say. "Let's get married on the same day, then. A double wedding in a castle far, far away!" you place a dramatic hand over your forehead. "Now! Where was I for the hundredth time? Oh, yeah! Joon and I went back to the theater," you say, starting to unzip your dress.
Jimin's eyes turn wide and he quickly turns his back towards you, making you laugh.
"I'm not putting on a strip show," you giggle. "You don't have to be so embarrassed about it!"
"I-I, uh, I'll just give you some privacy. Tell me when you're done," Jimin manages to choke out.
"So gentlemanly. How do you not have a girlfriend yet?" you chuckle to yourself, sliding the sleeves of the dress of your shoulders and dragging the fabric off of your body. "Okay, okay, okay. I need to focus. Anyways, Joon and I went back into the movie theater and the first thing we did was to go back into the room where we watched the movie—great film, by the way—and we literally scrounged around everywhere for my poor Gilbert and Joon's phone! But to no avail! It was as if both of them disappeared!"
You toss your dress on the floor, unclip your bra and tug Jimin's shirt on in smooth motions.
"Jimin, you can look now," you say.
He turns around, ears slightly pink and eyes averted. Quickly, Jimin sits down on his bed, across from you. "You can continue your story," he offers.
You grin. "So, Joon was panicking at this point because he lost his phone. And I was about to burst into tears because I lost Gilbert, you know?"
Jimin nods in response.
"Yeah, so I figured I'd have to be late coming to your apartment because I can't just leave without Gilbert! When I reached into my purse to get my phone to tell you of my misfortune, guess what happened. Guess! Guess!"
Jimin pouts. "Can't you just tell me?"
You roll your eyes. "I was building the story up just so you could literally guess what happened with no problem," you huff. "Fine, then. I reached into my purse to get my phone and I pulled out Namjoon's instead! Turns out, before the movie, Joon was holding all the snacks and he dropped his phone. So, you know, I picked it up and couldn't give it back to him so I just put it in my purse!"
Jimin smiles. "And you forgot you put it in your purse?"
"Well, yeah!" you giggle. "I was so worried about Gilbert!"
"Did you find him?" Jimin asks.
You snort. "Is that even a question, Jimin? I wouldn't be this happy right now if I hadn't. You'd never guess where Gilbert was, Jimin."
"So there's no point in me trying, right?" he responds, teasingly. But when he sees your death glare, he sighs. "Fine. Was Gilbert in Namjoon's purse?"
"HA!" you exclaim. "Good one! But no, it was in my right pocket."
"Oh, Y/N," Jimin says, leaning back on his bed. "You only checked your left pocket before you declared Gilbert missing, huh?"
"Yessir!" you laugh. "Joon and I got a good laugh out of it. He told me I'm really silly! And, get this, he said I'm a natural!"
"Really?" Jimin says. "A natural at what?"
"Dating!" you squeal. "He told me I'm naturally cuddly and adorable and kissable and—god, my heart exploded in my chest!!!"
Kissable???
"But I told him I don't kiss on first dates—not that I've never been on another one... You know? Like you need to give them something to long for!" you laugh, spreading out on Jimin's bed while looking up at his ceiling. "I read that from a romance novel somewhere. And it worked! He asked me out on our second date during our first date! Am I amazing or what?"
"Oh, Y/N," Jimin sighs.
"Oh, Jimin," you mock right back. "Anyways, shall we go to bed early? My princess beauty sleep is waiting!" you sing, making your way to Jimin's bathroom. "I'm gonna wash up, okay?"
"All right," Jimin answers, getting up to turn off the lights of his room. He crawls back into his bed, waiting for you to join him. A few minutes later, you do, tucking yourself in on the left side of the bed and snuggling Jimin's blankets as you sigh out.
No matter how many times he's slept beside you, Jimin feels like his heart will beat out of his chest every time. It feels wrong, to sleep in the same bed as adults when you're in nothing but a platonic relationship with him. Yet something about it feels so right... And you've been doing it since you were kids and upholding tradition is pretty important to both of you.
Jimin double-checks to make sure he isn't pulling the blanket covers too hard. He doesn't want you left with anything to stay warm through the night.
"Goodnight, Jimin," you whisper.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispers back.
And he drifts off to sleep. Only in his dreams can his longing to be with you come true.
Jimin is always your priority. You have a lot of friends, but when it comes to who you're willing to spend the most time with, it's Jimin. And it's always been like that—since that one fateful day in kindergarten to now. Er, kind of.
These days, your priorities may have shifted just a tiny bit.
It's been like that ever since Namjoon took you out on that stupid fifth date, which was the date that marked the official start of your romantic relationship with him. Jimin had sulked in his bed that whole day when you'd first texted him the news. But later, he forced himself to get up and have a cup of coffee with you in the cafe next to your workplace. He feigned a smile for you and told you that Namjoon was one lucky man.
And he was.
Now that Namjoon is officially your boyfriend, Jimin had to share you with him. It's unfair. Jimin's known you for nearly two decades, but Kim Namjoon decided to waltz into your life one day and win you over in less than a month. What did Namjoon have that Jimin didn't??
But no matter how bitter your relationship with Namjoon made Jimin feel, he hid it away from you. Besides, you are practically glowing these days. Whatever Namjoon tells you makes you absolutely radiant. And Namjoon must be a good man because you come over to Jimin's apartment after every date happy and bubbly like it was your first. So he's definitely treating you right.
You don't get to spend as much time with Jimin anymore, too. Sometimes, Jimin asks if you're available for lunch or dinner but half the time you've already made reservations with your boyfriend. Yet you always make sure you see Jimin at least five days a week (two days less than what was before, but it's a small price Jimin's willing to pay for your heightened happiness).
Since your birthday is coming up, Jimin's been putting the finishing touches on your present—the one he's been preparing since the day after your last birthday. This year, you've already made him a short little flipbook (that you drew yourself) about the first time the two of you had first met for Jimin's birthday. The gift was rather nostalgic and it had almost made him cry. Jimin hopes the present he makes for you this year will make you cry. In a good way, of course.
You and Jimin share every single one of your birthdays. It's been an ongoing tradition since Jimin turned six before you did. This year is no different. You had to tell a very bummed Namjoon that you already made dinner reservations with your best friend so he'd had to give you your present when you ate lunch with him earlier that day.
Jimin doesn't really think Namjoon likes him that much. He always eyes Jimin with some sort of suspect as if Jimin was going to steal you away from him. Hmph. The feeling is reciprocal.
When you came to your favorite restaurant wearing your favorite green dress, Jimin had already ordered the food and was patiently waiting with his hand-made present.
"Hey!" you cry as you slide into the seat.
"Happy birthday, Y/N!" Jimin smiles. "You look great!"
"Right?" you giggle, tossing your perfectly curled hair over your shoulder. "I felt like for my 25th birthday, I'd have to wear something cute. I'm halfway to the fucking 50 years old, Jimin. I'm aging too quickly," you huff, crossing your arms over your shoulder. "Did you order already?"
"O-Oh, yeah," Jimin says. "Why? Did you want something different?"
"No, I just wanted to check if the menus had any grammatical errors," you laugh, shrugging. "Oh well, when we get dessert menus, I'll check out RM."
"RM?"
"Oh! It's part of the gift Joon gave me," you exclaim, pulling out a—
"Red marker?" Jimin scrunches his eyebrows. "For your birthday?"
You nod, placing the marker on your desk and rolling it towards Jimin so he can pick it up and examine it. Jimin does, scrutinizing the marker that was most definitely not as great as Gilbert.
"Well, Joon always saw that I was correcting grammatical errors with Gilbert and he thought that something red would be more emphatic, you know?" you explain, taking out Gilbert from your left pocket. "Of course I love Gilbert more, but I thought I'd give RM a try. Besides, Joon said red serves as the better color for correcting. He said the color itself brings alert to the problem and that green is too passive. I guess I can see that."
Jimin frowns. "But you like green because it's 'passive,' " Jimin sighs as he makes air quotes with his hands. "And it doesn't make the corrections seem as rude and aggressive."
"I know, Jimin," you smile. "I'll try RM out once and keep it on a shelf somewhere. Gilbert's not going anywhere. You know that. Besides, Joon was really insistent that I tried it out, you know? He was so thoughtful too! I think it's a great gift! And I think it's endearing that he named it RM for me. Did you know RM used to be his nickname when he was back in college and in an acapella group? The man can sing! What can he not do?" you gush.
"He named the marker after himself?" Jimin snorts. Typical.
"Well, yeah, I guess he did!" you laugh. "It's like I'm always carrying around a mini him!"
Bleh.
"Yeah," Jimin agrees without much heart. "Oh, wanna see what I got you for your birthday?" he asks, hoping to steer the conversation away from your boyfriend.
"OH MY GOD, YES!" you exclaim. "I've been waiting for this moment since my last birthday."
"Good," Jimin grins as he whips out a box with pretty, green wrapping. "Here."
You take it from him, shaking the box wildly and with wide, happy eyes. "It's kinda heavy!" you comment, beginning to rip the wrapping off. You skillfully force the box open with the butt of your fork. When you finally see your present, you gasp. "Oh, Jimin, you fucking didn't."
"I fucking did," Jimin smiles proudly. "Open it."
You carefully take a photo book out of the box, your eyes glued on the beautiful front cover. "God. I'm tearing up just looking at the front," you laugh. "Where'd you even get these photos?"
He shrugs, smiling. "Here and there, you know?"
Jimin had made sure the cover of the photo book would be littered with childhood photos he and you had taken when you were younger. The rest of the book is filled with little memories the two of you shared growing up with captions and comments underneath. There are a total of 392 photos in the book. And Jimin had spent seven months accumulating them—mostly from his father's old camera and Jimin's old Nokia phone he dug out from his garage. You'd always wanted a photo book, so Jimin thought it was time to gift you with one.
You're excitedly flipping through the pages, spending more time to stare at the more sentimental photos. Even when the food arrives, you can't put the book away. You're so distracted with Jimin's present that you don't even try to correct the grammar errors on the dessert menus. So Jimin grabs Gilbert and makes corrections himself. He puts the correct accents on crème brûlée and corrects a rather obvious spelling error. Then, he proceeds to order two strawberry cheesecakes. Surprisingly, even when the dessert arrives, you don't put the book down.
It's rare when something entrances you so much that you don't speak for long periods of time. You haven't spoken a single word to Jimin ever since you'd started flipping through the photo book, and Jimin finds that he doesn't mind at all. He loves watching how your face relaxes and contorts again as the memories of your childhood flood through you. The last photo in the book is the one your granny took of you and Jimin fighting over the last glazed donut when the two of you were in first grade. Spoiler alert: you'd won. But you had also felt bad after watching Jimin sulk so you'd broken the donut in half and handed a piece to your best friend.
When you finally catch sight of the last photo, you gasp, putting a hand over your lips.
"Granny," you whisper. "She took this photo. I remember..."
You're practically clouded with nostalgia and Jimin swears he sees tears welling up in your eyes. But you won't cry over something as simple as this. It's the fact that you loved his gift so much that you almost cried that counts.
"Gosh... Jimin," you breathe, fanning your eyes. "I'm not crying, by the way. Something's in my eye, I don't know," you mumble.
Jimin grins.
"I don't even know what to say, Jimin. I love it. I'll cherish it forever. Thank you. God, it's perfect," you say. "Wow. You're leaving me speechless, Jimin. And it's very hard to shut me up. You're something special."
Jimin practically beams. All the time and effort he'd spent on your birthday gift had really paid off. He loves seeing you so happy that you can't even describe what you're feeling in words.
You carefully shut the photo book, setting it off to the side before staring right into Jimin's eyes. "I would totally fucking say I love you right now but I don't think Joon would appreciate it."
"What?" Jimin breathes as his heart flutters in his chest. "But he's not here right now."
"He doesn't like it when I do 'romantic' things with you," you sigh as you lean back. "We had a long discussion about it a few days ago."
"Romantic things?" Jimin makes a face. "What the hell is he talking about?"
"Oh, it's not a big deal!" you exclaim, waving your hands. "He just thinks, well, he thinks that some of the stuff that I do with you... um, is not really, uh, platonic."
Ah. Jimin sees where you're going with this. And now it's obvious why Joon always looks at him so suspiciously—Namjoon feels threatened by Jimin.
"How so?" Jimin asks but he already knows the answer.
"Like um, he doesn't like it when I sleep over at your place, you know?" you say, fidgeting in your seat. "And he really put his foot down when I told him we sometimes share a bed. He said I shouldn't really do that with you anymore."
Jimin understands where Namjoon is coming from. But at the same time, he feels as if Namjoon had violated his rights. His rights to be with you.
"I can't hold hands with you either," you say, looking down at your uneaten strawberry cheesecake. "I'm so sorry, Jimin. I know we've been doing it for so long and I swear, I didn't know it was strictly a relationship thing. But apparently it is, and it made Joon uncomfortable that we were holding hands when I'm really dating him and just—" you stop yourself from rambling, sighing as you take a sip of your ice water. "And I really love him, Jimin," you whisper. "I don't want to lose him."
"You love him already?" Jimin says with a slight tremor in his voice that you completely look over. "It's only been a month, Y/N."
"Love has nothing to do with time," you smile wistfully. "He's my prince, Jimin. If I let him go, he'll find someone else."
Jimin's silent, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't hurt your feelings.
You take his silence as a bad sign. "Jimin, I didn't want to break all of this to you on a celebration night but I felt like you deserved to know earlier," you say in your secret language. "I'm sorry. It was all part of our tradition too."
"It's fine," Jimin sighs. But it's really not. Yet Jimin hides his pain by shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows. "What Joon's suggesting is pretty justified. Don't worry about it."
The rest of your birthday dinner is somewhat awkward. Of course, you try to save the mood by cracking a few jokes here and there, but Jimin finds it hard to laugh. It's the worst birthday he's ever celebrated with you.
You and Joon have only started dating for a month, but so much as changed already. Jimin doesn't even want to think of the drastic changes that might follow as your relationship with your 'prince' deepens and blossoms into something even more serious.
When Jimin arrives at your home to walk you to work on a Monday morning, he does a double-take because he finds you already waiting outside, shivering from the chilly air in nothing but your plain work uniform. Never in the twenty years that he's known you have you ever been on your doorstep before him.
"Y/N?" Jimin asks, bewildered. "What happened?"
"Hey!" you exclaim, waving at your best friend enthusiastically. "Nothing happened. I'm just trying to get into the habit of being early. It's not a good habit to be late all the time."
"Your face is red, Y/N!" Jimin says, shrugging his thick coat off and handing it to you and you take it gratefully. "How long have you been waiting?"
"Eh, just a few minutes," you say, sniffling your runny nose and grinning. "I'm as red as RM! Besides, the sun's shining. You know what that means? I'm fine."
Jimin shakes his head. "You should've waited inside. I'm okay with waiting. I've done it for twenty years so I wouldn't mind doing it for more."
"Joon told me I should get into the habit of being early," you giggle. "I've been late to every single one of our dates so far, you know?"
"Well, you've been late to every single one of our hangouts but I never said anything," Jimin scoffs.
"It's different with you," you say, smiling.
How? Jimin so desperately wants to ask. But he's afraid of your answer.
You wrap Jimin's black coat tighter around yourself as you skip down the porch steps. "C'mon! I wanna get to work super early!"
It takes only a week later for Jimin to realize you like going to work early because your boyfriend's already there, waiting for you.
You've been with Namjoon for about three months now, and the effects are starting to impact Jimin's life rather largely. For starters, you're spending way less time with him than before. The daily routines you had established with him for years are broken as you mold your lifestyle in the way that Namjoon wants you to. Jimin hates change more than anything. You should know that.
And you do. You apologize profusely—any chance you get—about the little changes in his lifestyle because of you; Jimin never blames you, though.
When you missed his grad school graduation because Namjoon bought you expensive vacation tickets to an acclaimed resort in Hawaii, Jimin didn't blame you.
It was Namjoon who had bought the tickets and it was Namjoon who told you the trip wasn't refundable. It was Namjoon who wanted to take you away from Jimin for a week. You promised you would FaceTime him.
And you're the best promise-keeper in the world.
"How is it there?" Jimin asks in the secret language as he lounges on his couch. "Is the weather nice?"
"It's beautiful!" you exclaim, moving out of the screen to show Jimin the sparkling blue-green oceans behind you. "We went snorkeling a few hours ago and we just had lunch so we're waiting to digest our food before we dive in again! I wish you were here," you pout. "I'm sorry I missed your graduation, by the way. Was your father there?"
"Yeah, he was. Don't worry about that," Jimin says. "I'm glad you're having fun."
"Aw, thanks!" you giggle. "Joon really outdid himself with all of this. Oh, how's your job status, by the way?"
"I got the job," Jimin smiles. "I didn't go through with those extra few years of school for nothing."
"HA!" you snort. "If I actually went to college, I would've been kicked out for literally failing every class. Remember when I got a 32% on that physics test? God, I hated Mr. Chung. Look at that! After all of these years, I still remember his goddamn name!"
Jimin shakes from laughter. "Of course I remember! Mr. Chung told me to tutor you or something."
"And then you told Mr. Chung that—"
"Baby?" Namjoon calls off-screen, interrupting you mid-sentence.
You turn around to look at him. "Yeah, babe? Oh, wait, sorry. I mean, yeah, babe?"
Jimin can hear Namjoon sighing. "Baby, can you please, refrain from using that secret language of yours in public?" he whispers. "I'm so sorry, but it sounds a bit like a chicken is being repeatedly run over by a car and people are starting to stare."
Jimin's about to give Namjoon a piece of his mind when you cut in before him.
"Aw, I'm sorry Joon," you giggle. "I made the language when I was really young. Explains a lot, doesn't it? Sorry, Jimin," you tell the camera. "I guess we'll have to stop our encrypted conversation."
"And baby?" Namjoon calls. "We're on vacation! Technology should be off when we have such beautiful scenery around us."
Jimin grits his teeth.
"Right!" you laugh. "Silly me. Sorry, Jimin," you say again, not even looking into the camera this time. "I have to go! I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye!"
Before Jimin can even answer, you end the call. Jimin's left staring right back at his own frustrated face. He chucks his phone across his couch and covers his face with his hands.
At first, Jimin didn't like Namjoon because he was jealous. But now, it's come to more than that. Namjoon's been trying to change the little quirks and habits that made you, you; he's trying to mold you into the same society you rebelled against for all of your life. He's trying to take you away from Jimin. He's trying to strip you of everything you were before you met him.
But what can Jimin do about it?
You're too head over heels in love with this Kim Namjoon. That man is the self-proclaimed prince to your princess. Jimin can't help but think he's the ogre. A handsome, successful ogre who strikes slowly, so slowly that the damage cannot be detected until it's too late.
If Jimin tries to warn you about Namjoon and his dubious intentions, you might not believe him and hate Jimin for life. If Jimin says nothing, he might not be able to recognize you in a few years' time at the rate the changes are happening now.
Jimin doesn't know what to do. He hates confrontations—that had always been your job, not his. So he does what he always does: nothing.
Being with you every day is a mystery. You have something new up your sleeve every single day without fail. Whether it be a new fashion style or a new gadget you made, you're always flaunting something that others wouldn't dare flaunt. And that's what made you so special.
But the crazy color schemes that had once been in your closet have been reduced to dark, muted colors. The Halloween costumes you kept every year to wear as everyday clothes were sitting on a rack in some Goodwill store. You dressed... plainly now.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with that. It's just not you. It is Namjoon though. Besides from Jimin, Namjoon is the plainest man he knows. And so far, switching out your wardrobe was definitely not your idea, though you seem to believe it is. That Kim Namjoon. He's planting these stupid ideas in your head and you're absorbing them like a sponge, too kind and docile and a bit too naive to disagree with your boyfriend.
Jimin's heard the way you talk about him. Your eyes gloss over with complete adoration and you giggle at everything Namjoon does. You're madly in love with him, and Jimin can't do anything about it except watch.
But no matter how many of your habits and physical lifestyle Namjoon can change, he can't touch your personality. You're the same girl Jimin's known and loved for years and years of his life. And he's not going to let you go anytime soon.
"JIMIN!!!" you yell, almost knocking your friend over by hugging him the moment you open your apartment door to see his face. "You're two minutes late!" you pout as you drag him over in front of your television. "I already picked a movie!"
Jimin can't deny Friday movie nights with you is the only thing he looks forward to these days. Though you don't cuddle with him on the couch anymore, you like to lean against his shoulder. And that's enough contact for Jimin to be satisfied.
"Really?" Jimin grins. "What movie?"
"Interstellar!" you say, collapsing on your couch as you aggressively pat the empty seat next to you. "Hurry up! Hurry up! I'm excited!"
"Y/N? Are you sure?" Jimin asks as he sits down next to you with a confused look on his face. Usually, when you choose a movie, you always end up reverting back to your classic favorite Disney princess films. "I know you don't really like sci-fi..."
"Yeah, but I told Namjoon I already watched that movie, but I haven't. So now I need to watch it," you explain quickly. "You like sci-fi, though, so you can explain all the things I don't get! Which would be half of the movie."
There Namjoon goes again. Making you watch movies that literally lull you to sleep.
"Okay," Jimin sighs. He doesn't have the guts to tell you that he's watched this movie hundreds of times.
By the time the roll credits are playing on the screen, you're completely knocked out. Well, you've been knocked out since the first twenty minutes of the film. Jimin's been watching you sleep for the rest of the two hours and thirty minutes of the film. (Not in a creepy way—an endearing way.) He had to stop himself multiple times from reaching out and tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and away from your face.
God. Jimin needs a drink of water. Is it just him or is the room getting hotter?
He stands up slowly and quietly, making sure he wouldn't disturb your peaceful beauty sleep. Jimin's known your home since he was five; he could walk blindfolded to the kitchen if someone made him. He finds refuge near your water dispenser, fanning his face and taking his own cup from the cupboard. Your granny had bought that blue cup for him years ago, gifting you with a separate green cup. It's the only cup you use at home.
Jimin fills his cup with water, downing all of it in one large gulp. The water helps him cool off just a tad bit. He moves to place his used cup in the sink, his eyes habitually glancing over at your trash can.
You never remember to put a plastic bag inside it, which makes the gross remnants of your waste stick to your trash can. And Jimin can definitely say that that stench is horrendous. Jimin sighs as he finds an empty Walmart plastic bag rolling around your kitchen. He approaches the trash can, holding his breath just in case. But when he checks inside, there is nothing in it except for—
"GILBERT?" Jimin gasps loudly.
"JIMIN?!" you shriek. There's a resounding thud in the living room and a small "oof," from you as you lay sprawled on the floor.
"Y/N!" Jimin yells.
You dash over to your kitchen, rubbing your eyes and trying to adjust to the bright kitchen lights. "Jimin?" you say, your brows furrowed as you approach your friend who's pointing aggressively at your trash can with wide, angry eyes. "Oh," you say softly when you realize what he's talking about. "Right..."
"Why is Gilbert in the trash, Y/N?" Jimin asks, running his fingers through his hair as he grips the kitchen counter for stability. "Was it Namjoon? Did he do this?"
"No!" you shout. "I did it, Jimin. I tossed Gilbert in the trash."
"Why?" Jimin whispers, taking a step away from you. "That marker's everything to you."
"I know, Jimin, I know," you groan. "It dried out. It's ages old, you know?"
"But you take such good care of it, Y/N." Jimin shakes his head. "And you're just tossing it away like that because it dried out? What about your grandfather? What about your granny?"
"Jimin, it's fine. I'm fine," you say, shrugging. "It's time I let go, you know?
"Let go of what, Y/N? The only family you've known?" Jimin sighs. "What happened to saving the world by correcting their grammatical errors?"
"Its," you reply.
"What?" Jimin says exasperatedly.
"Saving the world by correcting its grammatical errors," you say, a slow smile emerging on your face as Jimin shakes his head to hide his own grin beginning to manifest on his face. "I'm sorry, Jimin. You're right. I don't know what I was thinking," you say. "Well, I wasn't. Joon and I had our first fight today."
"Oh..."
"No, don't you 'oh' me, Park Jimin!" you laugh. "It's really not that bad! He told me I had a premature taste in films and an immature outlook on life, but I mean, he's not wrong, you know? I tried to stay awake watching Interstellar. I really did. But Joon's right. I can't like anything that's advanced. And I realized that it's a crime to vandalize, too..."
"So you threw Gilbert away because of that?"
"Well, yeah," you say. "It's a crime, Jimin. I didn't even know until Joon told me! He's so wise!"
"Oh, god," Jimin groans, burying his face in his hands.
"Ah, c'mon, Jiminie," you say, grabbing his wrists and trying to pry his hands away from his face. "He's helping me move on, you know? He's helping me become a better person!"
A better person.
The words sting. If your definition of a 'better person' is losing the spark, the color of your life, then fine. You were already a better person than before. But all Jimin can see is the monochrome you. The you without color. Which doesn't really seem like you at all.
But it hasn't rained in a while, so maybe you were truly fine with losing your color. Either that or you had also lost the ability to control the weather with your emotions. Jimin wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.
Jimin is a patient man. Not only has he waited twenty years for you to love him back (which you never did), but also he never outwardly expressed his frustrations with your change in lifestyle to you.
Besides, if Namjoon's making you that happy, then there really was no problem, right?
Wrong.
You call Jimin on Sunday with the worst news ever imaginable.
"I'm moving!" you squeal and Jimin can hear you jumping up and down on your bed from the other line. "Joon asked me to move in with him!!"
You've only dated him for four months.
"H-He did?" Jimin stutters, cursing himself for sounding so pathetically off-guard. "What about your home? Your granny's home?"
You've lived in that house ever since you were born until now.
"I can't live in that house, forever, Jimin. I want to move on!" you say. "Plus, I think Joon and I are ready to take our relationship to the next level!"
"That's ridiculous," Jimin mutters, raking his fingers through his hair in pure frustration.
"Sorry?" you say.
Shit. Jimin had forgotten you were still on the phone.
"Nevermind," he sighs.
"Jiminie," you say with that characteristic lilt in your voice. "You can tell me what you're thinking you know! I haven't been your ride or die best friend for twenty years to not know what's going on with you."
"I know," Jimin says. But he can't tell you that he absolutely despises your boyfriend. It'll break your heart. And Jimin doesn't want to be the reason for your unhappiness. "Congratulations, Y/N," he says. "I hope you like your new place, then."
"I love it, Jimin!" you squeal. "Joon remodeled his bedroom recently and damn it's just so beautiful! I'll finally be living in a castle with my prince!"
"That's great, Y/N!"
"I know, right?" you exclaim in such a voice that Jimin can tell you're absolutely beaming on the other line. "You have to come over when the move's finished! You know what? Come over this Friday for movie night! I wanna give you a tour of my new home!"
"Namjoon won't mind?" Jimin asks.
"He's going out with friends that night," you giggle. "We'll have the whole place to ourselves! Did you know Joon has a flat-screen TV?? It's humongous!"
The offer sounds very tempting. Watching a movie on a high-end television with you on a Friday night? Hell yes. It almost makes up for the fact that you're moving out of the house you and Jimin had practically grown up in.
God, Jimin can't wait for Friday to come.
It's Jimin's turn to choose the movie when Friday night finally rolls around. Since he knows you nearly idolize Rapunzel, he suggests the two of you rewatch Tangled for probably the millionth time. But before the movie had to come the house tour, of course.
Namjoon's home is rather spacious for a guy who was single for a long time. You parade around the home as you've already lived in it your whole life. Jimin silently tags along. He has to admit that Namjoon's home is, indeed, better than your granny's old house. But he nearly bursts with jealousy when you show him around the big bedroom that you supposedly share with Namjoon.
"Isn't it great?!" you say, twirling around the commodious room with a bright grin on your face. "Joon even bought new sheets for us! I wanted green and he wanted white, so we went with light gray," you giggle. "Compromise of the century, huh?"
"Still looks white to me," Jimin mutters under his breath. But you're so hyped about showing your best friend around your boyfriend's home that you don't hear him.
"C'mon, let's go watch Tangled, now!" you say, dragging Jimin back to Namjoon's expensive leather couch and switching on the flat-screen TV.
Both of you collapse on the couch, leaning against each other by habit as the movie begins to play on the screen. Jimin's watched the film with you so many times that he's basically memorized the whole script.
You like to silently mouth Rapunzel's lines and Jimin mouths Eugene Fitzherbert's lines. You also like to sing when Rapunzel does, and you've been trying to convince Jimin for years to sing with you. But Jimin does not sing. And that was that.
No matter how many times you've watched Tangled, you cry when Eugene Fitzherbert 'dies.' Before you were dating Namjoon, you'd always bury yourself in Jimin's arms, waiting until the climax of the scene is over. Nowadays, you limit yourself to placing your head on Jimin's shoulder, burying your face in Namjoon's couch pillows. Jimin doesn't mind. He likes that you take comfort in his presence.
Just as the tension of the scene is about to lift, the front door of the house opens and Namjoon walks in. But you're so engrossed in the movie that you barely notice, instead, digging your face harder into the pillow.
Jimin's head jerks towards Namjoon and their eyes meet. Namjoon doesn't look very happy. For just a split second, Jimin fears his life. He takes the time to scoot a bit away from you so Namjoon doesn't come for his neck. You whine when Jimin pulls away, trying to tug him back as your eyes are glued to the TV.
"Y/N..." Jimin whispers. "Your boyfriend's here."
"Oh, what?!" you say, breaking from the trance that the movie had put on you and finally turning your head to see a frowning Namjoon. "Joon! You came back so early!"
"Why is he here?" Namjoon asks, ignoring your enthusiasm. He doesn't look at you when he speaks, his eyes trained on Jimin, instead. Jimin gulps.
"It's Friday movie night!" you laugh. "We're watching Tangled! Oh, Jimin can you pause the movie? Damn, we'll have to rewind it. Wanna watch with us?"
"No, Jimin," Namjoon says through gritted teeth. "Turn the TV off. Y/N, this is not your home. It is ours. You're to tell me if you are to have guests over." He glares at Jimin again. "Then we can talk if they are welcome here or not."
"I-I, uh, I have to go," Jimin stutters, desperately, standing up from the couch.
"But we didn't even finish the movie!" you protest, grabbing Jimin's wrist and looking at him with puppy dog eyes. "We always finish the movie."
"Y/N, we need to talk. Let him go," Namjoon says, crossing his arms.
"I—" you sigh, letting go of Jimin's wrist. "Okay..."
It hurts to watch you look down at your feet like Namjoon was scolding you. You look so small, powerless up against him that just for one, small second, Jimin contemplates staying. Maybe give Kim Namjoon a piece of his mind.
But who is he kidding? Jimin could never compare himself to a man like Namjoon.
"I'll uh, talk to you later," Jimin quickly says. He doesn't look back when he leaves and you watch him go with a certain emptiness in your heart.
The moment Jimin's out the door, he runs. He runs from your boyfriend, your obvious pain... He runs away from himself. But he should know. No one can outrun cowardliness.
You're really the only significant figure in his life; the only person he's loved for twenty consecutive years. Yet he can't do anything to save you from the obvious monster that is your boyfriend. Jimin hates himself for that.
He crash-lands on his bed, burying himself in his pillows and drowning in self-hatred. He lays still for what seems like hours in the darkness, the silence. He tries to numb his thoughts. But when his vision is nothing but a black screen, he cannot do anything but think.
He thinks of the fight you might be having with Namjoon. He thinks of how sad you must be inside. He wonders if you genuinely like being with Namjoon. He wonders if you're genuinely happy. But most of all, he wants to know if you miss your old self.
Jimin groans when he hears his phone ring next to him. He doesn't want to get up nor move, but something inside tells him that it's important. That it might be you.
And it is.
Hurriedly, Jimin answers the call. "Y/N?"
"H-Hey, J-Jimin," you wheeze.
Jimin freezes. You're crying. And everyone knows you don't cry.
"Y/N?!" Jimin panics, sitting up. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"Of course I'm okay!" you yell, making Jimin wince at the harshness of your voice in his ear. "Joon and I just fought! I'm fine!" you sniffle. "You said to talk to you later so I'm calling you!" you try to laugh but it comes out like a broken sob. "I'm not crying, I swear!"
Bullshit.
This is the third time Jimin's heard you cry. The first two times had been because of your granny. This time? It was because of that bastard, Namjoon.
"Did he do anything to you?" Jimin says, his hands slightly shaking as he waits for an answer.
"No! Joon would never," you say. "We just talked. You don't have to worry, Jimin."
"He looked angry when I left..."
"He was..." you sigh. "Listen, Jimin... this is going to sound bad, but um... Joon... He, well, he doesn't want you coming over anymore."
"What?!" Jimin blurts out. "At all?"
"It's okay! It's okay!" you say, though you sound far from it. "I can always come over to your house!" You sigh deeply. "It's just that I don't think Joon's very comfortable around you."
No, he's just not comfortable when I'm around you.
"This is ridiculous," Jimin mutters.
"Sorry, Jimin, what did you say?" you ask. "I didn't hear."
Jimin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tries to stay calm, tries to keep from bursting out and yelling, but he can't help himself. It had to be said. "It's fucking ridiculous!" he shouts suddenly, standing up and starting to pace back and forth in his room with a crazed look on his face. "He's being fucking ridiculous!" he yells.
"Him? You mean Joon?" you say.
"Yeah!" Jimin throws up his hand in frustration. "He's acting like he fucking owns you!" Jimin snaps.
God. He's done it now. There's no going back.
"He's not, though!" you protest. "Don't get mad, Jimin. He's only voicing his rightful opinion. There's nothing wrong with that."
"He's trying to separate us!" Jimin yells. "Don't you get it?"
"No!" you say, starting to raise your voice. "Joon wouldn't do that!"
"Like he wouldn't fucking convince you to throw away Gilbert? Like he wouldn't convince you to clean out your closet and replace it with clothes that he finds sensible? Like he wouldn't fucking convince you to keep your distance from me?? He wouldn't fucking do any of these, huh?" Jimin shouts, his voice interlaced with anger and sorrow. His throat feels raw in his neck, but he continues on with the thoughts he's held in for months. "You're blind, Y/N! He's ruining your fucking life can't you see? Where's the Y/N who used to talk to me for hours before going to sleep in our secret language? When's the last time you've spoken that, huh? And when's the last time you pretended to control the weather with your emotions? Where's the real Y/N? What happened to her?"
"Joon doesn't like her!" you yell at the top of your lungs. Your voice rings in Jimin's ear.
"Why do you want Joon to like you? What are you trying to prove to him?" Jimin cries, his voice quivering.
"I'm following my path to love!" you shout. "It's something you'd never understand. You don't even know what that is! I've never, ever seen you pine for anyone in the fucking twenty years I've known you! You can't be talking about love if you've never fucking felt it!"
Jimin collapses on his bed, his head numb and hands cold.
You take his silence as defeat. "I fucking thought so," you say. "Joon says you're too dependent on me. You need to go out and make another friend other than me. The world changes, Jimin. People come and go. Stop being just so—just so fucking stuck in the past. Goodbye."
You don't wait for a response, ending the call right away.
Jimin's phone slips from his ear, falling face down on his bed. He's frozen into shock. If only you knew why he had never chased after love for twenty fucking years. He didn't need to. Because his love was right in front of his face the whole time.
Aside from the occasional bickering as kids, you and Jimin had never fought. This is the first time both of you had exchanged nasty words with each other.
You had used to call Jimin a peaceful soul because of his extreme hate for confrontations, unnecessary drama and fighting. Not once in his life had Jimin ever said something that he knew could damage something significant to him. Not once in his life had Jimin ever initiated an argument. Not once in his life had Jimin ever really argued, in fact. It had always been you yelling and Jimin nodding if anything.
But when things had stacked up, Jimin couldn't take it anymore. He'd cracked. He'd yelled. And he'd finally fought with his words.
Yet the fight doesn't symbolize anything except a double loss for Jimin because you had ultimately chosen Namjoon over him. Then, you'd proceeded to completely crush his heart by failing to recognize his love for you.
Jimin never had to worry about heartbreak. He and you had always been best friends, nothing more. No matter how much he loved you, he never acted upon it, which meant you never rejected him. So, yeah, no heartbreak.
But this... that fight... When you'd accused him of not knowing love... when he had loved you for years. That was heartbreak. And it is still heartbreak.
Jimin found it extremely hard to get out of bed every morning after the fight. Sometimes, throughout the day, when something even the slightest bit amusing happens, he whips out his phone to inform you of it. Then, he realizes he and you are not quite on speaking terms at the moment. Jimin also realizes if he can't text you, he has no one else to text.
Maybe you were right. Jimin needs more friends.
It's almost been a week since the fight on the phone; it has also been almost a week of constant rain. It pours down hard and steady, only slowing down for light drizzles in the afternoons. It's the only reassurance that Jimin can get. That you're just as sad as him. That some part of you misses him as much as he misses you.
The weather forecast said the rain was supposed to clear by tonight. But Jimin waits by his window, where the thunder clouds boom over the roof of his lonely house and the rain pounds against the concrete. It's a storm.
He worries about you.
Maybe he should text you? Call you? What if you're all alone in your room, crying profusely and that bastard of a boyfriend, Namjoon's giving you the silent treatment? It's like Jimin can feel your pain through the weather.
A lightning bolt flashes through the sky and four seconds later, Jimin hears the booming thunderclap. It wasn't supposed to rain today. You must be crying all alone. You must be missing your granny. You must be missing him.
Another sharp thunderbolt pierces through the dark rain clouds in the sky and the thunderclap rings louder than the last. That's it. Jimin picks up his phone.
It's sad that you're still the only person in his favorites contact 'list.' He taps on your icon and presses the phone against his ear, looking out the window as if you were out in the rain all by yourself. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Usually, by then, you pick up the phone. But it occurs to Jimin now, that this is not going to be a usual conversation. His phone is heavy in his hands and he rests his cheek against the cold window, wondering if you're ever going to pick up.
Maybe you're crying so hard that you can't hear your phone ring.
Jimin lets out a shaky sigh, just about to disconnect the call to avoid hearing the all-too painful dial tone when you finally pick up.
"J-Jimin?" you breathe, groaning. "God, Jimin."
"Y/N?" Jimin exclaims. "Thank god, Y/N!" he breathes a sigh of relief.
"Mmm," you groan again.
"That's right, princess. You're mine all right?" a hushed, masculine voice whispers.
"Joon," you whine, urgently. "Please..."
Jimin can hear the soft slapping of skin in the background, Namjoon's heavy grunts and your whimpering. Immediately, the hairs on the back of Jimin's neck stand up straight. It's then when he realizes that you're moaning from pleasure. That Kim Namjoon's fucking you right now. And that you had still decided to pick up Jimin's call.
Tears blur Jimin's sight as he fumbles to end the call, chucking his phone halfway across the room afterward. He crumbles up in a ball, digging his face into his arms and sobbing.
Did you disrespect him that much? To pick up the call so he could hear you having sex?
It's the first time Jimin's ever questioned why he's in love with you.
Maybe, in the beginning, he had good reasons, but that had been because you had good intentions. You had been boisterous, unafraid to go against the current, wild, rebellious and had this my-way-or-the-high-way kind of character. That's the person Jimin had fallen in love with. The girl who carried around a green marker in her pockets to correct others' grammatical errors. The girl who invented a secret language when she was young just because she felt like it one day. The girl who convinced herself and others that she could control the weather with her emotions. The girl who didn't give two shits about what anyone thought of her. The girl who wore whatever the fuck she wanted because she could. The girl who never showed him when she was sad because she wanted to be strong, resilient. That's the person Jimin had fallen in love with.
But who the fuck are you?
Jimin had used to think it was Namjoon's fault you were so different. But you'd let him change you. You'd become docile, tedious, plain. All the things Jimin was and is. It's your fault. You could've stopped everything if you wanted. You could've broken up with Namjoon. But you didn't. Because you wanted to change.
Jimin can't love the new you. He doesn't even know if he can see you again.
His body shakes hard with fear and rage.
He's definitely not going to see you again.
He was never your prince; you'd ultimately chosen Namjoon. And you were never his princess; he had been delusional to think so.
He's going to walk out of your life. He needs to leave. For himself.
Jimin had already spent a week without your company and that had been enough. Now he wants to cut off all contact with you. He's already blocked your number, switched apartments and stashed away everything that reminded him of you—which was fairly a lot of things. He was so determined to be independent, to forget what it felt like to be dependent on you.
But without your presence, his bland life was even blander than before.
Waking up every day and not walking you to work felt foreign to him. Friday nights felt lonely without you. Weekends were dull. Weekdays were even worse.
He missed having to hear your bright, cheery voice. He missed talking about the craziest things with you. He missed waking up in the morning and wondering what you would be wearing today. He missed Gilbert. He missed your granny, too. Most of all, he missed you.
But you'd hurt him. Whittled away his heart little by little over the many years just by never loving him back. You'd humiliated him by choosing the man you knew for four months over the man you'd been best friends with for two decades.
Jimin figures he'll miss you for a long time. You'd been a large part of his life, after all. He'd already broken off contact with you, and that was already a giant leap. The next step would be to stop thinking about you, and the step after that to stop missing you. And when that's all over, he can stop loving you.
Looking back, Jimin realizes he struggled to get his life back on track for nearly eleven, long months. He'd seen winter come, spring pass and summer leave. But just as winter was making its presence on the weather again, frosting the leaves of plants and chilling the morning air, he'd finally come to his senses.
The past eleven months had been mournful. But as the days passed, he'd allowed himself to think about his current life more than his past. It had occurred to him that now, he was living a life of no-nonsense. Of no silly, childish imaginations. He was living in reality. Where he should've been in for all of his life.
Sure, he spent his birthday alone and without you for the first time since he was five years old. But it was something he could get used to. Celebrating the day he turned one year older just didn't seem like such a big deal anymore.
Maturity suits Park Jimin well.
He'd always preferred things that were tangible, anyway. Things that could be proven. Things that made sense. It was time to say goodbye to the foolish things of his past: secret languages, weather-controlling, naming markers...
It took him eleven months, no, 25 years, but Jimin finally became an adult.
He's 27, now.
He likes to drink black coffee in the morning like his co-workers. He likes vanilla ice cream the best just because it's the most simple. He likes to tell women that he's a civil engineer to impress them on first dates. He has an adequate number of friends. He goes to work five days a week, eight hours per day. He drinks on Friday nights, watches the news and goes to bed early. On the weekends, he spends his mornings reading articles in the science section of the paper and he hangs around bars at night with his friends.
It's a humble, normal, plain life. But Jimin likes it. It suits him.
He has thoughts about you from time to time; he would never forget what it felt like to love you. But he never again gets the urge to call you. You're a figment of his past, and Jimin's moved on.
The early spring breeze caresses Jimin's cheek as he walks steadily, staring at Google Maps on his phone and glancing up every once in a while so he doesn't run into a pole like last time. He was supposed to have a Sunday brunch with Jeon Jungkook but that silly bastard had canceled last minute on him to take his own girlfriend out on a date. Typical. But Jimin actually appreciates the alone time.
Jungkook had promised to take Jimin to a great cafe that was walking distance from Jimin's place. Since Jimin had nothing better to do, he decided to have his brunch there alone.
"You've arrived at your destination," the monotone voice named Karen drolls.
When Jimin looks up, he sees a small cafe sitting at the corner of the block, surrounded by towering trees shading the area and lots and lots of verdant green bushes. Something about the place seems homely. Familiar, even.
Deja vu, maybe? Jimin thinks.
He doesn't think much more and walks in. The inside of the cafe is decorated mainly with wood, green yarn and healthy vines twisting around the furniture. Jimin's hit by a cordial, oaky smell that instantly calms his nerves and clears his mind. The place is completely empty, too. His footsteps pad against the wooden floor as he admires the little cafe. The ordering counter stands in the corner, fairy lights and green paper lanterns dangling from it to illuminate its surroundings. Jimin walks towards the lights as if he were in a trance.
Something about this place seems so damn familiar.
Jimin hasn't felt this connected with nature, with this much creative liberty since—
"Jimin."
He whirls around, eyes widening and mouth dropping open when he recognizes the owner of that voice. Sure enough, he sees you, wiping your hands on a bright green waist apron. You're wearing a white pirate blouse that could've passed for a Halloween costume and a skirt with layers and layers of different shades of green fabrics—it looks like you'd made it yourself.
"Y/N," your name leaves his lips in a breathless whisper.
"Hey," you smile, waving awkwardly. "It's been a while, huh?"
A while? Two whole fucking years, in actuality. "Yeah, I guess," Jimin nods. He glances at the door, contemplating just leaving, but some instinct inside of him urges him to stay. "You work at this place?" he asks as he walks up to the counter where you're getting ready to take his order.
"Yeah," you giggle. God, Jimin had missed that smile of yours, but of course, he doesn't want to admit it. "Well, I own this place."
"Really?" Jimin asks. "It's beautiful."
"Thanks!" you say. "I decorated it myself. What can I get for you? Do you want me to recommend our best dishes? Look, we have a separate menu just for brunches!" you say excitedly, showing Jimin a neatly laminated menu laced with green yarn. "I recommend the Gilbert Special. Eggs, toast, bacon and hash browns. But, the Jimin Special is our house favorite!"
"The what?"
"100% off for the person it was inspired by," you smile. "That's you, by the way."
"W-Wow, Y/N, I'm—"
"No! You have to take the offer!" you say. "You can't even say you won't like it because it's literally all your favorite breakfast foods combined!"
Jimin smiles, shaking his head. "It's really the house favorite?"
"You bet it is," you laugh.
"Then I guess I'll have a Jimin Special," Jimin says. "Any chance it comes with a glazed donut?"
You shoot him a knowing look, a grin spreading across your lips. "It wouldn't be a Jimin Special without one."
Jimin ends up having brunch with you.
The icy, awkward barriers in the beginning slowly melt away into the friendship Jimin had known for more than half of his life. He dines on the best breakfast he could have ever asked for while getting to talk to you again after nearly two years. He can't imagine a better way to spend his Sunday.
Small talk with you is fun because you spice everything up with loud gasps, wide eyes and extroverted reactions that make even the dullest stories exhilarating. But it's suffocating to speak of such shallow things with a person he'd been best friends with for twenty years. Jimin's dying to know how you've really been, not what you found hilariously funny last week.
"So," he asks, "how are things with Namjoon?"
You snort, shaking your head. "God, that was fucking ages ago," you say. "We broke up a while back."
"Sorry," Jimin says. But he's not really.
"You're not that sorry, aren't you?" you laugh as Jimin's face morphs in shock when you call him out. "It's okay. I know how you feel about him. And I agree with you now. That idiot had the audacity to tell me to grow up. And he called you a good-for-nothing-awkward-ass-wimpy-child." You roll your eyes. "I knew it had to end when he said that. Besides, there's a certain highly endearing thing about innocence, don't you think? We should all be a little more childish."
"Wow," Jimin breathes.
"Wow, indeed," you smile wistfully. "That bastard could've said anything he wanted to me, but he shouldn't have dared to bring you up like that. I can't fucking believe I thought he was going to be my prince! I was so scared I'd lose him so I did everything he said, you know? God, in retrospect, I was just a really, really, oblivious and desperate idiot."
"You were just in love, Y/N," Jimin says. "Love makes you blind."
Your face twists for just a split second before you smile, shaking your head and sighing. "Jimin, I feel like I have to get this out before we become life-long best friends for fucking ever again."
"Hm?"
"I never apologized for what I told you like, two years ago," you say. "That fight we had on the phone? I told you that you didn't know love. And god, I've regretted saying that for every day, every hour, every fucking minute and second of my life. It was wrong." You shake your head, looking extremely disappointed in yourself. "At least what you told me was right. God, I was so angry, so terrified of losing my first love that I spit out words without thinking. How could I say you didn't know love, Jimin?" you say. "Of course you did—of course you do. You wouldn't have stuck by my side for years if you didn't. And Jimin, fuck. I love you too. I never said it enough. But I'm saying it now. I love you and I missed you. And I'm sorry I picked up the phone when I was having sex."
Jimin laughs. Around two years ago, that day had definitely not been a laughing matter. But only time can tell if the most depressing matters can morph into rather laughable memories. "I love you too, Y/N," he says. "And you shouldn't be sorry. I think we're all past that now."
"C'mon, I wanna show you how I redecorated my granny's home!" you say, bolting up and taking Jimin's cleared plates in your hands. "Meet me at the front of the cafe in two minutes!" you holler as you dash to the kitchen.
Jimin can't get rid of the smile on his face. He adjusts his jacket and stands up, taking another look around the cafe before he exits with a light skip to his step. He'll have to buy Jungkook dinner sometime for recommending this cafe to him. What was the name of this place, anyway?
Jimin steps back and squints at the big, capital letters placed on a banner in front of the cafe. He can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him.
"Nothing a Lil Green Can't Fix!" you exclaim as you come bounding down the steps of the cafe to stand next to Jimin. "Isn't that true? Green fixes like, everything."
"Lil's not a word, Y/N. I thought you knew better," Jimin jokes.
"Oh, spare me," you say, placing a dramatic hand on your forehead. "It had to be done. The stupid company had a character limit for the logo. It was either Nothing a Lil Green Can't Fix or Nothing Green Can't Fix," you huff. "And the latter is completely disgusting."
"I agree," Jimin snorts. "Then, in that case, I believe you made the right decision."
You smile. "I sure did. So, shall we go now?"
"Definitely."
Your granny's apartment looks exactly the same on the outside, but on the inside is an abundance of green. From plants to paintings to posters to silverware, everything is green.
"Nothing a lil green can't fix, indeed," Jimin breathes as you drag him around the whole place.
"Right?" you giggle. "Look! I even made a separate cabinet with all the birthday presents I've ever received from you!!"
The tour nearly takes five hours because the two of you get distracted every other minute, indulging yourselves in past childhood memories. And when Jimin's been tired out, the two of you lay side by side on your dark green sheets, silent but comfortable.
"Hey, Jimin?" you whisper, breaking the silence momentarily.
"Hm?"
"Remember our senior year in high school?"
"Of course I do," Jimin says. That year was the hardest (arguably) in your life. It was the year where you learned of the fatalities of death. It was the year you had lost your granny.
"We had the conversation about our true fears that year," you say with so much nostalgia in your voice that when Jimin closes his eyes, he can see the events of that day unfold before him. "Turns out, I didn't have just one fear. I had two. One was losing Granny. The other was losing you. And you know? For two years, I thought I lost you both. It hurt to think that my best friend hated me so much he had to dissociate himself from my life."
"I didn't hate you," Jimin says, opening his eyes as he turns to his side to look at you. "I swear. I just figured it was a good time for me to self-improve. You know, become independent for once. And maybe I didn't like who you had become, but I never hated you."
"Really?" you say, turning to face your best friend. "I was so scared that you'd shit talk me if I ran after you when you left that I didn't do anything. I thought it would've been better if I let you go. But I mean, I think the time apart was needed. We've self-improved."
"Yeah," Jimin agrees.
"So..." you say, a silly grin appearing on your face, "are we reunited now? Best fucking friends forever?"
"Of course we are," Jimin says.
"Okay, good," you say. "And before you say anything else, I have to ask you something, Jimin."
"What is it, Y/N?" Jimin asks, sitting up as you start to rummage in the pockets of your skirt.
"I just—" you're unable to finish your sentence, smiling. "Will you color me green, please?" you politely ask as you hold out a green marker in your hands.
"Oh my god," Jimin breathes. "Is that—"
"I pulled him out of the trash, Jimin," you say, eyes watering with emotion. "As soon as you left that night, I pulled him out. And then I kept him with me for years. I even recently got the ink replaced so it works fine, now." You let your tears fall down your face and you blink rapidly to see your best friend's softened face. "Did you really think for a second that I'd throw him away?" you ask in your secret language.
Jimin almost sobs right then and there. He'd never thought he'd hear that language again, and even after two years, he's able to understand you fluently. He hopes he doesn't sound too awkward when he replies, "I mean, you did have him in the trash can," he laughs, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. "You really want me to color you green again?"
"It's the bestest color in the world. What did you expect?"
Jimin's never been happier in his life. Tears streak your cheeks but you are unbothered by them, holding out Gilbert for Jimin to take. He takes note that you do not try to hide your tears anymore. In a way, you've become more beautifully confident. He realizes that you want to take him back to the start—the very beginning of when your friendship had commenced. With those simple words, "Will you color me green?" you've transported the two of you back to a place of innocence, of childishness, of thoughts of staying young forever, of avoiding maturity at all costs.
Outside, there's a slow drizzle of rain, indicating another spring shower. But above the soft gray rain clouds is a double rainbow. The colors are so vibrant, they wash away the monotonous hues of the clouds heavy with rain.
Romantic love makes people suffer. Jimin should know. He's been in love with you romantically for nearly two decades. He's felt feelings such as pain, experienced experiences such as heartbreak and dealt with the understanding of the wretched concept of unrequited love. But now? Two years later?
He realizes that you may never love him the way he had loved you. But that's okay. Because maturity is when you accept the way things are. Being childish is refusing to let go, which is what Jimin is too—he refuses to let go of you. But that goes the same for you, for you refuse to let go of Jimin.
You still love him. And for once in his whole fucking life, Jimin loves you in the same exact way that you love him.
a/n: find my behind the scenes thoughts and original endings here!
masterlist
#btswritersnet#btswriterscollective#bangtanfairygarden#btswritingcafe#bangtanidx#jimin#park jimin#jimin fluff#jimin angst#jimin fanfiction#bts fanfiction#jimin ff#bts#nothing a lil green can't fix#nalgcf#i didn't even know what a simp was when i was writing it#but apparently#subconsciously i knew what it was#yikes
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