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slasherhaven · 3 years

Note

what about,,,, the slashers reactions to getting properly hugged,,,, like no words, just pure affection and support,, like im here for u its okay to be vulnerable w/ me,,, if you didn't do it already obviously!!

The Slashers’ reacting to being properly hugged:

Thomas Hewitt

This man needs a hug! But he won’t feel comfortable initiating physical affection until you’re in a relationship and he knows for sure that you’re comfortable with it. Then, he’s vert affectionate.

This means that he needs affection but isn’t going to ask for it.

But you knew this because you knew him. So, you sighed before wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest.

You just wanted to offer him some love and support, to let him know that you are there for him if he needs you.

Thomas was surprised by he absolutely melts and he certainly isn’t going to push you away.

He’ll wrap his arms around you, holding you securely but not too tightly against him.

He won’t pull away until you do.

If it happens when he’s more comfortable and confident in your relationship, he will lift you up and move to somewhere he can sit down, he’s probably been working all day and is tired. So, he can just hold you like his own teddy bear. Not that you mind at all.

He could just cry the longer you embrace him. He didn’t even realise how much he needed this until now. But now he’s going to need at least a hug a day, please just make this man feel loved and cared for!

Michael Myers

Michael, of course, hadn’t done anything to prompt your sudden act of affection. But you knew that he was a little more human that people tended to assume, and that meant that he needed affection too, he would just never ask for it.

So, you wrapped your arms around his waist and held yourself close to him. Holding yourself against his chest, you couldn’t get closer if you tried.

Your eyes were scrunched shut, unsure of how he would react to the embrace.

He did give you a small push away but you just tightened your hold. You just needed him to know how you felt, that you were there for him, and you hoped he understood what the gesture meant.

Michael isn’t likely to wrap his arms back around you but his mind is a mess (a rare thing for him) as he allowed you to hug him, his arms still by his sides.

He does understand your message...he’s just unsure of what to do with it.

Jason Voorhees

It doesn’t take you long to figure out that Jason needs a real good hug. He needs somebody to accept him, to love him, to be kind to him.

And what better way to tell him all of these things than a proper hug?

It’s when he comes back to the cabin, and you know what he’s been doing and you know that he doesn’t feel great about it, more because he feels like he’s dragged you into this.

You let him clean up and as soon as he enters the room you’re in again, you walked up to him and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a silent hug.

You didn’t need words, you didn’t need to say anything. You hoped he would understand what you’re telling him. He did.

Your embrace caught him by surprise but he still carefully wrapped his arms around you, still so worried about hurting you.

The gesture was exactly what he needed in that moment, something that just reminded him of your love and acceptance.

He won’t pull away until you do, the two of you just standing in the middle of the room in an embrace. There is nowhere he would rather be.

Brahms Heelshire

This is exactly what he needs! And he knows that this is what he needs.

Ever since the two of you started knowingly living together, all he’s wanted is for you to show him genuine affection, more than a chaste kiss goodnight.

He wants you to love him and show him that love, he wants you to care for him and hold him.

You had just noticed that he seemed stressed lately, which is actually because he wants your attention but he attempting to be a gentleman about it, not pushing you too far too fast.

But you knew what he wanted, what he needed. So, you have it to him.

You had patted the seat beside you and, of course, he was quick to sit with you.

He just wasn’t expecting you to silently wrap your arms around him, pulling him into an embrace.

Brahms isn’t going to pass up the opportunity though! He will instantly wrap his arms around you even tighter that yours were, making himself comfortable.

Will bury his face into the crook of your neck or into your hair, unable to get too close to you. And don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.

He always knew that he wanted/needed your affection, he just was aware of how much a simple hug would mean to him. You were the only person to accept him in so long, maybe you really would love him just like he needed.

Bo Sinclair

This man needs a proper hug (or any sort of affection) way more than he would ever let on, or even think he does.

When you first embrace him, arms wrapped securely around his waist, he faltered for a moment.

He’d probably pat you on the back or something before trying to pull away or push you away, assuming you just wanted a hug.

But you didn’t let go. So, he’s sigh and wrap his arms around you, expecting that to satisfy you.

But you still don’t let go...

The longer you hold on to him, the less he can pretend that he’s annoyed with it, the less he can pretend like he isn’t enjoying this.

For a moment he actually lets his walls down, tightening his hold slightly and resting his chin on top of your head, making you smile to yourself.

He’ll even close his eyes and just let it happen. Unless one of his brothers comes into the room, then he’s pushing you away, clearing his throat and pretending none of that happened. But you know.

Vincent Sinclair

It’s been a long day. Bo was in a bad mood and taking it out on him. You could see the draining effect it had on Vincent and you knew exactly what he needed, some love.

So, once the two of you were alone and you knew that you wouldn’t be disturbed, at least for a little while, you wrapped your arms around Vincent and just met him in a hug.

Vincent returned the embrace despite his surprise, never being one to refuse you, especially when it came to affection.

He had expected a quick hug but you just stayed put, your embrace making him feel warm in the best kind of way.

He isn’t going to argue with it, resting his masked cheek against the top of your head.

He’ll probably lose track of time, staying there like that for as long as you’d let him.

It’s like Bo had beat him down with his shouting and ranting, but you were building him right back up with your love and support.

Lester Sinclair

Lester had just returned home from visiting his brothers in town, and you know that he either had a pretty good time or it would have been pretty rough. They’re the usual two outcomes of his visits.

Apparently, this was a rough one. You could tell from the sigh he let out as he shut the door behind him.

You didn’t hesitate, walking up to him and wrapping your arms around him, quickly pulling him into a loving embrace.

He didn’t hesitate either, instantly wrapping his arms around you in return and burying his face in your hair.

He loves coming home to you but he loves this even more. You holding him like this, making him feel so welcome and loved, he would never get tired of this feeling.

After so long, will probably ask if the two of you could just cuddle on the couch for a while instead. Standing wasn’t very comfortable but he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba is never ever going to turn down one of your hugs.

So when the two of you finally get some peace and quiet and you pull him into a loving embrace, he instantly lets out various happy babbles as he wraps his arms around you, holding you close to him.

He’ll happily stand there for as long as you let him, just holding you. But he would prefer to sit down with you, so I suggest guiding him over to the bed or a seat and then pulling him into a hug.

He just loves you so much and can’t get enough of your love.

Just something as simple as a hug makes Bubba melt, just the love and attention you are giving him.

Making him feel so close to you, like you’re right there for each other because you are.

Billy Lenz

As soon as you guide him into a hug (guide, don’t pull), he will latch onto you and refuse to let you go.

God, when was the last time he had a hug? And he’s never had one this good!

It does make him a little emotional. You’re not letting go of him but he doesn’t feel trapped, he doesn’t want you to let him go. In your embrace he feels so supported, so accepted, so loved. He can’t get enough!

He didn’t think he needed this so much, he never thought that something as simple as a hug could make him feel so good.

He’ll nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling so quietly that you can’t understand what he’s saying. But, just know, that for once it’s not anything lewd.

An extended hug isn’t enough though. The two of you are probably going to end up cuddling on the couch or bed for a little while afterwards.

Just hold him...please.

Asa Emory (The Collector)

You have to catch him by surprise and that is very difficult to do. Just when he isn’t expecting it.

Maybe he’s just come back from the hotel, expecting you to be asleep.

But as he’s quietly undressing to join you in bed, you get up without him hearing and pad over to him.

You wrap your arms from him from behind. He’ll let out a small sigh, asking why you’re awake, but you just shrug and tell him you’re glad he’s home.

He’ll turn around and wrap his arms around you but is a little confused when you don’t pull away. At first he thinks you might be upset about something but that isn’t the case...whatever it is, he’s got nothing else to do.

So he’ll hold you for a little while, slowly coming to terms with how nice this actually feels.

But you both need some sleep, so he’ll mumble something about going to bed. And if you don’t comply, he’ll just pick you up and carry you over to the bed anyway.

Jesse Cromeans (Chromeskull)

He’s just come back from a ‘business trip’, he always comes back in a good mood from this sort of thing but he tired from travelling.

You had greeted him at the door but saw it on him, he was tired.

So you just wrapped your arms around his waist and hugged him, hadn’t even thought anything of it at the time.

The embrace was tight, a welcome home but also some reassurance that everything was alright and he was home now.

He wouldn’t turn down a hug, so he wrapped his arms around you, a hand holding the back of your head as if cradling you to his chest.

When you don’t pull away, neither does he.

He loves what he does and if glad you accept him for it. But the travelling can be tiring and he does find himself missing you.

So he lets out a silent sigh before lifting you up into his arms, making you smile as he carries you up to the bedroom. It’s good to be home. He might have to start taking you with him.

Otis Driftwood

Get him when he’s tired. It’s the best chance you have for a hug to just stay a hug, and for him to accept it without fight or question.

When he’s tired and alone in his room, join him. Crawl up beside him, wrap your arms around him and just hug him.

He’ll raise an eyebrow at you, confused and curious, but he’s not going to stop you.

When he’s tired like this, he’s more likely to let those softer, human, emotions show.

He’ll wrap an arm around you and hold you against him.

But the longer you just stay there, the more he relaxes and starts to make himself more comfortable.

You make him relax, and he may never understand why.

Don’t comment on it when he lets out a sigh, wrapping his other arm around you as well as he shifts, nuzzling his face into your hair. Don’t comment on it, just smile and let it happen.

Baby Firefly

You’re pretty sure Baby never stops, almost constantly upbeat and full of energy.

So if you were to hug her, she would just eagerly hug you back, smiling widely before slipping from your grasp to drag you away somewhere.

Get her when she’s angry with another member of the family, when she’s pouting or ranting about them.

Just pull her into a loving embrace. She’ll continue to complain but will still return your hug.

She’ll slowly calm down and relax in your hold, her embrace becoming secure but soft, affectionate.

You have a good effect on her, she just can’t be mad when you’re around and she knows it.

She isn’t quick to break the embrace now, just holding you makes her feel better so that’s what she’s going to do.

Yautja (Predator)

Probably the only one in this list who doesn’t need a hug in some way or another.

But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy it! He definitely does!

At first he’s a little taken back when you wrap your arms around him, head resting against his torso.

But he certainly isn’t opposed to this.

He’ll return your embrace, even starting to purr, which is always a good sign. He’ll probably start to stroke your hair as well.

Now that he’s gotten a taste of the affection that humans likes to give ad receive, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to how things used to be for him.

What would he do without all your little kisses, your hugs, your gentle touches. He couldn’t be without them now!

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wakatvshi · 3 years

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Hey! I saw that you receive requests so.. I would love some marley warriors + jean (because i love him) with an s/o who's really.. Touchy, please? Could be headcanons or imagines🥺 thank you so so much! 😭

Yeah! I would love to! They’re kind of rambling but I hope you like them and that this is what you wanted! I didn’t do Annie because I just couldn’t really figure out what to write about her but if you really want her send a seperate message and I’ll give you annie with a touchy s/o!

Heads up though I’ve never written or read for Zeke before because he’s not personally a favorite so I hope he’s okay in this!

JEAN KIRSTEIN ══▸

Jean would LOVE a touchy s/o. He’s a very touchy person himself so having someone who’s as touchy as he is would make him so happy.

When the two of you are alone he’s all about touching you and always wants to be touching you. When you’re working on something and he can’t be touching you all the time he’ll sit next to you or as close to you as he can be and just be near you. Which helps you both because you’re a touchy person.

Something both of you love is when you’re sitting in his lap, just doing whatever you’ve been doing. He’ll walk in and you’ll give grabby hands and want to be held and he’ll want to hold you. Doesn’t matter what gender/size anything he wants to have you in his lap and it makes him happy.

In public, he’s more shy about touching because he’s actually a huge baby and his ‘flirty’ persona that some people think he has is 100% real. He wants to act like he’s smooth but he’s not. He’ll hold your hand and walk with you in public but anything more it’s not going to be him initiating it.

If you’re with him in public and you want more affection than holding hands then you’ll have to do it and he will turn bright red and stutter if he’s supposed to be talking. It’s adorable and he’s so happy even if he’s bright red.

Another one of his favorite things is you playing with his hair, it turns into a big puddle when you play with his hair and when you compliment him in basically anyway.

If any of his friends catch him being super cute or you being cute with him (aka Sasha and Connie) they’ll laugh and tease him and he’ll get defensive but doesn’t actually mind it. Even if he did you’d just hug him from behind or wrap your arms around him and he’s glaring at them but also super focused on the attention he’s now getting.

Sleeping with Jean is basically a cuddle fest as well, thankfully for you he’s touchy as well so when you both wake up tangled in each other neither of you really mind it.

BERTHOLDT HOOVER ══▸

Bertholdt with a touchy s/o would be so good for him but also something that he has to get used to.

Eventually he finds out that he loves it but at first he doesn’t expect it. He’s very shy and stand-offish even if he doesn’t mean to be. So any physical affection for the most part will have to be done by you. Even years into your relationship you’ll have to be the one who makes the moves.

The first time you initiate any kind of touch he goes bright red and has no idea how to react. Outside he’s frozen and staring at you, sweating a little. Inside of course he’s beyond happy and he wants nothing more than to move and do the same, he wants to hold onto you too. He wants to touch you and be affectionate but he doesn’t know how. It isn’t until you try to move away that he finally acts and grabs your hand.

Even years into your relationship most of the affection will be initiated by you so it is a good thing that you’re not afraid to be the one who reaches out for him. It also brings him out of his shell quite a bit.

When the two of you are alone he loves the affection you give him. He doesn’t know how to ask for the affection he wants but he does give small signals and you know him well enough to reach out and grab his hands or crawl in his lap.

PDA is a no go for him completely, he’s obviously a shy person and being super affectionate is outside of his comfort zone as it is so adding anything else would just be far outside his comfort zone

I also do feel like physical affection is his love language so him having the freedom to act on that and having someone who wants that affection like he does would make him so happy.

Sleeping with Bertholdt is always a fun experience. You might start holding into him or him holding onto you but you’ll end up in a dozen different positions before you wake up.You’ve got no real say in how you sleep when you’re with him.

REINER BRAUN ══▸

Literally a teddy bear and would LOVE to have an affectionate s/o. Needs an affectionate s/o.

Reiner feels unlovable, he feels worthless and he is very depressed and I’m by no means saying you can fix him or fix anyone like that, but affection is everything to this man even if he doesn’t think he deserves it.

You’ll have to be the one to make the first move for the first time but as soon as he realizes how much you do love affection he’ll be happy to initiate as well. Sometimes he’ll surprise you by being the one to reach out and hold you first.

Obviously you love that, you’ll just be doing something and possibly not even paying attention to him and Reiner will be the one to walk up and wrap his arms around you and just stand there.

To him affection is proof of love and comfort that he desperately needs. It would take him a little to get used to at first im sure, he’s not used to it like his mother isn’t very affectionate but he craves it.

With Reiner it’s easy to be touchy. Even in public he doesn’t mind, he’s more in awe of the fact that you want to be seen with him and want to give affection.

He’s not super huge on over the top PDA but he does love holding your hand or kissing your cheek. Also piggy back rides, I can see him being a fan of that because it’s touch and that’s what he loves and craves.

Sharing a bed with Reiner is always the two of you tangled in each other. He likes to be the big spoon and likes to hold you but he’s 100% okay with you holding him, sometimes he even prefers that.

Reiner needs to feel loved and affection is the best way to do that in his mind. So being touchy would be perfect.

PORCO GALLIARD ══▸

To me Porco is literally the embodiment of “disgusting. do it again.”

Now not because he’s not a fan of affection but he has this cool guy persona that he puts on around people. He wants people to see him as the tough guy when it’s only half true. You can see it with the kids that he’s actually a super affectionate guy.

Porco needs validation and having an s/o who’s super touchy would give him that. When you’re touching him he feels like he’s number one. He’s your main focus and it means the world to him. Of course he’d never tell you that.

You’ll have to be able to read him a little to be able to tell when he wants something because he’s stubborn and sometimes it takes a lot for him to ask you for something if he’s not sure how.

Now if he’s just in the mood to be affectionate himself he’s good with just holding you or grabbing your hand. He’s also big in kissing, he loves kissing but usually he tries to make it more suggestive or almost casual.

For just cuteness you’ll have to be the one who holds his face and kisses him or who just holds his hand or hugs him. He has to lean the importance of cute nonsexual affection.

PDA to him makes him blush a little also super proud that you’re the one on his arm and he wants to show you off and loves that you want to show him off. Being the “most important” to you is important to him.

When Porco sleeps he’ll sleep holding you for a few minutes but he’s not one who likes to hold onto someone when he sleeps. Biggest surprise when sleeping with him is that Porco LOVES to be the little spoon. He’ll deny it with his dying breath but he adores it.

Also random cutsey headcanon for Porco that will never leave my head is that Porco loves when you baby talk to him. I have no reason for this hc but I just feel like he would love it.

PIECK FINGER ══▸

A queen of physical affection honestly. Lives for it and lives to give it.

She’s in her titan form a lot and when she’s finally out of it she has trouble walking on two legs so you being there for her to lean on when she’s not walking with her crutch and just actually physically supporting her would mean the world to her.

She also likes that you want to be affectionate with her after being in her titan form for so long. she wants to be held and wants her hair played with. If you let her just lay in your lap and play with her hair or hold her hand she’ll be the happiest woman in the world.

A lot of your affectionate time is spent with you both laying or sitting somewhere together. If you’re giving her attention or letting her give attention she’s loving it.

Another thing she loves is walking around with you, she doesn’t shy away from PDA. If you’re together and if you want to kiss her cheek or something she’s more than happy about it. She’ll laugh softly and get the faintest of pink on her cheeks

She does have to make sure that she’s professional about it because she is a warrior and has to keep up her professional persona.

Of course, you’ll have people who are beyond jealous watching her with you and honestly she thinks it’s kinda cute that people are jealous because to her it doesn’t make sense.

Sleeping with Pieck is just cuddle city for both of you. She likes to be hold and be held and you’re happy to do both as well. There’s nothing either of you like better than the intimacy and connection that the two of you have laying there and holding each other.

ZEKE YEAGER ══▸

This man takes a while to get used to physical affection. He’s not really had affection before so you’ll have to work at it.

When he was younger he didn’t have much affection, we know that grandfather spends a great amount of time in the hospital for mental issues and we saw from how they raised Grisha that they’re not super affectionate.

His life has mostly been spent working towards his goals and trying to do what he could to make sure he could complete the goals. So he’s not really put much attention to romantic relationships.

Having you be super affectionate would for sure throw him off a bit but he’s good at hiding that. I do think once he was used to it, he’d just lean into your touches and want to stay there.

He doesn’t like PDA at all, he’s the captian of the warriors and he’s respected even by some of the people of Marley. So it is hands off in public. He will walk close to you though, if your arms are brushing and you’re close to him he is happy.

Alone though he does love affection. You playing with his hair is a good one but what he really loves is getting massages from you. He works hard and if you’ll just stand behind him rubbing his shoulders and kissing the top of his head he’s the happiest man ever.

When you’re sleeping Zeke is 100% big spoon. He wants to hold you, if you want he’ll let you hold him but he’s most comfortable when he’s able to hold you. That’s when he shows his real affectionate side. He wants you close to him, and he loves holding you. He feels like he can rest when you’re in his arms.

#jean kirstein x reader #reiner braun x reader #zeke yeager x reader #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #porco galliard x reader #pieck finger x reader #bertholdt hoover x reader #bertolt hoover x reader #attack on titan imagine #aot imagines #aot imagine #attack on titan x you #my writing #headcanons

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midday0nightmares · 3 years

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13 - like father, like son.

previous chapter abandoned

m.list.

tw - angst, kidnapping, mental health, blood, violence.

*this is pure fiction and it is not intended to romanticize any of the situations mentioned bellow.

jaemin gave your meds.. before taking his pillow and turning to leave you alone in his room..

the words broke free before you could stop them ..

“you’er leaving?” you bite your tongue but it’s too late now.. you hope he doesn’t see your neediness that hide behind the haste question..

“yeah.. I’ll sleep on the couch” ..

he curtly answers and turns his back to you and leaves, not giving you a chance to speak again..

You were woken up by the intruding headache.. you feel too warm you try to move but the room spinning around you threting to disappear,

you call jaemin .. you’er not sure your voice is hearable..

But the light that slipped through the cracking door assured you that your calls were heard, his shadowy figure nearing you bringing with it a sense of relief ..

“I don’t feel good.. “ you whine to him ..

His hand reach to your forehead ..

“you’er burning” ..

he stroke your cheek, his tender touch brings you to tears.. you lean your face deeper into the balm of his hand..

You needy gesture goes unnoticed by him as he withdraw his hand taking with the warm you craved..

“This is not good.. we need to take you to the emergency room"..

He turns on the lights and opens his closet.. he take out one of his hoodies and returns to your side, he sits you up ignoring your winces.. he slips your head through it and guide you arms in it.. he retrieves to come back with white socks he slips your feet into them..

He leaves you for a minute to put his coat and shoes on, he picks his car keys .. phone and wallet, he doesn’t forget your fake id ..

“Ok come on.. “ he crouch in front of you and picks you up.. you try to protest claiming you can walk by yourself but he holds your thighs and lefts you to circle them around his waist, you cling to him like a child.. you lay your spinning head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent, finding comfort in his warm strong body..

He walks with ease, he’s not effected by your weight.. he opens his car door and helps in the passenger seat before he clips your seat belt, he gently shuts the door and walks to the driver side..

“Remember.. your name is sera, if anyone asks .. im your boyfriend and we live together” .. you nod

“You slipped in the shower last week and lost the baby..”

“ I slipped in the shower ..” You repeat to yourself before nodding..

The car ride was silent, you rested your head on the cold window.. he checks on you every now and then ..

“we are almost there..”

The car comes to a stop and you open your eyes and unbuckle the seat belt.. he opens your door but notice you don’t have those on.. “wait here..”

He opens the trunk and gets you a pair of crocks and lays them on the ground infant of you, you slip your feet in them and he helps you stand.. you wobble and use his arm to stabilize yourself..

“can you walk?” ..

You nod.. sniffling the fever tears..

Everything feels like a blur.. you sit at the waiting area leaning on his shoulder while he fills the admission form.. Soon the nurse calls your name and he answers for you..Your temperature had risen while you were waiting, you’er unable to hold yourself straight now, your eyes rolled back, your senses discounting from your surroundings.. you feel him around again you as he pick you up..

He lays you on the hospital bed .. the nurse checks your vital signs while acquiring him on your condition..That was the last thing you remember before blacking out ..

You return to your senes and open your eyes to the bright emergency room.. jaemin and a doctor talking behind the curtain ..

“You have to take care of her.. miscarriage is not easy, she will need your support physically and emotionally, keep her well rested and make sure she eats.. masseur her temperature every six hours, if it rises over 38 degrees bring her back as fast as you could”.. “don’t worry she’ll be fine.. you can try again later”..

They open the curtain to see you awake..

“Sera.. hello, sorry for your loss.. how are you feeling now?”

the doctor checks your temperature..

“Better.. “ you mumble..

“You scared us just now.. your boyfriend thought he’ve lost you” he jokes but no one laughs ..

“Anyway, I will give you probiotics to fight the infection, take fluids and rest and eat well ok?” He writes the predictions and hands it to jaemin before he leaves..

Silence falls heavy.. unspoken words hangs in the air but you ignore them.. You watch the iv drip in consonant rhythm.. jaemin clears his throat getting your attention.. “I got you this.. from the gift shop”

He hands you a teddy bear.. weak smile emerging on your tired face ..

“you shouldn’t have”..

The nurse came and took out the iv needle, you signed the release papers and left the hospital..The drive back although silent, but it had a different feels.. he rolls down the window, allowing the night breeze to flirt with your hair.. You inhale the city air, you watch the lights pass you by..

He stops the car as he passes over a bridge..

“wanna take a walk?” ..

You perk up .. “do I? Yes I very much do” .. you were beyond ecstatic.. your happy demeanor puts a smile on his grime features..

You open the door step out.. he follows you out, you look at him for approval .. he nods to you, you walk away from him .. you look around the empty street, you lean on the rails of the bridge to look down at the dark waters beneath it, the city lights reflecting over the surface to the river..

You take a deep breathe, you do your best to savor the moment.. He stays behind, leaning on the hood of his car.. You turn to look at him ..

“why are you being so nice to me?”..

You question his motive..He shrugs..

“you’er sick..”

You take his answer without any doubt and walk towards him, holding eye contact..

“thank you..” You wrap your arms around him in gratitude ..he dose the same.. you soak in his affection for a minute before pulling away..

“promise me you will never do it again sera..”

He tugs a hair stand behind your ear..but no matter how much you want to please him you can’t promise him you will never run to your freedom when given the opportunity..

he sigh and tilts his head sensing your refusal .. “I don’t want you to get hurt, I don’t want to hurt you”..

“Then don’t.. just let me go!”

“You know I can’t do that” ..

here it is.. the cruelty.. you look away from him.

you both remain quite for an awkward moment..

“It’s late.. let’s go home” he speaks first..

he opens your door for you, crushing your heart.. he shouldn’t played with you like that.. he gave you hope and stole it back..

The door slams shuts and he gets in..

The drive continue yet again but this time in dreadful, ugly silence ..

#nct yandere #nct mafia #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct reactions #nct angst #nct agnst

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bittersweetmorality · 3 years

Note

can i please get a hawks hurt / comfort fix please 🥺🥺 like him waking up from a nightmare abt his childhood and u comforting him and cuddling him and making him feel better:)

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR THIS REQ IM GUNNA KISS U ON THE MOUTH ANON. YES !!! ugh hurt/comfort hawks is my biggest guilty pleasure bc i am one sad mf but i am a whore for hawks fluff . best of both worlds <3 also ! i'm so sorry it's short :(( 1,053 words is definitely short for my standards but ! i'm working on a lot of MHA stuff rn so keep an eye out ^_^

also this fic is definitely based off the song “First Day of my Life by Bright Eyes” cuz i listened to that song on REPEAT while writing this 😁🙏 definitely recommend listening to it while reading besties

— i love you more

☾ genre: hurt/comfort hawks fic !

☾ pairing: hawks x gn!s/o reader

☾ warnings: details of nightmares, heavy angst that pertains to emotional/physical abuse, cursing, just very sad and scared hawks :(

☾ w/c: 1,053

he was back in the dark living room— the one he was sure he escaped many years ago. the painfully familiar walls, despite the years of constant effort he put into repressing the memories. the memories of his father grabbing him by his neck with unrelenting strength, and thrusting him up against them, letting his breath ridden with alcohol and pure indifference fan against his cheek. the kind of indifference of a predator about to kill.

and all around him, no matter how much he sealed his eyes closed, covered his ears with all of his strength-- the retched smell of alcohol and his rotten memories were suffocating him.

why was he back here?

his heart began to race, feeling the way his fingers lost all heat and he felt his legs lose all bearings. his breathing an erratic, shaky pace, his eyes feeling cloudy from panic and pure fear as he scrambled through his dreadful surroundings in hopes of some sort of exit. but every step he took was completely useless. no matter how fast his legs moved, he still stood in the exact place he started.

he couldn’t escape.

footsteps could be heard echoing around him, getting louder and louder. it was haunting, like this moment was an exact replica of a night from many years ago. with his fixed position right in front of his father’s couch, and the weather of the night eerily quiet, as if the world was also terrified of the man slowly getting closer and closer to the helpless boy in the living room of a man who never loved him.

“keigo,” a gravely voice slurred from the other room, “keigo, fucking answer me. i know-- know you’re there.” he recognized it all-- the hiccup between his words, the genuine anger in his voice when he addressed him.

keigo blinked, and when he opened them again, his father appeared right in front of him, a large, half-drunk translucent bottle in hand.

"why the fuck didn't you respond? i fucking-- fucking called you, didn't i?" now that he was just mere centimeters from his ears, his voice sounded even more terrifying than his memory could ever bring justice.

his gaze followed the arm of his father that was holding the bottle, that was beginning to rise, and came straight down towards his head with pinpoint accuracy--

and keigo's eyes snapped open.

a thick sheen of cold sweat collected all over his shaking, trembling body. he wasn't able to identify his surroundings, his nightmare replaying itself with seemingly more lucidity than the first time. he still saw the haunting figure of his father at the foot of his bed, and as his breathing came in sharp, short breaths, he felt you sit up immediately.

you shot up from your slumber at the sound of keigo's sobbing, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his face buried between them as you saw his body shake violently. you've never seen him this unraveled; in this much pain.

"keigo? honey?" you softly called out, gently reaching out to him.

as your hand caressed him, you felt him tense under you for a split second, causing him to shoot up from his position to look at the source of the contact. as his eyes fell onto your gentle touch, he collapsed into you without thinking twice, holding onto you for dear life while you cradled him on instinct.

"hey... shh... baby, i'm here. you're safe. it's me, yeah? no one else is here except me and you," you shushed. you knew he occasionally suffered from devastating nightmares, and because of it, you were able to know exactly how to calm him down.

although his sobs didn't seem to subside much, you could feel the way he began to relax into you, as if he was aware that it really was you, not a part of his terrifying nightmare.

he knew you were always there for him.

you shifted from your upright sitting position into a lied down, comfortable spooning position, holding him against your chest while carefully stroking his hair. you waited until he had calmed down enough before trying to speak to him again.

"...nightmare," he mumbled against you.

"i figured, baby," you planted a soft kiss against his hair, "i've got you. you're safe."

he sniffled in response, nuzzling his face deeper into your embrace. you softly rubbed your palm over the expanse of his back to soothe him, and ultimately ground him-- remind him that this was the real world, not the nightmare.

"he was back." keigo shuddered.

you couldn't help the small droplets forming in the corners of your eyes, "honey... i'm so sorry. so... so sorry. i know how scary he is. but..." you took a deep breath,

"but he's not here. he's not back. god, i wish i could get rid of him inside your head like we were able to in reality. but right now, it's only me. me, and your comfy bed, and your comfy blanket, and your comfy pajamas, yeah?" you lifted his head up by his chin to make him look up at you as you spoke.

"yeah?" you repeated.

he slowly nodded.

"yeah, j-just you. and... and my comfy blanket..."

"mhm, your favorite blanket. the fluffy one you like to run your fingers across. why don't you try it right now, sweetheart?"

he took many deep breaths as he held the blanket close to him, running his fingers through it to remind himself that he was okay-- his father wasn't here, because the nightmare wasn't real.

the blanket was real. the calming lavender scent on the bedroom was real.

you were real.

he took one final deep breath, opening his eyes to look at you again. your face illuminated by the soft moonlight, perfectly casting your concerned, but gentle expression.

"thank you..."

you could barely hear the words that escaped his lips, but even so you knew how much he meant them.

"of course, keigo... i'll always be here. always. you know you always have me, and i'll be here to remind you no matter what."

he finally released all of the tension in his body, fully relaxing in your warm embrace.

"goodnight, sweetheart," you whispered, planting one final kiss.

"...i love you" he whispered back.

"i love you more."

masterlist

#keigo takami #hawks x reader #hawks x gn!reader #hawks x gender neutral reader #hawks x you #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #keigo fluff #mha fluff #mha hawks #mha angst #hawks angst #my hero academia #mha x reader #morality.reqs

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9tzuyu · 3 years

Text

children of tragedy (rewrite)

note: heyo, rewriting an old fic of mine. i hope to be able to rewrite all 5 chapters quickly. if you guys don’t like it, i won’t continue because its kinda dark and idk i feel like no ones gonna like it anyways. please leave feedback though, im on my knees begging for validation. also sorry if its ooc, please forgive me.

++ sorry the beginning reveals how rusty my writing is </3

(*** i wrote this as as a fem reader fic because it worked easier with how i wrote things.)

+ please remember that this is purely a way to get out my own feelings/struggles in a healthy way. also i’m sure this works better as a ship fic, but someone asked for this version so yeah :).

** mistakes are mine im too tired and lazy to proofread right now.

warnings: talk of alcohol abuse, slight mention of domestic abuse.

🏷 @peggycarter-steverogers

ch.2 | ch.3

[love, fragility, and the memories that eat us alive.]

meeting wanda changed everything for you. she wasn't like anyone you’d ever known. she was always kind, never quick to lose her temper or scream and yell at you for things you couldn't possibly control. she was warm, tender with everything she did.

your relationship with her was very new to you. it was much different in comparison to your past experiences — and you weren't quite sure what to think of it. there was no doubt that you appreciated her and everything she did for you, but you were still waiting for her to snap. it was almost like a need burning throughout your body. being able to grasp the idea that someone could ever really, truly be gentle with you was out of the question. in turn, you’d push all of her buttons, hoping that she would get mad enough and get it over with.

no one could really fault you for it. the steady stream of abuse was the nearly the entirety of your life, both physical and mental.

lately wanda was having to pick you up from wherever she could find you, most of the time in the alleyways of of bars you’d been kicked from.

once you were drunk enough (anyone really) you weren’t afraid to say the first thing that came to your mind, offensive or not – which meant it was no surprise when you’d been involved in fights. the alcohol numbed a majority of the pain anyway, so didn’t really make much of a difference to you.

with this happening so many times, you figured wanda would be angry with you – perhaps so angry she would find it within her to hit you. but each and every time wanda brought you home, she made sure you were comfortable before tending to your inuries.

what you didn't know was that being so worried for you all the time, every second of everyday, was beginning to take a toll on her. wanda only wanted to fix you, but you were making it more than difficult for her to do that.

she knew very little about your past, simply because you didn't like talking about it and she didn't want to push. but there was no denying the fact that wanda was curious.

sometimes she would ask questions, only between the soft moments the both of you shared. much to her dismay, most of her curiosities were turned down. on the rare occasions you shared brighter memories of your childhood, wanda would bookmark them in the back of her head.

no harm would ever come from her, but you didn’t know that. at least not right now.

too many times had your exes used the trust you’d so politely given against you. to be fair with wanda though, you shared only the brightest parts of your childhood. they were very seldom, but the ones you could remember were the ones you enjoyed talking about the most.

despite her limited knowledge, it wasn’t hard for her to tell that you’d already been hurt plenty of times before. apart from the fact that wanda was overall truly a good person, it made her even more gentle with you than she’d ever been with anyone before.

on top of that, wanda wasn’t stupid. she picked up on every little flinch you tried to hide, or the times you had to ask her if it was okay if you could do something on your own free will, and she definitely didn’t forget about the countless times you berated yourself over small, humanly mistakes. a frown never failed to decorate her face when these things happened.

wanda tried her hardest to make it known how much she loved you, and how she would never intentionally hurt you. she never once lifted a hand on you or raised her voice in the slightest, even when she felt like she’d met a breaking point.

the last few weeks seemed to be putting more stress on her than usual. the gashes on your body seemed to be cutting deeper and the bruises on your jaw and rib cage were beginning to turn a darker shade of indigo as each fight became more aggressive. your knuckles had been swollen, irritated to the point your hands trembled when your palms were held open.

you completely missed how drastically wanda’s mood had changed. she became quiet, seemingly lost in thought most of the time until she needed to take care of you. she grew tired, a purple tint claiming a spot below the lip of her eyes. fifteen pounds of weight had shredded from her body and her head grew dizzy every time she stood up. none of that mattered to wanda though, you were her number one priority.

alcohol was the biggest issue in the way. if wanda could get you to stop drinking for just one night she might be able to reason with you.

the brunette knew that was out of the question though, because she knew no matter how many times she told or expressed her love for you, you wouldn’t stop until you wanted to, not when she wanted you to.

you never allowed yourself to be vulnerable around her, so she never knew how you truly felt about the things going wrong in your life. there was an unbearable amount of pain when it came to confronting what you tried so hard to push away. the idea of allowing yourself to heal, to mourn the things taken away from you caused a lump in the back of your throat. living in denial was the easiest way to cope - that was as long as you could bear the damage it created.

(and whether wanda knew it or not, knowing that you were causing her so much misery was the worst feeling you’d ever faced. all she had ever given you was love and in return she was met with destruction.)

so once again you found yourself walking alone, a slight stagger between steps. it was cold, each breath exhaled from your lips could be seen vaporizing into the air. every movement ripped what balance you thought you’d gained right out from underneath you. the feeling of numbness in your fingertips brought your attention away from the fact that you didn’t know where you were.

the buildings all looked familiar, but everything was hazy. being drunk wasn’t always the fun everyone bragged about. too tired to carry on, you found yourself slumped in the back of an alleyway next to a dirty garbage bin. it reeked of sour, expired food, but you’d given up on caring about anything else other than trying to drink yourself numb.

your mind began to wander. flashes of early mornings with wanda’s hands wrapped around your waist, breath tickling the back of your neck while the sun began to rise started filling your thoughts. the warm feeling wanda gave you outweighed every bad emotion you could possibly think of.

but as you stared at the ground beneath your feet things began to spiral. your throat contracted, the guilt you tried so hard to swallow began clawing its way out of your body.

(and holy fuck you could not deal with this right now.)

you curled your head between your legs in an attempt to shield yourself away from something that was born from the inside.

it was too much.

without a chance to stop what was happening, your stomach began heaving. a mix of bile and alcohol drooled from your mouth as you continued to vomit.

you missed the sound of footsteps coming from behind you. the feeling of a hand on your shoulder caused you to jerk back, slamming your back into the brick wall.

“hey, hey, it’s me. you’re okay. it’s just me, wanda.” she cooed.

through teary eyes, you looked up at the woman in front of you.

she’s your girlfriend.

(but you weren’t sure that you deserved to call her that after everything you’ve put her through.)

“what are you doing here?” your voice wavered as you wiped your mouth free of excess vomit. you sniffled backing away from her.

she tilted her head, desperate to read what your eyes would give away. “i’m here to bring you back home. can you stand up for me?” you shook your head. you were too exhausted and dizzy from the alcohol to even think about standing.

“that’s okay,” she whispered. “here, i’m going to pick you up, okay? wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my hips.”

“mkay.” your speech was still slurred, but at that point all wanda cared about was getting you home safe.

you didn’t remember the ride home or wanda carrying you out of the car to lay you on the couch. by the time she got the supplies she needed to wrap and tend to your wounds, you were completely passed out.

when you woke up you were greeted with a glass of water and an over the counter pain medication. you swallowed the pills and moved to set the glass on the coffee table, but wanda beat you to it and took it out of your hands. she smiled down at you, taking a seat next to you. she tucked your hair behind your ears, giving your face one last gentle stroke.

thats when you noticed her eyes were red.

you immediately sat up, crossing your legs and moved closer to her. you’d hoped to comfort her somehow, but the shake of her head broke sonething inside you.

you bit your lip, anxiety shooting throughout your body. she sensed your nervousness and took your hands in hers, rubbing circles on the outside of your wrist with her thumbs.

“i love you, you know that. at least i hope you do,” she let out a soft laugh. “but i can’t keep doing this.”

your heart dropped, and you could feel the all too familiar feeling of guilt building its way back up. you tried to speak, but wanda cut you off.

“i need you to hear this.”

when you didn’t respond she took the opportunity to continue saying what she needed to get out.

“i have exhausted myself to a breaking point. i can’t keep worrying about you every single night you’re gone. i can’t be there every time you need saving. i’m losing myself.”

she paused to check and see how you were handling her words. for once you weren’t shutting down. you were genuinely trying to process what she was trying to say.

(and she was so proud of you for that. she almost considered giving you another chance. but she knew for the better, she couldn’t do that. not to you, not to her.)

“i’ve packed your things. you can leave tomorrow morning if you wish, i don’t mind having you for another meal or two.”

she squeezed your hands and got up from the couch, allowing you to take in what she said. it was in that moment when you realized that even when she’d finally drawn the line, had enough, she didn’t yell at you. she wasn’t angry, she was just sad.

you were chasing after something that wasn’t there, and it never would be there.

and now you were able to register just how much you’d fucked up the one good thing in your life.

#wanda maximoff x reader #scarlet witch x reader #wanda maximoff fic #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #avengers imagine #avengers fanfiction

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kal-djarin · 3 years

Text

Memories From the Past

Fandom: Star Wars

Date Posted: February 8th, 2021

Pairing: Reader x Obi-Wan Kenobi

Warnings: angst, fluff, suggestive themes but no actual smut, fighting?

Request: n/a

A/N: Okay I’m actually kinda proud of this one. I really love the dynamic of Obitine so I tried to translate that into fic without stealing the entire plot, but it steal is very obviously similar. I really hope the flash back scenes and change in pov. make sense, I had some issues trying to figure out what tense I should use for them, but hopefully it’s not confusing. IM SORRY THE ENDING IS RUSHED!!! As always please let me know what you think!!

Word Count: 4.5k

The news of Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi’s return to Sundari caused an array of emotions throughout the Palace. The Royal Guards were more watchful than usual, still not truly able to release the years of grudges held against the Jedi Order and Satine, was glad to be reunited with her old friend, despite the impromptu meeting being over possible changes in where the planet stood in the Clone Wars; a figure dressed in Mandalorian armour attacking a Republic cruiser would bring anyone to question the supposed position of neutrality Mandalore held.

You, on the other hand, were instantly filled with dread. Years have passed from the last time you have laid eyes on Obi-Wan and still the mere mention of him causes hundreds of memories to resurface.

When Satine became Duchess of Mandalore, many people were happy, but there were still insurgents that would not accept her pacifist leadership. They would send bounty hunters to try to eliminate her and the power she held. These constant threats against her life compelled Obi-Wan and his Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn to remove her and you, her most trusted advisor, from Mandalore and live on the run for nearly a year.

You lived one day at a time, trying to focus on surviving the present and live to see what uncertainties the future held. Most people would think that living in such dubious conditions would be terrifying, but it was one of the best years of your life.

Right when you met Obi-Wan, you were instantly turned off by him, despite his handsome looks. His diplomatic kindness and reverence felt impersonal and fake instead of charming and he was far too arrogant for your liking. Qui-Gon, on the other hand, was someone you befriended very quickly. His empathetic and wise nature instantly connected the two of you and he became almost like a father-figure. He was constantly giving you advice and was the only reason you tolerated Obi-Wan in the beginning.

Obi-Wan instantly felt this disfavor towards him, bringing out his sarcasm and frequent jabs, making him even more unbearable. The two of you spent weeks either trying to see who could irritate the other more or just completely ignoring each other, to both Qui Gon and Satine’s dismay. Qui-Gon always tried convincing you that you and Obi-Wan would make a great pair if the two of you would just stop being so stubborn, but his advice fell onto deaf ears.

Your hostility towards each other did die however, when you were being chased by venom-mites on a cliff on Draboon. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan fought them off as you and Satine escaped to the ship. Satine ran onto the boarding ramp and just as you were about to join her, you tripped over a divot in the ground, the momentum of it almost completely hurtling you off the side of the cliff, had you not grabbed a hold of the ledge.

All you can remember was the absolute terror that coursed through your veins and Satine’s horrified scream. Your body was hung over what seemed to be a bottomless pit and the only thing anchoring it were your hands; hands that were rather weak from a life devoid of physical exertion and that were slipping as each second passed.

You struggled, trying to find a way to climb up to solid land, but soon realized all the effort was fruitless. Obi-Wan, startled by Satine’s cries for help, turned around and saw your rather unfortunate situation. His eyes widened and he quickly turned from his Master and ran towards where you hung. When he was close enough, he slid to his knees and stretched his arm out to you.

“(Y/N), Take my hand!”

You wanted to, you really did, but the fear of falling to transfer your grip from the ground to his hand was too debilitating.

“Obi-Wan, I can’t, I’ll fall!” You managed to choke out

“You have to trust me!” His voice was loud, but still held its usual steadiness. His eyes however gave away his true emotions. They were frantically searching your own trying to convince you to lay your life in his hands. You could practically feel his terror radiating off of him.

Realizing you were out of options, you slowly released your grip and reached out to grasp his outstretched hand. Your fingers barely grazed his own and you knew it was too late. Gravity met you full force, and you felt yourself scream as your body began to plummet.

Then, all of a sudden, a warm cradling feeling caught you, interrupting your imminent death. You felt yourself rise over the cliff and saw Obi-Wan’s concentrated face and twitching hand. When you were about a foot above the ground, you dropped into Obi-Wan’s arms, and let out a sob of relief. Your body was racked with tears, still trying to process what just happened, and Obi-Wan just held you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, seeking comfort for your near death, and leaned against Obi-Wan’s own shaking body.

That day was the start of a new relationship for the two of you. You began to confide in each other more and felt the trust between the two of you grow as time passed. Obi-Wan dropped his guard of fake diplomacy and began to act more like himself. Of course, he still had his sarcastic humor, but it was more endearing now and his kindness felt genuine.

Soon, your relationship became more than just finding comfort in each other. When one of you couldn’t sleep, you and Obi-Wan would just sit together and talk until you became tired or if it was time to get up. Being around him was effortless and there was an understanding the two of you had that was rare to find. Of course, there was still tension between the two of you but it was different, less hostile.

If your relationship with him had ended there, innocent and full of what-ifs, you would have been just as excited as Satine was to see him. You wouldn’t currently be standing in the throne room, shaking with anxiety, waiting for him to step through the doors.

Just as you begin to contemplate completely ditching Obi-Wan’s arrival, the doors are opened and you hear the Prime Minister talking to him.

You look down and try to not draw attention to yourself, which is impossible considering Satine insisted you walk in beside her. Satine knew you and Obi-Wan were close, but you never told just how far your relationship with him went, so she didn’t see anything with the reunion. She sits down at the throne and you stand next to her. They greet each other briefly and the sound of Obi-Wan being so close to you again gives you the courage to finally meet his gaze.

He looks absolutely radiant, somehow looking more attractive than you remembered. His hair is a bit longer and a perfectly trimmed bear adorns his handsome face. You can’t help but stare, trying to take in the view you have been deprived of for almost 15 years.

“After all these years, you're even more beautiful than ever,” He says towards Satine, but still keeps his eyes locked on you.

You break the intense eye contact and try to not let his smooth words affect you. He doesn’t falter at your discreet rejection and continues the diplomatic conversation between him and Satine. She invites him on a walk through the city, and to your dismay, she gestures for you to join them. You walk just behind Satine, allowing the two of them to lead the way. Air speeders whistle by around you and people walk around the city, going about their day, unbothered by the Duchess and Jedi moving around them. You hear Satine talk about the current predicament Mandalore has found itself in with the Death Watch and you know you should be paying attention and adding into the conversation for sake of not seeming rude, but can’t help but carefully watch Obi-Wan’s side profile as he walks.

It’s perfect just like the rest of him and triggers yet another memory in your mind: you and his first kiss. It was a couple months after the incident on Draboon, and the four of you were forced to spend the night in a cave because of a rather wild storm. You sat on the cold floor near the fire Qui-Gon made, unable to rest, just watching the rain hit the mouth of the cave for hours. Unlike you, Satine used her time wisely, quickly finding much needed sleep. Qui-Gon had been meditating earlier, but now seemed to be resting as well, facing the inside of the cave. Obi-Wan sat cross-legged, reading a book about, if you remembered from his earlier explanation correctly, the method of Jar’Kai, farthest from the fire.

It wasn’t long before he noticed your restless form and decided to sit down next to you, close enough for your shoulders to touch.

“What’s up with you?” He asked, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Usually this kind of touch wouldn’t have caused you any issues, but more recently, you began to take note of every physical contact the two of you made. Obi-Wan was rather reserved, so knowing he so frequently chose to make contact with you gave you conflicting feelings. You turned and looked at him and suddenly felt rather sad.

“Don’t you wish we could be more carefree, like other people our age?”

He looked taken aback from your sudden question, but soon began to contemplate, fingers coming up to gently grasp his chin. After a moment, he looked back at you and shook his head.

“I never truly have thought about it. Why?” He questions further.

You knew why. No matter how hard you tried to deny it, Obi-Wan has found a special place in your heart. Months of confiding and building trust with one another let you get to know his true personality, making it impossible not to feel so much for him. But, although you were just teenagers, the both of you had responsibilities and expectations of you. He was a Jedi and you had to stay focused on helping Satine rebuild Mandalore after the raging civil war.

So instead of answering his question, you decided to satiate the need to feel reckless by standing up and walking out into the rain. The feel of the cold drops on your skin should have annoyed you, but instead it made you feel alive; it helped numb the feelings you so badly wish you didn’t have.

“What are you doing!” Obi-Wan yelled, looking alarmed at your sudden uncharacteristic decision.

“I’m living!!” You replied, soaking in the feeling of the rain and quickly running back and grabbing his hands with your dripping ones.

“Come on, Obi Wan, join me” You urged. His eyes are wide in shock but, nonetheless, takes off his outer robes and walks out into the rain.

His trust to join you with no question made you feel even more giddy and you dragged him into the middle of the valley that the cave sat in. You grabbed his hands and began to dance, if you could even call it that. Obi-Wan, as comfortable as he was with you, immediately stiffened up, since he was never truly taught how to dance. This setback, however, caused little pause in your actions and you just spun with him around in a circle.

The drumming of the rain did little to drown out your laugh whenever Obi-Wan would stumble, to his dismay, but he too began to chuckle at the unskilled dancing going on. You gazed up at him and just from the look on his face you knew your feelings for him were going nowhere. His hair laid flat on his head, soaked, and his face was covered in water and he looked breathtaking. He made you feel safe and trusted and maybe that was the reason you decided to risk it all.

You grabbed his face between your hands and pressed your lips to his. It was short-lived, with him quickly pulling away with his eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.

You instantly were filled with regret, embarrassed from the rejection, and went to run back into the cave to hide from your mistake. You felt selfish, trying to act on feelings that completely disrespected everything Obi-Wan lived for. Right when you pulled away from his arms, Obi-Wan quickly grabbed your wrist and pulled you back in.

His hands went up to cradle your face and he kissed you. It was overwhelming how much emotion he was channeling through it. The kiss was needy and hard but his hands were gentle, one of them coming up to tangle itself in your soaked hair. You could tell he was inexperienced, his form being a tad messy, but the passion put into it made up for any mistakes.

You feel a hand rest on your shoulder and are instantly pulled out of the memory. You see Satine looking at you, worry written all over her face.

“(Y/N), are you alright?” She asks, her eyes searching your face.

You go to answer her and shut down any of her worries about you, but catch a glimpse of Obi-Wan and lose the words. His face looks almost distraught and you know he must have seen what you were thinking of. You force yourself to look away from him and respond to Satine.

“Yes, sorry I must have zoned out.” You apologize, hoping she buys your white lie. “As a matter of fact is it alright if I return to the Palace, I think I need a little rest”

She still looks worried, but quickly approves of your request and turns back to walk with Obi-Wan, who still seems bothered by your memory, but remains cordial and attentive.

You turn and go back to the Palace, a single guard flanking your side. When you return, you do exactly what you told Satine, you lie on your bed and rest, or at least try to.

***

When Obi-Wan sensed the memory you were thinking of, he was no longer able to focus on the important matter at hand. Even after the bombing on Mandalore after you left and him nearly being crushed to death on Concordia, he found himself thinking about it. He remembers that day so clearly; the first time he truly gave into his temptations.

He had worked so hard to stay in the Jedi Order- nobody wanted him as a Padawan. He was always not enough and it was only by fate that Qui-Gon decided to take him under his wing. He knew better than anyone that the title of Jedi was invaluable and there you were making him question everything he ever knew. He knew Jedi weren’t supposed to form attachments or express their emotions, so why did he keep indulging himself with your presence.

The moment you kissed him, Obi-Wan’s instinct was to run. He was powerless against the attachment he had to you, so he knew the best way to stop it was to completely remove himself from the situation. He had every intention of doing so when he pulled away the first time, but then his other instincts kicked in. He felt the feel of your hands on his face, the closeness of your body, and realized there was no way he could let this go, at least not now.

Days after the kiss, Obi-Wan was filled with disgust at himself. He hated that he let himself indulge. He hated how he completely disregarded everything he was ever taught. He hated the fact that he loved every second of it, and what he hated most of all is that he began to wonder how it would feel to kiss your neck, skin, and other very un Jedi-like places.

Because of this, the months of progress the two of you made in your relationship were completely erased. He knew it was unfair to you, but he had to uphold the morals of a Jedi, and being around you made that goal impossible. He reverted back to the arrogant and guarded Padawan and pushed you away every time you tried to fix things.

But his efforts were fruitless. You knew Obi-Wan and were not able to let go of his sudden change in personality.

His Master also noticed the sudden change in relationship and decided to take matters in his own hands. He decided to send the two of you off on a mission to retrieve some sort of plant and herb. The two of you walked through the woods, The entire trip, Obi-Wan ignored every attempt of yours to engage in conversation and didn’t even truly acknowledge your presence. You finally decided to confront him, to his dismay.

“Was it truly that horrifying to kiss me, Obi-Wan”

“What?” He said, trying to keep the act up.

“Was it so bad to the point of ignoring me,” You pushed, getting angrier by the minute.

“I hardly see how that is relevant to the current task at han-” He began to deflect but was cut off by you grabbing his shoulder and whipping him around. Angry tears began to form in your eyes and at the site, Obi-Wan felt his facade crack.

“You don’t get to decide to drop me when things get hard, Obi-Wan” You spat, emphasizing your words by jabbing your finger on his chest.

Obi-Wan tried. He tried so hard to stay away from you. But the look of anger and heartbreak on your face made him, give into your spell, once again. He grabbed your hand and looked into your eyes.

He knew he was going to hate himself after, like last time, but the temporary pleasure it brought was impossible to resist, so he kissed you.

The kiss was hard and full of anger: anger at you, at himself, at the Jedi Order, and at the world for making you his weakness. You instantly reacted bringing your hand around to run through his short auburn hair and pulling your body as close as possible.

Obi-Wan deepened the kiss, letting his tongue explore the inners of your mouth, inciting a moan from your lips. Obi-Wan felt himself flush from the obscene sound and couldn’t help but feel bolder from the thought of bringing you pleasure. He started to kiss along your jawline and down your neck, his brain becoming muddled from the pleasure of it all.

You had begun to take off his robes and that was when he came to his senses. He knew he had to stop this, it was completely un Jedi-like and uncivilized, especially out in the open. His thoughts were immediately shut down however when you slid your hand down his chest. He decided to burn every single pleasure and feeling into memory and worry later. Your hand began to venture between his legs and that was the second time Obi-Wan gave into temptation.

You were all he could think about while fighting on Concordia, and he knew this was why Jedi don’t form attachments. Just the memory of your relationship caused his judgement to be clouded. He couldn’t imagine how he would have been if you were there during the fight with Death Watch: constantly worried, focused on an individual rather than the greater good.

He was relieved to get on to the Coronet and away from the memory of his failures as a Jedi, but that relief was short-lived when he saw you boarding the ship alongside Satine.

***

Satine, as strong-willed as ever, insisted on you going to Coruscant with her. She didn’t want you to be alone on Mandalore, vulnerable to the rapidly more aggressive Death Watch attacks. Once aboard the ship, you settle into your temporary room and head down to meet back up with the Duchess, who was currently discussing her position of neutrality with other senators down the hall.

As you walk towards the meeting, you run into a young, handsome man and Obi-Wan. You immediately freeze, not prepared for the sudden direct interaction and just stare at him. “O-Obi-Wan” You stutter out, not knowing how to fully go about this.

Obi-Wan looks equally as startled, but recovers quickly and introduces you to the younger man.

“(Y/N), this is Anakin Skywalker, my Padawan and Anakin this is Adviser (L/N).”

You tear your eyes away from Obi-Wan’s and quickly greet Anakin with a nod and small smile. Wordlessly, you walk through the door and head to Satine’s side, not before hearing the Padawan say, “On a first name basis, huh, Master?” and a small grunt following a hitting noise.

The meeting was full of high tensions, many, including Obi-Wan, disagreeing with Mandalore’s neutrality. It was always an issue when brought up, and even you saw the issues with it. The idea of staying neutral and not interfering in a war is noble but is much harder in execution and can cause more turmoil in the long run.

As soon as the meeting is dismissed, you file out of the room, trying to avoid any more confrontation. You head to the room where you are supposed to have dinner and find Satine waiting for you.

Obi-Wan enters the room, walking with other leaders. All you had to do was get to Coruscant. Once there you can get out of here and not have to think about Obi-Wan Kenobi ever again. You zone out for most of the meal, not noticing the nervous atmosphere starting to settle over everyone or the warning Obi-Wan gives about a situation going on below decks.

You are suddenly pulled out of your own head, when you hear him yell to the guards about securing the lifts. You see the blue light of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and Satine quickly stands up from the table, bringing you with her.

A horrifying crunching sound is heard and the doors to the lift begins to wrench open, revealing a giant spider droid. It easily knocks down the guards and clambers onto the table, quickly approaching the group of senators. Obi-Wan goes into action and severs the spider droid's legs and lands a fatal lightsaber wound to its head.

The people around you breathe a sigh of relief but soon find out that it's far from over. Miniature spider droids begin to pop out of the body of the larger one and spread out to box the group of you in. Senators begin freaking out, but you and Satine know better. Years of dealing with the pushback of the people have forced you to learn how to defend yourself. Not to mention, the year spent with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan required you to spend quite a bit of time learning to fight. You and Satine immediately pull out your deactivators and get to work killing the droids.

Obi-Wan joins the fight with his lightsaber and the two of you fall into the instinctual rhythm from all those years ago. Back to back, slowly turning, ensuring the other doesn’t get too overwhelmed by the enemy. As much as you hate being reminded of your once very close relationship, it's easier to connect to him through the ease of physical touch. You can predict his movements and fighting techniques, making it much easier to interact than dialogue. Once all, except one, of the droids are eliminated, Obi-Wan turns towards you and seems as if he has something to say but quickly stops himself and walks away to check on the others. The adrenaline coursing through your veins from the fight keeps you on edge however, even after you return to your seat.

It stays with you, even when Anakin returns to inform Obi-Wan that there is a seperatist among you. The surviving spider droid is walked around the table, a test to see who it won’t attack. When Obi-Wan reaches Tal Merrik, a sudden change in the droid's hostile behavior proves him to be a traitor.

You watch in horror as Tal grabs Satine and holds a blaster to her head. The adrenaline from the previous fight serves you well because, even before Obi-Wan has time to react to the sudden change in severity of the situation, a fallen guard’s blaster, set to stun, is in your hand and has already raised and fired at the Senator. He quickly falls, releasing Satine.

You release a shaky breath and everyone, including Obi-Wan, stares in shock at your quick save.

“T-thank you,” Satine says, obviously shaken from almost being held hostage.

You nod in acknowledgment and watch as Tal Merrik is put into custody.

For obvious reasons, all the senators decide to retire to their rooms for the rest of the night.

Exhausted emotionally and physically, you do the same and head to your room after making sure Satine arrived at hers safely. You are about to relax into your bed when you hear a knock at the door. You open it to find Obi-Wan standing there, looking rather uncomfortable. “What do you want, Obi-Wan,” you sigh, tired of hiding from your past.

“I thought that we could talk”

“You are the last person to want to talk about feelings, Obi” You say turning around and heading back into the room, silently allowing him access to your space.

He walks in and closes the door behind him and leans against the wall opposite of you.

“I thought it would be a benefit to the both of us if we just talk”

“What do you want me to say Obi-Wan?” You raise your voice, tired of his roundabout way of talking.

“Do you want me to say I’m in love with you? But you already knew that didn’t you, all those years ago, and you still left” you accuse spitefully, not believing that you could somehow still have feelings for such an emotionally constipated man.

His face contorts into one of regret and grief at the mention of his abandoning you, but you still don’t let up.

“I think it’s better if you just go, Obi Wan. It’s what you do best.” You spit out, turning around to face away from him.

You hear him push off the wall and begin to move, but instead of leaving like you told him to, he walks up to you. You sense his presence against your back and he is so close you can feel his breath gently hitting the back of your neck. He stands there and lightly touches your hand with his own, breathing you in, again resorting to physical touch when his words fail. You bask in the closeness of him, giving into the way you missed his touch.

After a few moments, you hear him sigh and pull away from you.

“Had you said the word, I would have left the Jedi Order”

With that confession, he slowly leaves and shuts the door, leaving you more confused and heartbroken than ever.

#obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi #obi wan oneshot #obi wan x reader #obiwan #obi wan headcanon #clone wars x reader #obi wan angst #obi wan smut #starwars x reader

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haztory · 3 years

Text

𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝. (2)

-chapter two: the story of us; warnings for this chapter include a brief discussion and mentioning of sexual assault. it is not described in detail nor does it happen to anyone in this fic. i will not ever be using sexual assault as a plot device as i think that’s unnecessary. however, because it is prevalent in female culture, or at least the discussion of it is, it is briefly mentioned.

if this makes anyone uncomfortable, please skip over! i will not be offended at all!

-summary: His eyes are a sea of green that you can't seem to stop drowning in.

a/n: this chapter is a doozy yall, im so sorry. this is mainly to serve as complete exposition of reader and iwa, so it’s hella long. i had an original idea of how i wanted this to go and then i started writing and this happened. lmfao. thank you all for being patient and loving and your comments are so wonderful! i had midterms all last week and all i could think about was writing this! so thank you all and i hope you all enjoy! next chapter will be pure chaos and fun!

i was listening to “cloud 9″ by beach bunny for this chapter! so that might help you understand how i see reader and iwa <33

(w.c.: 8,662 words)

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You’re ten years old when you meet Iwaizumi Hajime for the first time.

He’s an inch shorter than you, skinny, hair set in an unorganized mess of spikes, and he smells of sweat. It’s the least enticing first impression you’ve ever encountered, wondering briefly if this is what all of Miyagi Prefecture has to offer.

Because if so, you’re not looking forward to it.

He’s blocking the entrance to the neighborhood park with his bike, back facing towards you and an arm stretched outward-pointing at something across the park. The same park that your mother has forced you to attend, kicking you out of your new home filled with moving boxes, a warm smile on her face and a simple request to “go have fun”.

A request that was starting to seem like more of a problem than you anticipated.

You’re halted in front of the gates to the area for a solid minute, the boy in front of you being less than aware of your presence as he continues to shout from across the park.

“Grab all of them, Oikawa!”

There’s another boy roughly the same age holding several items that look to be action figures close to his chest. His face is scrunched up and his shoulders slouched as he takes exaggerated sluggish steps while crossing the courtyard. He’s sweaty too, just like the boy in front of you.

“But there’s so many, Iwaaa. Can’t you help me?”

“You’re such a baby, Oikawa.”

The one named Oikawa is about to respond when he stops his movements altogether. He merely points his finger, eyes fixated on something behind his black-haired friend.

You realize a bit too late that he’s pointing at you.

The friend, Iwa as he was called, turns his head with a questioning hum, green eyes meeting yours. A sea of emerald.

“Oh,” he breathes out, voice high in timber and flooded in awkwardness, raising his hand in a shy greeting, “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” you respond in equal awkwardness, the kind that only a new kid can embody. Uneasiness has been settled into your bones ever since the move was announced, and now, as you stand before two physical embodiments of your displacement in this area, the feeling seems to sink even deeper into your stomach. “You’re blocking the entrance.”

“Huh? Oh! Sorry ‘bout that.” He begins a cumbersome shuffle of pushing the bike he was sitting on backward, small grunts escaping his mouth as he tries to make space for you to enter. It’s a slow process, considering he teeters from side to side and struggles to smoothly retreat from the space. Oikawa snickers in the background, some teasing words being aired that you are too far to hear, but they must be irking enough considering Iwa mutters a “shut up, idiot” in response.

The friendship is formidable, you don’t need to know them for long to see that. Envy and all its bitter acid coat your tongue.

“Are you the one that just moved in?” Oikawa speaks up.

You nod.

“How old are you? Are you going to Kitagawa Elementary? Have you already—”

Iwa interrupts the ferociously excited boy with a gentle scoff, “Calm down, Oikawa. Give her some air. Geez.”

“I just want to know more about the new girl, Iwa-chan!”

“Yeah, well you’re doing it wrong.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes and clutches the toys in his arms tighter, “You do it then!”

“Do what?”

“Introduce us! Make friends!”

“I think you blew it already.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun. If she’s going to the same place as us, she might as well join us! What do you say, new girl?”

You’re shaken from the brief exclusion of the conversation— realizing they’re including you this time— when Iwa tears his eyes away from his friend and meets yours once again. Upon connection with the emeralds, your throat constricts your throat and the relief of ease washes over. The hesitancy that was bubbling in your stomach starts to dissipate when he looks at you— almost comforted by his dark yet steady stare— but the sense is quickly replaced by something else that shakes you. Your skin prickles, like fire ants marching up the pattern of your skin, and your palms start to sweat despite the cooling temperatures and the light breeze blowing against your skin.

You’d have to tell your mom about this, just to make sure you weren’t getting sick.

“Would you like to join us?” Iwa asks. There’s no trace of a smile on his face but the invitation isn’t lacking in warmth. It’s a subtle kind, almost imperceptible if it weren’t for the look of curiosity residing upon his features. He speaks gently, like there wasn’t a distance between you two and another person listening in on the conversation, pointing his question and attention solely at you. There was a center of his gravitational pull and it was in your direction.

He’s waiting for your answer, and not the kind that results after courteously asking someone a question; You can tell he is really waiting, wanting to know what you say because his eyes hold onto yours in a way that is much more mature than a boy at the tender age of ten should be looking at someone.

He’s sincere. He doesn’t even know you and yet he waits upon you as though your response were one he was to weigh considerably with his agenda. He’s a stranger, only said two things directly to you, and yet you feel weightless in the most minute of his attention.

The rocks of anxiety that were sitting heavily in your stomach for the past month have disappeared and the answer that he waits so intensely for comes rather naturally. It’s the surest you’ve felt in a while. You don't know them at all, aren't even sure if you'll like them, but what would you be other than a fool to not follow the path of certain safety laid out in front of you, disguised as a black-haired boy with the spiky hair? How can you be sure unless you don't see for yourself?

“Yeah,” you sigh out, burdensome weight lifting off your shoulders at the answer, “Can I?”

“Yeah. You can.” He affirms with a nod, the corner of his lips quirking upward. Oikawa, rather befittingly, shouts a cheer, resuming his incessant chatter in throwing an onslaught of questions your way but you’re not listening. Pulled elsewhere you find your gaze being drawn back to the calm and steady boy, with the sea of emerald in his eyes.

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, by the way. And that’s Oikawa Tooru.”

“I’m (Y/N).”

“Cool.”

You spend the whole day with them, quickly finding a natural place in their relationship, serving as the happy in-between of the flamboyant nature of Oikawa and the pillar of stone that is Iwaizumi. It’s fun, the most fun you’ve had in the entirety of your move that you find yourself trying to make some kind of excuse to extend the day when the sun starts to set.

But Oikawa has to go home, and so does Iwa, and the disappointment is more than apparent on your face. There’s the unmistakable promise of seeing one another again, that of which was affirmed when Oikawa held out his pinky for you to take and solidify the statement on.

“I can walk you home if you want.” Iwaizumi tells you after you both wave your goodbyes to the other brunet. It’s a godsend, a miracle from the heavens who heard your building plight and decided to spare your jilted mind with some form of comfort.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you tell him, purely as a formality. Your mother’s lessons of never burdening others kicking into gear at his offer, but you plead, secretly in the deep recesses of your brain that he disagrees. Hope desperately that he’ll take the initiative and stay with you just a moment longer.

He shakes his head, bearing a toothy smile that is missing one of his canines. “I don’t mind. My mom always tells me to make sure girls get home safe.”

Calm, steady, comforting. You selfishly agree before you have half a mind to say otherwise, “Okay. I live this way.”

And as he trails beside you, holding his bike in his hands as he walks at the pace you set, telling you the details about his favorite monster movie, you find yourself incredibly enamored with the short, sweaty boy that hates green tea and loves summertime.

And not for the first time.

You’re thirteen when you realize that you have a terribly, horribly, deeply incessant crush on Iwaizumi Hajime.

It’s lunchtime and while you’re usually quick to eat with the resident bickering duo of Sendai, they’ve ditched you for volleyball practice— and not for the first time. So you sit with your other group of close friends, the ones you made through the conventional school setting, and not because they impulsively adopted you into their routine. They’re the necessary and equal balance to the growing testosterone you religiously spend your weekends with, so ultimately you’re not too upset at being left behind for a sport.

Besides, it’s nice to be surrounded by girls who talk about normal things instead of sweaty violent boys that only talk about volleyball and occasionally the things you like.

Mai, a girl with a short bob that frames her round face, shakes the table with her loud laughter, the curtain of her hair swaying in tune to her joyful movement. She was the first friend you made in this group, and easily the one you’re closest to. The complete opposite of Hajime if her unabashed, frantic excitement is anything to go by. But much like the spaces in this Miyagi heart of yours that’s dedicated to Tooru and Hajime, there’s one for her too. She grabs onto one of your arms and holds it tightly, seeking stability as her melodic laughter rings through your table.

It’s hard not to laugh alongside her.

“Please!” She begs Yua, a blonde girl in the year above you, and wipes her eyes free from the laughter-induced tears, “No more! I’m gonna pee!”

Yua huffs, shrugging her shoulders to say that Mai’s inability to hold her urine was beyond her control, “I’m serious! That’s how I found out Kaito had a crush on me!”

“And what did you do?” You ask, laughter lacing your own words at the tale Yua expertly weaved, describing in excruciating detail how Kaito from your third period wrote a love letter comparing Yua’s lips to that of a whale as if that was somehow a compliment.

“I ran away! What else was I supposed to do?!”

Mai howls with laughter, her body being thrown against yours and her arms flailing with the movements, unable to contain herself. You’re almost identical, finding that you follow Mai’s gesticulation in perfect countering. Where she pushes you left, you move in sync, allowing her to lean her weight on you as you both lose yourself in the story.

For as much seriousness as she tries to implement in her words, the quirking of her lips betray Yua, “Laugh all you want, but wait ‘til this happens to you! Then you’ll get it!”

“I don’t think Mai and I have to worry about that,” you tell her, the remainder of your laughter dying out of your words. Mai snaps upward, her body no longer slumped against yours, and instead of facing you with furrowed brows and an offended expression.

The two friends speak simultaneously, one with indignation and the other with confusion “Why not?”

The pointedness of the question makes it seem as though your words were wrong, a misstep in a direction that you have to apologize for. Regardless of whether or not you know why. “Uh, ‘cause no one likes us like that?”

Mai scoffs, crossing her arms and tilting her nose upwards, “Speak for yourself.”

“Sorry, no one likes me like that. So I don’t have to worry.” You say with a smile punctuating the statement with a scoop of rice into your mouth. It wasn’t a statement meant to be considered deeply, it was a simple fact. There were hardly any thirteen-year-olds looking your way, and even if there were, it wasn’t like your attention was focused on them either. All the boys in school were either too annoying or too stupid.

Except for Hajime. He was the only tolerable one. Oikawa fell into the “too annoying” category. But you still loved him—sometimes.

Yua and Mai share a glance, a fleeting look before they look back at you, “You’re joking, right?”

You look up from your food to meet their furrowed stares, “What?”

They share another glance, Mai answering Yua’s silent question with a shrug of her shoulders. You’re completely left in the dark. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“Okay, so what if,” Yua begins, the familiar teasing lilt that you’ve widely associated with the blonde returning, stressing on the ‘if’, “someone did like you. What would you do?”

They both look at you with waggling eyebrows, like they’ve cornered you into the exact hypothetical they want you to be in. While this isn’t necessarily an unfamiliar place to be in, it is a weird one, considering you and boys have never really been the topic of conversation unless Iwa and Oikawa were somehow brought up. But your friendship with them was well known and not exactly hidden at all. It wasn’t sensational, nor was it the topic of gossip. Neither was the fact that you aren’t exactly the kind of girl the boys of Kitagawa First were looking at if they were even looking at girls.

“But no one likes me like that.”

“Answer the question.”

You gesture in exasperation, “I don’t know! I’m not really into anyone like that, so I guess I’d say no?”

The two girls pause again, sharing another look.

“Okay, can you two stop that?”

Mai speaks up this time, almost disbelieving, “You really don’t like anyone?”

“Am I supposed to?”

Yua sings, “Not even Iwaizumiii?”

The chopsticks that you held deftly in your hands go limp and a straight shot of shock runs down your spine. Time stands still in this cramped cafeteria and it feels like your head has been dunked into a bucket of cold water, halting the train of thought and highlighting every possible exit in this building.

The red lights of panic have turned on in your brain and they’re screaming at you to run.

“I— I don’t— what are you guys talking about?”

Your two best friends, who now resemble Satan’s assistants more than anything remotely positive to you, share their third unspoken glance, and you’re about to lose it.

“So,” Yua starts again, tearing her sly eyes from Mai’s excited ones, “You do like him?”

Code red. Abandon ship. Abort. R-U-N.

“No! He— I— We’re just friends!”

“Oh my god!” Mai slams her hands on the surface of the table, her brown eyes boring into your widened ones as she leans over to invade your personal space and poke your chest.

“You like him!”

The brain that is usually so quick with an excuse, trained to be sharp-witted and smart from years of intense teasing from Tooru and Hajime, suddenly feels like mush in your head. Ooey, gooey mush that can’t come up with anything but stuttering, “N-No” at the idea of having some romantic inclination towards Hajime. The best friend you hang out with every weekend; The boy that always walks you home and always makes sure your comments are heard; The spiky-haired idiot with a sea of emerald in his eyes that you always seem to drown in.

But, that’s not— that doesn’t mean— No.

You don’t like Hajime like that. He’s just a really really good friend. That you enjoy spending time with. That makes you feel comfortable with just a single look. The friend that you always want around, regardless of the kind of day. Yeah. That’s it.

Hajime is just that kind of person.

Yua gives an unconvinced hum and taps her bright pink nails on the table surface, “When you think about another girl liking him, do you get jealous?”

Mai backs up from your face to give a wide smile at the blonde, pointing at her wickedly and almost shouting, “Ooh! Good question!”

“Thanks, I read it in my sister’s magazine.”

Mai turns back, almost touching your nose with hers, “Well? Do you?”

The “no” is on the tip of your tongue as an instinctual defense against this personal interrogation, but it doesn’t come out. Partly because of the mush of your brain but also because you know any denial of that question just simply isn’t true; Because when Saran followed Hajime around all day in grade six, you distinctly remember being in a foul mood for a while.

A mood that could only be fixed when Hajime indirectly affirmed that he did not like her.

Oh god.

You like Hajime.

You like his stupid face and his stupid laugh and the stupid way he teases you and the stupid way he makes you feel.

Your friends laugh in your face for a solid minute while you hang your head in your hands, certain that your life was completely over with the new revelation. Yua is the instigator, teasing you relentlessly over the silent confession while Mai asserts that this is the beginning of a fairytale.

She says it with such conviction that you’re almost inclined to believe her until reason kicks in, and the shamefulness of the situation kicks in. You push it down, fine with keeping the acknowledgment exactly where it is, right under your thumb. That is until Oikawa finds out about it and then suddenly, it’s no longer in your control.

You’re fourteen when he corners you after school. He’s walking you home, taking Hajime’s usual role when said boy and subject of your plight had to stay home with the sick.

You don’t think he’s going to bring it up, hardly aware he even knows about it, but he does making you choke on your spit and trip over a crack in the sidewalk. He clutches his stomach in a guffaw.

“Did you really think you could hide it from me?” Tooru teases, his finger poking at your heated cheek that you quickly swat away.

“I’m not hiding anything, Tooru,” you mutter, keeping your head turned downwards. If Oikawa even sees a smidgen of embarrassment he would never let you live it down.

“Oh, please. You’re so easy to read, especially when Iwa-chan is around. You’re all, ‘oh Iwa, you’re so smart and funny. I want to be with you forever. Mwah, mwah, mwah!’” His hands are interwoven beside his head and he attempts a poor, high-pitched imitation of your voice. Again, Oikawa Tooru belongs in the “too annoying” category that most eighth-grade boys find themselves in.

You lift your left leg, thrusting your shin outward to kick the taller boy in his behind, a move all too familiar. Really, Oikawa should have seen it coming, having had it done to him so often by Iwaizumi. He’s too swept up in the antics of teasing, though, that it surprises him and the pain in his bottom is sharp. His hands cover the stinging area.

“Ow, (Y/N)!”

“That’s what you get for being stupid.”

“See! You even act him like him!”

You raise your fist upward and he raises his hands in defense, cowering at the threat of more pain, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He lowers his hands, one eye closed and the other peeking from behind his lowering fingers, “Gosh, so violent. I’m only trying to help!”

“I don’t need help.” You grumble.

You continue your trek onward, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and this nightmare of a conversation. But it’s not that simple. There are now three people that have realized the truth of your crush in less than a year— all of which are your closest friends. It’s only a matter of time before the friend above them all realizes it too.

Worst off, only a matter of time before someone tells him.

You turn towards Tooru with a speed that has him flinching and thrusting his hands upward for protection again. A yelp echoes around the empty street and was it not for the intensity behind your desperation, you probably would have laughed.

“Tooru.” There’s a rasp in your voice, one that you aren’t exaggerating. It makes Oikawa uncomfortable hearing such a serious depth to your previously annoyed cadence. In his continuously growing height, he stares down at you, fear crumpling his face.

“Don’t say my name like that—”

“You cannot tell Hajime.”

He straightens his posture out, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A brow is raised quizzically, “Isn’t that the whole point of having a crush? So that you can eventually tell that person about it?”

It’s not like you expect him to understand, hell, you don’t even understand it yourself. All you know is that Hajime cannot know about it; There are too many factors, too many problems that can happen. Besides, you’re sure it’s just a tiny crush, one that will go away after a couple of months.

And even if it didn’t, you still wouldn’t be able to tell him. Because you’ve been best friends for four years now, and if there was anything remotely remarkable about you, you’re sure something would’ve happened already. Because Hajime is strong, decisive, and steady. If he wants something, he goes for it; And if he wanted you, in any capacity like the way you want him, he would’ve said something.

But he doesn’t because you’re his best friend. Nothing is outstanding about you, nothing that would make you more than just the girl he’s friends with. Nothing that would make you any different from “just one of the guys”.

He would never see you as anything but.

So, it’s just easier to have Hajime as a friend than to risk it all for a likely rejection. You could swallow the feelings, bury them deep inside of you for the rest of time. It would be significantly easier than never talking to him again because you couldn’t be a big girl and not make things awkward.

You try to tell Oikawa as much, “It’s— I just— It would be easier if he didn’t know. It’ll go away soon.”

The brunet tilts his head to the side, kind of like a pouty puppy. When he’s not being a teasing butthead, he’s rather gentle with you, considerate of your emotions, and above all, eager to understand.

“Do you want it to go away?”

“Like I said, it would just be easier.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

A quiet settles between the two of you and it feels like it’s oceans wide. You, stranded out at sea in the terrorizing waves of emotions, and he, the lighthouse built on the rocks. Tall and fixed, beckoning you towards his stable ground of reason. It’s a brief reminder that when Oikawa tries, he’s not that annoying. He’s rather kind and empathetic.

“Do you want Hajime to like you?”

The deep cocoa eyes dig into you and the waves crash even more ferociously around you.

Cotton dries up your mouth, and the ache that always pains your heart whenever you think about Hajime returns in full force, “He never will.”

Oikawa huffs out a breath, back becoming imperceptibly straighter while he crosses his arms. It’s hard to imagine him as anything but that sweaty boy you met on the playground, but he stands before you a giant, body filling out from all the volleyball practice and the baby features of his face evening out to become the handsome boy girls were starting to see him as. He radiates his kind of steadiness, one different from Hajime, but equally as comforting.

It’s admirable— he’s admirable— when it's not pinned against you.

“And how do you know?”

“Tooru,” you sigh, exhaustion suddenly creeping up your shoulders along with the overwhelming urge to cry, “Please.”

You don’t feel like explaining all the intricacies of your perceived inadequacy and thank the gods above he’s a good enough friend to know when to stop prying, “Fine, fine. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

You stare up at him, searching his face for any notion of deceit or subterfuge, “You promise you won’t say anything?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waves his hand in dismissal, rolling his eyes in that way that portrays annoyance but the love is there. He understands you, at least.

You hold out your pinky for him, “Pinky promise?”

“What are we, ten?”

You hold your finger out further, almost waving it in his face. It’s the staple of trust in your friendship, instituted early on between you and him, and only you and him. He can’t back out now.

He takes it with a sigh of his own, huffing out his breath, and twisting his long, slender finger with yours. You shake his hand in affirmation, letting go only when you feel comfortable in the validity of his promise and resuming your walk home.

He throws an arm over your shoulder, squeezing you tightly to his body, “Eventually you’re going to have to say something.”

“I know.”

“I hope you know I’m never letting you live this down.”

“It’s like you want me to hit you again.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe in the future, when you’re more comfortable with the fact that it’s your best friend of all people that gives you butterflies in your stomach, you’ll do something about it. But not right now, not when he spends all his time in volleyball and especially not when you were barely confident in yourself. Or maybe, it’ll go away, and you can look back on this as a funny memory rather than anything serious.

You’re fifteen when you finally accept the circumstances and become resigned to it. Finally understanding that your crush is more than just a crush, but knowing full well that that’s all you can let it be.

Hajime sits on the floor, surrounded by your regular friends plus a couple of others at Oikawa’s birthday party when he says it. You’re not supposed to hear it from your place in the kitchen, but you do and it’s a dagger to both heart and confidence. He’s confirmed everything you knew and quelled any potential rebuttal of thoughts Mai or Tooru have planted in your head.

You were stupid to think Hajime could ever see you as anything more than the girl he’s just friends with.

Your appetite quickly dissipates and you have to work extra hard to make sure pure despair doesn’t show on your face. Especially when Oikawa hears it too and he makes that face that looks like he wants to give you a hug, which makes everything ten times harder.

A kid named Matsukawa is the one that asks. You don’t blame him. He’s only fifteen, after all, asking what normal fifteen-year-olds normally talk about.

“What about (Y/N)? Would you date her?”

Hajime scoffs, a laugh on his lips as though it were the weirdest question he’s ever heard.

“She’s my best friend. That would be like dating my sister. I don’t like her like that.”

You’re fifteen and you’ve become resigned to it all, because it’s better to have Hajime as a friend, than to never have him at all. Because you would never have him; At least not in the way you want.

You don’t blame him for that either.

You cry about it later on, after the party is over and after you deny Hajime’s insistence to walk you home. He has a weird look on his face when you tell him you’ll be fine, your house is only a few blocks away. He wants to fight you on it, can see the argument forming it in that storm of green. It’s a shitty feeling to deny him so blatantly, but you really can’t stomach being around him at the moment. Not when your heart pangs longingly for him and your insecurities increase tenfold at the confirmation of your inadequacy.

Not when all of this is happening at once, showing as clear as day on your face, and he sees it. Worst of all, not when he wants to solve it, hardly understanding that he’s the cause of it.

His eyes narrow, staring intently as he studies your features. The scrutiny is uncomfortable and if he does stares a second longer the tears will fall.

“Did… something happen during the party?” Hajime asks hesitantly. There’s a whirlwind of possibilities crossing his mind, all indicating rather unsavory and horrifying ideas that have his worry bubbling beneath his skin. You’re barely meeting his gaze, hands clasped tightly before you and body way too stiff. The complete opposite of your normal demeanor, especially around him.

Usually so open, so vibrant. And here you stand before him, the dark of night surrounding you and the fluorescent glow of the streetlamps casting a ghoulish light on your face, exaggerating your dejected features more prominently.

He’s heard of worst-case scenarios when girls and boys get together, something mentioned in passing when his mother was on the phone with his aunt. He never really thought much about it, considering he would never do something like that and he doesn’t hang around many girls, to begin with for something like that to be an immediate concern..

In this stark contrast of a moment, however, he’s briefly reminded of the fact that he so often tends to forget. You’re a girl; A living, breathing, pretty girl. Everyone likes you, would be fools not to. And while he would never allow himself or anyone else to force themselves upon you, you weren’t with him for the whole party. Disappearing for a brief moment after he saw you enter the kitchen. The idea of something like that— something that horrible— happening to you under his nose has all of his instincts on fight mode, forget the flight. A shattering of the innocence he was so previously impervious to.

The implication is clear in his voice accompanied with the fear-stricken features, so you can hardly miss what he means.

“Did— Did anyone…?” His voice cracks and he hurriedly tries to clear it up with the clearing of his throat, but you heard it. It happens often when he’s wrestling with an onslaught of emotions, trying his hardest to remain calm and clear-headed and focused that sometimes his voice just gives out. Also, puberty.

The act doesn’t matter though, not when he’s silently amping himself up to fight someone if you were touched inappropriately. He would win; He’s been in a couple of fights before, usually off school property, he doesn’t mind getting into another one. Not if it was for you. And he would win; Would make sure of that.

The tussle for calm is transparent on his face. Lips struggling to stay in a closed, neutral line rather than the frown he has to hold back. His fists clench, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms to alleviate the growing anger, only to prove futile. He so badly wants to grab you by the shoulders, shake you furiously, ask what the hell is going on because you’re never like this—

He doesn’t. He knows better. Even if the suspense is driving him up the wall and the tension that encapsulates the empty street is thick and choking him.

Finally, you say something.

“No, Haji,” you say softly, “No one did anything to me.”

It’s what Iwaizumi wants to hear; Should be ecstatic to know that you are physically unharmed, free from the taint that comes with a foreign touch, the one he’s intent to protect you from. Your voice is too quiet though, and the smile you give him is too small for him to feel any modicum of ease. You're lying. Someone did something.

“I’m fine, really!” You try again, amping up the energy to convince him. It falls flat.

“(Y/N).” That spiky head of hair tips forward, pushing himself in your averting line of sight, refusing to let you hide from him. He’s taller now, finally taller than you. While his hair is still that fluff of mess on his head, his eyes are still that piercing green that can always read you like a book and his favorite season is still summer, only this time he no longer enjoys going to the park, but instead the beach.

He’s the same Hajime you fell in love with and the remainder is enough to cause a lump swell in your throat.

“What are you hidi—”

“Iwa-chan!”

The familiar melodious voice rings out in the empty street, its owner sauntering his way over to your departing figures. There’s that recognizable air of flowering confidence rolling off of him like a humid heat and the sly shining of his pearly whites that serves as a buffer from the thick air of tension between you and Haj— Iwaizumi.

Just, Iwaizumi. No added affection.

There's magic in Oikawa’s stroll, you’re sure of it. It looks perfectly coincidental, like he just so happened to stumble upon a tense scene, instead of the very much needed and purposeful intervention for his emotionally crushed best friend and worry-fueled other best friend.

And they call him the idiot.

He sighs that flowery breath of his, throwing his arm around Iwa’s shoulders and watching the desperation that filled your gaze wash away with relief at his intrusion. Iwa’s confusion only seems to increase, but truthfully, Oikawa isn’t too concerned with his hard-headed friend. He’s really only keen on getting you out of there— out to safety and away from the source of your heartbreak.

“Iwa-chan, you have to go set up the movie player. I have no idea how to work it.”

“I’ve shown you how to do it four times, Tooru.”

“But it’s so much easier when you do it. Don’t worry, I’ll walk our precious flower home while you set up for our sleepover.”

Iwaizumi hesitates, his eyes bouncing from the self-assured smile of Oikawa to your downturned gaze. There’s something wrong, he knows it. But it’s obviously a secret he isn’t allowed into.

He won’t pry, he’s never been one to beg for secrets— never been one to want secrets told to him at all. However, there’s a particular sting at knowing that it’s you who’s hiding something and refusing to tell him. That there’s something Oikawa is aware about, that he isn’t allowed to know.

It’s not his business, he surmises. You’re not his business. He swallows that bitter pill, accepting Oikawa’s offer with a brief nod. He’s not happy, that’s plain to see, but he knows better than to insert himself where he’s not wanted.

Calm, steady, comfortable. Iwaizumi will fight for what he wants, but not when it hurts you in the process.

He bids you a brief goodbye, voice tight and rigid, clearly displaying his dissatisfaction but accepting it nonetheless. He doesn’t even look back at you. It’s what you want, you suppose. Some distance from him for your benefit, so you can at least try and forget about how you feel; Save yourself from the devastation of falling even deeper in love with him.

He enters Oikawa’s house. It’s a place you’ve been many times, slept over on many occasions yet, when Iwaizumi crosses the threshold with a strain on his shoulders and a grimace on his face, you can’t help but wonder if he’s finally going someplace that you can’t follow. If you’ve spent all these years pining over him, wondering if you would ever be enough for him, only to push him away into an area of no return.

Oikawa doesn’t give you a moment to think long about it before he’s ushering you away from the crime scene where your uncontrollable and childish feelings have brutally injured a fraying friendship and guiding you home. He talks the entire time, about everything and nothing, and you’re rather grateful for the background noise. To finally think about something other than your broken heart and Iwaizumi’s betrayed face.

He leaves you at your door with the promise that things will get better, that it won’t hurt so much, and that he’s always there for you. He places a sweet kiss on the crown of your head, turning his back with a final wave and leaving you alone with your thoughts. The promise of meeting one another again is unspoken, instinctive. You know deep down, though, it’ll be different from here on out. You’ll have to be more careful, more guarded with the things you say and do.

You wonder if Iwaizumi has as much trouble sleeping that night as you do.

(He does. He doesn’t sleep at all.)

Things do get better, which is a blessed curse. The tension eventually resolves after a couple of weeks of tiptoeing around each other. Normality returns in full-swing and you’re able to talk to Hajime without the overwhelming feeling of guilt and need to explain everything; If he holds any issues about what happened that night, he doesn’t mention it, following your lead and letting the friendship return to normal.

The problem lies in the fact that Oikawa was ultimately right, and he makes a point to show that he’s right. That things did get better, and the fragmentation of your splintering relationship with the boy you love eventually gets patched up.

Life moves on.

The feelings don’t go away, but you get better at managing them. It’s significantly easier to push the pining down and not think too much about any passing romantic comments in school that pair you and Iwaizumi together; Nor do you think twice about the harmless flirting that occasionally comes your way. You dish it back, continuing the joking nature of the friendship and after a while, it doesn’t hurt so bad. You exit the stages of puberty and things don’t feel as hectic as they once were.

The turbulent waves of emotions finally die down to a steady roll, and for a while, you’re able to float. It’s safe, peaceful, exactly how you want it to stay.

That is until you’re seventeen, almost eighteen, and Iwaizumi asks you to be his fake girlfriend. The waves pick up steam and you’re drowning again. You have the girls of Aoba Johsai to thank for that.

This time though, you’re determined to protect yourself. The anxiety of it all starts to settle in between your shoulders and instead of falling victim to the whims of an unsuspecting Iwaizumi once again, the urge to protect yourself and your pathetic emotions takes precedence. You will not be reduced down to the unconfident, love-sick girl you once were; You’ve worked too hard to do that. You matter more than Iwaizumi’s stupid girl problem.

It’s why you don’t think twice when you blurt it out after agreeing to help.

“We need a contract.”

“A contract?” Hajime parrots back, broad arms crossed over his equally broad chest and the intense training you’ve instilled in yourself to not stare at him meets its limitations, lest you stoop down to the level of the girls he’s so desperate to evade. He’s grown so much, physically and personally, that it's hard to not look at him. You force yourself to glance around the crowded cafe, look anywhere but his veiny arms, and instead replace your view with the small restaurant you two frequent every Monday— the only day he has off from volleyball practice.

It’s a small establishment that sells teas and noodles, a pleasant find to make one day when the both of you were hungry pre-teens and full of time on your hands. It’s usually rather empty during this time as it’s just out of the line of sight to avoid the after-school rush of students, but today the line extends outside of the door, all attendees eager to have a taste of miso ramen and pushing against bodies to do so. The people behind you are respectful enough to give you as much space as one can afford in the cramped venue, but you end up still having to press yourself into the stiff body of the boy— no, man— beside you.

You have the decency to look at least a little uncomfortable in the tightness of the situation, but Hajime shows nothing. Whether it’s because he doesn’t even care that your chest is bracing against his arm or he’s too distracted with the complicatedness of his “girl” problem, his face betrays no embarrassment at the closeness. No frustration, no discomfort, not even annoyance. He merely exists, dealing with your body pressed against his as if this were a regular occurrence and not an awkward preemption to the farce that you’ve stupidly agreed to. This would surely haunt you for the rest of your years.

This man of steel, this monolith of lean, corded muscle, was going to be your “boyfriend” for the next couple of weeks. You would be lucky if this arrangement even lasted for that long considering the confession of pure unadulterated adoration is crawling up the canal of your throat and tearing the fabric of your skin, sticking a middle finger at the rational parts of your brain trying desperately to hold it back.

Your fate is signed, knowing full and well that in your inability to deny Hajime— especially when he’s so desperate, which is a rarity in and of itself— you’ve willingly agreed to have your dignity and confidence stripped from your person and your feelings thrown in a loop for the sake of his sanity.

It’s annoying. Every potential hypothetical plays itself in high definition across the theatre of your mind and each one ends with you being brutally rejected once again. There’s no way you could handle something like that again, no matter how much you’ve matured.

This is a bad idea, and you need to tell him that.

But then the sight of pleading jades enters your vision and you distinctly remember the permanent frown that etched itself on Hajime’s face these past three months. Remember how the feelings of deep discomfort forced him to confide in you on a late-night phone call when sleep evaded him and he detailed the dread he felt at the prospect of going to school the next school day.

If your mouth even opened a fraction to breathe, you’re sure the “I’m in love with you and have been since sixth grade” will come tumbling out, but even the fear of that happening doesn’t overpower the overwhelming desire to help the man you’re madly in love with.

There’s a limit to what would be forsaken in the name of Iwaizumi Hajime’s happiness, but your sanity isn’t it.

The situation worsens when the subtle shifting of the patrons behind you throws you off balance and forces you impossibly closer to him. The shuffling of feet knocks into your own, tilting you off balance despite your leaning against Hajime. A rebuttal is on the tip of your tongue ready to be released in rapid-fire when Hajime beats you to it.

He quickly wraps his arm around your waist, allowing your unsteady feet to find balance against his lean body of stone, clutching you tightly to his side as if the accidental push against you were a personal offense.

The protective nature that so often lies dormant in his personality rears its head forward and you swear your heart stops beating altogether.

“Easy,” he mutters, a layer of strict dismay interweaving in his words as he casts a pointed side glare at the two boys standing behind you. You hardly hear it, much too occupied with trying not to drown in the sudden flooding of his cologne in your nostrils.

Musk and spice. His usual scent, but even more addicting when it’s this close.

This is a bad idea. This is a horrible, bad, awful idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.

You have to end this. You won’t survive this.

“C-contract.” You, somehow, manage to spit out, shaking your head free from the waft of his scent and the strength of his arm across your back.

Okay, not necessarily ending this but protecting yourself. Yeah, that’s it. Because there is no way you want him to keep acting like this, no. You’re just doing this to help and totally not to selfishly indulge in the delight of being his, even if it is fake.

He tears his narrowed eyes away from the boys behind you to glance at you, the remnants of disapproval flickering in the sea of green that you swear only evens out when he looks at you, “Right. What’s in this contract?”

“The, uh, basics,” you begin, voice slowly finding its footing after the intense whiplash you just experienced. You're surprised you can even form words that aren’t resembling proclamations of desire, “What we can and can’t do, how long this is for, and so on.”

“That’s a good idea,” He breathes out. The line shifts forward, and the cashier finally enters the field of view. With a quick recoil, as though his skin were burned by the action, he removes his hand from around your waist. The warmth of his arm rescinds with it, and that thirteen-year-old girl that has fantasized for years about this, whines in desperation. You quickly tell her to shut up.

He clears his throat, awkwardness filling the cramped and stale air, “Uh, sorry. About that.”

He avoids your eyes and you quickly look around too, “It’s fine.”

A silence ensues. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, but it’s a far cry from the brief pauses in conversation that usually occur between the two of you. The comfortable silences that occur naturally between friends of five years. You wonder if you should address it, address the fact that if you two were to pull this off— and pull it off well— there were going to be more moments when he was going to have to touch you like that.

He was going to have to hold your hand and give you frequent hugs and actually act like he was in love with you. Act.

You swallow at the prospect. Not like that would be hard for you to do, you think rather pitifully.

There are two more couples in front of you when you say, “I’d like to institute the first provision.”

Hajime quirks an eyebrow, his lips lifting upward, an obvious sign of gratefulness at being able to brush over that weird moment of physicality. He doesn’t know why it was instinctual, or why he even thought that placing his hand that low around your waist would be a good idea. But, he did it; And it’s quite the revelation when he realizes he didn’t mind it.

At all.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” He glances at you to his right, the teasing smile gracing your features and the recognizable glint of mischief in your eyes.

“You have to buy all of the food we eat together.”

He scoffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “I already buy all of our food.”

“I always pay you back!”

“You owe me at least three-thousand yen.”

“Okay, an addendum to provision one.”

“Shoot.”

“You buy all of our food and forgive my debts.”

He laughs louder tilting his head back as his teeth peek from his pink lips. It’s the bark of laughter that swells your beating heart with confidence. You may not have him romantically, but there’s no denial of the fact that he likes you in his life, especially when you can make him laugh like that, “I’m starting to think this contract is only beneficial to you.”

It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him, the body still tucked tightly beside his as feet shuffle forward in the line, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m doing you a huge favor.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.” A silence befalls again, this one not as tense as before. A small smile plays on his lips and there’s a sincerity behind his gaze that reminds you of how appreciative he really is for this. Hajime isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to repay you for stepping in and helping him in the most intimate of ways that you most likely would rather not do. There wasn’t ever an expressed interest in the dating scene from you, always denying the occasional confession that came your way and never thinking twice about the romantic holidays that come and go.

He wonders why because if you tried, you’d have every guy within a ten-foot radius begging for your attention. Surely one of them would be worthy of your love. (He doesn’t agree though. There’s no one in this world who could ever be worthy of you. Not when you smile so brightly and tease so enticingly. No one would ever deserve that part of you. No one that he would ever approve of, anyway..) He’s not dumb in realizing that your willingness to engage in a romantic relationship with him— even if it is a fake one— is a large deviation from the norm. It’s not something to be taken lightly.

So, he owes you. Big time. Whatever you want, whatever you put in this contract, he’ll do. He’ll be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.

(Fake boyfriend, he has to remind himself. He swallows down the disappointment.)

“Thank you.” he breaks the silence, rubbing the back of his heating neck, “Again. For doing this for me. I don’t—”

“Ah, ah!” You interrupt, holding your hand upwards and wagging a finger at him, “I haven’t done anything yet, so don’t start thanking me so soon. Who knows? I might sabotage this whole thing, be the worst girlfriend you could ever imagine.”

The couple in front of you finishes their order, stepping to the side to allow the both of you forward. You step up, dragging him with you but you don’t miss the low throaty chuckle he emits when he says, “You like me too much to do that.”

He pats the top of your head, smoothing the fly-away hairs with a wink and a sly smile, and then, like nothing even happened, he steps up to the counter, taking the initiative and placing your usual orders. There’s both too much nuance and not enough to his statement to determine if you should be scared at his words. Does he know? Did Oikawa tell him?

You don’t even notice when he puts both food items on one bill.

It’s then that you remember, with little humor like someone who’s forgotten a necessary step to an important project, that while you’ve done a lot of growing and building these past four years to fortify the walls of your heart, so has he. He’s stronger, more confident, more sturdy.

Fourteen-year-old you built the walls for a fourteen-year-old Iwaizume Hajime. She didn’t even think to consider the damage eighteen-year-old Ace and Vice-Captain of the Seijoh Volleyball Team could do. Not with a spike those strong arms could make and a sea of green that you still drown in.

The first large crack in the barriers has been made.

He turns to face you upon finishing the order, stepping to the side and bracing his body against the far wall of the restaurant to allow the next customers to the counter. That damn sly smile is still on his face, and it’s then you realize that he has to know. He has to know what he’s doing, or at least know that it’s doing something to you.

“So,” he tucks his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants, biceps bulging at the action “tell me about this contract, sweet girlfriend of mine.”

end notes: god damn glad that’s over. what did yall think?? too much? not enough? lemme know! i love reading all of your tags and comments, it fills me with such happiness :))))

tag list: @bruh-kill-me @owlnymph @airybnb @yukiilu-personal @cathwritestragediesnotsins @berna-dette

#haikyuu iwazumi #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime x you #my writing #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you

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rowanwhitethornisbae · 3 years

Text

Faking It Chapter 6

Hey! I know its been a while so click on the master list if you want to catch up or even start. Im going to try to start updating more frequently in the next few months. Thanks to everyone for reading!!

TW: Language, drinking, sexual references, blood

Faking It Masterlist

Aelin woke with a start to the sound of her phone ringing.

"Shit." She swore, quickly realizing she must've fallen asleep after her conversation with Fenrys. She hung up on the call, silencing that obnoxious ringing as she sat up in bed. Aelin hadn’t bothered to check who it was, but she knew she'd figure it out if she went back downstairs.

It was probably Lysandra, calling to make sure Aelin wasnt already passed out drunk somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time. Groaning internally, she picked herself up off the bed. Despite her falling asleep, the duvet covers looked unruffled. Still, she fluffed the pillow briefly in an attempt to ease her own discomfort at sleeping in Dorian's room.

With one last look to confirm that the room appeared undisturbed, Aelin closed the door shut behind her. She made it halfway down the staircase when the exhaustion hit her. It was a familiar feeling, like when you were abruptly waken from sleep to attend a six am practice at school. Still, she clung extra hard onto the railing for a moment in order to gain her bearings once again.

As her eyes finally focused, she could make out the throng of high schoolers in the living room below her. Her eyes adjusted to the colourful lights as she scanned the area for a familiar face. She saw Lorcan first, and then Rowan beside him, the latter scowling. At first it didn't seem odd, Rowan was always scowling at something. She took another few steps down the stairs, and with closer examination, realized something was wrong.

She tracked Rowan’s glare across the room, landing on her ex-boyfriend and the guy who’s bed she’d just fallen asleep in. “Shit shit shit!” Aelin said to no one in particular as she hurried down the stairs. She reached Rowan at nearly the exact second that Chaol and Dorian did.

“Hey guys.” She said, slightly out of breath. Chaol gave her a once over and his brows furrowed at whatever he saw.

“Pull your skirt down A.” His voice was full of unjustified disdain. “You look like you just got railed in a bathroom.”

Aelin glanced down at herself. Her skirt was in fact, extremely ridden up, and half her ass was falling out. In her haste to prevent a fight she had forgotten to check her appearance. She knew she should pull it down, what Chaol said was completely logical. And yet, they were broken up, who the hell was he to tell her what to do.

Aelin shot him her sweetest simpering smile. “Maybe I did.”

He bit out a harsh laugh, and she felt Rowan’s body tighten beside her. “Who the hell - “ Chaol started to say, but was cut off by his mouth falling open.

Aelin, tired of hearing her ex speak, had taken action into her own hands. From the left of Rowan, she placed her right hand on his far cheek and spun her body around smoothly, bringing her lips to his.

For a moment, he didn't reciprocate the gesture and Aelin’s heart began to race. Just as she began to pull away, his arm came around her lower back, and he started to really kiss her. Her other hand tangled in his hair as they stood intertwined.

The rest of the room seemed to fall away, the music becoming faint and the lights dim as she kissed him. Someone coughed from beside them, pulling Aelin out of her daze. Slowly, she extracted herself from Rowan and turned back around to Chaol. He was staring at them, looking as though he’d just been slapped.

Aelin delighted in the feeling of power flowing through her veins. She tucked her hands behind her back, and realizing her skirt had ridden up even further, she pulled it down. There were lines that even Aelin wasn't willing to cross to prove a point.

To Dorian’s credit, he looked incredibly amused with the entire situation, and was clearly trying to stifle a laugh. Chaol’s expression was pretty funny, Aelin noted.

Unfortunately, it didn't last forever. Aelin recognized the exact second when he went from shocked to angry. Everything about him changed; his eyes, his posture, the way he held his hands. He was on the offensive now, and all Aelin could do was brace herself for the coming verbal assault.

“You whore.” He spat.

Un-original. Aelin thought to herself. He really needed new material.

“I always knew you were fucking him on the side.” Chaol’s whole body was trembling with anger, and even Dorian had the good sense to look unnerved.

Aelin didn't dare look at Rowan or Lorcan. “Chaol.” She said calmly, “lets go somewhere else to talk about this.” She was quickly growing un-easy. Aelin had wanted a reaction. Yes. But she wasn't expecting the look of pure hatred shining in Chaol’s eyes. The usually soft brown had darkened to a near black, making him look unhinged.

He ignored her soft request completely. “How long Aelin?” He asked, his voice suddenly deadly soft. “How long did you wait after fucking me before you were back in his bed.”

Suddenly Aelin felt a little ill. “It wasn't like that.” She hated how quiet her voice sounded.

“Then what was it like huh?”

“Please Chaol,” she half begged. “Can we just talk somewhere else?”

“Why?” The expression on his face had turned evil. “You don't want the whole room to know that you're a fucking whore.”

He yelled the last word, but luckily it got lost in the music.

“It’s pathetic really,” he turned back on her. “Your constant need for male validation.”

He gave her outfit a once over, and Aelin found herself wishing she’d worn something more conservative.

“You are worthless.” He spat the words again, shaking his head with faux-disappointment. “You’re parents probably killed themselves to get away from you.”

Aelin barely had time to process the words before Rowan exploded. His fist connected with Chaol’s cheek, sending the latter flying backwards. He hit the ground hard, people and plastic cups scattering in his wake. Rowan was on him in an instant, pummelling his face into the tile floor. Blood leaked from Chaol’s face, seeping onto his shirt and the floor.

Aelin didn't even hear Lorcan swear and run over to Rowan. She was too focused on trying not to scream. Lorcan threw his arms around Rowan, attempting to pull the thrashing high-schooler away. Rowan fought in Lorcan’s arms, before eventually slowing his efforts.

Dorian, swearing under his breath, knelt beside Chaol. The room was spinning, and Aelin’s head fucking hurt. She stumbled through the room, trying to find the exit. There was a loud roaring in her ears, and spots danced in her vision.

Fuck. What if she fainted at a high-school party? Aelin would never live that shit down.

“Oof.” She grunted as she slammed into a wall. Aelin groped about blindly, searching for a door. She nearly collapsed with relief as she found one, and threw herself in, shutting the door. She barely had time to lock it before she was vomiting, most of it landing in the toilet.

“Fucking hell!” A voice exclaimed loudly. Aelin allowed herself to finish retching before she turned to face her latest stroke of bad luck. Could she not be alone for five fucking seconds?

The male beside her was clearly just finishing up washing his hands, as he was still holding a hand towel. “Aelin?” He asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Cairn.” She grumbled in reply, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Aelin had never really liked Cairn. He hated Chaol with a passion, envied her ex-boyfriend for getting the captain spot in sophomore year, a spot that everyone thought was going to Cairn.

Despite the poor timing, Aelin had been meaning to track Cairn down to talk. Far be it for her to give up this perfect opportunity, vomit and near panic attack aside. She slowly pulled herself into a standing position and nudged Cairn away from the sink so she could splash some water on her face. The cold helped centre her again, and Aelin let herself take a deep breath.

Cairn was watching her with a look of apprehension, as if watching a slow motion car crash.

“I heard about your bet.” She said in a monotone voice.

Cairn’s jaw tensed, but that was all the physical reaction he showed.

“Im not going to try anything.” He said softly, surprising her a little. “I have a thing about vomit.”

Suddenly Aelin was thankful for the small nearly invisible chunks of throw-up left on her shirt.

“Am I supposed to thank you for not being a dick?” She asked him

“I didn't ask you to. You thanked me enough with that show out there. I just won 200$ off a bet I made a year ago.”

“A bet on what?” She asked, unsure of if she really even wanted to know.

Cairn smirked. “Who would throw the first punch?”

Aelin couldn't help the way her whole body tensed. “You seem to be betting a lot lately.”

“I had a thousand dollars on you and me getting together at this party A.” He shrugged as if the loss of that kind of money didn't matter to him. “You owe me.”

She decided to ignore the last part of the comment. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to fuck me?”

Against her own wishes she bit out a small laugh. The joke wasn't even funny, and slightly offensive, but the look of hope on his face did enough.

“No. I’m just going to let you tell people I did.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “And why would you do that?”

She tried to hide how much she had riding on his response. “Your going to let Rowan on the football team. Or at least a try out.”

Cairn laughed, a real laugh. “Chaol will murder me.”

She tapped her foot. “You get a thousand dollars and can tell everyone whatever you want about me.” She paused. “Just nothing too humiliating okay?”

His answering grin was borderline wicked. “Deal.”

The shook hands briefly. Aelin didn't really mind Cairn telling people about the two of them, it would either be dismissed entirely as a rumour or forgotten soon there after. Besides, she had more important things to worry about.

The door handle turned and she spun around. “I’ll leave you alone then.” Cairn said, nodding at her. He had stepped mostly out before he paused once again.

“Sometimes Aelin I wonder if you and me are soulmates.”

She nearly choked on air. “What.”

He just smiled, a softer smile than she’d ever seen on him. “We’re just more alike than you think.” With that he left, closing the bathroom door behind him.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Cryptic fucking prick.

Aelin took a few moments to finger brush her hair and straighten her clothes before exiting the bathroom. God high school parties were awful. She just needed to get to the front door without bumping into anyone of note, call an uber, and get the fuck home. Not too bad right?

She managed to get about halfway before someone called her name. Aelin didn't bother to look around, just kept elbowing through the crowd as if her life depended on it.

“Aelin!” The voice was louder this time, getting closer too.

She had just made it to the threshold when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Choosing to ignore it, Aelin flung open the door and half collapsed onto a step, praying that whoever it was could take a hint.

Unfortunately for her the weight shifted on the wooden porch and Chaol Westfall took the seat beside her.

She got up to leave immediately, despite her exhaustion, but he reached out a hand.

“Please.” He said. “Just hear me out. It’ll be quick.”

Aelin did. But only because she was pretty sure she would collapse if she didn't rest for a little longer.

“Aelin I'm really fucking sorry okay. I crossed a line.”

She didn't bother to reply. Aelin couldn't count the amount of times they’d had this exact same conversation. He said something shitty, she walked away, he apologized a day later.

For some fucked up reason she always forgave him. Aelin didn't have the energy to make tonight any different. She wanted to be on good terms with Chaol, even if that meant taking a slight hit to her dignity. If she had any left.

“I mean I know you’re not sleeping with Rowan so everything is okay.”

She whipped her head around to look at him.

“Is that the only reason you’re apologizing?”

He gave her a once-over. “I mean yeah.” He paused. “You weren't fucking him so there was no reason for me to get mad.”

She shook her head, mad at herself for being surprised. “God Chaol. Each time I think you can't be an ever bigger dick, you prove me wrong.”

She moved to stand leaning slightly on the railing. An Uber was parked along the curb, evident from the odd looking U on the windshield. She stumbled towards it and rapped on the window.

“Are you Yrene?” The man in the driver’s seat asked.

Aelin nodded, sliding into the back seat. She closed the door behind her and rested her head against the head rest, fighting off sleep.

“I am.”

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janekfan · 3 years

Note

ive been Searching and Craving for any scenario/canon divergent au where jon and tim make up because jon shows tim thats hes just as much a victim as anyone else and tim is just like... ah. so we're both assholes. and jon insists that tim didnt do anything wrong (and obviously its all very whumpy and hurt/comforty). basically just... tim and jon making up because tim wants to after jon tugs at his heartstrings enough (because im a sucker for the whole "whatve i done" bit)

Here we go!! Sorry these are taking so long but I’m still working on prompts!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972698/chapters/67878991#workskin

Too Much Chapter 2!

Watching Martin remove the evidence of panic by carefully, slowly, swiping a damp flannel over Jon’s skin, Tim continued holding the cold pack in place. The man between them made a sound, nondescript, shifting enough that his lips parted with a soft sigh as he settled.

“He’s made a right mess of these.” Martin lamented, gingerly lifting one hand to examine the heavy bandages, soiled with fresh blood and coming undone. Not altogether certain he wanted to know what was hidden away beneath, Tim stayed silent. “Would you mind fetching the first aid kit while I get rid of these?” He used the time away to take a deep breath, attempting to gather his rampant thoughts now that he was roped into fixing up their boss. There was always the possibility of giving him the kit and hightailing it out of that place and never setting foot near document storage again but before he realized what he’d done he’d accumulated other supplies he figured they might need and the relief in Martin’s eyes when he slipped back into the room was palpable. Jon’s hands were bare, blisters laid over blisters, broken and bleeding sluggishly from torn welts, one palm layered over with a nasty burn. Tim couldn’t help the noise torn from his throat in sympathy as the walls he’d built around himself began to crumble under the weight of Jon’s wounds--and he wasn’t even the one to bear them! Jon had acquired more scars, more shadows in the gaunt hollows carved into his body by his bones since Prentiss. It was like laying eyes on a stranger, or opening his own and finally seeing what his negligent ignorance had truly cost.

Were these marks, this pain, not proof that Jon had every right to be scared? Paranoid? To suspect them? When it was his own “friends” raising hands violently against him?

“What. Martin, what happened?” He accepted the water, easing Jon’s arm over the edge of the bed and doing Tim the kindness of not reminding him that he’d never cared to know before.

“I couldn’t tell you what caused most of this, but you know. Daisy.” He swallowed, eyes narrowing as he dabbed away the worst of the scarlet slicking his skin and Tim saw red at the reminder. How dare she touch him. “Hush now, you’re alright.” Jon’s arm twitched, an aborted attempt to tug his hand away from Martin’s surely painful ministrations. “Just cleaning these up.”

“Hnn…” Saltwater-soaked lashes fluttered and damn his body’s reactions but Tim was at his side on the cot before he could blink and wholly unsure of what to do now that he was there, settling on running fingers through tangled curls, teasing out the knots as Martin worked. Clouded and slightly crossed, Jon’s glazed brown eyes peered up at him, through him, blinking slow, and Tim could feel the heat of his fever under his palms.

“Hey, bud.” Surprising himself with his own softness, Tim continued combing through his hair. “Close your eyes, boss. Marto’s fixing you right up.”

“Hur’s.” Badly slurred and tinged with vulnerability he wasn’t used to anymore, Jon’s voice sent a chill racing up Tim’s spine.

“I know.” He said anyway. “It won’t soon.” Trust and exhaustion won out, dragging bruised lids closed. “Martin.” Tim didn’t look up, tracing silver strands, so many, with the fingertips. “I would like to know. Please.”

Martin hummed, finished up the first hand, the worst hand, and cradled it over Jon’s stomach in a poor attempt at elevation before starting on the next one.

“I haven’t gotten much out of Jon--not because he won’t tell me!” He amended, remembering the promise Jon had made to be honest with them and clearly worried it would make Tim angry again if he thought he was keeping secrets. “He’s just. I mean.”

“I understand.” After leaving Elias’ office, whatever tenacity and fortitude Jon managed to scrape together after his ordeal with Daisy and Basira had faded quickly. Even Tim wasn’t able to ignore how bad off he was, more along the lines of being unable to explain than lacking any desire.

“I know she, she hit him. He’s bruised all over. Clocked him with her gun I assume, to leave him concussed--I still can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner.”

“It’s alright. We’ve all been. Preoccupied.” Some of them only with themselves.

“He was filthy, covered in dirt and I think bl’blood? Not his. Or, not all of it I think.” Martin rubbed his own neck thoughtfully, tracing a path that mirrored the red grin carving up Jon’s throat. “I think.” He looked into Tim’s eyes, haunted. “I, I overheard them saying he’d been made to d’dig a grave.”

“His grave.” There was no real proof, not yet. But it felt right. And Tim felt sick. “His hands.”

“The burn is bad, I don’t know how he got it.” A crease formed between Martin’s knit brows. “I. Tim.” He sighed. “You’ve been so furious with him.” He dragged both hands down his face. “Jon’s doing his best. Please, you have to believe that.”

“I think I’m beginning to.” He’d yet to stop his detangling. Jon liked when people he trusted played with his hair, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. Unbidden and effervescent, memories rose to the surface of Tim’s mind, each a different moment, beads of time strung on delicate silk strands. Sasha. Sasha, whose true face, true voice, had been written over and worn, her hands on Jon’s shoulders, working out the tension he carried there despite his complaints. Tim himself draping a cardigan over him where he slumped forward on his desk in Research when he succumbed to sleep. A rare moment at someone’s apartment, Jon three drinks in, flushed bright red and ridiculous, throwing himself into Tim’s lap and nuzzling his stomach until he got what he wanted; hands in his hair, on his back, honest to god cuddles. The embarrassment in the morning would paint him vivid with blush and he would accept the painkillers and tea with a shy grin.

That Jon was still in there.

Right?

For the first time in his career Tim chose to come into work early, heading immediately to doc storage to find Jon curled up against Martin, ruddy face squished against his chest and arm slung over his waist as though he’d recently been clinging there.

And if this had been another time, another universe, he would have teased them both, but the shadows under their eyes were beginning to match.

“We had a hard night.” Martin yawned hugely and Tim caught a quick glimpse of glassy brown at the movement but Jon passed out again in the next second. “Nightmares. You remember Crew?” Tim nodded. “Explains the vertigo. He’s going to want to work.” Martin’s palm found its way to the back of Jon’s head, tucked him under his chin as he exhaled, slow and measured.

“And you want him to rest.”

“He won’t.”

He didn’t.

But the dizziness kept him in his office for the most part and Tim helped keep an eye on him, checking up regularly, awkwardly. It was almost like old times. Except Jon was careful not to speak. Not now that he might force answers out of someone. Not now that he might be hurt because of it. Jon was smart. He tried to remember the things he learned because he only seemed to learn the hard way and right now he was trying to figure out Tim while Tim was trying to figure out himself, wary of the change towards him, confused when instead of lashing out, he asked if he needed anything.

“N’no, thank you, Tim.”

“It’s no trouble.” But it was physically painful to watch the gears turn as Jon balanced the possibility of pissing him off with how uncomfortable he was in this situation. “I’ll check back later, yeah?”

“Uh. Y’yeah. Yes. I mean, yes.” Nervously, he shifted between folders. “Of c’course.”

The day dragged and Jon’s fever and groggy exhaustion lingered, kept barely in check by Martin plying him with the painkillers and fever reducers because he refused A&E. It was frustrating, even if he was looking somewhat improved. When they caught him asleep it was often in the throes of a taxing nightmare. He was a shadow in his attempts to avoid them all, to focus on work, and now that Tim was paying attention he didn’t like how Basira was so cold, how Daisy made Jon flinch on purpose, how Melanie went out of her way to collide with him in the narrow hallways. How he was slight enough, unsteady enough that it sent him into the wall.

How he did nothing about it except murmur apologies and move past them as quick as he could.

Jon was back to pushing himself too hard, not bothering to ask for help because he’d never gotten any before so it wasn’t worth bothering with it now. He was alone. Deserted by everyone except for Martin--and oh the way his expression lit up at the sight of him. How soft his voice became when he thanked him for the tea. Tim knew Martin couldn’t see it yet, or wouldn’t let himself realize, but Jon was taken with him. Smitten. And already believed beyond a doubt that he had no worth. As prickly as Jon could be there was so much love in him just vying for a way out.

How could Tim have forgotten that?

Tim paced the length of the archives three times before heading back to check on Jon, alarmed when the office was empty. Worry, both familiar and unfamiliar, twined its way around his heart. He'd watched as the afternoon hours slipped by and Jon became worse and Tim didn’t bother asking anyone he came across; they didn’t care, he wasn’t supposed to care. But there weren’t many places Jon would go and Tim found him in the breakroom stabilizing himself on the sink. He didn’t react, didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know anyone was behind him, and Tim could make out shivery, deliberate breaths. Jon let go, lifting a hand dazedly to his forehead and staggering backwards such that Tim had to steady him.

“Whoa there, Boss.” Softly, quietly, Tim knew his head was still pounding more often than not no matter how adamant his denial. It didn’t stop Jon from flinching like he’d been struck or attempting to whirl around and only making it all that much worse as eyes filled with fear rolled back into his head and Tim had to catch him outright, lowering him to the floor and pillowing his shoulders in his lap. Unconsciously, he laid a palm over his overwarm forehead, dragging fingers back through damp strands rhythmically and wondering how he’d react to waking up with Tim staring down at him. They were dancing around each other, or at least Tim was. Jon couldn’t do much more than sit at his desk in what amounted to pyjamas and pretend to work in an attempt to wedge some normalcy back into his life.

“What happened?” At least now Martin’s inquiry wasn’t accusatory as he knelt beside them and checked over Jon himself. “How long?”

“Minute. Maybe two? He, uh. I surprised him and when he turned…” he trailed off, gesturing with a sigh.

“Ma’tin…” nothing more than a small breath of awareness in recognition of his voice, eyes still closed.

“You should be at your desk.” Lightly scolding.

“Nn...was col’...tea…” Tim met Martin’s eyes with worry at the barely coherent jumble of syllables caught on his sluggish tongue and he held up a hand, signaling him to wait.

“What’re we going to do with you, hm?”

��...Dunno…” He’d failed to understand the gentle ribbing for what it was, instead answering honestly, tearfully, and it tugged on Tim’s heartstrings. Martin chuckled kindly to ease the sting, moving forward to lift his weight off from Tim and standing still to let Jon wind a hand loosely into his jumper, hanging on for dear life with a gasp.

“You sound tired.”

“Mmyeah...tire’...” And that discordant admission alone was enough to cause alarm, doubly so when his body lost all rigidity in Martin’s hold.

“Martin--”

“Shh, Tim. He’s alright.” Protectiveness urged Tim to follow them back to document storage. Concern made him sit down before Martin asked. “Stay with him? I don’t want him to forget and wander off again. I’m gonna get that tea and something for the fever.” Tim supported his chin with a hand, elbow digging sharply into the top of his knee, and watched Jon sleep. With his eyes, he traced invisible constellations over the worm scars dotting his skin and connected their lines to the ink dark splash of lashes twitching as he dreamed. “What’re you thinking about?”

“How much running I’ve been doing.”

“Mm.”

“How much easier it was to ignore all this if I just hated Jon instead. Blamed him for it.” He lifted his fingers in a bitter and general indication of their unreasonably bad situation. “He’s made mistakes. We all have. And his are the only ones I’m not willing to forgive.” Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, stung. “Why is that?” His skin blushed with heat when his voice broke on a sob and before Martin could speak they were interrupted.

“Head’spounding…” He could barely keep his eyes open.

“Ah, I’m sorry, love, I know, here,” he was like a rag doll when Martin lifted him. “This’ll help.” Tim watched the ease with which Martin navigated Jon. All sweet and kind, steadying his hands when they proved too shaky to hold the cup, testing his temperature with the inside of his wrist when Jon was distracted with swallowing down the medicine.

“Shouldn’t do this.” Whispered, lost and undone, as Martin tucked him in, gripping back tightly when Jon grew dizzy with the change. “M’sorry.”

“You say that too often, Boss.”

“Hush, both of you.” To Jon, “we can all talk later, when you’re feeling better. It’s okay to need help. It’s okay to rest.” And while he didn’t look convinced, he was helpless against the drag of that heavy, insistent tide of exhaustion.

“Never liked to owe people, our Jon.” Martin sighed, frustrated.

“It’s not a transaction. I wish he’d trust that I only want to help.” Tim snickered ruefully as Martin tucked stray salt and pepper strands behind Jon’s ears.

“He’s always been suspicious of decency.”

“That’s not right.” There was a lot wrong with it, and far too much to solve at this moment.

“You look knackered, Martin. Go home.” He needed caring for after keeping them all together like he’d done. “I’ve got it from here.”

“I don’t want to ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking, Marto.”

“Tim--”

“I need to. I. I need to do this.”

Tim was worried that the only reason Martin left him here alone was because he was too tired to spend another night here keeping an eye on the both of them. He only had himself to blame when it came to the loss of trust.

It was no secret his dislike of Jon.

He hadn’t forgotten his treatment of him just the other day. Yanking him up off the ground and shouting at him, blaming him for his confusion and unsteadiness, for worrying Martin while he’d been the one ill and frightened and unmoored on the dusty floor. A mournful cry jolted him out of his musings, and the nightmare didn’t sound kind, wrenching Jon awake and leaving him panting, narrow chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused in the dim.

“Hey.” Soft and quiet, it didn’t stop Jon from jumping in surprise, nearly swooning when he jerked his head in the direction of his voice. “Back with me?”

“Tim.” Real surprise, he blinked hard, trying to clear his bleary vision. “Yeah. S’sorry.” Jon offered him a sheepish quirk of his lips.

“I’m the one who needs to apologize, Jon.” He swallowed thickly and Tim could hear the click in his throat, somewhere behind the bandage hiding that yawning red grin from sight.

“Wh’what?”

“I’ve treated you unfairly.”

“No, no, Tim. You. You had every right! I was out of line and suspected the worst with no proof and didn’t trust yo--” Jon was trying to get up, ignoring how it had to hurt, and when Tim made to stop him, he flinched in real fear and backed himself into the corner. “S’sorry. I. It’s, it isn’t you, I swear.” Guilt wrapped around Tim’s heart like a thorny vine at his stammering apologies, at the way Jon laughed at himself and scrubbed his face with the back of a bandaged hand, staring up at the ceiling as new tears pooled in his eyes. “A lot’s h’happened.” When he closed them, the damp rolled down his cheeks into the grey at his temple. “I,I,I know you don’t w’want to hear it. But I, I don’t have anything else left t’to offer and I’m so s’sorry.” Jon tucked up his knees and buried his tear-stained face in the blankets he pulled around himself. Scared and small and awaiting derision. Tim edged closer.

"Jon.” He reached out to touch and thought better of it. “I think. I think I'm ready to hear it now." Consumed by constant fear and torment, run ragged for months and months, when Jon risked glancing up at him Tim could finally look past his anger and see him. Flushed with fever, thin and drawn, bruised and beaten and burned.

But still Jon.

Still Jon, terrified of the kind of help he'd been taught by experience not to ask for. Not to accept. Not to trust. Not to need.

“No, n’no, Tim. It’s.” He sniffed, tried to offer Tim a watery smile. “M’not feeling w’well, heh. You know how I, how I am.”

“I know you don’t take care of yourself.” He continued before Jon could interrupt. “I know I’ve left you to deal with this alone.” Indeed, at the very first sign of trouble, Tim abandoned him to his own devices. “I understand why it’s been difficult to trust me.”

“Not just you.” Tim had to strain to hear him, voice tiny, wavering with misery. “It’s so hard to trust, I have to, to think about it, choose it, don’t I. Talk myself out of how a’afraid I am all the t’time. I can’t even trust myself, my words. I. They. It’s easier to not speak at all, if it can be helped. And I try. But. Tim.” Fraught, brown irises nearly swallowed by black pupil bored into him, begged him to listen, to see. “I’m a monster.”

“Jon--” He tugged at messy curls, ignoring the pain it had to cause, the spots of blood, and if Jon would let him, he would need to fix the wrappings after this. He’d folded into himself even tighter, rocking himself just slightly in an attempt at comfort.

“If everyone is saying it, it must be true. But I’m trying. I promise, Tim, I promise. I was hoping it counted for something, anything. I can’t. I.” He broke off, attempting to pull himself together, face contorted and when he noticed Tim’s stricken expression, stumbled on with half-thought out reassurances. “I, I won’t stop! T’trying, that is. I, I, I want to, to be better. I don’t want to hurt anyone. It’s not about counting, it’s about doing the right thing. Or something close to--it never seems to work out, I’m not. I keep doing the wrong things so I know--but I p’promise--and besides, D’Daisy’s watching, if you’re worried, heh.” He laughed, a little broken thing, tears glittering in his eyes. “She’ll put me d’down. If that makes you feel any better.”

And god how could he think Tim wanted that? Jon, living with the knowledge that any mistakes he made could lead to--

Hanging over his head. Just awaiting collapse.

“That’s. Jon, I don’t want her to do that.”

“Oh. Did.” Tim realized the pause was an attempt at managing his powers of compulsion. “Did you want to? Instead I mean?” Tim recoiled in horror at the genuine curiosity, the dull acceptance that they all might be waiting for their chance. Numbness flooded his fingers. And even though Tim knew Jon was trying to use the right words, the ones that would make him feel better, he was furious.

“How could you think that?!” Jon held up his raggedly bandaged hands, the blisters from digging his own grave and who knows what else hidden from view.

“I, I’m sorry, I. You’re right, that was stupid of me. I’m sorry, Tim, I’m sorry, I--” Tim cut him off by sweeping him into an embrace, pressing his face into his shoulder. He was little more than bones rattling around in a scarred and ruined skin, shaking in his arms, his own held away, stiff. Dear lord, what had he done? “T’Tim? I, I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”

“Stop it, Jon.” And he collapsed, spent from his outpouring, breath loud in Tim’s ear. “Just stop.” Tentative, Jon wrapped him up in return. “I’m going to do better.”

“You don’t--”

“I do. And I am.” Damp soaked into his sleeve despite the silence with which Jon sobbed, little more than uneven, ardent gasping as they clung to each other.

“B’but.” He pressed closer, starved for it. “I.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been so afraid.” Murmured against his shirt, Tim could feel the shapes of his words, the trembling of his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you. You mean. If, if you--I couldn’t stand it. If it wasn’t real.” Desperately, he whispered, thick with tears. “Don’t think I’d survive losing you again.” Too much loss. Too much all around and not one time had Tim thought about who he still had.

“I’m going to help you.” Tim realized then he’d been crying as well. “Like I should have from the start of this mess.” Gently, he pulled him away, took his damaged hands. “Let me get these fixed up. If Martin sees them, he’ll have both our heads on pikes.” For a moment, Tim was worried it was too soon, that Jon would need to hide this vulnerability from him, and he held his breath, until he nodded, just once.

It would take time, but they’d made a start.

#TMA #the magnus archives #tim stoker #jon sims #martin blackwood #pining #mending fences #sick #fever #injuries #fears #blood

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you!

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

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