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fukurodanni · 3 years

Text

love for the rich and emotionally stunted: a comprehensive guide

ch. 2/7 -- prev. -- next. pairing: jumin han x f!reader warnings: n/a series summary: in the months following the incident with his father's most recent paramour, glam choi, the corporate heir of C&R finds himself discovering exactly what it is that makes a person in love so blind. ao3 link

note: sticking a read more right at the beginning. u kno how it is. thank you for sticking around i'll try my best to keep updates within a week or so!

(weeks prior.)

Jumin Han has entered the chatroom.

Jumin Han

She talked to me today.

ZEN

Who?

707

She??

There’s a she?!

Jumin Han

Oh.

I must have neglected to mention it.

ZEN

????

Last time there was a “she”...

Jumin Han

… No.

There’s a woman at my office.

Jaehee Kang

Does she work for you?

Jumin Han

Yes

707

That took an awfully long time for you to type lolol

Are you sure~~

Jumin Han

Yes. She wears a lanyard.

Jaehee Kang

Do you not know her name??

Jumin Han

I should think it would seem impolite after… all that.

Jaehee Kang

???

ZEN

?????

All that WHAT?

Jumin Han

I only caught a glimpse of her lanyard. I don’t know.

ZEN

Dodged my question… T_T

Jaehee Kang

Is this that woman you see in the mornings?

Jumin Han

How did you ....

ZEN

?!?!

707

Is our Jumin finally getting some?!

I’m so proud. Haha T_T

Jumin Han

Getting some… what?

Jaehee Kang

I can look into her.

For research purposes. Of course^^

Jumin Han

;;;

I only just started seeing her this month.

At the door. Seeing her at the door.

707

Seeing her OTL

Maybe she’s your future lover come to save you^^

Jumin Han

I doubt that.

ZEN

Yeah lolol

I doubt it too

And right after the Choi thing?? No way.

707

T_T

Ur right

There’s no way...

“Do you play video games, Mr Han?”

That’s a new one. “Where would I find the time?” He asks, thinking of Yoosung. “It’s a useless hobby.”

“That was a quick answer,” you reply. “Who hurt you?”

Jumin raises a brow, inquisitive. “No one.”

“Okay,” you say, the beginnings of a grin playing on your lips. “Who ruined video games for you?”

He thinks of the dark smudges under Yoosung’s eyes, the awful typos and the messages at 3am. It’s only a little funny. The door closes behind them. “No one in particular.”

“You’re smiling, Mr Han. Just a little.” You smile too at this, tilting your head in that curious way of yours. When you reach the lobby and then your separate ways, Jumin spares a glance at you.

He wants to say something more, something lodged very deep in his throat that comes out dry breath. He’s never been too good at small-talk, not with colleagues, not with business outside of work. He wants to be, just a little.

He’s not quite sure how that came to be.

It’s beyond embarrassing the way he comes up to you in the cafeteria. “You work here,” he says, a very belated realization.

You blink a few times, as if processing. “Yes,” you say slowly. “I have a lanyard.” You wave the offending item around and Jumin finally, finally catches a glimpse of your name.

“I see,” Jumin says, because that’s all he really can say. “Work hard.”

He consults his phone right away, willing the heat from his face and opening the messenger app. It goes as well as expected when he mentions it so vaguely-- Hyun rags on him for his lack of conversational skills and Yoosung drops a line or two about his own miserable love life. In any case, Assistant Kang’s information on you had only reached him earlier today and in a way he’s still coping. It had been baffling to say the least, finally having everything in front of him rather than scattered in the bits and pieces of your dialogue.

You work, technically, in the same position Assistant Kang does. Only in the fashion department, of which Jumin had strategically ignored after Echo Girl and the Chois. It really isn’t his fault he hadn’t noticed you-- not since before this month when you began arriving so consistently.

“Something on your mind?” Assistant Kang asks, looking up from where she’s shuffling through a stack of papers. It isn’t unusual for her to break the silence with a quip-- she’s always been good at easing into a mode of conversation that takes the edge off. As a good assistant and employee should, of course. Jumin wonders if he should relay this to her.

“Nothing,” he says instead, because surely she already knows. “Is it polite to bring gifts for someone you’re sure you will be seeing every morning?”

She raises a thin brow. “Who-- that woman at the fashion department?”

Jumin deigns not to answer right away, looking down at the state of his nails and the tick of his wristwatch. “Surely there must be some etiquette about that.”

Jaehee Kang

Buy her coffee.

ZEN

Get her a promotion lol

707

A new car!!!

Yoosung★

Maybr a nicce pen

“Any favorite TV shows?” You ask one morning. “Personally, I’m fond of office romances.”

Jumin lags for a moment, waiting to catch up. It isn’t an unusual occurrence. “Is that an innuendo?”

You smile, a little flushed-looking, and wave a hand. “Nope. Not at all.” When you look at the second coffee in his hand, though, it seems you need a second to catch up yourself. You’d mentioned offhandedly how you take your coffee the day before, and today something had stopped him at the threshold of the coffee shop he stops at every morning. Funny how things work like that.

“This is for you,” he says determinedly, and you smile a little but there’s still an edge.

“You dodged my question.” You state simply. Jumin does not know what to say.

He thinks about it for a moment, really thinks about it. The only thing that really comes to mind are the Sunday morning programs, and he doesn’t really know them off the top of his head. Maybe the morning news. “No TV shows. Next question.”

“Okay then,” you say, “Any pet peeves?”

Jumin smiles a little. It isn’t really conscious, but he’s finally figured out a way to respond and he just hopes it takes well. “Women who stop me at the door in the morning.”

“Oh,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. You hum appreciatively. He feels strangely, indirectly accomplished. “Shame. Mine’s men who give me three word responses when I ask them things.”

He scoffs, although it isn’t as hard as it usually comes out. “I answered that in a sentence.” He says, very assuredly. When he looks back at you there’s a softer smile at your lips, rounded at the corners and not quite so mischievous as he’s seen it look before. It looks fond.

“I know,” you reply. He feels a little warmer now, turning the corner where you two part ways. You offer him a two-fingered salute, a “See you in the morning!” and a final turn.

And then you’re gone.

The next time the conversation lingers long past the lobby it’s because you’ve coaxed him into talking about Elizabeth III. There’s a point where you’ve reached the elevator and he’s talking to you about her care routine and the minutiae of what it takes to keep her fur so soft and pristine (much of it is her own work and her natural beauty-- of course) and he’s only barely aware of how long he’s been going on, but he pauses to look at you. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, between Jaehee’s hesitancy and Luciel’s rabid praise and Hyun’s outright disgust--

But there’s something about the way you’re looking at him when he’s finished, curiouser and half-curved into a smile. And he’s been on the receiving end of that before-- his father’s lovers, interviewers and subordinates-- but none of them have ever seemed so affectionate.

He’s seen the same look before when it’s Jaehee with a new photocard, the way Yoosung danced around Rika. It’s the glint in Luciel’s glasses when he gets to working and it’s something, something.

You look like you’ve seen something beautiful.

Which is understandable to him, really, having just shown you pictures of his Elizabeth III. What he understands less is the way you’re looking at him and not the open phone, caught up in a silence that seems way too heavy for a conversation about his cat. Even when the elevator dings it’s with some trepidation that you leave first, a memory, a discovery pulled taut between you two.

“I hope I get to meet her sometime,” you say.

Jumin nods, wordless. The delight on your face at such a simple gesture fixates itself in the forefront of his mind until he returns home to Elizabeth, flickering like hell and unbidden and unexpected but not exactly unwelcome. It’s just as confusing to him as it sounds on paper.

Somehow Jaehee gets to you first.

For all the time he’s spent working with Jaehee, working around her and in her general proximity, he doesn’t actually know what time she gets into the building. She seems like an inevitability, something constant and fixed and always there.

So when he holds the door open for two women, Jumin is feeling like he had seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Especially since the two of you seem to be chatting so jovially, shaking her hand with both of yours when you go to part.

There’s another something clogging his throat, a cloying want and a halfhearted desire to draw that same laugh from you, that same open brightness. He hasn’t let himself feel so much about one person-- one particular and fixed point in his life. Jumin feels like he’s chasing-- some feeling, some unnamed ball of fire-- a meteor, blazing and brilliant and too much to be real.

It’s too much to be compared to anything else, not when Sarah Choi was an unlit match next to what a beaming bonfire you are. Suddenly Jumin feels more tightly wound than he usually does.

And really, truly, it feels like a lot to handle, so he turns on his heel after silently handing you the coffee and begins to march. It feels like karmic debt for not having experienced these things as a schoolboy, and then only once as an adult. He doesn’t even know if the one time counted.

“Mr Han--” you say, and it happens at the same time he holds his breath to turn again. Just to look, to see if you appeared as off kilter as he felt. Maybe the world had rotated wrong today.

You stop there in your tracks and he really does believe for a moment that the world has gone astray-- because then it would explain the way air isn’t getting to his lungs right. He inhales just to make sure and before any other dialogue comes from your lips he asks, “Walk with me?”

You both take the elevator then.

Jaehee Kang

She’s a very nice woman.

Yoosung★

Huh?

707

U met her?!?!!

Tell me everything

It makes your mornings longer, the introduction of the elevator route. He isn’t sure how it became mutual agreement and routine, the same way the cup of coffee steams in your hands and the way you ask after Elizabeth III. The way the door gets held open.

Jumin isn’t sure how many mornings go by, how many of them are spent dreading the chime of the elevator, but one of them brings a much quieter you. And you’re usually such a whirlwind of life, pulling him toward and towards you-- he’d be lying to himself more than usual if he said he wasn’t worried.

You look like you’re steeling yourself too, and you’ve never done that-- there isn’t a thing you’ve said to him that was measured or prepared. You’re kind of like an overexcited puppy, and he’s never been too fond of dogs.

He feels something slide out of place, something like a realization that’s far grander than he knows, hovering at the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know what it is yet, not really. He’s barely out of his head, ready to ask if you’re alright--

And you cut him off. Like you did that first morning, knocking the breath from his lungs and everything else out of place. Jumin likes things neat and tidy, likes things where they should be, where he’s used to seeing them. You aren’t too good for him, he thinks.

Then you ask, “Would you want to go out sometime?” And he has no reference materials and no forewarning and no prepared response. The odds are against him.

So against all odds and every simmering nerve in his body he says, “Yes.”

tags: @vandysgf @mrs-han

#jumin han x reader #jumin x reader #mystic messenger x reader #mysme x reader #mystic messenger fluff #jumin han x mc #jumin x mc #my writing #emu writes #lftr&ems #WC: 2.0K

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notmrskennedy · 4 years

Text

Whatever You Need

(Chip x Fem!Reader)

A/N - am I little in love with Chip? Yes, but who isn’t? So please enjoy my hot take on our lovely Mr. Chip Taylor

Summary - a university professor meets a very adorable maintenance guy ...

Warnings - a pinch of swearing and two teaspoons of mentioning gross things

Word Count - 3k

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There’s a thin line, she realises as she rushes into the lecture hall, between anthropological research and grave robbing. When you’re on loan to the federal government and a water pipe bursts at a cemetery, there isn’t much to do other than say, ‘yes sir Mr. FBI agent, I will gladly slop through three feet of mud and water, digging through graves!’

She’s ten minutes late to her lecture. Ten minutes long enough that the TA’s are snickering. Ten minutes long enough that the entire class looks horrified that their Anthropology 101 professor is covered head to toe in dried mud, grass, and whatever else could be found in destroyed 19th century coffins.

She sets her bag down heavily on the desk and startles everyone in the room. Sans the maintenance guy. He’s tinkering with vent at the foot of door. He’s mostly a faded ball cap and a distressed jean jacket, one arm shoved up the vent. She can’t imagine why someone would have their arm up a vent, but god only knows why the university would ask someone to.

A moment passes where she unabashedly stares. How did she miss him? Was she in that much of a hurry that she nearly tripped on the guy and didn’t look back? And what the hell is in that vent?

The TA’s snicker behind her back, sobering up when she shoots them a half deadly look. She’s covered in mud, not lenience. She half hopes Maintenance Guy will turn around—she has a desperate, yet beguiling feeling he’s hot. But what she’s really curious for is what’s stuck up that vent.

And he doesn’t turn around—his complete disregard of her is a 180 from the rapt attention she’s receiving from her students—until she’s frustratedly brushing dirt off her face. Pulling grass from her hair.

“Let me just start with,” she begins, pulling an earth worm out of her sleeve, “if the federal government asks you to sort through bodies in a flooded cemetery, tell them no. And despite how much fun grave digging can be, there’s a thin line and that line is punctuated by whether they’re arresting me or not.”

Maintenance Guy snorts, head turned to beam up at her. She’s almost taken aback by how bright he seems. How his grin puts the sun in its place. He looks honest, grease stains and all.

There’s something to be said about the fact she’s studying his bone structure instead of his fleshy bits. She can’t tell you what colour his eyes are, but his zygomatic bones are killer.

“Professor?” a TA prompts, ineffectively holding back their own knowing smiles.

“Thanks for reminding me,” she replies, digging through her bag to hand out a stack of student essays. “Pass these back, please?”

Tick one for the professor.

“And as per usual,” she announces, leaning back against the white board, “let’s do our daily recap. And as you know, these questions can be used to aid in exams.”

She sneaks a glance at Maintenance Guy, pulling his arm out from the vent. He grumbles, digs through his toolbox, and grabs a screwdriver. Whatever is in that vent is stuck.

Once the rustling stops, she says, “Okay, question one: if your professor—that would be me for those of us who are new—were to be one of, say, five wives with one husband, it’s called—?”

“Polygamy!” a student shouts from the front row.

“You’re right, but you aren’t correct,” she says, standing up straight. “Polygamy is the practice of having more than one spouse. Polygyny—with an ’n’—is multiple wives to one husband. Examples of the culture are Kenya’s Logoli and other Abalulya sub ethnic groups.”

She writes it on the board for spelling, and glances over to see Maintenance Guy paused in his excavation of the vent. He’s paying better attention than her students. It’s sort of sweet and she stifles her soft giggle at the thought.

He’s ridiculously tall and she takes a moment to appreciate just how long his femurs have to be.

“Question two!” she announces and finds even the most hungover kids forcing their attention on her. “If your professor were to marry five men all at once, that’s called—?”

“Polyandry,” a student pipes up from the back. “A lot of times it’s fraternal marriage.”

“Examples of a culture that practices—”

Pop!

Maintenance Guy rolls back with the force. His knees are still bent from where they’d been used as leverage against the vent, a wall of debris bursting into his face. In one gloved hand was a dead raccoon, while the other desperately brushed bits of the vent’s clog—a raccoon’s nest—from his eyes.

“Oh Jesus,” she mutters, jumping into action. She picks up a garbage bag from his toolbox and nets the dead animal from his hand. It’s a pretty tame find, though she’s used to human remains which tended to be—gooier.

With the animal tucked up, she hauls Maintenance Guy to a sitting position, frantically cleaning the odds and ends of the nest out of his eyes. She steals his ball cap as she whispers kind words to him, further trying to shake the bits of insulation out of his shaggy hair.

The class is in a terrible chatter behind them. Not that it matters. Not with Maintenance Guy’s eyes opened and his hands gently clutching onto her wrists as she brushes the last bits of insulation off his cheeks. His eyes are definitely hazel up this close.

“Thanks,” he croaks, still gently latched onto her hands.

“It’s no problem,” she smiles back, absently studying the rest of his face. He’s got the kind of skull she’d love to see on her table—well, maybe once he’s died of his own accord because he seems rather sweet. Confused and concerned, but…sweet. “Don’t worry. I’ve had much worse flung all over me. You don’t much get used to it.”

He smiles, barely chuckling. Coughs up a bit of insulation.

“You might want to see a doctor. Insulation in the lungs is…what gets you a one way ticket to my lab.” She grins at her own terrible joke. His eyes are too close and she can’t help but wish for a skeleton to be looking back at her. She understands those. People are too…gooey.

“I’m Chip,” he offers, silently asking her for help to his feet. She does, offering her own name in return. He mulls over it, like it’s a fine wine sitting on his tongue. “Professor Y/N. Thanks again.”

She shrugs, mouth suddenly too dry. Heart beating too fast. Jesus, human interaction was going to kill her. There was no job to distract her from Chip’s strong hands. There were no bodies to keep Chip’s genuine gaze off of her. There wasn’t anything to distract from seeing Chip as so pleasantly human.

“Want the raccoon as a consolation prize?” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with a newly de-gloved hand. There’s something satisfying about answering questions that aren’t meant as questions. Especially ones that showed just how weird she really was. The questions that were relationship testers—like can we be friends if I tell you that I keep carrion beetles as pets?

“Actually, sure.” Chip’s jaw drops just slightly open. He has cute teeth. “Dissection is a key part of the anthropological process, forensic or not. Let’s see just what this raccoon was up to. Eh, class?”

Every single one a deer in the headlights, the class goes eerily silent. She winks at Chip and announces again. “Don’t you guys want to see what I do for a living? I mean human remains are much cooler but I think we can settle for a mostly solid raccoon carcass.”

A TA clutches at her stomach. “Professor, never say that again.”

The professor just laughs, absentmindedly taking a soft grip on Chip’s shoulder. “Don’t worry everyone, Chip’s going to keep the raccoon. At least I’m not making the final a practical examination. I do have access to laboratory rats—“

The entire class clambered forward, hoping to dispel the idea and the evil smirk off their professor’s lips. She just beamed back at Chip, dropping her hand. She expected the same horrified expression of her students, but he seemed, dare she say, impressed.

That wide eyed shock creeps onto her face. Because who would risk being impressed by a professor covered in dirt from grave digging who offered to dissect a raccoon at 10 AM on a Tuesday?

Apparently, it’s this guy. Must have a thing for crazy women.

Chip shakes his head, bites his lip, and turns to stoop for his raccoon trophy. “I’ll, uh, have them send someone for the nest. I—I guess I have to do something with the raccoon, if you’re sure you don’t want it?”

She just shakes her head, failing miserably at keeping her cherry red tint to herself. “No, no. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” he repeats, rather sadly, to himself. Though, as he turns to leave, it feels more like a promise.

The worst part about knowing Chip is that she seems to see him everywhere. Rushing between lecture halls? There he is, doing his best to fix a fountain. Getting escorted away by federal agents? There he is, sympathetically waving as he walks across the quad. Leading a group of students outside to lecture on the green? There’s Chip, fixing a sprinkler.

She’s had exactly three times in the last six months to talk to him. All under three minutes.

But today, today she’s running late from court. Grand jury testimony had gone fine, until Agent—God, she’ll never learn his name—WhatsHisFace tried to ask her out again. Because what a turn on talking about the mutilation of a hacked up college girl was.

It also didn’t help that, outside of the court room half an hour before, she was doodling what she thought Chip’s skull would look like.

So she can’t help but storm into her postage stamp of a classroom, dropping her package on the desk with a gentle, yet annoyed huff. Her 12 students, all seniors in the Anthropology department, raised their eyebrows at her. At her court getup.

She’d missed those formative lessons at 13 on how to be a proper lady. And even if she had had them, it probably wouldn’t have stuck. Besides, what she wore into the field had to be more than acceptable for the university’s standards. The heels and pink blouse of today were extremely rare and uncomfortable.

“Whoa, Professor Y/N!” Reese Rosebeck calls out, dramatically twitching in his chair, “Is that really you? You look hot!”

“Ha, ha. That’s a very coherent thought for the kid who wrote the worst paper I’ve ever read,” she deadpans. She relents when she sees his dramatic puppy dog pout. “Though, I do have to say I enjoyed you’re use of colloquial slang. Accentuated your point very cleverly.”

“As long as I impress the hottest professor on campus, I’m alright.”

There was a quiet laugh from the back of the room, and she found her eyes snapping to the hunched over back of none other than, Maintenance Guy Chip Taylor. He’s just quietly listening—as always—tinkering with the radiator pipes in the back of the room. She’s half thankful. It is starting to get cold.

“Hey, Chip!” she chirps and the poor thing bangs his head on the pipes. He waves her off in a flash, hand extended wildly above the other desks in the room. Reese chuckles to himself, dragging Lionel with him.

She kicks her heels off behind her desk, straightening herself once she’s back on stable ground. She’s about three apples short of a pie to wear heels for more than six consecutive minutes. The female students give her rather sympathetic looks as she begins to roll her feet and open her package.

She pauses halfway in. Jeez, she forgot about—“Hey, Chip?”

Like a meerkat, he pops up with a dazzling soft grin.

“Are you going to call the cops on me?”

“Excuse me?”

Her students’ eyes bounce back and forth between the pair, following the invisible tennis match. The professor settles on a rather tired, “Are you going to call the cops? The last person who attended lecture that didn’t know me, called the cops because of a demonstration. So, are you?”

“No.” He shakes his head and she wonders if he’s a little too trusting. He’s honest as he leans back down to continue futzing with the pipes. He’s genuine in every interaction they have. Does she really deserve the kind of trust he’s offering? To a crazy woman who’s asked if he’ll call the cops on her?

She shakes the thought away. These 12 students—tangible students—need her focus. At least for the next few minutes. She pulls six human skulls from her package, all neatly wrapped up in protective glass cases. She places those on the table along with a box of gloves.

“Two people to a skull,” she announces and runs through the rest of the directions. “Don’t forget your gloves. You too, Ms. Figg.”

Jamie Figg’s fierce blush is long forgotten once they are all set to work. Tactile learning is the best way to learn in her opinion, expressly in advanced classes like these. It also gives her a moment to rest her brain—even if it’s a few minutes before the onslaught of necessary questions.

She settles into an unused section of chairs and desks, smiling absently at the way all of the kids have squeezed themselves around the one table. She misses the days when she was young and new, ready to find her own legs to stand on.

Chip’s not quiet and she watches him with too much adoration as he sits down next to her. It’s not all too unexpected nor uninvited. He smells like grease and good cologne up close, mixed up with that dangerous combination of hazel eyes and delicious bone structure.

Chip smirks, drawing her out of her smidge of staring. “See anything good?”

“You have excellent bones,” she mutters, tracing a finger against her own cheek instead of his. “Prominent zygomatic bones and well balanced supraorbital margins. But the, um, the rest of you is—is nice too.”

Oh great one, Y/N. Perfect. You’re such a fucking creep.

Chip just smiles. The kind of soft upturn of the lips and dip of the head that means he took it like the compliment it was meant as. He runs a rather shakey hand through his hair, bringing his gaze back up to do his own staring. She wonders what he sees about her. She’s sure he doesn’t see bone structure like she does, but does her flesh give away something she doesn’t know about?

Chip wrings his hand down behind his neck and she sees it. That little bit of something that brews between his bones and his epidermis. The fuzzy sort of thing that sits behind his eyes. The one she’s seen in war veterans, cops, and now the university’s maintenance man.

And as if he’s just a skull on her table, she states ever so eloquently, “You look like the kind of guy who’s seen some shit, Chip.”

And as if she’s accepted his offer for the raccoon all over again, he beams. He further turns away from her, shaking his head, and she follows his eye line to the students not so subtly glancing over at the pair every three seconds. The dozen are still chattering on, examining the skulls in their hands with rapt fascination.

Chip, despite all the non-threatening, sensitive, idiot boy vibes, looks over the skulls with more recognition than she cares to admit she sees. Most people don’t look at skulls like they’re familiar. Like the idea of them being formerly attached to a living person doesn’t bother them.

Again, looks like he’s seen some shit.

“Are they real?”

She nods, taking a tiny chance and pressing their shoulders together. She’s not upset to say that Chip carries very warm skin on his lovely skeletal structure. She wipes the blush off her cheeks and answers, “From the university’s collection. I’ve done a lot of travelling, lots of excavations, lots of grave robbing—sometimes the university doesn’t miss the skulls of the not-so-recently deceased.”

“You’re very—“

“Creepy? Weird?”

She hopes that Chip is too stupid to hear the insecurity bleed through. That he’s too stupid to look at her the way he is. Instead, he squints as if he can’t risk choosing the wrong adjective, so the words inch through his brain. All carefully refined into his choice of, “…Intelligent.”

His takes her hand in his to accentuate his point. She nearly stops breathing.

“You’ve forgotten more this morning than I’ll ever know,” he whispers. She doesn’t know how to look at him without letting him see the hearts in her eyes. Her fingers tighten against his. “I’d never call you creepy.”

She swallows, fighting against the rock in her throat. It wasn’t often people paid her any compliments, especially after she’d let her mouth run for more than five minutes in a one-on-one conversation.

And as if she isn’t already trying to desperately clutch onto her frayed nerves, he confidently pulls a slightly creased business card from his shirt pocket. Offers it to her irritatedly hesitant fingers.

“I do home visits, you know,” he says, putting more weight into where their skin touches. “So, if you’re dishwasher breaks or something, give me—give me a call.”

Chip squeezes her fingers one more time, double checks she’s holding onto the business card, and walks back for his toolbox. Only when the classroom door is closing behind him does Reese shout out, “Oh-ho-ho! Professor’s getting some!”

“Get back to your skull before I use yours as a soup bowl,” she snaps, though she can’t hide the cherries in her cheeks as she thumbs over the business card. Chip Taylor. Whatever you need.

#chip #chip taylor #68 kill #spencer reid #chip x reader #mgg #mgg fluff #reader insert #fem reader

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tamakeey · 4 years

Text

there are children present (pt. 1)

doctor! ushijima wakatoshi x doctor! reader

ushijima is was your typical pediatrician at the miyagi health clinic

the only difference is he’s 6′2 and very beefy which is pretty funny when he’s surrounded by kid-size furniture everyday

his rough exterior scares his patients at times but everyone in the pediatrics department knows he’s a real softie on the inside

everyone until y/n joins the pediatrics team at the miyagi health clinic

on her first day of work, y/n lost her way around the big building

she looked in all directions hoping someone would see her confused stares and help a poor girl out

luckily ushijima spotted the girl while she was looking down at her phone, seeing the message her supervisor had sent her yesterday about the wing she would be working in

however, in y/n’s eyes, seeing a giant walking towards her with an intimidating aura made the girl shiver in her hospital clogs

as ushijima grew closer to her, she flinched in fear, and began chanting words along the lines of “pls spare me”

when ushijima saw her visibly shaking in his presence, his face morphed into one of confusion

in his mind he was questioning do I really scare people that much

he took a deep breath and mustered up the most gentle, nurturing voice he could to speak to the woman

“I apologize if I startled you, it was never my intention. you just looked lost and I thought you would need some of my assistance” ushijima said shyly

y/n feels terrible having misjudged his intentions and forms a look of guilt on her face after hearing him speak to her, having a minor yachi panicking moment

“I’m so sorry, I’m just nervous around new people. I would greatly appreciate some help finding my way to the pediatrics department please. I would hate to be late on my first day” y/n responds while craning her neck upwards to look at the tower man

ushijima nods, letting out a quiet “follow me” as he led her to the department he works in everyday

as they arrive to the pediatrics department, y/n is in awe at the miniature chairs and table fit for toddlers, chalkboard cluttered with doodles, and small toys in the waiting area

suddenly she hears the receptionist greet ushijima from the counter

“ahh hello yamagata, I see you came into the office earlier than usual today” ushijima replies stoically, proceeding to scan his card into the door, allowing him access to the department

y/n begins to question how he has access to the pediatrics department, believing he worked in a different department and only helped to guide her to where she needed to go

as she goes in, she is greeted by her supervisor

however, she did not expect for her supervisor to be a grumpy old man with the bushiest eyebrows she has ever seen

“hello, you must be y/n. I am your supervisor tanji washijou. I see you have met our top pediatrician, Dr. Ushijima Wakatoshi” the elder greeted the poor girl whose soul has suddenly left her body

not only did she misjudge ushijima when he was trying to help her, he’s also her coworker

“you will be assigned a nurse who will be your partner working here. your patients are now their patients, so it’s best to get to know your nurse as you will have to work together to help the patients that come in” washijou continues

the girl nods as she follows washijou down a long hall to an office area where she sees the room section off into cubicles that are labeled with a name plate for each pediatrician

y/n spots the cubicle that has her name plastered on one of its walls and walks towards it

“I see you have found your cubicle, this is where you will work when you have no appointments, whether it’s looking at documents and analyzing test results, all that will happen in here” washijou explains

y/n nods signifying that she understood the elder’s words and began looking around her cubicle, imagining the personal items she may store here to make it feel cozier

washijou brings her out of her thoughts as he walks out the door, informing the young woman that he will be bringing her assigned nurse to her cubicle so they could get to know one another.

as y/n is unpacking her work bag, she hears the door open which causes her to see who is entering office area

she sees two men walking towards her, one immensely tall and the other shorter in comparison to the giant he stands next to

the shorter male has noticeable ash blonde hair with darker tips, although he looks tough, she notices a comforting aura surrounding him which makes her less frightened than her previous encounters

the taller male, for sure intimidated the poor new girl he’s 6′2 with dark ginger hair and although he is on the lankier side, his resting face is what causes the girl to avoid his piercing stare

as they stop in front of the girl, she realizes these are the nurses that have been assigned to her

“hello, my name is semi eita. I am a registered nurse who has been here for a few years. I look forward to getting to know you and working along side you” the shorter male introduces himself

y/n notices his gentle, deep voice that has put her in a calmer state as she replies “good morning, I am y/n y/l/n, I am excited to work with you as well and hope we can build a closer bond as we work alongside one another”

noticing the poor girl fiddling with her fingers as she glances at his taller counterpart, semi begins once again, “this is kawanishi taichi, he is currently fulfilling his residency requirements under my supervision, so he will also be working fairly close beside you”

“I look forward to working with you” kawanishi speaks for the first time in his lazy tone while bowing to the girl

“thank you, I hope to provide a good learning experience for you” y/n responds, bowing back to the tall boy

soon, the door is being opened again, and y/n sees ushijima walking in with a tall red head wearing blue scrubs

“I’m just saying wakatoshi-kun, the content within the jump magazines are more amusing than the ads” the tall red head asserts

ushijima nods and then approaches the trio standing at y/n’s cubicle

“hello Dr. y/l/n, this is my nurse tendou satori. I apologize, he’s a little bit on the loud side” ushijima says quite bluntly

“wakatoshi-kun, that’s very harsh to say. I’m hurt” tendou replies

y/n giggles before responding back, “pleasure to meet you tendou, I hope to be able to get to know you better while working in the same department with you”

the rest of the day was spent with the five getting to know each other due to the slow day in the office and none of them having any appointments for the day

during the next few months, y/n is forming close bonds with those she met on her first day (minus washijou) and adjusting to her job phenomenally

getting to know her patients, noting all their symptoms, and diagnosing them in a fairly quick manner

leading her to be fairly popular in the office as many parents are bringing their children to her office

ushijima, although very efficient in analyzing his patients’ records and diagnosing his patients very quickly, struggles with communicating to them in a manner that would not scare them off

especially today, when one toddler in particular was not fond of his scary appearance

the little boy had walked into the checkup room, holding his mother’s hand

his bangs cut in a slant direction (they’re basically uneven and looks like the hypotenuse of a triangle, I suck with descriptions so I’m hoping you all know I'm talking about shirabu LOL)

when tendou walked in to take the child’s temperature and blood pressure, the child was struggling to remain calm as a towering red headed male with crazy eyes kept looking at him dead on

after taking the necessary data on the child, tendou says quite animatedly “alright shirabu, Dr. Ushijima will be with you shortly, make yourself comfortable and help yourself to some books in the bucket”

shirabu’s mother hands him a little book which leads him to flipping through the pages and pointing at the cute animals within it

once an a while having to blow his uneven bangs out his eyes

all of a sudden the door opens and when shirabu looks up, his whole face pales and tears begin gathering in his eyes

to shirabu, a giant, mean looking man stands in front of him, ready to yell at him, kill him, or anything horrible in-between

before ushijima could let a word out, shirabu begins to sob loudly on the examination table

ushijima stops walking towards shirabu, as his mom reaches out to console him

as shirabu’s mother is trying to comfort him and tell him how ushijima is here to make sure he's healthy, shirabu continues to sob louder and repeatedly scream “but he’s so scary”

ushijima freezes on the spot

usually when children are frightened of him their parents are able to calm them down

but shirabu is relentless and stubbornly continues to cry to his little toddler bum’s desire

ushijima excuses himself from the room, stating that he will be back shortly, shutting the door behind him

outside the examination room, ushijima was silently panicking

why was I cursed with such a big body

why do people always think my facial expression is scary, it’s just my resting face

I’m not mad at least 98% of the time

I just want the kids to feel safe and comfortable to tell me their problems so I can fix them as fast as possible :(

as he was having an internal conversation with himself, y/n walks by and notices the distress on his face

she begins to grow concern for the man, she’s grown to know as a giant teddy bear

yes she caught feels for him within the past few months

semi and kawanishi never let her live it down, making it their mission to fluster her on the subject at least once a day

she walks over to the conflicted giant, but not before noticing the three nurses around the corner staring at her with a smirk on each of their faces

ofc tendou is in that upside down position (y'all know which one I’m talking about)

rolling her eyes at her three spectators, she turned back to ushijima to deal with his internal crisis

“Ushijima, did you need help with something?” y/n asked as she approached him

“no, I do not understand why my latest patient is so afraid of me. I did not even get to speak a word before he started screaming. usually I at least get one word in” ushijima replies as the cries of shirabu could still be heard through the door

y/n winces at the boy’s shrill cries but is also impressed that it is able to resonate past the wooden door

“did you want me to try to talk to the patient first? hopefully, get him to ease into you” y/n offered

ushijima nodded curtly, handing y/n the patient’s information which she glances over fairly quick

y/n takes a deep breath and opens the door, which causes the cries to come at a higher volume

shirabu opens his eyes after hearing the door open, thinking the scary tall man came back to kill him only to be greeted by a smaller woman with gentle eyes

the child halts his cries, but the tears keep falling silently

y/n grabs some tissues from the counter and wipes the poor boy’s face which is red from all his sobs

she crouches down to the boy’s height and smiles gently at him

“hey little guy, I’m Dr. y/l/n. I heard you’re being a brave little boy visiting the doctor today” y/n speaks in a nurturing voice

shirabu nods shyly, still tucked away in his mother’s arms

“I promise you Dr. Ushijima is nothing you should be scared of, he’s the best doctor in the building who will help you feel better” y/n explains gently to the boy who shakes his head in his mother’s shoulder

“he’s giant and scary” shirabu speaks for the first time while fiddling with his smol bby fingers

“I'll let you in on a secret little guy” y/n whispers towards shirabu

being the curious child he is, shirabu lets go of his mother and scoots his little bum towards the edge of the examination table to listen in on the secret

“Dr. Ushijima looks scary, but he’s really gentle and soft. just think of him as a soft teddy bear because really that's all he is” y/n whispers making the little boy giggle thinking of the tall mean doctor dressed as a soft bear

“with that said, will you be okay to see Dr. Ushijima now?” y/n asks

shirabu nods with the picture of his doctor dressed as a bear freshly engraved into his mind

y/n nods and bows to shirabu’s mother before stepping out of the examination room to fetch the giant pediatrician

“he’s ready to see you now, he might actually be very excited” y/n informs ushijima

ushijima nods, takes a deep breath, and walks into the room shirabu is in

shirabu look up to the tall doctor, eyes still slightly glassy from his previous crying session

although he is still shaking in his child boots (shoes? sneakers? whatever shoes your heart desires)

he refrains from screaming out, imagining the big man as a teddy bear like he has been for the past couple minutes

“hello, I am Dr. Ushijima and I am here to help you fix your problems” the giant doctor voices out, still nervous on the inside

after half and hour of speaking to shirabu, ushijima concludes that the poor boy just jammed his fingers and just needs to tape them

“may I ask what you were doing that caused you to jam your fingers?” ushijima asks gently

the boy shakily replies “I was setting the volleyball to my friend but my timing was off”

ushijima eyes light up at the mention of volleyball as he ask incredulously, “you play volleyball?”

the child nods timidly as ushijima gets a glint in his eyes that is unfamiliar to the poor boy

“I played in high school, I was a wing spiker” ushijima replies causing the child’s eyes to also light up

“really, that’s so cool. I’ve been watching old clips from high school nationals and the wing spiker on shiratorizawa is amazing. he has so much power, I wish to set for him someday” shirabu rambles before he looks at ushijima and recognizes him from the videos he’s been watching

“WOAH YOU WERE THE ACE OF SHIRATORIZAWA FROM THE VIDEOS I WATCHED?!?” shirabu exclaims with stars shining in his eyes

ushijima chuckles and hums a positive answer causing the little boy to spitfire questions to the man such as:

how many points did you score each game?

did you ever break the floor with your serve?

has anyone ever broken a bone from your deadly spike?

shirabu’s mom began to scold shirabu for bombarding ushijima with too many questions making the poor toddler bow his head in shame and slap his chubby cheeks with his own hands as a self-punishment

ushijima seeing the poor inflict pain on himself began to panic and continuously ask the boy to stop hurting himself

“I would love to answer your questions sometime but I have a patient coming in 20 minutes but feel free to contact me through my email or phone number on the clinic website if you want to continue talking about volleyball. I see you have a great interest for it” ushijima says making shirabu look up adorned with red cheeks and starry eyes

shirabu nods eagerly asking his mom to help him use the computer when he gets home so he can talk to ushijima

“I also wouldn't mind coaching you on my off days. I haven’t played volleyball in a long time so please toss for me sometime” ushijima says crouching down to the shirabu’s height and giving him a small smile

said boy squeals in excitement and claps his little hands together

“THANK YOU SO MUCH DR. USHIJIMA” shirabu exclaims, going in and giving ushijima a hug

shirabu’s mom could definitely be heard in the background lecturing shirabu on his manners and personal space

but ushijima doesn’t mind

in fact, he is touched that a patient feels so comfortable with him and enjoys his presence

releasing himself from shirabu’s hug he then speaks, “well then I’ll be off, I hope to hear from you soon”

shirabu hops off the examination table and bows to the tall man and exclaims, “yes, thank you for everything, doctor”

shirabu grabs his mother’s hand and leaves the room as ushijima holds the door open for them

as ushijima walks into the office room, he sees y/n typing reports on the computer

he approaches her and taps her shoulder causing the poor girl to jump in her seat

“I apologize for startling you, I just wanted to thank you for helping me calm down shirabu earlier” ushijima shows his gratitude

“it’s no big deal, I'm glad to be of use to the best pediatrician in the whole unit” y/n replies with a smile on her face

ushijima then notices his heart beat quickening and thumping louder than normal

he believes that anyone could hear its rapid beat without requiring a stethoscope

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #hq x reader #hq imagines #hq scenarios

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honeylikewords · 4 years

Note

could we maybe get something for miguel + valentine’s day since it’s coming up?

I am so sorry for to be so late on this! I was originally going to write this before Valentine’s day, but then everything just exploded into chaos and it got a little lost in the sauce. It’s been a long time coming, but I hope that even though it’s not still February, we can appreciate the love, candor, and sweetness of Valentine’s all year ‘round with our favorite Spider-Man.

So without further ado... here we go!

Miguel always struggled with Valentine’s Day.

Neither of his parents were especially affectionate, and certainly not romantic, nor inclined to indulge in a holiday so centered around love for one’s partner, considering their... circumstances.

There were never any roses, never any cards, never even the merest breath of the words “I love you” between the two of them on the fourteenth of February, much less any other day of the year. It was like the day didn’t exist; the fourteenth slipped by, pointedly ignored. The stern silence of it was deafening to a young Miguel.

He didn’t bring the little punch-out cardboard Valentines to school-- neither of his parents believed in the waste of money on such a frivolity, and wouldn’t spend their hard-earned wages on candy for children they’d never even met-- and he grew disdainful of the gauche red-white-pink frills of the holiday, watching all his classmates dumping superhero and princess and puppy-printed cards into each other’s boxes, all aglow with the thrill of giving and receiving attention, tittering naively about who liked whom and whose Valentine’s cards were cutest. Every passing year, the day felt more like a holiday to showcase Miguel’s isolation than to glorify the love around him, and it embittered him more and more.

By his adulthood, he found the whole affair embarrassing; to him, it was a pastiche of care, a pretense, a falsehood. He gagged silently to himself as he’d walk the streets of Nueva York on February fourteenth, rolling his eyes at the overly-affectionate couples rubbing noses and cooing over one another in every restaurant and shop in the city, cluttering the streets with their cloying, choking cutesiness.

Every year was an ordeal, a burden. He’d have to slog through countless commercials of overly-groomed men presenting their equally foppish girlfriends with cheap-looking jewelry molded to match the motif of the season-- the anatomically inaccurate heart, schmaltzy as ever-- and through congested aisles of supermarkets and drugstores, packed to bursting with polyester plushies and synthetic roses so red they made his eyes water, the checkout lines clogged with shrink-wrapped boxes of waxy chocolates.

It was exhausting. Annoying. Unparalleledly perturbing.

And then, out of the blue, Miguel had to go and fall in love.

And found himself completely out of his depth by the time February rolled around.

It wasn’t that Miguel didn’t love his girlfriend-- he did, with all his heart!-- but he just didn’t know how to earnestly express himself in accordance with the expectations of the holiday. He’d held it in such high contempt and viewed it with such hostility for so long that the idea of having to engage with it as an actual, active participant left him feeling befuddled, lost at sea in an ocean of faux flower petals and cliche candlelit dinners.

He was caught between the two poles of his heart, one insisting that he needed to celebrate the day in order to show her he loved her, and to please her and not disappoint her on this day of days, and the other part of him insisting that if he succumbed to the trite traditions of Valentine’s Day, he’d be giving her a forced, inauthentic presentation of his love, one coerced by the expectations of the holiday and not one given through earnest admiration. And she’d dump him on the spot, he feared.

Miguel fretted that anything he did on the fourteenth would be colored through the lens of appraisal; his actions would be held and judged against every tired old trope of the day, against all the other men galavanting around town with their girlfriends, against his beloved’s own romantic expectations. He feared that whatever he did would seem cheap and practiced instead of candid and heartfelt, leaving Miguel caught in an endless riptide of his own thoughts, burning down the days until the fourteenth.

So he paced and grumbled to himself and scribbled notes (and wadded up said notes and threw them into a profusely overflowing wastebasket), frustrating himself to madness. Every new idea was a new dead-end; nothing, he felt, could accurately, honestly, or earnestly convey his love for his sweetheart, and would only feel like some callow, childish miming of affection.

As he sat at his desk, head in his hands, groaning into his palms in exhaustion, he looked through his fingers at the pile of discarded sticky notes and crumpled cards, each scrawled with some new, discarded concept, lowering one hand to flick a balled-up scrap of paper across his desk despondently.

“You’d think I’d be able to come up with just one,” he groused to himself, using his long, tanned finger to continue flicking various wads of failed ideas over the breadth of his desk. “Just one way to say--”

Miguel caught himself mid-sentence, finger curled, unlaunched at the unsuspecting crumpled carcass of a note that once read “carriage ride?”. He paused and gazed out over the expanse of fallen ideas, trashed suggestions; the piles were myriad, proliferated across the room.

And the idea struck him like a bolt of loving lightning, igniting every cell with purpose and drive and desire: he finally had something. Something worth making manifest.

He set to work immediately.

By the actual day of the fourteenth, Miguel was more confident in his choice, but no less nervous at the prospect of its execution; he still felt anxious, underprepared, like a child gathering themself together to give a scholastic speech on a subject they had not sufficiently studied.

Standing in front of his mirror in the bedroom, Miguel fixed his tie for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to decide where the line between “cooly rumpled” and “slobbishly underdressed” lay. He kept tightening and loosening the knot, nearly strangling himself in the process as he twitched the red material side to side, buttoning and unbuttoning his collar to try and straddle the chasm in presentation.

He passed a hand down over his vest, having foregone a suit coat in an attempt to appear more youthful and casual and less “forty-year-old man attending a business meeting that could have been done over email”, then raised his hands to roll his sleeves up his forearms, wondering if he should have shaved them in the shower or if that was weird.

Did his girlfriend like body hair? Miguel couldn’t remember. He felt like his mind had gone entirely blank; at some point during his outfit-fussing, he briefly forgot his own full name. It started with an M, didn’t it? Michael? Mitchell? Morgan?

Just as he was beginning to contemplate checking his own license to remember his moniker, Miguel heard a delicate rap on his apartment door, knocking him out of his reverie. He blinked and, remembering himself, quickly ran out of his bedroom, careening through the living room, and stopped just short of the door, taking a deep, calming breath before turning the locks and opening the door wide, leaning on the frame to appear casual and collected.

But, of course, for all his appearances, all his practice, all his pretending, Miguel could barely hold it together the moment he saw her.

His beloved stood before him in the hallway, a vision. Though she struck him with her beauty every time he laid eyes on her, Miguel felt especially winded by her tonight; she had clearly pulled out all the stops for him, from her hair being styled ever-so-elegantly to the dress she wore; a beautiful red number he’d never seen before. He wondered if it was new-- had she gone out and bought new clothes just to see him?-- and stared at her, unaware of the saccharine, shining smile currently spreading across his face.

Seeming to notice the aura of dreaminess taking over Miguel, she took the initiative and stepped forward, putting a hand on his jaw and pressing up to kiss his cheek politely.

“Hi,” she smiled.

Miguel swore her surroundings grew paler, dimmer, foggier in comparison to the bright, illuminating wonder of her smile.

“Hi, yourself,” he managed, forcing out the syllables in as cool, calm, and collected a voice as he could manage.

He wasn’t used to feeling dizzy, hazy with affection. It made him feel vulnerable, but in this strangely delightful way, like walking in the grass barefoot, or laying in the sun; exposed, seen, but at peace. Like second-nature.

As he was contemplating her smile and its foundation-shaking effect on himself, he felt her hand leave his jaw and travel up the fluffy jut of his sideburn, taking a loose lock of his hair and winding it around her finger, delicate and gentle. She gave it a very, very soft, experimental tug, unspooling its curl and extending the hair to its full length, and he followed her eyes as they scanned over the curl held between her fingers.

“You did something different,” she said, eyes warm. “Is this what it looks like naturally?”

Miguel felt his cheeks grow hot as he nodded; he’d decided to leave his hair unstraightened for her, today, in the spirit of candor and earnestness, hoping that the sight of his natural curls would show her that he’d lowered his defenses, thrown away pretenses, and wanted her to see the real Miguel. He hadn’t worn his hair curly in years, and felt an almighty self-consciousness rain down on him as she continued to furl and unfurl the lock around her finger.

She hummed pleasantly and passed her hand through the dense thicket of his dark hair, passing her nails and palm over the nape of his neck, making him shiver with glorious giddiness as she carded her fingers up towards the crown of his head, watching the movement of his hair with a divinely docile look in her eyes.

“I love it,” she said, fluffing the sides of his hair tenderly. “I really do!”

Both of her hands, now, ascended to his head and ruffled his hair, and Miguel observed her incandescent, childlike grin with a soaring heart. She giggled at herself and squeezed her hands against his stubbly cheeks, shaking her head as she stopped petting him, much to his dismay.

“Sorry, I must be making you feel like some kind of puppy.”

She gave him a sheepish smile and rubbed a thumb along the strong ridge of his cheekbone, apologetic.

“I didn’t mean to get so carried away!”

“Oh, no,” he stammered, an overexcited smile overtaking his self-control. “I, uh, you know, I was just… it makes me feel a lot better to know you like it.”

He admitted it nervously, eyes following every microscopic movement of her face to assess her feelings, to watch for any telltales of disdain or shame. But all he saw was earnestness, a warmth in her that made him feel safer than he’d ever felt.

She pressed up to plant a chaste kiss on the leftmost corner of Miguel’s mouth-- not quite on his lips, but close enough that it sent his brain haywire, sputtering and sparking with an unruly desire for more kisses, more attention, more warmth and softness-- and nodded her head, still smiling as she wound and sprung one last curl with a wayward finger.

“Love it,” she repeated.

Miguel, flustered, stammered some half-begotten words, then coughed into his fist, looking around himself for some way to smoothly segue into a cooler, more nonchalant mode of conversation. Remembering himself and where the two of them stood, Miguel slipped a hand around her waist, ushering her in.

“Can’t just be standing in the hall all night,” he mumbled, partially to her, but mostly to himself to try and jog him into actually bringing the romance to fruition.

As she entered, he closed the door behind them and let her take in the sight; he’d turned the lights in the apartment down to about a quarter of their usual brightness and brought in electric candles for ambiance, a garland of string lights encircling the large window at the furthest end of his apartment, the one that looked out over the surging skyline of Nueva York, in all its glittering, gritty glory. Near the window, he’d set up a small table, just the right size for two to sit at comfortably, and covered it with a tablecloth, a centerpiece of pale flowers sitting atop it.

He eyed the flat, rectangular package sitting on the windowsill, leaned against the glass, wrapped in a soft pink ribbon, his heart jumping into his throat, and swallowed thickly. When she turned back to him after admiring her surroundings, Miguel flashed a smile, caught somewhere between forced confidence and genuine pleasure at seeing her.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” she teased. “You don’t even do this much for the holidays!”

“I’m allergic to Christmas trees,” he defended, laughing to himself a little as she rolled her eyes incredulously. “You know that.”

“I know you say that, but I don’t think it’s quite true.”

She stepped closer to him and put one hand on his shoulder, the other coming to play with his tie as she leaned her weight against him, swaying a little as he put his hands on her hips to hold her closer.

“I think you have a history of wet blanket-ing holidays for yourself.”

“Mm,” acquiesced Miguel with a hum. “Fair.”

“But,” she added, straightening his tie with a smile, “It’s really nice to see you coming out of your shell a little; I know this one’s a hard one for you.”

At that, Miguel softened, eyes meeting hers. He saw a tentativeness in her, a hesitance, and to quell it, he leaned down, kissing the soft hill of her cheek, hugging her to his chest. He sighed through his nose, comforted by the enveloping scent of her perfume, her shampoo, her warmth.

As he pulled away with some reluctance, he gestured to the table at the window.

“Let me get you a seat,” he said, patting her back in the manner of an overly-friendly waiter, putting on his most comic airs. “Your reservation awaits.”

“Oh, a reservation at such a haute eatery,” she replied, voice lilting in good humor. “Whatever must my man have done to secure such a thing?”

“He spared no expense, I assure you,” he laughed as they walked over and he pulled out the chair for her, ushering her in and then scooting the seat closer to the table. “There’s talk of a back-alley deal; money, guns, all manner of salacious things.”

She ooh-ed scandalously, pressing a hand to her chest, and Miguel grinned, his fangs flashing even in the dim light.

“Alright,” he said, checking his watch, “I think dinner’s ready. I’ll be back in a second, but before I go, is there anything you want to drink?”

“I can get my own drink,” she replied, swatting her hand in the air dismissively. “I’m a big girl, Miguel.”

As she tried to stand up to join him, Miguel put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back down into her seat, clucking his tongue and shaking his head, a playful smile resting on his lips.

“Ah-ah-ah, nope. I’m being gentlemanly, and I’ll not have you thwart me in that. So just sit back, relax, and lemme do something nice for you.”

She opened her mouth to protest and Miguel quickly ducked down, planting a kiss on her lips that served to both silence her and stir him into pure excitement, his heart racing as he felt her cup his cheek and lean into the kiss. He pulled back with a pleasant ‘pop’, beaming ear to ear, pulse thundering.

“There,” he murmured as she looked back at him, a little hazy from the kiss. “Now, please. What would you like to drink?”

“W… water’s fine,” she managed.

“Good.”

He kissed her forehead, closing off the loop of conversation for the time being, and headed to the kitchen, feeling like someone had replaced his blood with helium and that he was liable to float away, up, up, into the stratosphere, at any given moment.

As he walked into the kitchen and peeked in the oven-- everything seemed to be in order, which was a relief-- Miguel found himself humming. He wasn’t even sure of the tune; he just knew he felt such utter delight that it was bubbling out of him in happy little high notes. Opening the oven with his oven mitts and carefully extracting the simmering tray, he continued his song, the melody as light and pleasant as his mood.

He set the meal down on the countertop to cool, getting down plates and a pair of glasses, filling both with water before setting them on a nearby serving tray, and cast a look over his shoulder. From where he stood in the kitchen, he could only see part of his girlfriend; the left side of her body, to be precise. He laughed, quietly, to himself, and saw her tilt left, her head peeking around the corner to see him.

“Whatcha laughing at in there?”

“Nothing,” he called back, opening a drawer and getting out a handful of utensils. “You just look cute.”

He heard her distantly coo in meekness, batting a hand in the air as if to dismiss the compliment, and he chuckled as he cut slices of the lasagna, plating it as he continued to hum.

Once everything was set and squared away, neat and tidy, Miguel lifted the tray holding the plates and glasses and sidled back into the living room, where his lady love was sitting at the table, running a finger over the lips of the petals of the flowers that made up the centerpiece. She looked up at him, eyes warm in the glow of the candles, and Miguel beamed broadly, sliding the plates down in front of her.

“Dinner is served,” he announced, waiterly in his presentation. “The chef sends his regards.”

“That sounds like a mobster chef,” his girlfriend tittered, graciously accepting the fork Miguel handed to her. “‘Sends his regards’. What, did he bake a gun into the lasagna?”

“No, laced it with cyanide.”

“How grim.”

Miguel sat down in his seat and watched her cut off a corner of her slice, taking an enthusiastic bite. She waggled her eyebrows at him precociously as she chewed and swallowed.

“Not dead yet,” she acknowledged. “Must’ve chickened out at the last minute, hm?”

“I suppose he just couldn’t bring himself to poison such a pretty girl,” Miguel mused, cutting a bite for himself on his own plate. “I know I never could.”

“Flatterer.”

She leaned over the table to press a kiss to Miguel’s cheek, her lips delightfully soft against the prickly stubble. As she pulled back, her eyes caught on something to his side, and she turned her head, gaze fixed as her smile grew. Miguel turned to see what she was looking at and felt his pulse spike; she’d seen the gift.

“Aw, Miggy! Is that for me?”

“Uh, oh, um... yes,” he stumbled, suddenly nervous once more. “I was planning on giving it to you after dinner, but…”

She paused, waiting for his cue. Miguel appreciated that-- she wasn’t going to pull away or push forward without him. Such a considerate girl. He placed a quick peck on her cheek as she remained hovering over the table and leaned to his side, taking the package in hand and turning it over hesitantly.

“It’s, uh, the first gift I’ve ever given, you know, like this,” he offered, eyes cast downwards and transfixed on the way the light bounced off the pink ribbon, making it seem luminescent. “So, um… go easy on me?”

He looked up, anxious, and saw her softening eyes, her gentle smile. She touched his jaw affectionately, lingering a moment before nodding.

“I won’t have to go easy on you,” she replied. “I know that whatever this is, it’s from you, and that’s what matters to me.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his lightly, and Miguel’s vision went momentarily hazy with a rush of boyish glee at the kiss.

“It’s a gift from my boyfriend, whom I love,” she said with finality, returning to her seat, sweeping her skirt under her thighs with one hand as she readjusted and set the package on the table, primly placed next to her plate. “So I’ll love it. Do you want me to open it after we eat?”

“I mean, no better time than the present.”

A small snort of laughter left her at the bad joke, and Miguel smiled, relaxing a little. There was nothing to be scared of… he hoped.

Casting him one last glance, his beloved picked up the package and unfurled the ribbon, tugging one loose end of it until it came away from the package in an elegant river of pink fabric. She wound it up and set it on one corner of the table, then turned over the package and peeled at the seams of the paper, almost surgically removing the tape. Her careful unwrapping seemed to stretch on for ages to Miguel, who felt himself digging his nails into his knees as he watched her.

“You did a good job wrapping it,” she remarked casually, the crinkle of paper rising between them.

Miguel just nodded, eyes fixed firmly on her, waiting for her reaction.

She slipped the paper away and found, in her hand, a small, sturdy laboratory notebook. Miguel kept dozens of these, strewn hither and yon about his home, office, and lab, and she was familiar with their appearance, having flicked through a few before. She cast an inquisitive gaze his way, quirking a brow, and Miguel merely nodded, jutting his chin at the book in her hand.

“Open it,” he managed to say without trembling.

Graciously, she cracked the cover and pored over the first page as Miguel pored over her face, studying every muscular contraction, every scan of her eyes, every twitch of her lips. He waited with bated breath, hands digging painfully into his thighs as he kept stock-still.

She kept silent as she turned the page, her eyes skimming down the words written therein, then turned another page. And another. After what seemed like a grueling eternity, she looked back up at Miguel, her expression shifting in such a nuanced, unseen way that Miguel couldn’t place it.

“Miggy,” she said softly, fingers still resting on one of the pages of the notebooks, “Is this… about me?”

He nodded, swallowing thickly.

“I, uh, well… lemme explain.”

Standing up from his seat, Miguel rounded the table to come to her side, hovering over her shoulder and taking the edge of the book in his hand so that they held it together.

“I really, really struggled to find something that would explain how I feel for you,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “It couldn’t be something dumb, like some silly necklace I could buy at a mall or a gift card or whatever. I wanted it to be something only I could do, and something only I could do for only you. Something that could never be replicated. And that got me thinking about my work.”

He turned the page to the very first page, resting a finger on a line with the words “OBSERVATION LOG” written in his scratchy style.

“My job, as a geneticist, is to study some of the most absolutely unique stuff on Earth and try to figure out what makes it tick. What the patterns are. And when I look at you, my brain does the same things; it keeps track of every little detail about you, trying to figure out what makes you so… special, in every conceivable way, to me.”

Miguel brushed a thumb along the curve of her hand as it held the book, tracing the warmth of her skin. He took a steadying breath, then pressed on.

“So I thought I would write it all down and show you how every single thing in here is part of what makes you the most utterly unique creature in all the world,” he murmured. “And part of what makes me love you. Unchangeably.”

He turned the page, showing her scattered lists and notes and observations, quick jots of details, scraps of information, shorthanded recollections of memories. He pointed with a finger to highlight one such entry.

“This is about how you’re so fussy about what goes on your sandwiches,” he smiled. “Finicky about the crusts. It’s the recipe for the perfect sandwich for you.”

He pointed elsewhere.

“And this is an entry about how you looked when we were at the botanical gardens; I couldn’t stop thinking about how the flowers were only pretty to me when you were near them. I got bored with them if they weren’t the objects of your attention.”

She giggled, rather wetly, and Miguel looked away from the book in concern, taking her face in his hands.

She was crying, tears streaking down her cheeks even as she smiled up at him.

“Oh, princess, no,” he crooned, kneeling down to wipe at her face with the napkin meant for their dinner. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“I love it, Miggy,” she choked, grabbing his wrists and squeezing them lovingly. “Oh my God, honey, it’s so sweet! That you even remembered this stuff… that you wrote it down-- I-- I’m just so--!”

Without another word, she tossed her arms around Miguel’s neck and planted a deep, trembling kiss against his lips, pressing her weight against him as he first tensed, surprised, then relaxed, sighing into the kiss and allowing his hand to slip up the back of her neck, cradling the base of her head and tugging her even closer to him.

He felt his heart thrum in his chest, too fast in its palpitations to even be marked as beating; it seemed to vibrate him down to the very last atom, the electron, the quark. He shivered with pure, unadulterated love for her, feeling her hot breath against him as she pulled away to re-angle herself for another kiss, the hiccupy giggles of her tearful laughter flooding over him.

“I can’t believe all I got you was a watch,” she sniffled, kissing all over his face and jaw, tears brushing onto his stubble from her chin. “A dumb, little watch.”

“Hey, c’mon,” he mumbled, smiling. “Spoilers.”

As he knelt at her side and felt her bury her face in his neck, shaking with a combination of uncontrollable giggles and waves of tears, Miguel ran a hand up and down her back, feeling an air of complete comfort wash over him. He’d done well.

He kissed her shoulder, hugging her tight.

“I love you,” he spoke, voice clear and earnest.

He felt her nod into his neck.

“I love you, too, baby,” came her muffled reply.

Miguel could not hope to restrain the joy that burst through his heart and out into his smile; he was loved.

And that was all that mattered.

#miguel o'hara #original #messages #anonymous #this was approx. 11 pages and still didn't feel long enough but simultaneously felt too long #idk i haven't properly sat down and written in ages so i just. wanted to finish something #quarantine depression BEGONE PLEASE

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starrystarrybabe · 6 years

Text

Bacon and Eggs (Roger Taylor x Reader) CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER 3 Word count: 3,799

I don't expect this to get too many notes, as the initial response to the first chapter got smaller and smaller, but I'm really enjoying writing this, and I appreciate the people who are still reading. If you want to make sure this keeps going, it would be helpful to me if you reblog this. I know it's not typical to do that on tumblr, and even I am trying to get into the habit of doing it more often, and if more of us start doing it, it will become more of a practice than a rare occurrence. Enjoy this chapter!

you sit on your couch, waiting for anna once again. this time, instead of going to a gig, you two are going to kensington market. there's a stall there that carries older books, and you plan on buying at least three to add to your collection. with a sigh, you roll your eyes and slump back on the couch.

"anna! we don't have all day!" you call out to her as you rub your temples, aggravated beyond belief.

"wait one second! i'm dressing nicely for john!" she calls back to you, yelling over her music.

ever since they met, john and anna have been inseparable. they just work together. it's adorable, but sickeningly so. as a single person, you find it to be just plain disgusting how sweet they are in public. pda is not your thing, nor will it ever be. couples being affectionate in public is a repulsive, socially acceptable form of voyeurism.

"he would love you if you were wearing a bloody potato sack, anna! hurry the fuck up!" you snap back at her.

she comes out of the room in a sundress and john's denim jacket, and you stand up.

"let's go, lovebird," you tell her before she can say anything.

as you leave, you shove your hands in your corduroy jacket, speedwalking to the stairs.

"you're just jealous," she tells you, scoffing.

"jealous of what? the fact that you're in a budding relationship with a man who lives off of cheese toast?" you look back at her as you two exit the building.

she pouts and elbows you in the side. "hey! it's not that bad, and he's very nice. it's not my fault that you're a challenging person to love because of your trust issues and lack of ability to flirt."

you stop in your tracks, and for a minute you're speechless. "first of all, that's fucking rude, you wanker. second of all, you didn't have to delve that fucking deeply."

she looks at you and shrugs. "don't insult deaky and i won't tell you the truth about yourself."

you roll your eyes as you start walking again. "i wasn't making fun of him. he's just... deaky. i don't know how else to describe him."

she laughs. "he's a good man and you know it."

you nod. "yes. i know. that's the problem. he's too good to be around the rest of the boys."

once you get to the market and anna leaves to be with deaky, you begin to walk to the stall with the books that you love, but stop when you hear someone bickering with their co-worker.

"the hell do you mean, this is horrible?" an offended voice rings out.

"look at it. it's a nasty piece of fabric, and it's not worth that much!" an angry response snaps back, and you recognize the voice.

rog and freddie have a stall? huh.

you walk over to their stall, and when freddie sees you, he hands roger the awful shirt he's holding and comes over to give you a hug.

"(y/n), darling! i haven't seen you in a day! it's been far too long." he excitedly greets you, squeezing you tightly in his arms.

you respond by hugging him back. "if you'd like, you can come back to my flat with me after you're done here. i have nothing to do, and it's my day off from work."

freddie separates from you and smiles, going back to the box of clothes he's sorting through with roger. "i'd love that, dear."

roger's face turns sadder as he leans down to help freddie.

"you can come too, rog. you didn't really think that i'd only invite freddie, did you?" you grin and cross your arms, raising a brow at the blonde.

he looks up at you, shaking his head. "i can't come. i have plans."

you smirk. "what's her name?"

he thinks for a moment, blinking. "cheryl, or sherry. it's something like that."

"i'm sure she'll really appreciate you not even knowing her name," you sarcastically respond before picking up a marked down fur coat. "this is cute. i like it."

freddie smiles at you. "i'll give it to you for even less. friends get a marked down price."

roger looks up at freddie, baffled. "this is quite possibly the worst business model you could possibly follow, fred. how much money do you expect to make when you mark down items by that much?"

you smile and put down twice the price of the coat. "take this. the next time you have a gig, use the extra to get us a pitcher of beer."

roger puts the money in a box and grumbles under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

"what is it, rog?" you ask him how he's doing as you put your new purchase in your side bag.

"we've sold bloody nothing today but that. at this rate, we won't be able to pay the rent." he sits down in a creaky little chair, and you move to sit down next to him.

"well, how much is the rent?" you prompt the grumpy drummer, like a therapist slowly getting the gist of all your problems.

"£130 a month, and me, bri, fred, and mary all pay for it," he explains, lighting a cigarette.

you frown. "that's too much for where you live. you got a bad deal, rog." you think for a moment. "anna and i's place has room for three more people, but at this point, i think anna will move in with deaky, she's around him so much nowadays. so that would make room for four people."

he looks at you like you're crazy. "how much is your rent?"

you shrug. "£100."

his eyes widen. "that's bloody cheap! how did you swing that?"

you sigh. "my landlord is my ex's aunt. she keeps it so low because she loves me and hates what he did to me."

roger nods, and slowly leans back in his chair. "what did he do to you, if you don't mind me asking?"

you light a cigarette, and look down. "cheated on me with my least favorite cousin. i walked in on him shagging her in my bed, so i dumped his shit out of the window and hit him with his favorite record."

roger is speechless. that's horrible, and he can see that it still makes you angry. he can also tell that you're not done.

"i told her to stay away from liam. she has a history of ruining relationships. claims she's just testing to see if the men are worthy, but she's really just a filthy wanker who thrives on others' pain," you continue, ready to rant about your horrible cousin. "i haven't been home since she did that, because i'd probably wring her neck and shank her with a rusty blade if i did."

freddie has been listening in, and quietly asks you, "how long ago was that?"

you blow out cigarette smoke. "six months ago."

roger and freddie look at each other in sad shock, and freddie comes behind you and gives you a hug, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"i'm so sorry, my darling. if you ever need someone to go with you if you decide to go home, i am more than willing," he reassures you, and you smile slightly, holding his arm.

"i'll do it too. no guarantees i won't kill your cousin, though," roger adds on, angry on your behalf.

you smile at him, and nod. "you're both amazing, have i said that before?"

roger gives you a half hug and grins. "i could stand to hear that statement more often from you, love."

you snort and lean against his shoulder, your cigarette hanging in between your teeth. "of course you would, you egotistical twat."

freddie lets go of you and looks over you and roger before putting away some of the items they have out that have been neglected for a longer amount of time. "(y/n), i have a very important question to ask you," he prompts, holding the shirt rog hates behind his back.

you turn in your chair and nod in response. "what is it, fred?"

he holds out the shirt. "is this really horrible?"

you cringe at the shirt, and shudder slightly at the sight of it. "one hundred percent. it's pretty terrible, mate. not even you could make that look good, and you somehow pull off that white jacket with the collar that looks like an angry lizard."

SIX MONTHS LATER

your flat looks like a bloody nightmare, if you say so yourself. there are boxes of freddie's, mary's, brian's, and roger's clothes everywhere, and inside your room, anna still has a few boxes of random items she couldn't manage to part with. currently, she is in the process of unpacking her new apartment with deaky and your mutual friends brenna and alexis.

anna and deaky have been in a very steady relationship practically since they met, and it is insane how well they get along. you think that he'll propose soon, and even though typically, you'd be concerned about anna marrying someone she met six months ago, deaky is a good man who will love her completely and unconditionally.

you step over boxes of platform shoes, and make your way to brian's door. you knock to get his attention, and he turns to face you with a smile.

"i'm almost done, (y/n). there's one more box of mine behind you, if you wouldn't mind getting it for me." he points to a beat up cardboard box labelled "shoes" that rests just behind your legs while unpacking his shirts.

"no problem, bri. actually, after you're done getting unpacked, would you want to go to the diner to get dinner? we can eat, and simultaneously get out of everyone's way," you offer, bending down to pick up the box.

when you pick it up with a grunt, the bottom spills open, and at least five pairs of different kinds of clogs fall out of it. you look down at the pile of shoes at your feet and blink in confusion, pressing your lips together.

"brian?" you softly call his name.

"yes?" he looks up at you from the leather vest he's putting on a hanger.

you meet his eyes with a look of complete and utter confusion. "who needs five pairs of bloody clogs?"

"six pairs, actually. i'm wearing my white leather ones right now." he points to his feet.

"the question remains." if anything, you're even more confused.

"i just really like clogs," brian states simply, as if it's normal for a single man to have what could be the beginning of an extensive clog collection.

you sigh and begin picking up clogs, moving them inside the room. "you're a strange man, brian may. you're aware of that, correct?"

"i've been told that once or twice, yeah." he finishes putting away his clothes and puts the clogs in the closet that you are both sharing, since you've decided that your and brian's things can fit in the one room.

you look around the room, which is much more cramped than it was before. even though there's more space in rog's room, between his womanizing habits and his clunky drum set, it was agreed upon that it would be most logical to allow the man his own space. throughout the months, you've gotten closer with brian, and now consider him to be a dear friend. you regularly go to the library together after you're both done with your classes, and he cooks you breakfast on the weekends. you two even go grocery shopping together, and he's beginning to teach you how to play guitar.

"so, how do you feel about getting food and getting out of here?" you ask him again.

he lets out a sigh of relief. "anything to get out of this mess."

you and brian walk into the living room, where roger is moving his boxes, and mary is working on separating hers and freddie's clothes, which they packed in the same boxes.

"bri and i are going out to eat. how long do you think it will be until the floor isn't a sea of boxes anymore?" you ask the three new roommates, and they look up tiredly.

"give it at least four hours, darling. there's a lot of things to sort through and organize," freddie responds, leaning against the wall.

mary nods, agreeing with her boyfriend. roger is clenching his jaw as he looks down at a box of records.

"does four hours sound good to you, rog?" brian looks over at the blonde, who nods and goes back to unpacking.

you smile. "alright! four hours it is. let's go, bri. we can also stop at the music store to see if they finally got new strings since we have all this time!"

brian grins and nods, exiting the room with you. "sounds good to me. let's do it."

as soon as the door shuts, freddie turns to roger. "someone is being uncharacteristically quiet. what's bothering you, rog?"

roger looks at freddie and huffs. "nothing, fred. i'm just stressed out because moving is hard, alright?" mary raises a brow and puts down a silk blouse, looking at the stressed out drummer. "it feels like it's more than just that, rog. is it the fact that (y/n) is getting close with brian?"

roger scoffs, rolling his eyes. "of course not. why would i care if she gets close with him? i slept with her once, and it didn't mean anything. she just happened to stick around because she happens to be nice, and fit in with us."

freddie puts the blouse in his own box, and looks down. "you've admitted that you enjoy that she challenges you. you two tend to tease each other quite a bit."

roger shrugs. "so? we're friends. we poke fun at one another. you and i do that too, and so does bri and deaky. it's normal."

mary walks into her and freddie's room and begins to unpack some of her clothes, leaving freddie to reason with the grumpy drummer.

"it took you some time to get back to having successful one night stands after her. she even told you that when you're ready for more than a quick fuck, only then could you even entertain the option of having her in your bed." freddie recalls what's happened in the past months. "you want to get closer to her, don't you? like brian has."

roger leans against the wall and begins to go on a rant. "i can't be the only one who finds it strange that they go to the library together, go grocery shopping together, he's teaching her guitar, and they're platonically sleeping in the same room! how platonic could that possibly be? they're acting like they're bloody married! how long will it be until they're shagging on the regular?"

freddie smiles, shaking his head. "rog, you're the only one who thinks that. bri and (y/n) are just friends who happen to act responsibly together because they need to take care of us. you know that we behave like children at times, and we need her and bri there to keep us on track and out of trouble."

roger runs a hand through his blonde locks, slumping forward. "i'm a bloody adult. i don't need someone else to help manage my life."

freddie shrugs. "you may be an adult, but you act like a reckless teenager. i can be unreasonable and impulsive at times, but you're a nightmare to deal with."

roger looks up, offended. "how am i a nightmare?"

freddie begins listing off reasons. "you always drink too much and end up needing to be taken care of, you easily get into fights, if someone dares you to do something, you have to do it, you don't cope well with your emotions, and end up doing immature things to ignore them, and you lose your temper far too easily. i'm sure brian and deaky could add to that list as well."

roger presses his mouth together in thought, and wants to contest what freddie is telling him, but he knows that it's true. he bites back a scathing remark and instead asks freddie a question angrily. "if all that is true, why do any of you stick around? clearly i'm a nightmare and i'm not worth all the trouble."

freddie sighs. "we stick around because underneath all that is a kind, wonderful person we are lucky to have in our lives. that's why we put up with your stubbornness. (y/n) wants you to be closer to her and be with you, because she saw a little glimpse of that side, and recognized how special that was. all she requests is that you embrace that and show it to more people than just us, because the womanizing flirt you present yourself to be is not truly you." he stands up, and picks up a box of clothes. "she deserves better than that roger taylor. she wants the real deal, because she knows that she deserves nothing less than the best."

as freddie walks back into his room, roger takes a moment to think about what he's just been told. you had told him that he was trouble, and you had previously been hurt by a man who presented himself like roger did. if you truly thought of him as purely trouble, you wouldn't have even presented him with the offer to come back to you when he's ready for more than a quick fuck. that means that deep down, you think he's worth the emotional involvement, and you'd be willing to open up to him. all he needs to do is open up to the world and himself first.

as you and brian walk to the music store, you frown. "roger seemed kind of bothered today, didn't he?" you look up at the tall man beside you.

brian nods slowly, thinking about how rog had acted. "yeah, he did. i know he was initially questioning if we should be in the same room, but i thought he had gotten over that." brian returns your gaze, agreeing with you.

"he has seemed weirded out by our relationship before, for some reason. i explained to him that we're just friends multiple times, but i guess he considers our dynamic to be more than that." you shrug, noting the times that rog didn't seem to understand that you and brian were nothing more than friends.

"he can be a bit immature about these things, that's true. he has a very limited view of what a relationship between a man and a woman can entail. i get why he doesn't understand us from that perspective. but we've firmly established that we don't have a romantic relationship." brian tries to explain roger's behavior with a theory surrounding his beliefs.

"we do act a little bit like parents, though. getting groceries, working together in the library, you cooking for me, and overall, we take care of the rest of the band." you look up at brian as you go through your actions. "but he's not interested in grocery shopping or being responsible in general. he's an overgrown schoolboy, or at least he acts like one."

brian shakes his head. "but he's not. he's a biochemistry major who studied dentistry, and makes sure to take care of freddie. he's also an extremely talented drummer, and a fabulous musician. he's so much more than what he presents himself to be."

you two walk into the music store and greet the clerk before heading to see the rack of strings in the back of the room.

you nod. "i know that. i remembered a few nights ago why i was initially attracted to him."

brian looks down at you as you search through the different strings. "why was that?"

you find a pack of strings that you know brian likes and hold it up for him to take. "he was drumming, and for a moment he was so into the music that he just looked so genuinely happy, and confident. it wasn't the kind of loud, brash confidence that he uses to pick up girls, but a quiet confidence that doesn't need to prove itself to anyone." you stand up, and look at brian. "the roger taylor who i saw there is someone i would like to see more often than the one who flaunts his conquests in my face to try and prove to me that he doesn't feel anything for me."

brian picks up the rest of the strings he needs, and smiles. "you know he does still feel something for you."

you huff. "i know! but he always acts so bloody pathetically when it comes to facing his feelings, and it doesn't make him very likable. i want to show him that his behavior is incredibly ridiculous, and make him see that he doesn't need to be such a child about these things."

brian walks over with you to pay for the strings. "how do you propose we teach him that?"

you smile, an idea crossing your mind. "would you mind me borrowing one of your nightshirts and using makeup to draw hickeys on both of us?"

brian looks shocked before handing over the money and laughing. "that's genius, (y/n)!"

you smirk at look up at brian. "if you feel comfortable with me pushing it further, could i? just to rub it in his face, like he always does to the rest of us."

brian turns red, and begins stammering. "wh-what?"

you shake your head. "nothing too intense! just like, leaning against you, being closer in general, hand holding, stuff like that. it won't take much to put rog over the edge."

brian takes a sigh of relief. "oh, thank god. i think i can accomplish holding your hand, that's not a problem."

you grin and hug brian. "thank you!"

he pats the top of your head and grins. "you're welcome. would you like a led zeppelin tee-shirt or a beatles one?"

#queen #bohemian rapsody movie #bohemian rhapsody #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #starry writes

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ravengirl94 · 8 years

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Imagine: Telling Jensen about your kid

Summary: You surprise Jensen with some interesting news at a convention. Luckily he wants to meet your child, and the two of you have a chance to reconnect

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Word Count: 2,600

Warnings: awkwardness? an illegitimate child? surprise pregnancy

A/N: This is for a request from the lovely @bluebell013. I’m pretty sure I took it in a different direction than you were thinking, but I hope you like it! Sorry if it’s messy. My sick brain did the best it could with editing. Also... this is my first Jensen imagine and I’m kind of nervous about it. Feedback is appreciated!

Your palms were sweating.

You wiped them against your jeans and rocked on your heels a little, trying to calm down. A couple deep breaths helped, but you were still shaking as the line continued to creep forward. No one paid any attention to you, no one spoke or commented that you looked nervous, because everyone's attention was fixed on the three men sitting at the table up ahead. The convention was packed, hundreds if not thousands of Supernatural fans there just to see them, to glimpse their idols just for a moment. You were in the autograph line, but you weren't holding a picture of Sam or Dean, or some other piece of memorabilia. You were holding a picture of your son.

Just then Jensen laughed, the sound sending a jolt through you. God he had a gorgeous, intoxicating laugh. He threw his head back, white teeth flashing and green eyes sparkling, making your skin feel hot. It felt like a lifetime ago that the two of you had met. It was sort of a running joke among your friends, who didn't believe that you'd actually spent the night with Jensen Ackles. That is, until two pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test. To be fair, you hadn't exactly been sure it was his. That was, until your son was born with those striking green eyes and looked exactly like his father. At that point, it felt like it was too late. He was a celebrity, how were you supposed to find him, let alone tell him oh hey I'm pretty sure I bore your illegitimate child? It was just too ridiculous.

Life hadn't exactly been easy as a single mother, but you were managing just fine on your own and Ross was your whole world. You had a decent apartment not far from your parents, who were more than willing to help you. A nice girl down the hall babysat for you while you were at work. You hadn't gone to that convention to extort him, to demand money or… anything really. You just figured the man had a right to know. So you stood in that line, hands shaking as it slowly crawled towards your little boy's father.

Jensen's eyes locked onto the next person in line, and he frowned. Your hair was down, falling in soft waves over your shoulders, eyes dark with worry. You looked anxious, but something about your face made him pause. He knew you. One of your hands twitched up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and the memories came flooding back.

"Y/N," he said, grinning up at you. Your eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open in surprise.

"You remember my name," you said. It wasn't a question.

"I remember a lot more than that," Jensen replied, that cocky grin remaining plastered to his face. He'd been lonely lately. Maybe the stars had aligned and brought you back to him at the opportune moment. There was something about you that made him never forget you, his mind drifting to your night together occasionally. In another life, you might have been the one. You were sweet but sassy, a fun and intelligent girl that he could actually have a conversation with. He was pretty sure he'd been in love with you.

Your mouth quirked into a little frown at his words, making him pause. Maybe the two of you wouldn't be having a happy reunion. But then why were you here? His answer came quickly as you extended a photo towards him, your hand shaking slightly.

"He's yours," you said in a low voice, glancing around worriedly, "his name is Ross."

Jensen froze when you handed him the picture, paling noticeably as you said the words. He stared down at the photo, the most recent one you had. Ross was three now, and that grin paired with those green eyes made him look so much like his father it was hard to miss. Your heart was beating out of control so that your chest was pounding, your hands shaking and knees weak. You had imagined this moment thousands of times over the years, but this was too real, too scary.

"I don't want anything from you. I just… you had the right to know," you said hurriedly, glancing around uneasily. You hadn't wanted to do this in a public place, but there weren't exactly many options. Nearby, Jared had paused his own conversation with a fan, looking at Jensen in concern.

Jensen seemed almost shaken awake at your words, his eyes snapping back up to you. There were too many emotions there to read, but mostly he looked shocked. He looked back down at the picture and ran a hand through his hair quickly.

"Can…" he began, his voice catching, "can I meet him?"

You'd imagined this moment over and over, but you'd never expected this reaction.

"You want to?" You asked, wrapping your arms around yourself. Tears jumped into your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away. Jensen jerked to his feet so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. Silence fell almost immediately, all eyes on him.

"If… if that's okay, yeah," he said earnestly. All you could do was nod, unable to speak as the threatening tears clogged your throat. Jensen turned to Jared, grabbing his arm. You couldn't hear their conversation, but between all the whispering and glancing at you, Jensen likely told his best friend plenty. Finally he came back to you, the photo of your son still clutched tightly in his hand. "I… As much as I want to run out of here right now, I should stay. I'll finish up here, then… then can I call you?" You nodded again, biting your lip. It was the best plan of action, since there would likely be a riot if he left right then. You wrote down your number quickly on a piece of paper he had handy, sliding it across the table to him. "Can I keep this?" He asked, holding up the photo. There was a touch of panic in his voice, concern that you'd walk away and he'd never see his little boy.

"Yeah. Tonight is fine if you want to… you know," you said, managing to find your voice. Jensen's face broke into a relieved smile, and he grabbed your hand, squeezing gently.

"Thank you," he whispered, emerald eyes sincere. You just nodded before turning and walking away, head spinning. You bee-lined straight outside, collapsing onto a bench before your knees gave out and taking big gulps of cold air. You'd done it. You'd actually done it. You'd told Jensen Ackles about your son. And he was going to come meet him tonight.

The thought sent a wave of panic through you, and you shot to your feet. Jensen was coming to your apartment in mere hours, which meant you desperately needed to clean. Everything.

Luckily tidying up kept you mildly occupied, and Lauren, the babysitter, offered to entertain Ross at her apartment down the hall while you worked. You picked up all the baby toys, vacuumed the whole place, scrubbed the kitchen and organized until the apartment looked so good, you hardly wanted to live in it for fear of messing it up. But that was unavoidable with a toddler. Your phone buzzed on the counter halfway through your aggressive cleaning rampage, and you snatched it up so fast you almost dropped it.

Should be done here in a few minutes if you're still okay with me coming over

You shot back a quick text with your address as well as a reassurance that it really was okay for him to come meet his own child.

Is it okay if I bring Jared? He can wait outside if you want.

You bit your lip at the most recent text, but if Jensen was coming, why not Jared too? They were best friends, and Jensen likely wanted a little support for this meeting. So you told him it was fine, and continued frantically preparing for his arrival.

Panic flared through you when you heard the quiet knock on the door and you hastily straightened your shirt and ran a hand through your hair. With a deep breath, you opened the door to a nervous Jensen.

"Hey," he said, eyes searching your face. You glanced behind him to Jared, who gave you a kind smile.

"Hey, come in," you said, stepping aside and ushering them into the apartment, "can I get you anything to drink?" You asked as the two men hovered in the entryway. Jensen was looking around anxiously, obviously searching for Ross. "He's over at the neighbors. I figured we could talk, and then I could go get him." Jensen visibly relaxed, and at your insistence, the two men sat on your sofa.

"So, umm…" you began awkwardly, unsure how to have this conversation.

"How old is he?" Jensen asked instead, "he's gotta be what, around three?"

"Yeah, three and a half next month," you said softly, watching Jensen's face for any hint of what he was thinking, "and listen, I meant what I said. I don't want anything from you, I don't expect money or anything. We do just fine…"

"But I'm his father," Jensen said, a sudden fierceness in his eyes, his voice gruff, "why didn't you tell me? I would have… I would have been there."

"I didn't know, Jensen I'm sorry. I never imagined you'd want anything to do with us," you admitted, staring down at your hands. When you finally glanced back up, Jensen looked pained, and Jared had a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, I'll go get him, alright? I'll be right back."

You hurried down the hall, knocking quickly on Lauren's door. She opened it almost immediately, Ross perched on her hip.

"Hey there little man! Did you have fun with auntie Lauren today?" You asked, pulling your son into your arms.

"We went to the playground and then he had a nice long nap," Lauren said, smiling fondly at Ross. She really was a fantastic sitter.

"Thanks so much Lauren. Is it okay if I pay you tomorrow?" You asked, glancing back towards your own apartment where Jensen and Jared were waiting.

"Yeah that's fine Y/N, no rush you know that," Lauren said, "have a good night."

"You too!" You called, hurrying back towards your apartment. But before you opened the door, you paused and looked to Ross. "Hey sweetheart, there's somebody I want you to meet, okay? He's really nice."

"Is he your friend, mommy?" Ross asked, emerald eyes intent on you.

"Yeah sweetie, he is. You ready?" Ross nodded, and you opened the door.

Jensen shot to his feet as the door opened, his eyes immediately falling on the little boy in your arms. He looked a lot like both of you - Your mouth and nose, his hair, but those eyes… they were his. He was frozen as you approached, setting Ross down where he clung to your leg, staring up at him and Jared with wide eyes.

"Ross, these are my friends Jensen and Jared, can you say hi?" "Hi," the little boy said, smiling shyly.

"Hi there Ross," Jensen said, feeling faint.

"Maybe you can show him your trucks. What do you think?" You asked, looking down at him. Ross nodded excitedly, running over to snatch Jensen's hand. His heart panged as he grabbed two of his fingers - all he could get his little hand around - and pulled him towards the next room.

"I never meant to hurt him," you whispered, tearing your gaze from father and son to look at Jared, "I just didn't know what to do. Is he mad?"

"I think he's just shocked," Jared said after a moment, "he never shut up about you, you know."

"Me?" You asked, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah. He was really hooked on you. I can see why," Jared said, making you blush. "He'll take care of you two, I hope you know that."

"We don't need anything from him," you began, shaking your head slightly.

"I know. But do me a favor and let him? That's his boy. He's going to want to be a part of his life. He'll want to help," Jared said seriously, that little line forming between his eyebrows as he looked at you.

"Of course," you said quietly, turning back to watch the two of them playing. Jensen was building a fire station for Ross's trucks using some blocks nearby. You thought Ross might jump out of his skin he was so excited. The two of them together made you smile. Jensen looked so at ease down there on the floor playing trucks with his son, and your shy little man had opened up to a stranger faster than ever. It was remarkable, and part of you hoped Jensen would want to be a part of his life.

A few hours later, the four of you sat in the living room. You'd thrown together a quick dinner with help from Jensen, while Jared kept Ross occupied. It was nice to talk to him, to be doing something so normal and mundane. He did want to help out, and asked if he would be able to see Ross more often. You were more than happy to agree.

The little guy was sound asleep against Jensen on the couch, a truck still gripped in his tiny hand.

"So you named him Ross..." Jensen mused, a wry smile on his face.

"I've always liked the name," you teased, eyes drifting to your son. Jensen followed your gaze, and his expression softened.

"He's certainly a cute one."

"Takes after his father," you said, flashing him a grin.

"More like his mother," Jensen said quietly, something shifting in his eyes as he looked at you.

"Well, we should probably get going," Jared interrupted, standing and stretching. "Thank you for having me, Y/N. Dinner was delicious. I'll meet you in the car, Jay," he said, waving at you to sit back down before he saw himself out.

"He's a good friend," you said quietly, feeling the suddenly tense atmosphere now that Jared was gone.

"He is," Jensen agreed, easing Ross up into his arms without waking him. You both stood awkwardly, and then Jensen carefully passed Ross over to you, clearly reluctant to let the little boy go.

"Listen, I'm sorry-"

"No," Jensen stopped you, shaking his head, "thank you. I mean it. I might have never even known about him, but you decided to share him. It means a lot that you'd let me know our son." His green eyes were so sincere, and he seemed so happy. You had just turned his world upside down and he was thanking you. It was certainly not what you'd expected, so you just nodded, trying to keep the tears from your eyes.

Jensen placed a gentle hand against the side of Ross's head before leaning in to kiss his forehead. Then he surprised you by brushing a soft kiss to your cheek.

"Would you... Well, would you want to get dinner sometime?" Jensen asked, shocking you for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. "Without Ross, I mean." He sounded nervous, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Like a date?" You whispered.

"Exactly like a date," he said with a sly grin.

"Yeah, Jay, I'd love that."

This time when Jensen leaned in, his lips found yours, giving you a quick but passionate kiss. Then he was strolling down the hallway, hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully.

A/N: Now I’m off to watch the patriots game...

Tags: @avengers4thewin @emoryhemsworth @ashleygee16 @dekahg @eileenlikesyou-maybe @fandommaniacx @angelwingsandsupernaturalthings @supernatural-jackles

#jensen x reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x you #jensen x y/n #request #supernatural #jensen imagine #jared padalecki

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