#im not despondent just...empty feeling | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelguk · 3 years

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what happens in this section is entirely a result of what guys voted please do not! come for my head in my inbox im begging. very sad in general like Angst with a capital A with a sprinkle of despair and pain. listen to mess it up by gracie abrams. roughly 2k.

(titled — out of line)

You thought Lucas would help, the warmth of his body a distraction from your aching heart, but he didn’t. Not the way you needed him to. He was sweet enough, made you giggle endlessly before finding his place between your thighs. But even with his tongue on your clit, your (now usually sober) mind still lingered on Jeongguk, his memory a stain on your soul. It didn’t help when you spotted him with a girl hanging off his arm, her bright eyes stuck on his face, soaking him in like the earth does the sun. You didn’t know her name – Chayoung took the liberty of whispering it to you after your biology lab. She was Hyeri, a sophomore with a delicate laugh and graceful disposition. That vile vindictive black thing that now inhabited your chest swelled, brain already comparing the differences between you and her. Your clumsiness suddenly felt like a curse, even though Jeongguk had countlessly said he loved you for it (or did he say that just to ease your worries?). Insecurities spring forth like weeds and you don’t have the capacity to keep the careful garden of your heart tended.

They take over slowly, your eyes stinging whenever you see them huddled together in the quad. Bitter tears blinked back, your blinkered senses overlooking how Jeongguk’s quiet gaze followed your figure whenever you turned your back to him, even with Yoona yapping at his ears.

Perhaps the despondency that clung to your bones is what led you here, face planted in the musky scent of Namjoon’s sheets, your heart throbbing funny.

“Can you even breathe?” He questions. The timbre of his voice washes over you, familiar and somewhat reassuring. You twist upright to face him, eyes squeezing tight when the bright fluorescent lights in his room assaults your vision.

“I was hoping my heart would give up if I held it in long enough.”

Namjoon stills, brown eyes flitting over you. He coughs like he’s working through various sets of words before he decides what’s most suitable. “And then what? I get framed for murder when they find your body here?”

You laugh, and it hurts. “Maybe. My body is very portable though, did you consider first burying me in the backyard?”

“Rookie mistake,” Namjoon returns. He rises to fetch the mugs of tea sitting idle on a stool he’d dragged from the corner of his room. “The sniffer dogs would fly straight to that location. Also, I’d have to dig a hole big enough to fit your head in.”

“And why would the dogs find me immediately?” You say, shuffling upright, palms ready to receive the tepid heat that will seep through the ceramic the moment the cup settles in your hand.

“Your perfume,” Namjoon says. He hands you the mug, heat fulfilling its chosen purpose, the scent of gentle jasmine wafting to your nose.

You pout then, glancing at him. “My perfume?”

“It’s distinct. Violet, right? Maybe vanilla too?” Namjoon says it easily, sinking beside you, utterly unaware of the ticking in your brain. Your gaze falters then, shifting to his broad shoulder and thick biceps. The ivy shirt he’s got on barely contains all that muscle in, fabric stretched thin.

You take a sip of your tea, and despite the period Namjoon gave it to cool it still scalds your tongue.

“Why do you know what fragrance I wear?” It comes out accusatory, but Namjoon handles it well, laughing low.

“You’ve had the same one since high-school, I think. And I remember you telling me.”

The fingers around your cup squeeze tight, your brain unlocking a moment you’d forgotten in the wake of brighter ones. A quiet afternoon at the back of your high-school, Namjoon towering over you, his nose trailing the hollow of your neck, a stray comment about how you smelled good washing over you. It was followed by a flustered younger version of you deflecting, heart pounding wild when Namjoon drew back to look at you as you rattled off the different sillages that made up your favourite perfume. He’d laughed, low like did just now, before calling you cute and pulling you in for a kiss.

“Oh,” you finally murmur. “I remember now.”

You were actually going to change it after your break-up with him, but then Jeongguk had mentioned how much he’d liked it and the bottle had stayed.

Namjoon hums, his gaze slow as it shifts around the room. It’s a space that screams of him, light wood tones and plants breaking from the pristine white walls. Space carved for nature, a grounding sensation living within these four walls – something that seems to live inside of Namjoon too.

“How are you?” He suddenly asks, turning slowly to measure your features.

You blink hard, only realising then that you’d been staring at his face for a second too long. “F-fine. I’m okay. Just busy, y’know. Finals coming up, planning events; the usual.”

“I know,” Namjoon says with a ginger smile. “But that’s not what I’m asking. How are you? With Jeongguk and everything.”

“Oh.” You can’t answer that, his unexpected brazenness shocking your system. The smile on his lips fades, a solemnness in the brown of his eyes. His next words are earnest, and they settle in the pit of your stomach.

“Y/N, I know you didn’t just come here to chat for no reason. We can talk about Jeongguk, that’s okay.”

“N-no, we don’t need it. We’re over. It’s been two months already. We’re seeing other people and I don’t really want to discuss one of my exes with another one. And maybe I did just come to see you,” you tack on an empty laugh at the end, hoping Namjoon doesn’t read right through you.

But he does. Like a part of you hoped he would.

“I’m your friend, you know. We had something but nothing like what you and Jeongguk have. Two months isn’t going to make a lifetime disappear. It’s okay if you still feel bad.”

That’s what cracks you, a well-aimed hammer knocking your walls right down. You bite your lip hard, fingertips pinching the ceramic in your grasp, and swallow the tears looming in your throat with a choked laugh.

“I’m fine, Namjoon. I feel a little like shit but I’m working on it. And Lucas is a great guy–”

“But he’s not Jeongguk.” The sentence feels heavy as if it carries the weight of many hearts on it. But it’s also a line you were thinking about earlier, even with Lucas pressed against you.

“That’s not what I would say–”

“But it’s what you were thinking,” Namjoon cuts. Maybe there’s a peephole in your head that only Namjoon has access to. “And that’s fine. It sucks for Lucas, though. But you shouldn’t feel bad for thinking that way. Especially when you know how special Jeongguk is to you.”

Special. The word is bright, glimmering like Jeongguk’s eyes do.

“I-I just–it just–I don’t know.” The tears you’d attempted to seal inside burst, slipping down your cheeks quiet. Namjoon pry's the mug from your hand, replaces its warmth with his own, and for a split second things feel bearable.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, a calloused palm on your damp cheek, his steadiness clearing away the gloomy skies in your head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop crying, doesn’t whisper that it’ll be okay. He just tugs you closer, rests your splinting head on his wide chest, and soaks up the tears on your face with his shirt. Like the earth does for the pouring heavens.

You eventually hiccup the despair down, finding the words to explain to Namjoon what you were feeling in between the moments where breathing didn’t feel like a race. He takes the news of Jeongguk kissing somebody days after your break-up with wide eyes, his eyebrows drawing together. And then comes the second girl, you don’t even know her name but it still cleaves something out of you. And finally, Hyeri. Her name is a lament.

“And it sucks because he looks happy with her and I still want him to be happy because I still love him. I love him so much it hurts.”

Namjoon cocks his head then, his wide palm sliding down your back. “You think Jeongguk looks happy?”

“Yes?” But it’s a question, your upward gaze on his face imploring.

Namjoon shakes his head instead. You don’t hear it, the following words a deep muffled murmur, “Both of you are idiots.” But you see the twinkle in his eyes and it makes your back straighten.

You want to pester but Namjoon pulls you closer, and you lose yourself in the feeling of him, before a question can register on your tongue. His arms are huge, like sturdy branches defying the blistering gales of your heart. He lets you cry for a little longer, listening intently to the continuing spew of words from your lips, until the storm quiets into a breeze.

“Okay?” Namjoon asks.

You stick your head further into his chest, breathe him in deep. “Okay.”

When he shifts away your skin freezes, but then you realise he’s reaching for a blanket. He swathes it around you fondly, pulling you in for a swift hug before falling out of your reach once more.

“Now, I think we both need a moment to process that.” He’s talking about but you’re not listening, your eyes on his face, gaze gently trailing the curve of his lips. “I also think we need food before we start unpacking the mess you’re in–”

You swallow the sentence with your lips, salt singeing the corners of your mouth. But your movements are not reciprocated, Namjoon’s mouth is still under yours. The soft hand on your neck guiding you away is what pulls you back, right out of that strange dark desperate ocean that held you.

“Y/N–”

“Sorry, shit–shit, I shouldn’t have done that.” But there’s no use now, you can’t take it back. Namjoon is looking at you with those eyes, the ones that feel like pity. His sympathy suddenly makes you feel sick, and you wish the ceiling would give away and shatter your head. “I should go.”

He tries to stop you, firm but gentle with his words and hands. But you’re a wild storm again and nothing can stop you from snatching your butterfly tote bag from the floor of his room and fleeing. The black thing that had been subdued for a moment reemergence with vengeance the second you hit the sidewalks, vision reeling. How could you do that? To Namjoon? To the stable friendship you'd created? But he felt too warm, too caring, too much of everything that you longing for and that Lucas could never give you.

Just a reminder of the swimmer's name as you skidding to a halt, the thump in your chest vicious. Maybe Jeongguk was right. Constantly painting yourself the victim while actively hurting the ones around you. Maybe you should have never let him kiss you again on that rooftop. Maybe you should have never tried to love him.

—

It’s silent in your head when you get back to your apartment. Sieun is home, finally back from her trip to her boyfriend’s parents place, so you’re not surprised to hear the soft hum of laughter filtering through the house. You don’t expect to find Chayoung there though.

They’re huddling in the kitchen, drifting out cheery greetings when you trudge it, only to fall silent when you mumble back a hollow response. A gentle song floating from the radio fills the empty space, three bodies navigating something tense.

“Were you with Lucas?” Sieun eventually pokes. She’s not a big fan of him. She’s not a big fan of the current break-up between you and Jeongguk either. She’s going to hate you for what you’re about to tell her.

“No,” you mumble. There are twenty notifications flashing across your phone screen, all from Namjoon. You feel sick, and you might cry again.

“Well? What’s with the long face?” Chayoung adds.

You take a deep breath, gripping the marble counter tight before twisting around. Better to rip it off all at once right? And there’s no way you could hold this inside of you, not when there is barely any room for your broken heart.

“I kissed Namjoon.”

“WHAT?” Sieun’s jaw slams into the ground and Chayoung freezes beside her, like her joints have suddenly been welded together. They stare at you for long you might have grown a second head during it. And then the questions come, a torrent erupting. You blank for a second, and then the guilt crawls up your spine. It may only be thirteen past five in the afternoon but you definitely need a drink.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #bts x reader #i said this was gonna tomorrow but my brain said tonight so here we are #nobody ask me how we're gonna come back from this #this is ur fault!!#bts angst #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfic

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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

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Hi! Have u done any pregnant Hanji and overprotective daddy Levi already?? Yep i think im craving for more domestic levihan family, im sorry 😭

Im a bit new here in the community, and when i read ur works, i fell in love with it already, thank you for existing!!! 💖💖💖

Hello anon! Thank you so much, I’m so glad you enjoyed my other fics :3 Sorry for the very long wait for this one, I've been struggling to find the time/motivation to write lately, but I'm feeling a little better and I figured I'd get to work on some of my prompts. Starting here!!

It ended up a little less domestic and a touch more angsty than I had originally planned, but only for a moment--happy endings all round!

Warning: this does start off with non-graphic depictions of nausea/vomiting, I hope that doesn't bother you!

Hange had been feeling unwell for days.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence—Hange tended to wake up feeling nauseous some days, most often when she'd neglected to eat a decent meal the evening before—but this was the fourth morning in a row now, that Hange found herself bent over the toilet bowl in the early hours of the morning, heaving up nothing but acid and empty air.

She retched until her stomach ached. There was nothing left to bring up, but her gut still rolled unpleasantly and there was a telling tremor under her tongue that warned her it might be best to stay in the bathroom a little while longer. She settled heavily against the wall to catch her breath.

It didn't make any sense. For most of the day, Hange felt fine. A little tired, maybe, but that was only to be expected after spending half the night every night on the bathroom floor. Tonight, no doubt, would follow the uncomfortably familiar routine: Hange would dry-heave a little longer, until the queasiness abated enough for Levi to convince her to come back to bed, and then she would toss and turn, too warm beneath the bed clothes, until she could fall into a restless sleep. She'd wake up feeling a little groggy, a little bleary, unreasonably hungry, but after a coffee and some breakfast she would feel well again. Perfectly normal.

Like clockwork, Levi appeared in the doorway just as Hange had flopped herself back over the toilet. She felt his palm, cool and soft, press against the back of her neck. Hange gathered her hair back from her face with both hands, braced her elbows on the toilet bowl, letting out a groan of discomfort as her stomach twisted, threatened to revolt again. Levi's thumb rubbed soothingly against her neck.

Sure enough, she brought up nothing more, but she gagged plenty, and found herself gasping for breath by the time she leaned back against Levi, aching and exhausted. His lips pressed into her damp hair.

Levi was as silent as always. His touch was pleasant, his presence welcome. Hange needed the hand he offered to pull her to her feet, needed his reassuring grip at her hips as she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth out. Her quaking knees felt unstable beneath her.

He lay facing her after they got into bed. Hange was sprawled out atop the covers, shifting restlessly to find the coolest patches on the bed. Levi watched her for a moment, then said, "This isn't normal."

Hange only grumbled.

"You said you'd book an appointment with the doctor."

Hange grumbled again. Levi ticked his tongue and rolled to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Call tomorrow."

"If I didn't know better," Hange said sluggishly, "I'd say you were worried about me."

He scowled and rolled onto his other side, his back to her now.

"No, just sick of waking up at half four every morning to drag you back to bed."

Hange managed a small, wicked snicker, but shuffled across the space between them and pressed an apologetic kiss to the back of his neck.

"Must be dreadful," she said. Her voice sounded raw, hoarse. She buried her nose into his hair and took a long, deep breath. Levi grunted, but reached back and pulled her arm loosely over his hip. He knotted their fingers together loosely.

"Call them, Hange."

Hange gave his fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"I will."

Hange prided herself on being a reasonably intelligent person. She had two degrees, was working towards her doctorate, and already had her name on a small handful of peer-reviewed research papers. She spoke multiple languages, read dissertations for fun, kept a (in Levi’s words) disgustingly realistic human skeleton in a box under the bed for study purposes, and had spent the better part of the last 26 years of her life studying human biology and physiology.

How she had not predicted that she might be pregnant was almost unfathomable.

She left the doctors office in a daze with an appointment card and several pamphlets in hand. She had been referred hastily to a midwife and the hospital would soon be sending out a date for an ultrasound—“As soon as possible,” the doctor had said, “since you’re not sure how far along you are.”

The thing is, Hange had been on the same birth control pill for years now. Forgetful as she may be about many, many things (like eating, and bathing, and washing the dishes and taking out the garbage and and and), Hange was religious in taking that damn pill at the same time every single day. She had never missed it, not even once. Without a regular cycle, Hange had no way of predicting when they had conceived, and the doctor was eager to make sure no essential landmarks in her antenatal care were missed, if they could possibly help it.

The thought had never even crossed her mind. It seemed ridiculous now, in hindsight. The sickness was one thing, but now that she thought about it, there were a whole host of small oddities that Hange could easily attribute to pregnancy. Lethargy, and bloating, heartburn, and she had been peeing more than usual—Hange groaned, and scrubbed her hands over her face. She should have suspected, at least. Should have put the pieces together sooner.

But, stupid and naive as it may be, she hadn’t thought it possible. Why worry about it, when Hange had taken consistent precautions to avoid it?

She felt queasy the entire bus ride home.

It wasn’t that she was against the idea of having children. One day, maybe. When she had finished her doctorate, got herself a steady, well-paid job. When she and Levi had moved out of their tiny, cramped apartment into somewhere bigger, somewhere more suited for a family.

And god. Levi.

This was something they’d never really talked about. For his part, Levi never seemed all that interested. He was good with Hange’s nieces and nephews, and Erwin’s son adored him, and he hadn’t showed any express dislike for children, but—well, tolerating other peoples little brats and raising your own are two very different things.

What if Levi didn’t want the baby? What if he did? Hange wasn’t even sure herself what she wanted to do about the whole situation—what if she didn’t want it? What if, after some reflection, Hange decided now wasn’t a good time? Could they even afford a baby right now? Hange’s money was tied up in her education, while Levi was just making ends meet at the office. They got by well enough with just the two of them, but add in a baby? A whole other person, entirely dependant on them for support? Hange could barely feed and bathe herself, some days, never mind responsibly care for a child.

By the time the bus pulled up near the house, Hange felt more distressed than ever. Levi, at least, was at work until the evening, so she had a few more hours to herself to mull everything over, but the entire situation made her stomach clench and churn unpleasantly with every new thought.

The prospect of having a child was terrifying. The prospect of not having this child was nauseating.

Levi had left the flat in pristine condition when he had left for work, but Hange barely had the energy to feel even a little guilty as she shrugged off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving both strewn about the floor. She dumped her bag and made her way sluggishly through to the bedroom.

Levi had made the bed. The sheet was stretched flat over the mattress, the pillows perfectly fluffed and set against the headboard. Hange’s nightshirt, one of Levi’s old, baggy shirts, too stretched and threadbare for him to wear, had been folded neatly and left on her side of the bed, her slippers lined up smartly with the bed frame. For some reason—hormones, she told herself—her eyes watered, and a lump swelled in her throat. She sniffled pitifully as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on the shirt, clambering into the bed and tugging the sheets until the cocooned around her.

Hange passed the rest of the day tossing and turning in bed. She tried to nap, but her mind was too restless, occupied with thoughts of the baby, with the concept of having to tell Levi when he came home. She could try to lie, say the doctors had done some blood work, that she was waiting on the results of some test or other, but Levi knew her too well. She could never lie to him, and her despondent state would give her away before she had the chance to say anything.

The sun was beginning to set by the time she heard Levi’s keys in the door. She felt exhausted, head aching with all the thinking, considering, weighing up her options; with running over every possible outcome she could imagine. Keeping the baby, getting rid of the baby, Levi not wanting the baby, Levi leaving over the baby—every scenario she could imagine was worse than the last. There was only one idea that she had hardly dared entertain, in fear of disappointment if things didn’t work out.

She heard Levi call out for her, but gave no answer. She listened, curled up in a ball on her side, as he shuffled around, no doubt picking up her coat and shoes from where she had abandoned them. And then he made his way towards the bedroom, steps soft on the plush carpet. The bedroom door creaked open.

“Hange?”

She made a small, warbled noise under the bedclothes. Levi came to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hand found the curve of Hange’s hip.

“How was it?”

Hange made another noncommittal sound. She wiped her nose and eyes on the sheets, but didn’t dare show her face just yet. She wasn’t ready. She had never prepared for this conversation, never even imagined it before today. It was too soon. Not enough time to rehearse.

Levi’s hand moved to her back, rubbing lightly up and down her spine, before dropping to the mattress behind her. He leaned over her, and she felt his lips press warm and gentle to the point of her shoulder. A fresh wave of tears poured over the bridge of her nose and down the side of her face.

She tried to be quiet, but something—the shake of her shoulder, perhaps, or the shudder of air as she tried to take a steadying breath in—gave way to her crying. Levi moved off the bed, but Hange felt his fingers prying lightly at the sheets, pulling them down until he could get a good look at her face. He was kneeling by the bed now, face level with her, and he looked at her with worry pinching deep creases between his brows.

“Oi, what’d they say?”

Hange bit the inside of her lip and rubbed her damp cheek on the pillow. If Levi was bothered by her using their bedding as a tissue, he didn’t show it. He simply looked at her, eyes darting over her face, searching. It occurred to Hange then how this must look to him. She had gone to the doctors due to unexplained, violent sickness, and now she is in bed, hours later, still crying about whatever news she had received.

“I’m fine,” she said. Levi’s tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, but his face remained pinched, frowning and concerned. Hange wanted to tell him quickly, simply, like ripping off a plaster, but the words would not come. She opened her mouth, but her throat constricted painfully.

Eventually, she said, “my bag. There’s some stuff in my bag. Have a look.”

Levi gave her a somewhat quizzical look, but stood, dropping a quick kiss to her temple before going to fetch the bag, and dipping his hand in to fish out the contents inside.

Hange watched with her breath held and her stomach clenched as Levi pulled out the handful of leaflets and turned them over, looking at each one in turn. His eyes widened fractionally as comprehension dawned on him. His lips pressed into a thin line. Leaden weight settled in Hange’s gut. She curled into a tighter ball, pressing the bedsheets over her mouth and nose, waiting for him to gather himself enough to say something.

After a moment, he spoke.

“That’s all?”

Huh? “Huh?!”

Hange disentangled her arms from the sheets and sat up, staring at him. Levi moved to sit on the edge of the bed again, a scowl back on his face, though there was an intriguing flush high on his cheeks as he whacked her lightly on the top of the head with the leaflets.

“Stupid four-eyes,” he said, exasperated. “Crying like that. I thought you were dying.”

“I’m pregnant.” Hange said the word slowly, carefully, in case Levi had somehow misunderstood. He had the audacity to look at her like she was stupid.

“I can see that.”

“And you have nothing more to say about it? That’s all?”

Levi shrugged a little at her. Aside from the small patches of colour in his cheeks, Levi seemed wholly unfazed by the revelation.

“It’s just a baby. We can handle a baby.”

“That doesn’t terrify you?”

Levi scrutinised her for a moment, before he said, “are you scared?”

“Yes? Yes! How are you so calm? We can’t afford a baby—we don’t have the time for a baby? Where will they going to sleep? We don’t have a spare room. Can we get time off work to take care of a baby? How will we pay for childcare when we can’t be around?”

“Hange,” Levi said, putting a stop to her rambling. He watched her with a pinched stare. “Do you not want it?”

Hange had spent the majority of the day mulling over this same question. Staring a family was a huge, life-changing commitment, something that required careful forethought and planning. They had not had that luxury. Hange was pregnant now. She had doubts and fears, more than she could ever express, but the idea of simply having a baby—of having this baby—wasn’t upsetting. In the small, brief moments she had allowed herself to imagine a future where she and Levi were parents, where they weren’t wanting for money or time, where things were well, she felt happy. Giddy. The prospect was almost exciting.

“It’s not that,” Hange said earnestly. “I do—I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I—I do want it. But I just—we had no time to prepare. We have no savings, we have no space, I’m a mess. How are we supposed to take care of a tiny person? Babies are hard work, Levi.”

“You’re already hard work.”

Hange laughed weakly, and wiped at her face again. Levi pressed a kiss to her raw cheek.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

Hange leaned into him, sighing quietly.

“Is this the kind of thing we can just figure out?”

Levi hummed, shrugging his shoulder. His fingers skimmed up beneath Hange’s shirt, splaying over the small of her back and pulling her closer.

“Why not? We’ve done a good job bullshitting our way through everything else.”

Hange laughed lightly and bumped the side of her head against Levi’s.

“This is different, Levi. This is a person. A tiny little person who is going to need me and you to do everything for them. What if we can’t do it? What if we mess up?”

“Hange.” Levi pulled back a little and his hands came up to grip either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “Stop. I know all that. But if you want the brat, and I want the brat, we’ve got no choice but to get on with it.”

“I know, I know, but—wait, you want the baby?”

Levi maintained eye contact with her, but it seemed to take a concentrated effort to do so. The flush of his cheeks deepened a little and his lips quirked at the corners. No doubt to compensate for the show of emotion, he pulled his face into his customary frown.

“It’s fine,” he said. Hange fought the urge to roll her eyes and caught his hands as he lowered them from her face, pulling them into her lap.

“Are you saying that because it’s already too late, or do you want to keep it?”

Levi’s face took on a look of constipated strain. He curled his lip as though in distaste, then hooked a hand around the back of Hange’s neck and pulled her face to his abruptly, smacking a kiss to her lips. He let his forehead settle against hers and stroked his thumb over the hinge of her jaw.

He fought to keep his tone neutral, but Hange could hear the happy tremor in his voice as he said again, “It’s fine.”

For the first time since hearing the news that day, Hange allowed herself to feel excited. To accept the idea that she and Levi were about to start their own bizarre little family. That Levi was still with her felt incredible enough, but to know that he was pleased—it was more than she could ever have hoped for. Hange gave a wet laugh and kissed him again.

“Are you allergic to looking happy?” Hange asked as they broke apart. Levi clicked his tongue and pulled back to flick her square between the eyebrows. She laughed a little louder and leaned to wipe her runny nose on his shoulder. Levi muttered under his breath, but didn’t push her away.

“Okay,” Hange said, after a moment. She sat back and pushed her hair back from her face. “Okay. We’re having a baby, then.”

Levi’s rubbed the smile from his lips with the back of his hand, nodding. “We’re having a baby.”

Hange sunk down to flop back over the pillows. Levi looked down at her, head tilted, chewing the inside of his lip. Hange reached up to brush his fringe off his forehead, warmth spilling in her chest when he held her hand close and turned to kiss her palm.

She smiled a little playfully, and freed a leg from the sheets to dig her toes into his ribs.

“If I’d known you wanted kids I would have been significantly less stressed, you know.”

Levi quirked a brow at her.

“I’ve told you that before.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have. At your sisters wedding.”

Hange racked her brain, searching for the conversation. She remembered the occasion, and she remembered that she and Levi had somehow ended up babysitting Hange’s family brood. She remembered Levi, wrestling to keep her youngest nephew on his lap while the eldest, still only five or six at the time, was clambering up the back of his chair, sticky hands tugging at Levi’s collar. Hange fought hard to recall more of what was said, but could remember nothing at all of Levi announcing that he had wanted one of his own.

“You said these brats aren’t so bad,” Hange said slowly.

Levi nodded at her. Hange waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, only looked at her like there was nothing more he needed to say.

“That’s it? That’s your idea of telling me you want kids?”

“The hell else could I have meant?”

Hange dug her toe at him again but Levi caught her foot this time, pushing it firmly down onto the mattress. Hange reached for him with both arms instead, curling them around the back of his neck and tugging him down quickly. He toppled over her with a quiet oof, and Hange rolled them quickly, straddling his waist and dropping her weight down onto him.

“That is the kind of thing you say clearly, Levi! These brats aren’t so bad—you’re ridiculous!”

Levi wrestled with her arms a little longer before giving up and bringing his hands instead to rest low on her hips. He watched her with a curious expression on his face, something open and soft, and then his eyes roved down to her abdomen and his thumbs brushed inwards, beneath the hem of her shirt, stroking over her lower belly.

This time, he didn’t fight his smile.

He reached up and pulled her down by the neck, and kissed her soundly. Hange melted against him, welcomed the press of his tongue between her lips, shuddered pleasantly when he nipped at her bottom lip. She went with him willingly as he rolled them both over, nudging a knee between her legs and settling his weight against her.

She was spreading her legs to make space for him, when he paused suddenly, and pulled back, leaning over the bed and scooping through the discarded back of leaflets. Hange, winded and dishevelled, watched him incredulously as he flicked through the contents of one, then tossed it aside and opened another.

“What are you doing?”

Without looking up, Levi replied, “Checking.”

“Checking what?”

“I wanna know if we can still—” he waved a hand between them, and went back to searching.

“We’ve been—” Hange mimicked his gesture, “—up until now anyway.”

Levi looked up at her, looking mildly horrified. He held up one his open leaflet and said, “You’ve been drinking alcohol, too. You’re not supposed to do that. And look, here—you’re not supposed to overwork. You’ll have to take on less hours at the university. And you’ll eat. Proper damn meals. Every day.”

Hange flopped back against the pillows, eyes rolling, watching as Levi picked up each new leaflet in turn, pointing out every little adjustment that Hange would have to make.

“This one says you should get eight to ten hours sleep per night. Every night. And not so much coffee, the caffeine’s bad for the baby.”

The baby. It sounded surreal. It sounded ridiculous. Levi shifted to sit against the headboard beside her after opening the chunky little What to Expect While Expecting volume Hange had been handed while leaving the doctors. He seemed thoroughly engrossed, and seemingly unaware when one of his hands reached out to pull Hange’s hair free of its ponytail and sink into her hair. She hummed happily as his nails scraped over her scalp.

Things were still scary, and Hange was still uncertain about how this whole adventure might turn out. But Levi was still with her, and Levi was happy, and that—

—Well, that was good enough.

#levihan #ask #my writing #this was fun!! thank you :D #hoping I can get around to the other prompts soon too!!

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siriusmydeer · 3 years

Note

HI OMG IM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS REQUEST 🌗 Sirius with fluff prompts 26 and 29? You don’t have to, of course, but I thought it was a very cute and emotional idea!

the floor was cold

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: sirius needs you, and you’re always there.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: mentions of child abuse, mentions of crying, mentions of arranged marriage, angst-fluff?

a/n: dude i wrote this in math class

the deep tiles of the floor were cold— atleast sirius knew how cold the floor could be. from being laid upon it myriads of times at the hands of his very mother, the person who was suppose to kiss away your cuts, sew the patches of your clothes and wipe away your tears away, could only inflict pain on the vanquished boy. so, he knew how tremendously frigid his tiled floors were.

he knew stained paper, exceedingly smudged ink roaming the parchment from tears that fell upon his waterline and seeped deeply into the ivory-parchment with the black-family crest. deep snakes with a ‘B’ right in the middle, never-without the signature emerald-green ink.

some would say it was a crest of power, maybe envy. but to him— it was the crest of evil.

he knew pain, he knew guilt, he knew remorse— but there was one emotion that he was infact capable of, one that he barely knew due to the unstable bridges built in his household; the childhood emotion that was normally felt upon anyone, happiness. the boy could barely distinguish the feeling of happiness.

until the ripe age of eleven he knew dread, and breath-shaking fear, the next heir was all he was in the eyes of his family. till he was coated in the colours red and gold, directed from the sorting hat, and across the room he layed eyes upon you.

he couldn’t believe someone at the age of eleven was so beautiful, then he knew that you were kind from all the ‘hellos’ you had sent his way, that you were intelligent from every time in potions you would fix his notes without even asking, and then he knew that he didn’t just want you to be his friend.

he classified his three gryffindor mates as his family, his brothers. but you, you were different, he didn’t want sisterly love— he didn’t want platonic love that’s shared between close friends. the big realization that struck him at the blossoming age of thirteen, gaping at you writing your charms notes for him because of how intolerable his scrawny handwriting was.

the only sound to be heard the comfortable silence being the scratching of your quill against the parchment, a parchment that wasn’t stained with tears but still his to keep. over the holidays of third year he received a letter, from you, and for once when he received a letter— he didn’t have the urge to stain it with his despondent tears.

you were important, no, you were everything to him. so you could imagine his freight at the fact he could loose you, his person, with his heaps of feelings just ready to pour out to you without fault. so he waited, he waited for a long while.

he waited till evan rosier asked you on a date, he didn’t think he could have such feelings of spite and bitterness till it was displayed right in front of his demoralized eyes. then in one moment, he told you quite literally everything. but sirius was suddenly no longer frightful, he was beaming— because you his past best friend, was now his present girlfriend.

he was radiant, purely joyful with you on his arm. one to love, one to care, and one to be there through the thickness that he couldn’t endure alone. he was euphoric until one day he saw the same crest— and suddenly, the ink was smudged with the same sorrowful tears.

he sat in the same place upon his bed, the same designated bed he had for the past several years at hogwarts. thin ivory parchment clutched into his right hand, one singular sentence slithering through every nook and cranny in his mind like that same snake that was labeled upon the black-family crest.

‘we are setting you up for an arranged marriage.’

it was barely perceptible due to the crinkles in the paper and the amount of stygian ink smeared onto the thin paper that he had the urge to burn too ashes and just toss in his parents faces.

the room was dead silent, the window slightly creaked open to allow the gusts of cool air to formulate in the empty room; just the solemn boy sitting in his bed— receiving the worst news that could’ve ever been said to him. goosebumps were arising on his forearms like he was back to when he was the small boy when he was eleven, left frigid and terror-stricken on the black tiled floor.

he missed the sound of the creaking door and the murmured footsteps of your soft shoes against the hardwood floor of his dormitory. suddenly flinching at the touch of your hand on your shoulder, instantaneously gaping at your dismayed face.

he layed his hand upon yours, suddenly slotting his digits between your fingers. showing his remorse through his actions— his own exertion speaking louder than words ever could. you caught sight of the wrinkled sheet grasped in his opposite hand. you went to grab it seeing as to how much pain one piece of paper could cause a boy, your boy, sirius opting to push it away behind him.

“you are my family.” he first spoke in sincerity, not even a small amount of dishonesty in his tone. he grasped at your other hand, pulling you to sit right in front of his slouched form.

you saw the dilation in his pupil at his pearl-coloured irises. the gaze was strong, showing the bond you had both built over several years. the flecks of cerulean spotted in his irises, the outline of grey around his pupils. the shades of the ridden black-family now in the purest form.

“sirius... you’re not your family.” you had suspected that is what the streaked parchment had regarded, most likely another foul request of his family or unkind words directly from his mother.

“you are sirius black, my gryffindor keeper, the boy who turned into an animagus for his best friend. you’re not malicious, your compassionate and thoughtful.” you crooned directly to him, seeing him sit up a bit rather than a slouched and dejected form more-so hopeful and waiting in anticipation for your next words.

you were both silent for a moment, stroking his hand while he basked in your small affections. you were there— and boy did you care for him.

“i didn’t think it was possible to love someone this much.” he chucked, small sniffs lingering as he let the words carve into his mind that now he only started to believe. feeling your small strokes pause for a moment, he took it upon himself to press a small kiss to the palm of your hand, remaining the eye contact. the adoration in his eyes prominent as he looked at you.

he wasn’t evil, he was compassionate. and only now was he starting to believe it; because you of you.

taglist: @fific7 @wisedreamcatcher @kittykylax @ronbrokemyheart @aspiringsloth20 @georgeswh0re @amourtentiaa @msmb @fangouria @five-cups-of-coffee @dracofknmalfoy @emmaev @serenitywilderness @famdomhideout @hufflepogue @dear-luna @luvvninaz @miraclesoflove @black-like-my-soul

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aturnoftheearth · 3 years

Note

u broke me jay. i had heard tnwm before i saw you post about lordhuronnatural and it just. it wasnt my cuppa. don't get me wrong i respected the talent, i thought it was a very good song and they were not unpleasant, but i wouldn't have chosen to listen to them on purpose. you know what i mean? i wouldn't make a fuss to turn it off, but i couldn't care less if it came on. i was very neutral. and now? now ive had the whole lord huron discography playing on repeat for nine!!!! days NINE DAYS JAY and i know all the words and im dancing around my home and/or laying despondently in my empty bathtub with a bottle of wine and i already bought my ticket to see them live at red rocks next june. you did this. you have created another monster. how many now? how many of us have you suckered into being lord huron stans. jay. JAY. are YOU lord huron.

I NEVER SAW THIS ??? the fact that anyone would see my borderline incomprehensible posts about lord huron and decide to listen to them makes me feel like a crumbly block of feta (honorific) THANK YOU!!

#GNJKLNJ THIS WAS SENT IN SEPTEMBER before i went to the concert and got EVEN WORSE about them <3 #lava lamp posts #asks

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

when your love reaches me (iii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 7.5k

warnings: angst, language, yearning for a man in his 70s (c’est la vie, i guess), over-describing a moment i’m very passionate about (sorry, not sorry! ten points to the person who can tell me what moment it is LOL)

a/n: wow—this gif? yeah, match made in heaven. thank you all so much for indulging me in this mini-series. i really am very proud of this silly little thing & i’m sad that it’s over because i enjoyed writing it so much. thank you to @im-an-adult-ish & @deacyblues for helping me work out the rough spots in this one. would love to hear everyone’s thoughts because i’m very ~emotional~ about this mini-series!! xoxo.

part i, part ii

in this final chapter: you must adjust because it’s not in your cards to be with him, is it?

you run your hands down your face, feel the ring on your finger catch along the end of your nose, and sigh. two months—two months without him. two months to adjust to world you once knew but happily left behind. two months to gather the pieces of the life which cruelly slipped through your fingers like water.

each day is the same. you rise early and take your coffee on the postage stamp terrace outside your flat. you watch the sun climb higher in the sky with each passing moment and let the warmth of your drink soothe the ache in your soul. you wash your breakfast dishes, mumble a good morning to rachel when she exits her bedroom to make her way to the shower, and dress for the day. you walk to campus if you have a class or take the underground to the museum if you have a shift. you come home, eat dinner, go to bed. repeat.

if rachel notices a change in you, she doesn’t say anything. in her mind, no time has passed between the morning where she asked you to come to the pub and the same evening you tumbled into the flat, drenched and sobbing.

but you—you’ve lost a year of your life. there’s no getting it back, and the only thing that proves it really truly happened is the ring on your middle finger, the necklace hanging by your heart, and the undeveloped rolls of film in your bedside table.

there are few words to describe the unbearable pain in your chest. anything and everything reminds you of brian: the whisper of the breeze in the autumn-heavy trees; the feeling of your warmest cardigan around your shoulders; the sound of someone laughing in the museum.

but there’s more:

the scent of cigarette smoke reminds you of roger. the sight of two friends ribbing one another in a grocery store reminds you of crystal. a colorful jacket makes you think of freddie, a whispered snide remark takes you back to john, and two girls giggling reminds you of giddy moments with anna.

around every corner you turn there’s a memory you cannot avoid, and it hurts—desperately, keenly, deeply.

so you push it all away and soldier on, quiet and downtrodden. it’s easier that way. maybe, if you forget, you can move on and make it through life without him.

six months after you’ve left brian behind, you’re approached by your boss at the museum with an opportunity you’d only ever dreamed of: the chance to create and prepare your own exhibit.

monica is firm when she offers you the south wing to reshape as your own. “blow this out of the water, [y/n], and there will be a job as assistant curator waiting for you after graduation. i want something fresh and exciting. think you can manage?”

you agree without hesitation.

for the first time in a long time, you can’t help but smile to yourself. this is your chance to put everything you’ve learned to good use, to put something tangible in your portfolio, to make a name for yourself.

you’re buzzing with excitement and have to practically hold rachel hostage as you spout your myriad of thoughts and ideas. she’s your sounding board, even if she doesn’t want to be, but she’s honest where it counts most, and you’re grateful for that.

she glances over the kitchen table, laden with open magazines, cutout photos, and history books. her brow puckers. “this is... really boring, [y/n],” she says with a cringe, looking up with her blue eyes and freckled face.

your shoulder droop. “that’s it? that’s all you have to say?”

she shrugs and reaches for a photo, inspecting it with a critical gaze. “i mean, ancient textiles might be interesting to you and maybe five other people, but it isn’t exactly blowing me out of the water.”

dropping to the seat across the table, you huff. “well, we’re a photography museum, rachel. it’s not like i can whip up a few outfits and put them on mannequins.”

“excuse me, but fashion design is just as artistic as curating a museum—if not more so.” she sighs and puts the photo of a thirteenth century chinese table linen on the table. “there must be something else you’re interested in? something that other people will like just as much?”

you don’t mean to, but you let your eyes trail to the camera sitting on on the tv stand. you’d left it there after your return, uncertain where to put it. sometimes you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye and then you remember the tubes of film in your bedroom, undeveloped and unseen.

rachel follows your gaze. “you know, you never told me where you got that.”

“it was a gift.”

“oh really? from who?”

you’re slow to answer. the truth sits on the tip of your tongue—the man i love, the man i was going to marry—but you bite it back. “my great-aunt. she left it to me... in her will.”

you aren’t sure what compels you to retrieve the six rolls of film from your bedroom, but you do. the tubes feel heavy in your palm and clang against the table as you put them down. rachel looks at them then back at you, waiting.

“she gave me these, too.”

“i didn’t know you had a great-aunt.”

“we weren’t close.”

“obviously you were close enough to get these things.” rachel lifts one of the tubes, turning it over in her palm. “wonder what the pictures are.”

“i’m not sure,” you lie. “maybe they could make an exhibit.”

“i think you’d have to develop them first then make that decision.” she rises from the table and shrugs on her coat. “i’ve got a date, so don’t wait up. and try not to let this consume you too much? you’ve been down and out lately. i think the work will do you good, but don’t let it take over, yeah?”

you nod and wish her well on her date. she leaves the flat in a flourish, leaves you to the tubes of film and the growing curiosity in your stomach.

you really should get them developed. if not for an exhibit, then for yourself. an entire year of your life is in those tubes, and you deserve to see the photos you’d taken to preserve that time.

it’s been six months. you’ve purposefully distanced yourself from anything and everything related to queen, be it a simple news story, a song on the radio, or any of roger or brian’s social media posts. it hurts to see them, to know that they’re so close yet so far away, that they have no idea what became of you all those years ago in japan.

still, it’s been six months. developing the film might be your first step toward a sense of closure. you don’t want to stay in your rut forever. though you’re comfortable with the idea that brian might be your great love and you’ll never find another, you know you can’t stay as you are, sullen and despondent. it’s like a break-up, really. you’re sad, heartbroken over the loss, but you know it’s time to step out of the hurt and into something different.

before you can stop yourself, you grab the rolls of film, your purse, and your jacket, and you head for the nearest photo shop.

a few hours later, you return with a heavy packet of freshly-printed photographs and a usb drive full of digital scans. there’s over two hundred photos to sort through, and you’ve yet to see one.

flipping on the light to your living room, you sit down beside the coffee table, a glass of wine at your side, the table cleared of any lingering books or empty teacups. before you open the packet of photos, you open your laptop and type your search into the search bar. if you’re going to quell your curiosity tonight, you might as well quell all of it, and you’re dying to know what happened after you left.

a simple internet search confirms what you already know: your presence within the group on the jazz tour did not alter any significant events. freddie still passed away, john still retired. a further search yields at least one previously nonexistent queen song written by brian may: “into thin air.” it was released in the album following jazz. you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, not yet. a deeper search unearths an interview brian gave a year or so after you left. the interview was published in a magazine editorial covering of each of queen’s band members and their lives when not on tour or recording. after freddie’s bit, there’s a photograph of brian at the top of a new page. he’s smiling, but he looks weary and he mentions you only once: “i was engaged for awhile, but that ended in an unfortunate circumstance, so to answer your question: no, i’m not looking for love. not right now, anyway.”

you close the laptop and lean back against the sofa. the ring on your finger feels heavy. your eyes fill with unshed tears, and you decide the photos can wait to be seen until tomorrow.

the packet of photos ends up sitting on the coffee table for two weeks before you invite your co-worker, shamik, over for wine and cheese and museum gossip. shamik is kind, a first-generation immigrant from india with personality to spare and an exuberance for all things american. he claims it’s his greatest curse that his parents brought him to britain as a baby instead of america, and it’s something he can never forgive them for. you’ve only interacted with shamik at work, but when you mention your exhibit project, he’s eager to offer his help. with no new ideas outside ancient textiles, you’re willing to take whatever advice or ideas he has.

sitting beside him on the couch, you spread your collection of papers and pictures on the table to explain your vision. he listens dutifully, nodding along, his eyes scanning the 3-d projection you’ve made of what the exhibit might look like once completed. when you’ve finished your spiel, he sets his wine glass down and nods to the packet of unopened photographs on the edge of the table.

“what’s that?”

you frown, shaking your head at the sudden turn in conversation. “sorry?”

he reaches for the manilla envelope. “oh, it’s hefty! what’s in here?”

you sigh and take the packet from his hands. it feels solid in your lap, like a brick. “photos from my great-aunt.”

he points to the sealed flap. “it’s unopened.”

“i haven’t gotten the chance to look through it yet.” setting the packet to the side, you raise your eyebrows. “well, what do you think? about the exhibit?”

“honestly? it’s dull. monica won’t be impressed.”

you throw yourself back against the couch with a groan. “what the hell,” you whisper. “i’ve got no ideas then.”

you know ancient textile photography would not be the most enticing exhibit, but it’s been an interest of yours for some time and would be easy enough to complete. shamik and rachel’s reactions do not bode well, you have to admit. having a job as an assistant curator right out of the gate would be beyond marvelous, and you desperately don’t want to screw it up with a boring first exhibit.

“let’s have a look at these pictures from your aunt!” before you can stop him, shamik reaches across your lap for the photo packet and rips open the top. “maybe that will spark some ideas?”

you lean forward, blush already rising to your cheeks as he pulls out the first picture. “oh no, shamik, i don’t know if—”

“holy shit!”

you shut your eyes, wincing.

“that’s fucking freddie mercury!” shamik grabs your shoulder, his fingers digging into your flesh. “did you know about this, [y/n]? that’s your aunt with freddie mercury!”

forcing your eyes open, you look at the photo trembling between his fingers. it’s a picture of you sitting beside freddie on the tour bus. (you think john took the photo in an effort to get you to stop taking photos of him when he was asleep while roger and crystal placed as many items on his head as they could before he fully awoke.) your head is against freddie’s shoulder, your eyes droopy with sleep. a lump rises in your throat, and all you can do is shake your head in feigned disbelief as shamik continues to shuffle through the photos.

“oh my god, your aunt was a groupie,” he cries, passing you another photo.

“i guess—” you clear your throat. “i guess she was.”

“you know”—shamik sets the pile of photos down and spreads them across the table, obscuring your vision of an ancient textiles display—“this would make a great exhibit.”

“shamik—” your voice is a warning, a sudden surge of anger rising in your chest, but he continues.

“no, really, [y/n]! there are so many photos here that tell such a cutesy little story. i mean, come on? freddie and this cat?” he lifts the photo in question. “it’s stuff people have never seen before from a totally different side of queen. it’s a fucking goldmine!”

“absolutely not,” you say. “i will not put my aunt’s personal affairs on display.”

“think of monica, [y/n]! think of the job!”

“no, shamik!” you stand from the table and drop your plates in the kitchen sink with a resolute clatter. “i barely knew my aunt, but i know enough to gather that her time with queen was private. she didn’t say anything about it until she died. that’s got to mean something, and i don’t want to air it all out for everyone to see and speculate and gossip about just for my own personal gain.”

you’re shouting, fists clenched at your sides, by the time you finish. shamik just stares at you, his face blank and unreadable. he glances down at a photo.

“she looks a lot like you,” he says, his voice even.

you huff and take the wine glasses from the table. “we’ve got strong family genes. now, please, i’d appreciate it if you just drop the whole queen thing. we can find some other idea.”

you gather the photos, shove them back in the folder, and toss the envelope in the nearest drawer you can find. the drawer slams shut, and you leave the photos there to gather dust.

you mull over shamik’s idea of an exhibit based on your photos for a month before you finally relent. monica’s riding your ass daily with questions about your progress. you need to get something down on paper for her to give to the contractors, so you begrudgingly type out a response to her most recent email:

monica,

i’ve landed on an exhibit topic at last. took me long enough, right?

i’ve recently come into possession of a series of photographs taken by my late great-aunt. turns out she was a groupie with the band queen in the ‘70s. my exhibit will be centered around those photos. i’m thinking the exhibit will be titled “queen: unfiltered.” do with that what you will. :)

monica, much to your dismay, loves the idea and sends you right to work on gathering and laying out your vision while she begins the necessary promotion.

it hurts at first—looking at all the photos you took, remembering the way you felt so unearthly happy during that year. you cry each time you sit down to sort out the best of the pictures. the ones which capture a moment of levity amongst the band or are particularly well-shot go in a pile on the left. the ones which didn’t develop well or are too intimate for you to ever consider putting on display go in a pile on the right. your bedroom floor is a mess of drafted captions written on slips of printer paper, photographs with notes scrawled along the back, and used tissues. more than anything, you wish you could step into the world behind those photographs. you want to be back there—with him, with them—until you grow old and gray. knowing you can’t, that you won’t ever see him again, tears you apart inside.

but it helps. the exhibit forces you to acknowledge the time you spent with brian, with queen. instead of leaving the photos in a drawer, they confront you everyday as you sit down to work, and everyday it gets a little bit easier to face your past. as the tears subside, you find yourself laughing whenever you find a new photo of roger’s antics. your heart doesn’t clench as much when you run across another photo of you and brian. you can smile now when you look at his face. he really was so handsome...

you go so far as to frame your favorite photograph of your time together and place it on your dresser. he’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head. you’re laughing, your hands folded on his arms, legs crossed as you tilt to the side. he’s making a face, his tongue stuck out at the camera, and every time you pass by the picture, you can’t help but chuckle.

you love him still. you’ll love him always.

with three weeks before the opening of the exhibit, the stress is starting to get the better of you. you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, there’s heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and you can’t remember the last time you consumed something other than coffee. despite the stress, you feel lighter. working through the photos, laying them out in order, writing the captions, pouring over the faces of the ones you love so dearly—it’s all helped ease the burden in your heart. for the first time in a long time, you slip out of bed in the mornings with a newfound sense of energy and purpose.

life will go on. just as you did when you fell into the past, you will find a new future.

arms laden with exhibit proposals and mock-ups, you brush into your local coffee shop—pretty bird—intent on getting some real work done on choosing the final photographs before you send them off to be printed. you order your usual and take a seat by the front. the air which wafts through the open window at your side is warm with spring and rebirth, and you breathe deep, cracking open the lid of your laptop. you manage to pick a total of twelve of the seventy-six needed photographs before you’re interrupted.

“whatcha workin’ on?” matthew, barista extraordinaire and casual acquaintance, sits down on the bench across from you. he has his own cup of cold brew poised between his lips, and the piercing in his eyebrow wiggles as he moves his brow up and down.

“an exhibit for the museum,” you say, pausing to roll your tight shoulders. “it’s my first.”

“do tell!”

you explain, briefly, how to came to acquire your dead aunt’s photographs and the general theme of the showcase. he nods in approval then snaps as if he’s remembered something.

“hold on. stay right there. i’ll be right back.” he puts his coffee down, scoots off of the bench, and darts to the back of the coffee shop. you wait and listen to the sound of the birds twittering outside before he returns with a framed picture in hand. “i just learned about this,” he says, taking his seat again. “this building used to be a disco back in the 70s.” he hands you the frame and points to a collection of people in the middle of a disco bar. “that’s queen. they came here once and somebody had the smarts to take a picture.”

your hands shake around the photograph, eyes darting from one corner of the picture to another.

matthew keeps talking. “the place was called climax. can you believe that? the 70s were fuckin’ wild, mate.”

you nod, lips parted, and skim your fingers over the incredibly tall and recognizable form of brian in the center of the photo. you can see your shoulder, jammed between freddie and crystal, but the rest of your body is obscured. you lift your eyes from the frame and glance around the coffee shop, at the exposed metal beams and vaulted ceilings, at the disco ball still hanging in the center of the room.

makes sense now. why the building had felt so eerily familiar back then.

handing matthew the picture frame, you sit back in your chair. “wonder if my aunt ever came,” you say.

“maybe? sounds like she was in pretty tight. you know who you could ask?” you shake your head, uncertain of matthew’s question. “chris taylor. he was a roadie back then. he’s a regular here. comes in at least twice at week.”

you can’t stop the hand that flies to your mouth in surprise. you try to smother your gasp with a cough, but matthew still stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head.

“you okay?” he asks warily.

nodding, you take a sip of your drink. “yeah, yeah, sorry! wrong pipe.”

“so, do you want to meet him and ask about your aunt?”

everything in you screams to say no. it’s too dangerous. you will surely break the moment you see him. crystal became your lifeline apart from brian during that year. he was your brother, your partner in crime, the one who kept you grounded when things got too wild. just knowing that he’s frequented the same coffee shop as you for the last six months brings tears to your eyes. you could have run into him. hell, you might’ve already. still, you aren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through a proper meeting without spilling your guts and apologizing for the way you left.

“[y/n]?” matthew pulls you from your thoughts. “what do you think?”

you hesitate before shrugging. you speak before you can stop yourself, before the rational and reasonable part of you can take over. god, you need this. if it’s your only opportunity for true closure, you’ll take it. “if he’s up to it then... sure.”

matthew grins. “come in tomorrow. i’ll introduce you!”

that night you toss and turn. you’re plagued with anxiety. will crystal recognize you? if he does, what will he say? will he be angry? what if he tells brian and then—

your bedside alarm goes off just as you fall asleep. it’s a struggle to drag yourself out of bed, but you must. there’s closure somewhere around the corner, and if you just move your ass, you’ll find it. you have one class this morning then your meeting with crystal. you’re jittery by the time you leave class, but you chalk that up to drinking two cups of coffee before leaving your flat and one in class.

it’s drizzling as you make your way to the coffee shop. you hasten your steps, head bent against the rain and fingers curled around the strap of your bag. when you enter the shop, it’s nearly empty aside from a few lonesome students studying in far off corners. you can hear the faint thrill of music over the loudspeakers, but the blood that’s rushing to your ears blocks out most of the melody.

crystal’s already here, leaning against the counter, in conversation with matthew.

you stop in your tracks. he’s bald now, slightly pudgier with age, but he looks every bit as devilish as you remember.

you swallow past the fear in your throat and the anxiety in your veins and step forward. you voice wobbles when you speak. “matthew?” you direct your entrance to your friend because if you come right out and say crystal’s name, you will surely fall over in a puddle of emotion.

“there you are!” matthew jumps over the counter in one easy leap and lands to the floor beside you. he drapes his arm around your shoulders and motions to crystal. “[y/n], i’d like you to meet chris taylor. chris, this is [y/n], the girl i was telling you about.”

crystal’s staring at you through his blue-tinted glasses like he’s seen a ghost. his jaw has gone slack, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to formulate a sentence.

you shove your hand into the space between you. “nice to meet you, mr. taylor.”

looking between matthew and yourself, he gathers himself, clearing his throat, and shakes your hand. “you too.”

“should we sit?” you motion to the same table you occupied the day before. “i can buy you a coffee for your troubles.”

he shakes his head and lifts his cup. “already got mine.”

“all right, well...” you glance at matthew.

“do you want your regular?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

“comin’ right up.”

crystal follows you to the table and sits down, his movements slow. for a moment, you sit in silence and allow his eyes to roam your face. you can’t tell if he knows it’s you or if he thinks it’s just a coincidence. you want to reach out and take the hand he rubs across the bridge of his nose, but you fold your fingers in your lap.

“thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” you finally say.

“you aunt,” he starts.

“yes, my aunt.” you pull a photograph out of your bag. it’s one of the few you took with crystal all those years ago. he’s got you in a headlock, his opposite fist grinding into the top of your skull. you slide the picture across the table. “you knew her?”

crystal lifts the photo, inspects it, before putting it down. he sighs, shaking his head. “i loved that woman. broke my heart when she left.” his gaze lifts from the table. “you look like her, have her name too.”

you look away, out the window at the side. there’s bird fluttering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and you watch it for a moment before turning back to him. “i think my mother loved her a great deal. i didn’t get the chance to know her, though. we only just found these pictures recently.”

his eyes narrow. “i mean, you really look like her.”

you force a smile. “thank you. that’s kind of you.” shifting, you tap your finger on the table. “i know her leaving wasn’t exactly...” you struggle to find the proper word, but he jumps to assist.

“natural?”

“well, i was going to say easy, but—”

“she fuckin’ disappeared! excuse my language.” huffing, he drops back against his chair. “one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. i swear, i’ve never seen anyone skip town that fast.”

“she didn’t say anything about leaving?”

“why would she? she was engaged! she had no reason to leave that i know of.”

“was she happy?”

“hell yes. her and brian—i’ve never seen two people more fit for one another. brian just about lost his mind trying to find her, but it was like she never existed. strangest thing.” he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, looking askance, before his eyes whiz back to yours. “oh my fucking god.”

you look up, fear sparking in your belly. “what?”

“[y/n]?”

you blink. your head feels dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s about to jump across the table and throttle you or hug you so tight your insides might squeeze out of your body.

“fuck,” he breathes. “it is you.”

“i don’t know know what you’re—”

“don’t play dumb with me!” he leans across the table and lowers his voice. “i was the one who got you that phony passport, remember? i always wondered why i couldn’t find your credentials. had to lie my way through it until i got the damn thing. you’re lucky everything was so lax in the 70s.” he shakes his head. “how’d you do it?”

there’s part of you that wants to deny, deny, deny.

but it’s crystal. you can’t lie to him any more than you already have.

“i had no choice in the matter,” you say plainly. “one minute i was here, the next minute i was there, and the next minute i was here again.”

his jaw works back and forth as he processes the information. “does brian know?”

“no—and i’d like to keep it that way.”

“i thought we might lose him after you left.”

you twist the ring on your finger. “if i’d had the choice, i would have stayed. i hope you know that.”

crystal nods. “yeah, i do.” he holds your gaze then motions to your bag. “so, this exhibit matthew told me about. you’re publishing all those photos you took?”

“yes. there are some pictures i’ve saved for myself, but my boss, monica, she got permission from the record label to go ahead with the others. it opens in three weeks.”

“i’ll be there if i can. i’d like to see those pictures.”

you smile, your first earnest smile of the day. “you feature many times.”

he ducks his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “we were thick as thieves, weren’t we?”

“you and roger were thicker, but i’d like to think i had a part to play some of the time.”

he lifts his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “you know, when i said i loved you, i meant it. not in the way brian did. you were like a kid sister to me. i cared for you a great deal.”

before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand across the table to grasp his worn fingers. his shoulders shake on another sigh, and he lifts his opposite hand to wipe at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“oh, crystal. i’m so sorry,” you whisper. it hurts to see him cry, to know that you’re the cause behind his pain.

he waves your apology away, sniffing hard. “i’m just glad to know you’re okay. we thought you might’ve gotten picked up or—” he shakes his head and pats your hand over his, meeting your eyes. “you’re okay, though. that’s what matters.”

“will you really come to my exhibit?”

“anything for you, kid.” he thumbs the underside of your chin with a lopsided grin. “even after all this time, i’m putty in your hands.”

you grin and hand him a business card, which he tucks in the folds of his wallet. rising from his seat, he opens his arms and you practically trip into his hug. he holds you tight for the briefest of moments before pulling back. he pats your cheek.

“i’ll see you in three weeks, yeah? if i stay any longer i’ll end up a sobbin’ mess on the floor.”

you nod. “yeah. and, crystal?” he turns at the door. “don’t tell brian. please.”

he leaves without another word.

the day of the exhibit opening you are equal parts thrilled and a nervous wreck. everyone’s here—your family, rachel, shamik, even matthew. you haven’t seen crystal amidst the crowd mingling in the lobby, but you trust him to show. he’s always been reliable, and you doubt he’ll fail you now.

monica squeezes your shoulder as she passes you by in the staff hallway. “it looks wonderful, [y/n]. consider yourself hired,” she says and hands you a keycard. “i’m going to give you a piece of advice i got when i completed my first exhibit: go have a moment by yourself. look at your work, be proud of it. you deserve it.”

with trembling fingers and a racing heart, you make your way down the corridor to the south exhibit hall. due to a celebratory lunch with rachel the day before, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see the room in its final state. in retrospect, you’re thankful for the chance to see it for the first time alone. at least this way, if you cry, no one will have to know.

the door beeps as it unlocks, and you slip inside the room. you descend the handful of stairs which lead into the showroom floor and suck in a deep breath.

before entering the exhibit, there’s a wall to the side with a simple explanation written in a white font:

queen: unfiltered — this exhibit preserves and presents never-before-seen images of the popular band, queen, through the eyes of an unnamed woman who spent a year traveling the world on queen’s jazz album tour. her images are intimate yet distinctive and offer a personal glimpse into the lives of one of britain’s most well-known bands.

at the far end of the room hang four banners spanning floor to ceiling. the banners wave gently in the air blowing throughout the room, illuminated from lights on the ceiling and floor. each banner hosts an oversized photo of one of the band’s members in an image that best captures their personality. it took you hours to find the right photo for each man, but you stand by your choice for each one.

there’s john on the far left, head bent as he strums the bass across his knee. his lips are pursed in thought, a line of concentration on his brow.

there’s freddie next to him. he stands in a spanish alley way, cradling a stray cat in his arms. he looks serenely on at the camera, a rare moment of simplicity.

there’s brian sat in an overstuffed armchair, his gangly legs crossed, a book open on his lap. he has the corner of his thumb in his mouth, and if you squint you can see the edge of his tongue.

there’s roger on the far right. he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes bright with mischief and joy. there’s a party hat snug on the crown of his head, pulling the skin of his forehead taut.

on opposite sides of the room, two parallel rows of twelve photos hang in neat order. you decided to have every photograph in the exhibit printed in black-and-white and, in all, you painstakingly picked the forty-eight photos featured in their simple white frames. you walk along the wall, hands clasped at your waist, eyes running over the memories you hold so dear.

the afternoon crystal taught you ride a bike in barcelona: you’re sat on the handlebars after a hard fall, mouth open in a squeal of delight as crystal whips toward the camera.

roger and john tossing an apple back and forth in an ottawa grocery store: john’s smile is broad, the apple caught on film midair.

brian sitting on the floor of your hotel suite: there’s a tray of sushi at his feet, and he’s smiling at you, his hair wet from a shower.

freddie playing the piano in the airport in yugoslavia: he’d been so excited to see one, his shoes had slipped on the slick floor as he ran to it. he’d played dramatically, conducting those around him in a horrible rendition of “god save the queen.”

your eyes sting with tears as you glance about the room. you’re proud of your work. it looks good, professional and elegant, but more than that, you’re proud of yourself for the work you’ve done in mending your broken heart. though you will never live the life you’d once dreamed of, you will always have the memories—and that’s got to count for something.

when the double-doors open and monica ushers the first of the patrons in, you slip into the closest bathroom to wipe at the makeup smudged under your eyes. you’re happy, truly so, and you want to celebrate—celebrate both of your lives as they finally come together.

the room is crowded when you reenter, conversation and gentle laughter mingling in the air. you accept a tight hug from rachel when you see her and the congratulations of your parents. you can’t stop smiling, and you’re sure your face will hurt come morning, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

your parents float away, hand in hand, and you find yourself alone in the center of the room, watching in awe as people you’ve never met look at your photos, at your memories, and nod in appreciation. your chest swells with an emotion you can’t place.

“i think this calls for a congratulations. you’ve outdone yourself, dove.”

you whirl on your heel, lip caught between your teeth in a poorly-concealed smile. “you came.”

crystal grins. the tie of his suit is rumbled and askew, and you reach out to straighten it. old habits die hard. “i said i would.”

“what do you think?”

“i think it’s fantastic. the lads would be proud.”

“maybe.” you shrug. “guess we’ll never know.”

“are you really so intent on staying hidden forever?”

you nod. “yes. it took everything in me to even talk to you. i don’t want to ruin their lives again by popping back up, especially because i’m not exactly old, am i?”

crystal laughs, shaking his head. “you must think you’re hot stuff if a simple hello could ruin a life.” his laughter fades into a simple smile. “now, i know you’re going to hate me and i’m willing to take that, but i did tell a certain someone about the exhibit.”

you can feel the blood drain from your face. “crystal, you didn’t.”

he winces. “i might’ve.”

you slap his arm and curl your fingers into his bicep. “you bastard!”

he holds up his hands in defense, decent enough to plaster a look of contrition on his face. “look, i didn’t tell him the context or what tipped me off. i just told him there was a new exhibit about queen and he was eager to come see. that’s all!”

you swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “i—” your head twists back and forth in utter confusion. “i don’t know what to do.”

crystal’s face softens, and he nudges your shoulder. “go talk to him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

you can’t argue with that.

giving crystal’s arm a grateful squeeze, your legs shake beneath you as you turn and see him—brian—across the room.

you don’t know how you didn’t see him before. even now, forty years later, he’s still unmistakeable: still tall, still gangly, but his hair has gone white and his strides are slower. the overwhelming urge to tear across the room and curl yourself around his back nearly overpowers you, but you shove it down and manage to cross the floor in slow, even steps. you keep your eyes glued to his back, your hands twitching at your sides. when you reach him and catch a faint whiff of his cologne, the same he wore all those years ago, you have to push back the tears that rise unbidden to your eyes.

you tap his shoulder. “dr. may?”

he circles around, as does his wife anita, her arm snug in his elbow.

brian blinks hard, his brow furrowed in confusion. for a moment, you let him stare at you as you stare right back. his eyes are the same. you’d thought they’d be different, but they aren’t. the realization stuns you silent.

anita glances between you both before smiling sweetly. “good evening, sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is so kind you can’t even summon the slightest bit of jealousy. “i’m afraid i didn’t catch your name.”

“oh, i’m sorry!” you laugh and find that smiling at anita isn’t hard. “my name’s [y/n] [y/l/n]. i created the exhibit. i thought i might come and introduce myself.”

“oh, how lovely!” anita claps her hands together. “what you’ve done is so beautiful, [y/n]. it’s nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

“that’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

“brian likes it too. don’t you, brian?”

he still can’t seem to formulate any sort of response. he’s frozen in place, and your heart lurches for him. to see the woman he’d once asked to marry him, the one so cruelly ripped away, while standing next to his wife... precisely why you never wanted to meddle in his current affairs.

finally, he seems to collect himself. he sucks in a deep breath and nods in agreement. “yes, i do. very much.”

“that means a lot,” you say, easing your smile back into place. “thank you.”

“i’ll leave you two to talk to for a moment. i see crystal hovering in the corner over there, and i’m sure you both have many questions for one another.” anita presses her hand on your arm as she passes. “lovely job, dear.”

she leaves, and you’re left alone with the greatest love of your life.

you wait for him to speak.

“you’re... alive?” it’s a question, not a statement.

“yes.”

“you’re the same age?”

“yes.”

“how did—” he shakes his head. “i don’t understand.”

“neither do i.”

his chin quivers slightly, and he looks away. “i thought you’d been taken or decided to—”

you dare to touch his arm. a spark jolts through your fingers at the slightest touch, but you hold firm. “nothing happened,” you explain. “other than nature righting her mistake.”

“i think—i think i need to sit down.”

“yes, of course. my office is down the hall. it’s quiet there.”

he nods and leans against your arm as you lead him down the hall. in the silence of your dimly lit office, he collapses to the loveseat beneath the window and drops his face to his hands. you hesitate in the doorway until he looks up. tears shimmer in his eyes, and you swallow hard, your smile wavering around the edges.

he stands then, crosses the floor, and cradles your face in his hands. “my god,” he breathes. “it really is you.”

with a laugh, you hold his wrists. “in the flesh.”

“how long’s it been?” his thumb works over your cheekbone and, though you know he should stop, you can’t bring yourself to step away from his touch.

“about seven months.”

he snorts. “try forty years.”

“you seem like you did well for yourself, though.”

he shrugs. “i suppose.”

“you’re happy?”

there’s a heavy pause before he says, “yes.”

“that’s all i want to hear.”

slipping out of his grasp, you put a modicum of space between you both. the air is thick with emotion, and your heart beats wildly against your chest. the love you thought you’d put to bed flares at the mere sight of him, even after all this time.

you drift your finger through the sand of your tabletop zen garden. “i told crystal not to tell you about me,” you admit.

“he didn’t—not in so many words.”

“i know. i’m glad he said something, though.” you pause, meet his gaze. “it’s so good to see you, bri.”

quiet falls over the room as he stares at you. you don’t squirm. you’re comfortable under his gaze, always have been.

“i hope you know i never stop looking,” he says. “even after anita, i kept trying to find you. just to know.”

“and i hope you know that i would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant i got to be with you even for a time.”

your phone vibrates on the desk, skidding across your oversized calendar. you reach for the phone and flip it over before slipping it in the purse hung over your desk chair.

“i’ve got to go,” you admit, crossing to his side. “i’ve actually got a date.”

to your surprise, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “i’m happy to hear it.” he lifts a hand and smooths back the hair from the side of your face. he looks at you with all the love he did forty years ago, and you wish you could take a picture to remember forever.

but then you remember: you have dozens of photos at home, and it doesn’t seem too hard to let him go now. not after the work you’ve put into mending your heart. you can face this, face saying goodbye for good. you have to, for his sake and your own.

rising to your tiptoes, you place a hand on his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth—one last touch, for you both. you wind your arm around his neck and whisper in his ear, “i love you, brian may. i always will.”

he squeezes you hard against his body, sucking in a ragged breath. “i love you too, [y/n].”

dropping back to your heels, you huff a breath and smile wide. “well, i’d better go.”

“yes, you’d better. don’t keep the lad waiting.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, your hand lingering on his. “okay, well... goodbye, brian.”

he smiles, and it’s the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen. he brushes you cheek with the back of his hand, whispering, “see you later, love.”

dipping out the back of the museum, you walk down the street, purse slung over your shoulders. you think you’ll be able to sleep well for the first time in a long time tonight.

you hope he can, too.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #brian may x you #queen #queen fic #queen x reader #j writes

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tetsunation · 4 years

Text

— christmas shopping with akaashi

☁ akaashi keiji… im love u.. i procrastinated again and wrote all of it in like two hours so im sorry for putting this out so late

⚠ fem!reader, the only time i read this was when i typed it KNGSJH

word count: 928

the biting chill of early winter wind threatened to strike through akaashi’s thick puffer jacket. his only source of warmth, albeit faint, came from your small hand wrapped in his own, tucked into his jacket pocket for extra comfort. the two of you were wandering around an open aired outlet, your arms flush against his in search of body heat.

he wasn’t one to expect a direct gift from you, wrapped up in thin paper and finished off with a big bow; having you as his company, cozied up to him as he protected you from the breeze, with a simple ‘happy birthday’ was enough. even then, the offer of having a late lunch with you afterwards set that natural desire for a present aside.

darting in and out of name brand labeled doors, often times coming out empty handed, he held two full bags in his free hand, swinging lowly against his tall figure mere inches from the concrete. first you were in a small game stop for kenma, walls piled high with cartridges and games, then you guys had floated into an fye, captivated by the quaint stuffed animals and ended up purchasing one for hinata.

now, quite tediously for the both of you, you and akaashi found yourselves in an old navy, mindlessly scanning through the racks of clothing in search of something to give bokuto. unfolding shirts from the desks, holding them in front of your face for your best friend’s approval. most of the time, he’d purse his lips and consider it for a moment, before shaking his head and folding it back up to put back in its place.

“all of these are way too formal for kou’s liking.” akaashi watched as you furrowed your brows at a collared button up, hooking it back onto the metal hanging rack. he swooned at the way the tip of your nose was tinted a faint pink, cheeks red from the dropping temperature. you looked so endearing bundled up in layers of cloth, his clothes, scarf tied loosely around your neck and finished off with another padded coat.

akaashi threw a loose gray tee with ‘sometimes i use words i don’t understand so i can sound more photosynthesis’ printed on the front in big, blocky letters into his shopping basket. “we’re looking in the wrong section, forever 21 might be the best candidate for weird tees.” he laughed breathily as you scoffed at his comment, aiming a wadded up cotton shirt at his chest before sauntering off to your own accord, leaving him behind to marvel in the way your symphonic laughter rang in his ears.

both of you knew that you guys would have been back home inside the heat of your insulated walls if it weren’t for you getting distracted and inspecting any item that peaked your interest, but he didn’t mind watching the way your face lit up at the sight of a flowy purple dress, holding it up for him to see with wide eyes shining; he made a mental note to himself to come back and buy it for you in time for christmas.

now, with the both of you stripped down to just your first layer of clothing in the tingling homely atmosphere of the nearest coffee shop, a slice of shortcake placed in the center of the rounded wooden table for both of you to split. webs of gray smoke wafted from the two mugs of cocoa, invitingly coaxing more warmth in its contents.

you had reached the end of your errands, and akaashi couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of disappointment boiling in the pit of his stomach. had it really already been three hours? blue eyes watched cautiously as you took a sip from the porcelain cup, tongue wetting your pink lips.

“i had a lot of fun today,” you murmured, gently bringing your gaze up to look at keiji’s lidded eyes, reddening when you found that they were already trained on you.

“all we did was get things for other people,” he prodded the half eaten cake with the prongs of his fork. he couldn’t seem to swallow that despondency and regret laying heavy in his chest. although there was no doubt he would see you again soon in a few days time, he wanted to spend his special day with his best friend, and it felt like you were leaving him permanently. “but yeah, i did, too.”

his brows knitted in confusion when he watched your frame bend over to the side, rummaging through the plastic bags. “about that,” you came back up with a screech owl stuffed animal and a t-shirt, placing them on the table and sliding it towards his direction. “i wish i could have gotten you something more meaningful, but-”

“no, no, this is perfect, n/n.” keiji felt his cheeks flare with heat, examining the wrinkled shirt that you had thrown at him in the old navy. it was easy to forget he, too, was a sucker for those weird word shirts, much like koutarou was. “actually, though, there is one thing at the top of my wishlist that would make up for this.”

“are you implying that my gift choice was stupid?”

“maybe a bit,” the corners of his lips tugged into a teasing grin, a mere mask to the panic he was trying to subdue. hopefully, setting it in stone would ease that fearful feeling nagging at the back of his head each time you both had to part ways. “will you do me the favor of giving me the bestest christmas gift and being my girlfriend?”

#akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #akaashi keiji imagine #akaashi imagine #akaashi keiji headcanons #akaashi headcanons #haikyuu imagines #hq post #hq anime #hq fluff #hq imagines #akaashi fluff #⛄ — hq holiday #i made headers for these but #they dont work with my theme

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skzluvs · 4 years

Text

Phobia; Han jisung

Genre: angst, fluff (if you squint)

Warnings: mention of nightmares

Word count: 1.8k

A/N: Hi! I’m back from my hiatus with another angst fic inspired by the drama it’s okay to not be okay combined with a little bit of phobia I hope you guys like it!

The girl who fed on nightmares

there was a girl who woke up every night by the nightmares, demons that haunted her dreams. She was twisted inside, held back by the painful memories of her past.

panting breath, irregular heartbeat, a cold sweat dripping from her forehand. she opened her eyes to meet with the darkness of her room. Terror washed over her. frightened.

"it's just another nightmare" she said trying to calm down the thoughts that were messing up her already deranged head.

a familiar setup, you might think she grew accustomed to the feeling after the third night but that's was not true the lingering feeling of numbness grew by the time she realized there was no escape from the chains that still cuffed her up.

the morning came earlier, with very few hours of sleep, she got up and got ready for work. the days turned into a monotone.

she arrived to bookstore, pure silence made her mind feel content. A moment of peace in the torrential rain.

"excuse me" a soft voice called her, almost as quiet as a whisper that's being shared between lovers.

she looked up to meet with a boy, with black hair and a mischievous smile, he looked cheerful with an undeniable strong aura that surrounded his slender figure, definitely not the type you would see in a library at 8am in the morning.

"yes" she replied politely to the boy who carried a handful on books on his arms.

"i want to check all of these out please" he placed the books on the counter.

As she took a look at the pile, she got intrigued by the peculiar selection.

children books.

but not the kind that you read to a child unless you want them to have nightmares, and she knew damn well about that.

"you like this gruesome stuff ?" she was never the kind to question other people's interests but for some strange motive she wanted to know.

" it's a children's book how can you call this masterpiece gruesome" the boy seemed rather offended by her words.

" the pictures make me want to cry my eyes out and I'm an adult, there's no way this book was targeted for such audience" she said

" it seems like you know nothing about this books not the author , therefore I won't be engaging in a discussion, you can continue to be ignorant later just let me borrow them so I can go" he said annoyed, taping with his finger on top of the dusty cover.

The girl refused to give out response and rather continued to do her job. she sure didn't get paid enough for that.

"here" she said handing him the books along with the returning slip. "you have 2 weeks to return them unless you want more time come before the deadline to extend the borrowing period"

"thank you" he left not sparing to look at her for the last time before exiting through the door.

the browned eyed boy who just happened to be named han jisung, she found out his name through his library card. Was all she could think about, not because she was interested, but because of the of his actions. Usually she evaded social situations, she found people not worth of her time, but there was something about that boy that made her wanted to crush him like a fragile butterfly with broken wings.

another meaningless night, it was tiring to get emptied out like that. Every time she closed her fears shaped into a reality. she was stuck with the phobia.

days passed by, a body that walks through the streets without a soul. There was nothing she wanted nothing she desired more but to fall asleep. So she lived her life longing for that moment.

going through the bookshelves placing them correctly by alphabetical order. A pair of eyes stuck to the back of her head.

a boy who watched her carefully from the other side of the room, and he probably thought he was being precautious, but she knew she was being observed.

Jisung. Who came everyday just to sit as far back from the main entrance as possible, hiding in a corner reading the books he so much loved. After the first encounter with the girl he could no longer sleep the same way. His thoughts circled around her small frame and the sound of her broken voice.

there was this thing about her, he called it despondency and he was drowned right into it. like the tales had taken over a human form.

by the end of the two weeks he stood there fidgeting, over the course of the last couple of days his little instigating got him nowhere. She repeated a daily routine, there was nothing to analyze in her vague movements and worn out expressions. However he knew she hides more than the human eye can perceive behind that weary facade.

The moment she clocked out he followed her outside.

"why are you following me" the girl stopped her tracks and made a spin over her ankles, just to meet with him.

"I needed to ask you something" He said rather shy. all the courage he build up over the weeks disappearing at the strong gaze that confronted him.

"I'm not obligated to respond, do me a favor and get lost" She turned around and continued to walk.

It was an expected reply exactly what made jisung decide it was better to come up with a different plan.

every day he would put a book of his collection on top of her desk hoping she would get interested enough to read it.

but instead she would just eye the cover and place it back to its shelf.

Not until one day she meet to something different, the book had a folded edge, opening the page carefully, her fingers ghosting over the words printed on the glossy paper.

"bad memories from the past that he wanted to erase from his head"

"were replayed in his dreams every night"

"and haunted him nonstop"

"the boy was terrified of falling asleep"

a creeping feeling went down her spine, and her trembling hands made the book fall. Her own monsters greeted her with a grin. Collapsing with the wooden floor.

jisung got petrified by the loud sound. He hurried his way to find the girl unconscious on the ground. it was all his fault.

a disturbing sound came from her mouth. She woke up in an oddly unfamiliar house. Her body covered by a thin blanket, the walls were closing like the screams that got caught up in her throat.

jisung who was downstairs making dinner ran through the stairs and opened the door alarmed at the high pitched noises.

"Are you okay?" He exclaimed trying to recover his breath.

"what am I doing here? where am i ?" she asked not trying to panic even more. She felt so dizzy the room kept on spinning.

"you're at my house, you passed out at the library" He said scratching the nape of his neck with guiltiness.

"I remember now, this was your deed, you and your stupid nauseating books" by the looks of it she had been gone for a while. Not to mention the longer she was in a slumber the longer the suffering.

"not my fault you got scared by a book for 5 year olds" He said shrugging, with an unprovoked expression.

"And you dared to call me an ignorant" she deadpanned.

"Do you fear anything?" He asked out of the blue.

what is the real meaning behind fear?. Fear is tangible. Is the anxiety, the desperation to run away and hide forever where they can't find you, it means to want to stab your eyes with a safety pin to blind the pain. Is the captivity of oneself.

"You're scared of yourself aren't you?" it no longer sounded like a question but more like an affirmation.

he had figured you out in no time. You couldn't let them see the vulnerable side, not to anyone and most definitely not this stranger.

"You said it yourself you know nothing so leave alone before it's too late" She threatened.

"Anyways I'm sorry for being so persistent, never intended to make you feel uncomfortable, I'll be downstairs if you need me, dinner is ready if you want to come and have something to eat before you leave" He knew it was better not to push it if he wanted answers.

But why was he so desperate to understand the world inside her head ?

Jisung felt the loneliness of her being. He came up to the conclusion that he wanted to be the person who brought the girl back to life.

After some time he grew a step closer to her, not to the point she would stop pushing him away but at least his efforts had made a very insignificant change.

She would let him read the books to her once in a while, she fed into the words, relating to every single one of them. But things were still the same at night, she would break down to the horrifying sight.

"Jisung why are you still here ?" she asked him unable to understand why the boy remained by her side even when she treated him like a piece of trash.

"Because im trapped under your spell" he confessed.

"You’re e going to end up in so much pain" she said looking into his eyes.

"You can't go to heaven before crossing the flames of hell" He responded with certainty. “ and If I have to burn I rather do it while still holding you”

"Would you still like me if you knew the kind of monster I am, not the one you read in books but the kind that hides behind a mask and transforms at night"

" I would still like you if you were the devil himself"

" The devil wont tear your soul apart like I would trust me" She knew she would drive him into despair. But she had warned him multiple times, from here she no longer take accountability, he would meet fear. She would make sure of that.

I'm stuck with the phobia although I want to stay with you I'm scared that you might disappear in between the shadows. How can I hold you when I was made to destroy you.

there was a girl whose world was a pitch black hole and her insides were dark and twisted, and a boy who fell in love with her repulsiveness swore to never leave her, but her darkness overshadowed the fugacious happiness of a spur moment and the voices in her head claimed that she was all alone. but the boy sang to her a lullaby that lulled her into a deep sleep and for the first time in forever there were no painful memories in her dreams.

She was the girl who fed on nightmares. The one he once read about and the one he was now holding on his arms.

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