#so I got to read that for the first time yesterday

[1d1195]

Under Construction IV

Read Under Construction here | ~6.3k

From Me: a date, a party, and a bit of learning

Warning: like two more seconds of blood and then fluff and a bit of angst.

Summary: “Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.

“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”

“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.

She was ready thirty-six minutes before Harry was supposed to show up. The anxiety she felt, even though he was there less than twenty-four hours prior, made her bouncy. Her knee was shaking as she sat on her sofa trying not to look at her phone for the twentieth time in the same minute to see that time was not moving any faster.

There was the thought to look in a mirror, but she feared she would ruin her hair for adjusting it too much. Or her makeup for thinking maybe one more swipe of eyeshadow would make her look better. Instead, she continued practically vibrating out of her seat in hopes that somehow Harry would get there faster.

She ignored her texts from Louis and Eleanor, both nearly giggling through their messages about being safe and using protection. She read over the itinerary her sister sent for wedding planning and when she got too overwhelmed, she switched gears to her weekly lesson plan. By then, only a mere nine minutes had passed. With how much she was tapping her foot, she thought that her floor was going to get a matching hole like her ceiling.

It felt like she had never been on a date before, and this was the first one. Maybe it was just the first one that actually mattered. Evan took her on dates of course, and in the early stages of their relationship, they were filled with excitement. But not like this. Everything moved so quickly with Evan. Dates, flowers, moving in, home repairs, and many events. By the end of their relationship, dates were extravagant, but almost always more of an event than spending time with one another.

Maybe it was worth waiting the agonizing twenty-four minutes that she still had to wait before Harry arrived.

Her phone pinged beside her. Harry’s name popped up and she felt her heart leap into her throat. Honestly, if he cancelled, she was going to be devastated. But she would of course understand.

I’m itching to come pick you up, Bird. Any chance you’re ready early? I’m only five minutes away from your place.

The wave of relief that flooded her made her feel two hundred times lighter. She laughed quietly to herself. Yes! I’m ready, I don’t want you to rush, but that would be great!

I’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes and I just thought I couldn’t wait any longer. You’re sure you don’t mind?

Her heart did a somersault in her chest, and she thought she might explode from how cute he was. 🥰 No not at all. I’ve been a bit restless myself looking forward to our lunch.

😅 Good. I’ll see you in a minute, Bird.

Now she wished she had looked at her hair and makeup one more time. She paced her living room and fiddled with the pictures on the wall making sure they looked straight. Her eyes darted to the hole in her ceiling that Harry and Niall said they would fix next weekend once they were assured it was fully dried. They even went to her attic and set up a fan after breakfast yesterday to ensure the moisture wouldn’t accumulate mold. It made her heart skip a beat again to know he was willing to come help her in the middle of the night.

The knock on her door was expected but still surprised her anyway. She hurried over to the door trying not to sound like she was waiting right by the door. Harry stood on the step, a vase and accompanying flower arrangement in his hand. “Hi,” he grinned. “Y’look stunning,” he said scanning her up and down.

She thought she was going to melt right there in the doorway. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He held out the vase. “M’sister told me that getting your date flowers is nice, but s’a lot of work t’find a vase and take care of them right before y’supposed t’go out,” he smiled sheepishly.

She took the vase, inhaling the scent of the various flowers as she did. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“I didn’t know what kind of flowers y’liked so I kinda got one of each,” he admitted shyly.

She grinned. “I love it,” she nodded.

“The ceiling’s okay?” He asked.

She nodded again. “But… let’s not worry about it. I want to enjoy our date,” she bit the inside of her lip as she settled the vase on the small table just inside the doorway.

Harry’s smile grew somehow. It was astonishing. She was pretty sure if a lighthouse failed, they could use him instead. He leaned forward, cupping the side of her face and kissing her on the opposite cheek. Just a quick gentle brush of his lips against her skin. It made her feel warm all over, and she knew her cheeks probably turned pinker than the blush she used. If they did, Harry didn’t comment. He released her quickly. “Let’s go then,” he said holding his hand out for her to take (which she did quickly and enjoyed the way he squeezed her hand once he held it). Harry was dressed in dark jeans, a soft blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked so good, smelled better than the flowers he gave her, and she seriously thought about asking him if they could just stay on her couch so she could stare at him.

Harry opened the passenger door for her, making her heart tumble over itself once more. He closed her in and headed to the driver’s side. “I thought we’d go a town or two over jus’ so y’don’t run into any kids… unless y’want that. More witnesses and whatnot,” he winked.

She smiled. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather… keep you to myself for now,” she looked at her lap.

He chuckled quietly. “Works for me.”

*

Harry was fucked. He was worried he was staring at her too much. But then he was worried he was trying to avoid looking at her too much and seemed disinterested. Which was not the case. Harry was almost certain no one could be more interested on a date than the pretty girl sitting across from him. She was looking over the menu, not a particularly fancy place, but there were cloth napkins. Gemma said that a cloth napkin always classed up the date a bit.

Her eyes roamed the menu, her lips pursed in concentration. Harry was enthralled. The way her lashes framed her eyes, the curve of her smile, the wrinkle of her nose when she saw something she didn’t like. “Have you been here before?” She asked.

He shook his head quickly, getting himself to stop staring. “I’ve ordered take out after a job not too far from here.”

She nodded. “It looks really good, thanks for picking. I promise I won’t talk about teaching the whole time, but sometimes I get decision fatigue. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, but basically, I make a lot of decisions all day long—for a lot of people. Decisions I don’t even realize I’m making. Picking what to eat is so exhausting sometimes that I don’t even make dinner and just have snacks,” she admitted with a smile.

That worried Harry, of course. He wanted to make her dinner all the time and not let her worry about it. “What d’you like t’eat?” He asked.

She smiled. “Oh, I’m not too picky, really. The butternut squash ravioli sounds really good, and it comes with bread. I’ll probably get brussels sprouts too.”

Once more Harry forgot that he was supposed to uphold his end of the conversation. She made her lunch choice sound like an acceptance speech for an award. “Hey Bird?” He asked quietly.

“Hmm?” She looked up.

“Y’can talk ‘bout teaching as much as y’want. M’not gonna get sick of it,” he promised.

She ducked her gaze to the menu again and smiled sadly. “Oh,” she laughed softly. “Thank you,” appreciation dripping in her voice as she looked up at him with an almost confused gaze. “I’m afraid it’s a pretty big part of my life and conversation.”

“Good,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I like hearing about it,” he promised with a grin.

*

The conversation flowed very easily. They discussed favorites and movies. She offered some of her Brussels sprouts to Harry and he gave her a handful of his French fries when she said they looked really good. He chuckled when she dipped them into the cream sauce that surrounded her ravioli. “It’s good, you should try it.”

It was good. But he still found it funny.

They chatted about their families. Gemma and her baby, his mum, and her family, who were all thoroughly invested in planning this wedding for her sister. “She picked my other sister to be maid of honor, but I’m doing a lot of the work,” she sighed.

“How come?” He asked.

“Because I’m crafty,” she shrugged. “I get roped into making all the stuff for her bachelorette trip—that I’m not going on because it’s during the school year—and I don’t know. She has this vision for the wedding to have some elaborate archway and I stupidly volunteered to make it.”

He smiled. “Do y’have a picture of it?” He asked.

When she went on dates with Evan, phones were nearly a necessity. She didn’t mind, really. They helped keep the conversation going. She would look up things to talk about and show off pictures of her classroom. Not that Evan cared about her classroom. He used his phone to conduct business even while on their date. Check on the score of a game or the like. But it was a little astonishing that she realized she had nearly forgotten she owned a phone until Harry asked for a picture.

“Oh, yeah,” she pulled her phone from her purse and searched through the pictures of the wedding album she created for her sister. “She’s getting married in June, which is also kind of crazy with the end of the school year. But,” she sighed. “It is what it is.”

Harry looked at the archway. It was pretty. Didn’t seem particularly complicated. “What are y’worried about?” He asked.

“Well, building it.”

“Building it?” He repeated.

“Yes. Because purchasing it would be too easy,” she rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s not that bad, I’m just busy a lot of time and it’s going to be difficult because I need to get the right tools and—” she stopped. “I sound like an awful sister, don’t I?”

“No, not at all,” he shook his head. “S’a big endeavor t’do on your own. But… I have plenty of tools,” he assured her. “And I’ll help you,” he promised. “It’ll go a lot faster and smoother with two people.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Really?” She asked.

What the hell was her ex like that she didn’t feel like she could ask for help? “Yes, really,” he smiled. “S’easy m’sure.”

“Thank you,” she said so graciously, Harry thought his heart was going to melt onto the floor of the restaurant.

“At y’service Miss Bird,” he winked.

Their waiter came back to take their dishes, offered dessert which they declined. “Kitten, put your money away. S’useless here,” he shook his head putting his card into the check presenter. She blushed.

“You don’t have—”

“M’not having this discussion,” he shook his head. “S’no bother. M’happy y’wanted t’come out with me. I know you’re busy and m’taking up precious time on your weekend.”

She hadn’t thought about anything that usually plagued her mind when she was doing something enjoyable. She didn’t think about her lesson plans, the wedding, nor Christmas gifts she wanted to start buying. The only thing she could think about was how nice her time with Harry was when he looked so handsome and couldn’t stop staring at her. “I’d rather be here,” she assured him.

He smiled. “Good.”

*

Before they went into the restaurant, she recognized her surroundings and offered her two cents. “There’s a really good ice cream place nearby if you want to get dessert after,” she said. “Since it’s fall, they have this apple sundae special that’s super yummy.”

Harry put a hand on the small of her back as he ushered her back to his car. “Y’have room for ice cream?”

She nodded. “I always have room for ice cream,” she grinned.

He chuckled. “Ice cream it is.” They sat inside the little shop eating their ice creams. Hers, the small apple sundae she spoke about, and his, a cup of mint chocolate chip with hot fudge. “This is really good ice cream,” he nodded taking another spoonful. She ginned to herself, watching a drip of hot fudge get stuck to the bottom of his chin.

She bit her lip and grabbed a napkin between them. “May I?” She asked reaching out to his face. He smirked and she dabbed his skin.

He grabbed her hand when she was finished, made her drop the napkin to the table and he scooped her hand into his and smirked. “You look like a whole bouquet, Bird,” he scanned her again.

A puddle. She was certain her insides turned to mush, and she was no longer solid but liquid on the floor of the ice cream shop. She felt so warm she thought the heat she was producing would melt her sundae into the puddle of her organs on the floor.

“A bouquet?” She questioned.

“Prettiest bouquet I’ve ever seen.”

“I think I’m going to melt,” she whispered.

“Y’can’t melt when I haven’t even kissed y’yet,” he didn’t move his eyes from hers. A small gasp escaped her lips. “M’going t’melt as well,” he squeezed her hand. “Thought ‘bout kissing you yesterday. Well, ‘ve actually been thinking ‘bout kissing you since I met you,” he admitted with a smirk. “But y’really gave me a scare on the roof,” he reminded her.

The sight of her up there in the rain, not knowing what to do, terrified him. When he yelled, he didn’t think about her reaction—didn’t think it would send her over the edge of her home and nearly fall. Cradling her, no matter how briefly, felt like heaven. Despite the circumstances. Regardless of if it was raining and at one in the morning. Even though his heart felt like it was in his throat and his stomach twisted with worry.

All Harry wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms, a blanket, anything, and hold her for as long as possible.

“Will you be kissing me when you drive me home?” She asked.

“Would that be okay?” He squeezed her hand.

Would it be okay if the hottest man she’d ever seen kissed her? Yeah. She’d be okay. She nodded. “Very okay.”

*

She felt her hands nearly shake as she opened the door. Harry stood a few feet away; his hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced around the front of her house. “The door sticks a little,” she warned.

“I could look at that,” he offered.

She gave it a little shove and pushed inside. Harry watched the skirt of her dress flutter with the movement, and she stepped into the doorway. Harry helped her get her coat off and hung up on her coat rack. “Do you want—”

Harry grabbed her by the hips, then turned her so her back was against the wall adjacent to the door that he kicked shut. He put his hand behind her head protectively as he pushed her. Once safely against the wall, he brought one hand to her face, the other on her waist. He gazed at her, his nose almost touching hers. His breath smelled like mint chocolate chip ice cream and hot fudge.

 She hoped she smelled like apples and not pasta or garlic. “M’pretty bouquet,” he hummed and brushed the back of his finger along her cheek. He wasn’t kidding about melting. And he still hadn’t kissed her yet. But was she breathing heavy? Panting? Like she had run a marathon? She thought she might lose her mind a little if he prolonged this. “This was the best date of m’life,” he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Can we have another?” He asked.

She nodded. “Please,” she breathed.

He grinned, nodded to himself happily. “M’gonna kiss you now, kitten. M’gonna make y’melt,” he promised.

“I’m sure,” her voice was hardly anything more than a whisper.

He smiled, leaned the final inch in, and covered her lips with his. She thought she was going to be embarrassed and moan but instead Harry beat her to it. And it was anything but embarrassing. She breathed out as he moved his mouth over hers, applying the most perfect amount of pressure.

An expert at fixing desks, a roof, and kissing. She should have known. His hand tangled in the back of her hair and brought her closer to him. His lips were soft and firm. A tantalizing, oxymoronic pressure that made her feel like her legs were going to give out. She grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt in each hand. He licked and nipped at her, deepening the kiss. The hand at her waist shifted south, rubbing her hip, her leg through the skirt of her dress.

Harry moaned again, pulled away and dropped his lips to her jaw and he kissed down toward her ear, moved to her throat and brushed his lips against her collarbone. “Mm,” he sighed. “So good, Bird. So, so good,” he whispered into her skin. “Can I?” He asked, his hands drifting further south.

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. “Anything you want.”

He chuckled quietly; the air tickled her skin as he did. Slowly, he dropped his hands to cup around the side of her thighs, still politely over her skirt. He groaned. “So pretty, m’pretty Bird,” he slowly lifted until she was off the floor, her legs wrapped around his waist. “Don’t want y’melting all over the floor,” he murmured into her neck.

She didn’t care that her skirt rode up her hips and her underwear was probably showing. She hoped she picked a cute pair; that Harry would like her even if she wore comfy underwear too. “Mmm,” her hands moved to his shoulders, the back of his neck pulling him closer and wishing he could sink deeper into his mouth, his body, everything. She pushed away from the wall, nearly grinding into him as she wrapped herself tightly around him. She moaned softly, Harry groaning again in response as he pushed her back against the wall, her leg hitting against the table inside the entry way. Immediately, her pretty flowers and vase toppled to the ground and shattered.

Harry pulled away and sighed. “S’what I get for trying t’make y’life easier,” he smirked, kissed her cheek. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I could give two fucks about that,” she told him, her lips only a breath away from his. “Keep kissing me,” she begged.

He laughed again, brushed his nose against hers, “M’at your service, Miss Bee,” he whispered before parting her lips with his again.

*

She felt like she was floating at work. The little ones were all very excited about Halloween, their sand-witch party and everything. She wasn’t on top of her game because all she could think about was the hot construction worker just a short walk away from her. Her eyes drifted to the window. She wouldn’t be able to see him of course, but just the thought of him got her melting all over again.

It was a miracle she could sleep after Harry left her. The smile on her sore lips—she hadn’t felt sore from kissing since… well… ever—her mind spun with hundreds of thoughts all about Harry. Not a single lesson nor a bridal shower game entered her brain last night. The only thing she could think about was Harry.

Good morning, Miss Bee

She woke up to the text as her alarm rang for six o’clock. The time stamp said that Harry had been up for at least an hour. Biting her lip, she texted back. Good morning ☀️

Sleep well? He asked almost instantly.

Her heart skipped a beat. Yes, you?

Hard falling asleep when yesterday was so nice 😍

Agreed 🥰 I gotta get ready. See you at recess, maybe? I’ll be wearing blue and a head or two taller than the little ones.

Can’t wait, bird.

However, now she couldn’t find him through the window, and she had a class to tend to. But her lips still felt sore, and she couldn’t help but smile as she focused on the kindergarteners in front of her. “Did we all have a good weekend?” She asked as they moved to the carpet for another installment of Charlotte’s Web.

“Miss Bee, I tolded my mom that I want to be a construction worker when I growed up.”

She giggled. “Told and grown, my love,” she reminded Kai sweetly. “Are you going to dress up like one on Wednesday for our party?”

He nodded. “Mr. Harry is bringing me a hat and a vest,” he explained.

“Is he now?” She smiled.

“Yes. I asked him at recess.”

“Hmm,” she hummed. “That’s very nice of him. Maybe we’ll have to write him a thank you note, yeah?”

But she also thought she could thank him in other ways.

The kindergarteners didn’t need to know about that though.

*

Harry was sitting in a chair much too small for him. He happily cut up paper, glued, and drew with children that she loved so much.

Niall and he were eating sandwiches that were also much too small for them, and they still had a few hours of grueling work to do once they left the party.

But they didn’t bat an eye at the situation. They looked like they were enjoying themselves even. Every so often Niall would get up in his ketchup costume and inspect something amiss around her room, catching Harry’s eye. There was a nod from Harry, a silent conversation taking place about the problems in her room that he seemed to be keeping on a mental to-do list.

One thing that she noticed, it was really nice to have a few extra sets of hands in her room for the day. With twenty students using scissors and glue it was bound to get a little crazy.

“Miss Bee, Mr. Niall put four triangles on his pumpkin!” Janie said in excitement.

“No way!” She gasped.

Not that she didn’t believe Kai, but Harry did bring little hard hats and vests (with an Under Construction logo on the back) for the five students that said they wanted to be construction workers. He stopped by her classroom yesterday after school let out and he had a box in his hands and a sheepish smile on his lips. “I didn’t want t’be empty handed for the kids that aren’t planning t’be in the construction business.”

She blinked back tears as she inspected the package of vests and accessories of a variety of jobs. “Harry,” she said softly. “This is too much. It must have cos—”

“Probably a tenth of what y’spend on them in one year, bird. Don’t worry ‘bout it. ‘Ve spent m’money on a lot worse than the future,” he assured her.

She dropped the box between their feet and threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. He chuckled as he pushed the box out of the way with his foot and lifted her gently as he squeezed her back.

“Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.

“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”

“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.

“Miss Bee says it’s only a need if it’s a matter of safety.”

“This is not a matter of safety,” Harry muttered bitterly.

She giggled, which made his whole body feel warm and he wondered how on earth he could be so obsessed with someone’s laugh after just a few short weeks. It felt like a bad day if he didn’t hear it. “Miss Bee, can I have the broom?” Amara asked. She tugged on Miss Bee’s costume, a tulle green skirt, a matching headband with two wire pieces that had big M&M’s bouncing from side to side, and a green M&M shirt. The class giggled at her when she changed into it (put it over top of her leggings and white sweater dress.

“Of course, thank you for being so thoughtful to keep your space clean, Amara,” she praised so the others could hear and hopefully help with clean up when the sand-witch party was over.

She went to the side of the room where she kept the cleaning supplies in a cabinet closet. However, when she pulled the door open it fell right off the old hinges. She yelped as it hit her foot and face at the same time. Her free hand went to her nose instinctively, and she lost her grip of it with her other hand but still tried to stop it as it toppled toward the tables.

The little ones screamed a bit dramatically, but Niall and Harry jumped right into action, grabbing it before it hit anyone else or caused any (more) damage.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked quickly, putting a hand on her hip innocently enough and scanning her from head to toe.

“Ah,” she shook her head and moved her hand to find that naturally she had given herself a nosebleed. “Fuck,” she whispered so no one could hear but Harry.

“We can fix it!” The little ones that had on their hard hats were ready to go to work with Niall and Harry even though they were dressed as ketchup and mustard.

“Oh Miss Bee! You’re bleeding!” DJ was dressed as a doctor, a stethoscope at the ready thanks to Harry’s kind gift.

She winced. It felt like defeat showing weakness. “I’m alright, my love. I just need to use the restroom to clean myself up.”

“I can help too!” Brayden said. He was dressed as a nurse, with a mask on his face ready to help out as well.

Harry crouched to the future medical professionals. “I think Miss Bee jus’ needs minute t’herself,” he whispered. “When she comes out, I bet she’ll let you look her over so y’can give her a clean bill of health,” he winked.

They both nodded with understanding and headed back to their tables. Harry grabbed a few tissues and ushered her back toward the bathroom. He wanted to close the door for the sake of her privacy and he really wanted to tend to her the way he wanted to, but he was sure that would look very bad in front of twenty, nosy kindergarteners who loved their adorable teacher.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly as she washed the blood off her hands and face while trying to maintain composure in front of the guy that she had a massive crush on while dressed like an M&M and a nose pouring blood like a faucet.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered.

He snorted. “For what? M’dressed as mustard,” he reminded her.

She smiled and winced at the pain it cause in her face. She shook her head. “The door landed on my foot,” she said. Harry crouched to the floor immediately. He took her ballet flat off like a reverse Cinderella and he still made her feel like princess. He brushed his fingers over her skin, and she hissed.

“S’a little scraped. We’ll have t’bandage y’up with your doctor and nurse,” he said from the ground while smiling up at her so cutely. A dumb, triangular cone on his head for his costume.

She already knew she was already falling hard for him, but she was almost certain she was going to tell a man dressed as a mustard bottle that she loved him in a kindergarten bathroom while she was wearing an M&M headband. She smiled again, holding a wad of tissues to her nose.

“Did it break y’nose?” He asked standing back up and skimming his fingertips along her cheek and tilting his head to get a better look to see if he missed some initial bruising.

She shook her head. “No… I just… I get nose bleeds very easily. I breathe too hard, and I start bleeding,” she sighed. “Sorry, that’s gross.”

“S’not gross, Bird,” he chuckled. “Jus’ making sure you’re alright.”

“I’m good. Thanks for getting me a minute to myself. We should probably go save Niall.”

“Niall’s fine, m’sure,” he promised. “If y’need another minute, I can go back out there with him.”

She wondered what the worst that could happen if she got caught kissing him during school hours.

“Mr. Harry,” fortunately they were interrupted by Milo before she could test any hypothesis. “Is Miss Bee going to die?”

He chuckled. “No, lad. M’thinking she’ll make it. We’re gonna check in with Dr. DJ and Nurse Brayden though,” he nodded and ushered the little one back toward the classroom. “Mr. Niall, y’think our little crew can help us repair the door?” He asked brightly. There was a chorus of cheers while she bit her lip.

“Miss Bee,” Zara whispered as she entered the classroom again. Zara was dressed as a baseball player which she loved more than most of the costumes she saw that day for a lot of different reasons. “Do you think you’re going to marry Mr. Harry?”

She smirked. “Are you trying to spread rumors about me, my love?” She asked with a giggle.

“No,” she giggled and put her hand on her mouth. “But I think you and Mr. Harry make a really cute couple. Like Lady and the Tramp or Delores and Mariano.”

She laughed. “Well, Mr. Harry and I are just friends,” she didn’t want the little ones knowing any of her private business when they were as involved with Harry as they currently were around the playground.

Niall returned from the outside entrance carrying a screw gun, a box of screws and few other items. “Guys and gals,” she moved over to where the group of five waited patiently with Harry and she crouched to their level. “Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall are being really nice to show you how to fix this. You have to listen to them very carefully. We’re not going to argue over who hands screws to them or ignore them if they say to let go or ask you to move out of the way, correct?” She eyed them seriously all in turn, all while keeping a tissue pressed to her nose.

“Yes, Miss Bee,” they sang in unison.

“They’re all yours, boys,” she gestured while standing up. “A good crew if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Thanks Miss Bee,” Niall pulled the trigger on the screw gun twice and Harry winked at her.

“Miss Bee can Brayden and me look you over now?”

“Brayden and I, my love,” she said gently with a nod. “Let’s go sit on the carpet, yeah?”

Harry smiled as she passed by him again brushing his hand along her back quickly and not even looking at her as he turned his attention back to Niall and his lesson of screw gun safety.

*

The sand-witch party was a huge success. She was already thinking of ways to make it better for the following year. Part of her was sad that Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall would likely be at a new job site. She wondered how that would change the dynamic of the party. Or if she was reading into it too much since it was a party for kindergarteners.

But once she got going it was hard to stop. There were so many learning targets she got to roll into one fun event. There were fine motor skills like gluing and using scissors, there was shapes, and prior to ketchup and mustard’s arrival, they wrote three sentences about the future career they had chosen and why they wanted it.

Harry and Niall said their goodbyes, took their pumpkins and some leftover sand-witches. “Who thinks the hexagon tasted best?” Niall asked as he bit into another one at the door. The class giggled at him, and they all shouted out their favorites and making a lot of noise while they waited expectantly for their departure. “Oops, sorry Miss Bee,” he said sheepishly.

She shrugged and smiled. “Zip it, lock it,” she said a little louder than normal.

“Put it in your pocket!” Then it was silent.

“That’s wicked,” Harry said almost dreamily. Niall snorted and hit his hand against Harry’s chest.

“Take it easy,” Niall muttered under his breath as he passed him to head back outside.

“All my friends love to thank Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall for coming to our party and hanging out with us!”

“Thank you!” The choir of six-year-olds cheered.

“See you later alligators,” Harry winked at them and waved as he and Niall stepped outside the room.

“In a while crocodile!” They all shouted back excitedly.

"Bye Miss Bird!" He practically cooed. He hoped the kids didn't notice but even if they did, he was having trouble caring.

“You’re an absolute goner,” Niall snickered as they headed back toward their job site. “Obsessed. In love,” he continued pulling the red ketchup hat cone off his head.

Harry smiled. “Mm, that obvious, hmm?”

Niall chuckled. “Think she’s a bit smitten too,” he said. “No one in their right mind would have sided with you about me being a tattle tale if they didn’t like you that much,” he reminded him and flicked his cheek before running ahead toward the jobsite again.

“You’re acting like a kindergartener!” Harry shouted.

“I know you are but what am I!?”

*

The remainder of the day was a little rowdy. Fun, learning got done, but she was very excited for the day to be over and very excited that there was a professional development day without her sugary students following Halloween night.

“See you all Friday!” She said cheerfully as her students scattered toward the busses and cars in the lot for pick up. She stood at her post outside where she always did, waving and grinning at former students, coworkers, and even a few parents as they tried to sneak out before the fleet of busses.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry at the fence, waving from afar, to those that knew who he was as well. “Miss Bee,” Milo tugged on her skirt as they all got ready for dismissal. She crouched next to him and smiled happily.

“Yes, my love? What can I do for you?”

“My uncle is picking me up today,” he smiled excitedly.

“Oh yeah? Is he taking you trick or treating?”

He nodded excitedly, his little construction hat bobbling back and forth. “Do you want to meet him?” He asked shyly.

“Of course, Milo,” she grinned. “I have to tell him what a great reader you’re becoming and how good you are at line leading,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He took her hand and pulled her toward the exit. As they approached the end of the bus port, she had a better view of Harry. His coworkers booking it out before they got stuck behind busses but not him. She felt a smile twinge on her lips as she waved goodbye to other little ones that wanted her attention.

“Well, hello there.”

She nearly froze in her tracks. Her gaze snapped forward at the sound of his voice. Milo’s hand released hers and he launched himself forward at the man before her. “Careful of your shoes on my clothes, buddy,” he chuckled. “Funny seeing you here,” he ruffled Milo’s hair and winked at her.

“This is Miss Bee,” Milo introduced.

“Miss Bird, I thought,” he continued smiling at her. But it felt like she was watching a documentary of a safari. She felt like a gazelle completely at the disadvantage.

“Miss Bee is a nickname,” Milo explained.

She must have looked like a goldfish, her mouth opening and closing trying to find the words. A deer in headlights if there ever was one. “So you’re the famous Miss Bee,” he chuckled. Like it was a private joke that only he knew the punchline too.

For a moment, she forgot she was a teacher. A member of the town community with a reputation she needed to uphold. She wanted to run away. Or slap him across the face. Yank Milo out of his arms and take him home with her instead. There was no way she could let sweet, little Milo out trick-or-treating with the likes of his uncle. But instead, she mustered as much strength as she did when she wasn’t feeling well, when she was exhausted, or when her life outside the classroom was falling apart and she was expected to continue smiling in front of her little group of young minds. She plastered a smile on her face and pretended everything was fine as she finally spoke, “Evan.”

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[httpknjoon]

anyone but you | myg

plot | that time on tour where the popstar would talk with everyone in the tour except her bassist, Yoongi. The one she cannot stop thinking about.

w.c | 6.2k+

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | mostly angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, slow burn

note | i love your mind thank you for sending this idea @enfppuff <3 I loved writing this one, I hope y'all will enjoy reading it :)

main masterlist | series masterlist

DAY 93: TOKYO, JAPAN

It took you one song in the rehearsals to notice someone sitting in one of the empty seats of Tokyo Dome. You were specifically singing the bridge for Taste when you spotted a brunette, wearing a baseball cap, on the very back seats in the floor area. It was easy for you to recognize she is not part of your tour staff since everyone has a uniform lanyard for their IDs. She has a neon green lanyard, indicating that she’s somebody’s visitor.

But the brunette woman is not some other woman, you know her. You recognized her. The one from The Late Late Show. The writer who kept bringing up great ideas and witty lines for you during the show. The one who was with your bass guitarist the whole night during the afterparty in December.

“Bea!”

It was during the rehearsal’s end that you fully processed who she is. You were on stage, in the middle of a three-person conversation with Art and your tour director, when you saw Yoongi walk up to Bea with two cups of coffee in his hands.

Why is she here?

The question formed in your head. Watching from a distance, you felt like a hawk, observing how they easily chat and laugh with Bea, unconsciously patting your bassist’s lap every time she giggles. Yoongi seemed comfortable with her, with his arm resting behind her chair. Then, another question made you wanna throw up.

Are they together?

“Hey. YN.” Donny, your tour director, snapped his fingers in front of you, snatching your attention from the couple. “Do you understand?”

“Ye… Yeah,” you nodded, stuttering since anything he said barely registered in your brain.

“Good. So you agree with the neon green lights and balloons?” he asked.

Lines formed between your brows, “Huh?”

The two men chuckled at your confused reaction. Donny simply tapped Art’s shoulder, “I’m just kidding. I’m sure Art understood everything; he can explain if you have questions. Okay? Take a rest for now, YN.”

You just smiled as he walked away, leaving you alone with your tour manager, who can easily tell what’s distracting you. He crossed his arms as he watched you look at Yoongi and his friend.

“In case you’re wondering, Yoongi asked for an extra ticket for her to watch your show tomorrow.” Art shared.

You looked at him, “Are they…”

You cannot even finish the question. Because halfway, you realized how stupid it is to ask about your infamous not-friend’s relationship status with a girl he surely has great chemistry with. 

When did she even get here in Tokyo? 

You and the whole concert team flew here just yesterday, so that you can fully prepare yourself for the tour’s first show in Asia. Especially since the current weather in Japan is very different from LA. Amidst the awkwardness you have with Yoongi, you thought you could just convert all your frustrations into attention and focus to rehearse for the rest of the tour. But how? How am I suppose to fucking focus—

“Dating? I don’t know. But his asking for a ticket and visitor pass kinda says a lot.” Art shrugged, knowing well that he was stirring something hot. Both he and Cal have already chatted about this weird tension between you and Yoongi. But since neither of you two will say anything might as well just let the whole thing steam. He asked, “Why?”

“Nothing.” You turned your head away and walked away, avoiding Art’s look, to go get yourself something strong to drink. Maybe a shot of espresso.

“My god, this is so bitter.” 

After sipping from the coffee he got her, Bea mumbled under her breath. She didn’t say it in a way that meant to offend him, Yoongi knows. So he offered the warm cup in his hand, still unopened.

“You can take mine. Americano, it’s less bitter.” 

“Thank you.” Bea smiled, swapping their drinks. “But my god, isn’t it a red flag if a person drinks espresso as their choice of coffee? Like, no water? Creamer?”

Yoongi simply chuckled at that, but because he remembered someone else who did like espresso. He learned that fact about you in his first week being your bassist. You were grumpy for the first rehearsals, and Cal asked him to hand you your coffee after he passed by you in the catering area. She was obviously busy with other stuff, so Yoongi didn’t mind a simple help of giving you your espresso. He remembered seeing how your face brightened the moment that caffeine hit your system. You squirmed and smiled for the first time that day.

“Anyway, enough with the coffee talk here,” Bea tapped his lap, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”

“Yeah, of course. Why?” Yoongi raised a brow.

“Nothing, it’s just that it feels weird. Everyone around me is working, and I’m just sitting here by myself, watching you guys. I’m so used to being a part of the group that’s busy preparing for the upcoming show,” she laughed, referring to her late-night job.

“It’s fine, you’re a visitor of mine. Plus, you’re not really causing any trouble here.” Yoongi assured her. “And don’t stress out on not stressing out right now. That’s why you’re here, right? You needed a break from being busy.”

She agreed, leaning on her chair, “I really do. Fortunately, you guys came here at the same time I am staying here! I can’t wait to watch YN again! I heard that she got new outfits, is that true?”

“Still doing your advanced research?” he teased her.

“It’s in my DNA,” she replied, smiling, before her phone buzzed. “Wait, I’ll just take this one.”

Bea stood up and left to answer the call. Meanwhile, Yoongi looked back on the stage, where he last saw you minutes ago. He sees you talking with Art before walking away, seemingly so out of it since you almost tripped on the stairs. His eyes followed you as you left for the exit way. He wished you would just do the same thing in his head. 

Exit. 

Because ever since that night after the afterparty, Yoongi wasn’t really able to function well. When you asked him to leave your room that night, he was embarrassed and confused, and it led him to book the earliest flight from New York to LA just so he could avoid you in the planned meeting tomorrow. During that six-hour flight, Yoongi barely slept a wink. 

"I-I think we crossed a line that we probably should not have."

You said that night. That kiss was a mistake. That giggling and banter in the middle of your makeout was a mistake. He was a mistake. To you. He apologized before leaving your room that night, since maybe he had crossed the line. Maybe he misunderstood that you two are way past those immature banters you shared for months. But it hit him during that same flight that maybe you two would never really get along well. Yoongi tried to excuse the whole thing as a result of too much drinking, even though he barely tasted the alcohol on your tongue. Hell, he can even taste the sweet strawberry from your lip gloss.

Spending Christmas with his family, Yoongi tried to let go of whatever happened that night. But he was so consumed by the thought of you that he almost forgot that it was his first holiday as a single man after his failed engagement with Sara. If it wasn’t with his aunt accidentally bringing up his ex, Yoongi would have forgotten that he and Sarah were supposed to tie the knot in January of the upcoming year. 

Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, Yoongi tried to distract himself. Then, he got a call from her. Sara wanted to meet up before the year ends. He only agreed when she promised that she would be alone and wouldn’t be accompanied by her fiancé. Then, all the frustration from that afterparty was temporarily taken over by the resentment he felt towards Sara, since seeing her pregnant for the first time didn’t really make him feel better.

But once Yoongi sat in that cafe with her, Sara was nothing but humble and apologetic. She mentioned she didn’t want to end the year without confessing her true remorse for what she had done to him. Yoongi thought that the conversation would end with him still being a bitter man. But it didn’t. Like real mature people, he and Sara talked about everything. She openly answered his questions and heavily pressed on the fact that he was faultless for what happened with their relationship. She took accountability for everything, apologizing for how she had wronged him. 

She did cry. A lot. Maybe partly because of hormones. But Yoongi knew that Sara was genuinely guilty. He knew that apologizing had always been hard for her after years of them being together. So he accepted her apologies. Then, to calm her down, they began talking again like friends. Yoongi was mature enough to ask her about her pregnancy, wanting to know how she’s doing after the breakup and with this new phase of her life. She did the same thing, congratulating him for going on tour with a pop star. Something she held him back to during their relationship.

“You seemed really happy on stage with her,” Sara mentioned, something that somehow stayed in his mind until now.

As someone who knows him best, Sara will be the most verified person to say that. But Yoongi tried to shake it off during the chat. When he got home that day, he turned off his phone for the next two days so that he could avoid searching you up ever again. Then the new year came. He celebrated alone at his apartment, not really in the mood to go to a friend’s big party where he had been invited to. Instead, Yoongi got himself an expensive bottle of wine and played with his guitar until the fireworks outside set off. He finally opened his phone to greet his parents and friends. He just finished a call with his mom when he got a call. This time, it’s you. You were drunk and crying. He doesn’t even know if you remember the conversation you two had in that call.

“I hate receiving calls like that!” 

Yoongi snapped his head when Bea came back, sitting next to him. He blinked, scolding himself in his head for drifting away.

“What happened?” he asked, trying to stay present.

“Work stuff. Apparently, there are some documents they need from me, and I have them in my apartment back in LA, so…” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll book the earliest flight after tomorrow’s show.”

“Well,” Yoongi stood up, “I guess we have to make the most of your time here?”

Bea smiled, “Yeah, that sounds great.”

The two began walking to the same exit way you had walked on earlier. Since the dome’s main gates, where fans come in and out, are still closed, they have to take the way where crew members go in and out of, which means they came across everyone.

“Hey, lovebugs!” Noah called them as they passed by the band, who were chatting in the catering area. Yoongi and Bea just shake their heads at the nickname, shrugging it off. “Where are you off to?”

“We’ll just go around the city. Maybe eat and visit some nearby spots.” Bea replied.

Yoongi added, “Yeah, but this one has to leave after the show tomorrow. So, we’ll just do it now. You can come with us if you want to.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said before they all stood up, cleaning up their table.

While waiting for them, Yoongi listened to Bea’s impromptu itinerary. She mentioned something about a nearby garden and various fancy cafes, but all of it became a noise when Yoongi noticed you walked in with Cal and a slight frown on your lips. He felt like a ghost, watching you like he were invisible.  Before, you complained about his eyes throwing daggers, but those daggers seemed to fly over your head since you act like you won’t even see him. Then, he sees Noah walk up to you.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Bea yanked him back to reality, waving her now-empty coffee cup in his sight.

“Hmm?” Yoongi hummed, not really catching up.

Bea, who has been observant ever since she came here today, simply smiled, “I said, it’s cold outside. We should get thicker coats in Kagurazaka.”

Yoongi nodded quietly, slightly embarrassed that he had been spacing out a lot lately. Noah then walked to them while hooking his arm with yours. You were looking at everyone except Yoongi, who is now in front of you.

“She’s coming with us. YN’s a little bummed out that there’s no espresso left here. We’re getting her that outside.” Your best friend cheered you up like a little kid.

Yoongi noticed you smile, but it did not reach your eyes. He looked down at the still-full coffee cup in his hand. Should he just give it to you? Maybe not. It’s already cold. So cold.

You really have no energy to stroll around the city for some reason. But Noah insists that you join them: “Stop moping around and come with us.”

“I am not moping around. Why would I mop around? It’s my first show after a few weeks for God’s sake,” you replied, denying whatever he was throwing at you. “And I already agreed that I’m joining you guys.”

“Then don’t drag your feet to walk.” Noah teased. “And please. Stop glaring at Yoongi.”

You rolled your eyes at him, “I am not glaring at anyone. I just need my espresso, and I’m gonna be okay.”

Excuses, excuses. You whispered in your head. Walking behind the group, Noah made sure to keep you company since everyone walked in pairs. Fred and Akio. You and Noah. Bea and Yoongi. 

You can’t help but watch them. Those two act like they have known each other for the longest time. They seemed pretty comfortable with each other. Why does it look like it’s easy for them to be with each other? You can see Yoongi, who usually gives you blank stares, and his gummy smile from where you stand behind them, while Bea points out something and laughs. They are like sunshine, while you and Yoongi are ice-cold like the weather today in Japan.

Sighing, you looked down at your white boots walking on the pavement.

“You know, if you keep sighing like that, can you at least tell me what’s going on?” Noah mumbled beside you.

You looked up, forcing a smile, “Nothing. Just a little nervous for tomorrow.”

“YN…” your friend paused and tucked a part of your hair behind your ear, “Your nose is saying something else.”

He chuckled as your eyes widened before holding your nose. Everyone who has known you for a while knows that when you say something untrue, your nose flares. 

“Whatever. But you know that I am always here for you, right?” he asked, and you nodded, leaning your head on his arm.

It took more minutes of walking until you found the cafe that Bea talked about. She turned around, pointing at it from a distance.

“That is the one! I have seen so many TikTok videos about their matcha latte!”

“Oh, yeah! I’ve been there once too, when I flew here last holiday. I think you guys will love their croffles.” Akio added enthusiastically.

Akio and Bea went in first, excited to see the menu. Yoongi held the door for everyone. You were the last one to walk in, and you tried not to look back as you could feel his eyes on you. Even though you won’t say anything, you can always feel when he’s looking at you.

The moment you got in, you noticed how warm the cafe is. It’s cozy and well-lit, following the beige and white aesthetic for everything. Soft jazz music plays in the background as the soothing aroma of coffee fills the place. Before looking for a spot, everyone came in front of the display case to see what pastries were available.  You were quiet while everyone chose.

“Croffles or that tiramisu?” 

You heard a voice behind you. But instead of turning around or answering, you stepped away and stood next to Fred, who was already lining up to order for everyone. He was looking at the menu board when he noticed you next to him, unaware of your avoidance of someone.

“How ‘bout you? Still espresso?”

You smiled, wordlessly, nodding your head. As everyone found the perfect spot to sit on, you decided to stay with your drummer. There are still two people ahead of you, so you two get to chat a little.

“My wife would have loved that heart-shaped strawberry mousse. She loves cute pastries like those,” he told you, making you smile with that wholesome thought.

“Lara’s a pastry chef, right?” 

He nods, “Yep, she runs her own shop back in LA. Baking has always been her passion ever since we were kids.”

“You two were childhood sweethearts?! That’s really sweet,” you swooned.

He chuckled, “Not really, we knew each other since we were kids. But we only got together in our late 20s. My mom always told me it took us too long to finally be together.” 

You smiled at that, looking at the heart-shaped cake in the display case, “Maybe not. Maybe, you two are just like one of those slow burners…”

“Yeah, maybe,” he smiled as he remembered his wife. “It took us almost twenty years and five failed relationships to realize that maybe we’re meant for each other. Great things take time.”

As if on cue, it was your turn to order. Fred did all the talking, and you just stood there. But you can feel that the cashier recognized you, which is fair since you were not really wearing anything that could cover your face. She shyly said hi to you, and you greeted her back with a smile. After ordering, the staff told you that your orders would be served. Walking to the table your friends chose, you quickly noticed the available seats left. One is next to Bea and Akio, and the other is between Noah… and Yoongi. Noah finally noticed you in the middle of their chat, immediately seeing your hesitation on the seating arrangement. He raised his brow as if he were telling you to just come sit next to him. You exhaled before finally walking over to sit between the two.

Who knew that a gentle brush on the knee could make him shiver?

Yoongi shifted from his seat the moment your knee accidentally touched his when you just sat down beside him. He tried to focus on the front of him, where Bea sat, but she was already deep into the chat with the others. Their conversation was bouncing from one topic to another. Noah spoke about the nearby garden they’ll visit later, making Yoongi look at his way. But instead of his eyes landing on his bandmate, he found you scrolling on your phone. 

But you barely reacted to whatever your screen showed you. It was like you were mindlessly scrolling just to not look awkward with people around you. But he can tell. He hates that he can tell. Yoongi turned his gaze back to Bea, who was now speaking.

“Oh my god, they are playing your song.” Bea gasped, referring to you. “That’s my favorite from your recent EP.”

“Thank you,” you finally spoke, smiling in a way that Yoongi could tell was forced.

Just as their orders were being served, a familiar song was playing all over the place. It was one of the songs he worked with you during those late nights of last year’s December. He remembered you knocking on his hotel room door just moments after you got back from your shows, showing up in your most casual clothes. Maybe handing him coffee or chips the moment he opened the door for you. You two would exchange opinions on making your song, but never argue about it.

Yoongi was too filled with thoughts of you that he unconsciously reached for the freshly brewed espresso and placed it in front of you. You looked at him, slightly surprised. But he didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he was already looking at Bea. You wanted to thank him, but opted to just take a sip of your most-awaited espresso.

“Oh, isn’t this pretty?” she swooned over the croffles that were topped with whipped cream and various types of berries. 

Akio showed off the different slices of different cakes, ordered by others, too, “Look at these, too!”

“Oh, let me take a picture. I’ll send it to my wife.” Fred stood up and hovered over the table to capture a good picture of the pastries.

After that, Bea unexpectedly placed a slice of strawberry shortcake in front of you, “You should try this one. I don’t know why, but I ordered them for you because it reminded me of your cute outfit today.”

That made you giggle. Genuinely, for the first time today. “Thank you, you’re so sweet, Bea.”

Slight relief washes over Yoongi when he hears that light and soft laugh from you. You picked up your fork and sliced a corner of the shortcake gently before taking a bite. He can tell you liked it as you chewed, nodding your head.

“I love it,” you said mid-chew before offering, “You guys should try it!”

Yoongi quietly watched as you pushed the plate in the center of the table so that everyone could get a taste. He watched you look at everyone’s reactions with delight. Noah’s random moan like he just fell in love with cake made everyone laugh. You laughed so hard, your smile finally reached your eyes, which made Yoongi smile too.

The day went on with you being much more active than you were earlier. You were laughing a lot over Noah’s jokes and telling everyone how beautiful the garden is. You felt much lighter as you walked into the tranquil Korakuen Garden. 

“The espresso really helps, huh?” Noah whispered next to you.

You chuckled, “Definitely.”

Looking around, you walked ahead when you saw a koi pond. You took out your phone to take pictures, something you will post on your stories soon. You cannot help but smile at how pretty everything is. But then, when you turned around, your shoulders slowly deflated like popped balloons when you spotted Yoongi taking pictures of Bea candidly under the cherry blossoms. You pursed your lips, trying not to frown. You just looked back at the pond, exhaling whatever you’ve been feeling.

“Hey, YN! Come here.”

Turning around once again, you see Akio motioning her hand for you to come stand next to her and for Noah to take group pictures. And that's what happened for the next few hours, you joined the band to avoid being quiet and alone with your messy feelings. You linked arms with Akio and Noah, talking about anything. Fred joined in, too. You also had quick, short chats with Bea about the weather and your recent experiences while staying here in the foreign country.

You learned that she came to Japan after asking for a two-week break. But it has only been a week, and she told you she has to go back to New York after your show tomorrow.

“That’s unfair, you asked for two weeks!” you protested to her as you two walked side by side while Yoongi stayed behind with Fred. You are now on your way to the nearest shopping district, which is Kagurazuka.

“I know!” Bea exclaimed, matching your energy. “But I think it’s better to just go home early. I miss working in that hectic show anyway.”

“Oh my god, Bea. You’re having Stockholm Syndrome,” you quipped, making her laugh.

“Maybe I am, but I’m making money off it anyway.”

While you two laughed once again, someone watched behind you quietly. Although Yoongi is relieved to see you get more comfortable, he cannot help but notice how you talked with everyone except him. You even got closer to Bea. The moment you two got into your own little chat, Yoongi began thinking that you were avoiding him. He tried reaching out, asking you about pastries, even unconsciously handing you your coffee, and tried to stand next to you when Bea made you and the band take a group photo, but you exchanged spots with Akio.

He tried not to think much of it, making up reasons in his head just to avoid making the distance between you two bigger. Maybe you did not hear him when he asked about croffles and tiramisu, maybe you said thanks for the coffee, he just didn’t hear it, or you just like standing at the end of a group photo instead of the center. But Yoongi got the confirmation on his hunch when he found himself standing a few feet next to you in front of a quirky souvenir shop in the not-so-busy shopping district of Kagurazaka. Your friends were inside buying gifts for their family and friends back home, while you decided to wait outside, and so did Yoongi.

It has been ten minutes since you two have been alone. The sun sets between the small buildings of the district while Yoongi watches you watch everything that walks in front of you. A couple holding hands as they giggle. Another tourist with a couple of shopping bags in each hand. A little boy holding a fish-shaped bread next to his mother. He saw the corner of your lips pull up as you eyed the cute kid.

“He looked like he won the lottery,” he said, trying to break the silence and start a conversation.

But you just smiled wearily, still not looking at him, “He does.”

That type of response is kind of hard to follow for someone who is often quiet like Yoongi. But he’s trying, he’s really trying to make a sensible conversation with you. Something that can assure him that the silent treatment won’t be permanent for the rest of the tour. So he tried once again, keeping his hands in his coat’s pockets.

“This is a really peaceful place for a shopping district, don’t you think?”

You nodded, “Yeah, it is.”

Then, silence joined in again, standing between you two. And Yoongi felt that he could not really do much anymore since you were not really interested in talking with him. He waited for you to say something. Five seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then a few more minutes passed before he pressed his lips together and stared at the cobblestone pavement.

“Am I…” he paused, feeling his chest tighten, “Is me, being here, bothering you?”

Yoongi saw you in his peripheral turning your head in his direction before looking away again. You murmured, “No.”

“I’m starting to feel like I’m not supposed to be here. With you,” he whispered, letting his honest thoughts roll off his tongue.

“You are, Yoongi. You are supposed to be here. You’re my bassist,” you told him, saying the first thing in your head.

You meant good with that, Yoongi knows. But somehow that last line stings. Something snapped in his head, reminding him that maybe he’s just overthinking everything.

So he lets out a dry chuckle, “Ah, yes. That’s right, just you’re bassist.”

After noticing the time, everyone decided to finally go back to the hotel and rest. You were grateful that you and everyone could just take a walk from everything you went to today, then back to your hotel. Except for Bea, who has her booked Airbnb in the other city because she came here earlier.

“Guys, I need to go. My ride’s here,” she smiled sadly as everyone arrived in the hotel lobby. She then began hugging everyone goodbye, including you, “I had so much fun. Thank you so much for letting me tag along with you. I’ll watch you tomorrow.”

You smiled, waving at her, as she walked away with Yoongi, who you assumed walked her to her ride. You watched their backs quietly. He was carrying her shopping bags and opened the door for her. They were still talking as they went out.

“I was thinking of visiting their bar here tonight,” Noah brought up, making you look back at your left group.

You smiled, “Noah, we have a show tomorrow.”

“I know! But Akio and I just want to visit it. I heard they have a jazz band every night, just want to see and listen,” he insisted. “Don’t you want to come?”

“I can’t,” you shook your head. “I think I’m already tired from all the walking we did. And I can’t drink before any show. I do stupid things.”

A lot of stupid shit.

“I’ll go with you!” Fred joined in, moving next to his two younger bandmates. “Don’t worry, YN, I’ll make sure that they won’t get drunk tonight.”

Akio joked, “Okay, Dad.”

Everyone laughed at that. Eventually, you parted with them. They went to the hotel bar while you walked to the elevator. You have to wait for a new one for a few minutes until the doors open. You got in, so ready to get into your room to change into your pajamas and rest. The doors were about to close in a few seconds when a hand slid in, triggering the sensors to open the doors again.

Of course, it’s Yoongi.

You looked away, your hands forming into fists inside your coat’s pockets. Yoongi walked in and stood on the opposite corner of the elevator. You and Yoongi in the elevator seemed to be a dangerous formula based on your last interaction in the same place. Completely opposite from your past closeness in the elevator back when you two got back from the afterparty, the air has completely shifted now. You stared at the mirrored walls in front of you, not wanting to look at him.

“So, is this how it’s gonna be until this tour ends?” he calmly whispered, leaning on the rail.

Yoongi took the initiative to break the silence once again because it’s getting hard. His chest is being filled with an overwhelming amount of words that he cannot let out. His brain is gonna explode with the thoughts filling it. All while his heart beats like crazy underneath his chest.

“What?” you mumbled.

He sighed, “You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”

Instead of answering, your eyes find comfort in the numbers counting down the floors your elevator passed by. You know you cannot do this forever, but you also know that you cannot do this right now with how messy your head is. So when you hear the familiar ding, you immediately step outside the doors.

Yoongi followed behind you, “Yeah, leave. That’s right.”

“I was not the first one who left,” you bit back without turning around, just walking to your door.

That sentence quickly made his blood boil, yet Yoongi tried to remain calm: “You were the one who asked me to leave that night, YN. You said there was a line we probably shouldn’t have crossed, and I understood. It’s fine. But you called me during New Year’s, and I don’t know what’s happening anymore, YN.”

It’s pointless to fight over that because you know that in the end, you were the one in the wrong. You were the one who made him leave, pointing out how everything is a mistake before it can even happen. You were also the one who called him, drunk, probably crying over him. But still, your head feels like a ransacked office. There are papers everywhere, drawers were all open and disheveled, and you’re just standing in the middle, helplessly not knowing what to do. 

You gathered up all of the courage in your system and finally turned around to look at him, “I don’t know what you want from me, Yoongi.”

“Talk, I want to talk with you, YN,” he whispered. He sounds tired yet calm and patient.

“I am talking with you right now.” 

He sighed, “You know what the hell I mean. I want us to talk about what happened. About us.”

“There’s no us to begin with,” you replied, and you can see something shift through his eyes. His brows scrunched together. But you went on, “and what’s the point anyway? You’re with someone else alre—”

“Bea’s a friend,” he cuts you off, quickly cleaning up any of your assumptions about his relationships. “Just a friend I invited to come watch. That’s all.”

“Yeah, right.” you chuckled dryly before attempting to open the door, but Yoongi held the knob before you can.

You still don’t believe him a hundred percent, Yoongi can tell. He continued, “She was not here to make you jealous. She saw my story that I’m in Tokyo, asked about the show, and I invited her to watch. I’m sorry that I—”

“Why are you apologizing?!” you snapped, like his apologizing is making everything harder for you. You can feel tears stinging in the corners of your eyes just because of how patient he is with you. “You don’t have to say sorry for that, Yoongi. You don’t owe me that.”

Your voice cracked at the end as you said his name. You looked down, feeling cornered. Yoongi’s shoulders tensed down. He wanted to reach out, hold you in his arms. But before he could step forward, you spoke again.

“Why do you want to talk with me?”

“I,” he sighed. “I just want us to go back the way we were before.’

“Before?” you repeated with your tone showing slight sarcasm. “Yoongi, before that night, we barely talked properly. We’re just co-workers who often disagree on things, flirt on stage, and ignore each other backstage.”

You clenched your fists as you let those lies come out of your mouth. It was untrue because when you look at him, you see someone who wrote and produced songs with him until 2 AM. The one who’s quiet and patient with every gimmick you pull during performance, going along easily. Someone who apologized even though he did not make you cry intentionally and bought you that thick souvenir notebook from Milwaukee, the one she brings with her everywhere to write songs on. And mostly, he is the only one who can easily read your thoughts just by staring at you quietly.

And maybe that's what led you to say those words to him. Yoongi is not just some person or colleague that you will see at work every day. But he’s your bassist. The moment everyone finds out about your messy situation with him, you will be much more than the provocative popstar who flirts. That title will change into the provocative popstar who flirts a lot with her bassists, considering that your last partner was also your past bassist.

The headlines. The gossip. The whispers. You can already imagine the names they will call you if ever you let Yoongi into your world.

“Is that so? That’s all it was to you?” Yoongi asked that calmly, sending a shiver down your spine. But he looked at you like you just slapped him across his face.

Suddenly, he felt like he could not read you anymore. Because he thought he understood everything right. He sensed that you were scared about crossing the professional boundaries you two have in the middle. Hence why you told him that night that you crossed the line you two probably should not have.

He even went so far, to assume that you feel the same thing every time you two end up staring into each other’s eyes. 

But maybe he was wrong.

Maybe you are really just a good performer. Someone who can really make people feel the words you were singing through your eyes. Maybe he is just stupid to believe that the jokes, stares, and kisses meant something more than just humor and gimmicks. 

So he took a step back, nodding, “Fine, maybe we don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”

There was a finality in his tone when you heard that. Surrender. You didn’t dare to say anything. Instead, you bit your lower lip to avoid it from shaking too much. Yoongi looked at you like he was still waiting for you to say something, but you avoided his gaze and looked down.

Receiving nothing from you, Yoongi took it as a sign and walked away, taking all the strength in him not to look back.

“You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”

His words repeated in your head as you lay on your bed hours after that conversation. Another tear slipped from your eyes, rolling down to your cheeks. You groaned, reaching for a pen and your favorite notebook. Writing the first words in your head,

You should take it as a compliment that I'm talkin' to everyone here but you

additional note | i was editing this then ot7 live happened!! I'm still over the moon seeing them together again after two years!! anyway, I know this one is *so angsty*. i'll try to post something lighter later haha tysm for reading <3

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[outercrasis]

Keep In Touch

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x gn!Reader

Word Count/Rating: 8.3k // M

Warnings: canon-typical violence/injury (not graphic), guns, canon-typical voyeurism, reader uses gn!pronouns but does wear a dress, a couple demeaning uses of "princess" (not by Bruce & not to intentionally misgender), shirtless Bruce;)

Summary: You attend a charity gala. Bruce's paranoia pays off.

A/N: A continuation from Don't Be A Stranger (not required reading, but it will be better if you read that first).

This is ridiculous. He doesn't need to be told by anyone else that what he's doing is absurd and over-possessive but he can't help it. Speaking with you, not just reading your words on a page, it unlocked something in him.

A regular correspondence started back up between the two of you; weekly letters being sent back and forth. He gave you his personal phone number, suggesting the switch to text may be easier, but you refused citing “tradition” as your reason. It still quieted his constant paranoia to know that you could reach him at any time now. 

Bruce peers through his binoculars, that same paranoia alleviated upon seeing you in your apartment. You're stretched out on the couch occupied with some show playing on your TV. You seem relaxed, which in turn relaxes him. Now he can focus throughout his night.

Being Batman is not nearly as thrilling as some news outlets would lead Gothamites to believe. In fact, a lot of his nights are spent sitting on rooftops and waiting. Waiting for his mark, to catch someone in the act, to see where money flows. There's always crime in Gotham and there's always information to gather before he starts throwing punches. Being more than vengeance is hard and lonely work.

Sitting outside a warehouse on the pier, Bruce allows his mind to do some limited wandering. He received your latest letter earlier today. Alfred left it beside his breakfast, a subtle encouragement to eat while he read. You and Alfred both would be thrilled to know it worked.

There was nothing of great importance in the letter. Little tidbits – the dog you saw on the way to work, the new recipe you decided to try. What you wrote at the bottom of the letter is what’s at the forefront of his mind.

Happy 20th Anniversary.

Has it really been that long? The majority of his life spent being pen pals with you. He remembers the way it began like it was yesterday.

+++

Alfred had coordinated getting Bruce involved with the pen pal program to start. He was too young to care or ask about the specifics and part of him thought the whole thing was ridiculous. If he participated though, Alfred had agreed to allow him to travel to Europe for the summer. 

The first letter he received had an orange envelope decorated with random stickers. You included drawings, highlighting what you deemed the most important parts of your letter. There was one more surprise in store for him. A scrap of paper written on with sparkly gel pen and clearly snuck in without your teacher's knowledge.

I hope we can be friends.

As young as he was, Bruce didn’t understand why that struck him so deeply. As an adult it's something he's thought over and rehashed many times. At that time in his life, Bruce didn’t have anyone he would consider a friend. He had acquaintances and peers, but he'd lost any true friendships he'd once had two years before. The idea of having one again appealed to him – especially since he got to determine how much you knew about him through what he chose to write. It made the decision to take the letters seriously a simple one.

He couldn't have known it then, but from that moment forward you were a constant in Bruce's life. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, he knew a letter from you would eventually make its way to him. 

When Bruce was sixteen he decided to take things a step further and seek you out. Curiosity and boredom compelled him, eager to know more about you than what you already shared. There was a voice in his head (that definitely didn't have a British accent) telling him this was wrong and hypocritical, which he readily disregarded. 

It wouldn't have been hard even if he wasn't a genius with seemingly endless money at his disposal. You never shied away from sharing personal details. That, and your full name and address was on every letter he received.

The apartment you lived in was quaint. A little two bedroom by the harbor, convenient for your father's job as a dockworker. Bruce stood on a building across the street and pulled out the binoculars he received when he was seven for Gotham Cadets. 

The apartment was bathed in yellow incandescent light. He could see a well worn couch, blankets and pillows strewn across it haphazardly. From his vantage point, houseplants and photo frames made up a significant portion of the decor, but it seemed more cozy than crowded.

Beyond the living room, your father was at the stove stirring a pot. Bruce imagined it was some kind of soup – perfect for the frosty autumn nights that were settling in. You often wrote about how much you loved your dad's cooking and helping him in the kitchen. That night you weren't playing sous chef.

Off to the left, your mother sat at the kitchen table. She had a few clothing items folded beside her and what looked to be your father's jacket in her hands. The binoculars weren’t strong enough to see clearly, but it looked like she was sewing a patch on the sleeve. 

A chill stronger than the cold breeze blew through him. What would his mother and father be doing on this night? 

Half a lifetime ago, he sat on the floor of the den with the fireplace crackling and soft music playing. He had just started reading The Hardy Boys books much to his father's joy. I loved these books when I was your age, chum. Bruce leaned back against his mother's legs, her hands preoccupied with her latest embroidery. He remembers his father joking that her hands were steadier than his own and that she should consider being the surgeon in the household.

His father changed the record playing to something slow but warm. His mom smiled, setting down her project as she knew what was to come next. Bruce put his own book aside, watching his parents gracefully waltz around the room. 

Three weeks later they laid lifeless in a dirty alleyway. His mother's embroidery was never finished. He didn't pick up a Hardy Boys book again.

Bruce shifted his attention to the next window over. It was obvious that this was your room. Bright colors, posters adorning the walls, an unmade bed with what was likely homework strewn across it. He couldn't help but smile. He had tried piecing the look of your room together before based on your letters and promptly forgot all his imaginings once he saw it for real. It couldn’t have looked any other way.

The door to your room opened, greeting Bruce with a sight he never anticipated. It was you, wrapped in a towel with your shoulders still damp and gleaming from your shower. Another towel wrapped around your head, leaving your face open and unobscured. Bruce couldn't make out the minute details, but he could see enough for his breath to catch. He looked up a photo of you before – he knew what you looked like. This was so much more.

Beautiful wasn’t the right word. Both of you were too caught up in the awkward latter throes of puberty to yet be considered stunning or refined. Limbs still figuring out their size, fat and muscle learning new ways to settle along your frames, bursts of acne still blemishing skin. None of that mattered. He was captivated, body frozen in place. Binoculars pressed hard into his eyes, taking in every move you made and every inch of skin. 

He should have stopped looking. It wasn't right. If Alfred would have had his hide for sneaking out and spying, Bruce shuddered to think what he’d do if he ever learned about this.

You moved to the corner of your room, out of his field of view, only to return moments later. Your mouth started to move and your head bobbed. There was no way for him to hear you, but he realized that you were singing. He wondered if you liked Nirvana or Soundgarden.

Your hand reached up to pull at your towel. Bruce reacted like he’d been struck by lightning, all of the energy he had stored exploding out of him at once. A quick step and he tumbled backwards onto the cold roof before he saw anything he shouldn't. The lens on one side of his binoculars broke under the sudden impact. 

He didn't write for three weeks after that.

When Bruce left Gotham two years later, he expected your letters to stop. He stopped writing to you – rationalizing it as being safer. The less you knew, the less dots you could connect, the better. Only you never stopped.

The letters kept coming with a constant irregularity. Somehow Alfred managed to get every single one to him. Sometimes they would reach him in batches and he’d have weeks or months of your life to catch up on, but not one was ever missed. 

Not writing back was a choice for your safety, but he would sometimes send you a sign that he was still reading. He’s not completely heartless like some would believe. Bruce will never understand how that was enough for you. You provided him with so much more than he ever deserved, and Bruce has many more years to make up for what you are owed.

20 years. Bruce hopes he can make it that long. 

+++ A few weeks later

“Sir, there's a call coming in on your personal phone.”

“It can wait,” Batman responds roughly, staring out at an old abandoned building. It's been two weeks of this, but the intel is strong. He knows someone is going to be making a move soon. There can't be any distractions.

“I believe this is a call you'll want to accept,” Alfred presses.

“Take a message.”

Alfred disregards him, answering the call and patching it through to his earpiece.

What comes through is completely garbled at first. It sounds like a butt dial and Bruce nearly ends the call until he hears it. Your voice.

Please, no one wants any trouble. We're here for charity.

His blood turns to ice in his veins and his decision is made. He tucks his binoculars away and grapples down to where his bike is stashed.

“Triangulate their location for me, Alfred.”

“Already done, sir. The Gotham Grand Plaza Hotel. Second floor.”

××××××××

A situation like this was probably inevitable. The fact that it hasn't happened sooner is honestly a miracle given the general state of Gotham. The crime rate has gone down but that doesn’t mean it's low.

You do what you can to limit your risk. You avoid sketchy locales when possible. Avoid going out after dark. Carry a self defense weapon that you actually know how to use. Share your location with a handful of trusted friends and family members.

Rogues are usually decent enough to avoid the shelters and outreach centers that you volunteer at. Even they know to not direct their ire at those trying to help. Go figure that the criminal element would finally reach you at an upscale event like this one. You've never even stepped foot in the Grand Plaza Hotel before tonight.

You were asked to attend the Gotham HELP¹ Charity function on behalf of the homeless shelter you primarily volunteer at. Typically this isn't an invite you'd accept. You find events like these largely performative and a way for the upper echelon to feel better about themselves without ever having to interact with those that are unhoused. You held a lengthy discussion with two of the event organizers before agreeing to attend.

No one else needs to know about any other reasons you may have had for attending. Bruce has been making more of an effort with public appearances, especially philanthropic ones, but rarely mentions them until after the fact. You’re not sure if they make him too nervous or too irritated to think about beforehand. Typically the letter that follows one of these appearances is full of his exact thoughts on the press, the people in attendance, and at times smaller details like the food or decor. Shrimp cocktail at an event for ocean preservation? How avant-garde. You have the impression Alfred doesn't listen to Bruce's complaints with the same friendly ear as you do.

Much to your disappointment, there's been no sign of him. Something else must have his attention at the moment. You don't doubt its importance. If you're lucky, you'll hear bits and pieces about it in his next letter.

The event was turning out to be quite pleasant. You were pleased with the amount of familiar faces you saw in the crowd – a healthy influx of other volunteers and community organizers in attendance to help drum up support and larger donations. Those that you spoke with were cordial and only a few make comments that made you briefly see red. You sometimes wondered if you’re truly living in the same city as some of these people.

The Grand Plaza itself is gorgeous. One of the oldest buildings in Gotham, but well-maintained over the years by taxpayer money and private donations alike. You would never know the seawall flood had even touched the building a few years ago. The high cathedral ceilings and large gothic tudor windows provide an elegance to the space that's otherwise been tastefully decorated with fabrics and florals. It's just the kind of place that makes a person proud to be a Gothamite.

When the commotion began at the door, you thought Bruce might be making a fashionably late appearance. He often relayed that part of his loathing of public appearances was the media circus that ensues. You feel stupid for heading towards the noise instead of away from it – allowing fantasy to overrule common sense.

You're now stuck along a wall of the main hall while the whackjob of the month twirls in the center screaming about Batman. So much for a night of glamour and philanthropy. 

The ringleader in his green beanie and his three goons waive their guns wildly, making demands but not yet taking any action. It almost seems like they didn't expect to get this far. You don't know if that's a good or a bad thing. Luckily, you're positioned close enough to one of the dark marble columns in the hall so that it occasionally blocks you from view. A plan forms in your mind. It's a risk, but one you know you need to take.

You slowly pull your phone from your pocket, keeping it hidden in the folds of your skirt fabric. Praise be to whoever created dresses with pockets. You consider dialing 911 first. That would be the smart choice, right? Easy to do with your phone's emergency functions and hopefully quick to bring first responders.

Tension is thick in the room. You glance around and take in the faces of the crowd. Plenty are scared, but you see just as many angry or hardened expressions. That's the one perk to living in Gotham – you're not the only one prepared for something like this. There must be others in the room taking the same risk as you are. You’re the only one who can do something more.

You keep a careful eye on the men. There will only be a small window to get your phone open, find his contact, and press call. Fifteen seconds if you're lucky. Thank goodness his contact is close to the top. Every second spent waiting feels like an eternity. The men’s yells are reaching new heights. You’re worried that things will soon escalate.

The leader turns his back to you, his underlings moving just so to provide the privacy you need. You've never used a piece of technology faster. Adrenaline must be the only thing keeping your hands from shaking as you navigate your apps and manage to start a phone call. You even think to turn your volume down to avoid suspicion of a disembodied voice coming out of your pocket. The possibility of him not answering isn't something you allow yourself to consider. 

The person beside you does not see the genius or flawless execution of your plan. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses. 

You glance in his direction. He's not someone you've spoken to tonight, but you can tell he's not part of the volunteer crowd. His suit is too tailored, physique toned to an uncomfortable level of perfection, and a spritz of too much cologne. The sweat beading at his paid for hairline tells you he's panicking. You don't say anything.

“You're going to get us killed,” he adds at just the wrong moment. The sound of his whisper catches one of the goons’ attention, causing him to saunter over.

“We got a problem over here?” he asks. 

The rich guy glares daggers at you. The urge to punch him rises in your gut, but you quickly squash it. Punching him for his stupidity and misplaced anger will do nothing to help you right now. 

“Please, no one wants any trouble. We're here for charity,” you plead.

The goon sneers at you. “If you're here for charity what's with all the glitz, princess? Seems to us like that's the kind of money your charity could have used.”

You don't disagree with him. Almost daily you look into the faces of Gotham's most needy, trying to help provide for them and seeing that it's not enough. It's the exact reason you had reservations about attending in the first place. You open your mouth only to close it. This man isn't going to listen to reason or sympathy.

“Huh? You got something to say?” he asks, getting in your face. You can see the grease and dirt that’s layered upon his skin. The smell of his breath makes your stomach roll. A different day, a different place, you could help get him the services he needs. Instead today you’re both one of Gotham’s victims.

You make your voice as small and unintimidating as possible. “No. We're all just a bit scared.”

A lopsided grin overtakes his face. Your heart drops. “Scared? Princess, you don't know the meaning of the word yet.”

Screams erupt around you as the greasy-haired man grabs your arm and pulls you into the cleared center of the room. His sharp fingers dig into your bicep. Through some small miracle, you force your body to relax. Instinct screams to punch, kick, or claw. Rationale tells you resistance will only mean injury or worse. You have to trust that help is on the way – whether it be masked or uniformed. You squeeze your eyes shut against the fear and hope that you'll see a black cape when you open them.

××××××××

The darkness of the rafters keeps Batman concealed as he takes the scene below in. He clears all of his audio channels and ends your call, now able to hear everything for himself. The situation is no better than it sounded over the phone. 

There’s a man in a green beanie that’s clearly leading the group of partycrashers. He’s shouting the loudest and the other men keep looking to him for confirmation and reassurance. The only one not paying him as much heed is the one that is holding onto you. 

His arm is locked around your neck, forcing your body to follow his as he sees fit. Your hands are gripping his forearm, but you don’t look to be fighting. It’s more likely you’re trying to keep as much pressure as you can off your windpipe. He needs to act fast. Every nerve in Bruce's body is screaming at him to get down and save you. He forces himself to wait.

There are two other men circling the room, guns swinging about wildly. From what he can tell no one has fired a shot, but that offers no comfort. That means full magazines in a room full of hundreds. It won’t take much to do a lot of damage. Bruce loathes guns.

“Where’s your precious Batman now?” The man in the green beanie shouts at the crowd. This is the best opportunity he’ll get. He can’t waste it. Batman connects his grapple line to the ceiling, rappelling down faster than what’s reasonably safe. 

Everyone gasps as he appears. The moment of surprise and awe is exactly what he needs as his heavy boot connects with your captor’s head. The high speed means that Bruce lands hard on his knee, sending a shoot of pain up his nervous system, but it also means the greasy-haired man is out cold. Bruce manages to keep you from hitting the floor with the man by catching you around your waist. If he's lucky, everyone watching will think that was all meticulously planned and not Batman flying by the seat of his pants.

Cradled in his arms, your eyes snap open to meet his. He’s comforted by how alert they still are. You’re okay. He’s not losing you today. 

“I knew you’d come,” you smile. Bruce’s heart is beating harder than it should for the small burst of physical exertion.

As quickly as the moment is shared, it’s broken. The man in the green beanie fires a spray of bullets into the air. The entire crowd screams in fear and panic, cowering further from them. This isn’t over yet.

“Stay behind me,” he tells you. You keep close to him as you both stand. It’s enough to keep his head on straight, knowing that you’re there and alive. Now he just has to do the same for everyone else. Alfred would kill him if he ever found out how little of a plan he had. There was no time.

Batman's focus falls on the leader of this crew. He looks worse for wear. All of his men do. Whatever their goal is here, they aren’t working for anyone else. Anyone getting serious about crime in Gotham knows the value of a relatively healthy and happy crew. In contrast, these men are out for themselves, which might only serve to make them more dangerous.

“There he is!” Green beanie shouts, as he claps acrimoniously. “Here to save all the rich folks.”

One of the still conscious men spits in Batman's direction. He needs to keep them talking. Figure out their end goal. Right now, he isn’t seeing it. He stays silent, looking blankly from the spit back to the leader. It conveys his thoughts well enough without uttering a word.

“The people of this city think you’re some kind of hero,” the man seethes. “We know what you really are. You’re a sickness. Always protecting those who need it the least. Where are you when Gotham's poorest need you? When they're crying out for help and dying in the streets? Where were you at the bombing of Crown Point²? Funny when the Bat decides to show up or not.”

He knows this criticism. He's heard it on patrol. Read it in the papers and online. The Batman isn't blind to it, but he can't win this fight of public perception. There are detractors on either side – he's either not doing enough to help or he's over-policing, he's ignoring the “real problems” or he's too focused on the big picture. No matter what he chooses, there will always be someone who finds a way to view his efforts negatively.

It hurts him daily to know how much pain his city is still in. That for all he's done, there's still so much more to do. The infuriating, frustrating truth that he's only one man. He can't be everywhere. He can't save everyone.

Bruce keeps his face impassive, but inside the words sting. He understands now. This isn’t some hold-up gone wrong, nor is it part of some larger scheme. These are four – currently three – disenfranchised men doing what they think is necessary to cause change. He only wishes they hadn’t threatened innocent lives to make their point.

“What are you going to do now?” Batman asks.

“We’re going to show these people who you truly are.”

He takes a deep breath. At least now he knows what’s coming.

You're still close behind him. He can't do what he needs to while being worried about you or the other civilians.

He leans back, whispering his plan just loud enough for you to hear. “On my count, you're going to run towards the stairs. You'll be at the front of the pack, so you need to be quick. Kick off your shoes. The police should be waiting outside. Got it?”

He spares a glance at you. Fear is still present in your features, but so is a hardset determination. Hope is winning out. You give a small nod and everything is set.

“One.” The tension in the room builds. Quiet takes over as everyone waits to see what will happen next. The remaining men have all focused their attention onto Batman. The crowd is fading into the background now that their main prize has arrived. Their comrade remains passed out on the floor. 

“Two.” He rolls his neck and brings his hand to his belt. He'll have to be quick to pull this off. He can hear your skirt rustle and he knows you're getting ready too.

“Three.” All hell breaks loose.

Silence becomes discord as the room explodes with motion. Batman reaches into his belt, throwing two batarangs out. There's the arching thud of your shoes hitting the floor. The batarangs hit their targets, jamming into the barrels of the two goons’ guns. Your feet slap against the wooden floor as you run. Batman charges forward and kicks the leader's gun from his hands. A risky move, but one he is well rewarded for. The rest of the crowd shifts towards the stairs to follow you.

Now the Batman can get to work.

××××××××

You're temporarily blinded as you burst through the front doors of the hotel. Police spotlights and flashers are everywhere in the street, reporters right behind their barricade with camera flashes capturing the dramatic release of hostages from every angle. It’s likely you’ll be on the front page of at least three news outlets tomorrow.

You hardly get your wits about you before you're whisked off to the back of a nearby ambulance. The paramedic is kind and she doesn't allow any of the cops to approach you until her assessment is complete. You'll be bruised and sore but not much worse. 

“No permanent damage done. You're lucky,” she says and walks away. Her words register but don't ring true. Save for a few key moments, very little of tonight feels lucky to you.

You're kept seated with a thick gray blanket pulled around your frame. Between your bare feet and shoulders the extra warmth it provides is appreciated. From this position you're protected from the reporters you can see hovering like vultures at the fringe. Maybe Bruce's biting assessments of the media aren't all that inaccurate.

An older detective walks up and stops before you. He looks tired, like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, but his eyes are still bright and sharp behind his glasses. He shows his badge to introduce himself. 

“Commissioner Gordon. From what I'm hearing, you're the one I really want to talk to.”

Out of all the cops that could have approached to take your statement, you find yourself relieved that it’s this one. Bruce has never said so plainly, but you can tell the Commissioner has his trust. If he's good enough for Batman that certainly means he's good enough for you.

“I guess that you'd be right,” you reply.

“What happened in there?”

You lay it all out for him. The men storming into the event hall, your secret call, the man beside you drawing the attention of the nearby goon. Batman showing up to save the day. You skip over getting hauled around by your neck. 

Gordon takes it all in stride. You have to imagine it’s one of the tamer statements he’s been given in his career. No major injuries. No deaths. No strange gimmick with promises of more trouble to come. Just another bizarre moment in Gotham’s even stranger history.

As you finish answering some clarifying questions, a uniformed officer runs up and whispers something in the Commissioner's ear. His eyes widen and narrow, his focus falling squarely onto you. The feeling of being a teen caught in a lie by your parents washes over you. There’s only one detail you omitted. One he can’t possibly know. 

The officer leaves. Gordon takes a moment, allowing it to fester before speaking. Your skin feels like it's vibrating.

“You said you made a call. Our emergency lines don't have any record of a number associated with you connecting with a 911 dispatcher.”

You could lie. Tell him to check his records again or that your call must not have gone through. The look he's giving you says that won't be enough. He'll do the due diligence to get the answers he needs. So why start now?

“I didn't call 911. I called a friend.”

Your honesty catches him off guard, but doesn’t knock him off track. “Why would you do that?”

“I figured you were already on the way. I thought I'd try reaching out to someone else.”

“Must be a powerful friend if you expected them to help.”

“He is,” you affirm. There's a commotion at the hotel's front doors. You and Gordon look to see Batman dragging the tied up criminals out behind him. There's no way to tell from this distance, but he doesn’t look much worse for wear than when he arrived. A tension you didn't know you were holding onto dissipates and a tear sneaks out from the corner of your eye. You know Gordon saw it. 

You can feel his suspicion. The connections he's making in his mind to make the night's events complete. You don't think he ascribes your tears to your attacker. It makes sense why Bruce likes him. He’s sharp.

“He couldn't be here tonight, but I knew if something terrible happened he could do something about it,” you say, looking away from the spectacle.

Gordon’s brow furrows. You've thrown a curveball. He thought he had it figured out – and he did – but you've put him back to square one. Your phone dings before he can ask anything more.

“Excuse me, Commissioner.” You’re careful with the angle of your screen, tilting it once you’re sure you don’t mind Gordon reading the message. He’s polite enough to pretend like he isn’t looking. He’d be a bad cop if he didn’t.

Bruce W: Called you a ride. Black Rolls Royce.

You respond to the message with a simple Thanks and look back up at the Commissioner. “Am I okay to go?”

The shock is still present on Gordon’s face. You’ve done what you needed to get Gordon off any connection between you and Batman. You don’t know if you’ve made things better or worse by establishing this one in its stead.

He nods. “You’re free to go. We’ll call if we have any additional questions.”

“Thank you. I hope your night gets easier from here.” You genuinely mean it. It might lead to Batman's night getting easier too.

Gordon grunts, looking towards the pile of criminals for him to deal with. “Not likely.”

A man with silver hair in a suit is waiting beside the car. He looks calm and professional, but you slow your approach, some remaining nerves still clinging. Catching sight of you, he smiles broadly and says in a British accent, “Right this way, Mix. We’ll likely still be waiting a while for the master to get in tonight.”

The honorifics make you balk, but also tell you exactly who this is. Despite the urge, you don’t try to convince the butler to use your name instead of the title. That was a fight waged and summarily lost by a middle school aged Bruce. You reread those letters when you want a good laugh. He was so melodramatic about it.

“Alfred,” you greet warmly. “I can't believe I finally get to put a face to the name.”

Alfred smiles back, opening the door of the car for you. “Likewise. Your letters have been a source of joy for many years now.”

A flush of embarrassment flows through you as you duck into the car. “Oh, did you-?”

Alfred is quick to pick up on the implication. “Never, but they always seemed to boost Master Bruce's spirits and therefore, mine.” 

The car door shuts, cutting you off from the circus outside, and you finally feel like you can breathe again. It’s over. You’re safe.

+++

Alfred offers a number of apologies for not having a guest room made up for you. He guides you to Bruce's room instead, reassuring that he won't mind. You get the sense of there being ulterior motives at play, but Alfred's demeanor gives nothing away. Maybe it's just your own imagination running wild.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that you should be freaking out right now. You're standing in Wayne Tower – in Bruce Wayne's bedroom. People would pay exorbitant amounts for entrance to the residential area of the Tower alone. You can't imagine what they'd do to be where you are.

Bruce’s room is more comfortable than you would have thought. It's Gotham through and through with the ornate detailing and vaulted ceilings, yet cozy with its dark wood and luxurious furnishings. The large four poster bed is plush with soft black bedding and looks every bit the place for the prince of the city to rest his head. Large, heavy curtains in a dark shade of blue line the windows of the room. You wonder if they were here before or after Bruce took up his nighttime activities. The cleanliness of the room seems due to Alfred. A mess of papers and other items on the desk in the corner would not suggest Bruce is concerned with picking up clothes or making his bed each morning. 

There isn't much in the way of personal knick-knacks in the room, but the few items clue you into their importance. There's a photo on the dresser of his parents with a young Bruce between them, a massive smile on his face. They're all in a pool, likely cooling off from a hot summer's day as a family. Based on the photo alone, it doesn't seem to be significant beyond being a happy memory where all the Waynes were alive. Beside the photo is an old baseball emblazoned with the Gotham Knights logo. You wonder if Thomas had taken him to the game where he got it, or if Alfred might have brought the young heir there.

He's never been one to pontificate about his home or possessions but you can see the way he fits so seamlessly into these surroundings. They're as much Gotham as they are him.

A large chest catches your eye, off in the corner of the room. The lid is open, inviting you to peer inside it. Your heart skips a beat when you do.

Inside are black boxes, neatly labeled in gold embossed script with start and end dates. On the top sits one without a lid, filled with your letters. Looking at the amount of boxes and size of the chest, you come to the easy conclusion that Bruce has kept every letter you've ever sent. Tears well in your eyes as you let out a pleased huff. Past and present questions of what you mean to him answered in a single fell swoop – the proof laid out before you. Any lingering apprehension about being in his room melts away.

You move to the en suite, intent upon washing the events of the day off of you. The water pressure here has to be leagues better than your apartment.

××××××××

It’s late when Bruce gets back to the cave. He spoke with Gordon at the Grand Plaza and then managed to get back to the building he'd been staking out. After nearly two additional hours of nothing, he finally called it quits. Batman had seen enough action for a night anyway.

Alfred is there, patiently awaiting his return. “Welcome back, sir.”

“How are they?”

“About as well as one can expect. I can understand now why you've enjoyed communicating with them all these years.”

Bruce doesn't respond. Tonight’s footage is already on screen, flying through hours of tedium before getting to the big event. He releases the fast forward as the rafters come into view, allowing himself to relive it in real time. Alfred doesn't hide his gasp when he sees you trapped in the man's grasp. He leaves only moments later, taking Bruce’s discarded undershirt with him. 

As Batman, Bruce has faced far more organized and lethal foes. He's gone into battles that he's unsure he'll make it out of and ended nights with wounds that take weeks or months to heal. Watching it all back he can see just how disorganized this crew was. It's a failing of the hotel's security more than anything that they even got in. Despite all of this, his pulse is racing in a way he hasn't felt since first facing off with the Riddler.

He tries to keep his focus on the men. Analyzing. Making sure that he didn’t miss anything important that would suggest a motive other than the one he already determined. He can’t stop his eyes from drifting to you instead. 

Despite the terrifying situation, you remain relatively calm. The only real sign of your panic is how tightly your fingers grasp at the man's arm. Your eyes stay shut the entire time. He wonders if that was a tactic for yourself or others. He’s seen firsthand what someone's fear can do to those around them – probably talked about it in one of his more recent letters. Is that a lesson you took from him? Or pure coincidence?

He has to slow down the footage of his rappel in order to see things clearly. His boot connects cleanly with the man’s temple. It’s unsurprising that he dropped like a sack of potatoes after that. You start to slip out of his grip the second there’s impact, his arm going limp. Bruce can still remember the feeling of his own arm around your waist. How naturally you fit.

Your face fills the screen. Eyes wide as you take the new situation in. Bruce pauses the screen just as your cheeks start to lift, the fear gone from you for just a moment. He takes in all the details his binoculars never show. Your fine lines and freckles. The depth of color in your irises. An errant eyebrow hair. The plush curve of your lips. He feels like he's sixteen again.

After what feels like an eternity staring at the screen he shuts it off and heads upstairs.

Bruce opens the door to the bedroom gently, doing his best to diminish any creaks. With any luck he'll be in and out in under a minute with you none the wiser. He just needs a change of clothes.

Instead he finds you sitting up in bed, book in hand, with the bedside lamp on. Backlit as you are, he can’t see your face but he does see your head turn towards him. 

“Why are you still awake?” he asks softly. 

A ragged sigh fills the air. “Couldn’t fall asleep.”

You place the book on the nightstand and curl your knees up to your chest.

“I thought you'd be exhausted.”

Another sigh. “Who says I'm not?” When Bruce doesn't respond you continue. “I couldn't get my brain to turn off. Usually I'd write to you about what's on my mind but since you were there I figured… I don’t know, that I'd wait up for you instead I guess?”

Guilt crawls up Bruce’s spine and sinks itself into his head and his heart. An old familiar friend, tightening its grip on him once more. He never has enough time – can never be everywhere he needs to be. Forsaking one thing to accommodate another. It’s one piece he hasn't yet been able to figure out as Batman. 

His feet move toward you of their own volition. For once in his life, Bruce doesn't doubt himself or wonder if this is the right thing to do. It feels natural – like instinct. He comes around to the side you've chosen to lay on and perches himself on the edge.

You react to the change in pressure, gasping as you turn your head. Right. He was still without a shirt. Most people speak to each other with clothes on. Bruce hopes that the room lighting is low enough for you to not see his blush.

“Sorry, let me–” He moves to stand, stopping awkwardly part way when your hands wrap around his arm to hold him in place.

“No, I mean it's- you can- It's your room. I'm the one intruding,” you stutter, letting one of your hands fall.

Bruce sits back down, closer to you on the bed this time. Your hand is still searing around his arm, permanently branding him with your touch. His free hand moves to cover yours and keep it in place. He's unaccustomed to this kind of heat. Your eyes shine brightly, awaiting his response. It relaxes him somewhat to know that tonight hasn't taken you completely apart. 

The shirt you're wearing is familiar – a favorite of his own. You look as though you're meant to be there, wearing his clothes. You look at home.

“I would never call you an intruder.”

The warmth stirring in his gut starts to turn sour. Closer now in the dull lighting he can see the discolored marks that paint your throat. He reaches out slowly, thumb gliding gently over the tender skin. Your pulse is rabbit quick under his hand. He's not sure what he should do. 

Bruce wishes he would have had the chance to inflict more pain upon the man who did this to you. Vengeance is dead, but he'd resurrect him for a night for you. It’s certainly an easier way to deal with the maelstrom of emotions he’s experiencing right now. Comforting others is something Batman has gotten better at over the years, but it's not something he's had to do as Bruce. The closest he's ever come is holding Alfred's hand in the hospital. Would you like that?

He's suddenly flinching – body reacting before he can catch up mentally. He catches your wrist easily and brings your touch back to his shoulder. “It's okay. I wasn't expecting it.”

Your fingers are soft. They start at the bruise on his shoulder that's forming from one of the men hitting him with the butt of their gun. From there they travel across his chest. Every touch is careful. Reverent. Taking in every inch of his pale skin and making his own pulse start to jump.

××××××××

You think you might be dreaming. Maybe you did fall asleep on the astronomically high thread count sheets and goose down pillows instead of tossing and turning before giving up and accepting your sleepless fate. The luxury sleeping arrangements could explain the quality of your dream. Then again, his body seems far too firm and warm for this to be a mere byproduct of your subconsciousness.

Scars of various shapes and sizes litter his shoulders and chest. Some look old and faded and you wonder if you might know the stories behind those. Scrapes and stories from childhood that weren’t yet too revealing to share. Others are thick or gnarled and raised. Injuries that look as though they have an intense and dangerous origin attached to them. You wonder if Bruce will ever share those with you. There are a few fresh purple bruises like the one on his shoulder that you can only assume he obtained tonight. It’s not easy to see those. Knowing that on some level, he has them because of you.

You’re mapping out every detail of his torso. Committing it to memory as you discover the way a scar traces a line from his sternum down his abs. Or the medium sized freckle below his right nipple. The tremble in his muscles each time your fingers trace his side. The smoothness of his skin in the places that are still unmarred.

His gaze is heavy. You barely find the confidence to work your way back up, risking a touch past his collarbones to trace the sharp line of his jaw. Stubble tickles your fingertips. Sweat damp hair has fallen forward across his forehead. You push it back, tucking it towards his ear. His eyes are just as arresting without the black surrounding them. You’re not sure when the air of the bedroom got so thick.

Bruce’s thumb sweeps across your neck again. The look in his eyes is sad, heavy with something you can’t quite describe. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” you ask, perplexed by the genuine apology. 

The corner of his lip turns upward slightly, as though he finds your question humorous. Like it should be obvious. “For not getting there sooner. For not being there.”

You’re sure that Bruce had an invite to tonight’s event. He likely has a standing invite to any event within Gotham’s city limits and more. Whatever made him choose to pass on this one, you’re sure there was good reason for it – something else he couldn’t otherwise easily set aside. It wasn’t even as if he knew you’d be in attendance or that tonight’s events were going to happen. There’s nothing he could have done differently short of becoming omnipotent. 

“All that matters is that you got there. You saved me and everyone else tonight.”

It’s hard to know if Bruce believes what you’re telling him or not. His expression changes very little and you're compelled to convince him of it. 

“Thank you.” You lean forward, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. There's no room for second guessing. You're already in his bed and wearing a piece of his clothing. He has every letter you've ever sent carefully organized and stored in his bedroom. You don’t know what any of this is anymore, but it feels just as right as any other step you’ve ever taken with him.

Bruce looks bewildered but not upset when you pull back. You take it as a good sign.

“I think I might be the one who owes you an apology,” you say, looking down and studying his hand. He has elegant fingers. It’s easy to picture them writing in his neat and tight script.

“For what?”

“I may have implied to Commissioner Gordon that we’re close friends.”

“Are we not?”

“Yes, I mean no. I mean-” you sigh exasperatedly. Your mind is swirling – trying desperately to process everything that's happened tonight. You're not sure you know how to define this relationship anymore. “We are, but I don’t know that you wanted it known. It’s not something I wanted to force upon you.”

Bruce’s large hand gently squeezes your own. “I don't mind. I wouldn’t have sent Alfred if I did.”

You're not sure what to say. This is not the night you had imagined. You thought you might see him at the charity event, share a drink and a few laughs and end the night separately. You back on your couch in front of the TV and Bruce off somewhere as the city's caped crusader. Not holding hands in Bruce’s bed, half undressed. 

“You should get some sleep,” Bruce says, breaking the loud silence. He guides you back towards the pillows, pulling the blankets up to tuck you in. As he reaches for the lamp, your hand finds his again.

“You should too,” you tell him. The dark circles under his eyes tell you of his exhaustion.

“I will. I'll be down the hall in the study.”

“No.” The speed and force of your response surprises you both. You scramble for a reasonable follow up that doesn’t freak him out or make you sound like a lunatic. “I am not kicking you out of your own bed. Stay.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks. If you didn't know better, you'd say his words sounded a little breathless.

“Please. I don't want to be alone.”

××××××××

Bruce nods and turns out the lamp. In the darkness of the room everything else is amplified. The pad of his footsteps walking around to the other side of the bed. The rustle of sheets as he climbs into them. The sound of your breaths, not yet evened out.

He's careful to leave space between you. For once in his life, he feels out of his depth. This isn't something he's ever done before. There wasn’t much time for it in all his years spent training and crime fighting, despite what rumors may say. The fear of crossing a boundary keeps him straight and stiff. His eyes are wide open, staring up towards the ceiling into darkness. Has his room always been this quiet?

The mattress shifts slightly as you readjust, the memory foam absorbing most of the movement. You must be getting more comfortable, settling in to finally get some much needed rest. Bruce’s breathing stutters when your fingers intertwine with his. An innocent and all-consuming touch. 

“Goodnight, Bruce,” you mumble, already halfway to falling asleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispers back, unsure if he can continue to hold up that sparkly gel pen hope you wrote to him so long ago. Bruce may not have many others to compare it to, but this feels like something past friendship. 

He tries to stay awake, puzzling over tonight’s developments in his mind. If there's one thing he hates, it's not having a plan, and he's currently in the middle of uncharted territory. It's not five minutes before exhaustion and the comfortable warmth of your hand take over and pull him into slumber. He hasn't fallen asleep that quickly in years.

With any luck, he'll get this figured out before another twenty years pass him by.

++++++

¹ HELP: Homeless Education and Legal Program (made up for this fic)

² Takes place in The Penguin show

💕 thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated:)

[ohcorny]

How was your experience at ALA?? Did you get many pre-existing fans visiting or was it mostly newbies? What books did you get? Tell us everything!!

other than being Punished by train gods i had a great time yesterday! i ended up only being about thirty minutes late to the signing but everybody was super nice to me about it and nobody had minded. i drew So Many little bat wicks in people's books. if you ever make a piece of work you might be expected to sign, make sure there is at least one character that is easy to draw quickly.

that said i do wish i'd taken my time a little more. it is my instinct not to make people wait longer than necessary for Anything, and i had no idea how long the line was, so i didn't get to talk for very long with anybody. next time (fingers crossed) i want to slow down and actually chat with people.

as for the sort of people that came, there was a good handful of folks who'd already read it and it was a Delight to hear from them. but it was mostly teachers and librarians who'd heard of it and were excited to get it for their kids, or offer it as a prize in a giveaway. the idea that something i made, and i signed, could be a Prize, even a prized possession to the winner, is such an incredible thought.

this is what i came home with!

the author of the incorruptibles came by to get a copy of hunger's bite and i'd remembered her mentioning she was there as an author too, so when i saw she was doing her own signing after mine was done i had to grab a copy!

i made eye contact with the booth book-waver for the girl who sang and was invited over so there was no reason Not to grab a signed copy. i haven't read a lot of memoirs so though it wasn't one i planned to pick up, i'm looking forward to reading it.

i grabbed meat eaters because it sounded like it was playing in the same spaces as hunger's bite vis a vis hunger-as-metaphor and i was familiar with meredith's work in certain iron circus anthologies. i've read the opening of it now and i'm excited to read more. meredith if you read this please forget whatever dumb way i phrased 'our books play in similar spaces and i think that's cool' when i was at the table, you were the first author i talked to and i was still so fried from my own signing.

i also finally got my hands on a paperback of my own book lmao. all my comps were the sexy hardcovers.

go-man was given to me by one of the guys running my publisher's booth. hamish did the blurb for hunger's bite and i was interested in finally reading one of his books, so they gave me the display copy because it was the last day anyway lol. i read it on the train home and it was fun + cute! i love go-man's design.

i waited in a long-ass line for gender queer and had a delightful time talking to the literary agent who happened to be next to me. the people at ALA are sooo friendly, we got to talking because she saw i had a big pile of books in my arms by that point and was like OKAY WHATCHA GET!! and we just gabbed about what we were excited about and what got me into comics and what got her into repping artists. it was nice!

and meeting maia kobabe was v cool but most of the interaction was us pointing out that we were dressed practically identically. i wish i got a picture, you'd think we were both cosplaying the same guy. it was very funny. i'm excited to read the most banned book in america.

overall i had an extremely nice time and it broke my heart to leave and see the "see you next year in chicago!" sign because that means it won't be easily accessible for me to go again right away because chicago is too far ; ; maybe by the time book 2 comes out it'll be closer again.

[celestialgallaghers]

Cherry [18+]

Note: I've had this draft saved since yesterday and contemplated not posting bc it feels a bit tone deaf right now. But I decided to do it bc i worked too hard on it and didn't want to disappoint those who expected a post this week.

this one turned out uhhhhhh a LOT longer than i thought. white mustang changed the way i write i think……..anyways this is based on this request. i hope you guys can still enjoy although i understand if you don't wanna read about liam rn💗

Summary: Tired of feeling left behind, you’re on a mission to lose your virginity before starting uni in the fall. The only problem is finding someone to help you out in that department. As it turns out, the last person in the world you would've thought of is willing to fill that role.

Word count: 11.6k

Liam Gallagher wasn’t your friend. Well, you didn’t really know what to call him. Coworker felt too formal. Dealer felt too transactional. Acquaintance? But even that implied a kind of mutual acknowledgment that didn’t really exist between you. Maybe it was easier not to label him at all. 

You’d known him most of your life. Sort of. The way people know each other when they grow up in the same town and go to the same schools. But your paths never really crossed. He was one of those kids that was always getting in trouble for being too loud or too hyperactive whereas you were more on the shy side and never caused any trouble.

As you got older, girls started seeing him less as annoying and more cute. He’d grown into those big, doe-like eyes and his hair had darkened from blonde to a soft brown that suited him better.

You weren’t blind. You knew he was attractive. But it was more of a detached recognition. Like looking at someone in a magazine who was completely unattainable. Not someone you'd ever bother trying to talk to. He’d never seemed like the kind of person you’d get on with. And he’d never noticed you either.

Until recently. 

You’d just finished school and taken a job at a corner shop to tide you over before uni in the fall. You hadn’t known Liam worked there. If you had, maybe you would’ve thought twice. You’d been so ready to leave it all behind. Your hometown, your classmates, the whole awkwardness of adolescence. But there he was.

At first it was fine. You worked mornings, he worked afternoons. There was little overlap, save for the occasional handoff at shift change. He’d show up late more often than not, leaving you irritated and stuck there longer than you wanted to be. You occasionally got a muttered hello, but it always came with that vacant stare like he couldn’t be arsed.

You didn’t bother making conversation. Neither did he. And that was how you preferred it. Everything was fine until your boss started scheduling you for afternoons.

It was already a shit day. Customers were more infuriating than usual, your back ached, and the fluorescent lights were giving you a headache. By the time your break rolled around, you were equal parts exhausted and fuming.

You stomped out back, craving a moment of peace, only to find the overturned milk cartons-turned-chairs already occupied.

Liam. Of course.

He was slouched low, long legs stretched out, smoke curling lazily from the corner of his mouth. At first, he didn't even look your way.

You hovered in the doorway, debating whether to head back inside. Then he flicked his eyes toward you and back to his cigarette. But now that you were closer, it didn’t quite smell like tobacco.

“You smoke?” he asked.

You stared at him for a moment. “You get stoned at work?”

It came out more judgemental than you meant. The truth was you didn’t but it wasn’t like you were against it. 

He gave you a slow grin. “Always.”

You blinked. “And you’re not worried about—” you gestured vaguely back, “I don’t know, getting caught?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “He don’t give a fuck. Neither do I.”

Then he looked at you properly, a gleam in his eyes that made you uneasy. He held out the joint casually.

“Might help with all that uptightness.”

Your eyes shot to him. “I’m not uptight.”

He just shrugged and took another drag. You hated how uncool you felt right then.

“Wait,” you said, surprising even yourself as you moved to sit beside him. “Give it here.” 

He raised an eyebrow but passed it over without a word.

You inhaled and immediately regretted it. The smoke burned the back of your throat and you fought the urge to cough, swallowing hard as your eyes watered. You passed it back silently.

He took it, that same half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze flicked over you. Just once, but it lingered.

“First time?” he asked knowingly. 

You coughed quietly and bit your nail instead of answering.

“Figures,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What?” you asked, head snapping towards him.

“Nothing,” he said, still grinning.

You sat in silence after that. The joint burned down to nothing between his fingers. He stubbed it out on the edge of the crate and stood without a word.

You stayed there a while longer, limbs softening, thoughts loosening. The hum of frustration that had been clanging around in your skull all day faded to a dull buzz. You closed your eyes and thought about the look he’d given you.

Like maybe he had been seeing you after all.

It became a pattern without meaning to. You’d find him out back on your break, sprawled out, joint in hand. He never said hello. Just passed it your way like it was expected. Eventually you stopped hesitating.

You’d just sit there and listen to him ramble about football or the Beatles or random conspiracy theories. You didn’t have much to add and he didn’t seem to mind. It was easy to let his voice fill the space. Easy to be quiet around him. Sometimes he made you laugh. Even if you tried not to show it.

Once, he didn’t even wait for your break. Just sauntered up to the front and jerked his head toward the alley.

He never let you take more than one hit. 

“Don’t need you freaking out at the register,” he’d said, plucking it out of your fingers.

You’d rolled your eyes and insisted you could handle more, but he’d waved it off like it wasn’t up for debate.

He liked to joke that he was corrupting you. You never knew how to respond to that. Maybe he was. But the truth was you were tired of being the girl who didn’t know anything. Who hadn’t done anything. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the attention.

Still, you told yourself you didn’t really like him. You just...didn’t mind him. He made work tolerable. Still annoyed the hell out of you, but you were, reluctantly, starting to get to know him. 

Maybe you’d judged him too harshly. Or maybe you were just starting to pay attention.

Lately though, something else had been gnawing at the back of your mind. Something you’d started fixating on in your final year of school but had never really acted on.

You didn’t want to start uni as a virgin.

It wasn’t some big, dramatic thing. It wasn’t even about romance. You just wanted to know what it felt like. Get it over with. And to be prepared so you didn’t end up in some awkward, fumbling experience down the line.

You were tired of feeling like the only one who hadn’t figured it out. Like you were lagging behind somehow. Sure you’d kissed people before, but nothing more. And the longer it went unaddressed, the more it messed with your head. Like it was something people could somehow tell just by looking at you. 

You wanted to stop wondering. Stop feeling left behind. You just needed a willing participant.

Mid-summer rolled around and you still hadn’t made any progress. You’d lay awake staring at the ceiling and chewing on your thumbnail and get mad at yourself. The more time that passed, the more pressure you felt.

The solution was obvious. Even if you didn’t want it to be.

Liam was there. He was attractive. Experienced. You knew that much just from overheard hallway gossip in school. Girls had thrown themselves at him. He had a reputation and from what you could tell, he’d earned it. He was cocky, sharp tongued, and probably knew exactly what he was doing. He could teach you.

But the thought of revealing something so deeply personal about yourself to him made your stomach twist. You weren’t even that close. You didn’t talk about real things. Besides, how were you even supposed to ask something like that without sounding completely pathetic?

A week passed and you were no closer. The idea had been eating at you more than usual. You’d even started eyeing up strangers on the street. Anyone who might solve your problem.

You caught yourself staring at Liam more often. The way he sprawled in his chair. The way his fingers moved when he lit a cigarette. The grin he got when he knew he’d gotten under your skin. It was getting harder to pretend you weren’t thinking about it.

You kept turning it over in your head, until one day you just blurted it out.

“Do you have any friends you could set me up with?”

He paused, then gave you a look. Like he was trying to figure out where that had come from.

Then he smirked. “Sure. Come out with us tomorrow night.”

He gave you the name of the pub and added, “They’re a bit rowdy, mind.”

You nodded like it didn’t bother you. Like this was a normal thing to ask. But as soon as his back was turned, your stomach dropped.

What were you even doing? It was probably a bad idea. But maybe bad ideas were better than no ideas at all.

The next night had you dressed in one of your more revealing tops and a mini skirt you almost changed out of twice. Liam introduced you to his friends without much ceremony. A few you recognized from school, others you didn’t. They were loud. Full of pints and jokes you didn’t get. The kind of group that could swallow you whole if you let them.

You started downing drinks to settle your nerves, trying to summon up some courage. There was only one of his friends that stuck out to you. He leaned in when you spoke. Let his hand brush your arm when he laughed. It was going well enough.

Until Liam leaned in beside you, voice low and almost too casual.

“Girlfriend.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the guy. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

Just like that. Deflated.

You leaned back in your chair, heat rushing to your cheeks. Of course he did. Because of course the one guy you’d felt bold enough to flirt with was already taken.

Liam didn’t look particularly sorry. In fact, he was smiling. Amused like your disappointment was entertaining to him.

“Don’t pout,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. “There’s always me.”

You shot him a look. He seemed like he was joking so you laughed it off, took another drink, and tried not to overthink what he’d just said like he somehow knew exactly what you were after.

This was nothing like work. The atmosphere was looser. Enough that it felt like the dynamic between you was shifting. Everything was a little more cheeky and oddly charged.

Later you found yourself outside with him, standing in the alley behind the bar. You weren’t sure why you followed. You just did.

Liam leaned against the brick wall, cigarette between his fingers, his head tilted back. You swayed slightly, tipsy and quiet, watching him. In the dark, his features softened—long lashes and sharp cheekbones catching the glow from the light above the door.

He was annoyingly pretty. Pretty in a way most boys weren’t. You found yourself a little mesmerized by how his plush lips wrapped around the cigarette. You must've been staring a bit too long because a slow grin spread across his face. 

“You checking me out?”

Your face went hot. “No.”

He didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked delighted.

“Really?” he drawled. “’Cause it looked a lot like you were checking me out.”

You flushed and looked away. But then something tugged at you. Maybe it was alcohol or maybe just a week of pent-up want and frustration.

You turned back to him. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes sparkling. “Knew it. You like me,” he teased.

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Nah nah nah, you do. I can see it in your eyes. You want me. Big time.” 

“Just because you’re nice to look at doesn’t mean I like you. I tolerate you.”

That didn’t deter him. “Just keep telling yourself that love.”

He was annoying you again. You muttered a ‘whatever’ and began to turn away, but he caught your wrist. You spun back around, eyes flicking down to his hand then locking with his gaze.

He stared at you for a moment, then leaned in without warning, kissing you like it was no big deal. Like he’d just decided to. His lips were warm, soft, and slightly chapped. The kiss didn’t linger, but it was just long enough for your brain to register how much you liked the way he felt against you.

When he pulled back, he didn’t move far. Just looked at you, still smirking.

“Well?” he said.

You pretended to think it over. “Not bad.”

He laughed at that. “Cheeky.”

Neither of you made a move to push things further, but you wondered if he felt the sudden buzz between you too.

You reached for his cigarette, pulling it from his fingers and taking a slow drag. You tried to look more relaxed than you actually felt.

He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna steal all my bad habits?”

You glanced sideways at him. “Depends. What else you got?”

He laughed under his breath. “Plenty. Most of ’em worse than this.”

You took another drag, then handed it back. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, I am tempting you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

He leaned back against the wall, watching you like he was still trying to figure you out. “Didn’t think you’d let me kiss me.”

You crossed your arms. “Why not?”

“Thought you were too…” He trailed off, tilting his head. “Uptight.”

You groaned. “You love saying that.”

“Because it winds you up.”

“It doesn’t wind me up.”

He grinned. “It definitely winds you up.”

You shook your head, heart rate picking up.

“I’m just saying,” he went on, almost mockingly sincere, “you’ve got this whole quiet, innocent thing going on. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Maybe you don’t know me that well,” you shot back, feeling a bit bold despite the pounding in your chest.

That seemed to catch him off guard. His smirk faltered, just slightly.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said, quieter this time.

The silence stretched a little too long. He almost looked like he might kiss you again. You would’ve let him—until he bumped your shoulder lightly.

“C’mon let’s get back in before they think we’ve run off to shag in the alley.”

You snorted. “As if.”

He smirked again. “Not yet, anyway.”

You shoved him playfully, laughing despite yourself, and followed him back in—heart racing, head spinning, the taste of him still lingering on your lips.

The days that followed weren’t as awkward as you expected. If anything, he got a little flirty. Not overtly, but enough to keep you off balance.

Anytime he passed you, he’d pinch your waist. Just a quick squeeze. The first time made you freeze. By the fifth, you were swatting his hand away, half-heartedly trying to kick him while he darted off laughing, only annoying you more.

He always seemed to be bumping into you around corners. You could tell it was deliberate. He liked seeing you flustered. Liked standing a little too close and watching the way your cheeks flushed, that smirk tugging at his lips every time.

Another night, you went out with him and his friends again. Not for a setup this time, just for fun. It was louder, rowdier, and you got drunker than you meant to. At some point you ended up outside with him again, pressed against a brick wall. 

That kiss had been messier. His hands had steadied your waist while his mouth moved against yours. It wasn’t serious, but hours later you could feel exactly where he’d touched you.

None of it seemed to be leading anywhere. You hadn’t talked about it. But slowly, you were getting more comfortable around him. A little braver.

Which was probably why you were sitting out back with him again, biting your nails and quietly working up the nerve to ask.

It was quieter than usual. No rambling stories. No teasing. Just the rhythmic click of his lighter as he flicked it open and shut.

He was leaned back in his usual sprawl, shoulders relaxed, eyelids low. You watched him from the corner of your eye, studying the slight curl of his mouth when he exhaled.

He caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, voice low and faintly amused.

You looked away too fast. “Nothing.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and smug. “You’ve been weird today.”

“I’m not.”

“You are though.”

You didn’t argue. Just stared down at your hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on your jumper. You chewed your bottom lip before forcing yourself to speak.

“Can I ask you something?”

Liam glanced sideways at you, more curious now. “Course.”

You hesitated. Your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat, thudding hard and fast.

“It’s kind of serious so please don’t laugh at me.”

He leaned back slightly, sensing the change in tone. “Alright.”

You took a deep breath. Then another. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as you said it.

“I don’t want to start uni without…knowing what I’m doing.”

The silence between you felt unbearably loud.

 “Sex-wise, I mean.” Your face burned like it was feverish.

He didn’t say anything right away, so you rushed to fill the space, heart pounding.

“I just—I’ve been thinking about it for ages, and I’m sick of overthinking it. And you’re…I don’t know, easy. Not like that. I mean—”

You stopped yourself, wincing inwardly.

But Liam didn’t tease you. He didn’t laugh. He just blinked once, expression unreadable

“Are you asking me to help you with that?”

You nodded once, your mouth suddenly dry.

“I was thinking you could teach me. I mean if that’s not too weird.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes studying your face with something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but not fully serious either.

“So you’ve never…” he trailed off.

“No,” you said, blushing and looking away.

“Hm,” he murmured noncommittally, as if debating something inside his head.

A rush of embarrassment hit you all at once. “I mean, you don’t have to,” you added quickly, words tumbling out. “We can just pretend I never said anything and forget it and—”

“I’ll do it,” he cut you off. 

Your eyes shot up. “You will?”

He nodded, a grin finally breaking through. “Yeah. Sure.”

You blinked. “Just like that?”

“Well…” He leaned back, looking too pleased with himself. “I figured you’d ask eventually.”

You smacked his arm, half-glaring. “You’re such a dick.”

“Hey, I could take it back right now,” he joked.

You laughed, nervous and relieved and still very unsure of what you’d just signed yourself up for.

He glanced at you again. “So when do we start?”

The next time you worked together, it was already decided that you’d go back to yours after. But all day, a fluttery kind of anxiety hummed beneath your skin. Excitement tangled with nerves. You couldn't stop thinking about it. About him. About what was going to happen. You kept replaying everything you knew, what little you knew, and wondering if it would be enough.

By the time your shift ended, you were a mess. Every time he caught your eye, your nerves had spiked.

He found you near the back and gave you a small smirk, all confident and unbothered.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. For him, at least.

You nodded, though your palms were already sweating. “Yeah.”

Now the both of you were standing in your room. Unsure what to say, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Do you have condoms?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Easy now,” he said with a grin. “Can’t just dive headfirst into the deep end. Gotta work our way up.”

You nodded, a mix of disappointment and relief washing over you. “Right. Sorry.” 

You crossed your arms, then quickly uncrossed them, unsure where to put your hands. “I don’t really know how this goes.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said with a smirk. “I was thinking we’d start simple. Just toss me off.”

Your head whipped toward him, eyes wide. He raised his eyebrows, clearly enjoying your reaction.

You gaped, trying to respond, but your brain stalled completely. Of course he could say that so casually. You, on the other hand, felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

You were really doing this. And with Liam Gallagher of all people.

He caught your flustered silence and softened, just a little. “C’mere,” he said gently.

Nerves twisted through your stomach as you stepped closer. You reached for his zip, hesitant, and he immediately stilled you with a laugh.

“Hang on,” he chuckled, placing a hand lightly over yours. “We’ll get there but I’m not exactly ready if you know what I mean.”

You laughed nervously, biting your bottom lip. “I really don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted. “You’re going to have to…I don’t know, guide me.”

Something about your honesty must’ve struck a chord, because his teasing faded just slightly. His hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness.

“Right, first things first,” he said, a bit lower now. “It’s all about the build up. No rush.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “And how do I do that?”

“Best to start with a kiss,” he murmured, leaning in.

That, at least, you could handle. You let yourself lean into it. His lips were warm and slow against yours. Unlike before, there was no urgency. He was patient, his mouth gentle as he eased you into it, letting the tension drain from your shoulders one kiss at a time.

Then something hot flicked against your mouth. With a jolt, you realized it was his tongue, brushing tentatively against your bottom lip. Your other kisses hadn’t gotten this far. At least from what you could recall. Or maybe you were just sober now. More aware of him.

You froze for half a second before opening your mouth a little more, letting him in. It felt strange. Slick and new, but not unpleasant. You could taste the lingering traces of smoke and something sweet. Maybe cola. Maybe weed.

You mimicked the way he moved, letting your tongue brush against his. It sent a ripple of something hot through you. Excitement maybe. Or nerves. Or both.

When he finally pulled away, your mouth instinctively chased his.

He chuckled, his breath a little uneven now. “That’s step one,” he said, his voice rougher. “Then there’s the neck.”

He brushed your hair aside, fingers trailing gently along the back of your neck. “S’got all these spots that feel…well you’ll see.”

You held still as he tilted your head, breath ghosting over your skin. Then he kissed you there, light and experimental. At first you felt nothing. But when his lips trailed further down and found a spot that made a shiver ripple through you, everything shifted.

He grinned against your skin, clearly pleased with himself. He kissed again, then sucked gently, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Over and over, he found new spots you hadn’t known existed until your pulse was erratic and you were sure he could feel it against his lips. 

By the time he pulled back, his lips were a little wet and his eyes were half-lidded.

“You wanna try?”

You felt completely out of your depth, but still nodded breathlessly. He was too tall for you to reach his neck properly standing like this, so you sat on the edge of your bed. He tilted his head, exposing the line of his neck. 

Leaning in, you tried to replicate what he’d done, focusing on the spots that had felt good. You pressed your lips just below his ear, but the angle was off. Awkward. Your confidence wavered.

You shifted, placing your hand beside his leg for support, and tried again. This time you were able to elicit a response. He let out a low hum and you felt the vibration under your lips. It startled you at first, then you realized you’d made that sound happen. And you liked it.

You moved to the other side of his neck, but the angle was off again. You were too far, too bent.

Without warning, he reached out and grabbed your hips, pulling you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your breath hitched as you found yourself straddling him, legs on either side of his hips. The shift in position made you feel more exposed, more aware of everything. Of his hands resting lightly on your waist. The growing heat blooming between your thighs. How little space there was between you now.

He looked up at you, voice softer now. “This okay?”

Your hands had settled on his shoulders to steady yourself, your heart pounding somewhere in your throat. “Yeah,” you breathed.

He waited a moment, then tilted his head again, offering the other side of his neck. You leaned in, lips brushing the curve of his skin, a little more confident this time. You kissed him slowly, lingering just long enough to feel him shift beneath you. When you sucked gently at a spot below his jaw, he inhaled sharply through his nose, and his fingers flexed against your hips.

A quiet thrill ran through you. You were doing it right.

Without thinking, your hands slid around the back of his neck, fingertips curling into his hair. You felt heady with it. The weight of his body under yours, the way he reacted to your touch.

Then he pulled back slightly with a low laugh. “Okay, okay—not too hard you’re gonna leave a mark.”

You glanced down and saw the skin where your mouth had been already darkening.

“Oops,” you said, though you were smiling.

He grinned. “Oh, I’ll get you for that.”

You laughed softly, grateful for the banter. It helped ease the nerves still fluttering in your chest. Made this feel like less of a performance.

You caught your breath and asked, “Okay, that was step two, what’s next?”

Liam’s eyes dropped to your waist as his hands slipped from your sides. “Step three,” he said, his voice a little lower now. “It’s where things get interesting.”

He shifted you gently, guiding you off his lap and laying you back against the pillows. His touch wasn’t rough. Just enough to steer you. You let him move you, body still buzzing from before.

Your shirt had ridden up slightly in the shuffle, and you saw his gaze dip down to it.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

Your breath caught, but you nodded. Slowly, you lifted your arms above your head, giving him room. He pulled your shirt up and over you in one smooth motion, dropping it somewhere off to the side. The cool air hit your skin and instinct took over, your arms crossing reflexively over your chest.

“Hey, hey. None of that, okay?” he said gently, his hands finding your wrists and coaxing them away. His eyes dipped briefly to the lacy black bra you’d picked for the occasion. His voice dropped again. “You’re gorgeous. Don’t hide it.”

You weren’t sure if it was a line or if he was being sincere. Either way you still blushed as you looked away, fighting the urge to cover up again. When you turned back to him, you took a breath and met his gaze. 

“At least make it even,” you said, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

He let out a soft laugh and pulled it over his head, tossing it beside yours. You couldn’t help but look. He was skinny. Pale. A bit of sparse hair across his chest that caught the warm light of your bedroom lamp.

“Stop staring at me tits,” he said with a smirk.

You grinned. “Sorry.”

Then he was leaning over you again, body hovering above yours, his warmth already sinking into your skin. He braced himself on one elbow beside your head.

“Tell me if you wanna stop,” he said, quieter now, just for you. “I won’t be offended.”

You nodded and then his lips were on yours again, a little deeper than before. His free hand started at your bare shoulder, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin as it slid down your arm, then your side, until it settled at your waist, making you twitch. It stirred something in your belly and you found yourself turning into him, seeking more. 

Your leg slotted between his without thinking and he let out a pleased sound against your mouth, squeezing your hip in encouragement. Your hand found the warm stretch of his back, your fingertips exploring the smooth skin, hesitant but curious, as your mouth parted beneath his.

Then you felt the subtle pressure of him grinding against your thigh. A low sound slipped from him, muffled by your kiss, and your stomach flipped. You pressed back, trying to mimic the motion. Then his hand moved lower, found the curve of your ass, and pressed you closer. Your breath caught.

Then you felt something hot and rigid pressing against your thigh and your head spun when you realized it was his dick. He was hard. Because of you. Or at least what you were doing. The realization landed like a jolt—part thrill, part nerves, part disbelief. You’d never made anyone feel like that before. 

“Liam,” you broke away, breath unsteady. You caught a glimpse of his face. His lips were a bit swollen and slick with spit and his eyes had darkened. 

You swallowed thickly. “Can I…I mean, is it time?”

He smirked, but it wasn’t unkind. “Impatient are we?”

He leaned back, sitting up enough to tug his zipper down and shimmy out of his jeans. They hit the floor with a thud and you suddenly felt a little overdressed. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unbuttoned your own jeans and easied them off.

Your eyes flicked to the tent in his boxers. It was…intimidating. More obvious than you’d expected. You couldn’t help staring a bit. Then, casually, he pulled himself out.

Your eyes widened. It looked…angry. Red and heavy and very much real. He gave it a few lazy strokes and it sprang up firm against his stomach. The motion was so normal, so practiced, and you realized with a start that your mouth had gone dry.

You looked up, eyes darting from his cock to his face, uncertain. “So what do I do? Or where do I…”

He caught your hesitation and his smile turned crooked again. “Alright first rule: no one likes a dry handjob.”

You blinked, nodding quickly.

“Spit works. Or lube, which I’m guessing you don’t have.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning.

“Then spit it is.”

You hesitated, then did as he said, awkwardly spitting into your palm. It felt weird, unsanitary almost, but you were committed now. 

He watched you with an unreadable expression, then gently took your hand and guided it toward him. His fingers closed around yours, slowly curling them until you were gripping the base of his cock.

“Not too tight,” he said, his voice noticeably rougher now.

He was burning hot in your palm. The skin was softer than you expected, but firm beneath and somehow impossibly alive. You could hardly believe this was happening. That he was letting you touch him like this. That you were touching him.

You glanced up. His chest was rising and falling a little faster now.

“Start slow,” he said, his eyes fluttering for a second. “Most girls rush it, but I like to take my time.”

Your face went warm again. You couldn’t help picturing him alone in bed, stroking himself, and knowing that you were now doing what he’d probably done a hundred times before made your stomach twist with heat. You shifted a little, suddenly aware of the wetness between your thighs.

You took a breath and started moving your hand. Tentative at first, slick with spit, slow strokes up and down. His hips twitched beneath your touch. You watched his expression closely, trying to read it.

“The head,” he murmured. “Make sure you—”

He didn’t finish. Your hand had reached the tip, and he groaned low in his throat, hips bucking up into your palm. The sound shot through you like lightning.

“Was that good?” you asked, breath catching.

He let out a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah—now twist your wrist, like this.” He demonstrated the motion in the air, and you copied it, your movements smoother now.

He moaned. 

You froze for half a second, startled by the rawness of it. But he didn’t look embarrassed. He looked wrecked. And the sight of it sent a rush of pride through you.

You kept going. Up, down, twisting slightly. The rhythm came naturally and you watched as he unraveled beneath you. His lip caught between his teeth, chest rising sharply, brow creased in pleasure. You liked watching him like this. Liked the sense of control. It felt powerful.

A bead of something glossy appeared at the tip, and on impulse, you ran your thumb over it. He shuddered violently and you stilled. “No no no—don’t stop. Faster.”

You picked up the pace, nerves giving way to instinct. His hips began to rock into your hand, just slightly, and then a soft, desperate whine escaped his throat. His head tipped back, neck exposed, lips parted, lashes fluttering. He looked beautiful like this.

“That’s it, keep going, don’t—fuck.”

And then he was coming. His hips jerked forward and a low groan tore from his throat as he spilled into your hand. You watched, mesmerized and breathing hard, your grip still curled around him as he rode it out. Some of it had hit his stomach, but most was in your hand.

You blinked, staring down at the mess in your palm, frowning slightly, unsure what to do next.

Then he spoke.

“Try it.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?”

Liam was still breathless, chest rising and falling steadily, but his eyes were locked on yours with a flicker of mischief. His cheeks were tinged pink, making him look even more debauched than usual.

“Give it a taste.”

You glanced from your palm to him. He couldn’t be serious. But the look in his eyes said otherwise. Cautiously, maybe just to prove to yourself that you weren’t a total coward, you brought your hand to your mouth and gave the smallest kitten lick.

You recoiled instantly.

“Oh my god,” you said, face twisting. “That’s disgusting you bastard.”

You smeared the rest across his stomach in retaliation, and he let out a surprised laugh.

“It’s not meant to taste good,” he said. “Just tryin’ to prepare you. You’re gonna have to get used to it if you plan on blowin’ me proper.”

You paused, eyes drifting down to where he was softening, trying to picture fitting him in your mouth. You chewed the inside of your cheek, then glanced back up and gave it one more experimental lick.

Your face twisted again. “No. Nuh uh.”

He just shrugged, unbothered. “Acquired taste then.”

You shook your head, wiping your hand again on his stomach just to be petty. He squirmed. “Alright, alright. Do you have tissues or a towel or something?”

Right. You stood up and rifled through your hamper until you found one. It wasn’t clean, but it’d do. 

He took it, wiped himself off, then handed it back. You quickly scrubbed your hand, still mildly horrified.

“Not bad for your first time,” he said, voice light again, almost smug.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Nah, not when I’m teachin’ ya. Impossible to fail under my guidance.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and the room felt a little lighter. Until his gaze flicked over your body again.

“You ever been fingered?”

The bluntness of it made you bark a surprised laugh. “What?”

“I’m tryin’ to return the favor here,” he said, nonchalant. “But I need to know what I’m workin’ with.”

You hesitated, cheeks warming. “No…not really. I mean, just my own.”

Liam let out a sharp exhale. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, eyes pinned to you like he was picturing it.

You blinked, unsure if he was turned on or overwhelmed. Possibly both. He was watching you closely now, eyes darting over your features. You realized he was waiting for permission. Slowly, you nodded.

He sat up, and when you shifted to lie back, he stopped you gently. His fingers tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, then he leaned in, voice low, breath ghosting across your skin.

“I was right about corrupting you,” he murmured. “Watchin’ it happen in real time. You’re so fuckin’ innocent it’s almost wrong to do this to you.”

Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have turned you on but they did. He liked this. Liked showing you. Ruining you. Maybe you kind of liked it too.

The thought had you leaning in, pressing your lips to his soft and slow. He met you halfway, mouth warm and pliant, and you threaded your fingers into his hair without thinking. It was soft between your fingers, slightly damp with sweat, and he hummed into the kiss like he liked it.

You were throbbing now. Heat pooled low in your stomach, a growing ache that felt impatient and overwhelming all at once. You didn’t know if it was just from finally having someone touch you like this or if it was because it was Liam. Maybe both. Either way, you wanted more. And you could tell from the way his hands slid slowly up your thighs, so did he.

His hand cupped your breast through the lace of your bra and you gasped into his mouth. He reached behind you, fingers fumbling near the clasp, but you pulled away. You were about to let him inside you, yet somehow baring your chest felt like a step too far. 

He backed off without question. His hand dropped and instead he guided you back against the pillows, his body settling over yours. He didn’t push. You were grateful for that. One of his hands rested at your waist, his thumb tracing slow strokes into your skin.

Then, gradually, that hand began to wander lower.

He reached the waistband of your underwear, toying with it lazily, like he was giving you time. Still, your stomach fluttered with a flicker of panic until his thumb brushed your clit through the fabric.

A jolt of pleasure surged through you. Your hips jumped. A helpless little sound slipped out before you could stop it. He pressed again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

Then he kissed you once more and slowly began to tug your underwear down. You nodded again, a little quicker this time. He peeled them down slowly and the air felt cold against your skin. Your heart jumped into your throat. No one had ever seen you like this. No one.

Liam must’ve felt the shift in you, the sudden stillness, because he paused. His hand returned to your waist, smoothing over your skin in slow, steady circles.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do this.”

You blinked up at him. The thought of stopping and leaving the ache between your legs ignored felt unbearable. Plus you wanted him anyway.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, your voice shaky but sure. “Keep going.”

He leaned down to kiss you again, slower now. Then his hand slid back between your legs. When his middle finger brushed through your slick folds, you jumped, startled by the rougher pad of his fingertip.

His eyes flicked to yours again, checking, and you gave his arm a quick squeeze in response. He kissed you as he gathered the wetness then slowly pressed the tip of his finger inside.

You stilled. It was strange, being filled by something not your own. The sensation was sharper. Deeper. His finger was bigger than yours and the stretch felt unfamiliar. When you’d tried on your own, you could never quite get it right. Never found anything that felt good. 

You felt the same now. Just full. Not uncomfortable, but not quite pleasurable either. He slid his finger to the knuckle and paused.

Then he curled his finger up and your whole body tensed. A shocked sound escaped from deep in your throat before you could stop it.

He froze, pulling back just enough to look at you, searching your face for any sign that he’d hurt you. 

You stared back at him, just as shocked. But you weren’t hurt, you were stunned. He’d hit something and the sensation had lit up your entire body.

Liam’s mouth tugged into a slow, knowing smirk as he figured it out. Then he curled his finger again, this time with a little more pressure.

“Good?” he asked, voice back to that cocky lilt again.

You nodded, unable to speak. Your mouth parted on a breath, eyes fluttering shut as the spark flared again, deeper and hotter this time. He started to build a rhythm and you couldn’t believe how good it felt. Couldn’t believe you’d ever tried to do this alone and thought you were just broken.

When he tried to add another finger, you gasped and flinched slightly at the stretch, so he backed off without a word. God if you couldn’t even take two fingers, how the hell were you supposed to handle his cock? 

But that thought dissipated as fast as it came, replaced by the surge of pleasure when he found that spot inside you again. He kept the rhythm steady and you were nearly overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. How insanely good it felt. 

Then his thumb found your clit again, circling it in time with the thrust of his finger, and a choked whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, face burning.

He just laughed under his breath. “There we are.”

The orgasm was building fast, far more intense than you were used to. Your legs tensed. Your stomach clenched. Your hands fumbled for something, anything, grabbing at him, at the sheets, needing an anchor. Your mouth stayed frozen in an silent gasp. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

Then it hit.

Your body arched off the bed as the pleasure tore through you in a wave, shuddering and all consuming. You felt it from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers, white hot and blinding. You were dimly aware of the gasping moans falling from your mouth, unfiltered and raw.

When it finally let go of you, you collapsed back into the mattress, limbs trembling. Every part of you felt loose.

Liam was watching you, still stroking lightly, his expression somewhere between smug and soft.

“Fuck,” you breathed hoarsely, eyes barely open.

“That,” he said with a slight grin, “was step four. In case you’re keeping track.”

You gave him a wobbly smile, trying to catch your breath.

Then, casually, he pulled his finger out. And instead of wiping it off, he brought it to his mouth, sucking it clean. The sight made your stomach twist. It was filthy. You had to look away for a second. When you looked back, he was still watching you.

You just stared at him, speechless.

The following weeks were fun. Surprisingly fun. You’d expected this whole thing to feel awkward or clinical. Like checking a box. But instead it felt like something else entirely.

After you got the hang of handjobs (and Liam very smugly declared you a natural), blowjobs had been next. You’d been nervous, terrified if you were being honest, but Liam had been patient. He let you figure it out at your own pace, guiding you when you needed it, praising you when you got it right. And you did get it right. Apparently you were a “fast learner.”

What surprised you most though was the appetite you’d discovered in yourself. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been holding back. The way desire for someone could twist through you. Every time you got off with him, which was multiple times a week now, it only left you wanting more.

Once you’d gotten used to his fingers, he’d gone down on you. And that had changed everything. You hadn’t expected it to feel so good. Or to feel that good that quickly. The way he used his mouth, his tongue, the little noises he made, it was enough to make you lightheaded just thinking about it.

You caught yourself staring at his mouth all the time now. In the break room. On shift. Even when he was just smoking or mouthing off about football. You knew exactly what that mouth could do. The memory alone was enough to make your thighs press together involuntarily.

There was even a moment at work, mid-shift, where you'd caught yourself fantasizing about dragging him into the broom closet and dropping to your knees. And once the idea was there, bold and impossible to ignore, you realized there was nothing stopping you. So you did it.

Found him. Grabbed his wrist wordlessly. Got on your knees and took him into your mouth until he came hot and heavy down your throat. His hand had gripped your hair, his breath ragged, and the sounds he made…god you’d have teased him later if they hadn’t made you so painfully turned on. 

You’d spent the rest of that shift flushed and frustrated while Liam sauntered past you now and then with that crooked smirk.

But for all his swagger, he never rushed you. Never made you feel like you owed him anything. If something made you nervous, he slowed down. Checked in. You always had a way out, and he made sure you knew it. 

It didn’t go unnoticed. You were still figuring everything out, but one thing was certain. You’d picked the right man for the job. Even if you would never say that to his face.

Even if sometimes you thought too hard about why it was him. Why it felt safe with him. Why his voice, his hands, his teasing meant more than it should’ve.

There was an unspoken rule between you: no feelings. This was strictly about sex. Learning. Experience. Whatever you wanted to call it. And it mostly worked.

Except when he flirted with you at work. Or looked at you too long. Or made you laugh mid-kiss and then just held your face in his hands.

The line between “just sex” and something else kept blurring. But neither of you said anything. That was part of the deal too.

One day, out back on break, you told him you wanted him to fuck you. He’d just taken a drag and immediately choked on it, coughing out smoke like he’d swallowed wrong.

You’d smiled, far too pleased with yourself, and walked back inside like it was nothing.

And now the day had come. You were going to let Liam take you.

You were equal parts excited and nervous. It felt like the right time, but there was still that low hum of uncertainty running through you. 

You’d never done this before. You had no idea what to expect. But also…you’d seen him. He wasn’t exactly small.

Still, you trusted him. And that made all the difference.

You hadn’t worked that day, but you’d agreed on a time for Liam to come over. The hours leading up to it felt surreal, like you were hovering just above your body. You were restless and fidgety, your nerves tangled up in anticipation and something that felt uncomfortably close to fear.

You kept telling yourself it was fine. That you wanted this. But you’d built it up so much in your head it had started to feel more like a test you might fail rather than something to enjoy.

So when he finally arrived, you launched yourself at him. Kissed him hard. Tugged him onto your bed.

It wasn’t just eagerness, it was distraction. Maybe if you threw yourself into it fast enough, you wouldn’t have time to second guess everything. He seemed to be able to tell that you were overcompensating. 

“Hey,” he said between kisses, his voice steady. “We don’t have to. You’ve still got a month ‘til uni. There’s time.”

You paused, his words sinking in. The way he said it, no pressure, made your throat tighten.

“I want to,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t know. I guess I’m a little scared. Because you’re—” 

You gestured vaguely toward the front of his jeans, cheeks heating as you tried to laugh it off.

A smirk tugged at his mouth before he reined it in. “Can’t help it if me dick’s big. Sorry ‘bout that.”

You let out a breathy laugh, grateful for the shift in tension. Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d make it easier.

Then he surprised you by pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you. No wandering hands. No grinding. Just a hug. 

You froze for a second, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. Then you leaned into him, letting your own arms wind around him. Your head pressed into his chest where you could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. His breath slowed beneath your cheek. You inhaled. He smelled like skin and laundry powder and faint cigarette smoke. Like Liam.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, just holding each other, but it calmed something inside you. Helped quiet your nerves.

Then you felt something pressing into your lower stomach and leaned back with a half-smile.

“You perv,” you said, smacking his arm. “We were only hugging.”

He grinned, totally unbothered. “Can’t help it. My body just reacts to you now.”

The words hit you. You stilled, the smile fading slightly. It wasn’t just about you anymore, was it? He wanted this too. He wanted you. And he wouldn’t have been so patient with you if he didn’t care on some level.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, voice softer now.

He nodded. “Yeah. Go on.”

“When I first…proposed this idea to you, why'd you say yes?”

He exhaled slowly and was quiet for a moment. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and looked at you seriously.

“Honestly the idea of you finding some random guy to help you made me feel a bit sick.”

Your chest tightened.

“You’re just…” He paused. “You’re so gentle. You need to be handled with care.”

It was so uncharacteristically earnest that you didn’t know what to say.

“Didn’t want some knobhead taking advantage of you,” he added, more gruff now. “Plenty of weirdos out there.”

“Plenty of weirdos who don’t get a stiffy from hugging,” you managed, trying to lighten the sudden shift in mood.

“Oh please,” he grinned, pulling you closer. “You love it.”

You laughed, lighter this time. But then you felt him twitch against you and just like that a bolt of heat ran through your body. It hit you how much you wanted him. Not just to do it. But to do it with him.

“I do,” you murmured, eyes flicking to his lips, then drifting back to meet his.

He looked back at you, gaze steady. The air between you shifted, charged now. Not rushed like before. Something unspoken passed between you before you leaned in and brushed your lips against his.

He responded instantly, one hand sliding into your hair, holding you gently as he deepened the kiss. It wasn't frantic this time. It was steady. More patient. His mouth moved with yours in perfect rhythm, like he was giving you room to find your footing again.

Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the soft strands. You’d learned what he liked by now. How he’d go slack when you tugged lightly at his hair. How he’d shiver violently whenever your hand drifted down to that particularly sensitive spot just above his hip. And how much he liked it when you got confident enough to lead.

So you did. 

You shifted, rising just enough to swing a leg over and straddle him, settling your weight onto his lap. A soft breath escaped him as your hips met, his exhale catching in your mouth. You rocked forward slightly, feeling the hard line of him pressing up through his jeans. He made a quiet, helpless sound in return, and you smiled against his lips.

Men, you’d learned, were surprisingly weak. You just had to touch them in the right places and they’d fall apart. At least Liam did. You hadn’t tested that theory on anyone else yet.

Your smile grew against his lips as you did it again. Dragged yourself over him through the denim, savoring the way his fingers flexed against your hips, the way his breath started coming faster. And god, the heat between your thighs was already pulsing, slow and aching and addictive.

His hands found your ass and squeezed, guiding you down harder against him as his hips rolled up to meet yours. The friction, even through the layers between you, was electric. Your breath hitched, the sound escaping before you could stop it, and your hips began to move in slow, searching circles, chasing the feeling. Every nerve felt lit up, skin buzzing, brain hazy with the sheer need that was building in you.

Your fingers found his zipper, fumbling slightly in your urgency. He chuckled against your mouth, the sound low and fond, before pulling back just enough to help. You shifted clumsily together, kicking your jeans off with little grace, but none of it mattered. 

Not with the way he was looking at you. Eyes dark and full of want.

You settled back into his lap, drinking in the sight before you. Liam, flushed and half-dressed and looking unfairly good. 

His boxers did nothing to hide how hard he was, a dark patch already blooming at the front. Your eyes lingered a second too long, something pulling tight and hot low in your belly.

These past few weeks had taught you a lot. That the buildup—the tension, the teasing, the grinding—could be just as thrilling, sometimes more thrilling, than the release. There was something intoxicating about the sounds Liam made, those little moans and stuttered breaths you could pull from him. You loved it. Loved how much power you had when he was beneath you like this.

You leaned forward, pressing down firmly against him, and the pressure made you both gasp. He twitched beneath you, hips jerking slightly, and you kissed him harder, messy and open mouthed. The drag of his cock against your soaked underwear was dizzying. You could feel just how wet you were, the thin cotton sticking to you with every motion.

You rocked again. And again. Each motion was a little more sure. A little more desperate. Your thighs trembled slightly with the tension, with how badly you wanted more, wanted him. 

Your shirt clung to your back, damp with heat. You broke the kiss, panting, and pulled it over your head in one motion. Your skin prickled in the cool air.

Liam watched you, eyes half-lidded, drinking you in. His gaze made your stomach flip. You paused, familiar nerves rising, but you didn’t look away. You reached back and unclasped your bra, letting it slip from your shoulders and onto the floor. 

You still got shy sometimes, still hesitated, but he made it easier. Made you feel braver. Every time.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 

His hand came to rest on your waist, thumb dragging slowly across your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You felt your face flush, still not used to receiving such open affection from him. But it settled somewhere warm and deep in your chest.

Your hands reached for his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. He helped you out of it and tossed it aside, and you let your eyes wander over him.

“Now where’s my compliment?” he teased, breaking the silence, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was genuine. “Shut up.”

The teasing helped. It always did. It took the edge off your nerves. Reminded you of who he was. Someone who made you feel safe, who never rushed you, and somehow knew exactly when to pull back and when to lean in.

He reached for you again, pulling you flush against him, and this kiss was different. Hungrier. Like he was trying to consume you whole. And god you’d let him.

His hand skimmed along your side, down your hip, anchoring you in his lap. You could feel him thick and hard beneath you, pressed perfectly between your thighs, and it made your whole body throb.

Your hands wandered across his shoulders, down his chest, tracing the soft trail of hair below his stomach. You felt his muscles jump slightly beneath your touch. Then his thumb grazed your nipple and your whole body shuddered, a shock of pleasure tearing through you. You clenched around nothing, hips twitching with the ache to be filled.

“You’re really sure?” he asked after a moment, voice rough now, but still careful.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I want to.”

He kissed you once more, then gently eased you off his lap, guiding you back onto the mattress. You watched as he stood and slid off his boxers and for a second your confidence wavered. 

You’d seen him before. Touched him. But this was different. 

Your gaze flicked down before you could stop it, and the weight of what you were about to do hit you all at once.

He caught the flicker of panic in your face. “We’ll go slow,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I promise.”

You nodded, though your throat felt tight. You were nervous. But you still wanted this. Wanted him.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a condom, and rolled it on without fanfare. Then he moved between your legs, settling his weight on one elbow. His other hand traced down your side until his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear. He peeled them down slowly, and then they were gone and there was nothing between you.

Your pulse quickened. The vulnerability crept back in. But it didn’t last long.

His fingers dipped between your legs, pressing into your center, and your breath caught in your throat. A full body shiver worked its way up your spine.

“This’ll be easier the wetter you are,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your skin. “And I think you can do better than this.”

His fingers slid through your slick as he said it, tone dipping into something darker. Like he wasn’t just trying to warm you up, he wanted you wrecked. Completely undone.

You opened your mouth to protest, to say you were ready, but then his thumb pressed down on your clit and the words dissolved into a gasp. Your back arched, eyes fluttering shut.

He moved just the way you liked. That’s what got you more than anything. The way he knew. Knew your body now—every twitch, every breath, every tell. Knew exactly what broke you. There was something overwhelming about being understood in such an intimate, instinctive way.

He leaned in, lips pressing softly to your sternum, then trailing upwards with slow kisses. When he reached your breast, he paused, lips brushing your peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth. His tongue flicked and swirled, making you twitch beneath him.

By the time he reached your collarbone, you were squirming, desperate for more. His fingers slid lower, finally sinking into you. You exhaled sharply, relief immediate and welcome. You clenched around him, your body greedily responding after so much buildup.

He worked you open with gentle precision, adding another finger to stretch you just right. His fingers curled to stroke that spot that always made your eyes flutter. His kisses grew sloppy, distracted by the soft, needy sounds spilling from your lips.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel when it was his cock instead of his fingers. How utterly full of him you’d be. Just the thought made you clench harder, body tightening with impatient need. You were soaked now, trembling with desire.

“Liam,” you breathed, voice rough and unsteady. “I don’t think I can be any more ready than I am right now.”

He stilled, eyes lifting to meet yours. Whatever he saw in your face shifted something in him, and that dark, hungry look overtook his expression. He gave one last teasing curl of his fingers before slipping them out and wiping them carelessly on your duvet.

You were about to chastise him, but the thought vanished the instant you felt the head of his cock press against you. Instead of fear, all you felt was a fierce need to have him inside of you.

He paused, just long enough to search your face again.

You nodded, voice soft but certain. “I’m okay.”

And then he began to push in.

A sharp breath caught in your throat. It burned. The unfamiliar stretch had your hands scrambling up his back, fingers digging in as your body worked to accommodate him.

“Alright?” he asked, voice strained, jaw tight with restraint.

“Yeah,” you whispered, trying to breathe through it. “Just…slower.”

He nodded and inched in, even more careful now. Your body fought it at first—the pressure strange and bordering on too much—and for a moment you weren’t sure he’d even fit. But then you focused on everything else. The warmth of his breath at your collarbone, the soft press of his lips against your skin, the quiet reassurances whispered just for you.

Little by little, your body adjusted. Until finally, he was fully seated inside you.

You both stilled and the air between you shifted. Your hands found his neck, clinging to him. You’d never felt anything like it. To be filled like this. You could feel everything. The heat of him. The weight. How impossibly deep inside of you he was.

Liam was struggling too. You could feel it in the way his breath stuttered against your neck, in the tension coiled through his entire body. He was trembling slightly above you, holding still with effort, and inside, you swore you could feel his heartbeat in every pulse of his cock.

Then your body clenched unexpectedly around him and he let out a choked sound. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing keeping him from losing it.

A moment later, his hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit. The pleasure cut clean through the ache and it loosened something in you. The sting was still there, but it was fading. Transforming into something warmer and heavier. Still intense and foreign, but less sharp. 

You blinked up at him, breath shallow. He still hadn’t moved, eyes locked on yours, jaw clenched tight. Waiting for you.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he moved.

It was slow at first. A careful drag out, then a gentle push back in. Not quite pleasurable, but not unpleasant either. Just a new, strange feeling that your body hadn’t yet figured out how to process. So you focused on Liam. On the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, how his hips faltered slightly. How wrecked he already looked just being inside you. It helped a bit.

Gradually, your body began to adjust. The ache receded. Your muscles loosened. You shifted your hips experimentally and he groaned, grip tightening on your thigh.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice frayed. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

The praise went straight to your head, and somewhere much lower. Your body reacted without your permission, clenching tight around him. He cursed into your neck, hips stuttering like he was fighting the edge already. 

Then he shifted, just slightly, and a bolt of pleasure shot through you, sudden and blinding.

Your whole body jolted. Your grip tightened around his neck, nails digging in. A gasp tore from your throat as your eyes flew open, wide with shock.

“There?” he asked, voice low and ruined but faintly smug.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “That—yeah.”

He adjusted, chasing that spot, and suddenly you understood what the fuss was about. The reason people craved this. The obsession. 

His rhythm quickened, shallow thrusts hitting that place again and again until your thighs were trembling and your mouth fell open, helpless sounds spilling out.

“Okay?” he asked, slowing just enough to check.

You nodded frantically, gasping. “Yes—yeah, don’t stop.”

Your voice didn’t even sound like your own. It was husky and desperate and it made your face burn, but only for a second. Because then his thumb returned to your clit and your hips jerked, lightning shooting up your spine.

The added friction made you cry out, the pleasure tipping into something wild. Liam groaned, deep and needy, and you felt it in your bones. Everything was too much and not enough all at once. The stretch, the heat, the pressure. All of it building into something too big to contain.

Your orgasm slammed into you fast and hard, stealing the breath from your lungs. It twisted sharp and sweet through your belly before breaking wide open. You cried out, hips jerking, clenching around him, the world narrowing to nothing but sensation.

Liam cursed, barely holding on. His rhythm faltered, then stilled with one last deep thrust and a raw, ragged groan as he came. His whole body shuddered above you, arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath coming fast and uneven.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets as your bodies slowly settled.

Eventually, he pulled out carefully and disposed of the condom. Then, without a word, he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his chest. 

You didn’t hesitate. Your limbs were still trembling faintly, your mind caught somewhere between disbelief and a soft, glowing buzz. You felt strangely empty and cold without him inside of you now.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment, trying to find your words. “Yeah that was…yeah.”

He laughed softly, arms tightening around you, and for once he didn’t say anything cheeky in return.

You lay like that for a while, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. The silence was comforting. You were wrapped in it, safe in the weight of his arms, when you finally mumbled into his skin, voice low and a little shy.

“I’m really glad it was you.”

And you meant it completely. You’d be forever grateful it was him. Him, who you’d misjudged for years. Him, who surprised you. Him, who made this feel less terrifying and more like something you’d want again. Someone you were quietly growing fond of.

“I’m really glad it was me too,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You hesitated, then the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “Can I tell you something?”

“Hmm?”

“I was wrong about you,” you blurted. “You’re kind and patient. Still annoying, but in a way I actually like. And I think I do like you.”

It all came out in one rushed breath, and your face burned immediately after. There was a pause, brief but long enough for panic to rise.

“I was waiting for you to admit it,” he said eventually.

Your head lifted sharply, eyes narrowing. “Oh, piss off—”

“Because I like you too,” he added, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Even if you’re a bit of a goody two shoes.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” you shot back, laughing softly as you pulled back enough to see him properly.

“No,” he agreed, grin spreading. “But you like me,” he sing-songed, smug and unbearable.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, pressing your face into his chest. “You like me too!”

“Yeah,” he said, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. “I do.”

You snorted. He leaned in to kiss your forehead and managed to knock your heads together.

“Ow,” you muttered, laughing anyway.

“Meant to do that,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose in retaliation.

He grinned, then tilted his head. “So now that you’ve officially completed your mission, does that mean I’m out of a job?”

You shook your head. “Not even close. You’ve got loads more to teach me.”

His smile softened. “Good. Because I’m not ready to be done with this yet.”

And neither were you.

You nestled back into him, your leg draped over his, and everything went quiet. Hazy in the best possible way. The kind of calm that settles when something just clicks. For the first time in your life, everything felt right.

There was nothing more you needed to say. You were exactly where you wanted to be. And you knew, without a doubt, how insanely lucky you were.

[teamrv]

okay, so it's monday. a day after the race and there's already ridiculous rumours with no ground.

i've read a lot of what people said yesterday, the good, the bad and the xenophobic as fck. but let's analyze the alpine situation...

after the kimi - max situation, pierre was p6 and franco p11. gasly lost to albon and bortoleto, then franco lost with bearman and ocon. they pitted gasly for hards and franco for mediums.

and now we - people who actually (and sadly) pay attention to this team - need to make it clear for those who are fans of other drivers: the A525 is unstable, they slide in the turns (pierre said it yesterday in the radio), they need to adjust to turn correctly (you can compare a mclaren onboard and an alpine on board and you'll want to kms if you're an alpine driver) and it has a MAJOR engine problem. the renault's engine is less powerful than all of the other cars, every single one of the other engines has more horsepower so pierre and/or franco CAN'T overtake. they simply can't!!!

i need to add that alpine hasn’t had a single upgrade since the beginning of the season — and gasly confirmed they won’t any time soon + they're now having ??? battery issues ???

well, but franco overtook yuki!! yeah, and it was in fresher tyres, and yuki who is also struggling with his car.

pierre and franco overtook people during the bowling situation, yeah, there was no drs during the first lap so they can fight (a bit) without drs.

pierre got into q3 and franco didn't, so? last week franco got into q2 and pierre was LAST - the car is a mess.

anyways, moving forward, as franco was running with mediums, yuki crashed into him and broke his floor plus his front wing. (x) this is a picture of the floor - and his race was over from there.

i'll keep talking under this

what improvement in this race do you want to see in a driver who is driving a car with a shit engine, with oversteering problems and he just has been crashed into + got a 4 secs pit stop? (i'm not talking about alpine because they know this whole situation)

i get if you're not paying attention to alpine you must think that franco and pierre suck, but they don't.

while i know some people here don't want to see it because first, you don't speak spanish so you read all about franco from english media, second, he's argie so you don't want to see it (a lot of mexicans hate on him for example only because he's argie), but franco has improved.

franco moved from williams to alpine as a rookie, he had all the media over him and jack - alpine couldn't deal with this properly because they suck ass so he ends up being hated by people for something he's not even responsible about.

and in top of that, he had to race a triple header with a car which is all of the above + a seat and pedals which made him uncomfortable.

franco's already got more q2 appearances than his predecessor in less races and in less time + he's also in gasly's race pace who got pre-season and 8 years in f1, so if we're not going to judge rookies in their own contexts, don't judge. don't speak shit about a rookie driver who's working his ass off to make a shit box work. okay?

he's learning from pierre, from the team, from every race, and he's also struggling like every rookie or drivers who moved teams did/are. no hate to any driver!! but he's struggling just like ollie was with the haas in australia during fp1 and fp3. he's struggling like hadjar during the formation lap in australia, or with his seat situation in japan or china — i don’t remember. same as kimi, who divebombed and took max with him in the process. same as bortoleto who got a few crashes, but he had a great race yesterday once sauber gave him upgrades. he is learning from the car like carlos and LEWIS HAMILTON are.

it even took liam lawson 8 races at his old team to put together a proper performance. he had penalty points and messy situations all the way until austria.

so yeah, at the start of the season everyone was yelling let rookies make mistakes. well, now i’m asking you to be coherent — let franco make a mistake too.

the piastri situation — did franco do something wrong? yes. he's human. he's allowed to have a blind spot, especially when he's fighting with his broken car for a position with a red bull. mistakes happen — just like oscar made one last year when he ran into franco under vsc in abu dhabi. he only did ONE mistake, but you're so full of hate for a southamerican 22 year old who worked / is working so hard that it seems you forget he's a human, a rookie and a talented one.

this is racing. stop harrassing franco for every mistake he makes, he's a rookie and if he wasn't, every driver can make a mistake. yuki did it, franco did it, pierre did it. move on.

[leenamgyu]

This is our spot

Pairing: namgyu x fem reader

Au that Squid game never existed

Warnings: fluff,slight cursing (literally like 1 swear) ,use of y/n

SUMMARY: you met namgyu at your favourite place where no one else ever was.

———————————————————————

you had a horrible day. Coffee spilt, yelled at, fell, even cried!

finally after you finished your shift at the coffee shop you needed to go to your favourite place. No one was ever there it was empty almost seemed abandoned but it was a quiet cozy spot you loved it.

you had your bag which you packed with books you loved reading and there was a little couch swing hanging in the tree which you loved sitting on to read. after about 10 minutes of walking you got there but *BAM* *CRASH* you crashed into a guy a bit taller than you with longer black hair

“Oh my gosh! I’m so so sorry I wasn’t looking and-“ you were rambling until you got cut off

“Don’t worry about it, you comfortable?” the man let out a chuckle

you just realized you were lying on top of him!

“Omg im so embarrassed im sorry” you blush as you get up

“Don’t worry cutie.” He says as he stands up

You chuckle

“What’s your nam- wait huh?”

You didn’t realize he already left

*fuck. he was kinda fine* you think

———————————————————————

The next day you were at work it’s going better than yesterday you couldn’t get that guy out of your mind.

Then. he walked in

*omg omg omg* you think

“Oh hey cutie, you work here?” the guy winks

“Oh! Hii yeah I do” you reply

“I never caught your name what is it?” You asked

“Namgyu. yours?”

“Y/n!”

“Pretty name.”

“Thanks!” You blush

“What would you like?”

“Your number.” he answers

“huh?”

“didn’t hear me?”

“no no I did! Of course you can have my number”

“thanks cutie, now actually can i get a black coffee”

“yeah of course that will be right out! Your ticket number is 124”

“Alright”

*ORDER 124*

“here you go!”

“thanks see ya later”

the rest of the day went by pretty fast and before you knew it it was time to clock out, you haven’t checked your phone all day so you go to do that and you have a message from namgyu?

“Oh my gosh he texted me”

NAMGYU

hey, I know your working but you wanna hang tonight? Text me when you get this.”

YOU

hi! i just finished my shift id love to hang out! pick me up in a hour i live at *******

NAMGYU

You got it. See you soon y/n.

you quickly rushed home and got ready

after you got home you put on a short black shirt and a hoodie, you figured something nice but casual he never said it was a date and you didn’t wanna show up fancy like a freak!

it’s been about a hour now and he texted you

NAMGYU

hey cutie I’m outside come out when your ready.

YOU

okay im coming!

you get your sneakers on and walk outside your apartment door.

you see him waiting outside his car he’s wearing sweats a white t shirt and a zip up hoodie

*perfect* you think *I didn’t overdress to much.*

“Hey!” You smile at namgyu

“hey you look pretty maybe i should start calling you pretty, pretty.”

You blush “haha thank you”

“of course now get in” he opens the door for you

you smile

He walks around the car and gets in after closing your door

The drive is silent till he starts asking questions and you ask back and you guys start to really connect

once you arrive to McDonald’s. As namgyu chose

“really McDonald’s?” You ask

“hell yeah”

you snicker

After dinner he says he has a surprise.

once you arrive he covers your eyes and walks behind you

“Almost there pretty”

you blush again at the nicknames he’s given you

“And open!” He uncovers your eyes

“Oh my gosh!”

it’s your spot. he decorated it with flowers and a present box.

“aww you did this for me? On our first hangout?”

“Yes. I knew from when I met you again at the coffee shop that you were special and when you bumped into me and fell here the other day I got nervous so I left and when I seen you again I knew I had to take you out.”

“Aww that’s so sweet!”

He chuckles

“I’m sorry if it’s to much I’m not trying to scare you.”

“don’t worry i love it.”

you go to the swing and open the gift box it’s a bracelet

“Aww namgyu! I love it it means a lot usually guys don’t try this hard nice to know someone is.”

“no problem”

He sits next to you

You guys talk for about a hour or two before it starts to rain

“Oh no it’s raining!” You whine

“It’s okay don’t let it ruin our fun”

“No of course not! I’m just cold”

“Here take my hoodie”

“No I already have mine I promise I’ll be fine”

“Just take it.”

“okay thank you namgyu.”

“mhm”

after a bit of silence and you putting your head on his shoulder he stands up.

“Where are you going?” You ask

“nowhere”

He puts his hand out for you to grab

You take it

He guides you into the pouring rain and puts his hands on your waist you put yours on his neck

You guys stand there he’s waving you guys slowly back and fourth

“namgyu im glad i bumped into you, this has been a amazing night”

“I’m glad to pretty”

He puts his hand on your chin to look up at him more

“I know we just met like I said earlier your special and I hope we will become more and closer.” He says with care

“Me to.”

he then leans in and gives you a soft gentle kiss

you lean in to

as you both pull back you look at eachother smiling

“This is our spot.” he smiles

you smile back

————————————————————————

first fic! I hope you enjoyed I’m sorry if it didn’t really make sense or like the story line dropped and went by to fast! tips and requests are appreciated!

[cosycryptid]

Preparing For Battle - Part 4

Eddie's bandmates are eager to know how things are going, Robin is curious about the source of Steve's sudden good mood and Eddie and Wayne help Steve learn something about himself. On AO3: [Here] Part: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

The band is gathered at their usual table, trays of mystery meat and soggy fries in front of them. All three of them are watching Eddie, who for once, is not talking. He’s just sitting there, chin in hand, pushing a frankly horrific amalgamation of potato and meat in slow circles around his tray.

Jeff becomes impatient. “So?” he asks.

Eddie looks up and seems to notice the attention on him. “So... what?”

“So wh-” Gareth launches a fry at him that lands perfectly in his hair. “So, what did Harrington say? You tested the waters with him yesterday, right?”

Eddie nods, detangling the fry.

“Well, does he wanna swim in them?” Gareth follows up with an eyebrow wiggle.

“Yeah, come on, man,” Grant chimes in. “You’re giving us nothing here.”

Eddie sighs dramatically. “You guys are relentless.”

“That’s because you’re being suspiciously quiet,” Jeff says, pointing his fork at him. “You’re never quiet. You once narrated everything you did for an entire day.”

“I was trying something new,” Eddie mutters.

Gareth leans in, eyes narrowed. “So? What happened? Did he sing? Did he run away screaming? Did you call him ‘sweetheart’ or something and immediately regret it?”

Eddie’s ears go pink. “I might’ve called him ‘Big Boy’ first.”

Grant chokes on his juice. “You what?”

“It just slipped out!” Eddie groans, burying his face in his hands. “I was trying to be cool and casual, and then he was saying he preferred my trailer to his place, and that Wayne’s stupid mug collection was cool, and I... sounded like a flirty trucker.”

Jeff is wheezing. “Oh my god. Did he punch you?”

“No! He laughed,” Eddie says, peeking through his fingers. “And then he laughed again later on when I accidentally called him ‘sweetheart.’”

He sits up straighter, suddenly animated. “Oh—and get this. He listened to Dio. Completely unprompted. Said it was awesome. Said he rewound ‘Rainbow in the Dark’ just to hear the solo again.”

The table goes quiet.

“And then he sang,” Eddie adds, softer now. “And it was really good. Like... really good.”

A beat.

“So,” Gareth says slowly, “is he in? And am I best man at your wedding? Because I will fight both of these other fuckers for the position if I have to.”

He gestures at the others.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Eddie groans, shaking his head. “He’s straight.”

“Sure he is,” Jeff mutters. “Because a straight guy lets another guy call him ‘Big Boy’ and ‘sweetheart’ and listens to an entirely new genre of music for him.”

Eddie ignores him. “And no, he hasn’t decided yet. He wants to try singing some of our original stuff first. See if it feels right. So, he’s coming over again tonight. But he’s open to it. He’s thinking about it.”

Grant raises an eyebrow. “And how do you feel about it?”

Eddie shrugs, trying to play it cool. “I think he’d be great. He’s got the voice, the stage presence—well, we’ll work on that part. But yeah. I think he could be exactly what we need.”

Jeff grins. “And you’re not just saying that because he complimented your home and your taste in music and made you blush?”

Eddie throws a fry at him. “Shut up.”

Gareth smirks. “You’re totally gone for him.”

“I am professionally interested in his vocal abilities,” Eddie says, nose in the air.

“Sure,” Grant says. “And I bet you’re also professionally interested in the way he would look in ripped jeans.”

Eddie groans and drops his head to the table. “I hate all of you.”

But he’s smiling.

------------------

For the first time in a long while, Robin has no idea what’s going on with Steve.

Usually, she can read him like a book—a slightly dog-eared, overconfident book with too much hair product—but today, he’s a mystery.

He’d shown up to pick her up for their morning shift smiling. At 6:30 a.m. Who the hell smiles at 6:30 in the morning?

Then there was the cacophony blasting from his stereo. Not his usual radio station or some Top 40 nonsense, but full-on guitar solos and screaming vocals. Robin had to veto it before her brain melted, but Steve? He’d just nodded along like he was enjoying it.

And the weirdest part? He stayed cheerful. Even the rude customers didn’t faze him. Normally, he’d be all sighs and dramatic eyerolls, hands on hips like a soap opera diva. But today? He just smiled, nodded, and moved on like he was floating through the day on a cloud of sunshine.

It was... nice. But also bizarre.

Especially when they hit a lull and Steve started humming along to the radio. That was Robin’s breaking point.

She slammed her book shut and turned to him.

“Okay. What gives?”

Steve blinked, looking up from the counter like he’d just been pulled out of a dream. “Huh?” he said blankly. “What do you mean?”

“What do I me—Steve, you’ve been floating around the store with this dreamy look on your face all day, and now you’re humming along to the radio?” Robin says, narrowing her eyes. “It’s like…”

She gasps, leaning dramatically into his space like she’s about to uncover a state secret. “Oh my God. You’ve been holding out on me. Who is she, Steve?”

Steve blinks. “Who is who?”

“The girl who’s making you act even more airheaded than usual.”

“There is no girl,” Steve says, frowning. “I’m just having a good day. Is that a crime now?”

“Steve, it’s the Friday shift. You’re never happy on a Friday shift—”

Robin cuts herself off, eyes going wide. “Wait. It’s Friday. Yesterday was Thursday.”

“Yes, Rob,” Steve says slowly, giving her a confused smile. “We’ve cracked the calendar. What does that have to do with anything?”

“No, no, no,” she says, pointing at him like she’s just solved a murder. “Thursday was your mysterious little hangout with Eddie Munson.”

Steve’s smile falters just slightly.

“And now here you are,” Robin continues, relentless. “All smiley and humming and weirdly chipper like some kind of cursed morning person. So something definitely happened. Spill, Steve. You’ve been vague about this whole thing from the start, and I’m dying to know what could possibly make you act like this.”

She softens her voice, tilting her head and giving him the full sad-eyes-and-pout combo. “I thought we told each other everything.”

“Fine,” Steve sighs, defeated. He really needs to build up a resistance to Robin’s manipulation tactics. “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure if I was actually going to go through with it. But... Eddie caught me singing along to the radio the other day—when I thought I was alone—and he asked me to sing for his band.”

Robin stares at him like he’s just told her he’s moving to Mars. Her mouth opens, then closes again. Steve keeps his expression serious, trying to look as genuine as possible.

“Wait—you’re serious?”

“Yup.”

“You can sing?”

“I guess so,” Steve shrugs.

Robin lets out a slightly unhinged laugh and shakes her head. “No, see, because Eddie is a musician. If he thinks you’re good, then you must be really good.” She smacks his shoulder. “How has no one ever heard about this? Why didn’t you tell me you had a secret talent?”

“I didn’t know I was good at it,” Steve says honestly. “And I didn’t think it mattered. So I like to sing. What does that have to do with anything? It’s not like I’m gonna run off and try to be famous or something. I’m not Tammy Thompson.”

“It matters to me, Dingus,” Robin says, exasperated. “I’m your best friend. I want to know the things you care about. That’s what friends do. How often do I talk your ear off about band stuff or obscure movies?”

“Yeah, but that’s different. Those are, like... your things, you know?”

Robin softens. “What if singing is your thing? When was the last time you even had a thing that was yours?”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again. He frowns, thinking. “Babysitting. Flirting. Great hair. Those are my things, Rob.”

Robin scoffs. “That’s not a personality, Steve. That’s a résumé for a teen drama side character.”

Steve chuckles, but it fades quickly. “I mean... yeah. I guess it’s kind of sad when you say it out loud.” He sighs. “I don’t really have a hobby. Not one I actually enjoy. Even my dad has a hobby. It’s collecting vintage spoons, which is weird. But still, he’s got something.”

Robin watches him for a moment, her teasing expression softening into something more thoughtful.

“So what was the last thing you really cared about?” she asks gently.

Steve thinks for a beat. “Probably swimming. But even that I wasn’t really into by the end. It just felt like something I was supposed to do, and then the thing happened with Barb in my pool, which also kind of put me off.”

“Yeah, I can see how someone dying in your pool would be a bit of a buzzkill,” Robin says softly. She tries a different tactic. “How does singing make you feel?”

Steve shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—like he’s trying to find the right words and isn’t sure he’s allowed to say them out loud.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s weird. When I’m singing, it’s like everything else just kind of fades out. Like I’m not thinking about what I’m supposed to be doing or who I’m supposed to be. I’m just... there. In it.”

Robin watches him closely, her teasing gone, replaced by something softer.

“That doesn’t sound weird,” she says. “That sounds like peace.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Maybe. I’ve never really had something that felt like mine, you know? Not sports, not school, not even the babysitting thing. But this? It felt good. Like, really good. And I didn’t want to ruin it by talking about it too soon.”

Robin nods, understanding. “You’re allowed to have things that are just for you, Steve. But you’re also allowed to share them. Especially with people who care about you.”

Steve gives her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Rob.”

She bumps his shoulder with hers. “Anytime, Dingus. Now, tell me everything. What was Eddie’s place like? What was Eddie like? Did you guys do any more of that awkward flirting I witnessed the other day?”

Steve groans, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re impossible.”

Robin just grins, clearly pleased with herself. “And yet, you love me. Now spill.”

Steve leans back against the counter, fiddling with the edge of a VHS case. “Eddie’s place was honestly kind of great. It’s small, yeah, but it feels lived in. Like, warm. There’s stuff everywhere—books, band posters, mugs—but it doesn’t feel messy. It feels way nicer than the big empty place I live in.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “So, chaotic but cozy?”

“Exactly,” Steve says, smiling a little. “And he was... I don’t know. He was just really cool about everything. Made me feel comfortable.”

Robin watches him closely. “And did you sing?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. I sang. Just a Fleetwood Mac song to start with, but... it went well, I sounded good, I think. And he was so excited, Rob. I ended up singing more songs. At one point he started playing backing music on his guitar and he’s really good. Also, every time I finished a song, he was like full-on beaming. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look that happy about something I did.”

Robin softens. “That’s because you’re used to people expecting things from you, not appreciating them.”

Steve shrugs, but he doesn’t argue.

Then he remembers other details and flushes. Because there’s no hiding anything when it comes to him and Robin, he blurts out the most surprising thing he experienced. “He also kind of called me ‘Sweetheart’ and ‘Big Boy.’ And... I didn’t mind it.”

Robin chokes on a laugh. “Big Boy?!”

“I know,” Steve groans, covering his face. “He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

Robin is practically vibrating with glee. “Steve. Steven. He likes you.”

Steve peeks at her through his fingers. “I don’t even know if he meant it like that.”

Robin just smirks. “Oh, he meant it like that. Guys don’t just call other guys flirty pet names for no reason. When are you seeing him again?”

“Tonight,” Steve admits. “I’m going back over to his place to learn some of the band’s songs and make my decision.”

Robin leans back, arms crossed, but her expression is warm. “Well, you know I’m fully supportive of all your ideas—stupid or not,” she says with a smile. “But I don’t think you’d be stupid to say yes to this one. It sounds like it could be good for you.”

Steve nods slowly, like he’s still trying to convince himself of that. “Yeah. I mean... it’s scary. But it also feels kind of exciting? Like maybe this is something I could actually be good at. Something that’s mine.”

Robin smiles, softer now. “Then go for it. Worst case, you try it and decide it’s not for you. Best case? You get to invite all of us to go watch you perform because we won’t let you hear the end of it if you don’t.”

Steve groans. “We cannot tell Dustin about this. He’s going to ‘I told you so’ me to death about how Eddie is actually cool, and he knew I’d enjoy hanging out with him.”

The bell rang above the door. “Ah, Henderson gave me the same glowing review he gave you it seems.”

Steve jumps and twists to face the front where Eddie is stood grinning.

“Eddie,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “Hey.”

Eddie steps fully into the store, the grin on his face somehow both smug and genuinely delighted. He’s wearing a battered denim vest over a faded band tee, and his hair looks like it’s been freshly fluffed by the wind. Robin lies about needing to clean something in one of the aisles and Steve would be thankful that she’s giving them space, but he knows she’s listening in from behind the stacks.

“Hey, Stevie. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, clearly lying. “I just wanted to talk to you about our plans for tonight.”

Robin pokes her head out from behind the shelves and mouths ‘Stevie?’.

“What’s up?” Steve asks, trying to ignore both Robin and the way his heart drops at the prospect of their plans changing. “Are we still on for hanging out and going through a few of your songs?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Eddie says. “It turns out, my uncle Wayne is now going to be home tonight. I just wanted to check if you’re okay with that. Because I’m happy to reschedule or we could go somewhere else if you’re not. We can still practice just not with the microphone because he’ll probably be watching his shows.”

Steve’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “Oh, that’s totally fine,” he says quickly. “I don’t mind if Wayne’s there. I mean, it’s his place too, right?”

Eddie’s grin softens into something more genuine. “Yeah, he just likes his routine, you know? He’ll probably be in the living room, but he won’t bother us. I just didn’t want you to feel weird about it.”

“No weird feelings about it, I promise,” Steve says. “As if I’d pass up the chance to find out what kind of things you sing about.”

Eddie’s grin turns a little bashful. “Oh, you’re in for it now. I’ve got songs about everything from dragons to heartbreak to the time I accidentally set my amp on fire.”

“That last one better be a power ballad.”

“It’s more of a chaotic anthem, actually,” Eddie says, eyes twinkling.

Steve laughs openly. “Of course, what else would it be?”

Eddie smirks. “So, Henderson’s been talking about me? All good things, I hope.”

Steve grins, leaning casually against the counter. “Oh yeah. Nonstop praise. You’re basically a local legend in the Henderson household.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that so?”

“Apparently, you’re the coolest guy in Hawkins,” Steve says, mock-serious. “You’ve got the best music taste, the best hair—second only to mine, obviously—and you’re, quote, ‘An absolutely insane storyteller.’”

Eddie smiles, clearly delighted. “Dustin said that?” Steve nods and Eddie presses a hand to his chest, feigning emotion. “I’m touched. Truly. I’ll have to thank the little gremlin next time I see him.”

“You said he spoke to you about me too, right?” Steve asks.

“Oh yeah, the kid praises the ground you walk on,” Eddie confirms. “At first it was annoying and I couldn’t figure out why a nerdy kid would practically idol worship you, but now I’m starting to get it I think.”

“Well, I have yet to see evidence of your storytelling abilities, but I’m starting to think he was right about you too.”

Steve swears he hears a choking sound from Robin’s direction.

Eddie’s smile falters for just a second, like he wasn’t expecting that kind of compliment. But then it returns, softer this time. “Careful, Harrington,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Steve shrugs, trying to play it cool despite the warmth creeping up his neck. “Maybe I do.”

From behind the shelves, Robin lets out a very obvious cough-cough and Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Eddie laughs, full and bright. “I like her.”

“She’s the worst,” Steve mutters, but he’s smiling.

Eddie takes a step back toward the door, still grinning. “I’ll see you tonight, Stevie. Don’t be late. I’ve got a whole setlist with your name on it.”

Steve watches him go, the bell above the door jingling as it swings shut behind him.

Robin reappears a second later, arms crossed, and eyebrows raised. “So. Stevie, huh?”

Steve sighs. “Don’t.”

Robin just smirks. “Too late. I’m adding it to my ‘evidence Eddie Munson has a massive crush on Steve’ list.”

------------------------

Eddie’s well-loved lyric book trembles in Steve’s hands and the pages flutter. It makes the words that just won’t stay put on the page even harder to read.

On the opposite end of the bed, Eddie watches him with that open, expectant look. His expression is hopeful, and he’s being far too patient. Steve’s heart sinks

He had known reading was a problem for him. He should’ve known it would be an issue here too. For some reason, he had convinced himself that maybe this would be different. Maybe the words would somehow work with him for once because this actually mattered to him. But they weren’t.

He’s been staring at the same verse for so long that he’s heard Wayne’s TV cycle through at least two ad breaks. His head is starting to spin as he tries to force the letters to stay put. The quiet between them is starting to feel heavy with tension and something is starting to sneak into Eddie’s observant eyes.

Steve’s trying so hard not to make it obvious that he’s struggling. If he can’t learn the words, he’s going to set the entire band back. And there’s real money at stake here-money that could make a huge difference for Eddie and the band.

Maybe if he asks nicely, Eddie will let him take the book home so he can struggle his way through learning them over the weekend. Oh, but he has the kids on the weekend. He’s not going to have time.

It’s starting to feel hopeless.

“Sorry I’m taking so long, man,” Steve apologises, trying his best to keep his voice casual even as shame makes his face flush. “I’m just tired. Long day.”

“That’s okay. Take your time, sweetheart. There’s no rush,” Eddie says softly, but his eyes are shining with concern. “Are you sure that’s all though? Because you don’t have to pretend with me. You can tell me anything, I’m not going to judge you.” He pauses. “Well, I might judge you a little if the problem is you don’t like my lyrics because I know for a fact, they’re genius.”

“No, no. It’s not the lyrics. I promise!” Steve rushes to assure him, his stomach dropping at the idea of making Eddie feel bad about his lyrics. “I just,” he lets out a shaky breath. “There’s nothing wrong with the lyrics, but there is something wrong with me. I don’t think this is going to work, Eddie. You don’t want me in your band.”

Eddie’s expression is pained; he shifts down the bed and places a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Why not, honey? What do you think is wrong with you?”

The new term of endearment flies right over Steve’s head, unnoticed as he drops his gaze to the messy carpet.

“I find it really hard to read,” Steve admits quietly. “It takes me forever and I get these headaches from the words moving around. I think...” He hesitates, voice catching. “I think I’m just too stupid to get any of it to stick. So, I don’t think I can do this.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything right away, and Steve doesn’t dare look up to take a peek at his reaction. But Eddie’s hand on his shoulder squeezes a little, firm and steady.

“That day at Family Video,” Eddie says gently. “You were reading Lord of the Rings. Were you struggling like this then too?”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just curiosity. Kindness.

Steve nods. “Yeah. I wanted to read it to surprise Dustin. He made some joke about how I wasn’t smart enough to get it. I’ve still only made it twelve pages in,” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “It’ll probably take me all year. But I have to finish it now, just to see the look on that little shithead’s face.”

Eddie chuckles, and the sound is warm, grounding. “Steve, I don’t think you’re stupid. Not even a little.”

Steve’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “You don’t?”

“Nope,” Eddie says, smiling. “We’re clearly hearing two different stories here. I heard that reading is physically difficult for you, but you’re still doing it. You’re reading The Fellowship of the Ring, for Dustin, even though it gives you headaches. That’s not stupid. That’s badass.”

Steve blinks, stunned into silence.

“And,” Eddie adds, eyes twinkling, “Dustin better watch his back next time his character splits from the party in my campaign for even implying it.”

Steve laughs, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Don’t be too hard on him. He can be blunt sometimes. Like, he doesn’t even realize he’s saying something kind of shitty. But I know D&D means a lot to him. If anything bad happened to his character, he’d probably act like it was the end of the world.”

Eddie’s grin turns devilish. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours, Stevie. I’m not gonna kill his character, but I might put the fear of God into him. Just a little.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Just a little?”

“He deserves it,” Eddie says with mock indignation. “He’s been questioning my calls way too much lately. Gotta remind him who the real Dungeon Master is.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling fondly. “I’ll never understand this game.”

“That’s a shame,” Eddie says, pouting dramatically. “I was hoping I could convince you to play one day.”

“Stop making that face,” Steve says, nudging him with his elbow. “I never said I wouldn’t.”

Eddie’s face instantly lights up.

“I will take that,” he gently nudges Steve. “C’mon. We’re going to talk to Wayne.”

Steve hesitates but stands and walks with him. “Why?”

“You said when you try to read the words move around, right?”

Steve nods. He doesn’t know where Eddie’s going with this, but he’ll go along with it.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, a mug of coffee in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He looks up as they enter, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, Wayne, this is Steve,” Eddie says, guiding Steve to sit on the couch and flopping down next to him. “He’s a new friend.”

“Hey, kid,” Wayne says, confused.

Steve waves awkwardly. “Hi, Mr. Munson.”

“Wayne’s fine.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve answers. “I like your mug collection. It’s really cool.”

Eddie turns to him with wide eyes, but it’s too late.

“Oh really?” Wayne perks up with a surprised smile, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Well, it’s nice to see ya finally brought home a friend with some taste, Eddie. Let me tell you where I got-”

Eddie groans and slaps a hand over his face, “No, no, no. We are not doing the full mug collection tour right now. We’ve got something important to talk about.”

Wayne chuckles, clearly delighted. “Well, I’ll give Steve the short version then. This one’s from a truck stop in Missouri, and that one over there with the raccoon? Got it at a flea market in—”

“Wayne,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Focus.”

Wayne smirks. “Alright, alright. What’s so important you’re interruptin’ a perfectly good mug appreciation moment?”

“Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

Wayne shrugs. “Sure, long as it ain’t about my chili recipe. That’s goin’ to the grave with me.”

Eddie grins, then turns serious. “Can you tell Steve what it’s like for you when you try to read?”

Wayne sets his mug down, eyes flicking to Steve. “Well… letters don’t like to stay still. They jump around, swap places. Sometimes I read the same line five times and still don’t know what it said. Gives me a headache if I push too long.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Wait. That’s... that’s exactly what happens to me.”

Wayne nods slowly. “Ain’t just you, kid. I’ve had it my whole life. Found out later it’s called dyslexia. Might be worth talkin’ to your folks about it. There’s ways to work with it, once you know.”

Steve sits back, stunned. “I thought I was just… dumb.”

Wayne’s voice is firm. “You’re not dumb. You just learn different.”

Eddie claps a hand on Steve’s knee. “See? Told you. Wayne’s one of the smartest guys I know, and he deals with the same thing.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” Wayne teases.

“Well, you took me in,” Eddie replies with a grin. “That’s a wise decision if you ask me.”

Steve gives a shaky laugh, still processing.

Eddie leans in, eyes bright. “Okay, so here’s my idea. You’re having trouble reading the lyrics, right? What if I sing them to you, and you repeat them back? Like call and response.”

Steve blinks. “Like… learning by ear?”

“Exactly,” Eddie says. “You’ve got a good ear, Harrington. You remember melodies, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then let’s try it. We’ll go verse by verse. No pressure, no rush.”

Wayne smiles from his chair. “Sounds like a damn good plan to me.”

“And,” Eddie says. “I’m gonna help you get through the Lord of the Rings books. Mostly for selfish reasons, but also because I know you want to.”

“I couldn’t ask you to-”

“Well, I’m offering,” Eddie cuts in, firm but kind. “So there.”

“There’s no shame in acceptin’ a little help when you need it,” Wayne says. “Trust me, kid. You’re probably doin’ Eddie a favor anyway. The boy loves talkin’ about those weird little guys.”

“Hobbits, Wayne,” Eddie says, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply like he’s summoning patience. “They’re called Hobbits.”

“I know, kid,” Wayne chuckles. “I’m just pullin’ your leg.” Then he turns to Steve, who can’t quite shake the warm feeling blooming in his chest. “So anyway, Steve, this mug with the raccoon? Got it from a flea market in—”

[ballsandbabes]

Harder than I thought

authors note: Hi everyone, this is the first time I've done an illustration for one of my stories. I draw under the tag ‘D.Mon’. I hope you like it. // y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // Have fun <3

pairing: michael kaiser x fem!reader

summary: What if youd swapped duties with Kaiser, after nagging him forever about how hard your job was. So when he decides to drag you onto the pitch, its not the only reason your heart begins to race ;)

genre: romance, enemies to lovers I guess

word count: 6.2k

You just got your bachelor's degree in marketing and management. Happy to have finally done it, you were faced with the next challenge: What now? You hadn't really thought much about what you wanted to do with your degree during your studies.

A good friend of your mother's, Anrei Teieri, had a job with a football programme and suggested that you try the sports industry during a visit. You had always been sporty and were particularly interested in basketball and swimming.

For lack of alternatives, you decided to give it a try. And now you were here. For a year now. But this wasn't how you had imagined your very first job. Because you were pretty sure you had the hardest job in all of Bastard München—not because it was technically demanding, but because your job involved him.

Michael Kaiser.

Football’s golden brat. Germany’s arrogant "crown prince". And the absolute bane of your sanity. You were his personal assistant. Emphasis on personal, which, as it turned out, meant "do everything short of breathing for him."

And right now, that meant sprinting across the training grounds with his cleats in one hand, his protein bar clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing in your pocket with overlapping meeting notifications. It was stressful, although that is probably an understatement. It was as if you were living two lives. You had to think about everything, his diet, appointments, press, even his private appointments like dates, were managed by you.

“Kaiser!” you shouted, skidding to a stop near the pitch, sarcasm dripping from your voice,“Your royal shoes, Your Highness.”

He didn’t even glance at you at first. He was stretched out like a cat in the sun, all smug smiles and silky hair that glinted gold in the light.

“I didn’t forget them,” he said lazily,“You’re supposed to bring them.”

“I’m your assistant, not your maid,” you grumbled, tossing the cleats next to him.

“Semantics,” he replied, finally turning his smug, beautiful face toward you, “You look winded, Schatz. You should start training with us.”

He loved calling you that. It started when you asked him for his passport for the game in seville. While you were busy giving his details to the team's airline, he'd got hold of your passport, which you'd left on the table. It turned out that you were also German. Knowing that you would also know what this nickname meant, he now always called you that. You hated it. You weren't his ‘treasure’, you were his servant. At least that's how it felt when you had to run errands at six in the morning.

“Oh, you mean actually collapse instead of just feeling like I will?,” You plopped down on the bench nearby and took a long sip from your water thermos, “If I knew this job meant babysitting a full-grown toddler with a God complex, I’d have picked something easier. Like working in a marketing agency or something.”

“You love it,” he said with that annoying lilt of arrogance,“You’d be bored without me.”

“You left your phone in the fridge yesterday,” you said flatly,“I had to defrost it to get to your text messages.”

“That was a creative decision. Cold calls, you know?,” he smirked. You snorted, shaking your head,“You’re impossible. I hope you know that.”

He grinned wider,“And yet, you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the smirk he shot you made your heart betray you for a beat.

Damn it. It wasn’t that you didn’t like your job. It was just that Michael Kaiser made it very difficult to focus on anything except the way his shirt clung to his abs, or the way he always seemed to know just how to fluster you.

So you’d developed a strategy over time: complain about everything. Constantly. Loudly. He thought it was funny. You told yourself it wasn’t flirting. (But it was definitely flirting :)

___ _ _ _

It was one of those days, the mountain of work barely manageable. yes, and then there was kaiser, an active blockade that prevented you from going about your tasks. You would have liked to nail the door to his office shut. Unfortunately, you couldn't. Which is why you've been standing in the playing booth for the last ten minutes or so, having what you think is a much-needed conversation. you didn't want to admit it, but inside you loved these little random moments.

“Michael,” you said flatly, “you cannot keep texting me ‘important question’ and then follow it up with a selfie and ‘do I look hotter in blue or black?’ That’s not urgent. That’s narcissism. I got actual work to do...”

Michael leaned back in the locker room bench, one leg lazily draped over the other, spinning his phone between his fingers. His eyes sparkled with the kind of smug mischief that usually preceded international incidents. You had actually called him about the press appointment for the game at the weekend, but then it had once again slipped into a lecture from your side, when you had to actually step into the locker room, because he didnt want to come to you to discuss the matter.

“I’m cultivating my brand, Schatz,” he replied without shame, “You’re the keeper of my empire. You should care.”

You crossed your arms,“Your "empire" is built on ego, dry shampoo, and late-night calls to ask whether your features look too sharp in certain lighting. Like fans could die from you looking to good...”

He tilted his head,“You said they were devastating.”

“That’s not a compliment, it’s a warning. People trip over them,” you replied with annoyance. Michael chuckled, a low, warm sound that always made your stomach do backflips. He leaned in, elbow resting on his knee, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” his face displaying a smirk.

“I’m always annoyed,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your tablet. You were trying to update his schedule, but it was difficult when he kept staring at you with that smug little smile—like he was watching a show only he understood the punchline to.

“I’m filing a report,” you muttered, “Personal assistant verbally abused by narcissistic striker. Emotional damages include migraines, sarcasm fatigue, and... chronic exposure to shirtless selfies.”

Michael smirked, “You save those selfies.”

“Because I need evidence for HR,” you explained.

He stood, stepping close, just close enough to loom—annoyingly tall, annoyingly confident, annoyingly aware of the effect he had on you.

“You could just admit you like me, you know,” he said casually, brushing a golden strand out of his face. “It’d save you all this dramatic whining.”

You looked up at him, unimpressed,“I don’t like you. I tolerate you. The same way people tolerate reality TV. It's chaotic, it lowers brain cells, but it’s weirdly addictive.”

“Ouch,” He clutched his chest,“Brutal.”

“You love it,” you now teased him.

“I do,” he said, that cocky grin softening just slightly, “Especially when you get all flustered trying not to smile.”

You refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you turned back to your iPad screen and said, “If you’re done stroking your ego for five minutes, you have training in twenty. And you still haven’t filled out the media request forms for the pre-game interviews.”

“I thought you were handling that,” he said.

You glared, “I’m your assistant, not your secretary, Kaiser. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, moving toward the exit, hands in his pockets,“You’re the girl who yells at me every day and still brings me my favorite protein bar.”

You called after him,“That’s because if I don’t feed you, you might collapse mid-backflip and sue the club.”

He turned around with a wink,“Or maybe it’s because you care.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Damn him. You hated how he made teasing sound like confession. How every throwaway flirtation felt like a test—and how badly you wanted to fail it.

“Stop looking at my mouth, Kaiser!,” you snapped.

“I was looking at your lips, actually,” he said, backing out the door. “There’s a difference. They are pretty.”

And with that, he vanished down the hallway, leaving you with a heart pounding far too fast and a very dangerous thought:

If you didn’t do something soon, this entire job was going to turn into one big, unavoidable, steamy disaster.

___ _ _ _

You dramatically flopped into his chair in the team lounge one morning and announced, “I deserve a raise or a Nobel Prize.”. He barely looked up.

“What now?” he asked, sipping an energy drink that absolutely wasn’t approved by his nutritionist.

“You had three interviews booked at the same time yesterday,” you said. “Three. I had to call your sponsors, your agent, and your mother to fix it. Also, you’re scheduled for two different hair stylists today. At the same time.”

“I like variety,” he said with a shrug.

“You’re a menace. It was a total disaster to rebuild your calendar so everything would work just fine,” you muttered. He set his drink down, leaned back in the chair like a king on his throne, and raised an eyebrow,“You know what, if it’s so hard, how about we trade?”

You blinked,“Excuse me?”

“You join me in training. For a month. Full schedule. And I’ll take care of my own life. No assistant. Total independence. More free time for you.”

Your jaw dropped,“You’d forget your own name after three days.”

He grinned, “Then prove it. If you last a month on the pitch, and I keep my life together, the loser buys dinner.”

“And the winner picks the outfit,” you added, smirking.

He gave a low laugh,“You’re cruel. Deal.”

___ _ _ _

Training was hell. Cardio at 6 a.m., tactical drills that made your legs feel like jelly, ice baths that nearly made you cry. The team, of course, found it hilarious. Raichi gave you a supportive thumbs up. Ness tried not to laugh every time you tripped over a cone. The boys were very pleased that you were now part of the training programme. And then there was Kaiser?

Kaiser was having the time of his life.

“You’re sweating,” he teased one afternoon, tossing you a towel,“Cute.”

“I’m plotting your murder,” you muttered. He leaned in, breath warm against your ear,“Do it after dinner. I already made reservations.”

And meanwhile, his life without your help?

An absolute disaster. He missed two interviews, forgot to reply to three sponsors, got his hair cut wrong (a national emergency), and was late to practice twice.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped when you smugly handed him a crumpled fan letter he’d forgotten to answer.

“I’m just impressed,” you said sweetly and full of sarcasm,“I didn’t think it was possible to double-book yourself with yourself.”

He groaned,“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You bet your smug ass I am,” you laughed as a reply. But somewhere between the playful bickering and the chaotic schedules, something shifted between the tow of you. What had begun as a serious hatred of his schedule and his person had now become something like an edge. something that belonged to him, without which he would not be himself. Something you tolerated, because of him.

It was no different on his side of the emotional world. He missed the sarcastic jokes you used to make when he messed up again. Or how you'd fall asleep cutely on the keyboard in his office because you couldn't take it anymore. The constant moaning and fussing about his inability had become music to his ears. So he started lingering near you after practice.

You on the other hand, started looking forward to his stupid texts.

You caught him watching you during drills, expression softer than usual. You’d both been dancing around it for weeks, really—like one long, drawn-out press conference of denial.

Until the final day of the bet: You were sprawled on the pitch, utterly exhausted. Sweat dripped from your forehead, your muscles screamed, and your lungs felt like they’d been lit on fire. Kaiser had given you two sets of his own tracksuit clothes to make it feel like his everyday life, he had said. that meant you were sitting there in the black shirt with the gold trim and the bugunder-red tracksuit bottoms with his initials and his match number. The others had made fun of it. They had said it was like a house number, so you knew who lived in the house together. It was an open secret that the others thought you were like an old married couple when you were together.

Kaiser dropped down beside you with a water bottle and that stupid grin,“You survived.”

“Barely,” your breath still unsteady.

“You win,” you gasped,“You’re… actually in shape. Who knew?”

He laughed,“And your schedule was a living nightmare. I missed three hair masks and I think Adidos is mad at me for not showing up to the shoe launch.”

You rolled your eyes,“Really??? The shoe release?? I worked so hard on that deal for you...You can’t function without me.”

He leaned closer,“I don’t want to.”

You froze. He was looking at you—really looking at you. No smugness. No jokes. Just something real.

“I’ve been flirting with you for months,” he said softly,“You’re not exactly subtle either.”

You blinked,“Was it that obvious?”

He grinned,“You called me a ‘walking migraine with abs.’ That’s basically German for ‘marry me.’”

You laughed—nervous and bright and maybe a little breathless.

“And now?,” you asked. He smirked, “Now I cash in on my prize.”

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, “Dinner. With me. No running around. No emails. Just you.”

You stared up at him, “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll just have to keep booking back-to-back hair appointments until you give in,” he teased. You laughed again, eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into him.

“Fine,” you whispered,“But only if I get to pick the outfit.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling, “Deal.”

___ _ _ _

You sent the message an hour ago:

"Be ready at 7. Suit. Formal. I’m picking you up. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me." – Y/n 😘

No response. Just a single read receipt and a suspicious lack of follow-up sarcasm. You were wearing your favorite dress—dark red, sleek, perfectly sculpted to your figure. Modern lines, no frills, just class and edge. The matching lipstick had taken you three attempts and two makeup wipes to perfect. But one thing was for sure, the two hours of styling where totally worth it. It felt good to be able to really doll up. You weren’t even sure why you were this nervous.

It wasn’t a date...Okay, it was definitely date-coded.

But still.

You had pulled strings to get tickets to a private advance screening of your favorite old German film—one Michael had, in his words, “definitely pretended to have seen to impress someone once.”

You smiled just thinking about his face when he realized the theater was empty. He didn’t know you knew he had rented it out.

Of course he had.

___ _ _ _

You pulled up outside his place at 6:59 sharp. The building was sleek and modern—exactly the kind of penthouse palace you’d expect a Kaiser to inhabit. And then the door opened.

Your mouth went dry. Michael stood there in a deep navy-blue suit that somehow made his hair look even more golden than usual. A white shirt underneath, buttons half-done, tie in his hand. And he was staring at you like he had forgotten the entire German language.

“Wow,” he said finally.

You smirked, stepping inside,“That’s it? Just wow?”

“I’ve seen you in sweatpants, high ponytails, and with three pens stuck in your bun yelling at me for double-booking a photo shoot,” he murmured,“And I thought that was cute.”

He let his gaze travel down slowly, lingering just enough to make your skin feel too tight.

“But this?” he continued,“You’re trying to kill me.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking,“Then die quietly and put your tie on so we wont be late.”

He held it up,“You’re the assistant. Help me. Besides you were the one, who wanted to dress me...”

You rolled your eyes but stepped closer, taking the silk from his fingers. His scent hit you—clean cologne, a hint of mint, and something just inherently Kaiser. Warm and impossible to ignore. You looped the tie around his neck, fingers brushing his collarbone. He watched you the whole time, eyes flickering between your lips and your hands.

“You’re nervous,” he said quietly.

You huffed,“I’m not.”

“You’re breathing like I just made you run laps,” he stated the obvious.

“I’ve seen you run laps. That’s not impressive.”

He laughed under his breath, and you paused with the tie half-knotted. His hand came up, fingers brushing your wrist—lightly, casually.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice dropping.

You swallowed, “You’re stalling.”

“I’m enjoying the view,” he smirked. You stepped back, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks, “Shirt next. You’re barely decent.”

He smirked, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Michael.”

“Y/n,” he got back at you teasingly. You rolled your eyes again and reached for his waist, grabbing the button of his pants.

And then it happened. You looked up. He looked down.

A second stretched thin between you—his breath catching, your fingers frozen at his fly, the silence charged with something very different than before.

He was close. So close. And when your knuckles brushed against his abdomen, he tilted his head like he was already leaning in.

“Stop looking at my lips,” you whispered.

“I’m thinking about kissing them,” he whispered back.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

But when you finally buttoned the last piece, his hand slid gently to the back of your neck—and this time, there were no jokes. He kissed you like he'd been waiting all month. Like all the teasing and tension had finally found its spark.

And god, did it ignite. His mouth was warm, commanding but careful, like he didn’t want to rush but couldn’t stop himself either. Your hands curled into his jacket, pulling him closer, lips parting like second nature.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, breath shallow.

“That was... overdue,” he murmured. You licked your lips,“We’re late.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” you smirked, still flushed from the kiss.

“Fine,” he said, “But I’m kissing you again after the credits.”

___ _ _ _

You tried to play it cool when you arrived. Act surprised. Gasp a little. Look impressed. But the second you stepped into the dark velvet of the private theater and saw the single set table tucked to the side—candles, wine, catered food—you turned back and smacked his chest,“You rented the place.”

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Didn’t want distractions. Or other people seeing me cry if the movie’s boring. I have an image to obtain.”

“You are ridiculous,” you said under a light laugh.

“You love it,” he said as he gave you one of his charming winks.

You glared,“A little.”

Dinner was incredible. The movie was even better. And through it all, Kaiser stayed close—but not in his usual arrogant way. He asked questions. Listened. Smiled when you quoted your favorite line before it happened. Let you grab his arm during the emotional parts.

It was the softest you’d ever seen him.

And the most honest you’d ever felt with him.

___ _ _ _

The city lights glowed below as the two of you stepped onto his terrace. It was late. Quiet. Cool wind brushing against your bare shoulders. You leaned on the railing. He stood behind you, his suit jacket draped over your arms.

“I had fun tonight,” you said softly.

“Me too,” he smiled, looking at you. You turned, meeting his gaze again in the silver-blue light.

This time, you didnt felt like teasing. Just the space between you, waiting to close.

He stepped in, cupped your face. You let him.

The kiss was slower this time. Deeper. More certain.

You curled into him, fingers in his hair, lips parting with soft sighs and lingering touches. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and it wasn’t just tension anymore—it was want. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, your smile as he placed a hickey onto it.

And when you kissed him back with a soft, breathless laugh, you finally admitted it to yourself:

You weren’t just falling for him.

You already had.

I hoped you liked the story and the illustration.

[navree]

i wanted what any father wants for his son ... hope. happiness. a future of never wanting or regretting something he could never have again ...

[cemetegee]

Could Ianthe see Cytherea's Corpse?

The question if Ianthe could really see the corpse under Harrows bed is an important approach to her character. Gaslighting Harrow would be one of the most cruel things she's done (besides of the murder of Naberius Tern) In my opinion, there are several hints that the corpse was NOT visible to everyone, and I'd like to present them to you.

But before we start, what is even the "proof" that she could see it?

I love Gideon very much, but she is an unreliable narrator. How does she want to know that? The fact that she narrates the whole book implies, that she can see The Body as well... And The Body is surely not visible to anyone else. Sure, dor The Body, it's kinda clear that it's not visible to anyone else (SINCE NOBODY EXCEPT HARROW NOTICES IT), and for Cytherea's body we have less evidence. Still, Gideon lives in Harrow's mind and can obviously see things other's don't see. Her information is not trustworthy.

Ianthe is also not trustworthy, but that doesn't mean that she didn't say the truth that time. So let's look at the facts:

Something's odd with the body. And by "odd" I mean "really odd". It starts with the fact that it just casually walks through the Mithraeum, when we see it for the first time:

Ahem, Wake, not gonna criticize you, but... Don't you think it's a little dangerous for your identity as a dead corpse, if you walk through a space ship WHERE LITERALLY ANYONE COULD SEE on your way? Except if you... Weren't visible to anybody... And only Harrow could see your for some reason...

The next thing! It's explicitly stated to the Lyctors looked for it one the whole ship! Since the corpse is an old friend of them, you'd expect they'd have a certain interest to find it...

They shall have looked everywhere, but NOT under Harrow's bed? (To be honest, since they don't really trust Harrow, you'd expect it would be one of the very first places to look for it.)

+ Jod couldn't detect it anywhere? (Well, it's Jod, it could be a lie, but why should he lie about that?) That's actually the BIGGEST hint, that something's necromantically odd with the body. It apparently can camouflage itself from being necromantically detected BY GOD HIMSELF. (Why shouldn't it also could make itself "invisible"?)

One another thing! (Or actually: several another things, that fit in the same category.) Physically things don't seem to affect her sometimes.

Like for example the wards. Why don't they affect her? Gideon seems to think they should. (Again: she's an unreliable narrator, but still, it's a hint)

Or the bone cuffs? You would expect as a physical being she should need to break them to escape. But they appear to be untouched. As if she'd just slipped out...like a ghost.

And let's look on the "Gaslighting" scene once again. Before, Wake-in-Cytherea is described as walking very clumsily:

How can she silently disappear, suddenly, in the three minutes Harrow needs to calm down in the bathroom? (Like THIS!) Something's off with the disappearing, that's for sure.

And there's also the last thing, which is actually what brought me on the Cytherea-wasn't visible train. Let's assume for a moment that Ianthe does lie about the corpse to Harrow, okay? That she CAN see it, and that she intends to invalidate Harrow's experience to make Harrow believe her perceiving wasn't trustworty. What's exactly was gaslighting is btw! (Although it's really questionable why she should do that, since Harrow obviously already doesn't believe that, one, and second... You would think that such a mysterious walking corpse is a HEAVY security risk - not only for Harrow, but also for Ianthe! - so that she better should accept it's existence if she'd see it. But okay.) If she wants to do that, why does she try to validate Harrow's perceiving in a scene before? Hm?

What she says means very much. "I believe you that the corpse HAS been moving. (I believe YOU!) But it doesn't have to be such a sinister thing as you think. Maybe there's a completely harmless explanatation for it (Like necrophilia.)" It's a try to calm her down and reassure her. How does that fit together with the destabilising of gaslighting? It doesn't fit at all...

To conclude: I believe the corpse WAS there. I mean, it must have gone somewhere after the strike on ""Ortus"", and why shouldn't the location be under Harrow's bed? But I'm not so sure, to not say that I doubt that the corpse was visible to anybody. There are just...too many strange things. I couldn't really explain what she did (someone else suspected different layers of the River as an explanatation, what I find very interesting - if you have an other theory: go ahead! I'm very interested to see it) but I really think she did something. Some things only make sense if she was either very careless or invisible and some things absolutely don't make sense without anything being strange about her.

But how to interprete Ianthe's expression during what she says (which could btw another point for the theory that the corpse wasn't visible)? I've often heard people say that Ianthe would lie about the corpse, because she thinks it would be funny to gaslight Harrow. But I ask you: does she look as if she had fun here?

My personal theory is... That she is concerned. And probably specifically concerned about her participation on the lobotomy. I mean, imagine you had played around in someone's brain with some sharp tools... Wouldn't you be concerned you've BROKEN something, if that someone would suddenly start to come up with corpses which ""don't exist""? It's even a concernment she tells Harrow before. An outcome, she WOULD NOT LIKE:

I am very sure she thinks - what's not true, but I think she thinks it! - that she has damaged something permanently in Harrow's brain. (During the lobotomy.) But she can't say that, because of her vow and the Sewn Tongue. (And maybe a little bit of shame, if life is fair.)

PS: if you have any other theory, feel free to share it!

The majority said I should make this post, and I bow to the majority! I remember there was a post which included some of these points, but it seems to be gone. I feared mine could become too similar (although these *are* my points), but now that I've done it I see, that it's not so similar at all. (If someone gives me the link, I can paste it in [FOUND IT, FOUND IT!!!]).

[aaronstveit]

read in 2025!

it's that time again! i've been doing reading threads here since 2022, and i always enjoy them. as always, you can find me on goodreads and the storygraph.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie* (★★★★★)

Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems by Mary Oliver (★★★★★)

The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden (★★★★☆)

Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice (★★★☆☆)

The Examiner by Janice Hallett (★★★★☆)

The Girl in the Tower by Katherine Arden (★★★★★)

A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft

Just Another Missing Person by Gillian McAllister (★★★☆☆)

Beartown by Fredrick Backman (★★★★★)

White Tears/Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Color by Ruby Hamad (★★★★★)

Killer Potential by Hannah Deitch** (★★★★☆)

Alive at the End of the World by Saeed Jones (★★★★☆)

The Winter of the Witch by Katherine Arden (★★★★★)

Notre-Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo (★★★★☆)

Assata: An Autobiography by Assata Shakur (★★★★★)

Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler (★★★★☆)

Perfect Victims: And the Politics of Appeal by Mohammed El-Kurd (★★★★★)

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin (★★★★★)

The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates (★★★★★)

Famous Last Words by Gillian McAllister (★★★☆☆)th

The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar (★★★★☆)

Direct Descendant by Tanya Huff** (★★★☆☆)

When She Was Me by Marlee Bush (★★★★☆)

All In Her Head: The Truth and Lies Early Medicine Taught Us About Women’s Bodies and Why It Matters Today by Elizabeth Comen

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins* (★★★★★)

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (★★★★★)

Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins (★★★★★)

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Bright Young Women by Jessica Knoll (★★★★☆)

Hungerstone by Kat Dunn (★★★★☆)

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore (★★★★☆)

The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón (★★★★★)

The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo (★★★★☆)

The Eights by Joanna Miller** (★★★☆☆)

Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg

I’ll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer by Michelle McNamara

Funny Story by Emily Henry (★★★★★)

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones (★★★★☆)

The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead (★★★★☆)

One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad (★★★★★)

This Book Will Bury Me by Ashley Winstead (★★★★☆)

Maus I: A Survivor’s Tale: My Father Bleeds History by Art Spiegelman

Maus II: A Survivor’s Tale: And Here My Troubles Began by Art Spiegelman

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (★★★☆☆)

The Unmapping by Denise S. Robbins** (★★★☆☆)

Door Into the Dark: Poems by Seamus Heaney (★★★☆☆)

Whispers of Dead Girls by Marlee Bush** (★★★☆☆)

We Do This ‘til We Free Us: Abolitionist Organizing and Transforming Justice by Mariame Kaba (★★★★★)

The Ghostwriter by Julie Clark** (★★★☆☆)

Great Big Beautiful Life by Emily Henry (★★★☆☆)

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (★★★★☆)

East of Eden by John Steinbeck (★★★★★)

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams (★★★★☆)

The Men With the Pink Triangle: The True, Life-and-Death of Homosexuals in the Nazi Death Camps by Heinz Heger

Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid (★★★★☆)

*An asterisk denotes a reread. **Two asterisks denote an ARC.

[press-f1-to-grieve]

Liam telling stories about him and Yuki on the Red Flags Podcast

Source: Red Flags Podcast - WE INTERVIEWED F1'S LIAM LAWSON!!! (edited down and transcribed by @press-f1-to-grieve)

to @2bluetwo85: i read your tags from that yuki and liam post. thank you for letting me know this exists (and for reading my long tags). i hope i got the right podcast you were talking about.

---

full transcription underneath beware, it's long. and i'm not familiar with the podcast (my newbie is showing) so i'm not sure which voice belongs to who. please excuse me if i got them mixed up. i listened to the episode on a podcast app and only found out they have a youtube channel later, after i had already finished everything bar hit the "post" button. the visual would have helped greatly with knowing who's speaking but alas...

---

Matt: Ye so, I wanna talk about another teammate of yours, Yuki Tsunoda. So we've read that you and Yuki go back. He lived with your parents in New Zealand?

Brian: (laughs) No! He didn't live- He didn't live with- Liam: He came to- So this is a series called the "Toyota Racing Series" in New Zealand, used to be like, really really big, especially before Covid. And basically we were both competing in it as teammates, and so he came to New Zealand. And we've been teammates a year before that in F3 and Euro Formula, so I've spent a lot of time with him already. So when he came to New Zealand, he basically just hung out with us. A lot. Like, I basically just drive around with him. Matt: So like step-brothers a little bit? Liam: Honestly, ye. (laughs)

Matt: What was your favorite thing to do with him, growing up?

Liam: It was always away from the track. Cause away from the track, he's a really funny, genuine dude. So, obviously, it's harder. When you are competing, with Yuki, (...) competing for the same seat. So, it's like, at the track, it's real intense. And then, away from that, it's real cool.

Matt: How're you able to maintain a friendship when it's just like, you know, blood sport out there for these few seats?

Liam: At points, over the year, (stammers) you know, it's not a friendship. And then he- Like, obviously, his journey was pushed a lot earlier than mine. He went to F1 quite early so, then I was- I wasn't really in competition with him anymore so- Matt: Right. Does that help your friendship? Liam: Then we are like, pretty chill again. And then we are put in competition again.

---

Brian: I think in one of the earlier seasons of Drive to Survive, you were in his room, and his room was like, all messy, and he was annoyed that they put it in.

Matt: Did you catch him on a bad day or is that just is? Brian: Is his room just a mess always? Liam: That's literally- I don't know now. Oh actually, I went to his house recently and it was a lot better. Both Hosts: (relieved) Okay! Liam: He has improved. (stammers) I remember, well, it wasn't really- (vocally winces) It was fierce because you shouldn't live like that anyway. BUT!- Both Hosts: (crying laughing emojis in audio form) Liam: But I remember, he had just moved into this apartment at the start of, I think it was the start of that year, and I- Oh no, it was the year before! But same thing, Covid, here, basically. I went to New Zealand because I was about to be locked out of the country. There was no racing. And Yuki stayed, in Milton Keynes for months. Just on (his own), he didn't go back to Japan. Like he just stayed in this apartment. Brian: Like Cast Away Liam: But I had to move into this brand new apartment and it was sick! And I went to New Zealand and I came back 3 months later. Matt: He has got a beard. Liam: And I walked into this place and it was just like DUUDE. It was bad, like it was real bad. Brian: (hums of understanding) Like takeouts and- (all three make noises of agreement) Liam: It was just food everywhere. Like, the laundry basket was just like, overflowing. Matt: Yuki was basically all of us during Covid. Brian: (enthusiastic YE's)

---

Matt: So, what are you most competitive with Yuki off the track? Like what do you guys like to-

Liam: Awe, dude, everything. Both Hosts: Ye? Liam: No, like, everything. We're like- At the moment, we've been playing table tennis. Just little disc. Matt: Oh you'll just make- Liam: M-make one! Ye, just make it. (...) not a proper one. Matt: Who is up? Liam: He plays a lot more, to be fair, but- Matt: So he crushes you. Liam: (cute babbles) No no- Both Hosts: (laugh) Liam: So, we played in Japan. I think I had him in Japan. And then we played last week and he beat me. Matt: You don't keep a serious tally? Are you better on certain surfaces? Like if it's a dinner table, you got him. Liam: On a smaller table, I have him. But on a slightly bigger table- Like depends on what table we get during race weekend.

---

Liam: But one thing with Yuki that was real funny that we did back when we were in New Zealand.

Liam: I don't know how this is a thing but you can rent a boat, at like 15 or 16 years old. And just take it out, to Lake Taupo. And so me and Yuki were like- I was probably 17 or 18 and he was like 19 or 20, and we just rented this boat, and got like, you know, biscuit, or tube? What do you call them? (...) And we just took it out and basically- It started off like real fun. Like we were just towing each other around. But then it just got like, who could throw the other person off like, the biggest. We just like, tried to kill each other on this little tube, in the middle of this lake. Matt: Just the two of you? Liam: Just the two of us. Just out there in the middle of a lake. Brian: Just the two of you tried to kill each other. Matt: It's like a fucking thriller. Liam: Honestly! I've got videos of like, him and me, like, in the air. Like, meters in the air. Matt: Who won or lost that game? Brian: "We both lost that game." Liam: Actually, I lost pretty hard on that one, to be fair. Matt: He threw you- Liam: I went off like, big time, ye. Brian: It seems like, that's the common experience of tubing, is that. It's like, it's fun and then you're like, am I gonna die? (...)

Matt: So Yuki was a master at flinging you?

Liam: Well, he would like- Sometimes I feel like it's on accident. He would like, get a lot of slack and it will just build up real fast- Both Hosts: Sure, he said it was on accident.

---

Liam: We're drivers. Everything turns into a competition.

Liam: We had a rental car, again in New Zealand with Yuki, that we like, basically would like, make a little track and just set time trials off the side of the road. Matt: Like with a Camry or something? Liam: No, Yuki had this little Mitsubishi ASX. I don't know if you know what it is, it's like a boxed car. And we, with like a couple of drivers, basically made like, a little track, and, basically goes until somebody- until Yuki crashed it. (...) The funniest thing, it wasn't even in the- He had finished his lap. It was afterward, he tried to be cool and do like a flick spin, and just totally sent it into a bank. We had to go to a store to get one of those plungers to try and plunge out the dent in the front of the- Because we had to get the car back. Brian: Right, of course. Matt: Renters insurance, man. If I see you or Yuki walk into an enterprise or something, I'll just like, go somewhere else.

[charlataninred]

Guess who’s almost completed a group assignment for 3-4 people by themself 💪💪💪

[streets-in-paradise]

omg i had no idea patroclus showed the moves he learned from achilles to the girls..THATS SO CUTE AAAAAA (srry i didn’t really understand if this is something canon coming from troy or just one of your thoughts but this is so good anywayyyy)

Tecnically, it is implied in a deleted line on the script:

I understand why they deleted it, the internet is already an insufferable place attacking the version of the movie we got just because Achilles and Patroclus are relatives. It would have been like feeding gasoline to the flames of hate from Patrochilles shippers, so I am glad this stayed as a little in script bonus.

We can enjoy it, add it to our cute movie headcanons. It stays with us: I don't have to see a million edits of the line being mocked over and over by people who didn't even watched the movie in the first place, or did it in bad faith.

Everybody wins.

[fictionadventurer]

The only types of stories capturing my interest right now

YA fiction (with a weird interest in shlocky dystopian fiction)

Rereads

My retellings

Imaginary Book Recs and stories I haven't written yet