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teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 5 years ago

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sleeping on the blacktop

pairing: harry styles x reader

warnings: angst, descriptions of a car accident, blood, gore, mentions of death, vomiting, medical terminology (that i know absolutely nothing about !! i am not a doctor or an emt—almost all of my knowledge is from an anatomy class or tv so—don’t come for me pls), my ramblings about fate and free will, i also gave the baby a name (sorry if you don’t like it :( i just hate having y/d/n, ya know? too much work)

word count: 8.5k

synopsis: while harry is away on tour, his wife and baby get into a car accident

author’s note: please, be mindful of the warnings and don't read if you're uncomfortable with anything mentioned and sorry for the sort of rushed ending... other than that, i hope you enjoy! xx all the love

masterlist

—

“You don’t need to do that,” Anne says from behind her, and Y/N flinches, nearly dropping a plate. She got lost in her thoughts, staring out the window in Anne’s kitchen.

“You cooked. It’s the least I can do,” she says. Anne grabs a rag and dries some of the dishes. Gemma is keeping Rhiannon occupied in the next room, and from the peals of laughter, it’s the happiest she’s been in days. Y/N sighs, wiping her pruned hands on a paper towel. If she’s being honest, she’s not doing too well; Rhia has had a hard time adjusting to not having Harry around all the time, causing a varied sleep schedule and more bouts of fussiness in general, and Y/N struggles keeping up.

“How’re you doing?”

Y/N hesitates. She contemplates lying. She doesn’t need one more person worrying for her, and she doesn’t want people to think that she can’t take care of her own child by herself. Harry already worries enough, even though she’s assured him many times that he doesn’t need to be.

She knows that he feels guilty for not being there all the time, but she would never force him to stop touring and doing what he loves, partly because she’s afraid he’ll resent her. Despite him being across an entire ocean, she never feels like he is far; he’s always willing to stop anything when she calls, and he tries his hardest to talk with her twice a day. She always keeps him as involved as possible, sending daily updates and photos.

“It’s tough,” she admits, “but it’s getting better, no need to worry about me.” She offers Anne a weak smile.

“Can’t help it,” she says, pinching her cheeks lightly.

Noticing the dimming sky, the sun sinking below the line of trees in the yard, Y/N sighs.

“We should probably go,” she mutters, slipping into the next room. Despite how tired she is, she can’t help the smile that takes over her face when Rhiannon looks up at her, showing her gums.

“Time to go, bug,” she says, light and lilting. Rhia kicks her legs, making her almost lose her balance. She’s too confident for her own good, like her father; she’s only just started sitting up on her own and thinks she can wiggle around without falling.

“You sure you’re okay to drive, love?” Anne asks from behind her. Y/N rolls her eyes, yet smiles fondly at her protectiveness.

“We’ll be fine. It’s only a few minutes away.”

Ever since Harry left for tour, Y/N has been staying in their lake cottage to be closer to Anne. It’s only a quick 20 minute drive away, which has been helpful during the days when Y/N needed to catch up on sleep, and Anne is always happy to help. She didn’t like to do that very often, feeling like she was taking advantage of her mother-in-law.

The cottage was a cute little thing, perfect for just the two of them, and Y/N was glad to get out of their shared home; it was too big and empty for just her and Rhia. Harry was always able to liven up any place they were at, but now that he’s gone, it felt hollow and dismal.

“You know you’re welcome to stay here. I’ve got plenty of room,” Anne tries to convince her one last time. As much as Y/N appreciated her worrying, she didn’t want to impose, and she’s sure that Anne wouldn’t want to listen to a fussy baby, even though she would deny it to the end of her days.

Y/N puts Rhia in her coat with little resistance, which is surprising, but she only had a short little nap that afternoon, and they had a busy day.

“I know, Anne, but I don’t want to intrude,” Y/N says. “Besides, Rhia sleeps better in our bed, and you need all the sleep you can get, don’t ya?” She tickles her daughter’s little bloated belly, making her giggle sweetly. Once she’s strapped in, the baby stretches and tries to put Y/N’s fingers in her mouth.

“You know I worry about you,” Anne sighs, kneeling next to Y/N.

“No need to worry,” Y/N smiles. Anne tucks the woven green blanket under Rhiannon’s legs. It’s the same blanket Harry had when he was a baby, barely held together with a few threads and love. Y/N stands, hoisting the carrier up to her hip.

“Call me when you get home, yeah?”

“Course,” she says, pressing a kiss to Anne’s cheek.

When they’re settled in the car, Anne stays out on the porch, watching them until they’re safely on the road, offering a wide smile and an air kiss. Y/N is so thankful to have her shoulder to lean on.

It’s a clear night, which Y/N is thankful for, no fog or rain, which isn’t an often occurrence. She stops at a sign, brakes squealing slightly. She stays there for a second, feeling the familiar burn of exhaustion behind her eyes. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel.

“Da, da,” Rhiannon mumbles. Y/N reaches behind her, barely able to reach her on the opposite side of the back seat, and she grabs onto her fingers.

“I know, peach,” Y/N sighs, “Miss daddy, too.”

She never considered how fragile life could be until she met Harry, not in the sense that death is an imminent and constant force, more in the sense that everything, her goals, her view on life, and her priorities, shifted when she met him. He became her influence, and she was willing to go through hell or high water just to be with him.

In summation, it takes all but five seconds for your life to completely change, for better or for worse.

There are dozens upon dozens of tiny events that build up and push you toward that one big moment that will change your life. Nothing is set in stone; different choices lead you down different paths, and your paths are constantly changing, either for better or worse, and slowly but surely, you’ll finally reach the top of that mountain. Every choice you questioned, every sacrifice you made, will come together in due time, just know that you’re working toward a greater purpose.

Y/N has never been a big believer in fate, that everything is beyond your control and that everything is already set in stone, but perhaps there is some truth to it. Fate could have pushed her to leave home when she was young. Fate could have put her on a safe and stable path when she went to university that landed her a good job when she was fresh out of her internship, and fate could have brought Harry into her life.

But she will never claim fate as a sole guide to her life. Fate is not responsible for her success nor her mistakes; that was all because of her hard work and integrity, her youth and ignorance. To her, fate is simply an excuse. People want to put blame on something, and when things seem out of their control or when they make bad decisions, they don’t feel quite as guilty. They’re willing to take credit for good things that happen but won’t when it affects them negatively.

Say, perhaps, that fate brought Y/N to that intersection, then maybe it was fate that planted the trees that obscured her vision; perhaps, it was fate that made the lights in the post go out that evening.

If so, fate has a twisted sense of humor.

If not, why wouldn’t fate give her any time to react before the impact?

How could fate be so cruel?

—

Working as an EMT, there are always certain risks you accept when you are on the clock; not only are you surrounded by an unbelievable pressure, there is always the ominous cloud looming overhead, a thin thread between life and death threatening to break at any moment, and it’s your job to keep them stable until they arrive at the hospital.

Not too hard, right?

Being able to save people from the brink of death and reuniting families makes almost everything worth it, but there are always scenes that stick with you for the rest of your life, and for Leslie Greene, this is one of them.

What stands out the most is the sound of a crying baby.

She’s seen some very horrific accidents: cars that have been reduced to nothing more than a ball of cheap scrap metal, with blood coating the shattered glass, to DOA’s, where the impact made them look unrecognizable. She has seen a lot of unspeakable things and had a lot of good people die on her watch.

But never has she ever had a baby present at any accident scene. That’s new.

Those cries will probably haunt her for the rest of her life.

“I didn’ see ‘em,” the man slurs from the police car. He has a bloodied lip and a slight bruise forming around his neck from the seat belt. The stench of rum rolls off him with every breath. He sits back, eyes dull and hooded, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s done.

Another EMT meets with her half-way to the other vehicle, lodged against the ditch across the way.

“Driver side sustained some serious damage. The baby has no discernible injuries, but another ambulance is a minute out to take her.”

From the driver’s side, Leslie can see the baby on the opposite side of the backseat, the car seat still tightly in place. The baby flails about, legs and arms kicking with strength. The car is twisted and mangled, but most of the damage is on the driver’s side, the door latched closed. Shattered glass cracks beneath her boot.

When they’re finally able to get the car door open, the woman, barely even mobile, opens her eyes slightly, but she flinches back at the bright lights. Blood drips down from her hairline, bruises already forming on her eyes from the impact on the steering wheel. Blood pools on the leather seat as she shifts with discomfort.

James, a newbie who has never been to a scene with this much damage, breathes out shakily. Leslie turns to see his lips curling, close to dry heaving.

“Go get the baby, yeah?”

He nods quickly, pale in the face, and scurries to the other side. The baby is soothed only momentarily before her wails continue. The woman’s eyes snap open fully this time, panic clear on her features. She tugs fruitlessly on the seat belt, a pained groan leaving her when she moves too quickly.

“Please, don’t move. My name is Leslie. I’m here to help.” She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the woman’s racing heart. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” she grits out, her eyes fluttering dangerously. From how she reacted to the lights, she probably has a concussion. Leslie cuts the seat belt, and glass falls onto the blacktop, clinking musically until they settle, like they’re sleeping. Through the gloves, she can feel how warm she is, sweat beading down from her forehead. Glass has settled in the divots of her wool sweater, but not before cutting her skin, caking the pearl necklace peeking from the neckline in blood.

“Y/N, I need you to turn a bit. I need to see where the bleeding is coming from,” Leslie says softly, inching her slowly onto her side. She sighs as more blood pools, gushing down her back and soaking her jumper further. It’s from a rib that broke through the skin. She can only hope that they didn’t puncture an organ.

“Does that hurt?” She asks as she puts pressure on the skin.

“No,” Y/N whimpers, eyes fluttering closed. When they get her on the stretcher, with minimal blood loss, she stirs with life again, her trembling hand reaching onto the sleeve of Leslie’s shirt, painting it red.

“Rhiannon—my baby girl—is she…” She swallows back tears.

“She’s fine.” Leslie knows that it’s unwise to lie to a patient; perhaps, she’s not entirely lying, but it’s never a good idea to give a victim a sure diagnosis without actually knowing anything. There may have been no physical signs of trauma to the baby, but internal problems are a very real possibility that they won’t know of until they get to the hospital.

She knows that she shouldn’t lie. It takes seven minutes to get to the nearest hospital, but it’s time that Y/N may not have; despite how quickly they were able to get her into the ambulance, she’s losing a lot of blood.

“Thank you,” Y/N sighs in relief, clutching onto her hand. Her wedding ring nearly cuts through the gloves from the pressure.

“Of course,” Leslie says, easily putting her on an IV.

“My husband,” she gasps suddenly, her arm jerking about. “Harry—he—he’s gonna be worried. ‘M supposed to call. He has to tell her goodnight—“

“Y/N, relax,” Leslie coos. “We will contact your husband. You need to focus on yourself, yeah? Don’t close your eyes, Y/N.”

Leslie can see the fear in her eyes; it’s something she’s grown very familiar with, but it’s not just fear for her own survival. She can see how scared she is for her family. She struggles to keep her eyes open, resilience and weakness fighting for power. Like any mother, she’s fighting for her family. She’s fighting to be able to hold onto and kiss them one more time.

She is trying so hard to fight for her family.

But at the same time, it’s so easy to give in.

“If I don’t make it,” she slurs, breathing quickly out of her nose. The blood from her nose slips down into her mouth, making her cough.

“Don’t say—”

“If I don’t, I need you to tell Harry that I love him, and that…” She lets out a pained whimper, struggling to catch her breath. “I’m sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault, love.”

Her lip quivers, teeth chattering.

“I’m just sorry for everything.”

Leslie knows exactly what that means. She’s making amends, apologizing for not being able to fight. A lone tear slips from her eye, but Leslie wipes it away.

“I will.” She promises, gripping her hand tighter.

Only two more minutes.

Y/N gives her a thankful nod, and as if she has finally made peace with the world, she falls limp, the light leaving her eyes.

—

Harry has always enjoyed New York, and it’s not very often that he is able to stay for longer than one night. There is just something about it that’s completely different from London or L.A. that he likes about it; He couldn’t imagine actually living there, with the massive crowds and fluctuating weather, but it’s a nice place to visit, very different from what he’s used to.

He’s halfway through the tour for his most recent album, and New York is the last stop before he gets a short break to go home. He has a show tonight at Madison Square, a radio interview in the morning, and then, he’s home free. He’s been looking forward to this break before the tour even began. Don’t get him wrong, he loves performing and meeting fans and traveling the world, but now that he has a family, it gets more and more difficult not being there for the people who need him most.

“So, I heard,” the interviewer begins, smiling widely.

Sadly, Harry has already forgotten his name. The interview was supposed to be a short little thing for social media, only supposed to take 20 minutes, so he could prepare for the concert that evening, but it’s been nearly an hour, and there are no signs of stopping any time soon. Harry holds off yet another yawn, the lack of sleep from the night before washing over him. He’s having trouble focusing.

“You’ve got a baby girl.”

“Yes,” Harry beams. Even though he wants to keep his baby out of the limelight, he can’t help the excitement that fills his chest whenever she's mentioned. He can easily go on and on about how wonderful and sweet and perfect she is. He tugs on his pearl necklace, biting on his lips to keep quiet. He and Y/N agreed that it would be best for Rhia to grow up as normally as possible, which meant only posting about her on his private social media and avoiding busy places so as to not be seen, but some things were simply unavoidable, like interviewers trying to get him to let something about her slip to get their five-minutes-of-fame. It seems rude of him to completely ignore their questions, so he just sticks to very short, vague answers.

“How are you adjusting to fatherhood?”

“Uh,” he laughs, fiddling with his wedding ring. “It was a struggle to begin with. I will admit that, but it’s getting better. We’re still learning how to adjust to everything.”

He says it like he’s actually there, actively helping Y/N, even though he's on the other side of the world. He hasn’t seen his daughter in nearly two months; video chats have absolutely nothing on the real thing. He isn’t helping Y/N put Rhia to sleep when she’s feeling particularly fussy or feeding her at two in the morning, so Y/N can finally get some well-deserved sleep, and he’s not there to play with her or comfort her.

It feels like he’s lying.

He’s a sad excuse of a father. That’s what he really is.

The thought makes the smile fall from his face, but he’s quick to force another one; if there’s anything that he’s learned after years in the public eye, it’s how to fake emotions. The interviewer gives him an understanding smile. He’s older, but not too old, only having a few years on Harry, age wise, but the wrinkles beside his eyes and the nicked ring on his finger suggest years of familial experience.

“I completely understand. I have three boys of my own, and—”

“I am so sorry,” Jeff, Harry’s savior, says suddenly from behind the camera. “D’ya mind if I borrow Harry for a second?”

The interviewer nods.

“No problem. Take 15?”

Harry feels a twinge of guilt as he stands quickly from the chair, happy to finally have a break.

“Thanks,” Harry sighs, brushing past Jeff to the refreshment table. “‘M exhausted. Maybe it’s ‘cause of Rhi, but every little thing wakes me up. Swore I heard her cryin’ last night.” Jeff is quiet, fiddling with his hands nervously. Harry doesn’t notice how quiet the man has gotten, and he opens a bottle of water, rifling through his bag.

“Isn’t it almost 3? Y/N should be callin’ soon.”

“Harry,” Jeff says again, stronger this time. Harry still doesn’t notice how his voice breaks slightly, wobbly and hesitant.

“Yeah?” Harry drinks nearly half of the water, not sparing a glance up. He fishes for his phone, only to remember that he left it in the car. He sighs and turns. That’s when he finally notices how shaken up Jeff is, pale and nervous.

“What’s up? Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he laughs, downing the rest of his water before tossing it in the bin.

“Harry,” Jeff says again, soft and somber, and it makes Harry stop. Dread settles in his stomach, deep and heavy. Jeff has never been one to be the bearer of bad news, and he tended to beat around the bush. “Why don’t you sit down?” Jeff tries to guide Harry over to the cheap stool in the corner of the room, but he rips his arm from his grasp.

Harry has never been one to let his mind run wild; he’s the calm one, who looks at reason and logic. He's the one to tell everyone that everything’s going to be fine; he’s the one who takes everything in stride, like water rolling down his back. Bumps in the road are nothing. He’s the one that comes up with solutions and executes them with ease, but with the way Jeff is treating him, his heart races.

“What?”

“There’s been an accident,” Jeff says slowly, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

It takes a second for Harry to process his words, but when he does, he stumbles back.

His mind automatically tries to reason with itself, that maybe it has nothing to do with him. Perhaps, something went wrong at the venue, and they would have to postpone, lengthening his stay for only a couple more days. Maybe, Mitch got food poisoning and will be unable to play that evening. There are dozens of reasonable explanations as to why Jeff pulled him aside, but Harry knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have such a mournful look in his eyes, if it isn’t anything less than very serious.

Okay, fine, there was an accident. That could mean so many different things. An accident doesn’t even necessarily mean that they are in grave danger; they could be walking away unscathed.

“W-what? I-i-is it Gem? Mum?” Endless scenarios flicker in his mind, each one worse than the last. The one thing that he doesn’t even consider is it being Y/N or Rhiannon. His mind refuses to go down that road; if it did, there’s no way of knowing how he would react. He doesn’t even consider the possibility of them being in trouble. He hates how long Jeff is taking to tell him, as if holding off will soften the blow. Irritation starts bubbling below the surface, and he finds it hard to keep calm.

“Harry,” he says, shaking his head. “Anne called me. There was a drunk driver, and they’re headed to the hospital now—”

“They?”

His heart stops for a second, and it feels like his chest collapses in on itself. His body feels like it’s reacting to a stressful situation, with adrenaline and fear and anger, but Harry isn’t thinking with a grieving mind; it’s cloudy and slow, delusional, even. He shakes his head.

“No,” Harry mutters, taking a step forward. He can feel tears burn in his eyes, and he makes no move to wipe them. “It wasn’t…” Harry can’t finish the question. It makes him nauseous. Jeff nods solemnly, which, in any other circumstance, would have been answer enough. “Say it,” Harry snaps.

It’s unreal, like a dream. This didn’t happen to him, not his family.

They’re safe. There’s just been a mistake. That’s the only reasonable explanation to everything. Someone made a mistake. Maybe a fan thought it would be funny to pretend to be his mum, and they somehow got Jeff’s number. It had to be a horrible, awful, repulsive joke to get some attention or something; as implausible as that seems, it’s the only thought that makes sense to him because he can’t possibly understand the weight of the truth. He doesn’t know if he can handle it.

His girls are fine.

They have to be.

“Harry—” Jeff tries to calm him down, seeing a bright red flush to his skin, frustration seeping through every pore. Anger isn’t becoming of Harry; Jeff has only seen him angry a couple of times, but never to this extent: red in the face, words shaky, eyes glassy.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“It was Y/N and Rhiannon.”

That is the absolute last thing that he wanted to hear.

Even though, deep down, he knew that they were in trouble. From the first moment Jeff said his name to how sickly he looked when he told him to sit down, Harry knew, deep in his heart and mind, that his family is in trouble. He just wasn’t willing to accept it or even think about it, as if that could change reality. Until Jeff said those five words that confirmed his worst nightmare.

And he feels his world come crashing down, but he’s stuck, frozen, mind not moving nearly as fast as it should be.

“My—my…” He stutters, throat closing. “My girls?” The ache in his chest increases tenfold, and he holds onto his, feeling the racing of his heart and his quick breathing. “You’re fuckin’ with me,” he scoffs, rage building. He shakes his head with denial. “What kind of fuckin’ prick—”

“I wouldn’t joke about—”

Harry knows that. Y/N and Jeff are close. Hell, they even considered making him their daughter’s godfather. Jeff would never joke about something this serious, and Harry knows that, but he isn’t willing to accept the reality because the reality is nearly too much for him to comprehend, to carry on his already weak shoulders.

“No, they’re not,” Harry closes his eyes, hands slipping through his hair like it normally does when he’s anxious. He tugs on it, but the pain is nothing compared to the sick feeling in his stomach or the crack in his pounding heart. He honestly feels like he’s going to be ill or pass out, feeling his mouth dry up, his hands clamming up, and he begins to feel light-headed.

“Y/N’s just about to call me. It’s Rhi’s bedtime.” He rambles, not listening to Jeff.

They can’t be going to a hospital. He talked to Y/N just this morning when he couldn’t fall asleep. He spoke about his worries and doubts and guilt that he felt for being so far away from them, and Y/N soothed all of his fears and reservations, reminding him why he does what he does. Before she left, she told him that she loved him, and he could hear Rhi babbling away in the background, content and happy and safe.

“There’s a plane leaving in a half an hour—”

“And I sing to her. That's the only way she’ll sleep through the night. She hasn’t been sleepin’ very well these past few days,” he says, lost in his thoughts. His words begin to slur.

“Harry, listen to me,” Jeff says, holding onto his shoulders, trying to keep him grounded, from falling apart. Harry doesn’t get anxious often, but when he does, everything comes to a startling halt; he’s not used to it, and he lets it overwhelm him until he can’t function. That’s the last thing anyone needs.

“No, no, they’re fine. They’re fine. They’re—” He swallows, and like a wave, realization dawns on him, drowning him. His family is in the hospital, and he’s not there with them. “Oh, god,” he cries, feeling bile burn his throat. He sinks to his knees, hand pitifully covering his mouth to keep from vomiting. His vision darkens. It feels like the walls are crumbling down, and he’s stuck, frozen and alone, with no one coming to save him.

Just like his girls.

“Harry, you can’t shut down, not now,” Jeff says, kneeling beside him. “They need you.”

He knows that. He needs to be strong for the both of them, so he wipes away his tears, clenches his jaw, and pushes everything down, even if it feels like he’s choking. He has to be strong for the both of them.

The drive to the airport is a blur. He swallows back his tears until his head feels like it’s going to burst and holds his breath until he can see black spots in his vision, but most of all, he’s numb. A small part of him is still trying to convince himself that this is all just a big misunderstanding, but the larger part, the part that’s screaming the loudest, tells him he’s being irrational and selfish.

It takes 7 hours to get home; he has to travel across an entire ocean to get to his family.

How unfair is that?

He wants to blame the world, God, fate. He wants to curse whatever force existed, but behind all of the hate and accusations and judgement, he is nothing more than a guilty, broken shell of a man.

He’s angry with himself, mostly, with the choices he’s made, with how selfish and greedy he was, and how inconsiderate his actions have been for the past few months. He can’t believe that he could be so self-centered, taking Y/N for granted. She’s his wife; they’re supposed to be partners, equals, and he treated her like she was disposable while he traveled the world, living out a dying dream.

He wishes he was there, to not only prevent it, but also to tell her just one last time how important she was to him and tell her of the pain that would spread in his chest at the possibility of losing her or their child; he wants so badly to show his love for her. In four days, they would have been celebrating six years together, and in that time, he has never doubted his love for her. He knew, from the moment they met, that she was meant to be with him until the very end. They were soulmates.

Now that he might lose her and his baby, he feels like his soul is being ripped out of his chest, leaving nothing but a gaping, painful void.

Jeff sends him a link to Twitter and a message: Harry, take all the time you need.

The post says: Due to a personal emergency, Harry will not be able to make the show at MSG this evening, and all tour dates from this moment forth will be canceled until further notice. Know that he wishes he could be with you all, and please, respect his privacy in these trying times.

He calls his mother shortly after, but she doesn’t answer. When he tries Gem, she picks up after a few rings, shaky and winded. He sighs, trying to quell the tremors in his hands. His lips quiver.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Gemma explains what happened to the best of her ability, that Y/N just left to go back to the cottage after eating dinner And that Anne received a call from the hospital, after he didn’t answer his phone (that part stung to hear).

“Please—” He begins, but his voice teeters and breaks at the end. He can’t help the tears that slip down his cheeks. Exhausted and weak, he finally cries. He cries for his wife, his child, and himself. They’re not heart-wrenching sobs, where he’s keeled over, grief and anxiety spilling out of every pore, but they leave him breathless, chest aching.

“Please, tell me everythin’s gonna be fine.”

Her silence is answer enough. She can’t promise him anything. It’s too early to tell, and she’s not going to lie to him, either, not when his wife and child’s life is in the balance.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Gemma admits, “but I will call you as soon—”

He hangs up before she can finish.

—

Rain thunders onto the broken concrete, a flash of lightning brightening the dull sky. Despite the rain, the earth nearly brimming with life, the hospital is dead. There’s not a soul going in or out. The lights flicker eerily in the corner of his eye. It’s four in the morning, so it’s not much of a surprise, but the sight of it being so lifeless just feels wrong.

His mind is moving quicker than the world can keep up with, it seems, and he feels like it goes against the laws of nature. It’s a strange feeling when you feel like you’re falling apart, but the world continues on; most people on the street wouldn’t bat an eye or even pay any notice to him as he’s deteriorating before their very eyes.

As irrational as it is, it feels wrong. It feels wrong that everyone else is able to go on while his life is crumbling.

He called Gemma when he landed, and there were still no updates on their condition. He broke dozens of traffic laws to get there, and now, he stands outside the entrance, still wearing his wool jumper from the day before, smelling like an airport, with rain soaking his hair. Droplets slip down his cheek and jaw, livening the dried tears from earlier, and they seep into his mouth; he can taste the salt.

He’s just staring at the flickering sign.

He can’t move.

Well, that’s not really it; he can move, he can feel, and he can see, but he doesn’t want to move.

How fucked up is that?

He doesn’t want to go inside. Despite all of his fears, and his longing for answers, and his need to see his family, he can’t move.

Because that would make everything real.

If he goes inside, if he pushes past those doors and sees the doctors, he can’t deny it anymore. When he goes inside, he has to face the very real possibility that he could lose his wife and daughter. He isn’t sure if he’s strong enough to handle it.

He’s being selfish. He knows that. He should be running inside, yelling at doctors and nurses to tell him what they’re doing about his family. He should be trying to do something, anything to see his wife and daughter.

But why is it so hard to move his feet?

And why does he still feel so numb?

He breathes in the cold air, burning his tender throat.

When he finally opens those doors, past the point of no return, he’s welcomed by a blinding light and the scent of antiseptic. The inside is just as lifeless, with dull white walls that leaves his head throbbing and dingy carpet that scrapes against his boots. He follows the signs, leading to the waiting room.

A new round of tears fills his eyes when he sees his mother’s familiar figure. He hasn’t wanted to just completely collapse into her arms, crying, in years, but now, he just wants to be in the comfort of her presence, to forget the world.

But he can’t, just like Jeff told him, he needs to stay strong, for them. He can’t shut down. He breathes out deeply, raises his head, and calls out for his mother.

Anne turns around, and when he sees Rhiannon pressed tightly to her chest, safe and sound, he feels more of his strength return, like he can breathe a little easier. He feels his knees weaken, but he keeps moving. He doesn’t feel quite so empty and broken and numb, a small ray of hope filling him for the first time in hours. He cups the back of her little head, thumb caressing the soft baby hairs. They’ve gotten thicker since the last time he saw her.

“She’s fine, Harry, just a little shaken up,” Anne says, smiling slightly.

His happiness is short lived when Gemma stands from behind Anne.

“Y/N’s in surgery right now. All we can do is wait,” she says, her eyes ringed with red, mirroring his own.

“Da,” Rhia says, and he smiles, a single tear running down his cheek. He wipes it and sniffles.

Y/N pretended to be upset when that was Rhi’s first word. She said it only hours before he had to leave. They were in their home, and Y/N was helping him lug his suitcases out of the bedroom when he heard it. It sounded like another babble, but it became clearer until—

“Da,” she squealed, bouncing in her little jumper chair. “Dada.” She hit a little plastic toy ring on the tray

“Y/N,” he called out for her and knelt down in front of his baby. She rushed out of the bedroom.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“Say it again, peach, show mummy,” he cooed, and Rhi repeated it, again and again, reaching for her father.

“I carry her around for nine months and feed her out of my tit,” Y/N whined, “and this is the thanks I get?”

They laughed, nevertheless. It was a bittersweet moment, as he looks back on it now. He was so happy that Rhiannon was growing and learning, but she was growing up too fast for his liking. He lifted Rhi up out of the chair and pressed a gentle kiss to her chubby cheek, tears stinging behind his eyes.

“She’s just daddy’s little girl. Aren’t ya, peach?”

She left a slobbery kiss, well, her version of a kiss (which was more tongue than lip) on his nose. He scrunched up his face, and her features pinched together in return, mimicking him.

“See, jus’ a little mini-me you are,” he said, tickling under her chin.

And when she called out to him after saying their final farewells in the airport, it made it even more difficult for him to leave.

Maybe it was a sign that he shouldn’t leave.

He should have listened.

He’s knocked back into the present when his baby girl looks up at him, eyes lit up with innocence, completely unaware of the dire situation they’re in. They’re not in their London home, and Y/N’s not there with him. His lips wobble, nose burning. His chest hurts, whether from unshed tears or from the thought of actually losing the love of his life, he doesn’t know.

He cups his baby girl’s cheek.

Rhia has Y/N’s eyes. He loves her eyes. When she first opened them, as he held her for the first time, bundled tightly in his arms, he cried big, fat tears until they were all dried up. He felt nothing but love for this little human because she was a perfect mixture of him and Y/N. He loves Rhiannon’s eyes, but now, they serve as nothing but a deathly reminder of his wife, who could possibly not survive these next few hours.

She gives him a gummy smile, her little tongue slipping out over her lips. There’s some white peeking through her gums, and his heart aches. He wipes some drool from her chin, and she reaches for him, but he backs away.

His stomach sinks, and he wants the ground to swallow him whole. His mother looks at him softly, not a shred of disappointment apparent on her face, as if she knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his own daughter. His throat closes.

How could he be so weak?

Rhia’s smile drips down, but she lays her head back on her Nana’s shoulder. Anne cups the girl’s head, wrapping the thinly woven blanket tighter around her; sadness and pity present in the air.

“‘M gonna check in with the nurse, see how Y/N’s doin’,” he whispers, backing away, and he stumbles down the hallway, following the signs until he sees the nearest nurse, clad in pale blue scrubs. Even though he’s sure the nurse expects him to look nothing less than distraught, he smooths down his clothes and clears his throat, trying to quell the cries building, lips quivering pitifully.

“Do you have any information on Y/N Styles?” His voice is watery and broken.

The nurse looks at him with sad eyes, warm and understanding, like his mother’s. How does everyone else know what he’s feeling besides himself?

“No, I’m sorry, sir,” she says, and he simply nods. He doesn’t have the energy to be upset or press her anymore. The heaviness on his chest building, he doesn’t even try to stop it anymore. He just wants to wallow, curl up and cry until he’s finally able to wake up from this nightmare. He hates the feeling like he’s just given up, accepted that Y/N may not come back from this.

He wants to fight, but all of the fight he has left him as soon as Jeff told him the news.

“Thank you,” he whispers, heading back to the waiting room. He sits down silently on the chairs next to Gemma, the worn wood squealing from the sudden weight. Anne paces in front of them, rocking Rhia back and forth, like she has been for the past few hours; call it a nervous tick or a mother’s instinct, but holding Rhiannon calms her.

Gemma glances at him in the corner of her eye, unsure of how to comfort him in such a situation. He can see her

“I can’t hold her, Gem,” he says weakly, and she looks at him, finding his gaze held on the small little bundle in their mother’s arms. She sighs. “What if—” There’s a bitter taste on his tongue. He covers his mouth with trembling hands, trying to push back the cries swelling in his chest.

“What if Y/N dies?”

It’s one thing to think about it, but saying it aloud breaks his heart in two.

Y/N has been a constant in his life for six years, and in that time, she became his rock, his shoulder to cry on, his stability, who held his heart so close to her. Then, he thinks about his baby girl, who has had her mother for barely seven months, just to have her ripped away so easily because of some drunk who didn’t know when to quit, and he thinks he’s going to be sick again.

It takes only one mistake to set off a series of irreversible events.

Exhausted, he doesn’t fight the sob that comes out, his shoulders shaking as more and more. He heaves for breath, curling into himself. Gemma wraps an arm around him, and he cries into her shoulder. He feels useless, sinking further into the endless pit in his mind. He’s never considered the possibility of Y/N never being there with him, holding his hand through the fire, and now that possibility is very real; he can’t face it.

When he’s run himself dry, he finally looks at her with red-rimmed eyes and swollen cheeks.

“If she dies, I dunno if I could even look at her,” he admits. “To see her eyes...” Gemma just listens. She knows that there’s nothing she could ever say to make the situation any better. She holds her brother’s hands tightly. “I should have been here,” he says, nodding softly.

“Harry, there’s nothing you could have done. It’s that prick’s fault, not yours,” she says angrily. She’s trying to keep calm, for everyone’s sake, but it’s difficult when it feels like her family is being torn apart.

“I would’ve been driving,” Harry insists. “I would be the one in there, not her, and they would’ve been safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Gemma argues softly. She’s never seen him like this before, but that’s to be expected in the situation they’re in. He’s normally such an optimistic person, and to hear him degrade himself is almost too much to handle.

“If she does make it—”

“When she makes it,” Gem snaps.

“She’s gonna hate me. I know it.”

“She has never blamed you for anything, not when fans gave her shit, not when paps would follow her, and especially not when you had to leave. There are some things that are simply out of our control, and she understands. She understands that you can’t be there all the time. She understands that this is your job, and your job has made you who you are today. She won’t blame you for this either, so don’t blame yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” he sighs. It’s true. She does not understand what he’s gone through. She doesn’t know what it feels like, but she knows that the damage is already done. There’s no use in looking back and analyzing everything to see what they could have done differently.

“I should’ve been here.”

“If only things were that simple.”

“Harry?” A shallow, unfamiliar voice speaks from behind him, making everyone raise their heads.

Anxiety spikes in his stomach. He wonders how anyone could have recognized him, since there is absolutely no one else in the hospital, and how insensitive they would have to be to come talk to him while he’s in such a state. Anger bubbles within him, his skin turning hot as he turns to face the woman.

The blood on her uniform makes him pause.

“My name is Leslie. I was one of the first people on the scene.”

“Do you know anything?” She shakes her head sadly.

“But I was with your wife in the ambulance. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you and…” She coughs, hesitation clear on her features. “And not to give up.”

She probably doesn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words because when he stands and tugs her into a hug, she tenses, hesitantly wrapping her arms around him. Again, like when he saw his baby girl, hope warms him, blanketing and strengthening him.

It’s like Y/N is speaking to him through her.

“Thank you,” he whispers, offering her a weak smile. Just as they part, an older woman rounds the corner. Everyone sits up a little straighter, the air becoming a little tenser, when she gets closer to them.

“She’s resting, now, but she should be up in a few hours,” the doctor smiles.

Harry wants to crumple to the ground as a weight lifts from his chest, and he can finally breathe. He’s run ragged, a broken cry slipping out of his blubbering lips. He tugs Gemma into his arms, who returns the embrace wholeheartedly. Such relief and warmth fills him that he can barely hear the doctor as she continues.

“There was some pretty severe internal bleeding, but we got her stabilized. She also had a couple broken ribs, nothing that time and care won’t heal. After we do some more tests, she should be released in about a week. I can show you to her room, if you’d like?”

“Yes,” Harry cries.

When they reach Y/N’s room, Harry pauses outside and turns to his mother. Her eyes, noticing the confliction in his eyes, are soft and understanding. He never thought about seeing her in such a state until now, but least she’s still with him, his little fighter, just like Rhi.

“Mum, can I, uh…” He nibbles on his lip, holding his arms out.

“Course,” Anne says, moving the baby in his open arms.

“Hi, peach,” he says, smiling. She sleeps contentedly, her features relaxed. His heart twinges as she burrows herself into his chest, and he wraps the blanket a little tighter around her.

“We’ll go to the cottage and get some extra clothes for you all,” Gemma says, knowing that Harry needs this time alone. She tugs her mother, who hesitates but soon follows.

He expected her condition to be poor, but that doesn’t stop the burning in his eyes when he sees her, hooked up to what seems like dozens of machines, her face swollen, and stitches along her hairline; she looks so fragile, so broken, but her heart beat is strong, breathing steady. As if sensing her father’s discomfort, Rhi burrows further in his arms, snuffling lightly.

He settles in a chair next to Y/N’s bed, one hand holding hers while the other arm cradles his baby.

“Gave daddy a scare earlier, peach,” he coos. “Daddy’s sorry that he wasn’t there with ya.”

He promises her many things, that she’s safe, that nothing will ever happen to her, and that her mum is safe, too, but most importantly, he promises to be there for her. He cries silently, careful to keep the tears and painful jolts of his chest from waking Rhi. He just can’t help it. After the dust settles and the smoke is cleared, the gravity of the situation weighs on him: he could have lost the two most important people in his life, and he would not have been there.

A nurse stops by to bring a bassinet for Rhiannon and to check on Y/N, who is doing wonderfully, especially after such an invasive surgery.

Y/N wakes after about an hour, just as the sun peaks beyond the horizon. Harry is still up, of course, watching his girls, finding comfort in the heart monitor. He pushes the bassinet back and forth with his foot.

“H?”

He beams when he hears her voice, gravely and worn, but it’s her voice nonetheless, comforting and warm. He wishes that he could hold her and kiss her until his love heals her wounds, but he has to settle for holding her hand and kissing her forehead for the time being.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, tears slipping past her swollen eyes. “It happened so fast.”

“What are you sorry for, lovie? You did absolutely nothin’ wrong,” he says, brushing back her hair.

“You had to leave because I wasn’t being careful enough, and I—”

His heart aches, eyes glazing over. He hates that he made her feel like his job was more important than her.

“No, none of that,” he says, shaking his head. “That doesn’t matter. Listen, this was not your fault, and as far as tour goes, it’s not nearly as important as you two. I would drop everythin’ if you needed me to. There is nothin’ that I wouldn’t do for you. You know that, right? You both are my life, now; I made that promise the day we got married and the day she was born. You both are my number one priority, and I haven’t been treating you like it. For that, I’m so sorry.”

“Harry—”

“It was selfish of me to think that I could live in the past and the present, live the life that I used to while trying to be a father and a husband. It wasn’t fair of me, and I am so, so very sorry, babylove.”

He kisses her, careful of her bruises, and she sinks further into the bed, comforted by his warm words and tender touches. Her eyes, fluttering with exhaustion and filled with tears, refuse to close, as if she’s afraid that he’ll be gone by the time she wakes. He runs his thumb along her cheek, mindful of the swollen areas. For the first time in what feels like years, his mind is calm, basking in the feeling of happiness as he’s finally able to feel and see his family, safe and within his reach. That’s all he’s ever wanted, and as he sees her nodding off, he presses a quick kiss to her knuckles, whispering.

“Rest, lovie, I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”

She falls asleep with a faint smile.

Perhaps, fate isn’t cruel as many think. Just like anything, it can be merciful and loving for those who are worth mercy and love.

—

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #ellie writes #ellie writes angst #not my gif #credit to owner

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vannahfanfics · 5 years ago

Text

Alone

Category: Romantic Fluff, Hurt and Comfort, Angst

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Hanta Sero, Mina Ashido

Hi guys! Here with another story for two of @bnhabookclub‘s events; I’m combining the “Ambulance Ride” prompt from the Bingo Event with “You are not alone” from the Celebrating Mina Event! Flexing my angst fingers today~ Enjoy!

Mina crouched down to peer around the corner of the hallway, her ears straining to catch the small snips of conversation drifting out of the room at the end of the hall. She could only catch faint snatches of information, like “ransom,” “heroes,” “hostages,” and “bomb.” The last word sent a cold chill through Mina’s body. Mina had been lucky to participate in the operation, as the hero she was interning for thought her ready for significant action. However, the investigation unit had only possessed a small amount of information. A group of bank robbers had taken the three floors of an affluent bank hostage. They had cleared the first two floors already and released the hostages, but there had been no explosives located. Mina narrowed her eyes as she remained crouched in the side hall.

Is there really a bomb? If there was, Mina would have to proceed much more carefully. The pro hero was still clearing the second floor and had sent Mina onward to collect information about the leader of the burglars, who was hunkered down in the safe room with one known hostage that who knew the combination of the safe. The heroes had stormed on the scene and prevented them from fleeing with the stacks of cash, and now they were holed up, arguing with the hostage negotiators over radio. Mina continued to listen to the snippets of conversation she could hear, but could divulge no usable information. I have to get closer! she decided.

Crawling slowly on all fours, Mina crept around the corner to slink down the hallway. Yellow light spilled out of the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall. With every foot that Mina proceeded forward, the conversation clarified; once she could hear the words entirely, she paused in the shadows to listen.

“Boss, the heroes have taken the first two floors and are probably on their way up! The hostage negotiator said that another agency just arrived on the scene, too! I say we get outta here while we still can,” pleaded an underling. There followed a savage snarl, likely emanating from the throat of the irritated leader.

“Boss,” crooned another subordinate, “you know what they say- ‘he who runs away lives to rob another day’!” Mina wrinkled her nose at the distasteful modification of the common saying. The boss snarled again. Mina jumped slightly as there was a loud bang, and a rolling chair came flying out of the room. It crashed through one of the windows and plummeted to the ground, accompanied by huge shards of glass. Screams floated up from the outside, and Mina hoped that no one had been crushed under the leather furniture or impaled by the glass pieces.

“Damn heroes. Sticking their noses in where it doesn’t belong,” growled a deep, gruff voice which Mina assumed belonged to the head criminal. “Fine! Initiate Plan B. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Mina shuffled backward, further into the darkness, as loud shuffling and banging spilled into the hall. In the next second, a frightened young man with disheveled clothes and duct tape still binding his mouth and hands came sprinting out of the room. He rushed right past Mina to bound down the stairs, leaving behind glittering tears of terror. The thumping and rustling continued, so Mina crawled silently to the end of the hall to peek into the room.

A gaping hole had been carved out of the wall, presumably by one of the robbers’ Quirks. The enormous metal safe lay open with large sums of money missing, as evidenced by the stray yen bills fluttering around the floor. Mina cursed loudly when she realized the criminals had fled already. She pressed down on the button on her earpiece to give report, but the pro hero’s voice cut in before she had the chance even to open her mouth.

“Pinky? Pinky, do you copy? You have to get off the third floor! The hostage says there’s an explosive planted in the safe room!” Mina gasped, and sure enough, she spied a large time bomb cemented to the desk on the side of the room, ticking down from five seconds. The young hero scrambled to her feet to stumble into the hall, leaping out of the broken window without a second thought. It was either jump from the third story and risk mortal injury, or falter and surely die in a fiery inferno.

Just as she had cleared the building by about three feet, it exploded behind her. Mina screamed as the shockwave struck her square in the back, followed by chunks of brick, iron, and glass. The force caused her back to bow dramatically, and she swore she heard a sickening crack, but that could have been the debris raining down upon the sidewalk below. The roar of fire followed, and Mina’s skin grew unbearably hot as the bubbling flames licked at her exposed arms and legs. She could feel the fabric of the back of her hero costume fray and snap with the heat to expose her pink skin to the hungry fire. Black spots danced at the edge of her vision among waves of gray-white, slowly darkening her sight. Everything burned and ached and stung; her muscles wailed, or maybe that was her, shrieking in agony as the explosion tore her body to shreds.

The explosion blasted her across the street at breakneck speed; Mina could see the building opposite rushing up towards her. She tried to mentally prepare herself to crash into the harsh, unforgiving brick construct, but really, how does anyone brace themselves to splat like a bug against a windshield? Mina had the strangest feeling that someone was calling out for her, but she couldn’t be sure with the wind roaring in her ears like a hurricane.

“Mina!”

Mina’s stomach lurched as she abruptly jerked upward. The red brick of the building zoomed mere inches away from her face as she sailed against gravity. Barely clinging to consciousness, she could only gape at her legs flailing in the rushing wind, the concrete sidewalk and stunned crowd rapidly growing smaller. Her muddled mind took a few seconds to register that a layer of tape wrapped around her middle; a long swathe of the white tape protruded outward, pulled taut with incredible strength. Mina arched at the building’s height and was greeted by a brilliant, blue, cloudless sky. Then she was falling again.

“Gotcha!” her rescuer cried as she flopped heavily into their muscular arms. She blinked rapidly, still struggling to comprehend the rapid chain of events that had transpired. However, even in her addled state, Mina could recognize the beaming grin shining down on her.

“Hanta,” she croaked. Her throat burned terribly; it felt like she’d swallowed thousands of tiny glass shards which had torn her trachea into shreds. She coughed weakly, then groaned miserably as it made her aching chest muscles hurt that much more. Hanta’s strong arms held her like the most fragile porcelain, just securely enough to make her feel like she were in the world’s safest place. Suddenly, all of the emotions and fear and pain finally broke through the wall of adrenaline. Mina began to cry and hyperventilate. “H-Hanta… I… Ungh… Hanta…” she babbled nonsensically between heaving sobs. Her chest swelled with gasping breaths; it felt like no matter how much she inhaled, she simply couldn’t breathe in any oxygen. Her vision began to flicker again.

“Hey, hey,” the dark-haired boy cooed soothingly. His fingers felt cool and comforting as he swept her sweat-slicked hair from her face. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Mina curled into his chest with another deep, wallowing wail. Her fingers pawed at the spandex of his hero suit, desperate to anchor herself to something after being flung into oblivion mentally and physically. Hanta didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he read her intentions quite well. He grabbed her hand and placed it on his cheek. “I’m here, Mina. You are not alone.”

His gentle, reassuring voice bled into Mina like a chill on a winter’s day. It soothed her overheating and frantic body. Gradually, her breaths became more even and less labored, and the dense fog lifted from her mind. Hanta crouched down as he held her tenderly, still pressing her hand to his face. “That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re okay,” he gently coaxed. Mina’s sobs quieted to small, muffled sniffles and the occasional hiccup. “That’s my girl,” he repeated softly as he cradled her close. Mina breathed in his scent, a mixture of adhesive and citrus that was odd but pleasant, and felt calm flood through her body. She was safe. She wasn’t alone.

Hanta used his tape to swing them from the building roof down to the street. The crowd engulfed them immediately. Concerned passersby, police attempting to gain control, avid journalists and photographers, and the members of the two hero agencies thronged around the heroic Hanta and the injured Mina. Mina whimpered and pressed close to her savior; all the noise and flashing lights were too much, too reminiscent of the roaring fire and crashing rubble.

“Oi! Give her some space, will ya?” Hanta roared angrily. The screaming crowd immediately hushed, surprised by the outburst by the presumably amiable boy. The momentary distraction allowed the police force and heroes to rein in the mob and clear some space for the ailing girl. Shrill sirens blared in the near distance as an ambulance navigated the destroyed street. The entire front of the bank had collapsed with the explosion, spilling a mass of bricks, mortar, metal, and paper bills into the road. The ambulance stopped as close as they could, and the EMTs immediately jumped out to haul a stretcher over. Hanta briskly strolled to meet them. “She’s severely injured,” he told the paramedics while they prepared the cot. When Hanta went to lay her on the white cloth, she whined loudly and clung to him.

“Hanta… No… Stay with me,” Mina pleaded. The horror was still so fresh in her mind; if he let her go, she’d plummet back into that confusing dark maelstrom.

“Hey,” Hanta tutted pacifyingly. “These guys are gonna take good care of you, okay? Come on.” Reluctantly, Mina peeled herself away from Hanta. He laid her on her side on the stretcher. She kept her hand against his face until the very last second, desperate to cement herself. Hanta leaned into her touch, smiling sweetly down at her. Though Mina was disoriented, she could still see the stark lines of worry etched into his face and the hesitancy swimming in his black eyes. “That’s my girl,” he said again, patting her scratched and bleeding hand against his cheek. Mina whined as the EMTs began to roll the stretcher away, and her hand was forced to drop into the open air.

As soon as she was deprived of his touch, it seemed like the pain intensified ten-fold.

Mina released an agonized howl as pain like fire bloomed over her back. She could dimly hear the paramedics conversing about glass shards and shrapnel embedded in her back and a possibly fractured spine. They applied a backboard when she began to writhe and squirm with anxiety and pain, which only served to inflame her panic. Her eyes rolled in her sockets as her breaths became ragged again, searching for the one person with whom she felt safe.

“Han- Cellophane! Cellophane!” she wailed, grasping at the open air. She struggled against the black fabric straps securing her against the stretcher. “Please don’t leave me! I don’t want to be alone!” she sobbed pitifully against the thin sheet beneath her. The paramedics fluttered around her, trying to shush her, but she was inconsolable. Finally, one of them flattened out her arm and pushed a syringe into the vein. A coldness spread into her circulatory system, and Mina fell swiftly into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep…

~~~~~~~~~~

When Mina awoke, she was greeted by a white-tiled ceiling and a thin, clean-smelling white sheet. Her entire body pulsed and ached with dull pain despite the IV drip hooked up to her arm delivering fluids and pain medication. She could feel that her body was swathed in thick gauze bandages underneath the thin, flimsy hospital gown. She fought the urge to sit up and move around because she knew it would only aggravate her injuries. She settled for turning her head to stare out of the window. It was nighttime; the inky black canvas dotted with stars shone clearly above the silhouetted skyline. Sighing, she turned to look back at the ceiling, feeling like her head was stuffed with cotton. Thinking was nearly impossible, but she tried anyway. When she took a moment to recall the sequence of events, tears flooded her eyes again.

“Hanta,” she mewled pathetically. Her palm tingled with the memory of his face and the desire to behold it again. The drops rolled down her cheeks as she cried silently. “Alone… I’m all alone…” she moaned miserably.

“It’s okay, Mina. I’m right here.” As she snapped her head to the side, a lightning strike of pain snapped down her spine, making her writhe and hiss in the bed. Hanta jumped up from the chair beside her hospital bed to grab her by the upper arms and still her. “Hey, hey! It’s okay. Relax.” His melodic voice just had such sway over her; her muscles obeyed immediately, falling still with no resistance. Mina stared owlishly up at Hanta as he smiled bashfully and swept his bangs out of his face. “Hey, Mina,” he purred gently. Mina tugged on his arm, prompting him to lean down over her. When he did, she immediately cupped his face again. Hanta smiled awkwardly and flushed pink.

“Hanta…” Mina immediately felt all her anxieties wash away with his presence. Hanta didn’t seem to mind at all; he sat on the edge of the bed so he could comfortably sit over her. She then narrowed her eyes with a concerned look. “Am I… okay?”

“You got pretty banged up,” he admitted with a terse pout. “You had to go into surgery to remove all the glass and iron out of your back… They said they had to put over a hundred stitches in all your wounds.” Mina squirmed uncomfortably, feeling the sutures scrape against the thin sheet and her hospital gown. Hanta then smiled reassuringly. “There’s good news, though! All the x-rays were good; they don’t think you have any fractures, but they’re gonna do more in a few days to make sure.” Mina breathed a small sigh of relief. A fractured spine would’ve been a daunting trial, indeed. “You’ve been out for a few days. Everybody stopped by, though!” he smiled and gestured to the side table. Mina looked over to see it laden with cards and small gifts. Hanta suddenly swelled with pride. “I picked out that bouquet.”

It was a lovely arrangement of pink peonies, purple pansies, light blue hydrangeas, and a few white daisies to accent the cool colors.

“It’s beautiful,” Mina acknowledged softly. She looked back to Hanta with a sweet, endeared smile. Hanta smiled back, his cheeks brightening with blush. “Thank you.”

“Anything for my best girl,” he answered casually. They both blushed simultaneously at the connotation of his statement. Hanta looked down at his lap to fiddle with the hem of his jeans. “I, uh… I was really worried about you, y’know…” he said suddenly. Mina stared at him while he peered down at her through his lashes. “Seeing you like that… I almost couldn’t handle it…” Mina felt her face flushing hot, but she said nothing, because she couldn’t say anything. Hanta’s soft gaze was electrifying. He reached out to run his first knuckle over her cheekbone gently. His expression visibly softened. “I dunno what I’d do without my best girl…”

“Hanta.” He snapped out of whatever trance he was in. He stared at her for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, before his face turned the color of a tomato.”

“Ah! I, uh, shit, I, um- I’m sorry, I dunno what came over me, er-”

“Hanta.” She repeated with a blank stare. Hanta continued to gape at her, arms still up in the air from where he’d been flailing.

“Wh-what?”

“Stop talking and kiss me.” Hanta stared stupidly at her for a microsecond before he rushed to obey her command. He bent over double to press his lips to hers. Mina did her best despite her injury to push up into the kiss. There was only so much a girl could do after being blasted across a street like a rocket. Her hand traveled to the back of his head to weave into the soft black fibers of his hair. Hanta’s mouth eagerly moved against hers, sending waves of sweet pleasure through her body. Among many things, Hanta Sero was a great kisser. Who knew?

When he pulled away, he smiled adoringly and stroked her face again. Mina hummed amusedly and played with the ends of his hair. He was still sitting on the bed, nearly doubled over as he leaned over her. “That doesn’t look comfortable. You’re the one who’s gonna fracture your spine,” she laughed. Hanta shrugged nonchalantly and continued to huddle over her.

“S’no big deal… You’re my girl, after all.” Mina giggled and inched up to nuzzle the tip of her nose with his.

“That’s right. I sure am.”

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @simplybakugou @lovelusional @wesparklebitch @hanniejji

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ofinscriptions · 6 years ago

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2 august 2019

AUGUST 2019 SHORT STORY CHALLENGE

content warning for general horror imagery

The lights were yellow and jaundiced — too bright, too clear, too much. A sharp smile split the face of the staff milling about when your wide eyes looked to them, questions obvious in your expression. Your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the tightness of it making your eyes bug out and catch your voice in it like you were being choked.

“Help me,” a tinny, small voice drifted from one of the many rooms lining the seemingly endless hallway. It seemed to come from a room on your right.

“I want to,” you manage to say, and jiggle the handle of the door closest to your right. Locked.

“Help me,” it says again, but it doesn’t sound like it’s behind that door. It’s coming from the ceiling. The sharp, putrid smell stabbed into your senses — making your eyes water and your stomach churn.

Was it this voice hiding in the ceiling who was the source of the smell? You fear the worst. What had happened to them? What if they’re hurt? What if you can’t help them?

The thin pyjamas did little to cover you from the sudden, freezing cold. The plastic covering your feet crinkled with a chilled fragility when you forced yourself to walk further down the hallway. “Where are you?” Your voice sounds thick and foreign to your own ears — like you’re listening to a damaged recording. But you can feel it buzzing in your throat.

You wonder if this is how a broken toy feels.

“Why won’t you help me?” The voice was growing thinner, turning needle thin. “You’re always so selfish.” It was coming from the air in front of you.

The lights seemed to flicker. The sickly yellows turned to wounded reds.

Sweat trickled down your back. It made your hair stick to your temples. Your eyes stung.

“Hello?” You say, not feeling your voice is your own. “Who’s there?” Where had the staff gone? You wonder why they had disappeared.

The screeching of twisting metal signalled his arrival seconds before his shadow appeared at the end of the hallway — seeming half the length it was before the man arrived.

Your mouth goes dry. You can’t breathe. “You’re not real,” you say, “I know you’re not real.”

The man doesn’t acknowledge your accusations. His wide, glazed over eyes sat barely threaded into his rotting face and you can feel them staring at you. You can feel them weighing your sins.

“Why are you here?”

His mouth splits open from one side of his jaw to the other — thick, black, coagulated blood slopping out of the wound as rows upon rows of needle-like teeth showed themselves. The man screamed.

You didn’t want to blink; didn’t want to take your eyes off of the man for even a split second. But they burned in the freezing air, and it was merely a game of waiting for when — not if — you blinked.

The man didn’t move, but his teeth grew in number as his mouth seemed to open wider and wider.

The taste of metal and blood sat thick in the air and stung your eyes.

You blinked.

TAGLIST:

@short-story-slam ; @dreadwvlfscript ;

#august 2019 #dreadwvlfscript #ofinscriptions #short story slam 2019 #2 aug 2019 #project: one off catchall #horror cw #my writing #writing catchall

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oisugasuga · 6 years ago

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pt. 1

as promised, i gave iwaoi a little bit of closure for take a drag, let it go

Oikawa Tooru came back on the day the dog stopped barking.

The dog stopped barking and the silence counted out the days since the Moment. Three weeks and a blank phone, dirty dishes, the fly buzzing in the windowsill until day five — falling silent, dead. Twenty-one days and a broken air conditioning unit, mail stacking up on the floor, beer bottles under Iwaizumi’s feet when he woke, bleary-eyed and disoriented.

Five-hundred and four hours… and the smell of cigarette smoke still lingered like a phantom limb.

Iwaizumi didn’t notice at first. The silence. The time.

He was a man made of nothing more but five o’clock shadow and all he knew was the rising and setting of the sun.

The shower was lukewarm when he turned it on with fumbling, sticky fingers. The tile was gritty and the bar of soap between Iwaizumi’s fingertips was a sliver, a crescent moon, a ghost of a thing, slipping between his palms until he gave up and threw it — hard, fast, the bar cracking in half against the opposite wall.

The time in the bathwater afterwards was long and meaningless. Iwaizumi counted time in the rise and fall of his bare chest. He waited until his skin was wrinkly and thin, stretched too tight — That’s too tight, Uncle! It’s gonna fall! Here, give me, I can do it. I’m nine now, ya know? — like the string on a kite, floating in the wind, anchoring that thin, fragile candy-colored fabric down… but for how long?

How long until that string snapped? Too tight, too rigid. Too long.

Iwa-chann, that’s too tight. You’re wrapping it too tight. Here, give me. I’m capable, ya know? I can wrap my own knee.

The sweat mingled with the bathwater, salty. The tears didn’t. They stayed still, at attention, soldiers held back with a firmly set jaw and fingers digging lavender bruises into tensed thighs.

Iwaizumi stared down into the water and he watched the clutch and flex of his fingers and he saw so many different shades of purple… too many to count. Too many to remember, under eyelids fluttering with exhaustion, eyes trained on a screen, fingertips resting on a knee blurred violet with ignorance, stupidity, courage.

Sweat was running down Iwaizumi’s neck by the time he pulled on clothes.

New clothes. After all, he had showered… and the old ones were starting to smell. The fridge opened. Bright, harsh lights. Rotting food. A new fly, wings unsticking to hover in front of Iwaizumi’s damp face until he waved it away with an impatient flick.

The door shut again. The apartment fell back into darkness but sunlight took the place of watery fluorescents, crinkled and spat its way over the floor, sprays of it coming through the tightly-shut blinds. It was stronger today.

The rain had passed.

Iwaizumi’s fingers itched.

Here, in the gloom with sunbursts lighting up corners his eyes strayed away from (that couch, those books, a stain of red wine on the hardwood because that night they had had too much, too dizzy, spilled in laughter before it had turned into a half-hearted reprimand, a responding pout that melted into dark eyes and long, pale limbs crawling over the woodgrain and then the hitch of a breath, the curl of fingers in waistbands and a spill left forgotten for better things), Iwaizumi itched.

Itched for a cold, sweating bottle between his fingertips. For the springs of a futon digging into the hard, tensed edges of his thoracic, lumbar curve… easing them out, letting him rest, holding him together.

He itched so that he wouldn’t have to scratch.

Forever scratching at the images behind his eyes with the bitten-down tip of a pen, ink staining his teeth, tongue, throat, sticky, bitter. Forever scratching away at a face, the soft, relaxed curve of a spine pressed to his chest, the pattern of laced fingers and a tongue against his ear, damp, hot, thighs under his fingers, slender calves and a laugh that lit up the room like sunbursts.

Iwaizumi squeezed the blinds shut tighter and ignored the burn of the tight stretch of the string against his fingertips.

Finally, it was dark enough.

——-

The work was distracting. Static over a tv. The hum of someone waiting on the phone. A sudden flurry of birds from trees, blocking out the sun for just a moment.

Wipe up the beer stains. Change the sheets. Toss the food.

Iwaizumi followed robotically, rhythmically. All the while bumping into the fly until he opened the front door in an act of mercy, letting it flit free.

"Ah," came the voice before he could close himself away again. "Hajime."

Paper-thin. Smelled like cough drops and the incense she burned every morning — for her husband, five years gone, photograph in his place and an ache in Iwaizumi’s chest whenever he watched her shuffle up the stairs with a silvery head bowed, shoulders curved, broken wings, paper-thin hands and blue veins, shuffling past the bugs piled in the corners with their own broken gleam — and Iwaizumi had to look up.

"Takahashi-san," he greeted. His tongue curled firm and warm around the syllables, genuine. She was a good person, a good neighbor — grandmotherly and maternal in a way that made Iwaizumi clutch at his memorabilia from home and then dial his parents’ house number the next night.

His mouth ached but he managed a smile. Small. Weak, maybe… but enough that his neighbor wouldn’t notice past the milkiness spread sticky and thick over her irises. Cataracts.

I’m gonna lend her some money. No, no, Iwa-chan, it’s not gonna make her uncomfortable. I’ll just drop it off in her mailbox. An anonymous gift.

Iwaizumi shook, trembled, held very, very still. Waited.

The memory passed. The voice left.

Iwaizumi greeted his neighbor politely, the way he had been taught. Go on, Hajime-kun. Tell them your full name. Ah, he’s shy. Come on, Mommy’s right here.

He saw himself as a child in the way a profile might’ve been filed in a station — 12 years of age, 147.2 centimeters (Don’t worry, Iwa-channn, you’ll grow and be tall like me… maybe if you stopped frowning so much. I think it makes your head too heavy - ouch!), black hair, green eyes, male, band-aids on both knees, 2.54 centimeters of dirt under the fingernails, permanent scowl, and a brown-haired accomplice *See page 11

In the moment that Takahashi-san blinked at him — heavy, labored, squinting to see in the dimly-lit, narrow hall — Iwaizumi saw himself bend a little at the waist in his head, just a kid mumbling out his full name to the scary, too-tall adults… and he wondered if that feeling ever really left anyone.

Inadequacy.

The word dredged up that voice again, unbidden. Unstoppable, no matter how stationary Iwaizumi held himself this time.

What’re you afraid of, Hajime? Oh, wait! Remember when you were afraid of never getting any taller? That fear actually came true, didn’t it? I’m kidding, kidding, don’t hit me!

A pause, a break in the record playing time backwards in Iwaizumi’s head. A lull — static, the cassette tape stumbling — and then a sigh, damp and warm and sticky on Iwaizumi’s neck but fake, a memory, a ghost’s touch, hollow and faint and conjured up by electric shocks between nerve endings… a magic trick.

Then… What are you truly afraid of?

Serious. Reluctant. (After all, he had never been good at this kind of stuff. Even as he had laid bare against Iwaizumi’s shoulder — cradled close, supported, clothes strewn on the floor — Iwaizumi had known that. Still he had held too tight. Too tight. That’s too tight, Uncle! It’s gonna fall!)

It had been everything Iwaizumi would expect of such a question passing from between those lips. Soft and wet and so quiet the words were only stamped into existence by the shuddery exhale they produced against cooling skin.

Only now… only now as Takahashi-san pushed a plastic box of packed food into his hands, shuffling in and back out across her doorstep, Iwaizumi knew he had lied.

Inadequacy, he had answered.

Maybe he had been thinking of a bow, thirty degrees, say your full name, nothing to be scared of, Mommy’s here… or maybe it had been the stick of sweat from the man wrapped around him that had influenced the answer, salt on his tongue. The arch and bend of a knee hidden by the blankets on a thin futon. The memory of one final point and the deafening silence and the burn of tears behind his eyes, the cold metal of the locker room against his fist, the weight of a palm slamming into his shoulder from behind like it had been meant to knock the pain, the disbelief, the blame from him in one, single motion.

Now… now Iwaizumi thought, he would answer loss.

Inadequacy meant there was a next time. A new chance. A new game and a new hope.

Loss, he thought as he ached and watched Takahashi-san disappear back into her apartment (made for two, occupied by one), was far worse.

——-

Dusk had fallen. Only then… only then did Iwaizumi notice it.

Quiet.

As silent as this corner of the city could be — the thick rumble of traffic, slamming doors and the crackly voice of fluorescent lights about to flicker out and that damned incessant barking…

Only.

Only the barking had stopped.

Iwaizumi paused with the can (he deserved a reward, didn’t he? For the ache in his back and the gleam of his newly-wiped floor) halfway to his lips. He listened.

No yipping. No barking or growling or the scuffle of paws and nails against the chipped, peeling door to the right of his own in the hall. No Takahashi-san banging her cane against the wall to get it to stop or the muffled curses of others grumbling through the paper-thin walls.

Iwaizumi tipped the can back the rest of the way. He shrugged, turned back to his dinner.

Some little piece of him — in the back and pressed up to the curve of his spine — hoped the dog hadn’t died… no matter how annoying.

Another swig of beer.

It’d probably start up again — early in the morning or right after Iwaizumi washed his bowl and curled up on his futon to rest for tomorrow’s work day. It’d start up again. Any time now. Right when Iwaizumi was least expec-

The knock on the door felt like a limb gone numb in sleep. Thick and distant. Heavy.

Iwaizumi didn’t get up at first. He couldn’t be sure. Had the knock been Takahashi-san after all? But…

There was no dog, still. Only silence. It strung out like a kite floating up in the clouds, away from it all — the thick rumble of traffic, slamming doors and the crackly voice of fluorescent lights about to flicker out… held down only by a hand on a string and five fingers curled tightly until they were too much, too tight, and the storm clouds stole the kite away, out of view, fingers still holding, holding, grasping, too ti-

Another knock and there was no mistaking it this time… it was on Iwaizumi’s own front door. A simple rap, two knuckles against the paint.

Iwaizumi got to his feet. Confusion bit into the steadiness Iwaizumi had carefully built up over the evening — slow and methodical, wiping and mopping and bathing once more until his hair dripped down onto a fresh t-shirt and his hands didn’t shake while he popped the lid off of his Asahi Super Dry.

Options filtered through his head while he shuffled over to the genkan. Takahashi-san, most likely. Or the owner of the dog, a college student who he rarely saw besides the flash of shoelaces, the bright pink of a bra strap and six-packs sometimes clutched between fingernails chipped with black paint. Maybe the dog had run away…

Iwaizumi pulled the door open and -

- and maybe he should’ve known.

Maybe he should’ve known it’d be him. Maybe. Probably. Surely he would’ve guessed before this moment, before the door swung open and revealed a new file to add to Iwaizumi’s head, a new report coming in like the words had been typed into the whites of his eyes to sink farther back to stay burned forever.

27 years of age, 184.3 centimeters, brown hair, brown eyes, weeks of sleepless nights stamped under both eyes, white tape around right knee, yellowing bruise on left shin, and the sharp smell of alcohol *See page 12 for charges on public disturbance

Maybe Iwaizumi should’ve known… but the alcohol — vodka, he knew already — wasn’t enough to cover the newness — a new smell (like mint gum) and longer hair (hanging into those long, long lashes) and a less-ness to sharp shoulders and bony wrists and -

"Hajime."

Iwaizumi didn’t have time to feel sick to his stomach at the push of Oikawa’s collarbones against his skin — bruising and painful, stretching thin until Iwaizumi was sure it’d split and open and blood would -

That thinness careened into him — off-balance and warm, sticky and humid and God, Iwaizumi’s throat convulsed on a sob that was too loud in the narrowness of the walls because even though there was new, there was so much more memory, familiarity, a knowing that came from his soul and the horrible, lovely ache of coming home, fitting together, crashing through all of the shock/hurt/pain/disbelief/fear.

He caught him.

Iwaizumi’s arms moved with muscle memory, adjusting perfectly to catch and hold and it was like a dream above it all… like a candy-colored piece of fabric had fluttered down from the sky towards his reaching, desperate hands…

… and as he documented the same warmth on his own cheeks drip and slither down the side of his neck from brown eyes, black lashes, Tooru — as he held and pulled and tugged, as tight as he could until they were a crumple of limbs on hardwood floors, tight, tighter, Don’t let go, Hajime. Don’t, please, not this time. I won’t disappear, I won’t go, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry sorry sorry, don’t let me go — Iwaizumi thought he felt it, light and fragile and a wisp like burnt paper fluttering through rain-soaked air as the skies cleared above.

He felt it again and Oikawa must have too because he caught his breath in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck and he pushed as Iwaizumi pulled, an ebb and flow, give and take, balance and a new chance and finally…

… finally, Iwaizumi felt the touch of a kite’s string and the pull of it between his fingers again.

#iwaoi #iwaoi fic #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #haikyuu!!#hq #haikyuu!! fanfiction #closure #hq fic #oisugasuga writes #drabbles

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megamanmodelaaa-fanstories · 6 years ago

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Alpharad’s CPUCS - The Novel, Chapter 1: Welcome New Smash Brothers & Sisters! (Part 1)

7th December 2018, long awaited... has finally arrived!

In a Realm far from our reach, a special event called the “Super Smash Bros Games” opens up every few years where the best come together for a series of duels & competitions to reignite relations & create new ones. This particular one is the 5th in the line of many, marking the 19th Anniversary of these games.

Among those games, a particular set of Tournaments are organized to pit the best of the best against each other for supremacy & bragging rights called the “CPU Championships”, fully sponsored by a one “Alpharad”. No one really remembers why they were labelled with the abbreviation “CPU”, but the name stuck out of respect to those old traditions. The first of the CPU Championships (CPUC for short) is about to begin.

The sun rose to a huge crowd converging to see the first of the CPUCs take place. The streets were packed, some conversing, some running stands or shops, others organizing & watching over the festivities. Sometime later, a familiar voices echoes through the speakers to the masses’ ears… it was Mario!

Mario: “Thank you so much everyone for joining us today! We are-a happy to begin these Championships as we have always done for 19 Years! To begin & for a warm welcome, today’s Challengers will be this season’s Returners &-a New Comers! Let’s-a GO!”

The Coliseum Doors open as everyone rushes in to take their seats. While medieval in design, the Smash Coliseum houses the latest in recreational technology, allowing it to emulate almost any Battle Stage with various Hazards & Features. So it begins, the first ever CPUC of this season pits new comers & returning veterans against each other!

CPU Championship No. 1 Rules & Players:-

-Normal Stages

-FSM Allowed

-No Items

-No Hazards

-Tournament Bracket:

With spectators so excited you could hear them cheer thousands of miles away, Mario strikes the Smash Bell signifying the beginning... of the Tournament!

Match No. 1- Pichu vs. Incineroar

The battle started with both Fighters sizing each other up as they tried to fixate their footing on the moving stage “3D Land”, a very odd start for an opening Match. In reality however, one of the Competitors was a little uneasy about the match-up.

Incineroar: “(Is the audience gonna be OK with me pummeling this little guy?)”

Incineroar did his best to keep things even between him & Pichu to avoid any backlash, especially when you consider that most of this fan base are young passionate fans. All this wasn’t helped by the fact that Pichu was doing sloppily at first, and when he opened with a Headbutt Attack, he missed… nearly throwing himself out-of-bounds.

Pichu: “T-That was close… Sorry Mr. Incineroar!”

Incineroar: “Watch your positioning boy! (I need to handle this fight carefully…)”

Incineroar continues to pull his punches on Pichu, literally staging acts like nearly going out-of-bounds himself by falling behind & missing a Lariat Attack on purpose. But much to his surprise as soon as Pichu started landing a few hits, his momentum kept building up & eventually, he started showing acrobatics that are on par with the likes of Sheikh & Zero Samus! Even Incineroar couldn’t keep up with him!

Pichu wasn’t known to be the most capable Fighter many years ago because he never measured up to all the other competitors. But this time, it was clear to Incineroar & everyone else that this is a new Pichu standing before them!

Incineroar: “Have you been training?”

Pichu: “Y-Yes! Every day since I was invited again.”

Incineroar: “Then show me the new fire in you!”

They clashed without hesitation, sparks of fire & thunder flying with every punch, every kick, every grab, showing a passion for competition that is exactly what followers of these tournaments look for! With full vigor, the two unleash their Final Smash Arts, “Max Malicious Moonsault” & “Volt Tackle”! Incineroar tries to hold Pichu with his bare hands, but then Pichu slips right through sending a flurry of electric charges everywhere! Finally, the burning wrestler flies off the stage unable to recover back. The winner is… PICHU!

Incineroar: “N… Nice one boy. *Wheeze* should’ve known you had it in ya all along...”

Pichu: “S-Sorry Mr. Incineroar… & thank you!”

Match No. 2- Ridley vs. Ice Climbers

Nana: “Uuuh Popo, why does this guy look like the Pterodactyl who keeps stealing our vegetables??”

Popo: “Isn’t he the one people have wanted in these games for years? He looks kinda silly up close, haha!”

That last statement… could not be far from the truth; Ridley isn’t just vicious, but also has a troll like demeanor. The battle started out normally with both sides equally exchanging attacks… until.

Ridley suddenly grabs Popo by the face & drags his body on the ground towards the stage boarder… along with himself?! He then makes a hard stop at the last second, walking away from Popo with a wide grin on his face as if holding back laughter…

Nana: “Are you OK Popo?!”

Popo: “I-I-I’m fine… Come on, let’s get this maniac…!”

The two climbers reform & charge on ahead, but it’s becoming clear that Ridley’s earlier act was enough to throw their well-spoken teamwork out the window. Discoordination, miscommunication, losing track of each other, far too often have have they found them selves on opposite sides away from each other, & Ridley was taking full advantage of these missteps to further crush their focus. Even to the point of taunting the duo mid-fight.

Alas, while they were retreating to retrace & regroup, they’ve failed to notice the pit behind them & fell in together… & Ridley laughed & mocked them the whole way through. The winner is… RIDLEY!

Ridley: “RAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!”

Popo: “He played us… the whole TIME!”

Nana: “Calm down Popo, we’ll get another shot next time…”

Both Climbers leave the ring, with Popo clenching his fist in disgrace…

Match No. 3- King K. Rool vs. Solid Snake

Solid Snake: “A giant crocodile?? Is this karma for all the crocodiles Big Boss ate years ago??”

Otacon: “Careful Snake! He may look like a glutton, but he’s strong & also commands an army powerful enough to occupy an entire Island!”

Solid Snake: “OK then… Bring it on Big Croc!”

King K. Rool: “That’s KROC to you, Onesie Man!!”

Snake’s faster & more nimble, so the Espionage Legend had the towering reptile beat in Close-Quarters-Combat “CQC”. However, K. Rool’s body armour was harder than Snake was anticipating. More shockingly, the armour was also flexible enough to deflect & outsight counter attacks.

Solid Snake: “My attacks haven’t even dented that thing?!”

King K. Rool: “*BELLY SLAP!* Do your worst, stick figure! Hehehee!”

Snake slowly escalates towards using firearms & explosives, but could hardly scratch that armour, let alone launch him out of the ground! The Kroc King also started using his own trusty weapon: An unorthodox single barrel rifle that was throws opponents off with its ability to absorb anything into it. In desperation, Snake calls for his biggest gun.

Solid Snake: “Otacon, engage Covering Fire!!”

FIVE Large Missiles come flying in, all hit their giant green target... But fail to send him out. It was all looking futile as King K. Rool sends the Solider off with a single punch, a feat barely tons of Snake’s own were able to achieve. The winner is… KING K. ROOL!

Solid Snake: “Blast… I’m surprised no one calls you ‘Metal Gear Croc’…”

King K. Rool: “For the last time, it’s KROC!!”

Match No. 4- Wolf vs. Isabelle

Isabelle: “It’s a pleasure to meet you Wolf! Let’s keep it Clean!”

Wolf: “Hmph. They paired me with YOU? This must be a joke, I’ll end this quick.”

The match starts with Wolf dashing towards Isabelle as she….. Takes out a Fishing Rod?? Wolf was left confused, what could she be doing? There aren’t any ponds to fish in on this stage. Shrugging it off, Wolf dashes in to steal the opportunity, only for Isabelle to reel in, grab him then swing to the other side nearly flying outside!

Isabelle: “What do you think of this Rod? Bought it myself from my favorite store!”

Wolf: “You insolent little dog! You’ll pay for this!”

While Wolf continued to charge at the innocent looking Isabelle, she kept on playing with her Fishing Rod throwing him off at every turn. Even when he does see though that trick, she whips out something else unusual as a weapon: A Bug Catching Net, a Stop Sign, even some vegetables! It was becoming very hard to read this fragile-looking, yet versatile Fighter.

Wolf: “BOYS, GET IN HERE NOW & FINISH HEEER!!”

Wolf calls his Star Wolf Team to try & put her down the sights, but even that wasn’t working somehow, always missing at the last possible second.

Wolf: “Why. Won’t. You. FALL?!”

Isabelle: “Now now Wolf, anger isn’t good for your blood pressure. Teehee!”

Wolf was not having any more as he switches to a more aggressive approach to cover some lost ground, letting his claws loose as he flies everywhere around the Innocent Secretary. Then suddenly, Isabelle calls Tom Nook & the Nooklings for a plan of attack. But just as they were about to start, Wolf dodges to the other side for a counterattack... That unfortunately will not happen for as soon as he stops, a Gyroid pops out beneath his feet sending the unsuspecting pilot to the sky!

Wolf: “IMPOSSIBLLLLLLLLLLLE!!!”

The winner is… ISABELLE!

Isabelle: “Wish you a safe landing!”

& just like that, the first half of the CPUC’s first round of matches have concluded! How will the others fair? Who will come out on top? Will anyone else face the consequences of underestimating their opponent? Come back next time for Chapter 1-2!

Thank you for reading & have a good day! 👋🏻😄

#Fan Story #Alpharad CPUCS #Chapter 1

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marionettejonesdraws · 7 years ago

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Kacchako Positivity Week Day1: Fragile

Ah~ Finally got over my anxiety and finished this piece. Then I spent a few more hours writing a fic to explain the situation. I end up doing that for other pieces too I guess.

Do not repost

If you like my work, please buy me a ko-fi. I need to upgrade my laptop(so many bugs). And I do need a new scanner. I want to make big A3 pieces! Coz details!!! Also making a custom drawing table with lightbox. Extra funds would be really helpful with my restart on illustration. OuO/ Cheers

Introductions~ the ones not explained on the Roses piece anyway.

Todoroki as runaway dragon prince, will drink a bar dry. Aizawa's as fae clergyman under the Church of Ibara, might die if he manages to finish that mug. Kiri and Sero as human mercenaries. Jiro as fae bard. Mina fell asleep waiting for Ochako to come back after running off with a stranger. Toru as light fae bar maid, decorates the pies and everything else. Dabi as the missing dragon prince currently working for the Ones Cursed by the Sun. Toga as bloodsucking demon also working with Dabi. They like the food here.

Storytime~

If anyone would ask, some would say that nothing is as fragile as the Thorn Prince's ego. But they would be wrong. It hasn't been true for many years now. Some would say it is the Rose Princess since she's been confined to the castle all her life. That too is just a common guess. It is something not many would expect--a secret kept from the plebians, the knights, and even the nobles. That seemingly endless sky forms it's first crack, because of a chance meeting? What does the future hold for these two young lords, and how will they mold it?

This scene: (Sorry for the messy construction. I'm really sleepy.)

Katsuki and Ochako are just coming back to the tavern after spending quite a lot of time having fun finding out more about each other. Iida and Kirishima run in and abruptly grab hold of their respective lords to separate them. "I, Knight of Rose Tenya Iida, in response to your violence against the Princess, have a duty to imprison you. Surrender or face worse punishment!" Tenya declares while drawing his sword.

BK: Princess? Oy! You didn't tell me about that. What's the big deal? (taking a big step forward)

Kiri: Hey, stop. Where did you run off to anyway? You two have been gone for 4 hours. This guy kept threatening to run you through! And goddamn, he runs fast.

Ochako: I thought that if you knew, you'd treat me differently.

BK: Differently? What would YOU do if you found out that I am a demon prince?

Ochako: Eh?!

Kiri: He's no- (gets punched)

BK: Let go already! (Points thumb on self)I am Prince Katsuki Bakugou of the Thorns.

Ochako: (trying to get past Iida's arm) It doesn't matter to me, one bit. We were having so much fun swinging swords on the rooftops. I don't want to miss a chance to make friends with someone so skilled!

Iida: gasp* How dare you swing your sword at such a fragile girl?

Ochako/BK: I'm/She's not fragile!

Iida: Regardless, you shouldn't mingle with demons without charm markings. They're dangerously unpredictable. Don't you know how quickly they turn into beast at the slight smell of blood?

Kiri: That's nonsense! I've been living with demons for a few years now. I've bled from sword training, yet I have never been attacked.

Iida: Silence! It doesn't apply to you,dragon. (swinging his sword very close to Kiri's face and pulling it back to a defensive position)

BK: Point your sword at him again, and I'd cut that arm off!

Kiri: Hey, no harm done. Let's just go home. (turning to face BK, ready to fly him off)

Iida: Monsters like you just bring disquiet and adversity. Do you even know your place in this country, demon?

Ochako: Don't say such awful things! Those accusations are simply untrue. (Still trying to get past Iida) You can't keep being like this to them. It's just one demon who-

Iida: You, how many times have I told you to stay away from trouble! (Pulling her cloak and pushing her back a few feet) We will go back to the castle this instant.

Bakugou shoves Kiri aside not leaving his glare on the knight. "For someone so large, you sure carry a small sword."

Iida: It's so I can fight in narrow spaces to prote-

"I'm not talking about that metal stick, you self righteous brick." BK huffs, walking closer. "You smell of fear. Someone with as weak a heart as yours can't protect Ochako."

Kiri rushes between them, lines growing on his face as he prepared to match BK's strenght. "Calm down. Calm down! We don't want trouble. We're just going home, right?" Kiri turns to face Iida to apologize but was met with the tip of his blade. He jumped back, pushing BK behind him. Bakugou's eyes turned to slits, markings tearing out of his eyes and cheeks, "You really got on my nerves, but this is different. I'm going to fucking kill you!" Kirishima barely stopped BK from pulling his sword out, eyes enlarged as he struggles to hold down his friend.

The surge of demonic aura flung open Iida's shield. "Iida, put down your sword!" Ochako pleaded as she tried to pull down his arm. "I command you! Put down your sword!"

Iida: If it's my blood you want then come get it!

BK: I'm not just going for blood. I'm going to fucking devour you!!!

Mina rushes out of the tavern, woken up by BK's demonic aura. "What's happening here? It's dangerous to let your power loose. If Iida finds out."

Ochako: Mina! Help me stop Iida. He's going to get himself killed.

Kiri: Mina? What are you doing here?

Mina was startled to see both the princess and her childhood friend, but upon looking farther she froze. 'He's the prince. The Thorn Prince!' At that very moment her instincts forced her to grovel.

Iida was taken aback: Mina what are you doing. Get up!

Mina: Lord Bakugou, please spare my idiotic companion! He is just doing his duty.

BK: He pointed his sword at my friend. Twice!

Mina: He's just very verbal with his hands, my Lord.

BK: What does that even mean, pink hair? This guy has been running his mouth about us demons. Am I supposed to just let that go?

Iida: If there is a witness, then it is true isn't it?

Ochako: It was just one demon! Pleaaase, put down your sword.

Kiri legs are starting to tremble against BK's weight. "Stop, Bakugou! The sun is setting!!!"

BK: Not till I take his head!

Mina shouts even louder hoping that they'd acknowledge her. "Take mine instead! Both of you, take my horns. I can't let my Lord and my companion fight each other over such trivial things! If anyone should be punished it should be me. I let her out of the castle and left her to roam unaccompanied. It's my fault!!!"

BK can't stand being ordered around, but this demon was adamant in her plea. "Who is your master, pink hair?"

Mina: I am Princess Ochako's servant my Lord.

BK: And who is this obscenely judgemental man to you?

Mina: A work companion who is dearly beloved to the princess. He is like a brother to her.

BK looks over to Ochako, still pulling Iida's arm back in the verge of tears: Tsk... Kirishima we're going home.

Kirishima almost fell forward as the weight against him disappeared. "Thank goodness." He bends over to Mina to help her up. "Hey, I'm glad to see you again."

Mina wrapped her arms around him. "Wow, you really changed." Kiri hugs her back, "Yeah."

BK from high up shouting: Stop exchanging looks. The sun's almost gone. Mom's gonna kill me!

Kiri: What are you saying? Geez. See you later, Mina. You gonna be here tomorrow?(unfolding his wings)

Mina: I'll send you a bird.

Kiri: Aww yiss! Bye~

Mina and Ochako watched them fly off into the sunset as Iida sheathes his sword.

Ochako gave a sigh of relief, her hands still trembling in Mina's. Iida grabbed on to Ochako's arm. "It's about time we go too. Pick up your things." He tried saying it as softly as he can with his strained breath.

Mina threw a loud slap across Iida's face. "What was that? How dare you! You put our lady in danger because of your personal vendetta? You go to the barracks on your own! We'll take a carriage."

Ochako's tears started to flow. "Mina, please don't be mean to him. He was just trying to protect me."

"No. That was just him being a jerk. He must have unnecessarily provoked the Prince. You saw how nice that guy is."

"But... but... *hnnggg*" Ochako buried her face into Iida's chest. "I thought you were gonna die! Stop starting fights. I was so scared. What if you leave me too? What will I do? I'm not powerful enough to save you yet." Her legs finally gave in after a whole day of running about. Iida caught her and lifted her up. "Tenya, promise me you'd stay safe."

Her expression was too much for Iida. He can't bare looking at her so he hugged her tightly, his head resting on her shoulder. "I'll do my best to keep this promise."

Mina is annoyed, but her lady needed to be reassured. "Fine~ We'll all ride the carriage."

They already left~

Todoroki: Well that's unexpected.

Aizawa: Urgh What farce. To think they'd actually meet. This is going to be troublesome.

Todoroki chugging down another mug: The aura he released isn't even a portion of his real power.

Aizawa: With luck, the charms on his body will restrain him till he is able to control it.

Todo: I think I can handle him easily. For now~

Aizawa takes a sip: Have you noticed the darkness lingering about them while they went around town?

Todo: You mean, aside from you? (Aizawa looking a bit annoyed.) Not till just a while ago. They got drawn to him when he let loose.

Aizawa: sigh~ What was the queen thinking? Doing this so close to the ceremony?

Todo: She loves her son. (Raises hand to get another mug.

Aizawa: A bit too much.

Todo: Cheers (clunk)

Aizawa: For the blue sky.

Todo: And the blue sea.

#kacchakopositivityweek #kacchako #ochako uraraka #bakugou katsuki #bnha #mjdraws #kirishima eijiro #mina ashido #iida tenya #aizawa shota #todoroki shoto #dabi #toga himiko #hakagure toru #jiro kyoka #sero hanta #kaminari denki

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my-hero-aaron · 7 years ago

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Provisional Licenses, Part 4

Well, everyone else did, anyway. I was the last one in, and I didn’t really get any prep time like anyone else. Instead, I stood still, reaching out with my senses to see if there was any cold for me to hold onto. Thankfully, there was someone dashing by in what looked like a full suit of armor, and that much metal, even in this heat, had plenty of cold for me to pull in.

My hand thrust outward toward the stranger, and the cold had the air shimmering slightly before it slipped into the bracer on my arm, and from there into my chestplate. By the time I had taken all that was safe to pull, the chestplate had enough of a store that there was at least some slushiness occuring in the liquid within. It’d have to do, I mused, rushing to catch up with K, who was staring contemplatively at a tower of rubble. A cursory glance with my thermal vision made it clear there was someone ensconced in the rock. The solution looked pretty simple to me. “K, I’m just gonna shatter the rubble, that’ll make for a simple path!” My arms crossed slightly, one steadying the other as my fingers splayed in a familiar gesture. The residual cold in my hand from the harvesting I’d pulled earlier blasted forward, but before the ring of superchilled air could slam into the rock, Kailey had reacted with an outstretched hand of her own. A little waver materialized in the air, and the next thing I knew, the blast that was headed away from me mere moments before was now sticking pieces of frost in my hair.

“kAILEY WHAT WAS THAT FO-”

Kailey’s outstretched finger begged me to shush, or at least wait with my outburst.

“Aaron, if you had broken that piece of rock, the whole pile would have come down on that guy in there. Look a little closer, there’s no other support for the biggest piece on the right. We need to lever them apart, not break them up.”

I cast a little more critical eye at the pile, and, surprising nobody, she was right. The whole thing was essentially a precariously balanced henge with no keystone, and I definitely would have, at best, endangered the guy, and at worst, required some incredible intervention from K to save him. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in closer, this time pressing my hand against the rock on the right. This would take finesse, but I was pretty sure I could manage a small pillar of ice to widen the opening in the rubble. I could feel my pulse, well, pulsing, in my hands as the passage of time seemed to slow. For all I knew, K was lending me a helping hand, and it was. The thought had my breath pick up a bit, but soon enough the rhythm stabilized as my focus shrunk to the rock in front of me. The rock could only take so much before getting fragile, and it was pretty clear any decrease in what was required to break the rock would go poorly. With a bit of coaxing, the pool of cold started to form in just the right spot, and soon enough with a bit more pushing the rubble started to creak and rumble, ice expanding between the two largest pieces.

“Alright, it should be stable enough. Can you move to get out?” I called into the darkness, the heat of the victim’s outline sharp against the chill I’d been putting into the concrete. The guy had hardly gotten the negative reply out of his mouth before K set to work crawling in to save the dude. Once she’d pulled him out, I squinted, focusing on seeing just where the most heat signatures were. That was, odds are, where my fellow heroes had set up triage. Well, that, or a group of schoolkids had gotten trapped. Either way, it’d be best for us to head that way. Judging by the noticeable limp the actor was effecting, there was no way I could make him walk all that distance at any kind of speed.

“Sir, I’m going to lift you, okay? K-I mean... Stellaria, grab onto my cape, we’re gonna need to get places fast, as usual. Hang on tight.” With a bit of effort, I swept the victim off his feet, and nodded back at K, skates forming on our feet. I really should talk to support about getting some actual skates built into my boots. Would save some time. I mused as we started to sail over to the (now a bit more clearly marked) triage area.

We carried on saving folks like that for a bit, digging them out of the rubble with great precision thanks to Kailey’s analysis and my leverage. Most of the time was spent skating them over to triage as fast as possible. However, it wasn’t long before another large blast rung around the arena, and feedback slammed the speakers above our heads once again.

“The villain’s attack is not over yet! You now have to deal with their onslaught on top of the rescue efforts, good luck!”

Somewhat unceremoniously, the victim overdramatically slumped in my arms was dropped into the outstretched arms of Kailey. As interesting as it was to play the rescue role, my place was in opposition to the villains, and I knew it.

“Stellaria, get this person safe. I’ll handle the attack.” I hurriedly said, taking the cold from K’s skates as I set a hand on hers for a moment. The spin I pulled to get moving toward the now-smoking hole in the wall wouldn’t have looked out of place at a figure skating arena, but that wasn’t the only move I had borrowed from ice-sports. A hapless looking minion had rushed ahead of his peers, and, unfortunately for him, slipped onto my incoming path of ice. A well-placed shoulder check that was clearly borrowed from the hockey playbook had him slam, butt first, onto the ice. A simple thought was all it took to bind his hands and feet to the ice as I skated around him. One down, a whole lot to go. I mused, my skates dissolving mid stride to transform my gait into a jog. I was one of the first ones to arrive, and it showed, the large crowd of nondescript, black jumpsuited villains still spreading out to cause mayhem. As I stalled, trying to come up with something clever to distract the villains, a familiar face strolled up next to me, his stride remarkably confident for the ice coating the ground. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes at Zanshin’s analytical expression, and instead turned to him, my gaze slipping up to his face. Had he gotten taller since I’d seen him before the test?

“Zanshin, any ideas? There’s a lot of them, and I’ve got a few options for crowd control.”

“As far as I can tell, they’re going to be spreading out quick. I can give you a few places to build walls to hamstring them, if that’s what you need.” Zanshin intoned, cool as a cucumber despite the strain of the situation. I did my best to not squint at the noticable increase he’d had in muscle mass since we’d last actually spoke as well, shaking my head a bit to clear it of the clutter. What the heck am I doing? This is a CRISIS, not an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

“I was thinking a few small snowstorms, but I’d need either some wind pulses or someone with a water quirk to pull that off. Walls would be a good start.” The pace of my breath picked up a bit, and to aid in my focus, I started stomping my feet a bit, the rhythm of my steps synchronizing with the pulses of cold I was putting out. Out of the corner of my eye, Zanshin was giving me what could most easily be described as a bemused look. Unfortunately, that was just enough to throw me off, and only one of the three walls I was planning on making had materialized before I stumbled, face planting with a great deal of force in front of the tall, dark, and handsome young man at my side. Doubly unfortunately, the one wall I had made now funneled the villains in the direction of the triage area, rather than into the second wall, then into us. Thankfully, that was still a long way off, but we had to get moving quick if we wanted to cut them off. I rolled over with a groan, my hand finding Zanshin’s outstretched one like it was fate.

“On your feet, twinkle toes, we’ve gotta get recalculating.”

I grit my teeth, heaving a sigh to let go of my anger. It wasn’t worth making a fuss right now, and more important things were at hand anyway. I sprung to my feet, and nodded, glancing forward to see a group of the minions hopping the obstacle I’d tossed in front of them, rushing at us.

“Well you can know what they’re doing, Zanshin, let’s see how well you take advantage of that.” I quipped at my compatriot, dashing forward into the fray. Feeling dramatic, I let a little fog slip from the palms of my hands, and a little frost creep onto my face to give me a bit of a harsher edge. As I ran into the midst of the group of the ski-masked dudes, it was clear that those little touches were absolutely having an effect on them. They seemed, at the least, a bit rattled. Almost reflexively, I snapped a set of finger guns at them, and my abilities responded in kind, blasts of cold slamming into each person’s chest as I pointed, leaving them stumbling backwards, winded. Once they had all gotten a taste of what I was giving them, I slammed a hand, palm down, into the ground, restraints blooming out of the dirt and concrete around us to keep them neutralized.

“Huh. I wasn’t expecting that to work, honestly.” I mumbled, flicking my hands a bit to keep them from freezing up completely.

“Gonna be honest with you, Frigius, I’m shocked you pulled that off too.”

“Oh you shush, I totally meant to do that.”

“Did you, Mr. I didn’t expect that to work?”

“So much for me getting away with mumbling anything.” I mumbled, Zanshin simply responding with a chuckle this time.

As we geared up to rush into the fray proper, where a noticeable number of our fellow testees were embroiled in a fight with some dude who had a, if I was honest, a pretty gross looking bug-head, a final screech of interference blasted out of the speakers above our heads.

“Alright, everyone! The victims have all been handled, and thus, the test is over! Head to the medical office if you’ve got wounds to be treated, or the gathering area if you don’t! Additionally, you’ll have to remove your costumes now. I’ll be seeing you in a little while to present the results of the test!”

Thankfully, I didn’t have any damage that I could notice, other than maybe a little stiffness in my fingers, so after getting out of my costume, I eagerly awaited the arrival of the results, fidgeting a bit in my energy. A little bit of waiting later, K wandered into the room, a small bandage marking a little scratch on her head. She was otherwise unharmed, thank goodness. Oliver wasn’t far behind her, and he was no worse for wear. With my pals beside me, the wait for the results flew by. Before we knew it, the list of 80 names had scrolled onto the screen. They were in alphabetical order, so first I spotted my name, then K’s, then finally Oliver’s. We’d managed to pass, and I couldn’t help but let out a whoop of glee, moving to sweep K into a deep dip, kissing her. I had felt that I’d barely gotten started before K placed a gentle hand on my chest, pushing us apart.

“O-okay Aaron, we can... celebrate more later.” K’s little moment of sensibility didn’t do a thing to dampen my mood, however. We now all had our provisional licenses, and this was a huge step forward! Looking a bit closer at the list, I saw every one of our classmate’s names. Well, everybody but one: Neito. That was going to be atrocious to deal with later, he’s always so dreadfully overdramatic. Thankfully, Zanshin’s efforts had put him on the list as well, so his efforts, valiant as they were, weren’t in vain. However, before I could really get to stewing on Zanshin’s performance, the more detailed results sheets were being handed out, and I got mine. Unsurprisingly, I got docked points for how I handled the arrival of the villains, but to my shock, I got just enough points back to pass for my work with Zanshin. The fact that I was working with someone outside my own group, even despite my major fumbling, reflected well for my cooperative efforts in the future, or at least, that was what the comments on the page said. Regardless, I’d take it. A pass was a pass, no matter how strange. I could tell a new page was turning in our lives at this point. We now had the authority of full heroes, at least in certain circumstances, and the adventures coming for us because of that were going to be simply remarkable.

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lilsliceofpie · 8 years ago

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Something Beautiful

This is a fic that my friend wrote. I cannot write a coherent story to save my life, but she has a talent. She’s a real angel.

It was a warm summer day, one with the sun shining through the clouds to bring just enough warmth. It wasn’t hot, but it was pleasant. The breezes made the green leaves in the trees shake and sway, to the rhythm of a music only nature could hear. Flowers were popping up alongside the roads, casting the world into a rainbow colored display of beauty.

Such was the road that the two young men walked down, hand in hand. One had longer hair, and smelt faintly of gunpowder, while the other had shorter hair, and smelt like cinnamon and watermelon. These men were named Sam and Castiel. They were both hunters, who fought demons and monsters that one might think only existed in their imagination. Or at least, Sam did. Castiel, or Cas, was an angel of the Lord, who helped Sam and his brother Dean. When the two had met, they fell in love, but it had taken them a while to realize what was going on.

Love is a fragile thing. You hold onto it too hard, and it might shatter. If your grip is too weak, then it might slip away. Cas was no stranger to this. His boyfriend was a different matter. Sam was scared of the love between to two of them. Why? There are others in this world who don’t look at love the same way we do. Some think that love should be just a man and a woman. And for Sam, who was in a relationship with a man, feared what people would think. It was hard for him to express his love, especially after he had kept it a secret for so long. He couldn’t take Castiel’s hand while walking. He couldn’t casually say “I love you” to him, the way that so many others do.

Would Cas think that he didn’t love him? That would hurt more than anything. Now that he finally had him, he didn’t want to lose him. He wanted to show that he did love him, that he was trying, but something always stopped him.

“Sam? Are you okay?” Castiel’s voice rang through his ears, pulling him to reality. He had been trying to find the courage to tell Cas how much he loved him, but in public, those words wouldn’t come.

“I’m okay Cas. Just thinking.” Cas nodded, looking at a patch of yellow flowers. “I do not understand the human tradition of buying each other flowers yet. Is it just something that you do to show your love?” Sam laughs, falling in love with the innocence Cas displayed. He was clueless about many parts of the human world. Sam had promised to show him every part of it, to share what life was like on Earth.

“Yes, Cas. Sometimes, you do things because you think it would make the other person happy. There’s not really a good reason. And sometimes humans just like things that are beautiful.” Sam explains, stumbling over some of his words. He was glad they hadn’t turned yet, the route he had planned took them through a much more crowded part of the city. But where they were, they could still hear each other. And there wasn’t anyone around them to overhear what they said to each other.

Cas stopped suddenly, almost causing Sam to trip. “Cas? What are you…” He watched as Cas walked over to where the flowers were. He picked one, and then briskly walked back over.

“Here you go Sam. I thought it would make you happy.” His hand brushes Sam’s hair aside, gently tucking the flower behind his ear. Sam’s cheeks turn red as Cas leans in to kiss him on the cheek quickly before starting to walk again.

Thankfully, the streets they walked through didn’t have many people. However, that was the reason they could hear the voices perfectly as they walked. At first they thought it was just people talking, as the wind and breeze have a way of distorting what you hear. But the closer they got, the more yelling and shouting they could hear. There was a main voice, which sounded female, with several other voices accompanying her. They could make out several words, which were repeated many times in what they were yelling about, God. Gay. Hell. None of it sounded very good.

And so Sam, brave Sam, who has fought more demons than some fight bugs, quivered. He pressed himself closer to Castiel, finding comfort in the shirt that he wore. It had taken a while to convince him that most humans don’t wear heavy coats in the summer. Cas looked down at his boyfriend, wondering what happened. He wasn’t dumb, he put the pieces together rather quickly,

“Sam? Are you okay? We can loop back around, take a different route. Just ignore them.”

“I- I’m okay. It’s fine. Let’s continue walking.” Sam smiles, hoping that Cas won’t see how scared he really is. If he did notice, he did nothing, only gripped Sam’s hand a little tighter. It smelt like gas and smoke, but a cinnamon scented trail followed Cas around. It’s funny, how quickly that smell became Sam’s favorite smell.

They were closer to the protest now. Loud voices assaulted their ears, going on and on about how God hates gay men, and how they’re all going to hell. Cas knew that of course that wasn’t true, Father loved everyone. So why were they saying He hated them? Sam just kept on walking, trying his best to tune out the voices. He knew that there would be people who would never accept him, who would hate him because he liked Castiel.

Now they could see the signs. Pieces of paper taped to anything long. Meter sticks, metal bars, even one or two tree branches. It wasn’t a small group who were shouting, but thankfully it wasn’t that large. Sam could ignore them, but they couldn’t ignore him. And suddenly there were people shouting directly at him. At Cas. Saying they were going to hell, that they should die.

“You know what? I’ve been to hell before. It doesn’t scare me. Neither do you. So shut the fuck up.” He didn’t even realize what he was saying before the words starting coming out, a way of releasing some of the anger he felt. “This is my boyfriend, I love him, you’re never going to change that. I’m not the one who needs to change their evil ways, you are.” With that, he grabbed Castiel’s tie, and kissed him. He even tasted like cinnamon, and damn it, Sam loved it. He loved Cas.

And maybe if they saw the summer sun reflecting of the metal of a knife, no one did anything but stare at the scene in front of them.

“Castiel, I love you.” Sam said as he pulled the shorter man into his arms. “I love you so much.” Cas just smiled as Sam took his hand, pressing one final kiss onto his forehead as they walked past the protesters, past everyone, past the people who would stare and judge silently. Off they went, shadows stretching behind them as they walked towards the sun, away from the clouds which had gone away. There was a little yellow flower, left on the road. But a snapping noise could be heard, and then Cas was holding even more of them, the scent of pollen filling the air around them.

“So Sam, do you like beautiful things?”

“Of course I do. You’re beautiful, and… I love you.”

#sastiel #sam winchester #castiel #gay pride #supernatural

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sheminecrafts · 6 years ago

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The new iPhone is ugly

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit old-fashioned when it comes to phones. Everyone scoffs at my iPhone SE, but the truth is it’s the best phone Apple ever made — a beautiful, well designed object in just about every way. But damn is the iPhone 11 Pro ugly. And so are the newest phones from Samsung and Google, while we’re at it.

Let’s just get right to why the new iPhones are ugly, front and back. And sideways. We can start with the notch. Obviously it’s not new, but I thought maybe this would be some kind of generational anomaly that we’d all look back and laugh at in a year or two. Apparently it’s sticking around.

I know a lot of people have justified the notch to themselves in various ways — it technically means more raw screen space, it accommodates the carrier and battery icons, it’s necessary for unlocking the phone with your face.

Yeah, but it’s ugly.

If they removed the notch, literally no one would want the version with the notch, because it’s so plainly and universally undesirable. If Apple’s engineers could figure out a way to have no notch, they’d have done it by now, but they can’t and I bet they are extremely frustrated by that. They try to hide it with the special notch-camouflaging wallpaper whenever they can, which is as much as saying, “hey, we hate looking at it too.”

You can forget for a few seconds. But in the back of your mind you know it’s there. Everyone knows.

It’s a prominent, ugly compromise (among several) necessitated by a feature no one asked for and people can’t seem to figure out if they even like or not. Notches are horrible and any time you see one, it means a designer cried themselves to sleep. To be fair that probably happens quite a bit. I grew up around designers and they can be pretty sensitive, like me.

I’m not a big fan of the rounded screen corners for a couple reasons, but I’ll let that go because I envision a future where it doesn’t matter. You remember how in Battlestar Galactica the corners were clipped off all the paper? We’re on our way.

Having the screen extend to the very edge of the device on the other hand isn’t exactly ugly, but it’s ugly in spirit. The whole front of the phone is an interface now, which would be fine if it could tell when you were gripping the screen for leverage and not to do something with it. As it is, every side and corner has some kind of dedicated gesture that you have to be wary of activating. It’s so bad people have literally invented a thing that sticks out from the back of your phone so you can hold it that way. Popsockets wouldn’t be necessary if you could safely hold your phone the way you’d hold any other object that shape.

The back is ugly now, too. Man, is that camera bump bad. Bump is really the wrong word. It looks like the iPhone design team took a field trip to a maritime history museum, saw the deep sea diving helmets, and thought, Boom. That’s what we need. Portholes. To make our phone look like it could descend to 4,000 fathoms. Those helmets are actually really cool looking when they’re big and made of strong, weathered brass. Not on a thin, fragile piece of electronics. Here it’s just a huge, chunky combination of soft squares and weirdly arranged circles — five of them! — that completely take over the otherwise featureless rear side of the phone.

The back of the SE is designed to mirror the front, with a corresponding top and bottom “bezel.” In the best looking SE (mine) the black top bezel almost completely hides the existence of the camera (unfortunately there’s a visible flash unit); it makes the object more like an unbroken solid, its picture-taking abilities more magical. The camera is completely flush with the surface of the back, which is itself completely flush except for texture changes.

The back of the iPhone 11 Pro has a broad plain, upon which sits the slightly higher plateau of the camera assembly. Above that rise the three different little camera volcanoes, and above each of those the little calderas of the lenses. And below them the sunken well of the microphone. Five different height levels, producing a dozen different heights and edges! Admittedly the elevations aren’t so high, but still.

If it was a dedicated camera or another device that by design needed and used peaks and valleys for grip or eyes-free navigation, that would be one thing. But the iPhone is meant to be smooth, beautiful, have a nice handfeel. With this topographic map of Hawaii on the back? Have fun cleaning out the grime from in between the volcanoes, then knocking the edge of the lens against a table as you slide the phone into your hand.

Plus it’s ugly.

The sides of the phones aren’t as bad as the front and back, but we’ve lost a lot since the days of the SE. The geometric simplicity of the + and – buttons, the hard chamfered edge that gave you a sure grip, the black belts that boldly divided the sides into two strips and two bows. And amazingly, due to being made of actual metal, the more drops an SE survives, the cooler it looks.

The sides of the new iPhones look like bumpers from cheap model cars. They look like elongated jelly beans, with smaller jelly beans stuck on that you’re supposed to touch. Gross.

That’s probably enough about Apple. They forgot about good design a long time ago, but the latest phones were too ugly not to call out.

Samsung has a lot of the same problems as Apple. Everyone has to have an “edge to edge” display now, and the Galaxy S10 is no exception. But it doesn’t really go to the edge, does it? There’s a little bezel on the top and bottom, but the bottom one is a little bigger. I suppose it reveals the depths of my neurosis to say so, but that would never stop bugging me if I had one. If it was a lot bigger, like HTC’s old “chins,” I’d take it as a deliberate design feature, but just a little bigger? That just means they couldn’t make one small enough.

As for the display slipping over the edges, it’s cool looking in product photos, but I’ve never found it attractive in real life. What’s the point? And then from anywhere other than straight on, it makes it look more lopsided, or like you’re missing something on the far side.

Meanwhile it not only has bezels and sometime curves, but a hole punched out of the front. Oh my god!

Here’s the thing about a notch. When you realize as a phone designer that you’re going to have to take over a big piece of the front, you also look at what part of the screen it leaves untouched. In Apple’s case it’s the little horns on either side — great, you can at least put the status info there. There might have been a little bit left above the front camera and Face ID stuff, but what can you do with a handful of vertical pixels? Nothing. It’ll just be a distraction. Usually there was nothing interesting in the middle anyway. So you just cut it all out and go full notch.

Samsung on the other hand decided to put the camera in the top right, and keep a worthless little rind of screen all around it. What good is that part of the display now? It’s too small to show anything useful, yet the hole is too big to ignore while you’re watching full-screen content. If their aim was to make something smaller and yet even more disruptive than a notch, mission accomplished. It’s ugly on all the S10s, but the big wide notch-hole combo on the S10 5G 6.7″ phablet is the ugliest.

The decision to put all the rear cameras in a long window, like the press box at a hockey game, is a bold one. There’s really not much you can do to hide 3 giant lenses, a flash, and that other thing. Might as well put them front and center, set off with a black background and chrome rim straight out of 2009. Looks like something you’d get pointed at you at the airport. At least the scale matches the big wide “SAMSUNG” on the back. Bold — but ugly.

Google’s Pixel 4 isn’t as bad, but it’s got its share of ugly. I don’t need to spend too much time on it, though, because it’s a lot of the same, except in pumpkin orange for Halloween season. I like the color orange generally, but I’m not sure about this one. Looks like a seasonal special phone you pick up in a blister pack from the clearance shelf at Target, the week before Black Friday — two for $99, on some cut-rate MVNO. Maybe it’s better in person, but I’d be afraid some kid would take a bite out of my phone thinking it’s a creamsicle.

The lopsided bezels on the front are worse than the Samsung’s, but at least it looks deliberate. Like they wanted to imply their phone is smart so they gave it a really prominent forehead.

I will say that of the huge, ugly camera assemblies, the Pixel’s is the best. It’s more subtle, like being slapped in the face instead of kicked in the shins so hard you die. And the diamond pattern is more attractive for sure. Given the square (ish) base, I’m surprised someone on the team at Google had the rather unorthodox idea to rotate the cameras 45 degrees. Technically it produces more wasted space, but it looks better than four circles making a square inside a bigger, round square.

And it looks a hell of a lot better than three circles in a triangle, with two smaller circles just kind of hanging out there, inside a bigger, round square. That iPhone is ugly!

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technicalsolutions88 · 6 years ago

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Yeah, but it’s ugly.

You can forget for a few seconds. But in the back of your mind you know it’s there. Everyone knows.

Plus it’s ugly.

The sides of the new iPhones look like bumpers from cheap model cars. They look like elongated jelly beans, with smaller jelly beans stuck on that you’re supposed to touch. Gross.

That’s probably enough about Apple. They forgot about good design a long time ago, but the latest phones were too ugly not to call out.

Meanwhile it not only has bezels and sometime curves, but a hole punched out of the front. Oh my god!

The lopsided bezels on the front are worse than the Samsung’s, but at least it looks deliberate. Like they wanted to imply their phone is smart so they gave it a really prominent forehead.

And it looks a hell of a lot better than three circles in a triangle, with two smaller circles just kind of hanging out there, inside a bigger, round square. That iPhone is ugly!

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jesusvasser · 8 years ago

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Dream Day: 2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS and 2020 Porsche Mission E

The track is still moist in spots, the marbles on both sides of the racing line shout “caution,” and the maintenance squad has begun to steam clean the roadside drainage system. Tension is in the air as we approach today’s subject. Only three people have driven this car so far without a watchdog in the passenger seat. I’ll be number four.

Over the last 24 months, Porsche’s hand-built, electric-powered sport sedan—the metallic white Mission E that’s charged fully and ready to roll—has clocked less than 200 miles, most of them until today on the Portimão circuit in Portugal. To drive it, you need permission from the board of directors and a highly specialized crew trained to deal with the bytes and possible bugs that could befall the one-off, high-voltage prima donna.

The four-door Mission E is more compact than the Panamera, but it’s still quite comfortable for passengers in the back seat.

This is no stripped-down test mule. It has electric doors, windows, and seats. Its cockpit features five animated round instruments and a center stack tiled with one big touchscreen. The classy, glossy all-black electronic altar (not functional at the time of our encounter) is seamless, curved, and conveniently arranged, and it will be intuitive to use, according to Porsche. Today its functions are restricted to the push-button parking brake and the tiny three-step R-N-D gear-selector toggle. The ambience is clearly more iPad than rotary-dial telephone, but designers also applied classic luxury touches including supple leather with matching wood and metal accents.

The Mission E aspires to blend speed and effortlessness, a real-life range of 300 miles, and the ability to recharge to 80 percent in 20 minutes or less.

Despite the car’s low H-point and sloping roofline, the position of its two comfortable rear seats is surprisingly relaxed thanks to the so-called foot garage, a deep recess in the floorpan that splits the battery tray. “The production version is in essence a C-segment sedan with an almost D-size interior,” explains project leader Stefan Weckbach. “Visually, the car combines 911 overtones with fresh proportions and very good space utilization even though the Mission E is notably more compact than the Panamera.”

Step into the future: While its suicide doors are concept only, the luxe leather, wood, and metal accents will make it to the production version of the Mission E.

The Mission E also has a lap timer. “Why not?” says project engineer Michael Behr. “This car is smog-free but is also a hoot to drive thanks to the low center of gravity, the dedicated air suspension, and the precise steering. Make no mistake: This is a proper Porsche through and through.”

Speaking of proper Porsches, the all-new 911 GT2 RS production No. 0001 we’re also getting a chance to play with at the brand’s Weissach test facility is a brand-defining car. One look at its massive, single-decker rear wing, flared carbon-fiber sills, and protruding horizontal front spoiler is all it takes to understand that this is definitely not your neighbor’s 911. Its black and red color scheme and its three huge nasal air intakes are bound to guarantee more overtaking prestige than a pair of cop cars with lights flashing. All those louvers, ducts, splitters, aprons, skirts, and air blades scattered like a rash across its muscular body are designed to befriend the wind and placate the heat.

Inside this particular GT2 RS is a driver-focused environment. The ultimate 911 has no rear seats, which are swapped out for a standard titanium rollcage. The manual seat adjustment doesn’t even extend to the backrest, but the fragile-looking, thinly padded single-piece bucket feels tailor-made in the way it holds the torso and supports the thighs. There’s no radio or air-conditioning, no navigation or Sport Chrono bubble on the dashboard. All of that is more than OK with us. (Most options can be added if you so desire.)

It’s a car that can practically be operated with your eyes closed for anyone who’s driven a modern 911. The shift paddles made of carbon fiber instead of cold metal are part of the Weissach pack, fitting given the day’s location. They’re tucked behind the fully adjustable Alcantara-swathed steering wheel, which sports a much thicker rim and enough clearance for the longest legs. The two red stripes on the polished PDK transmission shifter gate were used before on the 911 R, and there’s a silver Weissach plaque affixed to the glove-box door. The dashboard layout might be ancient, but everything is still exactly where it should be.

Phenomenal midrange punch and explosive full-throttle acceleration in fourth and fifth gear.

While the man with a laptop runs final tests on the ECU of the Mission E, can I please go play with the GT2 RS? Yes, I’m going to take it easy—at least until the tires reach their working temperature.

Runnin’ down a dream: Unlike what is found inside the well-appointed Mission E, the GT2 RS cockpit is decidedly spartan, but there’s still plenty of room for two.

The red belt snaps into a buckle that sticks out like a small plastic tongue. The dashboard is pure 911 with a twist: When you start the engine, a GT2 RS pictogram shows up briefly in the display to the right of the rev counter. Treading lightly for three laps provides a welcome opportunity to reacquaint myself with the Weissach track, built in 1972. Even the long variant is a short circuit with 13 corners, but because of the great variety of crests, climbs, descents, radii, and surfaces, the roller-coaster drive invariably advances pulse rates.

I know all the numbers, and I’ve been in this car before. And yet flooring the accelerator for the first time in the most powerful 911 ever—managing its mighty forward thrust as the engine plays its delightful flat sextet through its titanium exhaust—is a challenge that requires the complete attention of all your senses. This is a car that couldn’t care less about mere progress, testing the midrange waters, cornering at 70 percent, or braking way before the experience gets interesting. It begs to be whipped—hard.

The nature of Weissach’s miniature Nordschleife layout makes it easy to warm up the massive ultra-high-performance tires. Early on, the front end likes to understeer when entering the circuit’s two tightest kinks, and the ABS feels compelled to step in early. Since it takes braver men than me to deactivate PSM, the rear end contributes only the odd exit wriggle during the temperature-building process. As near-maximum grip manifests itself, the handling balance becomes so sweet and subtle it gives you the chills.

I’m braking later and later now, moving ever closer to the apexes. The secret of superfast progress in the GT2 RS is to let the torque do its job, unwind lock early, keep the revs high, and trust PSM to sort things out on exit even if the second turbo hammer comes down with a bang. It’s also essential to keep a firm grip on the wheel through every transverse ridge, painted curb, and expansion joint. My biggest double dare of the day was to keep the hoof firmly planted from the exit of Weissach’s last bend to the point of no return prior to the first right-hander. Wide-eyed, I briefly saw 169 mph before stomping on the brakes. Next thing I remember was a flag, three stern-looking faces, and an unhappy cleaner who had to start all over again.

While the GT2 RS displays its brilliance lap after lap, the Mission E concept shows flashes of promise. Porsche just started road-testing the first two Panamera-based prototypes, and although the chassis of this rolling exhibition piece will bear little resemblance to the finished product, all essential functions are already working to rule. The steering is sharp, the suspension inspires confidence, the tires stick, the brakes are more than merely competent, and the solitary electric motor kicks butt up to 75 mph. From what we can tell so far, Porsche’s first all-electric vehicle will not compromise driving pleasure. The production plan is to make this car a more committed and rewarding drive than a top-spec Tesla Model S while exhibiting unconditional repeatability at the same time—meaning the batteries and the motors must not heat up excessively. The cell chemistry and single, highly complex cooling circuit must cope with recurrent full discharge cycles. And hourlong, high-speed autobahn driving sessions must not dramatically shrink the range.

It’s easy to get carried away in the GT2 RS at the Weissach test facility—as easy as it is to be impressed by the Mission E.

According to those in the know, Porsche is definitely considering three Mission E models tentatively rated at 300 kW/402 hp, 400 kW/536 hp, and 500 kW/670 hp with badging that will mirror current lineup offerings. All-wheel drive will initially be standard equipment, but Porsche might later offer an entry-level rear-drive version. The front-wheel-drive module reportedly delivers 160 kW/215 hp at 16,000 rpm with a constant peak torque of 221 lb-ft. At full boost, Porsche can briefly claim some 325 lb-ft. There are two different specifications in the works for the rear-drive unit. While the base motor is rated at 240 kW/322 hp and 251 lb-ft, the performance version is good for 320 kW/429 hp and 406 lb-ft, sources say. The two-speed transmission is being developed to allow for full-throttle upshifts, and an electronically controlled limited-slip rear differential will be an option.

There’s nothing theoretical about the GT2 RS, which like the GT3 features rear-wheel steering, plus Porsche’s PASM active damper system (the Sport setting is too firm for all but perfect roads) and carbon-ceramic brakes. Its combination of power, torque, and amazingly impressive handling make it the most effective track car in Porsche’s lineup, including the other models that carry the GT designation. It’s a stark representation of everything Porsche knows about producing quick lap times, short of moving the engine in front of the rear axle as Porsche Motorsport has done with the latest top-dog 911 RSR race car.

Expect the Mission E to be priced between the Cayenne and Panamera and in the neighborhood of the least expensive Tesla Model S—in the $75,000 to $80,000 range.

Lap times aside, it is understandable that plenty of folks will focus their attention and excitement on the twin-turbo powerhouse that growls, roars, shrieks, and yells beneath a carbon-fiber lid. Despite the phenomenal midrange punch and explosive full-throttle acceleration in fourth and fifth gear, the real hell-breaks-lose effect concentrates on the final 1,200 rpm compressed between 6,000 rpm and the rev limiter. There is simply no letup from the flat-six as it beams the car toward 180, 190, 200 mph.

The Mission E, on the other hand, will never be a Vmax hero, although it won’t be a slouch, either, with 0-60-mph times in the mid-3-second range for the quickest model with a 155 mph top speed. This car aspires to blend speed and effortlessness, comfort and charisma, minimum noise and maximum response, a real-life range in the neighborhood of 300 miles, and the ability to recharge the batteries to at least 80 percent capacity in 20 minutes or less. The battery’s energy cells can be charged with an 800-volt capacity (a first for a production automaker) or 400-volt setup. Synchronous motors with permanent magnets will enable superior continuous performance and repeatability while weighing less with more compact dimensions.

Expect the Mission E to be priced between the Cayenne and Panamera and in the neighborhood of the least expensive Tesla Model S, so figure in the $75,000 to $80,000 range to start. While Porsche’s original goal was to build around 20,000 of the high-end EVs per year, the unusually from Performance Junk WP Feed 4 http://ift.tt/2pHwGoh via IFTTT

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eddiejpoplar · 8 years ago