#pls let me inspect your wiring

[fishsinsareacknowledged]

Honestly I look more human than most of the humans I know and here I am. Yearning for robots and objects. Honestly can't think of a better life

[the-cauldron-witch]

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere. With Donnie pls? Maybe still crush state? 👁️👁️ (thank you in advance!)

Thank you so much for the ask!!! 🫂🫂🫂

I'm really sorry for taking so long, Donnie was being difficult and wouldn't let me write this out apparently! I hope you like it!

Taglist: @silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @yorshie @truffle-draws-turtles (message me if you want to be apart of my taglist! I just started keeping it, so if I forgot to tag you don't be upset)

Sparks scattered from the tip of the soldering iron in Donnie’s expert hand, putting the finer finishing touches to the circuit board inside the device resting on his work bench. Sweat beaded at the top of his brow, trickling down his face and neck behind the welding mask as he worked. Once he was satisfied with the work he lifted the shield from his face and smiled down at his creation, closing the panel and sealing away the wires and circuits from the rest of the world. With the final touches finally complete Donnie felt confident enough to test out his new invention; a shuriken wrist launcher. Although his brothers and himself had incredible accuracy with shurikens, they could only throw so many so fast, with this new device whomever used it should be able to send multiple shurikens at a target at top speed.

“Hey, Donnie!” Your voice broke the silence like a thin sheet of ice, snapping him out of his studying gaze and fumble with the invention for a split second. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you” You couldn’t help but giggle an apology while Donnie sighed in relief with the invention still in his hand.

“No worries, I just finished my shuriken launcher actually,” He said with a grin, peeling the welding mask from his sweat covered head and placing it on his bench. Donnie was grateful for the way his purple mask hid the slight color that came to his cheeks at the mere sight of you standing at the entrance to his lab, shifting from one foot to the other while watching him. This could be the millionth time he saw you, yet it still gave him butterflies like it was the first time.

“Shuriken launcher? Seems kind of redundant,” You questioned with a raised eyebrow, walking into the lab and to Donnie’s side so that you could eye the metal gauntlet in his hand.

“Well, because of our tridactyl hands we are only able to throw at maximum two shurikens with each hand, totaling to four shurikens for each of us. Leo is the only one who managed to throw three in each hand successfully, but they weren’t as accurate compared to throwing the typical two in each hand.”

Slipping the gauntlet over his muscular green forearm Donnie studied his invention, pressing a button on the side facing himself. The gauntlet hissed for a second as the inner cuff began inflating, securing itself to his arm. Donnie flexed his hand and wrist, making sure that the cuff wasn’t too constricting but also held firm enough to not budge easily. Curiosity now piqued you watched while Donnie flexed his muscular arm, admiring his physique more than the invention if you were being honest.

“I recycled a blood pressure cuff machine for the base so that it could be used by anyone who wears it, no matter the size of their forearm,” Donnie explained, pointing his arm to an invisible target ahead of him. “It keeps the device secure against the users arm for better aim,”

“Oh, like the ones you see at the pharmacy?” You questioned enthusiastically, drawing yourself closer to Donnie so you can inspect the shuriken launcher closer. Now that you were closer to it you could see he had taken the blood pressure cuff as he said, mounting what looked like a modified multi-disc CD player onto the top where the shurikens were stored and ejected through a slim opening at the wrist. There were a few other components you couldn’t identify, but they all seemed to work together by Donnie’s ingenuity.

“Yeah! I haven’t put the shurikens inside the launcher just yet, I was just about to test it out in the dojo for the first time, if you’d like to join?”

“I’d love to! Can I try it out next?” Bouncing on your toes with eagerness you followed him out of the lab like an excited puppy. Your enthusiasm and excitement to help and learn from Donnie always sent a small whirlwind of butterflies fluttering in his stomach, something about the way your eyes lit up and voice heightened made him feel weak in the knees.

“O-of course, sure! But I want to take the first test, just to make sure everything is programmed correctly” Donnie spoke a little louder than intended, mirroring your own excitement as he strode his way to the dojo. Once entering the dojo Donnie made his way over to the training dummy, many shuriken already scattered about and lodged into different surfaces. Plucking the ones from the floor and pulling the three out of the wooden dummy he pressed a button facing him, the top of the devices panel popping open. Placing the shuriken collected in his hand into the compartment and closing the hatch he turned to you.

“Alright, so here’s how it should work,” Slipping into his ‘Bill Nye voice’ as Mikey described once, Donnie began explaining the device on his arm to you with a small smile turning the ends of his lips, “I modified the blood pressure cuff with some sensors that read the way your muscles move and flex, so that when I clench my fist and move it in just the correct way it should launch one shuriken at a time when flexed or sending multiple when your hand is held in that position,”

Taking a stance in front of the target practice dummy Donnie locked onto the blue and yellow target painted on the torso, lining up his shot and flexing his hand downward as though he were throttling a motorcycle handle. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence where nothing happened. Another moment and Donnie flexed his hand in the same way again, clenching and unclenching his fist in the manner needed for the device to launch a shuriken. Still nothing.

“Did you turn it on?” You questioned, giggling nervously as you earned an incredulous deadpanned look from the tall terrapin. After another second of holding the gauntlet out, Donnie sighed and brought his arm towards himself once again and relaxed his hand.

“That’s strange, maybe I didn’t calibrate the sensors correctly?” Donnie murmured to himself, studying his invention with a furrowed brow and small annoyed huff. He had gone over the programming his usual four dozen times and tested the sensors inside the blood pressure cuffs with his computer the same amount, the device should at least attempt to launch a shuriken.

Approaching Donnie as he continued his intense gaze as though the problem would be written on the surface of the uncooperative device, he didn’t register your proximity as he continued scrutinizing and silently questioning what could not be working right. Grazing the tip of his finger over the area where the shurikens had been loaded into earlier Donnie noticed the small door had not latched shut properly. Pressing his finger on the hatch the smallest and softest ‘click’ registered in Donnie’s ears a millisecond before a glint of metal shot from his wrist.

You didn’t have time to so much as blink. The weapon was ejected in the flicker of an eye with incredible speed, the sharpened tip grazing the skin of your cheek and leaving a thin trail of crimson beads behind. Hissing as the fiery sting settling into your cheek you reached a hand to your face, fingertips meeting warm blood as you and Donnie stared at one another in shock. Blood trickled down your cheek for a second longer before Donnie snapped out of his daze, pressing the button to disengage the gauntlet from his arm and let it drop to the floor without a care.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere” Donnie breathed as he quickly leaned down to capture your face in his massive hands, the sudden closeness causing your breath to hitch in your throat and heart to stammer a beat. Not giving you a chance to find your voice again Donnie swept you off of your feet and into his massive arms, carrying you to the med-bay hastily in one fell swoop. How could he have let something like this happen? Something as stupid as the hatch not being closed correctly shouldn’t have gotten you hurt! You practically blinked and the two of you were in the medbay. Placing you on the exam table gently Donnie studied your face with concern and guilt wrinkling his brow and eyes.

“Donnie?” You questioned as he darted to the otherside of the room, opening a drawer or two before pulling out a plastic med kit.

“So fucking stupid...should have fucking known better, didn’t pay attention enough!” You could hear him muttering angrily to himself, berating himself for letting you get hurt in the most ridiculous way. Guilt clutched at your chest as you heard him curse under his breath. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose or knew something so small would go wrong, things like this just happened sometimes.

“Donnie?” You tried again when he sat himself in on a rolling chair and slid clear across the room to your side. The cut no longer burned as harshly now, but the sting still lingered and pulsated. Blinking himself out of the fog the panic settled in his mind Donnie’s eyes finally met yours.

“It’s okay, really,” A smile attempted to dimple your cheek, making you wince a tiny bit from the fresh pain, “I’m okay, honestly. It’s just a little scratch! Stop beating yourself up,”

“I...I know...I should have known better than to point it-” He began berating himself again as his fingers fiddled with the antiseptic wipe in his hands, fingers fumbling and making him more frustrated. Taking his jittering hands in your own you brought his attention back onto you, his heart hammering in his chest as he felt the warmth of your soft hands wrapping around his rather larger ones. The sudden urge took over you, leaning you forward and pressed so that you could press your lips to his forehead for a moment. Electricity ran from where your lips met his skin down his neck and through every nerve ending in his shell and skin, sparks crackling and sending shivers down his spine. Pulling your lips away from his forehead you registered what you had done, offering a shy smile.

“It’s just a little scratch. I’m okay, really” You giggled nervously.

Swallowing the thick lump suddenly lodged in his throat Donnie couldn’t bring himself to speak again, knowing his voice would crack and betray him now. Instead he focuses on the dried blood staining your cheeks, despite the fact they were already flushing red from your own doing. Not that Donnie’s own face wasn’t heated by the kiss placed on his forehead, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud just yet.

[minniepetals]

Omg the iconic au game!!

Yknow I gotta do the mafia! au and as for the quote: "Promise me it doesn't hurt."

Ily minnie💖💖💖 (i know i switch between calling you luna and minnie but pls tell me if you have a preference and I'll stick to one lmao)

these days i think i prefer minnie more but it doesn't really matter hehe

You step onto the edge of the building, expecting to find more buildings to jump onto but you're at a complete dead end. The only thing standing before you is the busy streets down below and now you have nowhere to run.

"Looks like you're at a dead end," the man who had been chasing you states and you slowly turn around to find him and his men stepping right up to crowd you in.

Just great.

You take a peek at your watch, hoping that the ten minutes Jimin asked for you to stall is closing in and that your boys will come to the rescue soon.

But for now, you have a little more stalling to do.

"No one's here to rescue the princess now." The guy before you takes his gun to aim it right at you and you hold your breath.

A sign.

You need to look for a sign, anything that can help you in this situation.

So despite your racing heartbeat begging to jump right out of your chest, you try your best to remain calm as your eyes scan your surroundings. In times like this is when you need your senses heightened the most. You know your boys would never leave you to die by the hands of the enemy.

You trust them.

Just as you think of that, your eyes catch a small little bird perched right upon a wire just a few distance away.

A small little crow.

A grin curls along the corner of your lips when you return your focus on the enemy.

"Say your last words now—"

"Actually," you cut him off lightly, "Namjoon says no so I can't die just yet."

With that, you give them a little wave before letting your body fall freely from the building, knowing that in just mere seconds, Jungkook would catch you before you can ever hit the ground.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" The maknae is quick to inspect you the second the two of you are at a safe spot, eyes scanning you with worry.

You give him a nod despite the pain in your leg.

He obviously doesn't believe you.

"I want words babygirl," so he says as he stares at the blood stain on your jeans. "Promise me it doesn't hurt."

You hesitate to do so, eyes averting on cue. "Well...it kind of hurts a little."

He lets out a sigh and lets the other boys on the line know before ripping off a long cloth from his shirt to wrap it around your leg and tie it tightly.

You wince at the pain.

"Hang in there babygirl," he says with a kiss to your head before picking you right up.

"What about the guy?" You ask when he leads you to his motorbike.

"Yoongi and Hoseok are on it. No one hurts our babygirl and gets away with it alive."

[eunchs]

— [21:34] ꜝ

fluff, not proof read

oh no. you've done it. you actually did- no you did not just broke your roommate's ps5. you stood in place frozen. 'what the hell just happened.' you swore you put it safely on the shelf... so how did it fall off?? well you didn't had much time to think when you realized heeseung can walk in the door within minutes, so like any human being would you scramble to find a solution. and the easiest solution you had right now is to hide it, well until you buy a new one at least.

picking up the broken ps5 that's barely holding on by a few wires you inspected what you could do. But instead you have really no idea what you're looking at, before you can inspect any further you heard the familiar lock pad sounds

'shit.'

you made a dash to the door and right as he walked in, you covered the scene behind you with your body and in seconds you switched his position so that he would face you and the door instead of his.... well broken ps5. "oh- wha- is something wrong y/n?" he asked, quite suspicious of your actions. "huh? oh what no of course not everything's perfectly fine!" you nervously chuckled. "i just wanted to uh- switch positions y'know? we've never done that before so.. i- uh thought it would be a new experience! right yeah." you smiled sheepishly at him.

".....okay...? well then i should wash up first." Heeseung stated, making a half turn to the hallway before you stopped him by turning him back to you. "wait! uh don't wash up yet!" you stammered out. "what? why? y/n something's wrong isn't it." he tried to turn back again, running out of ideas to stop him you decided on one. never let them know your next move. you grabbed both of his shoulders and pulled him in for a short peck out of panic. slowly letting go, you suddenly felt a hand on your waist pulling you back in for a longer kiss.

this time though, the kiss felt more passionate and you felt all the emotions and feelings you've kept from him pouring into this kiss. you really gave it your all for this kiss and so did he. pulling away for real this time he stared softly at your eyes, a bright smile slowly creeping up to his cheeks. "am i dreaming or did you just kissed me." he asked, not being able to retract his wide grin. "i like you a lot heeseung and i hoped you kissing back meant you like me too..." you whispered but the close proximity between you two made him able to hear every word you said. instead of answering you, he dragged you into your room, pulling you into bed.

you fell into his arms immediately and he tucked your head under his chin. "so can i be your boyfriend?" he asked, you felt his heartbeat rapidly going faster "i'd love that". his smile grew even wider if that was even possible. his face was shining so bright, it was contagious and it made you smile too. but then it hit you. did he saw his broken ps5 on the way to the bedroom?? oh well i guess, you're pretty sure the ps5 is long forgotten at this point.

a short timestamp since i've been busy with school.... pls wait for me i'll post a longer fic soon!!

[germvity]

RISES THE MOON

leon s kennedy x reader // 8 // two-way mirrors

"ah..!" he sighs, letting you off as you swallow. "good boy. you feel okay?" you ask softly, fingers tracing lines on his outer thighs. leon nods, drowsy from his intense peak. "good, this trial will probably last for a little while longer and i wanna see how many times i can make you cum." you grin as leon whimpers.

tags: protective!reader in this one, david being a bully 3.0, fighting (physical and verbal), leon being a sub part 2, smooches, he's a simp for you pls

warnings: fighting (physical and verbal), mild smut, hurt/comfort

sorry this chapters late i was writing a lot theres like-- 7 drafts in here 😭 enjoy!

---

you wake up with leon curled around you. memories of yesterday came back to you, and you can't help but smile. leon was truly smitten with you after it, clinging to you like butter on bread. "leon~.." your voice is soft as you comb your fingers through his hair. the blonde mumbles slightly, nuzzling your collarbone as he exhales slowly. "come on, wake up for me. trials will start soon." you purr, gently tapping his cheek. "mmn. y/n?" leon yawns, tightening his hold on you. "be a good boy and wake up for me." you tease, watching leon's ears turn red as he whines. "stop..."

you giggle, kissing his head softly as he stretches. "sleep well?" you grin, letting him kiss you before nodding. "i haven't slept like that in years." he jokes, his nose kissing your neck as he cuddles into you. "i'm not surprised that you slept so well, you went for about 4 rounds." you tease as he makes a small embarrassed noise. "what? you don't like being my good boy?" you tease, and he shoves your shoulder slightly. "shut up.." leon pouts, and you chuckle, kissing him sweetly.

melting into your lips, leon hums into your mouth as he tilts his head for you. "good boy." you smile when you pull away, admiring his soft blush and slightly parted lips. "knock it off-.." he huffs, sitting up and shuddering when your fingernails traced soft lines over the hickeys on his back. "you did so well for me." you breathe, and leon hums softly, back arching into your touch. leaning forward, you kiss one of the hickey's softly, making him jump. "sorry, you're too tempting." you smile, kissing his shoulder.

leon's back is to you, but you can just tell how flustered he is at your attention. "aww, is my baby embarrassed?" you tease, and leon groans slightly as you press down on one of the hickeys. "please-.." he mumbles, but you tut. "not now, we have to get ready for trials." you smile, kissing his neck softly. "you're so mean." he fauns hurt as he leans back onto you, placing his forearm over his eyes dramatically. "oh hush, you might get a treat tonight." you grin, kissing his jaw.

leon seems satisfied with your answer, getting up to get dressed. a bell tomes, signalling that trials will be beginning shortly, so you join leon in getting ready. "need anything?" you ask, rummaging through your items. "no, i'll be alright." leon smiles, grabbing your hand to get your attention. "for good luck?" he asks, and you catch on immediately. smiling, you give leon a soft kiss as black fog rolls in to collect you both.

unluckily, the two of you start separated. in fact, all of the survivors were separated. cursing, you step over to a generator, starting it up carefully. a yell catches your attention, and you stand slightly, turning to look over your shoulder for the source of the noise. silence. sighing, you turn back to your generator, connecting the wires carefully. nea finds you, giving you a small smile as she crouches next to you. "y/n, long time no see." she teases, and you glance at her with a polite smile. "yeah... how is everything?" you ask, not really that interested in knowing about the survivor camp. "eh, same old. david's still a tyrant." she sighs, falling silent before murmuring a small. "and i miss you."

you sigh at her confession, not knowing how to respond as your dull eyes stare at the belly of the generator. "will you ever come back if we manage to knock david off his pedestal?" she asks, trying not to seem hopeful. "i can't... i'm sorry." you sigh, falling silent once more. "oh.." she mumbles, and it was clear she still had feelings for you. "i just... really miss you." nea breathes out, and you nod. "i know... i just... me and.." you take a breath and turn to nea. "i'm seeing leon.." you whisper to her, and she seems so hurt. "what?" her hands are trembling and you're nervous she'll fuck up the generator.

"i'm sorry... he just.. cares for me, a lot." you sigh, looking back to your hands. "and i don't?!" the rebel yells, standing from the generator. "shh..! i'm sorry! it's just... we weren't official, nea." you huff, standing to soothe her. sniffling, nea storms away, and you sigh. "nea wait..!" you want to go after her when another yell comes from around the corner. furrowing your brows, you decide to leave your gen, not caring that ruin was currently eating away at it's progress. upon following the source, you see david standing over leon, a foot on his throat and a bloodied stick in his hand. "leon!" you yelp, charging david off of him. "you fucking whores! i hate you both!" david snaps as you struggle to get the heavy stick from his grasp. "you ruined everything!" the fighter growls, pushing you away to try and hit you.

quickly, you evade his swing and snap a sharp piece of metal off of a nearby hook. "david, please." you try to reason, arming yourself and not caring if it cut your hand. "y/n..!" leon rasps, trying to get to you. "stay there, leon." you demand, keeping david's focus on you. "you fucker, i swear. all you had to do was not say no-!" he swings, and on instinct, your sharp metal finds his throat. spluttering, david drops his weapon and grabs the metal, falling to his knees. you gasp, ignoring the way his blood had splattered onto your face as david collapses. the fighter gurgles, and you glance at leon, seeing his broken form. grabbing the stick, anger fuels you as you bludgeon david brutally.

gasping at the small whimpers, your attention shifts to leon, his hazy eyes are fluttering closed as he looks away from you. "leon!" you scramble to his side, cradling him in your arms. an ugly bruise blooms on his throat as he coughs sharply, blood seeping down his face. "y/n..?" he mumbles, clutching you tightly. "hey, it's okay, you're okay! tell me what happened, baby." you smile, ignoring your shaky hands as you hold his hand tightly.

"i was working on opening a chest, and he just-..." leon pauses to cough again, and you hush him softly, rocking him carefully. "he hit me, and tried to choke me and-." leon can't finish as his eyelids flutter. "hey, hey..! open your eyes for me, it's okay..!" you breathe out, your tears dripping onto his face and mixing with his blood. "it hurts.." he admits, managing to keep his eyes open for you. "i know baby, i know." you sigh, looking around for nea. the rebel stood nearby, clearly terrified of the situation, but she clutched a med kit tightly.

"nea, please help him!" you beg, and she sighs softly. moving over to you, nea crouches and unzips the med kit. "i can't stay mad at you... i'm no monster." she smiles, pressing some antiseptic onto his gash. leon whimpers, and you hush him, easing your rocking so nea could heal him. the antiseptic gives him a bit of oomph to sit up slightly, letting nea bandage the gash on his forearm where he had defended himself. "you poor thing.." you gush through tears, gently stroking his face with your hand. nea's hands freeze at your words, but she keeps going despite her own feelings. "thank you so much nea.. i owe you big time." you sigh as she presses a small needle full of red liquid into his arm. "yeah, you do." she smiles despite her watery eyes.

"i'm sorry that we didn't work, but despite us being separate.. can we still be friends?" you ask softly, and nea nods. "of course." she smiles, wiping her tears away as she hugs you tightly. "thank you.." you smile, hugging her back despite leon being squished between the two of you. heartbeats pick up as the killer approaches, and nea pulls away. "shit.." you mumble, grabbing leon's hands. "can you stand..?" you ask softly, and the officer nods slightly. "i think so.." he says, still holding you tightly as you help him stand. "come on, we gotta go." you usher leon away from the scene, but ghostface cuts you off.

"jesus christ, what happened here?" he laughs, voice modulator crackling. "leon, stay behind me." you mumble, stepping in front of the blonde protectively. "damn, relax cutie. i'm in a good mood today so i'll give you time to run." the killer is masked, but you could tell he was smiling. quickly, you push leon the other way, staying behind him as he runs. footsteps gain on you, and you grunt as the ghostface's knife slashes against your back. you split up from leon, vaulting the killer shack's window adeptly. "fuck, i hate this place." the killer grumbles, climbing through the window clumsily. "good! get used to it!" you snap, darting out the door.

you keep him there for two gens, and he huffs, leaving agitated as the third one pops. you sigh, resetting the shack pallet carefully before heading off in the other direction. "y/n!" leon calls, and you turn to see him ushering you over. "leon, are you alright?" you ask, jogging over as you cup his face with your hands to inspect him. "i'm feeling better yeah, those syringes are good shit." he chuckles, and you smile, giving him a soft kiss. "i'm glad you're feeling better." you say, grabbing his hand to lead him to another generator. "come on, let's try and get out of here." you say, crouching before the generator.

"i saw you looping ghostface.." leon trails off, and you glance at him. "it was hot." your blonde grins, and you laugh slightly. "thanks, maybe i can teach you a thing or two." you chuckle, grinding on the generator as nea pops danny's ruin. "let's go!" you smile, letting go of the gen to kiss leon lovingly. he gasps, letting go of the generator too. "y/n..!" he whines, grabbing the wires once more. "sorry, but letting go of a gen every now and then feels good." you smile, brushing his hair out of his face.

finishing the generators was easy as nea now keeps the aggravated killer on her tail, and you lead leon to the gates. luckily, your spine chill managed to carry you in small bursts to 99 the gate, and the two of you wait for nea to find you both. "so.. while we wait-..." you tease, pulling leon's jacket to kiss him. "open the fucking gate!" nea calls, and you look over to see her hauling ass towards the two of you. "got it!" leon calls, opening it quickly and pushing the two of you to safety.

the three of you cheer as danny storms off, angry at his loss. "take that you tosser!" you yell through the thorns as leon pulls you into him for a kiss. "gross..!" nea fake gags, and you roll your eyes. "hey, before we split... are we good?" you ask, and nea nods. "as long as we can kick ass in trials, we're good." she smiles, hugging you once more before waving and heading off to the survivor camp. leon seems confused, going to ask you what was going on but you cut him off. "come on, let's go relax before any more trials." you smile, pulling him along to your shack.

[bopbopstyles]

ROSE COLORED GLASSES: PART ONE

SERIES RATING: R (cursing, smoking, alcohol use, violence, PTSD, and sex)

WORD COUNT: 19.5k (long boi)

CATEGORIES: boxer!Harry, gang/mob!Harry, 1920s!Harry, Peaky Blinders!Harry (?)

As the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham, there were expectations of Cicely King: an advantageous marriage to save her father’s business, for one. But Cicely had never been one to follow orders. So when she woke up after an accident in the home of Harry Styles, the illusive boxer, she took it as an opportunity to escape her life. What she didn’t intend on was falling in love with him.

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | PART TWO

a/n: IT’S HERE!!!! Cicely and Harry dropped into my head and have lived in there rent free ever since. strap yourselves in for a ride, my friends! this story is hugely inspired by Peaky Blinders, and i willingly admit that characters and elements of the story resemble parts of PB, including Cicely’s appearance (Grace). thank you @hsogolden for making this beautiful banner,  and thank you to @bfharry @harrysclementines​ @stellarboystyles and @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this, ilysm!

historical notes: i’ve got a couple of things to alert the public of for this story. 1. this story is set in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, UK in 1920 or so, and i did as much research as possible on the area, but it is by no means all accurate. imagery and descriptions of the neighborhood are largely my own. 2. Church Hulme was the name of Holmes Chapel until 1974, so it is used in this story. 3. The Magnificent Ambersons is an actual book that was a bestseller in 1918. you can read it here. 

without further adieu, here is part one of ROSE COLORED GLASSES - come talk to me about it in my asks! pls reblog and share with your friends 💕✨

The cool spring air swept around Cicely like a cloud, the hem of her skirt ruffling in the wind. She was miles from home, the landscape around her having turned to just rolling hills of green, just the way she liked it. Here, she could finally breathe. At home, all she could smell was fear and secrets, while here, out in the open, she was anyone and everyone. It was just her and Joseph, her beloved horse, on the empty road.

Father had told her it was going to rain when Cicely pushed her way out of the house, stomping away from him in anger at the news he had given to her, but she hadn’t given it a second thought. She loved rain, loved being caught in it and getting drenched, not minding the weight of the water on her skin. If anything, it made her finally feel something, even if it was cold. In hindsight, she probably should’ve thought twice about going out so far in the rain, Joseph being a bit skittish as he got older, but now here she was, having ridden over halfway between her estate and the city, and she could feel the droplets falling onto her blond coiffed hair that her maid, Polly, had done this morning.

She sighed and looked up at the sky—it was grey and angry, the wind swirling around her. It was going to be a downpour, she suspected. Joseph stopped when she pulled on the reins, and she considered whether she should turn for home or find somewhere to ride out the storm. It seemed to be coming soon, after all. She glanced around and there was just open space of hills and trees, but none large enough to provide any sort of suitable protection. Plus, she was closer to the city than home, anyways, so maybe it was better to just keep on going the direction she was heading. She could stay with friends in town if need be.

So she dug in her heels and Joseph continued, her urging him to go faster as the rain began to come down harder around her. It was like a curtain, the combination of the rain and the dark skies making it hard to see very far in front of her. The water licked down her face, and her chiffon blouse was sticking to her skin, the one her maid had made her promise not to get dirty, as it had just been mended for the second time. But she could make no promises—it was her favorite one, after all. And now, it would most definitely be ruined as dirt road beneath her turned to mud and it splattered Joseph and her clothes. She held fast though, wishing now more than ever that her father let her wear the new fashionable pants to let her ride more easily because side saddle was simply not cutting it at the speeds she was urging Joseph to achieve.

All of a sudden, a crack rang through the clouds, bolts of lightening littering the path far ahead. But the sound was enough for her to tense and Joseph to whinny, his front legs leaving the ground, her hold on the reins slipping as she was thrown from the saddle.

The last thing she remembered was the sight of Joseph taking off into the rain, saddle empty and reins flying around his body.

Harry could barely see in the storm, the downpour causing sheets of rain to fall on the windshield, his vision completely obscured. So he inched along as slowly as he could without endangering his ability to drive—or the car, since it was a gift from Josiah—and kept the headlights on full blast. He was exhausted after a weekend of fights in the town over, ones that left his body aching in ways he preferred to ignore. But he had a pocket full of earnings and he knew Josiah would be happy with that, so he paid it no mind.

He was running through the fights, thinking about the missteps and wrong moves he had made, spots for improvements, when he saw a girl lying down on her back in the mud a few feet in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes immediately. What the fuck was a girl doing out in a storm like this? When she didn’t move as he sat in the car, surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was dead. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been killed on a road, left there to be found by the next car.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the car, lifting his hand to shield the rain from his face. “Miss?” He called into the storm, eyes drifting over her body. She looked well to-do—her blouse seemed to be some type of lace material that the girls he knew were always fawning over, skirts bright and recently washed. What was she doing out here, alone and in the mud? And how had she gotten there?

He took a few paces closer to her, and she didn’t make a move when he brushed the hair away from her face. Hesitantly, he leaned down, an ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing—which she was, to his relief. She must be unconscious, although he could only begin to imagine how she had gotten that way. But Harry wasn’t the type to leave a young woman in need, alone on a dirt road in the middle of a storm. So he bent down, slid his aching arms under her body, and lifted her from the mud, cradling her against his chest as he walked back to the car.

She fit perfectly on his back seat when he tucked her knees in closer to her chest, blond hair draped over the seat. He grabbed his coat from the passenger side and draped it over her body, her skin cold to the touch from the rain. The thought crossed his mind of where he should take her—the police, perhaps? Or maybe a hospital? But Harry hated both of those establishments after years with Josiah. Plus, if she needed any protection, in town it was best if it came from Josiah anyway. The police were useless, a bunch of pompous assholes too big for their britches, Harry thought. And a hospital, Harry believed, was where people went to die not where they went to be healed. So he decided to take her to his flat, despite the fact that the prospect went against most principles he was raised on.

Although, everything Harry did went against his childhood principles.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was green peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t a wallpaper she recognized, and as she came to, looking around the room, she realized this was definitely not a place she had been before. Her heart seized as she inspected her surroundings. She was in a wire-frame double bed, a red duvet cover pulled around her shoulders, a soft light coming in the heavy curtains against a small window in the middle of the room. Clothes littered the floor—men’s clothes, from what she could tell—and a rug sat in the middle of the room amidst the chaos. An ashtray and the butts of cigarettes laid on the bedside table next to her, as well as a glass of water. Maybe it was a stupid choice, but her throat was raw and so she took the glass, gulping down the water without a second thought.

Faintly, she could hear the sound of a whistle. Tea, she realized. Someone was making tea.

Which meant she was not alone.

Her hands dove under the covers, inspecting the clothes on her body. Everything was still intact, her green skirt and the lace blouse she had put on,  every button done up exactly as she had left it. She didn’t have her shoes on, but on closer inspection, they laid on the ground next to the bed, but her stockings were still clipped to her garter at least. A sigh left her mouth at the prospect of some semblance of safety in this foreign place.

She tried to remember what had happened last—she had been riding through a storm after a fight with her father. Then, there was a bolt of lightning, she thought to herself, piecing together the memories in her fuzzy brain, and then remembered Joseph bucking her from the saddle. She couldn’t keep herself on, so she let go, knowing that was better than being dragged along. The last thing she remembered was Joseph riding away, her lying in what she believed to be mud.

Which would explain the brown marks all over her clothes.

Polly was going to kill her for the stains.

The whistle she had heard earlier suddenly stopped, and she heard the thud of something. Then, a soft hum of a song she recognized from the gramophone her father had in the sitting room. After a few beats, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wood floors, the creak of the footsteps growing closer and closer. Someone was coming. She was going to finally discover who had picked her up off of the road and where she was—hopefully it was some nice old lady and she was in their son’s room.

But instead, a boy about her age stopped in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, wide eyes at the sight of her sitting up in bed. His brown hair was tousled in soft curls across his forehead, and just trousers, a shirt, and suspenders adorned his body, his feet bare. His shirt sleeves were pushed up and she could see tattoos on his arms, something she had never seen in person before, just in photographs and magazines.

He was, she thought to herself as he stood there in shock, quite handsome.

“You’re awake,” he finally said, voice croaking in his throat. “I—uh, sorry, would you like a cuppa?”

Cicely considered the question for only a beat before nodding. He seemed nice enough, judging solely from his embarrassed reaction to the croaky sound of his voice. The boy disappeared and she waited patiently in the bed, flexing her toes to bring some feeling back into her limbs. She wondered how much time had passed—it seemed to be daylight out, so maybe not much time at all.

The boy returned, a second tea cup balanced in his other hand, his face more serious and put together than before. “Here you are,” he said, making his way over to her, his presence instantly changing the feeling of the room. Before, it was small, but not too small. Now, with his large frame and dark eyes, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space.

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the cup with cold hands. It was chilly in the room, probably from the draft coming in from the windows and her skirt which was still a bit damp in spots. The tea, though, was delicious on her tongue, plain, just how she liked it.

The boy grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to the edge of the bed before sitting down, eyes darting between the tea cup and her face. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Cicely.” She took another sip of the tea before resting it on her lap. “Is this your flat?”

“Yes,” Harry said, eyes glancing around the room. “My room too—sorry about that. It’s just me here, so I didn’t have anywhere else to put ya.”

So no wife or family then, Cicely thought, filing the information away for later. It was interesting, a boy of his age living alone. He must have moved away from home and made decent enough wages to get a place of his own, she decided, eyes fluttering around the room to see if she could pick up on any other clues about him. But she couldn’t find anything. “How did I get here?” She asked after leaving them in silence for a few moments, the curiosity getting the better of her.

Harry placed his teacup on the nightstand as he spoke, eyes avoiding hers. “Found ya in the road in the rain. Cold as ice and unconscious, all covered in mud. Didn’t want to leave ya out there, so I brought you here—thought I could take you home once you came to and all that. Call your husband.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought, and Cicely couldn’t help but smile internally at the thought of him thinking she was married.

Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. And not for a while, if she had any choice in the matter. “No husband,” she informed him, thumbs brushing over the duvet. “How long have I been out for?”

He pulled his lip into his mouth and Cicely didn’t know if she had ever seen something so enticing. “Almost a day.”

A day? God, her father would have her head. He probably thought she was dead after she didn’t come home. Although it wouldn’t be the first time she had let him think that, her flair for escaping after an argument a reoccurring personality trait that her father despised. Which of course, was exactly why she did it. “I hope I wasn’t a bother,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Harry shook his head, and Cicely studied his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the high rise of his cheekbones. He had a bit of scruff around his lips, which looked soft and pink and she tried not to think about what they would feel like. Cicely didn’t usually pay men all that much mind—sure she noticed them, but did she study every feature on their faces like she did Harry? No. She was intrigued by him, the rings on his fingers and the tattoos on his arms, the way he licked across his bottom lip. And perhaps that was why Cicely made no mention of needing to go, or that she should call her family.

“Are ya hungry?” Harry asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

At the concept of food, suddenly her stomach grumbled and she blushed, embarrassed at the sound, but Harry didn’t even react to it. “Yes, actually.”

He stood immediately, wiping his palms on his trousers as he did so. “I don’t have much here,” he said, taking their empty tea cups with him as she walked towards the door. “But I’ll put something together.” She watched him, unsure if he wanted her to follow. She was a bit curious as to what the rest of the flat looked like, she had to admit. “Ya comin’?”

Cicely scrambled to follow him, her stocking-clad feet nestling into the rug by his bed. Her skirt was crinkled from sleep and she straightened it as much as possible before sighing and exiting the room and into the hall. When he turned down a set of stairs, she realized that what she thought to be a flat was actually a little townhouse. When she reached the base of the stairs, she found that the rest of the home wasn’t much—dimly lit, only one other window in what seemed to be a small sitting room and a kitchen. A table was pushed to the side, two chairs tucked into it, a plate with crumbs on it sat on one side. The green wallpaper from the bedroom covered all of the walls of the home, and when she looked around, she saw a noticeable absence of most personal effects. He had only one photo up on the side table next to the couch, of what Cicely assumed was his family. Next to it laid another ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, an empty whiskey glass.

At the sound of a plate on the counter she turned to see Harry placing a slice of bread on a plate and tenderly spreading jam across it. Cicely tried to imagine her father even entering a kitchen and she had trouble with the idea, while here was Harry making her a slice of toast. The thought was actually quite endearing, despite the fact that Harry had not once smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said when he set the plate down on the table, grabbing the dirty one and taking it to the washbasin in the corner. Harry didn’t reply, so she took a bite. The jam wasn’t quite as good as what she was used to and the bread was a tad bit stale, but it was food all the same, and she didn’t mind all that much. As she ate, she watched Harry wash the plate, dry it with a dishrag, and place it back in a cabinet that held a few dishes.

He turned around when he was done, eyes trained on her with an intensity she was beginning to grow accustomed to from him. “I have work in a bit. Can I drop you someplace before that?”

Should he? Yes. Did she want him to? Not in the slightest. She pushed away the plate, and tried to figure out how to say this. “Would it be a bother if I stayed?”

Harry blinked at her a few times, his face finally changing from the usual intense stare that he gave her to one that was more curious in nature. “Is home not safe for ya?”

Cicely tried to decide whether or not she should lie to him. He seemed kind, generous, probably understanding, despite his inability to speak to her for very long periods of time without stretches of silence. Maybe he would understand that her desire not to go home wasn’t because home wasn’t safe, but because the life that was waiting for her was one she despised. So, she decided not to lie, but not to tell all of the truth. “No, it is. I’m just not eager to go back right now.”

“Oh.” Harry twisted a large gold H ring around one of his fingers, contemplating her words, before looking back up at her. “If ya want to stay, ya can. Know what it’s like to wanna hide for a bit.” Before she could request more information, he came towards her, snatching the plate and taking it back to the sink. He seemed to be awfully set on a clean kitchen, despite the messy state of his room. “You’ll have to come with me tonight, then.” He still had his back to her, so she couldn’t study his face as he said the words that piqued her interest.

Most girls would have probably requested to stay home, but Cicely wasn’t most girls. “Ok,” she replied, pushing back the chair. “Could I—uh—wash up somewhere?” The prospect of a bath sounded utterly delectable, although on second thought, she didn’t expect him to have a bath quite like the one she had at home.

Harry whirled around, eyes looking everywhere but her. “Yes. Um, there’s a basin in the washroom. Don’t have the water for a full bath right now, but…”

Cicely realized what he was so flustered about—he was embarrassed. Perhaps he had realized that her social station was a bit higher than his, that in her home they didn’t have to go fetch water somewhere, that she could have a bath relatively whenever she liked. And when she did it, someone else filled it for her. “That’s fine. I’ll manage.” She stood and made her way towards the washroom, following his directions, and shut herself inside. It was dark in there too—far less than she was used to. A silver bathtub was on one wall, and a smaller basin on a pedestal, a toilet in the corner. It was simple, bare bones, but she didn’t mind too much. Her father had put in running water when she was an infant, so she had never washed without it, but she decided it wasn’t too much of a change.

Quickly, she undressed, making sure the door was locked, and hung her clothing over the lip of the bath so it didn’t touch the floor. She took a rag and dipped it into the water, exhaling softly at the feeling of the cool water on her skin. There was some mud on her skin from when she had fallen, although she thought that perhaps Harry had washed some of it off—there wasn’t quite as much as she thought. A small mirror allowed her to wash the crust of mud from her forehead, and by the end of her washing she felt rejuvenated, even if it wasn’t a proper bath. Slowly, she slipped back on her clothes and considered for a moment the idea that she might need to purchase some more. Her clothes were stained from the mud, and she imagined she wouldn’t quite be able to get it out.

Although it would’ve been convenient, she didn’t imagine Harry had extra ladies clothes lying around for just this purpose.

She ruffled her hair slightly, the curls unfortunately having dropped for the most part, and sighed before letting herself out of the washroom. “Harry?” Cicely asked, turning the corner into the kitchen, where he stood, holding a glass of what she thought was a whiskey, a cigarette between his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a set of ladies’ clothes lying about, would you?”

Harry furrowed his brow before taking the cigarette from between his lips. “No—why?”

Cicely gestured at her stained clothes. “Mine are a bit dirty, and I wouldn’t want to wear them to your place of work like this.”

The chuckle that left Harry’s lips surprised Cicely in more ways than one. One, that he was laughing at all, for she didn’t find it to be a laughing matter. She didn’t want to make a bad impression to whoever his employer was, especially if she was going to have to be there. Second, his laugh was sweet, syrupy, one that rocked his shoulders, and made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to. “You wouldn’t want to wear your Sunday best to my place of work, love,” he told her, tapping his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You’re fine the way ya are, but we can track down some clothes for ya tomorrow.”

Where would he work where her appearance would be adequate? But rather than question him, she just nodded. “Well, I’m ready,” she told him.

“Gimme a mo’,” he told her, tucking his cigarette back between his lips before heading out of the room. Cicely decided to check out the sitting room a bit more, investigate the people in the sole photograph in the whole home. She picked up the photograph and studied it, a man, woman, and young woman, probably a few years older than Harry, stood outside of a family home, a younger Harry nestled between them. It was curious to see him younger, his face less defined, an obvious softness to his facial features. But what stuck out to her the most was the uniform he wore.

He had been in the war. Of course. Her father had avoided it because of a years old injury to his leg, although she had secretly always throught he had gotten his doctor to make it seem more severe than it actually was. Many of the men her parents had set her up with, including the horrid one they were currently trying to force her to marry, were in the war, but when she asked them about it, they only talked about their medals, heroism, the beauty of France’s countryside. But she also knew most of them had been officers, their social ranks earning them a certain level of protection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for Harry who had none of those privileges.

Footsteps came from behind her and she turned, dropping the photograph back to the table when she saw Harry in the hall watching her. He had changed while she was looking at the photo, a charcoal jacket over his shirt, a pin with a J on it buttoned to the lapel that she thought was a bit curious. He had a bag over his shoulder, and she wondered what was inside. “You were in the war,” she said, not acknowledging his appearance.

“Just like everyone else,” he replied, his response a stark departure from how the men she knew would’ve replied. “Come on, we’re goin’ to be late.” She followed him out, wishing she had a hat or a small purse with her at the very least, but she had nothing but her dirty clothes and scuffed boots.

When they stepped onto the street, the sight of a wide and long street, row houses lining each side met her gaze. They were in working class Birmingham, she thought to herself as Harry locked the door behind him. Most men would’ve made to put their arm through hers, but not Harry—he just began walking, letting her catch up to him, struggling to keep pace with his longer legs. His bag swung at his side as they walked, and Cicely took in their surroundings, the silence stretching between them. It was dusk and women were calling their children inside, the games of football on the street breaking up. Two young children squabbled until their mothers separated them, tugging their little hands inside. Doors shut behind them and Cicely snuck a glance at Harry. His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, most likely adjusted to their surroundings.

He didn’t want to talk, she understood from his body language, and she decided in a choice completely against her normal mannerisms, not to push him.

Cicely didn’t know what she expected from Harry’s place of work, but it was definitely not a boxing ring in an empty warehouse. She could hear the shouts and laughter of men from outside, and she had looked at Harry with confusion written all over her face when they approached the warehouse, but she followed him inside anyways. The smell of stale beer and sweat overwhelmed her immediately, and she had to squint in the darkness of the entryway. The ring had some lights rigged up around it, some chairs around it, but it was by no means someplace fancy.

So this was what Harry had meant by her not wanting to wear her Sunday best.

“You work…here?” She asked, turning to Harry, who stood beside her, watching her take in the surroundings. He nodded, offering no additional information. “And you box?” Another nod. “Is this legal?”

That’s when he gave another one of his chuckles, and then under his breath he said, “Doesn’t need to be, love. Josiah McClemmons runs it.”

Cicely may not live in Birmingham proper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know who Josiah McClemmons was. Everyone did. He basically ruled Birmingham, especially the working class neighborhoods, having built up his stronghold there. Her father complained about him at least once a week, about the violence and bloodshed in the city where his garment factories were. Although, Cicely had always thought to herself, her father probably shouldn’t complain too much because a dead husband meant a wife who had to work to feed her children, which meant a larger workforce for her father.

From the way Harry was greeted, Cicely assumed he was the reigning champion, the usual fighter here. Which meant that he was probably McClemmons’s payroll, if she had to extrapolate. “Do you work for McClemmons?” She asked when the few men who had come up to them walked away.

Harry adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and then nodded. “Could say that.” His eyes darted around the establishment, taking in the sight, before resting back on her. “C’mon, I’ve got to get changed and don’t want ya waitin’ out here.” He ushered her over to a man standing against a wall who wore a J pin on his lapel like Harry, which she now realized stood for Josiah’s name, a brand of who they worked for. “Tommy,” he said, the man’s gaze turning and settling on them. “This is Cicely. Keep an eye on her while I change?”

Tommy stood up straight immediately and when he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, Cicely couldn’t help but smile. “Pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady,” Tommy said to her, a wink gracing across his face.

When she turned to speak to Harry, he was already gone, a few paces away towards a door. “Is he good?” She asked Tommy, turning back to her new acquaintance.

Tommy’s eyes widened. “The best,” he informed her before taking a sip from a mug of what she assumed was beer. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never seen ‘im fight ‘fore.”

Cicely agreed, the prospect of a sweaty Harry in the ring a bit more enticing than she perhaps wanted to admit. She was able to get some information on Harry out of Tommy, the combination of a pretty girl and a mug of beer not a combination meant for secrecy. He fought with Josiah McClemmons’s youngest brother in the war, the experience making them nearly brothers, and came back to Birmingham with them. No one knew where Harry was from, but people had a number of guesses, everything from London to Liverpool. Apparently before the war he had been learning to fight, and the war sharpened his skills, so when they came back it seemed natural that Josiah would use the rings as a way to make money, using Harry as his prized fighter.

She couldn’t help but think it made Harry sound a bit like the Spanish bulls she had learned about in a magazine, a caged animal. But Tommy assured her Harry loved it when she asked, so she tried to put her mind at ease.

“Who is he fighting?” She asked Tommy after refusing his offer for a beer of her own.

“Peters—a local bloke,” Tommy replied. “Harry’s expected to win.”

Cicely gathered as much from the grumblings of his name that she could hear when the betting started, money flying in the air. It was fascinating to her, and she thought that she also fascinated the men—she was the only woman in the room and she tried not to squirm against the wall she leaned against.

But then, she heard a cry go up, and Harry’s opponent came out of a door, trailed by two men. “He’s massive,” she told Tommy as she watched the man walk to the ring.

Tommy grunted in response. “Harry’s fast, though.”

She hoped he was fast enough. Peters crested the ring, pushing himself between the ropes. One of his men handed him some gloves and Cicely watched as he pulled them on, his massive chest glistening under the gas lighting.

All of a sudden, a louder cry sounded, whoops and hollers of Harry’s name, and her gaze flickered to the door she had last seen him go into. There he was, walking towards the ring, a determined look set on his face. Tattoos littered his body and Cicely realized the few she had seen were a mere teasing of the real deal. And seeing Harry without a shirt on, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tanned skin in the light, she couldn’t help but think he was even more attractive than she had thought.

A man helped Harry into the ring, and when he stood up, she caught sight of tape covering where his nipples should be. What in the world? She turned to Tommy and pointed at Harry. “What is the tape for?”

Tommy guffawed immediately, beer sloshing in his mug. “He’s got ‘em pierced.”

“What?”

She expected Tommy to tell her he was joking, but instead he nodded. “Got ‘em done durin’ the war, apparently. Some dare from his mates. Now he’s gotta have ‘em taped up or they’ll get ripped out.”

Cicely truly didn’t have the words for a response to that. She turned back to the ring, eyes set on the two pieces of tape over each of his nipples, entranced by the idea of them being pierced. She had heard rumors from her friends of ladies getting them done, but men? Why on earth would they want them done? She had never understood it on women, but the prospect of them on men completely confounded her imagination. Although, her best friend had told her it made them more sensitive, so perhaps that worked on men as well.

The thought was tantalizing at the very least.

“Sure ya don’t want a beer, love?” Tommy asked.

She had grown to quite like his company. He was a bit crude, but for some reason she liked that he didn’t treat her like she was made of glass like most of the men she knew. Her gaze darted between Harry, standing in the ring, and Tommy’s mug. “You know what? Sure.”

Tommy beamed. He was overjoyed at the idea, and Cicely was as well. She had never actually had beer before, just sips of champagne and wine here and there when she snuck it from her parents or during parties. But nothing as normal as beer—she didn’t even think her father drank it, to be honest. Perhaps that was why the idea was so exciting to her. Tommy left her on her own for a few minutes and she tried not to let the stares that still lingered on her bother her. Instead, she watched Harry, listened to the announcer, some chap in a jacket and askew flat cap, read out their names and weights. The part about Harry being the reigning champion stuck with her.

Cicely had never seen a boxing match before. Sure, she had heard of them, but actually been to one in person? Never. And much less one that was definitely illegal and held in a warehouse, a bunch of drunk men betting and still in their work uniforms. It made her heart race and she liked the feeling—usually she just got it when she rode Joseph, who she hoped had gone home to her estate.

“Here ya are.” Tommy had reappeared, a full mug of beer in his other hand for her. “Got ya somethin’ my sister likes.”

Cicely took the mug. It was heavy, heavier than she was expecting. Would she even be able to drink it all? She stared at the murky brown liquid, the foam on top, and then up at Tommy who she could tell was stifling a laugh. Fuck it, she thought. And took a long sip. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Sour, sure, but it was also refreshing. A bit heavy, and considering she had only eaten some toast today, that wasn’t a negative thing. “It’s not bad,” she told Tommy, who gave her a grin in response.

She was about to say something else when she heard a bell sound—she had been so focused she had missed the start of the match. Whirling around, the first thing she saw was Peters’ arm fly through the air. The breath knocked from her chest at the possibility of Harry getting hit, but to her pleasant surprise he ducked it completely, feet helping him to move away from his attacker. The crowd cheered and Cicely took another sip, the action of having the drink in her hand helping calm her nerves as she watched Harry dance around Peters, ducking at every punch. She could see the frustration in Peters’ eyes, and the focus in Harry’s eyes making her scream out his name along with the men in the room.

She could feel Tommy’s eyes on her as she did it. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that surprise was written all over his face. If Cicely was going to be at a boxing match for the first time in her life, drinking her first beer, she was going to enjoy it. And watching Harry take a swing—and make contact—at Peters was exactly the excuse she needed to scream his name again.

The match passed quickly, and by the end of it Cicely had reached the end of her beer and her and Tommy were laughing at the fear in Peters’ eyes as Harry’s punches landed. He was winning by a long shot, and she had to admit, she was proud. During the whole match she had barely been able to take her eyes off of him, gaze trained on the sweat dripping down his cut body, his broad shoulders and tattooed skin glistening. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat, and for some reason she had the innate desire to twirl it off of his forehead and see what he did.

She also desperately wanted to see his nipples without the tape.

Desperately.

He was beautiful in the ring, his steps almost like choreography she had learned as a child to all of the dances she had to know for parties. Except Harry looked like a natural up there, his body moving before Peters made the move, as if he could read his opponent’s mind, his reflexes faster than anything she had ever seen before. She had a million questions for him the minute he stepped out of the ring, but the first thing she wanted to was clean the blood off of his body—blood which was a mixture of Harry’s and Peters’.

The end of the match happened so quickly that Cicely barely caught it. One minute, Harry was boxed into a corner, his arms up to protect his face, and the next, he was throwing a powerful punch to Peters’ face, the sound of bone crunching at Peters hit the ground so loud she could hear it over the men yelling in the ring. The announcer counted and she watched Harry’s chest rise and fall, his breathing ragged. Everyone else was staring at Peters, but her eyes were glued on Harry. And then, his lifted to her, their sight lines catching from across the room, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile at her.

As much as she wanted to rush to the side of the ring as many people did, she waited where she was. She knew Harry would come find her eventually, since she was sleeping in his home, as weird as that sounded in her brain. So she turned to Tommy while she waited, her bones feeling light in her body. “He’s good,” she said, her words slightly slurring. Huh. That was weird.

“Told ya!” Tommy replied, taking her mug from her. “Forgot to ask you, love, how do you know our fighter?”

Her eyes trailed across the room to Harry, who she noticed was making his way towards them, a towel draped around his neck. “He saved me,” she said, watching his body flex as he moved. And her words were true, but in that moment she didn’t know quite how true they were. Only later, would she look back on the moment she met Harry and consider how he had changed her life by picking her lifeless body up on that dirt road in the middle of a storm.

Harry had fought the desire to look at Cecily throughout the match, and now that he was done he couldn’t stop. She looked so relaxed, leaned against the wall with Tommy laughing, her blond hair messy and her eyes bright. It was if his feet were carrying him towards her without a second thought, weaving through the crowd of sweaty drunk men in pursuit of the girl made of light. The closer he got, though, the more he noticed how she stumbled on her feet, how rosy her cheeks were, how loud she laughed.

Fuck.

Tommy had gone and gotten her drunk. Tommy might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t make him the smartest bloke in a room.

As he reached them, she took an uneasy step and Harry was there immediately. His hands fit around Cicely’s waist like it was the place he belonged, the lingering smell of perfume in his nostrils before he could clear the fog of his mind. “Ya okay, love?” The words slipped from his mouth, the pet name he had never called a single woman before just finding his way into his speech, as if his brain knew that she was special. He sure thought so.

Cicely turned her head, her gaze catching his and a smile broke across her face. “Harry! You were incredible!”

“Thank you,” he replied, gingerly removing his hands despite the fact that all he wanted was to hold onto her hips for the rest of time. “Tommy, did you give her beer?”

“He did,” Cicely answered instead, a hiccup escaping her mouth. She rushed to cover her lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks at the sound. “It was quite tasty.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said, giving Tommy a hard look that Tommy only shrugged at. “I’ve got to change and get you home,” he told her, processing the situation here. Although he trusted Tommy with his life, in this moment he didn’t trust him not to give Cicely more beer.

Before he could say anything though, Cicely was speaking, her fingers brushing across his arm. The feeling sent sparks up his spine, delicate compared the touches he was used to, the ones he had just experienced. Her fingers weren’t callused, but soft, as if she hadn’t seen a day of work in her life. Which she probably hadn’t. “Can I come with you?” She asked, eyes on his, a slight pout on her lips that drew his gaze in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

“While I change?”

She nodded. “I’ve got some questions about the match that I want to ask you.”

Harry glanced at Tommy who he could tell was barely holding back a laugh, a grin on his face that told Harry he would never hear the end of this exchange. “Fine,” Harry told her, the word coming out gruff. “Tommy, I’ll see you later.”

Cicely slipped her fingers around Harry’s wrist as he stepped away, and he tried to resist the immediate urge that came over him to rip them off, the touch something he hadn’t experienced in ages. The feeling of a woman’s hands on him was one of the things he had not indulged in when he came back from France, preferring drink and alcohol to drown the memories in. The prospect of one of them experiencing him at night, while he slept, was enough to make him frightened enough to avoid the concept.

So when Cicely touched Harry, even in the simplest of ways, it stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something that he hadn’t experienced since before his life changed, since before he saw men die in front of him, his friends lose limbs and call out for their mothers in their final moments. He had always thought that his ability to feel had died on the battlefields of France, but with Cicely’s fingers on his skin, perhaps he was wrong.

She didn’t remove them, either, as they moved through the throngs of men. When they reached the hallway that led to the room where he got dressed, though, he had no reason to let her continue touching his skin. So he wrenched his hand from her grip, as much as he wanted to let her touch every inch of his skin if she could continue to make him feel something again.

“I need to wash off,” he said when he shut the door behind them. “Wait over there.” He pointed to a couch in the corner of the room. Usually it was an office of some kind, but for Harry it was his dressing room. A basin of water sat on a table, cold and full, and he was itching to wash his sweat-coated skin. Surprisingly, Cicely followed his directions, and so he turned to the basin, using a rag to rinse off his skin, the feeling of the cold water like heaven on his pores.

“When did you learn to box?”

His head perked up at her voice. He could barely see her in the dimly lit room, but the outline of her was enough, her legs thrown over the arm of the couch in a complete unladylike way. “I was sixteen.” He surprised himself with his honesty, but in the room with just Cicely, for some reason he let a piece of his past slip through.

“Do you like it?”

The question had Harry pause. Did he like it? He cupped some water and ran it through his hair, the sound of the water dripping into the basin filling the silence between them. “It’s a job,” he told her simply. It was the best answer he had. He didn’t really have the luxury of considering whether or not he liked his job. It paid the bills and earned him a reputation that meant no one tried to talk to him, which was all he wanted. After France, all he wanted was to be left alone, save for a select few.

He was focused on his thoughts and the murky water in front of him that he didn’t see Cicely move from her position on the couch. Suddenly, she was there, her fingers dancing across his back that faced her. “Hand me the basin,” she said, voice firm in his ears.

Harry considered fighting her, but his body exposed him. His body craved her touch on his skin, and so he slid the basin to the side so she could reach it. The rag was wrung, and then she was brushing it over his back, reaching the places he couldn’t reach. He could smell her perfume, the faintest taste of beer on her tongue as she breathed lightly in his ear, the traces of jam on her breath from the food he had given her hours before. It made his fists clench against the table and he hoped she didn’t notice.

They stayed that way, Cicely brushing the rag across his skin, wiping away his sins from the night. Her fingers brushed a cut once or twice and he hissed, stopping her in her tracks. She halted her motions each time and wrung out the cloth with fresh water, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch he had never felt. She murmured how they needed alcohol when they got home, how she needed to properly clean the wound. It was something his mother would’ve told him, he thought to himself, a thought he quickly pushed aside as he clenched his jaw.

“Turn around,” she said, voice so quiet he barely heard it above their breathing.

And Harry did as she said. She had made him pliant under her touch, his desperation not to let her stop clouding his ability to speak. His bum pressed against the table and his eyes caught hers in the dim lighting, the gaze that passed between them making Harry stop breathing for a second. But when she brushed the cloth over a bruise, the wince that fell from his lips drew him from his fog.

The rag criss-crossed his body, covering the area he had already cleaned, but he didn’t stop her. It was only when her fingers brushed over the tape across his nipples that his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. But her eyes zeroed in on him, a determined look in her eyes that made him pause. “Let me see them.” Her words were gentle, but firm.

That made him release her hand, and he sucked in a breath and she pulled the tape from his nipples, the air on his sensitive skin making his stomach clench. He stood there under her gaze as she looked at him, the bars through each nipple that he had gotten on a dare. At first, he had been embarrassed of them, regretted them because they hurt like hell and scratched against his uniform. He considered getting them removed, or just ripping them out, but each time he paused. Paused just enough to let the thought pass, and his best friend’s voice entered his mind. “Who gives a fuck, anyways?” And that was the voice that made him keep them.

Now, it was too late to turn back. He was a boxer and the moment he stepped into the ring with taped nipples, it became something he was known for. The stories circled, tall tales that made Harry chuckle to himself, but he never told the truth. He liked the mystery around them. They became a sort of badge of honor, something that set him apart.

But he had never experienced a woman’s gaze on them, and he couldn’t help but fear her reaction. Would she be disgusted? Ridicule him?

Cicely, though, just looked at them, and then up at his face. “What do they feel like?” She asked tentatively.

It was a question he had never been asked before, actually. And one he didn’t quite know how to answer, because after two years with them they had become normal to him. “They heighten everything,” he replied honestly. It was about the only answer he could give.

This seemed to pique her interest. “Can I touch them?”

Fuck yes, his body screamed, desperate for her fingers on the most sensitive part of his body. His gaze zeroed in on hers, searching her eyes for a hint of a possibility she would ridicule him. But instead he found just genuine curiosity. And perhaps a hint of desire. So, he told her, “Yes.”

When her fingers grazed the bars, her warm touch on the cold metal that ran under his skin, he tried not to flinch, but it was difficult. Her touch was like a lightning bolt through his body, setting every one of his nerves on fire. Holding in the desire to moan was one of the hardest things he had done, and as she touched the other, fingers curiously exploring his skin, it became more difficult. And then she whispered, “I like them.”

Harry’s eyes snapped from where her fingers touched his skin to her eyes, and he found her already looking at him. He watched her lick across her top lip, the flush to her cheeks and wide eyes that stared at him making his body boil. It was too much. He pulled away, desperate for space, for something to allow himself to calm down.

Cicely must have sensed the change in his demeanor, because she immediately stepped back, the rag dropping into the basin of dirty water. Sweat, grime, and blood all mixed together and Harry thought as he looked at his reflection in the water that a mixture had never described him more.

“Let’s go, I need to eat,” Harry said, bending to grab the shirt from his bag on the floor.

Cicely didn’t reply with anything but a nod, and when he had laced his boots she followed him out of the room. The warehouse had emptied out, just some of Josiah’s boys around to help direct the cleanup. Harry knew he’d stop by the office tomorrow to get his cut of the winnings, so he didn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he pushed open the front doors and led Cicely out into the nighttime Birmingham breeze of coal and horse shit.

Cicely awoke to the sound of someone moaning and talking. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the darkness in Harry’s bedroom, her mind taking a second to gather her bearings and remember where she was. Then she heard the sound, something that resembled an injured animal, the edge of fear and pain that made her skin crawl. Last night Harry had given her one of his shirts to sleep in after she said she wanted to wash her clothes and leave them out for the night, and the cotton material bunched under her thighs and she swung them over the edge of the bed. She paused to see if she heard the sound again.

This time, a scream ripped through the house, and Cicely knew something was wrong. She pulled open Harry’s door and moved through the hall, eyes searching to see if she saw anyone, but it was empty. And then she heard it again, and this time without the barrier of a wall, she could tell who it was.

It was Harry.

Her feet didn’t bother to avoid the creaks on the stairs as she moved down the stairs to where he was asleep on the couch. The only light was the faintest bit from the moon, high in the sky, and it was just enough to make out the pained expression on Harry’s face and the thrashing of his body on the couch. He was talking to himself, something about the dark and the word No repeated over and over again, his voice cresting in panic.

It was a nightmare, she realized as she crouched next to him on the floor.

“No, please, it’s too dark, please—“

“Harry,” she said firmly, hands reaching out to grip his wrists to hold his arms to the couch cushions underneath him. “Harry, wake up.”

His eyes didn’t open though, and his body only trashed more under her. She didn’t know what to do, how to wake him up. The only thing she could think of was how when she was scared it helped when she felt safe. She didn’t know what made Harry feel safe, but for her, it was when her mother held her. So carefully, she lifted Harry’s shoulders, trying to avoid his arms trashing as she did so. Once she was seated on the couch she tugged him into her, letting her arms wrap around his chest and pin down his arms.

She murmured his name over and over again, softly in his ear to try and rouse him from the dream. “It’s Cicely,” she told him, “You’re safe, Harry, you can wake up. Wake up, Harry, you’re safe.” With their bodies this close she could feel his heartbeat, the way it raced in his chest. What was he experiencing? Where was he? She wanted to rouse him, pull him out of it and bring him back to her, but she was powerless.

After a few tries, she saw his eyes flutter open, his arms immediately trying to himself free from her grip.

“It’s me,” she said softly. “Hey, hey, it’s me.”

“Cicely?” His voice was rough from the screaming and it broke her. It was raw in a way she hadn’t heard from him, honest and open. Nothing protecting him from her.

She could feel his heartbeat slowing already, and the thought put her at ease. “Yes.”

He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and Cicely just ran her hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him as much as she could. His breath was ragged, big inhales of air and deep exhales, but it was becoming more normal as time passed. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually said, voice small in the room.

But he had nothing to apologize for, Cicely thought to herself. The last thing he should do is apologize—it’s not his fault. “It’s okay,” she told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That made him pull away from her arms, her skin immediately missing his. Her arms fell to her side and Harry sat up, swiveled, and laid his face in his hands. “No,” is all he told her, not even lifting his head.

She didn’t know what he needed from her in that moment, but she knew she would do anything. Somehow she had only known this boy for a day, and yet the sight of his pain made her heart break. “Do—do you want me to stay?” It was the only thing she could think of to help, and if it would work then she would do it.

But he shook his head. He didn’t want her there. And the last thing she would do is push him after what had just transpired, so she stood, the hem of his cotton shirt reaching an unladylike mid-thigh. When he finally looked at her, she saw that he noticed, his eyes falling to the place where the material ended and her skin began. She tugged at it, hoping he didn’t judge her—she didn’t exactly stop and think about getting dressed, she just moved. “I…”

“Looks good on ya,” he said, words reverberating in Cicely’s mind.

She stood there, as still as stone, trying to figure out what to say to him. No man had ever seen her like this, and she had always been taught that they shouldn’t. And yet, the idea of Harry seeing her exposed legs, her hair messy from sleep, her in his shirt, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. So she didn’t disguise the blush that she could feel in her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Try and get some sleep,” she told him, and then she turned away, heading up the stairs and back to his room.

When she looked back from the third stair, Harry’s eyes were transfixed on her figure, gaze locked on her. For a moment, she held it, letting him watch her, but then she turned her head and went the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Harry behind in the darkness.

Harry didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The prospect of having the dreams again (although he got them most nights) and Cicely waking up again was too frightening a thought for him to allow himself to go to sleep. Instead, he ended up having a glass or two of whiskey in the wee hours of the morning, smoking too many cigarettes on the doorstep, and thinking. His thoughts revolved around Cicely, weaving in and out of the snatches of moments they had spent together—of which there were few—and the bits he knew about her. Which was very little. He didn’t even know her last name, where she was from, or why on Earth she was out in the middle of a rainstorm, lying on her back in the mud. He hadn’t asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or push her to talk, because he had this feeling that she was more than some spoiled rich girl.

The fact that she was rich was an assumption on his part, but one he felt was probably right. First, there were her clothes, which were nicer than any he had seen a girl around here wear, boots that looked like they were new, unscuffed.  Then there was the way she looked at his neighborhood—as if she had never seen something like it before. When she had walked out of his room and into the rest of the house, he had had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should be embarrassed, and at moments he was. But as they spent more time together, he began to get the feeling that even though Cicely may not be used to the way he lived, she didn’t seem to care all that much.

It intrigued him, the way she looked at his world. The way she had watched him during the match, the feeling of her eyes on his skin something he couldn’t shake, the way she had adapted to Tommy like a chameleon, blending in with ease. The way she had slid into the booth at the pub last night where they had eaten a late meal, complete disregard for the fight breaking out in the corner, her focus only on him and their meal. He kept expecting her to fit into the mold he had created for her, but she continued to slip away. And he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Or the fact that she seemed to want to stay. When she had asked him if she could stay, and she said she didn’t want to go home quite yet, he immediately jumped to the worst of conclusions. That her father hurt her, that something had happened, and she was running from a past as dark as his. But then he reminded himself that she had money, wealth, status. Problems like the ones he knew didn’t exist in their world. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to cast her in a mold of wealth and opulence he had read about and encountered on a handful of occasions, people who used people like him and tossed them aside when they had had their fill. But the world wasn’t fair.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, the sounds of horses and distant rumble of cars, clap of house doors as men left for work telling him that the day was beginning. It was time for him to see Josiah and pay a visit to Nellie, who he hoped wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Inside, Cicely was still asleep—he couldn’t hear any footsteps from upstairs—so he decided to dart out while she was still sleeping. With any luck, he’d be back before she awoke.

The walk to Josiah’s offices was a well-remembered one, the row houses, shipyards and factories he passed old friends. He waved to the children he passed on their way to work or school, and nodded to the men he knew from matches or Josiah. He lived deep in Josiah’s territory, a requirement for what he did, and as a result every man was on Josiah’s payroll in some way. They all knew when to turn their heads, when to lock their doors, and when to pull out their guns. It used to unnerve Harry, but with time it became as normal as the nightmare that plagued his sleep.

He knocked on the back door as he was trained, a nod to Cyril when the door opened. People congratulated him on the match last night, and he didn’t respond. They all knew he was quiet most of the time, knew not to expect lengthy replies. Before France, he used to not shut up. Now, he preferred to think rather than talk.

Josiah’s door was ajar, his ankles propped up on the desk, the telephone stand in one hand, the handset in the other. His eyes darted up as Harry opened the door wider, shutting it quickly behind him. Josiah never changed much—a mustache on his upper lip, hard brown eyes that only lightened if he had enough drink in him, lips that curved into a smile when someone made a very bad mistake. He wore exclusively charcoal suits, saying black was too common, and he wanted to stand out, and a dark blue tie every day, a silver pocket watch chain tucked into his vest. Josiah had built his operations from the ground up, a man of barely 25 years of age when he came back from France, determined to make a name for himself and protect the community that had been, in his eyes, murdered by the British government for a war they had no business being conscripted for. His hatred for the government ran deep, deep enough to line the pockets of the police across southeast Birmingham, especially in Balsall Heath.

“Alright, but don’t fuck it up, ya hear?” Josiah said, nodding for Harry to sit in the leather chair across from his desk. It was the chair where Harry had sat during many conversations, both good and bad. “Yeah, okay.” Josiah hung up, resting the telephone back on the desk and running a hand through his longer dark brown hair. He picked his cigarette up from where it was burning in the ashtray, and swung his feet off the desk. “Heard ya won,” Josiah said, finally speaking to Harry.

Harry took the offer of a cigarette and nodded. “Peters wasn’t as bad as everyone said.”

“Mhm. I’ll tell Billy that when I see him.”

“He was Billy’s?” That was a surprise. Billy had been on the rise in the neighborhoods bordering Balsall Heath, his power growing to become something threatening to Josiah’s operation. So for Harry to be fighting one of Billy’s boys was unusual to say the least. Josiah didn’t usually like to risk the fights turning into something more—at least, not when they weren’t meant to be.

Josiah nodded, pushing aside a stack of papers and resting his elbows on the oak desk. “Newer kid. I was promised no trouble, thought I’d take the gamble.”

“Warn me next time, eh?” Harry wouldn’t have had Cicely within a mile of the warehouse if he had known his opponent was one of Billy’s. The prospect of guns coming out while she was in the room made his skin crawl.

But Josiah just chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Goin’ soft on me, boy.” Harry hated it when Josiah called him that, but he always had. So he wasn’t going to start correcting him now, even though he was anything but a boy. “Heard ya had a girl there.”

Cicely. He knew Josiah would hear, but he had hoped he’d have a bit more time. “Yeah.”

Josiah wrenched open a door, reaching around for what Harry hoped was his pay. He wanted to get out of this damned office. Harry tolerated Josiah for Jack’s sake, but in truth Josiah had always been a bit too much of a wild card and a short fuse for Harry’s liking. But he gave Harry work, so he didn’t let his feelings get in the way. Plus, most men were short fuses after the war. “Where’d she come from?”

Harry chose not to answer, and thankfully Josiah didn’t push. He knew Harry didn’t like to talk, and most times he didn’t push too hard. “D’ya have the money from Manchester?”

Josiah didn’t reply, just pulled out a stack of bills, crisp and ordered, and placed them on the desk. “Manchester and last night,” he said and Harry took it, folding the bills over and shoving them into his pocket. It was more than most should carry, but Harry was anything but most people. “Don’t spend it all in one place, yeah?”

Unable to help it, he rolled his eyes, the tension in the room lifting. Josiah smirked and Harry pushed back the chair, the thought of getting back to Cicely making him eager to leave. “When’s Jack back?”

Josiah pulled a ledger from a drawer before responding. “Sunday.”

Harry nodded. Jack had been in London since last week, working on some deal that Harry didn’t have the status for the details on. “Tell him I’ll come by?”

“Sure.” Josiah didn’t look up as Harry took his leave, shutting the door behind him and giving Josiah’s secretary a nod. Next was Nellie’s, which he hoped would go smoothly, at least.

Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Nellie stared at him when she opened the door, hair swept up on her head, clothes disheveled as usual. She cocked her hip against the door and rolled her eyes at him before asking, “What d’ya want, Harry?”

It had been over a year since he had rejected her, and yet she still treated him like he had broken it off with her after months. When in actuality, she had been the one to pursue him, and he hadn’t had it in him to tell her he wasn’t interested until she tried to kiss him. To say the least, things had been icy ever since. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Clothes for who?”

“A girl.” To her credit, she didn’t react to that news with anything but a sigh.

“What happened to hers?” She asked, opening the door wider. He stepped inside, the sound of children from upstairs wrapping around him, the sound making his body itch. It was too loud.

“Mud,” he replied simply, looking around for something to keep his hands busy, but he turned up empty. “So?”

Nellie pointed to the couch in the sitting room, a bit sunk in and worn with love. “I’ve got some that no one picked up. What size is she?”

Harry sat down the couch, folding his fingers together. “About yours.”

Nellie gave him another pointed look, but said nothing. She just disappeared to where she kept the clothes she mended for ladies, and he had to sit there and listen to her younger siblings squeal and yell up the stairs. When she reappeared, she had a few things in a stack for him, which she set on the table next to him. “There.”

He looked at the stack, the fabric without anything around it. He would have to walk home with them under his arm. “No wrap?”

“No,” she replied, and he decided that she purposefully didn’t give him any. “3 shillings.”

Harry pulled the coins out and pressed them into her hand, taking the clothes and tucking them under his arm. “Thank you,” he said, and headed for the door, knowing when he wasn’t wanted.

“Bye, Harry,” Nellie said, and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which he didn’t deserve, but wasn’t the type to protest. He checked his pocket watch—a little over an hour had passed since he left home. He wondered if Cicely would be waiting for him.

Walking into his home to find Cicely in his kitchen in nothing but his shirt made Harry stop in his tracks. While he knew he had seen her like this last night, last night it had been dark. In the dark he couldn’t see the lines golden curl of her hair, the milky white of her skin that seemed to go on for miles. It should be illegal, he thought to himself, to look as beautiful as her.

“You should put some clothes on,” he finally said, words gruff in the distance between them.

Cicely looked down at her legs and then at Harry. “I was waiting for you to come back, hopefully with clothes. Which I see you did.” She nodded at the stack of clothes under his arm and Harry knew he should move to give them to her, but he was frozen in place.

Seeing her in his kitchen, a plate with a piece of bread on it, an open jar of jam on the counter next to it, tea in his cup, it made him wonder for a split second what it would be like if she stayed. Like, really stayed. He knew that what was happening wasn’t permanent, that eventually she would have to go back to wherever home was for her. But having her in his home was making him realize that perhaps he didn’t like being alone as much as he had thought.

“Harry?”

His thoughts cleared and he jolted into action. He set the clothes on the table by the door and walked into the sitting room leaving her make her own decisions. Space, he thought to himself, he needed space from her. It was a push and pull inside of him—a pull that drew him to her and a push when he got too close. He stood by the fireplace, eyes trained on the black metal of it, as he listened to Cicely move through his home. Across the room to get the clothes, feet creaking on the stairs as she went up. When he heard her door shut he let out a breath, his body softening, tension leaving him.

The prospect of breakfast was enticing—he hadn’t eaten this morning. Porridge was what he had every morning, and this wasn’t the time for that to change. He shrugged off the jacket he had on, dropping it onto the couch, and headed for the kitchen.

When Cicely reappeared, the porridge was done and he was pouring it into two bowls, one for each of them. “Did you make me breakfast?” She asked, and his eyes drifted up to her. Nellie’s clothes fit her perfectly—a bit more snug on the curves of her body, but he wasn’t complaining.

“S’just porridge,” he replied and took the two bowls to the small table. He returned to the kitchen to grab his cup of tea, and he immediately felt her presence next to him as she picked up her own cup, left on the counter. Somehow he would have to get over the tension that raked through his body whenever she got near, but he didn’t know how he would manage that.

Cicely turned away from him and he followed her to the table, eyes trying to land anywhere but her body. She pulled out a chair and smiled at him softly. “Thank you. I’m not used to men cooking for me.”

Harry realized that him making breakfast for both of them meant they would have to eat together, that they would be forced to talk. The idea made him falter as he went to sit, but he forced himself to do it anyways, knowing that she would probably make him. “Mum taught me,” he mumbled, chair scraping against the floorboard as he say.

“Is that her in the photo?”

He knew exactly which photo she was talking about—the only one he had up. “Yes.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dipped her spoon into the porridge, taking a bite. She was probably used to better quality, an actual chef maybe (he had heard rich people had those), but she didn’t give any indication that it was bad. Instead, she just took another bite before opening her mouth again to speak. “Where are you from?”

Harry didn’t tell people where he was from. It was a decision he made when he came to Birmingham, to leave his past behind him. The photo was up in his sitting room because he would’ve felt like shit for not putting it up, not because he particularly wanted it there.

“Harry?” She prompted, gaze fluttering over his face.

His grip tightened on the spoon in his palm, eyes on the food in front of him. “I don’t talk about my past.” Why did he want to tell her? He could feel it on the tip of his tongue and he tightened his jaw, trying to keep it from tumbling out on its own accord.

Cicely considered his statement as she sipped on her tea. “What do you talk about?”

The question made him look at her, her brown eyes already waiting for his. “What d’ya mean?”

“If you don’t talk about your past, then what do you talk to people about?”

He didn’t talk to people, he thought to himself. That was how he dealt with it. He only spoke to people who he felt safe with—Jack mainly, sometimes Tommy, Josiah if forced. They all knew his past, knew not to share it around. “Dunno.”

The sigh that slipped from her lips made Harry grimace. He had disappointed her and he didn’t like the feeling. “How about this? I tell you about myself, and you do the same in return. We each get a question.”

The idea was enticing, mainly because Harry desperately wanted to know more about her. She was like a period to him and he wanted to know everything that came before it in the sentence. Was it worth telling her about his past? Perhaps. “Fine. What’s your last name?”

Her eyes twinkled, a playful grin sliding onto her face. “King,” she said, that one piece of information rocking Harry’s world immediately. The Kings were as notorious as Josiah was, just in a different way. They owned dozens of garment factories in Birmingham, controlled a handful of shipyards, one or two coal factories. Harry estimated probably half of Birmingham’s working class was employed by the King family and he assumed properly, by Cicely’s father.“Where are you from?”

“Church Hulme,” he told her. “Who is your father?”

He searched her expression to see if she recognized it, but she didn’t seem to. And why would she—it was nothing but a small farming town, some local businesses and a forge. “William King. How old are you?”

So she was the daughter of the head of the King family, an heiress to a fortune larger than anything he could imagine, no doubt. He knew the Kings had only daughters, but he didn’t know how many, or if Cicely was the oldest. The importance of staying up to date on the lives of the King family was never something he felt inclined to do, but now it was vital information. “22. How did you end up on that road?”

“I went riding,” she said after taking another bite of porridge. “The lightning scared my horse and he bucked me off. I must have passed out when I hit the ground.” Cicely considered him for a moment before speaking. “Where did you fight?”

Harry’s blood ran cold at her question. It dredged up memories he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re done,” he told her, pushing away his finished porridge and standing abruptly.

“Harry, wait.“ Her hand wrapped around his wrist, catching his arm as he stepped away, and the feeling of her skin on his made him have to close his eyes to get his breathing under control. Did she know what she did to him? “I’m sorry.”

“‘m not talking about that,” he said, not budging from his position.

Cicely’s thumb brushed across his forearm, the thinner skin meaning he could feel the press of her fingers on his body. “That’s okay,” she said, voice soft. “Will you come back?”

Although he probably shouldn’t, he opened his eyes and turned back around. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

Her hand dropped from his wrist immediately at his question. “My father is forcing me to marry Clifford Stevens. Do you know who that is?” Harry shook his head. He didn’t exactly keep up with high society Birmingham circles in his free time. “He’s thirty and disgusting. He never even acknowledges that I might have a brain, much less that I’m a human being. If I marry him I’ll end up shut in his estate to raise his children for the rest of my life and I would rather die than sentence myself to a life like that.”

Clifford Stevens immediately became Harry’s least favorite person in the world, with the second being William King. To sentence a girl as kind, spirited, and open-minded as Cicely to a life as a glorified hostage was deplorable. “Why is your father forcing you to marry him?”

“We’re nearly broke,” Cicely said with a sigh. That was news to Harry. “Father has been losing money for years. He gambles most of what he makes away and because he’s a fucking idiot he never wins, and he hired a series of treasurers who are apparently inept at balancing the budgets. The factories are bleeding money and rather than take any responsibility for it, his solution is to marry me off with the knowledge that Clifford will bankroll my father’s lifestyle.” Perhaps it was the look on Harry’s face that gave him away, but Cicely gave him a weak smile. “Didn’t know the truth of the Kings, did you?”

“No.”

She fiddled with the cuff of her blouse as Harry considered her words. Was there any way to get out of her future? Probably not, unless she left behind everything that came with her name. Although from what she told him, it didn’t sound like there was much left. “Will you tell me about your family secrets in exchange for mine?”

His family secrets? God, where did he start. His gaze drifted across Cicely, her fingers brushing through the ends of her hair. What would she say to his answer? He supposed it didn’t hurt to tell her, since it wasn’t like she would tell anyone in his life about it. They were from different worlds, after all. “I found out when I came back from the war that ‘m not my father’s son.”

Cicely blinked at him, face softening as the words settled in. “What?”

“It’s just what it sounds like,” he said, leaning back in the chair and taking a breath. “Grew up my whole life thinking I had one father, when in reality it’s not him at all. My mum had an affair with some bloke and the man who raised me,” he spit out, hating the word father when he thought of him, “decided to keep me.” The feeling of her hand on his warmed his skin, but didn’t have the calm effect that he expected she intended. “Haven’t been back since.”

“Harry,” she murmured, calling his eyes from where her hand covered his to her face. “I’m sorry.”

It was the first time someone had told him that, now that he thought about it. He had told Jack, who said, Fuck mate, that sucks. Want another pint? And that was that, but he didn’t mind it. Somehow though, Cicely’s compassion made his chest ache, his throat close up. He could feel tears rising inside of him and he panicked—he hadn’t cried since France and he wasn’t bloody going to start now, not in front of her. “I—I need a second,” he said quickly, scooting back in the chair and walking into the hallway, leaving her behind at the table.

He rested his forearms on the wall and let his head fall on his neck. Deep breaths in and out, his eyes shut, struggling to keep his brain together as his ears buzzed. They didn’t deserve his anger, he reminded himself for the millionth time, they didn’t deserve shit after the secrets they had kept from him. That his sister wasn’t his sister. The man who had taught him how to play football, how to tie a tie, wrestled with him as a kid, wasn’t his father. His fists clenched against the wallpaper, knuckles hurting from last night, but the pain almost felt good to Harry—it was a feeling he knew.

All of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped his head to the side to find Cicely standing there. “What?” He asked, not moving an inch, but just looking at her, trying to understand for the life of him why she was there.

Instead of responding, she ducked her head under his arm and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling his body into hers.

She was hugging him, he realized.

He was frozen, unable to move. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her skin, somehow still clinging to her despite being in Balsall Heath for almost two days. The darkness of this place seemed to not even touch her, the light from her repelling all of it away. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt loosely, but just enough to where he could feel her through the fabric, her body feeling impossibly close to him.

No one had touched him like this in years. And he didn’t know what to do, how to respond, how to act.

The only thing he could think to do was to lift one of his hands from where it was clenched in a fist against the wallpaper, and brush it down her hair. It was soft against his skin, the strands of it darting between his fingers and petting the rough calluses he had from years of hard work and fighting. They stung against his cuts from the past week’s worth of fights, but he didn’t care. The prospect of touching her was enough to push all of the pain away.

Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes finding his. She was sandwiched between him and the wall and it was way too fucking close, so Harry immediately took a step back, giving her space. “Will you show me your Birmingham?” She asked him softly, voice echoing in the narrow hallway.

“What d’ya mean?”

“The Birmingham that’s your home,” she offered as an explanation. “I want to see it how you do.”

His Birmingham, the one that he had made a home, full of people who knew him as he was now. Respected him, feared him even—because what was the line, really, between fear and respect? The prospect of her wanting to understand his world the way he saw it was one he had never expected, but appreciated more than he could say. “Okay.”

Harry took her on a grand tour of Balsall Heath, them weaving through the streets with children playing, horses and cars  making their way down the thoroughfares. He showed her the factories her father owned, which he assumed she had never seen before, and he studied her as she saw the conditions of the workers her father employed. Cicely seemed to be everything her father wasn’t and he hoped that that continued to her views on labor.

Parts of Balsall Heath were more well-to-do, people who could afford to send their children to the art school opposite the public baths. But Harry showed her the parts he knew, the parts where people scrapped together money to make ends meet, where they relied on wages from people like Cicely’s father. He was thankful he had gotten her clothes from Nellie because at least at this rate she blended in more, although her nice boots still stuck out like a sore thumb. Although, he expected her being with him drew a decent amount of attention. When men stopped him to talk about a match and their children were with them, Cicely would squat and talk to them, not minding that her skirts got muddy from the unpaved roads. Harry had a difficult time understanding her when she did things like that. She was so unlike so many people of her station, and yet here she was crouching to talk with grubby children on unpaved streets with a pile of horse shit just a few feet away with a smile on her face.

For a second, he let himself consider what it would be like if she stayed. But he didn’t let that thought linger for too long.

They visited his favorite pub for a pint and she laughed at the barkeep’s jokes and charmed every man they met. Perhaps Harry should have been hesitant to introduce Cicely to so many people in his world, but at the same time he didn’t care what people thought of him. If Cicely wanted to see his world, then by God was he going to show it to her.

It was getting dark by the time they made their way back to his flat, bellies full from a roast they’d had at the pub. Harry watched her walk beside him, her eyes darting around the homes as they passed. “I like it here,” she told him, not meeting his eye. “Everyone is so nice.”

He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. “Not everyone is. See all these houses?” She nodded. “In every one of them is a man who works for Josiah in some way. There’s a gun in every one of these houses for when Josiah calls.”

“Does he call?” Cicely asked, eyes finally turning to him as they walked.

He nodded, hoping that was the explanation she sought. From the way her expression changed, he assumed it was. Harry didn’t know what to do with her naivety, because it mystified him that someone could know so little of the world around them. Although, he thought as they rounded the corner to his street, he couldn’t exactly blame her.

“Does he ever…call for you?”

“Yes,” he responded because it was the honest answer. Even though he got to avoid a lot of the action because he specifically had told Josiah when he signed on to box for him that he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it came with the territory. Sometimes they needed all the people they could, and with someone as skilled at fighting as Harry and the experience from the war that he had, it would be idiotic for them not to call on him.

They reached his house in silence and he unlocked the door before pushing it open. She stepped in, and leaned down to wipe off her boots. He liked how she had already made herself feel at home in his space, knew that he always wipes off his shoes in the entryway on the mat, because otherwise the filth from the streets ends up inside. “Do you have a match tonight?” She asked, moving to the side.

“No.” It was his night off, but he had one tomorrow.

Her fingertips grazed the table and he watched them trail, the thought of her fingers on his skin drifting into his mind. “What do you do in the evenings you have off?”

Harry considered her question. He didn’t know, really. The evenings all passed, though, somehow. Time was irrelevant to him since the nights dragged on, plagued by nightmares most of the time. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall in the dark. Sometimes he took walks. Sometimes he drank enough to where the dreams didn’t come, but that was when it was really bad. “Nothing, really.”

Cicely rotated to see him, the sliver of moonlight those shone through his curtains hitting her blond hair perfectly. “Do you do anything but box?”

“No.”

“Do you read?”

Harry hadn’t read a book since before France. “Not anymore.”

Cicely turned to his bookcase, which had collected dust from disuse. “Then why do you have so many books?”

“They make me think of my sister,” he replied, the truth shocking both of them. Gemma loved books, always had—she would be curled up on a chair all day with a book in her hands if their mother didn’t make her stop. When he was young, she would read to Harry sometimes, his childhood memories a mixture of fantasy and historical tales from his sister’s lips. Perhaps the books were his way of keeping her close.

Her fingers grazed the spines of his collection, dust falling around her. “Do you talk to her?”

“No.” He’d picked up the telephone a handful of times, ready to say the number to the operator. But then he’d think again, and set down the stand.

“I like this one.” Cicely pulled a bound volume off the shelf, her eyes dancing across the cover. “The Magnificent Ambersons.”

The name meant nothing to him. He bought bestsellers because he knew his sister did the same. Sometimes he considered reading one just to see what she would’ve thought about it. One time he almost mailed her one on her birthday. But each time, he did nothing.

“Can I read to you?”

Her voice was hesitant, nervous of what he would say. No one had read to him since the war, when his friends would read aloud their letters if someone didn’t get one. It made them feel like someone was looking out for them, even if they didn’t get a letter themselves. If it had been someone else, he probably would have said no. But it was Cicely and her voice was like his favorite church hymnal, entrancing and meditative. He would have listened to her talk for hours. So he said yes.

She directed him to lay down on the couch and he did, while she sat in the chair to the side. Harry lit a cigarette as she opened the cover, the sound of her tuning the pages the only noise except for the flick of his lighter. And then, she began. “Major Amberson had ‘made a fortune’ in 1873, when other people were losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.”

Cicely’s eyes fluttered open and at first she didn’t know why. But then she heard a shout and a long, deep moan from downstairs. It was Harry again. Her hands pushed at the duvet and she flicked on the light by the bed. As she left his room the sound of him moaning in his sleep, words she couldn’t understand reached her ears, but louder without the muffling of the door. She didn’t bother to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way to the stairs and down to the first floor, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

A scream, blood curdling and filled with anguish, ripped through the house, and Cicely flew the remaining few feet to the couch. The sound of Harry’s scream, sharp and frightened, shook her to her core. She just wanted him out of there, free from the clutches of whatever demon robbed him of his sleep.

“Harry!” She said, loudly, jostling his shoulder to try and rouse him. Unlike last night when she had knelt by the couch, Harry wasn’t flailing around. He was stick-straight, as if held in a straight jacket, but she could feel his pulse racing when she pressed her fingers to his sweaty skin. It was almost more frightening—seeing him unmoving but mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The only part of him that moved was his head, ever so slightly shaking back and forth, a stream of Nos leaving his lips.

“No,” he mumbled, “please, it’s too dark, please.” His words from last night were back again, and she wanted to know where he was. What endless circle of hell he had found himself in and how to dig him out of it.

She decided to do what she had done before, and tried to lift his shoulders from the couch. But this time, Harry’s body was so tense that she couldn’t lift him, as if he had made himself a thousand pounds. As he let out another loud groan, she grimaced—she had to wake him, she just didn’t know how. “Harry,” she said again, “wake up, please. Please, Harry.”

But her words didn’t seem to do anything, because the next thing she knew his scream was filling her ears, the sound ripping at her heart. Her body seemed to move without her knowledge as she threw herself on top of him, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her palms cupping his face. “Harry,” she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Wake up for me, please. It’s Cicely. It’s safe, I’m here.”

Somehow, that seemed to rouse him, because his eyes fluttered open, his hazel eyes meeting hers in the dark. She was inches from his face, and she wondered if his sight was filled with her face just as hers was. “Cicely?”

“It’s me,” she said, brushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. “You’re safe now.” She could feel the sigh that left his body intimately, her skin touching his in parts. That was when she realized how close they were, how completely improper her position was. She was on top of him for Pete’s sake. Her knees were on either side of him, their most intimate parts just inches from one another. If her elbows weren’t propped up on his shoulders, her chest would be touching his.

She scrambled to move, but Harry’s hands moved to her hips, halting her in place. Her eyes flickered to his, trying to read him, decipher what he was doing. Usually she had a hard time reading Harry, understanding what he wanted and needed. But now she had no problem. She watched him lick his lips, his pupils still blown out from the dream trained directly on her. When his grip didn’t shift from her body, but his thumbs brushed across the shirt she wore—it was his—and she knew.

He wanted to kiss her.

Cicely had never been kissed. Boys had tried, but they’d been disgusting, as had every other man she had ever known, and she had no interest in them. Until Harry, she hadn’t ever understood romance novels, the attraction people described in them. Every man who had ever showed interest in her had been boring, unattractive, and more than anything, just made her want to run in the opposite direction. But Harry made her want to race towards him at full speed, the darkness in his gaze and warmth in his heart made her want to know his stories, the way he looked at her made a part of her heart race that she had never felt before. He made her feel alive, as if she had been sleeping for nineteen years, just waiting for him to arrive.

One of his hands moved from his hip, inching through the air until his knuckles softly brushed across her jaw. Her heart was beating in her chest so fast she wondered if she was going to pass out again. It couldn’t be possible to go this long without breathing, right? Because Cicely didn’t know the last time she had taken a breath, all of them swallowed up in the look on Harry’s face.

She wanted him to kiss her.

Desperately. With every bone in her body. Cicely wanted to know what he tasted like, what it felt like when he kissed her. She wanted to know everything about him, to uncover every piece of him like gifts on her birthday, ripping back the pieces of wrapping paper walls that kept him from her.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice one she had never heard before. It was soft, yearning, the encapsulation of everything she wanted in that moment.

He seemed to understand, because his fist uncurled, his palm moving to cup the side of her face. Slowly, his hand moved around her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the feeling of his callused hands on her skin alighting every inch in her body. Then, he pulled her head into him, his fingers on the back of her neck, delicately pressing at her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and perhaps hers were supposed to, but she wanted to see every moment of this—she wanted to know what he looked like when he kissed her.

When he did, his wet lips meeting hers, it was like returning home after a long trip, a homecoming she had been waiting for her whole life. Her eyelids shut, lost in the feeling of him, of the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey on his lips, the smell of him that she had grown to look forward to when she walked into the room he was in. Fingers drifted from her neck to her hairline, and he lifted his chin, changing the angle, and Cicely fell into the kiss. Her arms gave out, elbows falling from his shoulders to the cushions of the couch, her body suddenly flush with his.

Harry’s hand moved from her hip to curl around her lower back, tugging her impossibly close to him as their lips parted and met again. It felt like there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them and Cicely didn’t want any. Their noses were pushed against each other, foreheads touching, lips moving in a dance they somehow both knew by heart. She pushed her fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp lightly. A sound left his throat, and Cicely went to move her fingers, thinking she had hurt him.

“Do it again,” he mumbled.

Cicely’s eyes flickered open, studying him with her lips just a centimeter from his. He looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—it was a look she had never seen but one she wanted to see for the rest of time. So she brushed her nails across his scalp and slotted their lips back together, squeezing his hips with her knees. Under his shirt she could feel his heart racing, and she wondered if he was as affected by what was between them as she was. Because for her, it felt like her world had become Harry, even though she had known him for only two days. Somehow, he was her every thought and she didn’t want another thought to grace her mind ever again.

Harry shifted his head, nudging at her jaw and pushing it up so that her neck was stretched out. In rapid succession, he pressed soft kisses to her jaw and Cicely’s head lolled back to make room for him because it felt so good to have his lips on her skin. Then, his tongue flitted out and licked over her pulse point, making her squirm against him. His hands gripped her tightly in response, before ducking his head down, pulling the collar of her shirt to the side, and nipped at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

A breathy moan left Cicely’s mouth, mixed in with the undertones of Harry’s name. It seemed to spur him on, because he opened his lips and sucked on her skin softly. It was a sensation Cicely didn’t even know what to do with, how to process, but she knew it felt good, so she held his head to her skin, urging him to continue. Which he did—laving his tongue against her tender skin in between nips and harsh sucks, and when she looked down and saw the mark he had formed, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She just pulled his head up to meet hers, desperate to have his lips back on hers again.

His hands fell to her waist, clutching at his shirt that hung there. When he pulled at it, the hem crawled up, leaving her thighs mostly exposed to the cool air inside the room. But to Cicely, her flesh was burning from Harry’s touch and the cold air was welcome, and she didn’t mind that more skin than was appropriate was on show. She had a desire within her for Harry to see all of her, every inch of her skin if he would keep making her feel like this.

Harry seemed to not notice her exposed skin until his palms drifted downwards and gripped her skin, his eyes fluttering open and his lips pulling away from hers. “Cic—“

“It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing at the hair on his forehead. “I trust you.” And she did. She trusted him more than she did anyone else in her life, who had just let her down in a series of lies and cheats. He was the first person to take her for as she was, not demand her to be some prim and proper version, to show her the truth of their life, even if it was in pieces. It didn’t matter to her that she didn’t know it all, she knew enough. Enough to know Harry could never hurt her, at least, not in the ways that mattered.

His head bent, and he rested his forehead against hers, sucking in air and quick puffs. “We—we should stop.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, barely trusting her own voice in the moment. She didn’t even know what it was that she wanted, but it was everything, anything he would give her. She would take scraps at his table, if it meant one more moment in his arms.

Harry pushed her hair behind her ear, and then let his fingers fall to the mark he had left on her skin. She thought she could see a blush rising to his skin and it made her smile. “I want you to be sure,” he told her earnestly. “And I—I haven’t done this in a long time. I need…I want it to be perfect. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” It did, and the fact that he wanted her to be sure made her trust him even more. Because even though she wanted it, she had barely thought about it. Cicely was impulsive, and her impulses had a tendency to get her into situations she regretted, and she didn’t want to regret a moment with Harry. “Will you come back to bed with me at least?”

His breath shuddered, eyes closing. She could see the wheels of his mind turning, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.

“Harry,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow bone. “Your nightmares don’t scare me. I want to know every part of you, even the dark bits.” That made his eyes open, his pupils found her in the moonlit room. “Will you come to bed and tell me about them? It doesn’t have to be everything, I just want to know how to help you.”

Slowly, he nodded. She scooted back, letting him sit up on the couch. Tentatively she pulled her knees up from the couch and dropped back to the floor, coming to a standing and taking Harry’s hand in hers to help him up. He was a disheveled mess, his hair standing in all directions, and she realized it was from her. She liked it, seeing the results of something she had done on him.

With his hand in hers, they walked up the stairs to his bedroom, to the unmade bed she had been sleeping in before. Knowing he would be hesitant, she got into bed first, scooting against the wall and turning, so she could watch him get in behind her. The moment his head hit the pillow, the duvet cover around his waist, Cicely leaned into him, wanting to be close. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm cautiously wrapped around her, holding her to him. One of her hands rested on his chest, just inches from the nipples with barbells through them, the ones that she wanted to see again but didn’t know how to ask about. The bed suddenly smelled like a mixture of them, a new scent that she already adored. She hoped she didn’t have to go to bed again for a long time.

She brushed up and down his chest over his shirt, drawing light lines across his skin. After a few minutes of just lying there, Harry cleared his throat and began to tell her the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes. “I’d barely been there a few weeks,” he said softly. “It was still all new to me, the landscape of France, the sound of bullets in the distance, the smell of smoke and dead bodies in the air. We were in this open field, the only protection was an occasional tree, but we spent all of it in trenches.”

His voice was like gravel, rough in the silence of the room, and Cicely kept rubbing at his chest, hoping it would keep him calm enough to keep going. She didn’t want him to stop, no matter how bad it got. “There was this massive offensive in motion from the French, and we were a piece of it. We were supposed to take Arras, to gain a strategic advantage against the Germans, break the deadlock we were in. All of us were itching for action, something just to keep our minds from spiraling in those fucking trenches. I’d never really been in battle before, so I didn’t know what it was like. But god, the minute we started moving, when we came up out of the trenches and the firing started, it was like the world was ending.

“Everyone around me was dropping, partly from the German fire, but more so from the shells from the air. It was so loud—they don’t tell you that, how loud war is. Your ears never stop ringing, and you’re almost able to like, drown it out for a second? But then something goes off near you and your whole body is jolted and it draws you back to the Earth. And I was just trying to like, reload my gun, right? And keep my body from shaking. Jack was there, and he was telling me to keep it together—that’s how we met actually. He found me on the field, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t reload.

“It went on like that for days. Weeks, even. We made it three or so miles on the first day, but we also lost so many fucking men. We had to figure out who was gone, and it was easier to figure out who was still there. We made it into the town and there were all these houses with no roofs, tanks covering every inch of the road. It was like walking through the end of the world. And you can’t sleep, but you also can’t do anything but sleep because it’s this bone exhaustion you’ve never felt before in your whole life.”

Cicely could feel the fast beat of his heart and his voice was speeding up, the anxiety settling into his bones. “I’m here,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where her head laid. “I’m still here.”

His head shifted, tilting to his chin rested on the top of her head. “I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I feel like I did, on that battlefield. Everything I knew before that moment was gone. It was just echoes of the dark trenches at night, the feeling of rats crawling across your boots and the niggling feeling that you can’t go to sleep because something might happen. And the death...I think I stopped believing in God on that battlefield, because how could any God ever want that many men to die? And for what, a few measly miles that didn’t even fucking matter in the end?”

“How many did you lose?”

He paused before answering, but when he did his voice cracked as he said the number. “158,000. There were conflicting numbers, but that’s the one I heard the most.”

Cicely couldn’t even wrap her head around that number. What did 158,000 people look like? Who were all of those 158,000 people? Who were their families, their children, their loved ones? How many lives were changed forever by those days? “I’m glad you survived,” was all she could think to say. She didn’t want to say she was sorry because that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Not in comparison to everything that had happened.

“For a long time I wasn’t,” he said.

“What changed?”

His fingers brushed through her hair, tender, soft caresses that made her eyes flutter shut. “A girl who showed me there was still someone left inside of me.”

Cicely looked up at him, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the light bruise on his cheekbone from the fight the other night, the curls of his hair. “You know what I see when I look at you?” He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Someone who has experienced more pain, hurt, and loss than any one person should be allowed to. But who still manages to be kind, to be generous, to care. Someone with a life worth living, someone who is worth loving.” She reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back slightly. “Someone who is worthy of everything in the world.”

She felt the tears on his cheeks when he kissed her, their lips molding together just like before. His hands gripped her face, as if he couldn’t have her close enough, and she didn’t blame him. She wished with every kiss she could drink away the pain inside of him, pull it from him piece by piece until none remained. But she couldn’t. She could only hold him and tell him who he was to her, that he was everything to her, someone she didn’t know was waiting for her out there in the world. But who now she couldn’t imagine a life without.

The days melded together in beautiful technicolor. Seven days had passed since Cicely had woken up in Harry’s bed, and each one made her more thankful it was him who had picked her up on the road. She stood in the crowds during his matches, cheering his name with Tommy and becoming less floaty every time she had a pint. At the end of each night, Cicely cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin with a tenderness he had never experienced, pressed kisses to his forehead and told him how good he did. Each night in the pitch dark, she chased away his nightmares with reminders that she was there, she was real, this was real and the battle wasn’t. He clutched the shirts of his she continued to sleep in and held her close, letting the beat of her heart and the exhales from her chest lull him back to sleep.

He hadn’t slept this well since before the war.

Cicely had discovered a new routine. While Harry was meeting with Josiah and Jack, training, or just generally out of the house, she went next door and helped teach the Rollings children to read. She had stumbled on Pippa and Clarence the morning after she had kissed Harry, almost stumbling over them in the daze she carried. They were playing outside and she had a book under her arm, a plan of finding the nearby park and reading for a few hours. But when she stopped and apologized, Pippa asked what she had, and at the sight of the words and Cicely’s description of what a book was, she was intrigued. After asking their mother, Cicely began to spend her mornings with the children curled up on their couch or at their small table, or even on their front steps, teaching them their alphabet and how to sound out words, how to form sentences and read them on the page. They were ravenous for learning and their mother was happy to see her children entertained by someone who wasn’t her for a change, so Cicely quickly became a fixture in the house.

When she had told Harry, he gave her a small smile, the first one she had seen, and a quick peck to her forehead. It was exactly what she needed from him, a vote of support and nothing more. In the afternoons she washed the blood stains from Harry’s clothes and towels, or carried water into the house and ran herself a bath, a task well worth it. One time Harry almost walked in on her and the flush on his cheeks made her almost let him in. But that wasn’t how she wanted him to see her naked body for the first time, so she squealed for him to shut the door and he did, none the wiser.

After he had told her about France, about the demons that followed him into the night, the secrets between them fell away. It was if a damper had been lifted, and at night when they laid in bed, he shared more about his past and she told him of her family, the life she was supposed to live. She tried to avoid the topic of the future, because it made them both anxious. It felt a bit like they were living in a bubble, as if the outside world and its pressures were nonexistent. One morning Harry brought up how they hadn’t heard anything from her family, and Cicely nodded in reply. She had thought about it many times, and she didn’t quite have an answer for it. Although maybe Harry was just so far from the expected answer that she would never be found.

Just as she was starting to settle into the prospect of her life becoming this permanently, her past came knocking. She was with Pippa and Clarence on Harry’s front steps, their own ones being swept by their mother. A book was spread open on her lap, one she had found at a bookstore for children, and she was helping them decipher the sentence. She could feel eyes on her, which at face value wasn’t something to worry about—people were always looking at her, at the new person in the neighborhood, although once they found out she was Harry’s, they stopped. But this time, the feeling of someone watching her didn’t let up.

So when they reached the end of the page, she looked up in search of whomever was so interested in her. And what she found were the eyes of a policeman, the black uniform and intent stare raising the hair on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it meant, that this wasn’t some normal policeman, because the ones in this area normally didn’t pay her any mind. Josiah had made clear she was not to be trifled with the minute Harry had told him that Cicely was with him, for all intents and purposes.

This policeman, though, wasn’t from around here. He stuck out, the shine of his shoes a bit too bright, the cocky attitude obvious from a mile away. He didn’t know the people or the area.

Which could only mean one thing.

Her father had found her.

TAGLIST: @autumn-sunflowers @afire-hes @harrydobedirectioning​ @harryinsweatersandbandanas @vapingisntmything @frindgeyy @froggystyles @magical-mischief-makers @heslilac @ursogoldenshan​

PART TWO

[dadsbongos]

and another continuation of hajime x antag reader pls? more scenarios of them slowly becoming friends

realized last night that this series has just been the enemies to friends trope and that was a lot to take in

Request for: Hajime Hinata Warnings: self-harm (hair-pulling) like right off the bat, more skin graft stuff but it’s just scars and stitches and they’re barely mentioned ~~~

“God- fuck- dammit…” (Y/n) groaned, tugging at a lock of hair in the midst of her frustration until a hand came to hers, removing it from her hair and settling it at her side.

“Hey, we talked about that,” Hajime stepped forward to inspect the damage of the dropped plate, “Damn, I’ll get the broom. Get some shoes on or something so you don’t get shards in your feet.”

Nodding glumly, (Y/n) moved to get on her shoes and by the time she returned, Hajime was already sweeping up her mess. Her mistake. Because, of course, he was. He was Izuru Kamukura. He was incredible and (Y/n), as she had caught Mikan murmuring to Hajime the other night, was sick. Her world had already fallen into unfamiliarity, but it was nice that Hajime didn’t show any annoyance in how she latched onto him.

That was good, right?

Or maybe he still hated her and just didn’t say anything. That was probably closer to the truth. Who would want to be friends with someone like her? Or more specifically, with her at all?

“Alright, that’s probably good, we should tell the others just in case,” Hajime dumped out the shattered remnants of the plate before clicking the dustpan back into place on the broomstick.

Shaking her head, (Y/n) kept her gaze on her feet, lips pursed, “I’m sorry…”

Hearing those two words from her mouth was new. She’d never really apologized for anything. It was just generally accepted that eventually, she would say it once she felt well enough to do so.

But now, now was not that time. She wasn’t anywhere near ready. Just the other day she almost cried when Fuyuhiko and Sonia saw her trip in the hallway. She still wasn’t used to the idea of people not hating her for making mistakes.

“They hate me… they think they’re better than me…” her ramblings were manic when she made the slightest mistake, “I’m a failure… I’m a failure…”

It hurt to watch her like this. Thinking she was absolute scum for something as simple as stuttering her words.

“It’s alright, it was an accident,” he shook his head, turning her around by the shoulder and walking with her towards the den, “Nobody’s going to hate you for an accident.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I make mistakes all the time, nobody hates me.”

“But you’re Izuru Kamukura, you don’t make mistakes…”

“I’m just Hajime Hinata. A reserve course student.”

~~

“They all hate me…”

“None of them hate you. They forgive you. We all have.”

“I haven’t even apologized yet…”

“You can when you’re ready, which doesn't have to be now if you changed your mind.”

Shaking her head, (Y/n) took Hajime’s hand in hers, shaking from the full force of her nerves, “No… I still want to do it…”

“You’re sure?” he took the doorknob to the kitchen in his hand, “I’ll be right there.”

“I’m sure.”

With no more moments to spare, Hajime pushed the door open and walked in with (Y/n). Her fingers scrambled for the bandage covering her thigh as eyes flitted to her figure briefly, she looked down before clearing her throat to catch her peers’ attention.

Everyone in the room turned to her and Hajime, the boy grinned with a small pat on (Y/n)’s back, “This one wants to say something.”

“I…” her throat went dry and her legs began to shake, “I’m sorry. For everything. I was awful to all of you in the Neoworld Program and I shouldn’t have been. I want to make it up to you all… from the bottom of my heart,” her eyes watered, hot shame and guilt whittling at her heart, “I’m so sorry.”

The first person to step up was Mikan, in an oddly confident manner, she placed her shaky hands on (Y/n)’s shoulders before pulling her into a tight hug. She was cold and smelled like lavender and vanilla. Her voice shyly peeked out in the midst of their embrace, “We don’t hold it against you…”

A dam breaking was quite disastrous.

Letting out all the sorrowed wails you’d ever held back since waking from a technical coma was therapeutic. 

She held Mikan as she cried, pulling the nurse closer as Sonia and Ibuki stepped up as well before joining the hug. Hiyoko was the last hold out of the class before stumbling her way into the group hug with fat tears dripping from her reddened cheeks.

Hajime stood off to the side with a smaller, more serene smile on his face. He watched as everyone hugged and he watched as they pulled back. As Nekomaru clapped (Y/n)’s back and lifted her up and onto his shoulders. As Mahiru took pictures of the crowd for memories. As Fuyuhiko and Akane merely nodded along, not wanting to express how deeply they felt for the girl.

More importantly, he watched as (Y/n) grew comfortable in her own skin again. Literally and metaphorically. He was glad she apologized, it was a step in the right direction.

And he knew he’d help her take those steps all over again when Nagito woke up and when they left the island and when they officially joined the Future Foundation.

~~

“Hajime! Hajime!” 

“Hmm?”

“Look!”

He lifted his head from the book, eyebrows lifting at the sight before him. He closed the book and placed it to the side before standing and coming in front of the girl, he smiled, “Mikan took the stitches out, huh?”

(Y/n) nodded, gently bringing her fingers over the scarred patches on her face, “Can you notice?”

“Just from the scars,” he shrugged before patting her shoulder, “But I’m certain those will heal up nicely soon. Maybe some scarring but you probably won’t be able to tell anything major happened by the time they’ve healed.”

Her eyes widened, “You think so?”

“I do, you should ask Mikan about it, though,” he moved to sit back down and return to his book, “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you?”

She huffed, turning around towards the kitchen, “Jackass. I’ll be fine without a little breakfast for the day.”

“You’d be complaining in an hour and you know it!”

~~

“I don’t know, man, all I can remember is having to climb over some Bob wire…”

All heads, even those who weren’t originally listening, snapped over to Kazuichi instantaneously after the words flew from his mouth.

“Did…” Hajime narrowed his eyes at the mechanic, “did you just say Bob wire? As in Robert? You think it’s called Robert wire?”

“I mean…” Kazuichi shrugged, “yeah? What else would it be called?”

Scoffing, the brunette put down his glass, “Barb wire.”

“As in- “ (Y/n)’s brows furrowed, “As in Barbara wire?”

“Duh, what else would it be?”

“Barbed!” (Y/n) shouted at the boys, “Barbed wire! It has barbs!”

“Robert wire and Barbara wire,” Fuyuhiko mumbled, taking a sip of his coffee, “Fucking idiots.”

“Oh my God,” Hajime put his head in his hands, embarrassment washing over his body, “I can’t believe I just said Barbara wire.”

“To be fair, you also didn’t know what an octagon was…”

“I remember, (Y/n)!”

He also remembered a time where this conversation wouldn’t have been possible - and he’s glad that time no longer exists.

He’s glad (Y/n), Ultimate Copycat - Remnant of Despair - Junko’s Puppet, became his friend.

[honeytea8]

“Mister Fix-it” - Josuke/gn!Reader

A/N: Something I posted a while back on AO3 and now I’m dumping it here, I edited it to be gender neutral, pls let me know if I missed anything, enjoy!

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: When your brand new air conditioning system doesn’t live up to the hype, you’re left with no other choice but to call Josuke Higashikata, the neighborhood handy-man and Morioh’s local heartthrob. (Post-canon; Josuke is 19/Reader is 23ish)

There is not a single ‘moderate’ thing about the summers in Morioh Cho and you come to this shocking discovery during your very first year back in this crazy, noisy town.

One early morning, a wave of heat sweeps in like a thief in the night, creeping over your body and making your nightshirt cling to you like second skin. A relentless force of nature that saps any residual moisture in the air. Everything is left high and dry—you lament over your dying succulent.

You can’t count how many cups of ice water you’ve guzzled or how many cold showers you’ve taken just to end up sweaty again, but something’s got to give. The day after Kai Harada announces the possibility of record-breaking temperatures in the following weeks, you delve into your emergency savings for a solution only money can buy.

Two days later, a portly electrician comes and installs a new air conditioning system for your home. He’s yammering on about how it’s supposed to be the best on the market. State of the art and all that jazz. You don’t really care for the details; you just want to be comfortable in your own house lest you end up a melted pile of goo. Who the hell would take care of your vegetable garden then?

You inspect the newly installed system with subdued interest. Truthfully, it doesn’t look like anything but an eyesore that’s completely thrown off the ambiance of the entire living room. It’s practically hanging out of your window. However, the only thing keeping you from complaining about its appearance is the dusty fan overhead that’s been circulating the same muggy, warm air for over an hour now. You prefer functionality over appearance, screw feng shui, you needed this AC.

“So, you’re positive it'll cool down the entire house?” you question one final time.

As if to prove his point, the electrician flicks a switch and the machine attached to the wall comes to life. The droning hum is annoying and would take some getting used to but it’s blowing the coldest air you’ve felt in a while. Both you and the electrician remain standing in front of it for a few seconds, basking in wonder.

Like magic, the heat-induced stress and tension leave your body all at once.

“Well then,” you say with a smile, “It’ll do.”

One week. Seven days. A hundred-and-sixty-eight hours of pure, absolute, uninterrupted bliss. You are in heaven! Your plants are flourishing as usual, and you aren’t sweating profusely like a pig for slaughter. Life is oh so good.

Until you wake up on the eighth day at four am with the worst case of cotton-mouth you’ve ever experienced.

You tumble out of bed, delirious from the sudden onslaught of heat that has transformed your bedroom into a sauna. Loose cotton sheets tangle with your ankles and you hit the ground, chin scuffing against the floor in your haste. The adrenaline pumping through your veins keeps you from wincing, or even feeling the pain. All you can hear is the sound of your own two feet pounding on the polished wooden staircase.

“Please, no, no, no, no—“

You sweep into the living room only to find the new air system is completely silent and no amount of switch-flicking or button-punching is going to change that. Mouth screwing into a scowl, you glare at the overpriced piece of junk with unbridled disdain.

This has become personal.

A hard smack from the palm of your hand to the surface of the machine echoes through the room—still nothing, not even a stirring. 

Big fat tears well up in your eyes. Whatever hormones fueling your rage are now flooding you with sadness. Your hand and chin are throbbing from the pain. The money spent on this crap was gone and now you’d have to shell out another hefty amount just to get it fixed. You want to pull out your hair in frustration.

Glancing around the room, everything is so still and calm. It’s still quite early in the morning, a few hours before dawn and you are tired as hell. The heat is making you lethargic, so after drying your tears and chewing on some ice cubes, you curl up on your sofa and go back to a fitful sleep.

.

.

.

Later in the day, you’re hanging clothes out on the line when your neighbor comes out to greet you.

She’s a grandma who lives alone except for when her grand kids come to visit, and despite her penchant for being a nosy gossip, you kind of like her. She waves and meanders over to the edge of her fence. 

“This is some heat, I tell you.”

“Right! I didn’t realize Morioh could even get this hot,” you pick up another sheet and toss it over the wire. “Would you believe that I spent two paychecks on an air conditioner that doesn’t even work.”

Your neighbor gives you a look of pity. “Oh dear, such a shame.” You watch as she adjusts the chairs and tables around her patio.

“You know, I have a teacher-friend with a son who has a knack for fixing things. Had him take a look at my plumbing a few weeks ago and he had it working right as rain. I can ask him to come by and take a look at it for you.”

You shuffle the empty bamboo basket in your arms. “I...guess that could work. Have him drop by sometime.” 

What’s the worst that could happen?

Two days later, you’re tending to your many plants—because you’d be damned if another died because of this heat—when a Greek god falls from the sky and onto your doorstep.

“Hi! I’m Josuke Higashikata, your neighbor said you had a problem with your air conditioner.”

To say you’re surprised would be an understatement: the young man standing on your porch is a damn stunner. His pouty lips, broad shoulders, and slim waist are more than enough to fuel a wet dream or two. Your brain short-circuits for a solid minute. Is it hot in here or what?

(And for once, you aren’t talking about the actual weather.)

He shifts nervously from one foot to another when you don’t immediately respond, but all you can do is stare. You’re thirsty for more than just a drink of water right now.

“Um,” he looks down at the sticky note in his hand and mumbles to himself. “This is the address, right?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. You internally berate yourself for looking like a gaping idiot in front of this knockout.

“YES! Ahem—yeah, y-you’re at the right place.” you move aside and allow him in. And good Lord, he’s tall. You wouldn't mind climbing that beanstalk.

Josuke is dressed in a striped yellow tee and pair of boardshorts that fit just right, a real sight for sore eyes.

You try not to swoon and realize rather belatedly that your own attire isn’t hiding much from view. Since the air conditioner stopped working, you reverted back to wearing tank tops and shorts around the house. Josuke, for what it's worth, isn't ogling you but he’s obviously noticed if his reddened cheeks are anything to go by.

“Right over here.” You say breezily.

The sway in your hips is subtle enough that it doesn’t look intentional. You guide him over to where the AC is sitting in the wall like a heap of scrap metal. Josuke didn’t bring any tools with him, so you’re skeptical about how he plans on fixing it. Honestly, even if he can't, you plan on making the most out of this.

You enter the kitchen adjacent to the living room, allowing him to take a look at the thing without you hovering.

As you’re straightening out the dining table, you ask, “So, how old are you, Josuke? You look a little young to be a handy-man.”

There’s a pause in his movements. “I just turned nineteen!”

Your fantasy dies a swift death somewhere deep within the dredges of your subconscious. Of course he’s young, as if you hadn’t noticed. Dialing back on the flirtation, you hum out an ‘oh cool’. The last thing you want to be is a cradle robber!

You aren’t that much older than him...but it still feels a bit wrong? You’ve never been with a younger guy before.

A startling hum resounds throughout the house and you feel a gust of cool air coming from overhead. Josuke has managed to fix it! You rush back into the room just in time to catch him stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“All done!”

“That—That was really quick? What was wrong with it?”

Josuke only shrugged. “Not sure, but it seems to be working now.”

You stare uncomprehendingly.

“So...was there anything else you’d like me to fix?”

Blinking you look around for something but come up short. “No, not unless you can bring plants back to life.”

Now it’s Josuke’s turn to blink as he takes a look around with wide eyes. He hadn’t noticed all the plants in the various corners of your home, he had been too distracted by—

“Which ones?” He says before he can stop himself.

You point to the succulent perched on the coffee table, it’s dried up and brittle in some parts, but it’s not completely dead. He kneels down to its height, touches some of its chubby petals. Then he silently calls on Crazy Diamond and with a single touch, it’s restored back to its normal health.

A few years post-Yoshikage Kira, Josuke has gotten a lot better with his powers, utilizing his stand with ease. He turns and gives you a smile and has no idea he’s giving you heart palpitations just by looking like that.

“Woah! Josuke, what the hell was that?”

“Ahh, it’s hard to explain. Just know it’s something I’ve been able to do since I was a kid.”

“Wow, th-that’s some trick,” you glance at your plant in shock. It’s literally back to normal. You recall all the time spent nurturing it, along with your other plants. All the sweat doled out during back-breaking gardening. How could you ever repay him for making sure your hard work didn’t go down the drain?

Before you know it, you have his face in your hands and you don’t know what the hell you're doing but you're holding him and staring tearfully.

“Thank you times a million. Seriously.”

Josuke just gulps and nods. “Uh huh, not a problem.”

You really try to ignore the way he’s staring at your lips or the heavy blush on his cheeks because, again, you are not robbing the cradle. With more self-control than you knew you had, you let go of his face and step back.

“S-So would you like some tea, or lemonade or—“

“Lemonade,” he says as he stands to his full height. “Lemonade is fine.”

You nod with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. He is so cute. You scamper off into the kitchen and pull out a full pitcher of homemade lemonade. Meanwhile, Josuke is left to take a look around your house.

There are plants everywhere, most are leafy, green, and healthy. The ones that aren’t, get a boost from his stand power.

Josuke wants to compare your home to a jungle or the Amazon, but that’s not quite an accurate comparison. Even though there’s clearly a lot going on, it’s not cluttered or disorganized at all. It’s just...really freaking amazing! There’s even a flourishing terrarium built in the walls near the staircase.

With your obvious love for nature, Josuke thinks you’d get along great with Mr. Jotaro, but for some reason he doesn’t feel too inclined to introduce you two.

When you finally return, you catch Josuke eyeing your little turtle tank with a weird look.

“That’s Kame, I just got him a month ago.”

Josuke laughs, “Kame, huh? That’s pretty clever.”

“I thought so too,” you hand him the cold drink and as he takes it, his fingers graze yours. “He doesn’t do much, so if you’re expecting him to do a trick, you’ll be waiting a while.”

“Oh nah, it wasn’t that. I’m just…kind of afraid of the little guy.”

Biting back the urge to say ‘awww’, you usher him over to the engawa overlooking your vegetable garden. “A fear of turtles is understandable. But would you believe that I used to be afraid of fish?”

“Fish? No, I can’t say I would. But I also wouldn’t judge.”

You smile at that because of course, he wouldn’t judge you. “Yup, had a bad experience when I was five. My father used to live in Morioh, near the coast. He was a fisherman,” you pause, momentarily distracted by the bob of his adam’s apple as he takes his first sip.

“H-He umm, took me fishing once... and it was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on a real fish. Needless to say, I screamed my head off.”

“No! Seriously?” Josuke chuckles and it’s so contagious and addicting. Soon you're laughing too.

“I swear, I cannot make this up!”

“So, what happened?”

“Okay, so I’m screaming like a mad person and running away. You know what my dad does? That asshole chases me with the thing still dangling from his fishing rod.” You shake your head at the memory. “I literally got sick and threw up that night, and boy did my mom chew him out for it.”

“That sounds so hilarious and yet so traumatic.” He laughs again. “That’s terrible!”

“Right! I could never look at a fish after that or even be around them. It took years before I finally got over it.” You sigh and shake your head again.

Silence ebbs between you for a moment before Josuke clears his throat. 

“So, this might seem a bit forward, but would you like to go on a date with me?”

The question doesn’t register in your head all at once, leaving you to stumble over your words until you can finally think coherently. “Josuke I...I’m a bit older than you. Shouldn’t you go for someone more closer to your age?”

“No, and I’ve never believed age should stop two consenting adults from getting to know each other better.”

“Josuke, I’m old enough to be your big sibling though.”

He quirks his brow at that like you’ve just said something weird. “Well, Mr. Joestar, was like ancient when he met my mom so that really doesn’t bother me.”

For some reason, that comment breaks the tension. You barely hold back a grin. “This Mr. Joestar guy is your father then?”

“Biologically speaking, yeah. He’s pretty old now and I never really knew him, but my mom still loves him with everything she has.”

Okay. Now you are really having heart palpitations.

Josuke is exhibiting a surprising amount of maturity right now, making you eat your words about him being too young for you. Why did he have to be so convincing on top of being cute?

“Give me a chance,” he says. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

After mulling over it for a moment, you finally acquiesce.

“Alright, Josuke. One date, and we’ll see from there.” and just to catch him off guard, you peck his cheek. “Okay?”

“Y-Yeah! Of course, it’ll be perfect!”

Taking the empty lemonade glass from him, you both re-enter your home with smiles on your faces. Josuke stays a little longer and you both chat for a while then make plans for your date. You get to learn about how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how he’s a firm believer in love. He makes it very clear that he doesn’t want a fling and that he’s looking for long-term. All of these things surprise you, as they aren’t what you’d expect from someone as gorgeous as him.

By the time the sun is setting, you know it’s time for you two to part ways. Josuke stands at your foyer with pursed lips and a blush on his cheeks. “Can I...kiss you?”

To answer his question, you lean up and press a soft kiss on his mouth. Josuke’s strong arms snake around your hips, drawing you closer into his sturdy frame. His plush lips are gentle and pliant against your own. 

When Josuke finally pulls back he is presented with the sight of your closed eyes and kiss-reddened lips and it’s the most enthralling two seconds ever. He thinks you're so freaking beautiful.

“Alright handy-man,” you say as you give him one last peck on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, sure thing!”

Ironically enough, you have this nightmare of a heatwave to thank for your date with Morioh Cho’s favorite dreamboat.

[straycat-writes]

I've decided what I need in my life: Chuuya and spiderman kisses May I request it? :3c

Asjsjkd yes you may, this is adorable :3

Because You Love Me (Chuuya Nakahara)

Warning(s): None. Pure fluff with lots of dialogue

The sound of gravel being crunched under your shoes was unusually loud in the surrounding silence. The abandoned warehouse you were supposed to be at was located at the very outskirts of the city. There had been rumours of an illicit enemy group hiding out there for some days now. Naturally, something like that would be detrimental to the Mafia and its influence, so you were tasked with checking it out.

“Tch. This place is disgusting.” Chuuya grumbled as the two of you stepped inside.

He was right, it was disgusting, covered in dust and grime from floor to ceiling, all kinds of trash littered everywhere, and even overgrown with vines in some places. It was also mostly empty otherwise, as you found out when you turned on your flashlight.

You rolled your eyes, “I wasn’t the one who asked you to tag along. You brought this on yourself.”

“I couldn’t just let you prance around an abandoned warehouse at night alone now, could I?”

“What? I’m not pran – “

He chuckled and held up his hands in mock surrender, “I kid, I kid. I know you can handle yourself, but still, for my peace of mind.”

You waved him off, continuing to look around. You hadn’t even walked two steps further when you heard a squelching sound. Turning around, you saw Chuuya frozen in his spot, face screwed up in disgust and eyes scrunched close, “(Y/n), I stepped on something. I fucking stepped on something.”

You stifled a laugh, “I can see that.”

“Please tell me it’s not something too disgusting.” He pleaded.

“It’s a rat.”

“What!?”

You snorted with laughter as you turned back around, “Chill out, I’m kidding. It’s just a plant.”

Behind you, you heard him sigh in relief and then grumble in annoyance, before he wiped his shoe on the ground and caught up with you, “I hate this place.”

“Complaining about it isn’t going to make it any cleaner, you know. Besides, you deal with blood and dirt on a daily basis, aren’t you used to it by now?”

“Huh? Just because I deal with it everyday doesn’t mean I like rolling around in it, you know?”

Something about Chuuya being a drama queen almost made it to your lips, but you kept silent. You shone your flashlight around the corners, looking for any signs of habitation among the desolation, though it didn’t look like anyone had been here in months, if not years. You cringed, looking at the high ceiling that looked like it could come down any moment. You wanted to be thorough, but with the dilapidated state the warehouse was in, it was highly unlikely anyone could even stay there for too long.

Just then, your eyes caught something thin and shiny, like a wire, stretched across about one foot above the ground. You frowned and bent down to inspect it. It was indeed a sharp, thin wire, probably meant to trip intruders and alert the inhabitants. On second thought, it crossed your mind, this place might be full of such contraptions. “Huh. So there were people here, after all.”

“No shit, this is the perfect hiding pl – “

His sentence was cut off by a myriad of sounds from behind you, something breaking and crashing, followed by a short scream from Chuuya. You whirled around, startled, only to find Chuuya suspended five feet off the ground by a rope, upside down. One of his ankles was bound tight by the rope suspended from the ceiling, which on second thought was probably some kind of booby trap to deter intruders.

You looked at the sight in front of you for a few seconds in mute surprise, eyes wide and lips parted, before you finally burst out laughing.

He looked at you with the most ‘done’ look on his face, waiting for you to stop laughing before finally shouting out, “Hey!”

“I’m sorry – pfft – it’s just – “

By now you were bent over double with laughter, shaking too hard to even speak. You waved a hand in front of you, trying to tell him you’ll be with him in a minute.

“Damn it, it’s not funny, (y/n)!”

After a little while, you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still laughing lightly as you picked up his hat from the ground and dusted it off. “What are you talking about? This is peak comedy.”

He rolled his eyes, “Remind me again why I tolerate you?”

“Because you love me.” You said, face lit up with a smug, lazy grin,

“How unfortunate for me.” He deadpanned, “Come on, help me down.”

“Mm, I don’t think I will.” You said as you lightly caressed his cheek, his skin warm under your cold fingers, “I think I like you like this. You look more kissable than usual.”

“I wh – “

And so you did. You held his upside-down face with one hand and kissed him. And even with your eyes closed instinctively, you could see stars exploding. The shape of his lips against yours felt like it always did, like fine satin and some exquisite wine you could never hope to afford.

Time seemed to elude you, but when you finally let go, you were more breathless than you had hoped to be. But the look on Chuuya’s face made you think it was worth it. He looked dazed and confused, blinking slowly as if waking from a dream. You chuckled as he blinked in quick succession, finally seeming to regain his wits.

“What was – I’m definitely not complaining – but what was that?” He asked, still out of breath.

You laughed lightly, “You’re adorable.”

By now, you had already reached the conclusion that since no one had jumped out at the two of you until now, the warehouse was probably empty. There had been people here, but they had long since left. You smiled playfully at Chuuya before propping his hat, that you had picked up earlier, on his face and stepped back to go.

“No, don’t abandon me, (y/n)!” he sputtered, “How am I gonna get down?”

You gave him a deadpan look, before turning around to leave, “Your ability is gravity manipulation, Chuuya. We both know you don’t need my help.”

“Betrayal.”

You snorted at the mock hurt in his voice as you heard him say that behind you, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that escapes you as you leave the warehouse.

[njzhongzhi]

Warehouse Racking Systems Storage Metal Grid Wire Mesh Deck  Mesh Deck Manufacturers  Storage Metal Grid supplier

 Flush Warehouse Racking Systems Storage Metal Grid

 Wire Mesh Deck are exactly the same as standard style – only they do not have a waterfall that wraps around the rack beam.

This style deck gives pallet racking a nice, clean look.

Wire decking is widely used in warehouse, laundry room, kitchen, closet or pantry.

Wire decking allows for easy identification of shelf contents, and prevents dirt and other debris from accumulating on the shelves because of the holes in the mesh.

It can be with powder coated, galvanized, and also spray paint.

We are a professional manufacturer specializing in the production of wire decking products.

Our wire mesh decking comes in various thicknesses and mesh dimensions.

We also manufacture display rack, wire rack, wire rack decking, welded wire decking, and wire deck panels.

Our products are the consistency of engineering design, structure and composition, and are in accordance with national and industrial standards.

Our products are made from high-quality stainless steel and galvanized or aluminum parts.

Our galvanized or aluminum walking deck with salt water resistant feature can be used over coastal waters.

Most of our products are for export to Europe, the USA, Southeast Asia and other countries.

Complete your warehouse rack with wire decking from us. Choose from our wide variety of stock and quick ship sizes, or let us design and build a custom deck to your specifications.

 Main Features of racking systems steel mesh decking for racking

1) Allows the free passage of water so overhead sprinklers operate effectively.

2) Qualifies for a reduction in Fire Insurance Premiums.

3) Reusable trip after trip. 

4) Stay cleaner because dirt cannot build up on wire grid. 

5) Don't have a disposal fee. 

6) Lighter in weight and easy to handle.

7) Won't rot or splinter and have no nails. 

8)Build products to your any specification.

 Application : Wire mesh decking for warehouse , logistics project ,logistic equipment ,storage equipment

RFQ

1, What is the material being used for your products?

---Mild steel Q235, Q195

2, How is the goods being packed?

Plastic banding + Stretch film wrapped, palletized for easy loading and unloading with standard forklift truck or pallet jack.

3, What is the payment terms I can get?

---TT or L/C at sight, DP etc

4, What kind of finish do you provide for your goods?

--- Electro galvanized ,hot dip galanized, painting or powder coating is available. 

5, What is the loading capacity?

 --- In general, we have light duty(100~300kg) model,medium duty(400~800kg) model and heavy duty(1000~3000kg) model available for your choice.

6 Which product can be used in cold storage?

--- Mobile rack,wire container and roll cage are all widely used in cold storage.

7 I like your design, but couldnt find the right model from the products list, is custom size available?

--- Yes, we do custom products and projects.

8 I would like to have my own design products and qty is not that big, is it ok?Yes, we can go with your custom design, no matter small or big qty, however, pls understand the cost will be different.

9 I don' have drawing or picture available for th custom products, could you design it for me?

--- Yes, we can make the best suitable design for you but do need to know the details - such as 

a) dimension b) loading capacity c)stackability d)operation environment,etc)

10 What is the minimum quantity I can order?

 ---1x20'GP - qty is variable depend on the size.

11 What is your average production lead time?

---2-3 weeks against formal order and deposit.

12 Do I get any guarantee from your company?

3~10 years warranty in case that A) Proper handling during operation, correctly forklift handling while stacking/un-stackingB) Overloading is prohibitedC) Environment request indoor, dry and not humidcircumstance, do not contact with any corrosive chemical material (for zin

plated and powder coated proucts, no limitation for hot dip galvanized)

13 What happen in case any quality problem is identified after arrival?

---We take full responsibility for any manufacturing defect, would either refund or reship good products to you.

 Related products:

Rack devider,wire mesh cage,Wire Mesh Fence

 Factory details :

Jiangsu Zhongzhi Wire Mesh Products Co., Ltd is located in Zhenjiang, China.It occupies an area of 25,000 square meters, including about 20,000 square meters of workshop and office area. Our Factory is mainly in welded wire mesh products:wire mesh decking,wire deck,wire cages,wire gabions,wire mesh storage cages,wire mesh trays,wire mesh pallets,pallet rack mesh,protective fences,shelf support bars and other wire mesh product. Since established in 2003,our products is not only in domestic popularity, but also exported to North America, Europe, Japan, Australia, Central and South America and the Middle East. The production scale continues to expand, and sales exceed 100 million. Our company passed the SGS ISO9001:2008 quality certification system. At the same time, adopted Japanese 5S management system,the wire mesh welding production line is fully equipped, and professional level of workers are basically realized. For customers, high-quality products are required. Honest and trustworthy, accurate and reliable is our corporate culture. High quality Products are our company's mission. In order to ensure the quality, we use high-quality steel and have professional quality inspectors to test. If it fails to meet the requirements, it will never be used. At the same time, it will be randomly checked and inspected from production to delivery to ensure that customers get qualified products. Once received an anti-dumping and subsidy investigation from the US Trade Commission and Commerce because of our products has for a large market share, we have organized a non-destructive defense in the industry and won a historic victory to regain export freedom.

 Our mesh deck comes in various thicknesses and mesh dimensions, which are made from high-quality stainless steel and galvanized or aluminum parts. Build products to your any specification!

 If you want to know more about Mesh Decking, please click here to visit our website.

[midnightsdarkangel]

I don’t want to die.

Summary: Haruka didn't care if he lived or died at first, but when Takane came into the picture, he couldn't help but suffocate.

(i read some of the translated book of over the dimension and my heart hurts. tbh i have this headcanon haruka really has little to no self care with his mental being unless Takane is there. Pls save these children)

When I was young, I was told that I was going to die.

Normally when you’re told news like this, the first thing you do is cry. You fear and you grieve over the life you wouldn't live. When my mother had died, I was numb as my father told me the same thing would happen. He was void of all emotions, just a blank stare as if to state the facts and nothing more. I'm not sure if I had cried as a child, I just remember feeling suffocated.

From then on, I just didn't care.

.

The suffocating feeling never went away as I got older. If anything, I was able to press it down in the depths of my mind. It led me to lead a very careless life- or, well, what little I have of my life. It never really bothered me when I collapsed and woke up in the same white room, with the same bed and the same blurred faces of nurses. If anything, I welcomed it as a daily routine in my life that I had grown accustomed to.  No one cared either, if anything we had all become desensitized to the notion of my predicted death so there really was no reason to worry.

Everyone but Takane.

"You idiot , you’re bleeding! Quickly, put your hand under the sink!"

It was one afternoon when all the students had gone home that Takane had rushed over me in a panic.

I stared baffled as Takane grabbed my wrist rather forcefully and dragged me to the bathroom to clean up. I had managed to get cut by a shard of glass in science class when I dropped my glass beaker, shattering all over the floor. Takane told me to leave it while she got a mop, but I just crouched down and swept the glass with my hand, collecting the fragments to throw in the bin as I managed to get a cut from a rather large piece. Blood had dripped from my palm into the bin when I let go.

I wasn't really aware of Takane at first as she panicked as I just stared at the blood drip from my hand. It felt oddly soothing to see that there was proof that I was still alive in this moment.   It wasn't until she had grabbed me by the shoulders did I snap out of my state to look at her. Her eyebrows were pinched in a angry yet concerning gaze as her lips gave off a small pout that I couldn’t help but smile.

"Sorry, it was quicker that way,"

I spoke carelessly as we arrived to the girls bathroom, thankfully it was after school and no one really bothered to hang around after an hour had passed. It was the only place she could take me. She thrust my hand in the sink and turned the water on. The cold water made contact with my cut, letting water and blood blend to sink down the drain. I could hear her sigh in the background as she leaned on one of the sinks herself and brushed the hair from her face, her eyes were careful in watching me from the corner of my gaze as I gently washed the blood until it was no longer leaking out of my hand and was a mere cut.

"You need to be more careful..."

Her voice had become soft, yet still stubborn as if she was afraid to break her cruel streak in case anyone else had seen as she turned to face me, coming up close to my side to grab my hand gently to inspect the wound.

"It shouldn’t be too bad, I’ll tell teacher when he comes back if we have anything to bandage that up."

I wasn’t really sure how to react to her concern over my wellbeing. I had expected her to call me an idiot for cutting myself and tell me to wash up, but here she was, she had personally made sure to see that I was ok. It felt...odd. As if the suffocating feeling was rising in the back of my throat momentarily;

"You don’t need to worry that much Takane,"

I muttered gently as I turned the tap off and dried my hand with the tissue she handed over, not really caring if I rubbed it on my cut. When I turned to face her after crumpling the tissue and throwing it in the bin, I froze. She wasn’t angry, but instead had a look of concern had washed over her. It seemed as if she had something she wanted to say as she flexed her hands, clenching it and opening it. She bit her lip as if what she was going to tell me could turn the atmosphere grim, and in all honesty I was expecting it.

"...Why do you not care about yourself?"

"You mean this cut? I told you it’s not that much of a big deal-"

"No, not just the cut, Haruka, I’m talking about you! H-how you can collapse at any second and yet you don't care, you push yourself to your limit and yet to you it’s nothing. How can you not care about yourself, what if you..."

She doesn't dare say the next word, but I know what she wants to say as I smile sadly, finishing her sentence;

"Die, right?"

Takane just nods looking down as I sigh smiling softly. My hand gently rubbed her hair as she looks up to me with that worried but pouty gaze. I prepare to tell her I don't really care, that this was normal for me and I knew I was safe, just to ease her thoughts but my words don't come out. My mouth is open but I can’t speak. Why can’t I speak..? My hand tenses for a moment as I just stare at her to try and figure out what's stopping me. I tell everyone countless times of my predicament and how normal it was for me.

But Takane isn’t just 'anyone'.

The suffocation rises higher.

My hand sinks back down from her head as she sighs and looks away.

"Come on, I’m sure the teacher’s worried."

I stare at her as she leaves the room leaving the door prompt open for me. I don't move at first, I'm not really sure what happened as I grip my throat slowly, the sweat drips from my face as my heart races.

For that one moment in my life. I was afraid to die.

--

1 a.m.

I couldn't sleep.

If anything I just kept replaying her gaze at me over and over. How fragile she looked as if I would crumble at any second. I hated it, it made me uncomfortable. No one had ever given me such a look, no one had cared if i did reckless actions and normally i didn't care when others fretted over me. Yet Takane was able to stun me. In all honesty she had that affect...She was like a hurricane, no matter who you were you would be thrown into her world. I had fallen for her spell, i was thrown into the heart of the hurricane and i loved it. I loved seeing her for myself, every little subtle actions of her emotions. To anyone else it'd look as if she was angry all the time, but i saw every detail she wanted to show me. When she was flustered her eyes would dart away, if she was happy she liked to kick her legs back and forth and hum a tune. When she was sad…

It killed me.

I never wanted to see her sad and yet, it was I who made her look that way.

' How can you not care about yourself?'

Hah... I let out a weak chuckle as i covered my hand over my eyes, her words replaying over and over in my thoughts like a broken record. She had got me. And yet i wished i never felt this way. In my scattered thoughts i had wished the cut i had over my eyes would open again and blood to just pour, to cover my body in a lake of it and let myself sink until there was nothing left of me in a blood red ocean of my own mistakes.

I'd never forgive myself.

--

And of course a few months later i died.

Not the way i had expected..but i was certainly dead. My body had collapsed one day. Takane, poor thing. She was wearing her headphones staring at the paper in front of her with such a cute expression. How i wish i wasnt there to break her heart. My breathing had became fast and shallow like it normally had done with any attack i faced. However i didn't take it as casually as i did.

I felt myself suffocate.

My heart had began to race as i looked over to her, my pupils shrinking as i reached out in hopes to grab her attention but my hand froze. I couldn't. I couldn't do that to her, i didn't want to see her worry over me. This was fear wasn't it? How ironic…

Tears fell from my face as I smiled weakly.

I wished she didnt worry too much…

--

I love Takane Enomoto.

Took me a while- no...maybe i knew from the very beginning she was something special to me. It was just a shame i was too late.

After i had died i was given an offer...one i foolishly refused. I was hooked up to thousand upoun thousand of wires connecting to my arm, pouring lifeless energy into my core as the world around me was pure white. I wish i could say home sweet home seeing as this wouldn't had been any diffrent to what i experienced normally, but without her around i just felt miserable.

I had a tv infront of my bed, i had to shuffle myself up against the banister to watch, my eyes are weary and dull. Supposedly i was awoken as another person. Konoha. It felt funny watching a character i created in my own spare time begin to live my life out. Maybe this is what i wanted in the end, someone else to take my place- someone who was stronger than i was. Innocent to their own cruel predicament.

For a few weeks it was nothing but background noise to me as i preferred to sleep instead. It wasn't my life anymore, it was his and it just felt wrong looking into it as if i was there.

Well...until I heard her voice again.

"Ah wait Master! Done leave me with-darn.."

My head whipped up so fast i found myself clutching my sheets.

It was her voice.

Takane.

She was live- she was actually alive how did she-

"Ah...Hello Ene.."

Ah...I sunk back down in my pillow but my heart was still racing. It was her...but...she was different. She was in a phone Konoha had clung onto as he plugged her into a socket to charge the batteries. She had a different smile i wasn't aware of. She looked so happy...A spark of joy i thought id never see in my life time. She did pout and have that look of irritation to her but it overall was lighter- playful. I leant forward as i felt my head spin;

Did she remember me?

My hand reached out as i felt the wires tug on my skin, pulling me back.

I didn't want to live at first, this should had been my wish come true but not until Takane had came along did that wish change. If Takane was alive and happy then i was...But there was, smiling with the others i failed to recognise. Of course Konoha was there also but...i wasn't. A weak smile painted my lips as i felt my body tremble. Did she cry over my death...was she happier in a world without me?

No wonder she looked so bright...i wasn't there to drag her down anymore, she was finally opening out of her shell like i had always wished her to. So why...why was i crying..?

"Takane..."

I dont want to be left behind...

I want to smile with her..

"I love you."

--

"Huh..? Konoha?" Ene was snapped out of her thoughts when she had felt tears tap at her screen as she looked up baffled. Everyone in the room had noticed this when she had spoken up as they all looked to Konoha who just stared at her baffled and confused.

"Why are you crying?" Ene asks softly as Konoha touches his face ever so gently as if he could shatter in one touch if not careful.

"Im not sure...i just feel really sad."

Such sad lives we live..