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yujikuna · 3 years

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golden hour

summary: Din Djarin wanted to kiss you. The thought of it was all-consuming. It’s funny that the only thing he’s ever allowed himself to want is the one thing he is bound by a creed to never have.

pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

word count: 2k

warnings: absolutely none. just pure fluff and yearning and a shit ton of run on sentences bc that’s my brand

a/n: i posted this over on my ao3 (padme_skywalker) back in april and have decided to post it here since it did fairly well. just something light and fluffy to balance out the pain i’m sure we will all feel during the finale. i did a few quick edits and changes to make this more inclusive, but let me know if something needs to be changed. pls enjoy~

“What’s your favorite color?”

The two of you lay on a grassy hillside on some random planet Mando had stopped at to refuel and for the three of you to stretch your legs. The child was dozing off to the side after spending the entire day waddling in the field and splashing in the nearby stream and chasing after frogs.

“Red,” Mando answered.

You were on your side, arm tucked underneath your head to keep the grass from tickling your face, watching him with curious eyes. It was nice, being able to lay there, the evening sun warming his beskar, as he played some question game you said was popular when you were younger. He didn’t know how you were able to talk so much at one time, taking the simplest questions he asked and answering them as if he asked you how the universe was made or how hyperdrives worked.

It was new to him- the whole not always being in silence thing. Not too long ago he would go weeks without hearing another being’s voice, just sitting in the Razor Crest with only his thoughts to keep him company. It was hard for him at first. It took him at least a month to be able to talk to you about something not related to the child or the ship. But your voice was smooth and sweet like the frozen cream treats he remembers loving as a child and he would listen to you talk about bantha dung if it meant he could hear your lilting accent and the breathy way you would trail off after talking for too long at one time.

“Really? Why?”

Mando glanced at you from the side of his visor. “It reminds me of the blood of my enemies,” he replied, his voice monotone.

Your eyes widened in shock before you threw your head back and laughed. Rolling on your back, you tried to quiet your giggles to keep from waking the baby. “Your jokes are getting better, Mando. Maybe once this whole bounty hunter thing gets to be too boring you can pursue stand-up comedy.”

You couldn’t tell, but he was positively beaming under the helmet, something in his chest warm at being able to make you laugh. He wished he could hear it without the filter of his helmet. He bet it sounds even sweeter.

“Okay, your turn, ask me one.”

Mando looked back up at the sky. “Do you speak any other languages?”

One corner of your mouth turned into a small frown. “No, I’m lucky that the family you saved me from were nice enough to even teach me Basic. I’ve always wanted to learn another, though.” You sat up, turning the top half of your body to him. “Oooh, could you teach me Mando’a? I always hear you speaking in it to the baby.”

He shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. Your frown had quickly turned back into a small smile and your eyes were wide with hopefulness. He wanted to tell you yes. He would learn any language in the galaxy just so he could teach it to you. “We’re not… We’re not really supposed to use it with people outside of the covert.” His heart clenched at the sight of your face falling.

You sighed and flopped back onto the ground. “I get that. Can you at least tell me what it is that you always call the baby, though? Ad’ika? What does that mean?”

He was quiet for a moment. “It’s what we call our children,” he said, deciding that the one word would be fine for you to know.

You hummed in response, eyes slipping shut. “That’s sweet. What is it that you always call me when you talk to him?” His face burns under the helmet. He uses a lot of names for you to the child. Mesh’la. Cyare. Cyar’ika. “Buir? I think that’s how you say it.”

Parent. Mother. “I… It’s just a nickname.” He clears his throat, not wanting to think about how much of a line that crosses. “You’re using all your questions up at once.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Mando turns his head to look at you again. He could hardly believe the way you glowed in the light of the setting sun. Your hair was fanned out around you, the light reflecting off of it and bringing out undertones that never show in the dim light of the Crest. It vaguely reminded him of the vibrant loom weavings the three of you had seen the local artisans working on early that day when you were in the market- but ten times more beautiful. Mortal hands could never create something as utterly divine as you were in that very moment.

Your brows furrowed slightly and you chewed on your lip. “Have you—” You cut yourself off. “Never mind.”

“Have I what?”

Your fingers twisted around a blade of grass. “Have you ever kissed someone?”

He nearly choked.

You turned your head toward him. Even the sensors of his helmet could detect the heat that had rushed to your face. “Sorry, that was a weird question. Don’t answer that.”

He couldn’t look at you when he answered. “No. I— I haven’t been without my helmet in front of others since I was a child.”

“Oh.” Silence fell between the two of you. “Have you ever wanted to?”

He should steer the conversation in a different direction. It was his turn to ask a question, anyway. He should ask you what your favorite animal is. Or what ship you would buy if you had unlimited credits. Or if— “Yes.”

He could still feel your gaze burning into him. He didn’t know if it was your eyes or maybe the sun or maybe he wasn’t really on this planet at all and he had somehow fallen in the Armorer’s forge because he felt like his beskar was melting right off his body.

“Anyone in particular?”

You, he thought. He would never say it, though. He knew that what the two of you had now was too good to ever mess up and his beskar may be hard but his heart had gone so damn soft ever since you first walked onto his ship and the mere thought of you rejecting him hurt worse than any physical injury he had ever sustained in his entire life.

But oh, did he think about kissing you.

He thought about it every time you walked in to a room. He thought about it every time you came up to the cockpit and sat a plate of food down beside him before going back down to be with the child. He thought about it the time the two of you decided to give the child a bath in a spare bucket since the sink was too small and you both were soaked head to toe from the child’s splashing and the only sounds in the galaxy were you laughing and the child squealing and you brought your hands up to wipe the bubbles off of his visor before you sent an armful of water his way and you made him laugh harder than he had in his entire life. He thought about it when he watched you work on the ship with grease smeared on your face and your brows furrowed and your tongue jutting out slightly while you concentrated. He thought about it when he turned his chair around to find you sleeping in the co-pilot’s seat, mouth slightly open and softly snoring.

He thought about it when he watched your eyes light up at the sight of something pretty at one of the marketplaces and then again when he presented it to you late at night once the child had gone to sleep and it was just the two of you and you hugged him and he didn’t hug you back but you both knew he would one day. He thought about it when he watched you take care of the child. He thought about it when he thought of his parents and how his father would always take his mother in his arms and kiss her and spin her around and dance with her and he thought about it when he told you what happened on that terrible day he lost them and you held him and cried and told him that you would burn down the entire galaxy before you ever let him feel pain like that ever again. He thought about it when the two of you got caught in a rain storm and you laughed the entire time you ran back to the ship and didn’t stop laughing as you stood under the dim lights, chest heaving and hair stuck to your face and you were so beautiful and that was the one time he sincerely thought about giving up the Creed because in his mind kissing you just once would be worth it.

He thought nearly every day about finding a loophole in the Creed. Turning the lights off. Blindfolding you. Asking you to close your eyes. He would trust you to not open them.

It’s funny that the only thing he’s ever allowed himself to want in his entire life is the one thing that he is bound by a creed to never be able to have.

So, yes, Din Djarin thought about kissing you quite often.

He could’ve told you all of this. But instead, he whispered, “Does it matter?” The words came out so softly he was sure they had been carried away by the wind.

You smiled, but it wasn’t like your normal smiles. It was sad and dejected and not like you at all. “No, I guess it doesn't.”

The sky was fading from golds and oranges and pinks to dusky blues and purples. The child was still asleep beside you and Mando wasn’t sure what kind of creatures came out on this planet at night and knew that he would have to guide you back to the ship soon.

The silence between the two of you was deafening and the few inches between your bodies felt like an entire parsec. Something cold began to clutch at his heart. He wanted to do it. He wanted to take his helmet off and hover over you and hold your face in his hands and finally just—

You scooted closer to him then, propping yourself up on one arm and leaning over him. You looked into the T of his visor and he wondered if you could see his eyes because it sure felt like you were staring into his soul at that moment.

His breath halted in his chest as you slowly inched your face toward his. Could you hear how hard his heart was beating?

He was frozen in place as he watched your eyes close and you pressed your lips to the hard beskar of his helmet right where his mouth would be and then he was on fire. He swore he could feel his lips tingling as if the helmet wasn’t there and your soft lips were on his. He was blushing, he could feel it as it traveled from his face down his neck to his chest. His entire body was tingling and numb at the same time and he felt hot and cold and Maker, is this what a heart attack feels like? Was he having a heart attack? You hadn’t even actually touched him.

The kiss only lasted a second before you pulled back and rested your forehead against his. When you smiled he felt the last bit of iciness in his heart melt away, leaving only warmth and happiness and love for this wild, beautiful creature in front of him.

“There,” you whispered. “Now you can’t say that you’ve never kissed someone.”

And then you were moving away from him, picking up the child and cradling him to your chest as you walked down the hill and through the field, taking every bit of his soul with you.

Din lay there on the hill for a moment longer. He was sure then that if he never took his helmet off for the rest of his life he would still die happy knowing that in some weird way he had kissed you and that was enough for him.

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian fluff #mando x reader #star wars fanfiction

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kozumekenza · 3 years

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on my mind :: two

:: suna rintarou x f!reader :: playlist :: masterlist ::

:: taglist: open :: wc: 1.5k ::

After a drunken one-night stand with your ex, you thought you could get him out of your life for good. Unfortunately, the two of you can’t seem to keep away from each other. Why can’t you leave each other alone? And more importantly, why is he still on your mind?

tw: mentions of alcohol, hangovers, profanity, talk of sex, one-night stands

After a lot of deliberation and even more wine with Yachi, you both came to the conclusion that ignoring Suna and the one-night stand would be the best course of action. You were also hesitant to give back the National Team jersey you had taken, fearing that it would draw attention to what had conspired between you two.

Instead, you adopted the expensive jersey into your wardrobe.

So now you sat, head thrown back over the edge of your couch, fifth glass of wine in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, bright red jersey with a large 12 and Suna’s name emblazoned on the back haphazardly thrown over your body. It was a comfortable jersey, plus, it was laundry day. You would wash it before (if) you ever gave it back.

Yachi stole the wine glass out of your hand before you could drain the rest of it.

“What the fuuuuck, ‘Toka? I was almost finished!”

Yachi just looked at you with a blank expression. “Y/n, you need to go to bed before you show up to your first day of work hungover. You’ll thank me in the morning. C’mon,” she grabbed your hands to pull you up, dragging you along all the way to your bedroom.

You cuddled into the sheets, trying to ignore the smell of Suna’s cologne on the jersey and failing miserably. Yachi brought you a glass of water and painkillers, then turned off the lights and bid you goodnight.

At least you knew why Suna was in Tokyo now. It made sense that he would make the National Team, and it was a major oversight on your part for accepting a job as a trainer for said team. However, there was nothing you could do now. You would just have to wait and see how it all played out.

You tossed and turned before finally surrendering to the comfort of the jersey’s scent. It was easier to fall asleep when you could pretend someone was next to you, anyway. When you ultimately dozed off, it was to memories of your ex-boyfriend’s calming hugs and bright smile.

---

When you arrived at the National Team Training Center the next morning, you were anxiously waiting for Suna to corner you about Saturday night’s events. Instead, you were able to walk all the way down to your new office across from the locker rooms without seeing anyone else. You set down your purse and backpack in your new office, smiling at the Assistant Athletic Trainer plaque outside your door. Popping back out into the hallway, you dropped a coffee off with your boss, Iwaizumi Hajime, whose office was adjacent to your own.

Practice didn’t start for another hour, giving you plenty of time to calm your nerves about seeing Suna. You booted up your laptop and began preparing the players’ training regimens. After about thirty minutes, Atsumu strolled into your office.

“Hey, y/n!”

“‘Tsumu!” He wrapped you in a big hug, lifting you off the ground and causing you to giggle.

“How’ve you been?” He set you back down and sat on the edge of your desk.

“Good! Lots of prepping for this new job, making sure all of your workouts are in order.” You gave Atsumu a light punch in the arm. You had missed joking around with him. Before you moved away from Hyogo, he was one of your best friends.

“Well, I hope it goes well. Hey, speaking of which, my shoulder has been kinda sore lately, think you could massage it for me?”

You just rolled your eyes and nodded. Of course, Atsumu would use your new position to his advantage. You could already tell that these next few weeks would be full of Atsumu begging for back massages when he didn’t really need them. On the bright side, at least if he was trying to scavenge a massage from you, Suna probably didn’t mention anything to him.

“Let’s go out to the court, practice is about to start. I’ll do it out there so that we aren’t late.”

Atsumu nodded, so you grabbed your backpack with your medical supplies and followed his lead to the court. You dropped your stuff at the bench and motioned for him to sit down. As you worked on his shoulder (his muscles were kind of tight after all), he talked about the temporary move to Tokyo and preparations for the upcoming Olympics. It was only April, but the competition would be here before anyone knew it. At least the team had the benefit of being at home for the duration of the Olympics. You couldn’t imagine having to adjust to a new timezone before competing at an international level.

As you two talked, more players began to filter in. Iwaizumi came out to check on you, scolding Atsumu for taking advantage of your trainer status, to which you just laughed.

“It’s fine, I promise. If I really minded, I would’ve told him to leave.”

“Alright, if you say so,” Iwaizumi looked at his watch, “Shit, I gotta go. It’ll probably be just you out here for most of the morning, y/n. I have a ton of meetings and work to catch up on, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! I can handle it, don’t worry.” You smiled, trying to conceal the large amount of fear you still held for interacting with a certain middle blocker. Iwaizumi gave you a grin before turning and walking back towards his office.

Atsumu smirked at you, “He totally thinks you’re hot.”

You punched Atsumu in the shoulder, hard. “Shut the fuck up! And he does not, he’s gay, and he’s fucking married!”

“Hm, what a bummer. You’re too tense, you need to get laid.”

Your eyes widened as you slapped a hand over his mouth. “Atsumu!”

“Hey Atsumu, y/n, long time no see.”

Your heart dropped as you turned towards the unmistakable voice, one hand still on Atsumu’s mouth.

“Sunarin! What’s up?” Atsumu shrugged your hand off as he stood and gave Suna a half-hug. You stood to the side, slowly inching towards your backpack as a means of escape. If Suna turned his attention to you, you could just busy yourself with whatever you had in there.

“Fuck, y/n, it’s been forever since I last saw you.” You looked up at Suna, schooling your expression into something resembling calm, cool, and collected and ignoring the pounding of your heart.

You gave a half-hearted laugh, “Yeah.” Suna flashed you one of his signature grins, and you nearly choked on air. Why was he so attractive?

“You’re still as beautiful as ever.” Fuck. “So this is what you’re up to nowadays?”

“Yep!” You allowed a little grin to slip through. “Living the dream as an assistant athletic trainer!”

“That’s awesome. I always knew you would do something great.” Oh my God. “Well, it looks like practice is about to start. We should go out sometime, catch up! It’s been years since we’ve talked.”

You nodded and watched as he jogged over to where some other players were stretching, then turned and buried your face in your hands. What the fuck. He didn’t remember Saturday. That was good. Now you just had to play it cool around him, and everything would be fine.

You felt an arm settle itself on your shoulder. “He totally thinks you’re hot.”

“Atsumu, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The man in question quickly removed his arm from your shoulder, giving you a questioning look. “The fuck is your problem with him? I know you two still have whatever from high school that’s unresolved, but you look like you want to die on the spot right now.”

“If I tell you, you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. Not a soul.” You could already tell you were going to regret this.

Atsumu brought his hand up with a cheesy grin on his face. “I solemnly swear. Now tell me.”

You sighed and internally cringed. You couldn’t believe you were about to tell Atsumu this. “On Saturday night, I got drunk and woke up in Suna’s bed,” you watched as Atsumu’s jaw dropped, “And he doesn’t remember anything, thank God.”

“Holy fucking shit, y/n!”

“Keep your fucking voice down!”

“Wait, wait, wait, it gets better,” you winced as you prepared yourself for whatever bad news Atsumu was about to bring, “He called me Sunday morning, talking about a ripped skirt and a bra some chick left, and that she stole his National Team jersey. You’re telling me that was you?”

Grimacing, you nodded.

“Damn, y/n. You’re screwed.”

You nodded again.

---

After a morning of tough practice, you were finally enjoying some peace and quiet at your desk. You ate the bento Yachi packed for you (she was a literal angel) and tried to avoid thinking about how hot Suna looked while practicing today. You couldn’t stop staring at him; every time you looked away, you somehow found yourself looking in his direction again.

Your buzzing phone pulled you out of your thoughts.

Osamu’s laughing voice filled the tiny speaker.

“Y/n! You slept with Sunarin! And he doesn’t even remember!”

You were going to murder Miya Atsumu.

taglist: @sunasexual @call-me-lulu

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ginisbetterthanfirewhisky · 3 years

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What Goes Around Comes Around

A HBP missing moment...

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View the story on SIYE

Harry woke up exceptionally early on the morning of 30th April, taking an obnoxiously long time (according to Ron and Seamus) in the shower, and taking particular care to flatten his hair. After Dean, Seamus and Neville went down to breakfast, Harry persuaded Ron to go on before him as it would take time. Ron threw a maddeningly Hermione-ish smug and meaningful look to Harry before he left. The mirror yawned. ‘Aren’t you finished yet? You’ve been standing here trying to comb your hair for over half an hour. It isn’t going to work, young man. Anyway, it looks like you’re planning to ask someone out. If you are, then that girl has probably always seen you in your unruly hair. Wasting your time like this won't help,’ it finished shrewdly. Harry felt a flush creeping up his neck. ‘I am not going to ask someone out!’ he said, worrying if he was being that obvious. ‘Oh, don’t lie,’ it said airily. ‘I recognize the signs. Your father and his cronies used to stay in this dormitory too, you know.’ Knowing it was useless trying to argue and flatten his messy hair, Harry gave up. It didn’t matter anyway, because his hair would soon stick out in all directions. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, and making a mental note that it was now or never, Harry walked out of the dormitory and the common room and headed towards the Great Hall. As he walked down the stairs, however, he bumped right into Nearly Headless Nick, and felt the familiar unpleasant feeling of being doused in a bucket of ice-cold water. Nick was looking very cheerful. ‘Good morning, Harry!’ he said jovially. ‘Hey, Nick. How are you?’ ‘Good, good,’ he boomed, in a rather Slughorn-ish fashion. ‘How are you, Harry? Haven’t seen you since that night near Gryffindor tower! Do you know that the Headless Hunt has finally agreed to take me in?’ ‘Oh, great,’ said Harry absentmindedly, scanning the Great Hall for a trace of flaming red hair. To his surprise, Nick chuckled. ‘Trying to ask some young lady out, aren’t you,’ he said to Harry’s utter horror. First that nosy mirror and now Nick? Why was everyone suddenly becoming annoyingly like Hermione? ‘I remember the old days… when I was trying to woo the beautiful Lady Constance Cummington,’ he sighed, looking ahead wistfully, ignoring the look on Harry's face. ‘Er… Nick, I am somewhat in a hurry, so…’ ‘Alright, alright, you can go on,’ said Nick vaguely, looking misty-eyed, and lost in his long reminiscence, still muttering things like “Duke of Brian” and “traitor”. As he moved ahead, he once again bumped into someone else. A short, over-enthusiastic, camera-clutching someone. ‘Hiya Harry!’ said Colin brightly. ‘Please don’t tell me I look like I want to ask someone out too, Colin,’ he said warily. ‘Huh?’ asked Colin, looking confused. ‘Actually, I was just asking whether-‘ , Colin began. ‘Uh, Colin, I’m getting a bit late, talk to you later!’ Harry felt slightly guilty for sidestepping Colin like this, but nobility and politeness had to wait. He would ask Colin what it was later. He had business to do. Urgently. Ron and Hermione were already seated on the table when he finally arrived. Both looked amused at his impatient state as he took a seat on Ron’s right and eagerly scanned the Hall once again. So much for being discreet thought Harry. 'Looking for someone?' asked Hermione, following his gaze. 'Huh? Er.. no. Just looking... just like that...' he finished somewhat stupidly. Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry helped himself to some pumpkin juice to calm his nerves. What was he going to do once he spotted Ginny? Just ask her if she would go out with him? What if she said no? Hermione had told him that she had given up on him ages ago. What if she didn't fancy him anymore? What if he ruined their friendship by asking her? 'Harry, can you hear me?' 'What?' asked Harry, turning to look at Ron. 'You-er-seemed a bit lost, mate.' 'Oh, erm, it's nothing... just-just thinking about the-umm- Horcruxes, yeah, the Horcruxes.' Harry knew very well that he was sounding extremely stupid, but he really could not help it. When Ginny did not arrive even after ten minutes or so, Harry threw caution to the winds. 'Umm.. Hermione... d'you know where Ginny is? I mean, she hasn't come down to breakfast yet... she usually isn't late...' he asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. 'Hmmm... well, maybe, she is with Justin Finch-Fletchley, you know... I overheard him telling Ernie that he really fancied her and was hoping to ask her out...' Harry choked on his pumpkin juice and didn't notice Hermione winking imperceptibly at Ron. 'What?!' 'Well, yes, but why are you so interested?' she asked, with the slightest hint of a smirk. Harry was saved from answering by a wonderfully familiar voice. 'Hey!' 'Hi!' Harry said automatically, turning around and literally pushing Ron so that he could make space for Ginny on his left. Ginny sat down, and helped herself to some toast and marmalade. What was he supposed to do now? Ron and Hermione were sitting right there... maybe he could ask her to a walk near the lake and... spontaneously kiss her? Should he stand up here right now and confess his undying love? Harry didn't realize he had actually half-risen from his seat until he heard Ron. 'What happened, Harry?' he asked with an amused note in his voice. 'Uh, no-nothing. I just- er- wanted some more juice,' he said, quickly taking the jug and pouring some juice into his glass so that no one would be able to see the blush forming on his face. He looked at Ginny out of the corner of his eye. She was looking really pretty, as she always did. She had tied her beautiful, long hair in a high pony and used an emerald green barrette clip to fasten them. Had he ever noticed how her hair turned hundreds of different shades during the day? Oh, well, he probably had, seeing that he had spent almost all Quidditch practices staring at her flaming hair. He heard Ron cough faintly and was recalled to his surroundings. None of his companions were talking, and Ron was looking at him with an half-amused, half-incredulous expression. Ron and Hermione then shared a look and grinned. Harry fervently hoped that the eye-catching was simply because they had sorted out their feelings for each other or something and were going off to find a nice, quiet broom cupboard, and not because they had noticed his obvious attraction towards Ginny. 'Come on, Ron,' said Hermione, taking Ron by the arm. 'You've finished breakfast, haven't you? You really have to complete that essay on Befuddlement Potions for Professor Slughorn.' To Harry's astonishment, Ron didn't argue and went up after Hermione. However, what astonished Harry even more was that Ron winked at him before going. Thinking it was only a trick of the light, he went back to wondering about how to ask Ginny out. Ginny broke the silence first. 'Have you heard about the recent development in the Holyhead Harpies team?' 'Why, what happened?' Ginny went off explaining Harry about their exchange players with Puddlemere United, and how this wouldn't be really good for the team. Harry heard her speak, admiring how her freckles highlighted her bright eyes, and breathing in the intoxicating flowery smell he had come to associate with Ginny. He vaguely registered feeling something wet in his elbow, and was shocked to see Ginny gripping his arm. Feeling goosebumps erupt in the arm which Ginny was holding, he looked at her. She was looking like she was suppressing a grin. 'Harry... you put your elbow in the butter dish...' Horrorstruck, Harry looked at his elbow, and sure enough, it was covered in butter, and hovering inches above the butter dish. Suddenly, Harry vividly remembered something very similar happening in the summer before his second year. Well, Karma had struck. He looked at Ginny once again, ignoring the blush creeping, once again, onto his face. She was smiling now, and suddenly, Harry wanted nothing more than to kiss her. Before he could act on that impulse, however, the bell rang loudly. 'See you later, Harry,' said Ginny, who was still smiling, but look slightly confused. Harry thought he saw a faint blush on her cheeks too.

*wrings hands nervously* How is it?

#hinny fanfic #hbp missing moment #harry potter #ginny weasley #romione ship hinny

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marlahey · 3 years

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under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.) utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020)

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. �� wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #utsr redux

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kitty0boy · 3 years

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Marichat May Day 6 prompt: Midnight

As with all my other fics, Marinette is 17, Adrien is 18.

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On the first of April a rare sight had occurred. Marinette was wrapped up in a blanket, staring at the distance from her balcony. She’d never been able to have a moment to herself in nearly 2 years. Between Alya, the Kwamis, Alya helping her with the Kwamis, and patrols with Chat Noir, she’d never have the chance. Having people around her was great and all, but she liked her alone time once in a while.

The view from her balcony was amazing too. Of course it didn’t compare to the view at the top of the Eiffel Tower, but it had a homely presence to it. She could see the Eiffel Tower, her school, and her kitty vaulting towards her,

Wait what? She did a double check and sure enough Chat Noir was making his way towards her and he came to a stop on her balcony. “Fancy seeing you up here princess.” She smirked and crossed her arms. “On my own balcony?” He laughed. “Well you haven’t been up here in a while. The only times I’ve seen you have been with akuma attacks.” Lately, she had been caught up in a lot of battles. The akumas seemed to be targeting her and she was scared to wonder why. Had Hawkmoth found her? Or was he convinced that she would get a miraculous from Ladybug? He had seemed to have found a trend in who were miraculous holders, most of them being in her school. More specifically her class.

Chat Noir must have noticed her puzzled expression because he booped her on the nose, pulling her out of her thoughts. She smiled and so did he. “If you had done anymore thinking, steam would have come out of your ears princess.” She laughed before turning back to the view. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders but before she could grab it, he picked it up and wrapped it and his arms around her, resting his head atop hers. “So, what sort of mischief did you bring to Paris this year?” Everyone knew that April fools was Chat Noir’s favourite holiday. I would go around Paris pulling pranks on any Parisian in sight. Of course they were all harmless and he ended up earning chuckles for his silly antics. Then at the end of the day, he ended up on her balcony, telling her about everything he’d done that day.

He went on and on, telling her about his practical jokes. She tried to be the best audience for his story tellings. Laughing in all the right places, gasping when he did something surprising and responding to him when he paused. Chat Noir was always the more social out of the two heroes. Not that she wasn’t social as Ladybug, but he would travel around and seek out conversation with any Parisian in sight. He was also the one to comfort the akuma victims once they were purified. She must have been thinking too hard again because he started rubbing his cheek against the top of her head. “You know Mari,” he said, a little louder than usual. Probably to keep her from zoning out again. “You hair is really soft. Could I borrow your conditioner some time?” She giggled, “Of course. I’m sure you have to wash out that alley cat smell don’t you?” Before she could brace herself though, his hands grabbed the openings of the blanket, pulled them apart, and started ticking her ribcage.

Why did she ever tell him she was ticklish. I guess it’s because she squirmed a little the first time he tried to hug her. Now she leaned back against him as her knees gave out. Her laugh clearing the silence on the Parisian night. He ended up toppling over and slipped out from under her once they landed. Kneeling over her and running his fingers along her sides making her squirm like a fish out of water. “O-okay okay.” She half panted half laughed. “Y-you’re going to wake up m-my parents.” He chuckled. “No, you’re going to wake up your parents little mouse, with all the squeaking and squirming you’re doing.” Unfurrtunately Chat Noir wasn’t ticklish, so she had no hope of retaliating. So instead she slowly sat up right and he stopped tickling her so she didn’t smack her head on the floor.

That pause was all she needed though, she quickly grabbed the discarded blanket and threw it over his head before wrapping her arms over his, successfully trapping him. “Well done Marinette,” he chuckled, “you’ve mastered the art of cat burglary.” She laughed, “Well you started it kitty.”

The sound of creaking hinges startled the pair and Marinette turned to see her mother checking to see what all the racked was about. “Oh thank goodness, you’re alright, I was starting to think there was, a..” she seemed to have notice Marinette’s feline friend. “Is that?” She pointed. Marinette laughed, “Don’t worry mom, I’ve got this cat in the bag.” He laughed from under the blanket. “Well let the cat out of the bag and go to sleep. It’s quarter till midnight.” Marinette groaned, “Mom, it’s a Friday, no school.” Chat Noir piped up, “Could she stay up another half hour Ms. Cheng? I don’t get to hang out with Marinette very often anymore.”

Sabine nodded at Marinette. “Now let the boy breathe, he’s started shaking dear.” Marinette was now acutely aware of the shivers coming from him. She lifted the blanket off and saw his pink face. Whoops. “Sorry cat.” He subconsciously rubbed his neck. “No worries.” They heard the sound of the trap door closing and stood up. “Are you cold Marinette?” He asked, she was “A little.” She replied. His face scrunched up cutely and he flung her over his shoulder. She gave a squeak of surprise. “Chat! What are you doing?” He walked over to the trapdoor and lifted it with his foot. “We are going in and you are grabbing a sweater.” Oh shit. Did she remember to put the miracle box away? The answer was thankfully, yes, as she didn’t see it on her desk.

He put her down and she quickly scurried of looking through her drawers and her closet for a warm sweater. Paris isn’t a warm city, especially at night. She found a simple black sweater and slipped it on. Chat gave a snicker behind her. She turned and crossed her arms. “What’s funny?” He crossed his arms in reply. “I didn’t know you were a fan of mine.” He smirked. This was in fact, a Chat Noir sweater she bought off a merchandise website with Alya. Well, Alya picked it out and used Marinette’s card to pay for it, so it was a surprise.

Rather than letting her face flush pink, she clasped her hands behind her back and slowly approached him, wearing a smirk of her own. “Of course kitten, I can’t pawsibly think of a purrson who wouldn’t be your fan.” She was smiling up at him, about an inch apart and their faces were closer together than Marinette had intended. But just as quickly as her confidence came, it was gone. Chat pulled her against him by the waist and used his other hand to lift her chin up. He gently tilted her head to the side and leaded down to whisper in her ear. “This is a game you won’t win purrincess.” Then he pulled back, smiled, and lightly bopped her on the head. He walked around her quickly and started making his way up the stairs, while she stood there blankly.

“Are you coming Mari, or do you need a minute to reboot?” He chuckled behind her. She turned and made her way up to the roof where he was waiting for her. He extended his hand, like he had so long ago, and she took it. Letting his scoop her up with her eyes closed and take her wherever they were going.

After a while, he stopped and told her to keep her eyes closed. She heard him pull out his baton for a second before putting it away. He took her hands and guided them towards a railing that was not her own. “Ok, open.” She looked and saw that he had took her to the exact same spot from his first visit. “You know, we never really got the chance to enjoy the view.” She smiled, “Yeah.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and he put an arm around hers. They stayed there for a while, until Chat decided it would be the perfect time to make her heart stop.

“I’m in love with you.” Her face felt hot, her stomach twisted as little akumas fluttered around. She looked at him, he looked to peaceful here. Then she remembered what day it was. She frowned and pulled out her phone to check the time

12:00 am

“Chat, you do know it’s April 2nd now, don’t you?” He smiled. He looked a little hurt and worried but smiled all the same. “I know, why do you think I waited?” She stuffed her phone back into her pocket and decided to finally listen to her heart for once. Straightening up and wrapping her arms around his neck, she closed the distance between them, and he returned the gesture.

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That’s all for day 6.

#miraculous ladybug #marichat #miraculous ladybug tales of ladybug and chat noir #ladybug and chat noir #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng

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kirishibi · 4 years

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It’s Platonic | Kaminari Denki

Pairing: Kaminari Denki x Reader

Warnings: cursing, angst, pining, unrequited feelings

Word Count: 1.3k

a/n: okay, this is late as fuck im so sorry but here’s by second and last piece for Angst April!

Kaminari had been your best friend for as long as you could remember.

Growing up, time apart from one another was few and far between, with school breaks turning into days-long sleepovers and entire weekends spent at one another's houses. Dawning matching All Might capes, you’d run around your shared neighborhood pretending to chase villains and debating about which of you was more heroic. The spare bedroom in Kaminari’s house became a second home for you, while he learned to sleep comfortably on the large sofa in your game room.

As you got older, friends came and went. People outgrew one another and social circles seemed to change with the seasons, but Denki never left. Hand-sewn capes were traded in for video games, and childhood playdates evolved into ‘hang-outs’, but your friendship never changed. He was your safe space, your rock, the one person you learned you could always rely on. You didn’t need anyone else as long as you had him.

You could barely remember a life before Kaminari, and wouldn’t dare try and imagine one without. When he was away, you craved him like an addict needing a fix.

You loved Denki, but he was in love with you.

He first fell for you the night the two of you snuck onto your respective houses’ rooftops with stolen walkie-talkies just to see if they could connect from across the neighborhood. They did, and he stayed up until sunrise just listening to your voice through those old, crackling speakers.

He fell more deeply every time you made up a dumb nickname for him or slipped on his favorite hoodie as protection from the cold. Everything about you was perfect to him. Your touch was an intoxicant, your voice a captivating melody. He swore you would drive him crazy one day, and he didn’t mind in the slightest.

You could never know about these feelings, of course. There was no question nor debate - you didn’t love Kaminari in the way that he loved you. That was okay, though. He was happy keeping things platonic.

At least, that’s what he told himself, and for a while, he believed it. Over the years, the blond watched patiently as you fell in love with other people. He supported you through good times, offered a shoulder in rough patches, and helped put you back together when everything fell apart. He convinced himself that he was at peace just helping you find happiness.

He forced a stiff smile when you gleefully told him of romantic dates, swallowed the bile rising in his throat as you introduced him to your lovers, and pretended he was only upset about the weather when he screamed into his tear-soaked pillow later than night thinking of you.

Kaminari tried to date around as well. There had been short-term girlfriends here and there, along with some flings when he’d gotten jealous at parties and drank himself into a stupor watching someone else snake their arm around your waist. No one lasted, though. Kaminari was picky, according to you.

Denki never expected anything of you. You didn’t owe him a relationship. He knew that. ‘Strictly platonic’ was all that things would ever be, and he wanted to believe he could be happy that way. All you needed was each other, right? That’s the promise you’d made back when you were little.

So, why did he want to smash his phone when you texted him asking for a rain check on movie night because your boyfriend wanted to take you to a new steakhouse in the city?

Not that it mattered, anyway.

A few hours after your impromptu date, you were curled up on the sofa of Denki’s apartment in his favorite hoodie, eyes red and cheeks puffy as your best friend boiled water in his kitchen only a few feet away.

“I left for two goddamned seconds and when I came back he was slipping his phone number into the waitress’s fucking bra!” You half-yelled, half-sobbed, wiping away hot tears with baggy sleeves.

Kaminari padded back into the room with a pensive frown and two steaming mugs of tea, sat down on the cushion beside you, and handed over one of the drinks as his brow furrowed.

“I swear, he’s so sweet when we’re alone. He really is the perfect guy most of the time.”

Kaminari didn’t know he had a breaking point until that moment.

“No, he’s a dick. He’s always been a dick, and he knows he can get away with it because you let him. You fall in love with the wrong people, (Y/n).”

The pain in your expression when your eyes met his nearly made Denki regret his statement. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You give your heart to assholes, and I’m always the one on damage control” He didn’t expect to say that. In fact, he was planning on just biting his tongue and apologizing, but something wouldn’t let him. That’s the funny thing about suppressing how you feel: It may take years, but everything bubbles back to the surface eventually. “I can’t keep making you whole again after someone breaks you down. I’m tired a- and it fucking hurts.” His voice broke only for a moment before he regained his confidence and continued. “It hurts so damn bad knowing no matter how much I give to make things better, you’re just gonna let yourself get hurt again. I can’t do it anymore.”

“I’m a fucking adult, Denki. I can make my own decisions.” You spat back, setting down your cup on the coffee table and standing to grab your purse. The venom in your tone was like a knife to his heart. You tugged his hoodie off over your head and tossed it to him as you passed, evading his grasp when he reached for your wrist. Shaky fingers turned the front door knob.

“(Y/n), I’m serious. I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself over and over again. Next time, you’re on your own.”

“Whatever,” You muttered under your breath, slamming the door closed on your way out.

-----

The silence between you lasted a week before Denki’s phone woke him up in the middle of the night with your name displayed in bright letters on his screen.

Immediately, he knew why you were calling. There was only one reason you ever called him this late at night. His stomach twisted in knots as he reluctantly answered, sitting up in his bed as Kaminari mentally prepared for the flood of emotions that talking with you brought.

“Hello?” He feigned ignorance, voice softened by exhaustion.

You sniffled into the phone, the sound alone making his heart ache. “It’s two a.m., I know that, but I need you…”

Denki took a deep, but shaky breath. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go to you anymore. You know that.” Every inch of him was screaming to drop the wall he spent a week building around his heart, to hang up and drive to wherever you were so that he could hold you in his arms and tell you that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn’t. Kaminari blinked away the tears blurring his vision, choked back a sob as you broke down at his words.

Trembling fingers gripped his phone so tight he thought the screen would crack. Denki didn’t know how to be happy without you in his life, but it was clear he couldn’t be happy with you in it either.

“Please, don't leave me. I- I need you, Denki. I love you so much.” Your voice was reduced to a defeated whimper as you pleaded with him, desperate not to lose your best friend, but knowing this was goodbye.

“No, you don’t.” Denki pressed the bright red ‘End’ button before he could change his mind. Mournful cries tore through his apartment as the only woman he’d ever loved was forcefully cut from his life.

#kaminari #denki kaminari #denki #kaminari x reader #kaminari angst #collabs #bnha x reader #bnha angst #bakusquad #yes i cried writing this #kiri writes

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unpack-my-heart · 3 years

Text

from out of nowhere (you came strong as stone)

This is the first story I’ve written since ... fuck knows when. It’s short, bittersweet, and I hope you enjoy it.

The summer that had taken too long to arrive ended on a sticky, sweat-slow September morning. Richie lay beached on his sea-foam bed covers, counting his breaths,

in and out,

His mother hasn’t seen the inside of his room since mid-April, and since then, the floor had become littered with the remains of food devoured long ago, a graveyard of chip packets and half-eaten candy bars grown furry with neglect. He’d lived the last few months in relative solitude, Diogenes in his barrel, his only reassurance the inevitability that this too shall pass. The days had gelled together into a gelatinous clump of anxiety-infused monotony, a self-imposed isolation that had Richie desperately wishing that he’d tried harder at school from the beginning of his senior year.

Like the stem of a plant locked in darkness, Richie’s skin, blue-veined and sun-parched, twisted and turned on his bones, sunflower seed freckles waiting under his skin, waiting to be called to the surface by Helios himself. He’d spent day after day after night after night with his nose buried deep into various textbooks on subjects he couldn’t pretend to find interesting anymore, until, one afternoon, he was done. It was all rather anti-climactic, the walk from the exam hall to his car, the sun waving frantically at him from behind the thin icing-sugar dusting of cloud in the sky, you’re done, you’re free, your life is your own! Richie had pulled his prescription sunglasses down over his eyes, and climbed into his rust-bucket Ford, leaving the sun hanging bloated and ignored in the sky.

And now, as he lay on his bed, legs stuck in the air, parallel to the wall upon which they rested, all Richie could do was count his breaths and wait for Eddie to arrive.

Most of Richie’s life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. When they were children, knee high to grasshoppers and twice as bouncy, he’d waited at Eddie’s house, hopping from foot to tiny foot, waiting for Sonia to baptise her son in sun-cream, waiting for the moment that Eddie would finally emerge from the dark, womby house, a thick film of white cream on his face, a sticky-sweet toothy grin. When they were middle-schoolers, Richie would wait for Eddie at the arcade, feeding quarters into the greedy machines as quickly as he could, trying desperately to stall for time, to hog the machines until Eddie would arrive, face crimson and knees knocking awkwardly as he walked, his long overdue growth-spurt still clinging to his bones.

Read the rest under the cut or on AO3

And so, now they’d finished high school, emerged not quite boys but still not men, Richie was still waiting. He spent the summer waiting for Eddie to finish his summer homework so they could go and watch the kingfishers dancing in the reeds at the barrens. He waited for Eddie to finish work at the library, standing in the parking lot, the August air wrapping itself around him, tickling his sunburnt skin. He waited for Eddie to open his window, witching-hour late, so he could clamber through and wrap himself around Eddie, terrified Tetris-pieces clutching at each other after nightmares, hoping that they were each braver than each other.

It's been nearly two hours since Eddie got out of church. The image of Eddie, knelt on the floor of St Benedict’s, hands clasped tight, so tight, eyes screwed shut, set Richie’s stomach alight, a forest-fire, destructive, lethal. The image floated in Richie’s brain for a while, Eddie knelt on the cold, stone floor of the church, Eddie knelt in the shower, rivers of water flowing across the parched plain of his back, Eddie knelt on Richie’s grimy carpet. So fucking dirty.

Richie grabbed his half-interested dick, squeezing it just so, just enough, a whisper of friction. Half-interest turned sailed straight to undevoted attention, and Richie sighed. The air was too hot, stifling, judgemental, and his hands were already damp with sweat. Sliding off the bed with a grunt, Richie slunk into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Another hour passed, and Richie was still waiting. The worst of the heat had gone, had sunk into the scorched grass, and the sounds of midsummer started floating back through Richie’s open window as people emerged from their houses. Children, screaming in delight, having wriggled free from the desperate clutches of their parents who stood, sunblock in hand, defeated. He’d run the water in the shower as cold as it would go, but it hadn’t been of much use. He’d come, gasping, face red with embarrassment and the release of a tension that had sat coiled in his abdomen for what felt like forever.

They’d spoken about it once.

They’d been at the library, Richie browsing the fiction shelves blindly, fingers skating over the spines of books he never had any intention of reading. They’d walked home together, an unspoken arrangement, and Eddie followed Richie up past the old well house on Neibolt street, and didn’t turn down the dusty track. They barely spoke as they walked, and Eddie kicked an old glass beer bottle all the way to Richie’s street, before sending it skittering into the undergrowth.

“Have you ever –”

The question died in Richie’s mouth before he’d realised he’d been half way to asking it. Eddie looked up from where he was lying.

“Huh?”

“Aw,” Richie started, throwing the elastic band ball he’d been working on at the wall, “never mind, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“No, come on, you can’t do that. Have I ever what?”

“It really doesn’t matter, Eds.”

thunk, thunk, thunk went the ball against the wall, a rhythmic heartbeat.

“I’ll fucking garotte you, Richie. Have I ever what?”

thunk

“Are you going to let this go?”

thunk

“We both know the answer to that question.”

thunk, thunk –

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like …”

Eddie stared at him, slack-jawed, almost bored.

“What it’s like to what?! Stop being so cryptic, you’re not smart enough to pull it off.”

“What it’s like to suck someone off, like … a dude?”

Richie expected Eddie to react in one of three ways. One, to punch Richie on the nose and flee from the Tozier house never to return again. Two, to admit that yes, he had wondered what it’s like to suck someone off, why, isn’t Richie very perceptive for asking such a question. Three, to shrug his shoulders, all ‘nope, never have, never will, now stop fucking pining after me’.

Instead, Eddie just blinked.

“You’re killing me here, Eds. Are you gonna say something?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What is there to think about?” Richie babbled, motormouth running at full speed, max-fucking-horsepower, “it was a dumb question, just a joke. A classic Richie jest, heh. Don’t sweat your pretty little head about it any longer –”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Blink.

“Do you want to go and see whether Bev’s finished her shift? I fancy getting out of here, s’too fucking cold in your house,” Eddie yawned, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.

And that was that.

After that day, they never sat down and had a conversation about why they look at each other for slightly too long, eyes meeting over shitty diner coffee at two in the morning after an evening of tomfoolery in Mike’s barn. They never acknowledged that, when they walk home together after leaving the diner, six dollars left in a neat pile on the edge of the table, Richie would grab Eddie’s hand, and hold on tight, fingernails digging in, just scarcely, just enough. If Eddie thought it was weird, thought that Richie had a screw-loose and needed tightening, he didn’t mention it, he just rested his hand in Richie’s vice grip, barely holding on himself, but he didn’t need to. Richie had him.

They never acknowledged that when they said goodbye, Richie would duck down, face hovering next to Eddie’s, and he’d kiss the soft spot behind Eddie’s ear, a secret pressed into Eddie’s skin.

Eddie showed up close to midnight, when the sun had been chased across the sky by the moon which shone brilliantly in the sky.

[Eds: 23:42: are you gonna let me in?]

[Eds: 23:42: i brought you something]

[Eds: 23:43: seriously trashmouth this branch doesn’t feel like it’ll hold forever]

[Eds: 23:44: OPEN YOUR FUCKING WINDOW]

The window was barely half open when Eddie tumbled through it, limbs knocking together awkwardly. He’d had a growth spurt last year, shot up several inches in one summer, and Richie often found himself staring at the criss-cross silver slithers across his back when they went swimming at the quarry. Eddie hated them and had spent ages on the internet looking up remedies for stretchmarks, had even gone to the doctor, convinced that he’d need a skin graft, but Richie loved them, wanted to trace them with his tongue.

“I wish you’d let me use your door like a normal fucking person, asshole,” Eddie groaned, rubbing his elbow where it had fought with the sharp edge of Richie’s desk and lost.

“You really think Went would let that slide? Anyway, you’re a fucking liar if you don’t find this way more romantic.”

“Romantic?”

“Yup, romantic.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Eddie was right, of course. Richie was a fucking idiot, with his heart glued messily to his sleeve.

“Here,” Eddie says, thrusting a small, wrapped package at Richie’s chest. His face has gone an odd colour, almost the colour of the marshmallows Richie’s mother decorated her apology hot chocolates with. “Just, don’t say anything until you’ve opened it, okay?”

The package was wrapped in newspaper,

‘the senator staunchly denies the accusations of …’

‘the next few days will be mostly dry, with the occasional …’

‘Mick Jagger, 77, has been caught with …’

“Stop reading the fucking wrapping paper, Jesus Richie,” Eddie snaps, and Richie looks up.

Eddie’s standing in the middle of Richie’s room, and he looks … panicked. Not the sort of panic that Richie is so used to seeing painted on Eddie’s face, panic that his mother will find out he’s snuck out of the house, panic he’s flunked a test, panic he’ll be late for his shift, panic he got some of Richie’s spit on his face when they’ve laughed with heads bowed close together. This panic, this is different.

“Eddie…” Richie warns, voice low, gravelly. “What is it?”

“Just … open it,” Eddie says, and there’s no bite, no sarcastic-witty-‘shut-the-fuck-up-Richie’-Eddieness. Richie doesn’t recognise the look on his face, can’t match it to the bank of Eddie expressions he keeps in his mind.

The paper comes away easily, and Richie’s left clutching a blank CD in a clear case.

“A CD?”

Eddie rubs the back of his neck with his hand, still not looking at Richie straight.

“Yeah, it’s … I thought about just sending you a link to a Spotify playlist but this … it felt more real.”

“Real? Eddie …”

Eddie shakes his head. “Shut up, okay. Just … listen to it. When I’ve gone, listen to it.”

The room feels smaller. The memories of them sitting here, playing video games on Richie’s dads old gamecube when they were seven, of watching horror movies about killer clowns and monstrous body snatchers when they were thirteen and Eddie would shriek loudly into Richie’s shoulder before punching him, of sitting and staring at the walls, a joint balanced precariously between Richie’s lips, Eddie bobbing his head along to Chris Cornell’s voice seeping out of Richie’s shitty speakers, the memories pushed at Richie’s arms, at his legs, squashing him. The room felt smaller, and Eddie, standing there, with his ridiculous determined expression and a set jaw, felt huge.

“Uh..,” Richie stammered, dumbly, staring at the CD in his hands.

“I’m gonna go now, okay? I think … I think it’s best if I go now. Text me, when you’ve listened to it. Text me and … yeah. Listen to it when I’ve gone?”

Before Richie could answer, before he could look at Eddie in the face, the room was empty.

Richie threw the CD on his bed, staring at it as if it might grow legs, arms, a mouth – as if it might speak to him, “this is what you think it is! It can’t be anything but this! Listen to me and find out! It’s what you always wanted!”

Richie stared at it. The insignificant chunk of plastic lying on his bed innocently, provocatively, as if it didn’t contain the secrets of the universe, as if it didn’t have the capacity to change Richie’s life in several short yet monumentally significant minutes. He’s almost sure he won’t’ listen to it. He grabs at it gingerly, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it’ll burn him, as if it’s something disgusting. He drops it in his overflowing waste bin, before marching out of the room, and down the stairs. The house is silent, and Richie stands in the sitting room, unsure what to do now.

Half of him wants to throw open the front door, and hot foot it to Eddie’s house, clamber in through the downstairs bathroom window that never shuts properly, tiptoe past Sonia passed out on her La-Z-Boy, pin Eddie against the wall of his immaculate bedroom, and demand that Eddie take it back. He wants to thrust the CD at Eddie, wrapped in the stupid newspaper, and leave. Pretend it never happened. It would be easier this way, nothing would have to change. They could go back to stolen glances across the room, clasped hands on intoxicated walks, dry presses of mouths to secret spots that no one else knew about. Easier.

The other half of him screams at him, begs him, to dig the CD out of the bin, to scrape the pencil shavings and the toenails off of it, and to put it in his Walkman, and to listen to what Eddie had to say. Hell, it might not even be what Richie thinks (hopes, dreams, dreads) it might be, it might be something mundane, a new album Eddie has found online, a new artist he thinks Richie will like, a recording of his new, perhaps ill-advised, stand-up comedy routine, and …

Not an expression of undying love, a token of affection, a symbol of everything Richie means to Eddie …

Wrapped up in a neat little plastic bomb that threatens to detonate and lodge shrapnel in Richie’s, till now, carefully-guarded heart.

Shit.

Most of Richie’s life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. Only now, on this sweat-sticky summer night, Eddie waits for Richie. Impatiently.

[Eds: 01:54: have you listened to it?]

[Eds: 02:13: this isn’t fucking funny]

[Eds: 02:43: Rich?]

[Eds: 04:20: im sorry]

The sun filters in through the living room window, reborn. Richie��s still sitting on the sofa, head in his hands.

[Eds: 05:12: Richie seriously]

[Eds: 05:45: listen to track 3 again]

Track 3. Richie hasn’t listened to track 1, the CD is still lying in the waste bin, rejected, a grenade with the pin still intact, but waiting, ready, willing. It feels inevitable, really. Richie knows that, eventually, whether today, tomorrow, next year, thirty years from now, he’ll listen to that CD and he’ll run to Eddie. He’ll run, and it’ll all be different, the kind of different that sends electric-shock excitement shooting down Richie’s spine, and anticipation collects in his pores, seeping, oozing, unstoppable. It’ll be different. Richie needs, craves, different.

But, and it’s a huge, omnipresent but, they can’t go back from different. They can’t decide that actually, things were better the way they were, let’s stop being different and go back to what came before. Different is permanent, a deep gash that scars but doesn’t disappear, a tectonic shift, Atlas shifting his grip on the world, never again to place his hands exactly where they were before.

Whether it’s worth it, to take a punt on different, to screw his eyes closed and hope for the best, to jump into the void and hope it catches him with velvet-plush arms, Richie doesn’t know.

His phone buzzes, a long, prolonged clattering against the wooden coffee table.

[incoming call from: Eds]

Richie ignores the phone.

He sleeps the day away, a sleep that doesn’t quench his thirst for oblivion as he dreams vividly, dreams of difference and soft hands and eyes that roll and squint and of premature laughter lines etched on soft, youthful skin.

When Richie wakes up, it’s dark. He has 17 missed calls, and two texts.

[Eds: 14:52: don’t freak out, okay. I made that tape because I can’t bear the thought of you going off to college and of being such a fucking coward that I’d let you go without telling you. I’m sorry if it’s all weird now, but at least I’ve been honest with you. If you don’t feel the same, it’s fine, honestly. It’ll stop being weird eventually.]

[Eds: 17:19: I’m still coming to wave you off tomorrow, just FYI]

Ah. Tomorrow. The day Richie bundles himself into his father’s Subaru and leaves Maine for Chicago, the Windy City, the city that never sleeps, the city that Eddie won’t be in. Ay, there’s the rub.

Leaving Eddie behind as they are now, friends, best friends, best friends who look at each other for too long and hold hands in the dark, feels like a sucker punch that Richie can never recover from. Leaving Eddie behind as something different …

It’s half past eight and the CD is still in the bin, but now, Richie is in his bedroom, staring at it, daring it,

Make it different.

It takes him two hours to pluck up the courage to dig the CD out of the bin and put it in his Walkman. Another thirty to press play. He skips straight to track 3, fingers shaking.

You have always been my safe home I walk, I run, I burn out into you You have always been my safe home My whole world has moved on

Fuck.

Immediately, different settles over Richie like a thick smog. As soon as the song stops, before he’s even spoken to Eddie, it’s different. He can feel it, taste it, touch it in the air. And, as if he knows, as if he’s watching Richie at that very moment, Eddie texts.

[Eds: 11:13: I love you]

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #eddie kaspbrak x richie tozier #richie tozier #it fandom #it 2017 #it 2019 #fanfic #thefutureisbright #my writing

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love-bean · 3 years

Text

Spectacular - Part 4

alright duckies, this is going to be the final part before the epilogue, which is quite short (might end up uploading that tonight). let’s go!

wk: 1597

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the eleventh of April that year, Benedict began formally courting Anastasia. Having spent countless days together, it was to no one’s surprise when he asked for her hand in marriage not one month later.

Benedict paced nervously across the length of the drawing room.

“You are making me nervous, friend,” Alexander sighed. “What could be so important that you have summoned not only my father, but the four of us?”

Benedict paused, looked at the five men in front of him, and resumed his pace.

After a few more minutes of watching the Bridgerton pace, Arthur stood up.

“If you do not have anything to say then I shall be going.”

“Wait!” Benedict said, eyes pleading.

“Well?” Arthur challenged.

“I-”

The words were caught in his throat. He could not bring himself to stand before these five men and ask their permission to whisk away their most prized jewel.

“If you are going to ask us for permission to marry Anastasia, you have come to the wrong place.”

It was young Augustus, only one year older than Anastasia, who had spoken up.

“Pardon?” Benedict squeaked.

“You would like our sister’s hand in marriage,” Augustus stated.

“How did you know?” Benedict gasped.

“It is obvious,” the younger man laughed. “You have gathered nearly the entire family, excluding the one you favor. You have been relentlessly pacing in front of us for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to figure out how exactly to ask. But you are in the wrong place.”

“I- I do not understand,” Benedict stuttered.

“We know better than to answer for our sister,” Andrew scoffed. “She was raised with only us around. Surely you are not foolish enough to think she should be confined to our opinions when she has so many of her own.”

In hindsight, Benedict knew he was right. It was foolish of him to think that he needed their permission to marry her.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Lord Mackenzie said, rising from his chair. “Our permission is not necessary for your marriage. If Anastasia wishes to marry you, she will. And we will support her in all of her endeavors.”

“Does… Does that mean I have your blessing?” Benedict whispered.

“You certainly have mine,” Lord Mackenzie said before turning to his sons. “And I would think you four foolish to disagree.”

The young men agreed and with a gracious thank you, Benedict was off to tell his mother of the wonderful plan he had.

By the next afternoon, Benedict had everything planned out. On the coming Friday, he would promenade with her, take her riding, have a romantic picnic, and end the evening with a dinner at which he would stand up in front of their families and confess his love.

Every detail was planned, and yet he never reached that day.

The day never came because the evening after Benedict asked the Mackenzies for their permission to marry Anastasia, the pair were out for another late adventure. However, instead of walking to Mr. Granville’s studio, they simply had a picnic under the stars in the Bridgerton garden.

“I wonder what it’s like up there,” Anastasia mused as she stared at the sky.

“Dark, I would presume,” Benedict quipped. “Dark and very, very cold.”

“What do you think they’re made of?” she asked, ignoring his tease.

“Light.”

She swiveled her head toward him. “Can you be serious for one moment?”

He sighed and scooted closer to her, peering up at the sky above him. “I think it would be beautiful up there. You would be able to see every single aspect of our world without being completely immersed in our society. It would be so quiet, so peaceful. As for the stars…”

He turned his face toward her, studying her features.

“As for the stars, Ana, I would think you should know what they are made of.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “What are you saying?”

“I believe they are made of every beautiful aspect of life. Kindness, strength, grace. Every star has the courage to shine and give us light in the dark, but the mercy to not obliterate us with one look.”

She hung on his every word, silently begging for him to continue.

“I would think you should know what they are made of, because I see the very same characteristics in you. In fact, I believe I see a bit of stardust hanging in your eyes,” he smiled, tipping her chin up with his fingers.

Despite her racing heart and baited breath, she teased, “Do you say that to all the girls you flirt with?”

“Only the ones whose first names begin with A and surnames begin with M,” he hummed.

She smirked. “I suppose Amelia Mayberry swooned as well, then.”

“That is not fair,” he objected. “I don’t know anyone who would say those words to Amelia Mayberry.”

Anastasia laughed and shook her head. “You are too much, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Before he could say another word, she stood from their blanket and slipped off her shoes.

“Have you ever felt wet grass beneath your toes?” she asked.

“Not since I was a child,” he hummed.

“Come,” she said, offering her hand. “Dance with me.”

Once he had taken off his shoes and rolled the bottom of his trousers up, Benedict stood and took her waiting hand. Anastasia laced their fingers and pulled him into the dew-covered grass. The sound of her melodic laughter echoed through the garden as they swung each other around.

“A jig!” she giggled.

The pair lost track of time as they danced. They only stopped when Anastasia lost her balance on a particularly slippery patch of grass and stumbled into Benedict, sending them both flying to the ground.

“You clumsy girl!” he teased, body shaking with laughter.

Once they had both calmed down and caught their breath, they fell into silence as they realized just how close their bodies were. Anastasia had landed with half of her body on the ground and half of it on Benedict’s shoulder. Their faces were inches apart, forcing them to share a breath.

“I am quite the clumsy girl,” she murmured, peering at him through her eyelashes.

He stared up at her, mind and heart racing. Before he could get his thoughts in order, his mouth opened.

“Marry me.”

They were both taken aback by his words, but he quickly relaxed. There was nothing in his life that felt more perfect than that moment. In that one single second, everything made sense.

“Ben,” she whispered as he sat up and forced her with him.

“You said I should propose when I felt the time was right,” he breathed. “And I feel the time is absolutely impeccable.”

“It is the middle of the night,” she laughed dryly. “Only you would pick the strangest time to ask for my hand in marriage.”

“Ana, when my mother speaks of my late father, she always says that he was her perfect love match. I used to think those didn’t exist. Surely it was not possible for two people to be made for one another,” he said, cutting himself off with a deep breath. “Until I met you.”

She softened, near tears already.

“I want to-” He dug around in the pocket of his trousers before pulling his hand out. “I wanted to give you this.”

He opened his hand, palm up, to reveal a dainty ring. The band was silver and the flower’s petals were made out of shining blue stones.

“Oh my god,” she gasped.

“It was my mother’s. My father gave it to her a very long time ago. She wishes for each of her sons to bestow one of her rings on their wives, as a sort of heirloom. I have chosen this one,” he explained. “The blue symbolizes fidelity and loyalty, which she believes are some of the most important aspects of a true match.”

He took another deep breath.

“Anastasia, I love you. I have always had a soft spot for you, even when you were a child. The older we got and the closer we grew, I realized that it was the beginnings of love. And now that I have spent all this time with you…” he trailed. “I was absolutely devastated when I heard of your engagement to Lord Weston. I thought I would never have the privilege of loving you wholly, openly, for the world to see. When you returned to London, I knew I could not let you slip through my fingers again. So, if you’ll have me, I would like you to wear this ring and be my wife.”

His words hung in the air around them, thick and weighing. He almost began to regret them as he received no reaction from his beloved.

But then, as if the stars above them had aligned, a bright smile curled onto her lips, lighting up her features.

“Of course I will have you,” she whispered, taking his face in her hands.

“You will?” he gasped.

“Of course I will,” she breathed. “I love you.”

He jumped up and pulled her with him, immediately wrapping his arms around her in the tightest hug he could muster.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

She laughed as his breath tickled her skin. “I love you too.”

He pulled away and slid the ring on her finger, his hands shaking with nervousness.

“It’s the perfect fit,” she whispered, tilting her hand back and forth to watch the tiny petals glimmer in the moonlight.

“It is meant to be.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

does anyone read these notes? idk, it’s fine. roughly edited, y’all already know. it’s been a few days bc i’ve been swamped with work (8 days straight babyyyyyy). as i said before, this will be the final formal part with the epilogue coming soon and perhaps the bonus part with eloise simply bc i think it’s really funny (no one appreciates my funniness). have a good day/night my dears!

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fic #bridgerton #bridgerton netflix #jo writes #jo speaks #jo tries really hard

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newstfionline · 3 years

Text

Friday, April 9, 2021

The $50 billion race to save America’s renters from eviction (Washington Post) The Biden administration again extended a federal moratorium on evictions last week, but conflicting court rulings on whether the ban is legal, plus the difficulty of rolling out nearly $50 billion in federal aid, means the country’s reckoning with its eviction crisis may come sooner than expected. The year-old federal moratorium—which has now been extended through June 30—has probably kept hundreds of thousands or millions of people from being evicted from their apartments and homes. More than 10 million Americans are behind on rent, according to Moody’s, easily topping the 7 million who lost their homes to foreclosure in the 2008 housing bust. Despite the unprecedented federal effort to protect tenants, landlords have been chipping away at the moratorium in court. Treasury Department officials have been armed with nearly $50 billion in emergency aid for renters who have fallen behind, and are racing to distribute it through hundreds of state, local and tribal housing agencies, some of which have not created programs yet. The idea is to get the money to renters before courts nationwide begin processing evictions again.

A court filing says parents of 445 separated migrant children still have not been found. (NYT) The parents of 61 migrant children who were separated from their families at the U.S.-Mexico border by the Trump administration have been located since February, but lawyers still cannot find the parents of 445 children, according to a court filing on Wednesday. In the filing, the Justice Department and the American Civil Liberties Union indicated slow progress in the ongoing effort to reunite families that were affected by a policy to prosecute all undocumented immigrants in the United States, even if it meant separating children from their parents. Of the 445 remaining children, a majority are believed to have parents who were deported, while more than 100 children are believed to have parents currently in the United States, according to the court filing. The government has yet to provide contact information that would help locate the families of more than a dozen children.

N Ireland leaders call for calm after night of rioting (AP) Rioters set a hijacked bus on fire and hurled gasoline bombs at police in Belfast in at least the fourth night of serious violence in a week in Northern Ireland, where Brexit has unsettled an uneasy political balance. Youths threw projectiles and petrol bombs at police on Wednesday night in the Protestant Shankill Road area, while rioters lobbed bricks, fireworks and petrol bombs in both directions over the concrete “peace wall” separating the Shankill Road from a neighboring Irish nationalist area. Police Service of Northern Ireland Assistant Chief Constable Jonathan Roberts said several hundred people gathered on both sides of a gate in the wall, where “crowds ... were committing serious criminal offenses, both attacking police and attacking each other.” He said a total of 55 police officers have been injured over several nights of disorder. The recent violence, largely in pro-British loyalist areas, has flared amid rising tensions over post-Brexit trade rules for Northern Ireland and worsening relations between the parties in the Protestant-Catholic power-sharing Belfast government.

Biden seems ready to extend US troop presence in Afghanistan (AP) Without coming right out and saying it, President Joe Biden seems ready to let lapse a May 1 deadline for completing a withdrawal of U.S. troops from Afghanistan. Orderly withdrawals take time, and Biden is running out of it. Biden has inched so close to the deadline that his indecision amounts almost to a decision to put off, at least for a number of months, a pullout of the remaining 2,500 troops and continue supporting the Afghan military at the risk of a Taliban backlash. Removing all of the troops and their equipment in the next three weeks—along with coalition partners who can’t get out on their own—would be difficult logistically, as Biden himself suggested in late March. “It’s going to be hard to meet the May 1 deadline,” he said. “Just in terms of tactical reasons, it’s hard to get those troops out.” Tellingly, he added, “And if we leave, we’re going to do so in a safe and orderly way.”

One in six Latin American youths left work since pandemic’s start (Reuters) Across Latin America and the Caribbean, one in every six people aged 18 to 29 has left work since the coronavirus pandemic began, forcing many to abandon their studies, a report said on Thursday. The precariousness of employment for young people rose across the region, according to an investigation by Canadian charity Cuso International based on data from a U.N. commission and a poll by the International Labour Organization. “It’s extremely difficult for young people to access the labor market due to issues around specialization, lower wages, and poverty,” the advocacy group’s Colombia director Alejandro Matos told Reuters. More than half of those who stopped working since the start of the pandemic were let go by their employers, the report said, while others saw their businesses close and those employed in the informal sector could not work due to lockdowns.

Myanmar ambassador in London locked out of embassy after speaking out against military (Washington Post) Myanmar’s ambassador to Britain, who has spoken out again the military coup in his country, said he was barred from the embassy in London on Wednesday by officials loyal to the military junta. “They are refusing to let me inside,” Kyaw Zwar Minn told the Telegraph. “They said they received instruction from the capital, so they are not going to let me in.” Kyaw Zwar Minn told the British newspaper that when he left the embassy during the day, colleagues and officials linked to the military stormed the premises and kept him from reentering that evening. In early March, the ambassador, a former military colonel, spoke out against the military’s detention of the former British colony’s leader Aung San Suu Kyi, drawing criticism from the junta that had orchestrated her ouster and praise from the British government for his “courage.” The London-based ambassador was recalled, according to Myanmar state television, after he posted a statement on the embassy’s Facebook page demanding “the release of State Counsellor Daw Aung San Suu Kyi and President U Win Myint,” but he did not return to Myanmar.

Merkel tells Putin to pull back troops as Kremlin accuses Ukraine of provocations (Reuters) German Chancellor Angela Merkel told Russian President Vladimir Putin on Thursday to pull back the Kremlin’s military buildup near the border with Ukraine, while he in turn accused Kyiv of “provocative actions” in the conflict region. Ukraine has raised the alarm over an increase in Russian forces near its eastern border as violence has risen along the line of contact separating its troops from Russia-backed separatists in its Donbass region. Russia has said its forces pose no threat and were defensive, but that they would stay there as long as Moscow saw fit. A senior Kremlin official said on Thursday that Moscow could under certain circumstances be forced to defend its citizens in Donbass and that major hostilities could mark the beginning of the end of Ukraine as a country.

China builds advanced weapons systems using American chip technology (Washington Post) In a secretive military facility in southwest China, a supercomputer whirs away, simulating the heat and drag on hypersonic vehicles speeding through the atmosphere—missiles that could one day be aimed at a U.S. aircraft carrier or Taiwan, according to former U.S. officials and Western analysts. The computer is powered by tiny chips designed by a Chinese firm called Phytium Technology using American software and built in the world’s most advanced chip factory in Taiwan, which hums with American precision machinery, say the analysts. Phytium portrays itself as a commercial company aspiring to become a global chip giant like Intel. It does not publicize its connections to the research arms of the People’s Liberation Army. The hypersonic test facility is located at the China Aerodynamics Research and Development Center (CARDC), which also obscures its military connections though it is run by a PLA major general, according to public documents, and the former officials and analysts, many of whom spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss a sensitive matter. Phytium’s partnership with CARDC offers a prime example of how China is quietly harnessing civilian technologies for strategic military purposes—with the help of American technology. The trade is not illegal but is a vital link in a global high-tech supply chain that is difficult to regulate because the same computer chips that could be used for a commercial data center can power a military supercomputer.

Indonesia landslides death toll rises to 140, dozens missing (AP) The death toll from mudslides in eastern Indonesia has risen to 140 with dozens still missing, officials said Wednesday, as rain continued to pound the region and hamper the search. East Flores district on Adonara island suffered the highest losses with 67 bodies recovered so far and six missing. Mud tumbled down from surrounding hills early on Sunday, catching people at sleep. Some were swept away by flash floods after overnight rains caused rivers to burst their banks. On nearby Lembata island, the downpour triggered by Tropical Cyclone Seroja sent solidified lava from a volcanic eruption in November to crash down on more than a dozen villages, killing at least 32 and leaving 35 unaccounted for, according to the National Disaster Mitigation Agency.

Reversing Trump, Biden Restores Aid to Palestinians (NYT) The Biden administration announced on Wednesday that it would restore hundreds of millions of dollars in American aid to Palestinians, its strongest move yet to reverse President Donald J. Trump’s policy on the protracted Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The package, which gives at least $235 million in assistance to Palestinians, will go to humanitarian, economic, development and security efforts in the region, and is part of the administration’s attempt to rehabilitate U.S. relations with Palestinians, which effectively stopped when Mr. Trump was in office. The restoration of aid amounted to the most direct repudiation so far of Mr. Trump’s tilt toward Israel in its decades-old conflict with the Palestinian population in Israeli-controlled territories.

Royal rift ends (NYT) Jordan’s King Abdullah II said on Wednesday that the “discord” that has roiled the kingdom for days has “been stopped,” signaling a resolution to a rare royal rift that resulted in the house arrest of Prince Hamzah bin Hussein, the former crown prince, and the detention of several Jordanian officials who were accused of plotting a foreign-backed coup against the monarchy.

Conflict and COVID driving record hunger in DR Congo, warns UN (Al Jazeera) A record 27.3 million people in the Democratic Republic of the Congo are facing acute hunger, one-third of the violence-wracked Central African country’s population, largely because of conflict and the economic effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, the United Nations has warned. The DRC is “home to the highest number of people in urgent need of food security assistance in the world,” the World Food Programme and the Food and Agriculture Organization said on Tuesday in a joint statement, describing the scale of the crisis as “staggering”. “For the first time ever we were able to analyse the vast majority of the population, and this has helped us to come closer to the true picture of the staggering scale of food insecurity in the DRC,” Peter Musoko, WFP’s representative in the country, said. “This country should be able to feed its population and export a surplus. We cannot have children going to bed hungry and families skipping meals for an entire day,” he said.

Beware The Carpet Cleaner (The Guardian) Parkinson’s disease is the fastest-growing neurological disorder in the world, and the US is experiencing an explosion of cases. In the last decade, the number of Parkinson’s cases in America has increased 35%, and a neurologist at the University of Rochester Medical Center thinks over the next 25 years it will double again. Most cases of the disease are considered idiopathic—without a clear cause. But researchers now believe one factor is environmental exposure to trichloroethylene (TCE), a chemical compound used in industrial degreasing, dry-cleaning, and household products like some shoe polishes and carpet cleaners. TCE is a carcinogen already linked to renal cell carcinoma, cancers of the cervix, liver, biliary passages, lymphatic system and male breast tissue, fetal cardiac defects, and more. Several studies point to a link between Parkinson’s and workplace exposure to TCE. The US Labor Department issued guidance on TCE saying exposures to carbon disulfide (CS2) and TCE are presumed to “cause, contribute or aggravate Parkinsonism.”

‘Tantalizing’ results of 2 experiments defy physics rulebook (AP) Preliminary results from two experiments suggest something could be wrong with the basic way physicists think the universe works, a prospect that has the field of particle physics both baffled and thrilled. Tiny particles called muons aren’t quite doing what is expected of them in two different long-running experiments in the United States and Europe. The confounding results—if proven right—reveal major problems with the rulebook physicists use to describe and understand how the universe works at the subatomic level. “We think we might be swimming in a sea of background particles all the time that just haven’t been directly discovered,” Fermilab experiment co-chief scientist Chris Polly said in a press conference. “There might be monsters we haven’t yet imagined that are emerging from the vacuum interacting with our muons and this gives us a window into seeing them.” If confirmed, the U.S. results would be the biggest finding in the bizarre world of subatomic particles in nearly 10 years, since the discovery of the Higgs boson, often called the “God particle,” said Aida El-Khadra of the University of Illinois, who works on theoretical physics for the Fermilab experiment.

Unlikely chauffeur (Foreign Policy) Kevin Rudd is best known as a former Australian prime minister. Last Tuesday night in Queensland, he was mistaken for an Uber driver. The former Labor party leader became an unlikely chauffeur when a group of revelers—described as “tipsy” by Rudd’s daughter—piled into his car as he sought parking at a local restaurant. Rudd obliged the passengers, reportedly driving half the journey to the town’s main drag before being recognized by his would-be customers. “Four young Melburnians getting drenched in a Queensland subtropical downpour at Noosa last night with no Uber in sight … So what’s a man to do?” Rudd later wrote on Twitter.

#headlines #news

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diamondandpearlkai · 4 years

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Melon Fam Birthday/Horoscope and other things Headcanons

Ok, so I realized I made a birthday for my OC Cala, but never went in depth. Also I never did any for the rest of the Melon fam. So, here goes.

Melony

Melony's DOB is May 24th, 1975, making her 45 years old (in Winterʼs Hidden Warmth, she is 44) and a Gemini. She is extremely sweet and loving, but can be real nasty when disrespected or when her kids are being harmed. She's a Mama Beartic. She can also be hot-headed at times. She was born at noon and was pretty small. She is 3 years younger than her sister Canta. Melonyʼs middle name is Rose.

Canta

Melony's older sister Canta was born on October 29th, 1972, making her 48 years old (47 in WHW) and a Scorpio. She is 3 years older than Melony. She's your standard Scorpio. Nothing else to be said (so sorry if any of you readers are Scorpios). She wasn't too pleased when Melony was born, but she grew to tolerate her as she got older. They argue a lot, especially over the well-being of Cala. Canta's middle name is Ivy.

Gordie

Gordie was born on April 30th, 1996, making him 24 years old (April 30th is also my birthday, but he is 6 years older. In Winterʼs Hidden Warmth, he is 23) and a Taurus. He was born at 5:24 in the morning; Melony was 21. Gordie was born two weeks late, weighed 10 pounds, was 21 inches long, and ended up injuring Melony's hip on his way out. He was a chunky and adorable baby. He's stubborn and headstrong but very sweet. His full first name is Gordon and his middle name is Charles.

Cala

Cala was born on February 24th, 2008, making her 12 years old in Winterʼs Hidden Warmth (13 during the main story line of the games) and a Pisces. She was born at exactly 4:30 in the morning. She was 7 weeks (just shy of 2 months) early and stayed in the NICU for nearly month She weighed 4 and a half pounds and was 16 inches long. Cala's middle name is Anne.

Winter

Winter, Melony's only daughter, was born on Christmas Eve in 2009, making her 11 years old (10 in Winterʼs Hidden Warmth) and a Capricorn. She was born at 4:30 in the afternoon, making her exactly 22 months and 12 hours younger than Cala. When she was born, she was given a Santa hat rather than the standard hospital baby hat. She was originally due on New Years Day. She weighed 6 pounds, 14 ounces. Winter's middle name is Noelle. Noelle means "Christmas" or "Born on Christmas", so it was an appropriate choice.

Dew, Apollo, and Jade

The triplets were born on Galarian Mother's Day which fell on March 6th in 2016, making them 4 years old (3 in WHW) and Aries. Melony had to get a C-section. Dew was born first at midnight, then Apollo at 12:05, and then Jade at 12:09. They stayed in the NICU for 15 days. They each weighed 3 pounds and were 15 inches long. Dew's middle name is Alexander, Apollo's is Louis, and Jade's is Oliver.

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whalermansposts · 3 years

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Alex Karras Dick the Bruiser Everything about that night went wrong in a hurry, and Alex Karras (Mongo in Blazing Saddles) admitted that he should have known better.He shouldn’t have put any money down on football games. He shouldn’t have gotten in so tightly with the Butiscaris brothers and discussed buying into their place in Detroit, the Lindell Bar. He shouldn’t have agreed to work as a kind of celebrity bartender. More than anything, he should have known better than staging this hokey wrestling stunt which hinged on Dick “the Bruiser” Afflis not flying into one of his Looney Tunes rages.When the Detroit Lions grabbed him in the first round of the 1958 NFL draft, Karras walked away from wrestling without hesitation. Dick was a little hurt and a little irritated. Wrestling pays better and was a hell of a lot safer than football. You were a star, not a faceless grunt on the gridiron. Dick loved every minute of being in the ring. He thought Karras had, too.Dick watched Alex Karras become one of the Motor City’s athletic icons. One of the greatest defensive tackles in NFL history, they said. Unlike many players, Karras had evolved a calm, easy-going rapport with fans and press. His quick, imaginative mind cranked out jokes and stories easily, but the man turned to a six-foot-two granite slab on the field. When Karras got slapped with a one-year suspension in 1963 for gambling on football games, Dick offered to get him back on the circuit. Put a nice bit of scratch together. Karras wasn’t wealthy, by any means, and the only income he had to weather the gap in NFL checks was from the Lindell Bar, which he shared with the Butiscaris brothers. Karras liked the bar and liked the brothers, but he knew they had a reputation in the city.The Butiscaris weren’t exactly connected, but they were serious men. Friends of friends, or however you wanted to say it. It was through them that Karras had put down some small bets from time to time, more out of habit than desire. But the NFL found out. The Lions made no secret about wanting him to sell his share of the bar and distance himself from that lifestyle.Karras knew he would, eventually, but after 1963. For now, he needed the cash. When Dick offered to get him on the circuit again, Karras accepted right away. Now that he was famous in Detroit, he’d be a bigger draw with a bigger paycheck. He’d make more in a few bouts than he would in a entire season with the Lions. When Dick suggested they play up their rivalry before the match with a little pageantry, Karras wasn’t as enthusiastic. The idea was this—Dick comes into the Lindell, insults Karras, they have a tussle, then everyone departed. The incident would hit the newspapers and the match would sell out. Easy.The BrawlDick stomped in well past midnight on April 23, just a few days before their advertised April 27th match. Both he and Karras had rehearsed the script beforehand. Karras made sure everyone in the bar that night knew the exchange was a wrestling bit and nothing more. He had all his bases covered.Problem was, no one thought to tell Jimmy Butiscaris’ Uncle Charley, who picked that night of all nights to visit his niece’s husband’s bar.Karras knew something was off as soon as Dick stepped in the Lindell. The always-present cigar jutted from Dick’s mouth, clenched between his molars because five of his front teeth were missing. Although an inch shorter than Karras, he had forty pounds of muscle on the younger man. Dick’s shirt strained like an overstuffed sausage casing and when he stepped in the bar, he squinted and stared at every patron. Mob guys, bookies, hooligans and hoodlums, people that had killed people—Dick didn’t care. He was the Bruiser.Dick saw Karras at the opposite end of the bar. Dick’s eyes narrowed even more and he teeth spread in a hard grin around the cigar.The bartender asked Dick if he’d like a drink, but Dick didn’t even let him finish. He stretched out one arm and stabbed his finger at Karras, who stared at Dick through his heavy-framed glasses.“Nah. I want that fat f——g four eyes to serve me,” Dick growled.Alex, to be honest, was a little relieved. The way Dick had looked coming in, he thought things were going to go bad, but so far so good. Dick was on script. Jimmy would refuse to serve him, the Bruiser would rip Jimmy’s shirt, and jab a light punch at him. A few more words, then it was done.Jimmy told him to leave, Dick the Bruiser grabbed his shirt and tore it and then gave him the stiffed punch. It looked real enough.No one saw Uncle Charley until it was too late. As this exchange had unfolded, Charley had crept over to the pool table and grabbed a long cue, raising it above his shoulder and working slowly to Dick’s side. He saw Dick grab Jimmy, rip his shirt, and then jab a fist at him. Charley didn’t hesitate.“Hey!” Charley said.Dick turned to him.Charley swung like Mickey Mantle. The pool cue swished through the air and caught Dick just below his eye, breaking the cue and slicing Dick’s face open. It would later need stitches. The cigar shot from his mouth and pattered on the floor. Blood spattered on the bar. Dick stood blinking for a moment. Alex Karras opened his mouth, but there was no stopping Dick now. In fact, there was no Dick now. The hulking bloody-faced mass of blonde hair and rage that squared off against Uncle Charley was the Bruiser, forever and ever, Amen.By now, someone had let Charley in on the play acting. Charley dropped the remnants of the broken pool cue and stepped away from the Bruiser, who seemed to grow taller and wider and meaner, like a living steam boiler.The Bruiser grabbed the closest thing to him: a candy and peanut vending machine that weighed roughly two hundred pounds. The Bruiser gripped the sides of the machine, grunted and lifted the entire machine off the ground. The tendons in his arms stiffened like buried cables. Snacks and coins tickled and jittered inside the machine. The Bruiser lifted the entire vending machine over his head.Rage hadn’t entirely taken Dick over. He had enough presence of mind to know crushing this middle-aged man with a hunk of steel and glass might be a bad choice. Instead, Dick pitched the vending machine slightly to the side, missing Charley and any patrons, but crushing the bar’s color television. Its tube imploded with a flash and sizzle, raining down glass on the battered vending machine.Patrons fled out the door. The Bruiser bellowed. He pitched stools and chairs wildly, against the walls, into rows of clean glasses, onto tables of half-filled beer mugs. The bar stank of spilled beer and spirits.Automatically, Karras slipped his glasses off and tucked them safely under the bar. He stalked toward Dick silently. He wasn’t sure if there was a damn thing he could do to stop Dick right now. When the Bruiser flew into these rages, it was like fighting an iron tornado. This night would hit the papers, but not like Karras wanted. What a screw-up.Instead of a semi-suicidal charge at the Bruiser, Karras picked up a bar chairs, clutching its legs tightly his fists and holding it over his shoulder. Dick had his back to him, whipping bar stools end over end into the wall. Karras took a deep breath then arced the chair down and across the Bruiser’s shoulders, hoping the blow would stun him or at least slow him down. Karras brought beasts down for a living and put everything he had into the swing. The chair exploded across the Bruiser’s back leaving only two shards of wood in Karras’ hands.Dick was crazy and now Dick wanted to kill him. He might have done just that if a swarm of his underworld buddies hadn’t thrown themselves on the Bruiser at that moment. Two men held his arms. One hopped up and hooked an elbow across the Bruiser’s neck. Another punched wildly at the Bruiser’s gut, trying to knock the wind out of him. Yet another wrapped his hands around the Bruiser’s waist to topple him over. Karras felt a tug at his arm. Jimmy Butiscaris pointed at the bar’s rear exit. “We called the cops, man” Jimmy said. “You need to scoot.”Before he could protest, Jimmy cut him off. “It’ll be a lot less messy if you’re gone. Easier on me. Personally. Please.”The Bruiser didn’t fall or slow, but Karras had certainly gotten his attention. For a moment, the two men faced off, nearly equal in height and weight but not in raw rage. Karras cursed and stepped back. Like Karras, Dick Afflis had once played for the NFL. Karras knew exactly why Dick quit playing football. More money, sure, but the real reason behind Dick’s move is his love of fighting. He liked to fight. Even his scripted wrestling matches sometimes turned into the real deal. In 1957, his match at Madison Square Garden had gone off-script and turned into a real fight. Then a real riot. By the time the brawl ended, the Garden was covered in a sea of shattered wooden chairs. It took sixty policeman to subdue the crowd and the wrestlers. “The Bruiser” wasn’t just a character. Before the Detroit Lions picked up Karras in 1958, Karras had worked the wrestling circuit and he and Dick “The Bruiser” Afflis had become fast friends. Both came from Indiana—Karras born in Gary and a legendary Emerson High School football star. Dick grew up in Delphi, played football and wrestled at Lafayette Jefferson High School and then for Purdue, then three years with the Green Bay Packers. Then he left it all for professional wrestling, which had exploded once televised bouts entered the industry. Dick helped the younger Karras along with his wrestling, mentoring him like a big brother

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takingcourage · 4 years

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Face to the Sun

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 1,000

Note: Several weeks ago, @krishu213 asked for a Jaime x Arden fic for day 27 of the @julychoiceschallenge (”sunflowers”). I love this request for several reasons:

It’s Jaime Lewis, and writing about him is always a delight.

I was a long-time resident of the Sunflower State, so it brings up happy memories of my midwestern roots.

Since In Stasis, I’ve had a headcanon about sunflowers and what they mean to Jaime. Having an excuse to explore it in more depth was a real treat. : )

Anyway, enough rambling! Suffice it to say that writing these experimental little drabbles put a smile on my face. I hope they bring you joy as well!

April

A thin layer of ice clung to the toe of Arden's shoe, though it turned to droplets by the time she arrived back at their front door. Skimming her soles across the rough fibers of the doormat, she stifled a shiver. As she reached for the handle, she cast a woeful eye over the patch of mulch outlined by popsicle-stick stakes. Thick as the wooden chips were, they weren't enough to warm the soil below.

Checking it had become a part of her daily routine, almost without fail. Jaime still didn't know why; but for her, it was difficult to think of the spot without a smile cracking her lips. He'd obliged her whim, leaving the area blank as he drew up plans for the rest of their landscaping. Someday -- hopefully sooner rather than later -- he would understand her motives.

If only spring could feel her sense of urgency.

May

Opie's wet nose shocked the bare skin of Arden's forearm, and she fought to keep her grip on the packet of seeds as he traveled down to her wrist. Brushing him back with a giggle, she shifted her feet a few inches to the left. As Jaime whistled to attract the dog's attention, she slid the ruler further down the narrow trench, stopping to press in a seed every six inches.

Though she knew nature would soon take its course, she didn't want her efforts to be sporadic. Their front garden had become Jaime's pride and joy, and she'd be devastated if her surprise detracted from it in any way. She’d measured this first row carefully, making certain to leave space behind for subsequent rows in the coming weeks.

Reaching the end of the trench, she began covering what she’d already planted. Jaime watched from the other side of the lawn, an inquisitive slant to his brow. She raised a hand for a campy wave, matching his grin as fine particles of dirt fell back to the rich, dark earth.

June

Arden could still remember the first time she'd heard Paula complain of having a black thumb. She'd hopped up to her toes and gazed over the fence, expecting to see a cursed pirate spot marking the woman's hand. Instead, the hand gripping the watering can appeared completely ordinary. Somewhat disappointed, Arden had slumped back against her side of the pickets to retrieve the book she'd been reading.

Some eighteen years later, she was grateful to note that she didn't share the other woman’s affliction. Last month's sprouts had grown strong and steady, thickening to leafy stalks that seemed eager to take on the growing summer heat. Though still unrecognizable, she knew Jaime had guessed their genus nearly a week before. He'd remained quiet on the matter, but she’d noticed the particular attention he’d been giving the short, gangly rows. Though each of his plants was well cared for, not all of them reminded him of his adopted mother.

As she watched him tend them through the window, Arden wondered if any of his construction-paper facsimiles might be in the attic with Paula’s other mementos. He’d spent that first summer making endless recreations of his new mother’s favorite blooms, brightening her kitchen in a way that real flowers never could.

July

Curing a finger around the thick stem, Arden gently tugged the bloom toward her nose. The flowers, still developing, had become unmistakable as the month progressed. Though the curved yellow petals held no scent, she smiled at the sensation of them tickling her nostrils.

From several yards away, Jaime began counting down from three. She froze into place, still pretending to sniff the bloom as he captured the picture with his phone. Although she'd been photographing the plants regularly, this was the first image since they had started to dwarf her.

She beckoned him toward her for a second pose, releasing the stalk to wrap an arm around his waist. Rising up to kiss his cheek, she collapsed into laughter when her lips could only reach his jaw. Noting her predicament with a grin, he bent a few inches lower before attempting the next shot.

August

Many of their first blooms had been laid to rest at Northbridge Memorial Park, the most stunning assortment having been reserved for two late-summer bouquets. The next row had been taken to the retirement community a few miles from their house. The third and fourth rows still stood before the house, towering over the porch rail like a wall of sunshine.

They’d deliver another set of homemade arrangements before the summer ended, replacing the faded blooms with ones that could still bring light to the quiet spaces.

Many weeks before, Arden had researched the meaning of sunflowers over a lunch break. Among other sentiments, they stood for warmth, adoration, and affection. She didn’t know if Paula had been conscious of the symbol, though the descriptions fit her life well. Its other attributes -- loyalty, positivity, and gratitude -- still shone through clearly in her son.

September

Arden formed her palm into a cup, using the fingers of her other hand to search for bits of flower that had mixed in. Dumping the plump seeds into a jar, she allowed the debris to scatter to the mulch below. She watched for a moment as the specks drifted under the golden light from above.

They hadn't planned it, but their evening of sorting had fallen on the first sunset of autumn. Jaime sat across the porch, singing below his breath as he picked through the seeds. A year and a half into marriage, she was beginning to develop an appreciation for that country music station he favored. The genre had never been her style, but her husband's renditions did hold a certain appeal.

He met her look, his lips still forming words that were almost silent. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she realized the tune was directed toward her. Still feeling the weight of his gaze, she separated the next handful of seeds between their three containers. Some went into the bucket for roasting, others into the one for birdseed, and the rest clattered into the plastic jar labelled next spring’s planting.

#playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #julychoiceschallenge #wishful thinking #jaime lewis #jaime lewis x mc

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abundanceofsoph · 4 years

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SkyFire 2: Chapter 5

Tattoos, Amputations and Art: April 2016

Word count: 2.3k

PART 1

SkyFire 2 MASTERLIST

CW/TW this chapter involves and amputation surgery although there are no explicit details

>Instagram posts

A week before the surgery, Aurora and Harry were curled up in bed.

“Rori? I’ve had an idea.”

“Why does that sentence make me worried,” Rori joked.

“Yeah, ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Harry deadpanned. “Shut up I’m trying to be cute.”

“Oh, sorry dear.” She replied with a mockingly serious tone. “Please proceed.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her. “I was thinking we could go get tattoos together before your surgery next week.”

“Oooh, that sounds like fun.” She grinned over at him from where her head lay on his pillow. “It’s been so long since we got tattooed together. I don’t know what I’d get though, I’m pretty happy with the ones I’ve got.”

Harry peeled back the bedsheet covering her torso, tracing his fingers across the familiar ink spreading out across her rib cage. “Well I was thinking maybe we could your IronMan and Cap one redone on your other wrist since you’ve mentioned a couple of times that you miss it.”

“Oh harry,” she sighed. “That sounds perfect.”

“Just thought that way you’d still be keeping a part of your left hand with you.”

“I love when you get all sentimental,” she said, kissing the tip of his nose. “What are you gonna get?”

Harry blushed. “Thought I might get a palm tree after our trip to St Lucia.”

“It really was beautiful there wasn’t it?”

“Yeah it was,” he agreed, smiling softly as his hand traced the skin of her hip. “Maybe we should go back for our honeymoon.”

“I’d love that.” She lifted herself up on her elbow to look down at him, leaning in to kiss him deeply as his hands moved to grab at her waist, pulling her closer to him. She burst out laughing as she lost her balance and fell on top of him. His laughter echoed hers before their lips reconnected.

xXx

Aurora found herself in a tattoo parlour the following afternoon, her right arm stretched out for the artist sitting in front her. She was smiling softly as she watched him ink in the familiar design that was now nearly unrecognisable on her other wrist. While she’d never thought of replicating the tattoo, she was glad that Harry had suggested it and that he was sitting in the chair next to her, just as he had been the first time she received the tattoo in question. She looked up from her own artwork, to watch Harry’s palm tree come to life above his elbow. He caught her eye, smiling widely back at her. Since his piece was simple black and white line work, his artist finished much sooner that hers and after he was cleaned up and the tattoo wrapped, he scooted over to sit beside her, his hand resting on her elbow, unable to hold her hand due the brace.

“Looks good, love,” he said when the artist finished, quickly cleaning and wrapping the plastic around her wrist.

“Thank you for suggesting I do this,” Aurora whispered, pecking a soft kiss to his lips. “Feels right to have it back again.”

xXx

When they got back to the tower with their new tattoos, Aurora headed downstairs to the workshop while Harry joined Steve and Bucky in the living room where they were watching TV.

“Hey kiddo,” Tony said in greeting when Aurora walked through the glass door. “How’s the new tattoo?”

“Perfect,” Rori smiled, pulling out her phone to show him the photo Harry had taken before it was covered in plastic. “Looks just like the original.”

“Love it,” Tony replied.

“Can I ask a favour dad?”

“Of course, you can kiddo. What’s up?”

“Would it be ok if just Harry comes with me to the hospital next week?” Aurora asked. “I’m ok with you and pops both being there when I get out of surgery, but I think I’d just like Harry to be there before I go in.”

“Of course,” Tony replied. “Whatever you need.”

“Thanks dad.”

xXx

Aurora was sitting up in the hospital bed, a light blanket pulled up over her legs, a sheer hospital gown covering her torso. One of the nurses had come by earlier to help remove the brace and all the taping from her hand and it was now propped up on a pillow in her lap as she waited, scar tissue covering every inch of visible skin, her fingers curled up uncomfortably. She ran the fingers of her right hand along the scars, tracing them from the tips of her fingers, over the back of her hand and up past her wrist before flipping her hand over and touching every inch of her palm. She started crying softly as she mapped the familiar expanse of skin, unsure what it would feel like to look down and see nothing when she woke up again later that day.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Harry whispered, wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs as he sat next to her on the edge of the bed.

She shook her head, looking up to meet his eyes. “This is the right thing to do, just confronting to think I won’t have a hand in a few hours.”

“You are so brave,” Harry told her. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too Harry,” she replied. “Wouldn’t have made it this far without you.” He kissed her cheek, reaching out and taking hold her right hand in his. She watched him lace their fingers together, the light catching on her engagement ring. She knew that she would have to take it off shortly before she went into the OR, but she left it on for now. “You know,” she murmured, staring at the ring. “I’d kind of figured that by the time we got to the wedding this would be on my left hand where it belongs.”

Harry squeezed her hand, placing kisses to her temple. “Doesn’t matter which hand it’s on,” he replied. “Still means the same thing.”

“I’m scared Harry,” Aurora admitted, her eyes still firmly glued to the ring.

He placed his thumb and forefinger on her chin, lifting her head until she was looking at him. “I’m not going to lie and say that everything will be easy, but it will be ok. You’ve already survived the worst of it, and you are so strong. I’m gonna be right here waiting for you when you wake up.”

She kissed him deeply, his hand not holding hers coming to rest on her cheek, his thumb moving back and forth across her cheekbone as they both deepened the kiss. They both pulled apart when a nurse entered the room and cleared her throat. She blushed deeply when they both looked over at her, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but we’re ready for you now Miss Stark.”

“See you soon, love,” Harry murmured. He kissed her again quickly before standing up and stepping back to allow the nurse to wheel Aurora from the room. Aurora slipped the ring from her finger and placed it in his palm.

“Keep this safe for me,” she told him.

“I love you, Aurora,” Harry said as she neared the door.

“Love you too, H” she replied.

xXx

A little over a week after the operation, Aurora made her way to the elevator. She was wearing a pair of dark grey leggings and one of Harry’s knitted sweaters, the oversized garment hanging off her shoulders and falling midway down her thighs. The right sleeve fell down to almost cover the tips of her fingers while the left sleeve swung freely at the end, her arm ending halfway along her forearm. The penthouse was empty as she crossed the living room, stepping into the elevator and telling JARVIS which floor she needed. The Avengers had all left the previous day on a mission, neither Steve nor Tony wanting to leave her, but both agreed to go once she reminded them that Harry would be there with her the entire time.

She made her way into the recording studio, smiling softly as she watched Harry working away with his new team. His long curls were swept back from his face by a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of his head, a loud Hawaiian shirt hanging off his shoulder, unbuttoned and swinging loosely as he sang. Aurora always loved watching Harry sing, relishing the way his dimples popped in his cheeks as he smiled, and the creases by his eyes crinkling. Happiness radiated off him when he was in the studio and Rori loved basking in it. No one had noticed her entrance and she lent against the door frame, soaking in the sounds of the unfamiliar song. Her lips quirked up and she bit back a laugh as she listened to the lyrics.

“Said I’m having your baby,” Harry sang. “It’s none of your business.”

“I think if I was having your baby it would be your business,” Aurora joked when the song petered out a few moments later.

Harry’s eyes snapped up to where she stood, he face lighting up. “I’d like to hope so,” he laughed, gesturing for her to join him. She crossed the room coming to a stop in front of him, but let out a surprised squeal when he reached out, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her onto his lap.

“Rude,” she laughed.

“Missed you,” he murmured into her ear before kissing her cheek. “You getting lonely upstairs with everyone gone.”

“A little,” Rori admitted. “But I also need your help. I’ve been trying to tie my hair up for the last half an hour, but I can’t get it up one handed.”

“Ponytail, Braid or Bun?” he asked, taking the hair tie from her hand as she spun around to face away from him.

“Whatever’s easiest,” Aurora replied. “Thinking I might try painting this afternoon and I just don’t want to get paint in it.”

Harry placed a kiss on her shoulder, trying to hide his excitement that she was finally feeling ready to venture back into her and Steve’s studio. He started combing his fingers through her hair before beginning to braid it down the centre of her head and down the back of her neck. “All done,” he declared a few minutes later once he snapped the hair tie into place.

“Thanks baby,” she smiled, leaning back against his chest when his arms wrapped around her waist.

“You’re welcome,” he said, kissing her shoulder again. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Rori replied. “Feeling less off balanced today and the stitches aren’t itching anymore.”

“Good.” He continued kissing across her shoulder, his chin coming to rest in the crook of her neck. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s not, yeah?”

“Promise,” she replied, her right hand resting over his own. “Now sing for me.”

He laughed, but quickly fell back into the swing of working. She stayed there for a while listening as they worked, occasionally offering up a suggestion here and there before leaving with a kiss to Harry’s forehead after an hour or so.

She slowly made her way out into the hallway, padding over the carpet barefoot until she reached the door to the art studio she shared with her Pops and pushed open the door. The sun was streaming through the window and she took a moment to admire the latest sketches that Steve had been working on since she’d last been down here. Before the shooting, barely a day went by that she hadn’t come down here, but she hadn’t step foot inside since the disastrous day in January.

She saw the half started canvas still on its easel over in the corner, drawing her in as if in challenge. It felt as though it was mocking her, a physical reminder of one of her lowest moments, an acknowledgment of her inability to do what she loved. She stood up straighter, setting her shoulders in determination before dragging the easel out to the middle of the room along with a stool to place her palette on and requesting JARVIS play one of her favourite playlists.

It was much later in the afternoon when Harry excused himself from the others and headed down the hall to check in on Aurora. Without realising it, he mirrored her earlier position, leaning against the door frame, smiling warmly as he watched the way her brow furrowed, and she held a paintbrush in her mouth while she splashed paint across the canvas with another. Knowing how much it had pained her to be without her art for months, he was over the moon to finally see her back in her element. Music was playing softly through the speakers in the ceiling, filling the studio with a peaceful atmosphere. Harry bit back a laugh as they current song ended, and the start of End of the Day played. He lost his battle over his laughter when Aurora started dancing on the spot while she painted, spinning around to face him with a soft blush on her cheeks.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, putting down her brushes when he walked across the room to kiss her.

“Long enough to know you’ve found your groove again.” He looked over her shoulder at the canvas, a sprawling countryside on a spring day filling the scene.

“You like it?” she asked, smiling softly.

Harry hummed in response as he continued taking in the details of the painting. “Getting late though,” he pointed out, looking towards the setting sun outside. “We were thinking of getting Pizza.”

“Why don’t you invite everyone upstairs for a movie night?” Rori asked, already walking over to the sink in the corner to clean her brushes out.

“I’ll go ask,” Harry said. “Meet you up there?”

“See you in a few,” she agreed.

NEXT CHAPTER

OR CONTINUE READING ON AO3

#skyfire #skyfire fic #aurora stark #dad!tony #iron dad #step dad steve rogers #stony #stony fic #boyfriend harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #superfamily #harry styles #tony stark

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c-c-cherry · 4 years

Text

April 4th

Today is Mista's least favourite day in the world. Maybe Giorno underestimated how much of an effect it really had on his friend.

I wrote this on Ao3 on April 4th so I hope that explains things lol

Word Count: 3711

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Giorno slowly walked upstairs, attempting to balance a full glass of water on an already slippery food tray. He didn’t think that he’d be spending his morning trying to intrude on his friend’s personal business, but a part of him couldn’t help it. He just had to know.

***

The day had been pretty normal as far as mornings go: Abbacchio was completely ignoring everyone at the breakfast table, Bucciarati was busy cooking waffles, Trish was leaned back in her chair reading a magazine, and Fugo was clearly trying to restrain himself from strangling Narancia to death, who “had the audacity to be so fucking loud this early” according to him.

Giorno stepped down from the stairs and into the kitchen and was greeted with multiple ‘good mornings’ from his teammates sitting at the table.

It made him feel warm inside, as much as he would never admit it. Before Bucciarati, he never really had anyone to greet in the morning; his stepfather was always passed out, and if his mother wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder, she was out having the time of her life at some club.

Things were different now. Although everything was so strange at first-- full meals, watching movies, people like Bruno and Mista who always asked how he was doing-- he was slowly growing more and more used to it. Something about it made him feel so...domestic.

“How many waffles do you want?”

Bucciarati’s voice cut his thoughts in half as he pulled up a chair next to Trish.

“Just one, thank you.”

The table resumed as normal as everyone got their food one-by-one, and Giorno turned his head to ask Mista a question when he realized that Mista’s spot was still vacant.

“Mista hasn’t come down yet,” he commented quietly, hoping someone else would notice as well.

“Well...duh,” Narancia replied, looking dumbfounded that Giorno would even think about Mista coming out of his room. Giorno stared blankly at the boy before looking up at Bucciarati.

“I’ll bring him some food in a bit,” Bruno sighed as he put another waffle on Narancia’s plate, “It's not a good idea to try to get him to come downstairs today.”

“Today…?” Giorno asked himself, trying to wrack his brain for some memory explaining why today could be bad. A death anniversary? His birthday? Did something bad happen to him on this date that he forgot about? No matter how hard he thought about it, his mind was drawing a blank.

“It's April 4th,” Narancia chimed in, stabbing a strawberry with his fork. He snorted when Giorno stared at him, confused as if to say, ‘How the hell do you not get it?’

What the hell was Giorno missing about this? Fugo sighed in irritation before he could try to decipher it even more.

“04/04,” the blonde remarked, watching Giorno’s face turn from confusion to realization, “There’s no way in hell Mista is coming out of his room today. Hell, he’s probably just pretending that today isn’t happening at all.”

Abbacchio snorted from behind his book. Bruno hit him on the back of the head with the spatula in his hand.

“Not funny,” he said, although a soft smile could be seen creeping on his face.

“To be fair, he’s pretty dramatic about it,” Trish said, taking a bite of her apple, “It's almost humorous, the way he makes that number such a big deal.”

“Exactly! Like, what’s he gonna do when he turns 44? Just cry for a whole year?” Narancia cackled, “What’s he gonna do when it's 2004? That’s coming up soon, too!”

“April 4th, 2004 will be a day to remember, alright,” Fugo groaned, simultaneously turning his head away in disgust as he watched Narancia drown his waffles in syrup.

“I mean, technically Number Five of his stand is really Number Four when you really think about it,” Trish said, “But I bet he’d have a stroke if someone told him that.”

“He just thinks that ignoring the number will make it disappear,” Fugo scoffed, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Giorno stared down at his plate. Was Mista really that affected it? He had heard the man complain about the number once in a while, but it seemed almost in a dramatic or joking way, at least from the way everyone made fun of him for it.

Mista was a pretty good sport. Maybe it was from all the injuries he had sustained in his time as a Passione member, but the man was surprisingly durable. Sure, he whined about everything from getting shot to the number four, but in the end, he always found a way to suck it up and make it better.

Giorno wondered if this was just another “Mista being dramatic” moment or if something was seriously bothering him. It was hard for him to even imagine Mista being more than his happy, whiny, dramatic self, but Giorno was the king of false appearances. He would know.

From all the shit he had lived through, Giorno was sure of one thing; no one will notice it unless it takes you over, or you decide to talk about it yourself.

“Hey. Do I have to give you guys the spatula, too?” Bruno asked, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. Giorno’s mind was brought back to reality, back to the table they all-- not Mista-- shared.

Narancia screeched and dove under the table and Trish laughed as Abbacchio angrily hissed at him to get his ass back in his seat. Fugo wiped his mouth with a napkin but said nothing.

Breakfast was resumed in peace, (aside from Narancia complaining about “fucking math”), and everyone had cleared from the table and respectively got to whatever activity they wanted to do. It wasn’t often that they had Saturdays free, but Bucciarati insisted that today's schedule was cleared off.

Giorno imagined that it was because of whatever Mista was doing upstairs, but everyone seemed pretty stressed lately, anyway. A day off couldn’t hurt either way.

Narancia and Trish had fled to Narancia’s room to play Mario Kart before Fugo hunted them down and forced the orange boy to work on multiplication, Abbacchio resumed whatever book he was reading in the living room all while Bucciarati did the dishes.

Giorno sat at the table, unsure of what to do. He thought about doing paperwork, but there really wasn’t much to do in general. Besides, he felt a bit curious about what Mista was doing. He knew that it wasn’t his business, but he really did want to see how his friend was doing.

He had no idea if Mista was just being his dramatic self or not, but he knew that if it bothered him enough not to eat, it might be more serious than he thought. Either way, Mista was his friend. He knew the most out of anyone that going through things alone was always significantly worse.

“Need something?” Bruno asked, and Giorno realized that he’d been sitting at the table for far too long. Feeling his face turn slightly pink, he quickly shook his head. Bruno didn’t give the boy a second glance and resumed to...whatever he was doing.

“Sorry, but...may I ask what you’re doing?” the blonde said quietly, leaning back in his chair a bit. He bit his lip for being so formal with the man, he promised them he would try to kick the habit. Bruno seemed to pay no mind to it as if he were too concentrated on whatever task he was doing.

“Food for Mista,” was all the man said in reply, continuing to prepare the plate. Whatever it was, it wasn't what they had for breakfast. The plate was full of snacks, hardly a full meal; Fruits, cheeses, crackers, salami, Giorno recognized it all as Mista’s favourites.

“No waffles?” Giorno asked in confusion, and Bruno chuckled.

“He’d just spend forever counting the little holes in the waffles. They’d be cold before he could even take a bite,” he replied, “I doubt I’ll get him to eat anything today, anyway.”

What a mom, Giorno thought to himself as he watched Bruno patiently put everything on a tray. When he turned around and headed upstairs, Giorno nearly jumped out of his seat.

“I can take it-” he said, much too eagerly, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

***

Giorno knocked on the door of Mista’s room, careful to avoid tapping the door four times, and waited, the tray digging uncomfortably into his side as he kept a hand on the door.

“Mista?” Giorno called out softly. He thought he could hear shuffling from the other side of the door, before a gruff, “Who the hell is it?” was said, muffled slightly by the door.

“It’s Giorno,” he answered, adding on, “I have food.”

Giorno could hear the Sex Pistols whining and begging from outside the room and he couldn’t help but chuckle. The stands must be starving by now.

Silence met him, and Giorno was about to call out to him again before he heard Mista’s voice, more aggressive than before spit out, “How many are there with you?”

“Just one. Just me,” he answered back, and Giorno stepped back a bit as he heard more shuffling come closer to the closed door. After a moment of more silence, the door finally cracked open and Giorno saw Mista’s face appear on the other side. Well, more like Mista’s left eye. Giorno couldn’t see the man’s full face, but his expression was far from welcoming.

“I’m not hungry,” Mista finally said.

“Miiiisstaaa~”

“Feed us Miiissstaaa~”

“We’re dying, Mistaa~”

“We’re starving~”

“Hey! Shut up, will ya?” Mista barked, turning his head. Giorno took the opportunity to grab the water glass that was inches away from falling off the tray.

“I can just leave it outside if you-” Giorno’s offer was cut off as Mista’s door opened quickly and a swift hand pulled him into the room, shutting almost as fast as it had opened.

Giorno was surprised that the water still hadn’t spilled.

Mista had his back to the door as if he were making sure that no one else could break in. Once he was sure that they were “safe”, the man huffed and sunk to the ground across from Giorno, who had already situated himself there, carefully setting down the tray.

“Sorry,” Mista breathed out, folding his arms over his chest. The tray in front of him wasn’t anything fancy, but Giorno was sure that the pistols wouldn’t mind at this point.

“Eat up, guys,” Mista said, his voice thick with exhaustion. The bullets scampered over and tore apart the food that lay in front of them.

Carefully pushing the tray and Mista’s bullets to the corner of the room, Giorno finally got a good look at the state of his friend. His usual hat was on his head, but that was about it; Mista was still in his pajamas and a blanket was lazily draped over his shoulders. His back was pressed up against the door and dark bags were forming under his eyes.

It would be an understatement to call him a mess right now, and Giorno couldn't help but feel guilty; he knew what it was like.

Giorno picked up the glass of water still sitting on it and passed it to him.

“Bucciarati said you probably weren’t hungry, but he brought you this,” the blonde said, as if it were some kind of peace offering. Mista nodded tiredly and took a long sip of it, setting it down in front of him.

“Thirsty?” Giorno asked him. To his dismay, Mista shook his head.

“Nah, it’s not that. Just can’t sip it more than three times,” he choked out. Giorno only now noticed the slight tremor in his body as he spoke.

The blonde opted to say nothing, just grabbed a pillow that was already half-falling off of Mista’s bed and propped it under his head as he leaned back slightly. He was fortunate that Mista’s room still had carpeted floors.

The pair basked in silence. Mista stared at the ground and Giorno leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He noted a few things about Mista’s room; the window that was usually open was shut and a curtain was drawn over it. Mista had also turned his lights off, leaving the room in a comfortable blanket of darkness. Although sitting in the dark was pretty relaxing, it made Giorno worry.

Did Mista genuinely want to pretend that today didn’t exist?

Giorno didn’t know how long they sat there until Mista cleared his throat awkwardly from across the room.

“So I’m guessing the others probably told you?” Mista said quietly, breaking the silence.

Giorno didn’t know what to say but nodded. He thought back to the breakfast table, where Fugo joked that Mista would pretend that today wasn’t happening and when Narancia claimed that he would cry for the entire year of 2004.

It seemed amusing enough earlier, but now their “jokes” really weren’t that far off from the truth, which was a bit scary to think about.

“Yeah.”

“They were probably laughing about it. They always laugh,” quiet laughter bubbled up Mista’s throat, but he sounded anything but happy. Giorno felt a shiver up his spine. This entire situation felt uneasy to him.

“Its stupid, isn’t it?” Mista’s voice got louder with each word. In the darkness, Giorno could see his figure hunched over still against the door, “A fucking number. There’s not even a good reason for it, it's just-”

Mista’s loud voice faltered for a minute, and Gioro heard him sigh and recompose himself.

“-Stupid.”

Giorno knew Mista couldn’t see him in the dark, but he shook his head out of habit.

“I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“No, Giorno, you do think its stupid,” Mista growled back, “You don’t have to be so goddamn polite all the time, for fuck’s sake. Just tell me that it’s fucking stupid!”

The yelling had taken Giorno back a bit and he found himself flinching back by habit as he inhaled a sharp breath. Mista seemed to notice the response and dialed it back a bit, instantly regretting what he had said.

“Sorry,” he breathed out roughly, “I’m- fuck- I’m sorry, Giorno.”

“It’s alright,” the blonde replied, feeling the sudden panic disperse almost immediately when Mista spoke back to him. He didn’t deal well with angry outbursts, but he’d had his fair share of episodes that were hardly ever pretty. Right now, he was just worried about Mista.

“It’s not alright though,” Mista growled quietly, frustrated, “None of this is fucking normal and all of this is fucking stupid.”

He didn’t say anything after that, so Giorno opted to stay silent as well. There wasn’t really anything he could do to help him besides be there with him...unless he just wanted to be alone in the first place.

“Do you want me to leave?” Giorno asked quietly, prepared to get up from his comfy spot on the floor and worry about him from a distance.

“No,” he replied sharply, though it felt less like a demand and more like a plea. Giorno nodded to himself and his eyes trailed back up to the ceiling.

His eyes had mostly gotten used to the dark by now and he traced the cracks in the paint with his eyes, wondering if they should paint over them during their next day off.

Mista held his head in his hands from across the room, back still leaned up against the door. It was fucking humiliating acting this way in front of Giorno, but he couldn’t help it at this point. He couldn’t ignore it today, the stream of thoughts that pushed their way into his brain.

The thoughts that told him if he sipped his water four times Abbacchio would be lying on the ground covered in blood with a gaping hole in his stomach.

That if he knocked on the door four times Narancia would be impaled, blood dripping onto the ground as lifeless eyes stared back at him.

That if someone showed him four slices of cake, Bucciarati would collapse and someone would tell him that he had been a walking corpse for days.

That if he walked outside this fucking room right now, Giorno would get shot in the head and collapse beneath his feet and it would be his fault.

Everything would go wrong and it would be his fault. All because he knew that he should’ve stayed inside. All because he knew what would have happened but ignored it anyway.

He could feel a familiar tension in his chest as his skull throbbed from behind his eyes. He swallowed thickly and tried to blink those thoughts away, tried not to think about what lay outside this door.

He blinked back tears as they swarmed his vision. He pulled the blanket further over his head and instinctively clenched his fists.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t-

***

The silence was broken again as Giorno heard quiet whimpering from across the room, instantly recognizing the high-pitched sounds as Mista’s stand.

“Miiiistaa stop! You always tell us not to do that!”

“Miiisstaa~ stop acting like such a wuss!”

“Stop crying or you’ll make me cry too, Miiistaa~”

“Number 5! You’re such a crybaby!”

Mista stiffened as Giorno abruptly sat up from his spot, eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness. He was hunched forward, the blanket over his head and blocking his face as the Sex Pistols scampered around him. Once they noticed him, they jumped, backing away towards the food plate again.

“Yikes! I forgot that Giorno was still here!”

“Pull it together, 5!”

“Miissstaaa’s sad so I’m sad toooo~”

“Mista?” Giorno asked softly when he noticed that he wasn’t telling them off this time. Mista didn’t answer and the Sex Pistols grew silent, huddled back in the corner of the room.

“Mista,” Giorno said again, creeping closer to his friend, “Are you alright?”

A small sob was Mista’s answer and Giorno watched as the blanket fell off Mista’s shoulders, completely exposing him to the outside world.

“Fuck,” Mista choked out, desperately feeling around for the blanket as more tears blurred his vision. The Sex Pistols were muttering quietly in the corner and Giorno thought he could hear Narancia and Fugo fighting down the hall, but nothing could stop him from focusing on his friend.

“I’m going to put this back over you,” he said calmly,

He grabbed the blanket and draped it over the man’s shoulders again, feeling how much they were shaking when he did so.

Mista choked out a thank you and buried his face in his hands as more tears slipped down his face, dribbling onto his chin.

“Can I touch you?” the blonde asked. Mista sniffled and nodded slowly.

Giorno wasn’t really one for physical affection; he barely had anyone give it to him, and he was equally bad at giving it back to someone. He slipped next to Mista and let his gentle hands make their way to his back, rubbing small circles into it.

When he had woken up screaming just the third night of meeting the gang, Bucciarati had done the same for him.

“Can we--? Can we go up on the bed?” Mista asked, his voice breaking as he tried to speak between sobs. Giorno nodded and stood up, helping his friend up and led him across the room to the bed.

Once Mista had reached the foot of the bed, he collapsed into it, shoulders shaking. Giorno draped another blanket over him and sat on the edge of the bed, blinking in surprise when Mista asked him to join him under the covers.

Once Giorno was comfortably nestled under the covers, he felt Mista pry open his neatly folded arms and buried his face in his chest. Giorno wrapped his arms around the man and continued rubbing circles into his back, not stopping when he cried even harder.

Once the crying had mostly stopped, Mista raised his head and looked up at Giorno’s deep emerald eyes. Giorno brushed back a curl that had fallen out of his hat.

“Feel any better?”

“Not really,” he breathed out with a watery laugh. He felt another curl drop out of his hat and Giorno’s eyebrows quirked up with amusement.

“Do you want to take your hat off?” he asked. Mista shook his head and shuddered.

“No way, dude. That’d be like asking you to take your braid out.”

Laughter bubbled in Giorno’s chest and Mista felt warm. He could see the sunlight leaking out of the curtains from his bed and he let himself cuddle up closer to Giorno’s chest.

“Can you--” he started abruptly, “Can your stand heal my mind?”

He hoped his question wasn’t too stupid. Mista felt Giorno tense up as an airy laugh escaped him.

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” he said, resting his hand on the back of Mista’s neck. Mista looked up in surprise.

“Really?”

“How else was I supposed to experiment with Gold?” he shuddered at the memory of sitting in his room, begging his stand to make him better in some way, praying that his healing powers could also work internally.

“So...is there a specific reason why you don’t like it?” Giorno asked, quickly changing the subject. Mista inhaled sharply against his chest at the mention of it.

“Not really,” he said flatly. Giorno didn’t ask any more questions and he was thankful for it Giorno could tell that just the mention made him paranoid, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but found that Mista had beat him to it.

“I just wish that it wasn’t today,” he groaned in frustration, letting his gaze trail to the closed door. He could feel his mind starting to slow down as he nestled further into Giorno’s comforting warmth and he wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Giorno answered, pulling the covers over them, “We could just stay here.”

Mista sighed, already feeling exhaustion take him over. Maybe he could just stay here. He yawned.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's bizzare adventure golden wind #giorno giovanna #guido mista #angst #hurt/comfort #tetraphobia #c-c-cherry's fic

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