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goldessia · 9 months ago

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RUINED REPUTATION — k. bkg x assistant reader

sum. katsuki bakugo is the #1 professional hero. because of this, he built an agency, and wound up hiring an assistant to help him with publicity and to do majority of his paperwork for him... something he didn’t expect was for that assistant to be so damn attractive.

warnings. injury, intoxication, makeouts, smut!mdni (in future chapters!)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (wip)

a/n. haii! thanks for tuning in for the second chapter :) hope you like this so far! not proofread — let me know if there’s any mistakes!

tag list: @lovra974 , @gold24fish, @bkgirl, @bigsimpo343 , @missyaess

“i.. i didn’t know where else to go.”

…

here he was, dynamight himself, standing in-front of my front door with blood pooling his shirt.

i sputter. what do i even say in this situation? my boss was at my front door, looking intoxicated and like he was near to death.

“sir?” i say in nearly a whisper, “what.. what are you doing here?”

he groaned, and i couldn’t tell if it was from pain or not. “stop.. stop calling me that.” he huffs, clutching the doorframe harder, the wood sizzling.

“sorry—“ i catch myself, “um, dynamight.”

“don’t call me that shit either.” he stares me in the eye as he says, “just.. just call me katsuki. ‘don’t care.”

i meekly nod. we’re on a first name basis now?

not wanting my doorframe to burn off, i take his hand off my doorframe and sling his arm around my shoulders. when he leans his weight onto me, i nearly collapse but manage to keep myself composed.

to think we were just talking about him merely a few hours ago, and now he’s here, as if we summoned him like some sort of demon.

.. well, demon isn’t too far off.

i shut the door behind me, katsuki’s feet stumbling as i try to lead him towards the bathroom where i kept my medical aid.

i guess my year trying to be a nurse is paying off before i switched majors, as i still have the supplies and knowledge i gained from it.

“what the hell happened?” i ask, voice low as to not wake my un-suspecting roommate.

“ts’ guy at a bar, nggh!” he hisses as we drop a step, his hand unintentionally pushing farther into his wound. i mutter an apology.

he’s breathing heavily, like he’s gasping for air. i can feel his biceps clench with every walk we take, his sharp exhale at every step he as to walk on his left-injured side.

clearing my throat, i prompt, “guy at a bar?”

“had a.. a fuckin mouth onim’.” he says heavily, “put that pussy in his place.”

if dynamight is this bad.. i wonder how the guy he was fighting was looking like right now.

“as your assistant.. fuck you for causing another scene.” i say, kicking open the bathroom door, “as your temporary.. friend, good for you.”

i cringe at the word friend. friend seems weird — off.

“good for me, my ass.” he hisses as i place him against the counter, pushing his torso to tell him to sit.

he does.

the reality of the situations continues to dawn on me; my boss is in my house, in my proximity that i live in everyday. i shower in this very bathroom. it felt.. weird.

i clear my throat, trying to ignore the butterflies of anxiousness in my stomach.

“katsuki,” i test, the name unfamiliar on my tongue, “take off your shirt.” from my peripheral vision, i can see him smirk. i send a look his way, face flushing in embarrassment.

“not like.. like that.” i stutter, “‘just take off your damn shirt.”

he stares at me, blinks, then tuts his tongue and says—“yes, ma’am.”—weak, shaken hands gripping the end of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one clean move.

it both irritates me and confuses me how simply he had done it.

he drops it in the floor, too weak to care where he put it—conveniently on my brand new white bathmat.

i try to ignore how it irritates me.

“i’ll buy you.. a new one.” he breathes, falling back against the marble wall, touching a hand to the wound on his stomach and hissing a breath through his teeth.

i rummage through the drawer of supplies, purposefully avoiding looking his way out of respect — and for my own sanity.

luckily, sutures was the unit we last worked on before i switched majors, meaning the information was still fairly fresh in my mind.

taking a step closer to the hero, i smell a waft of alcohol seep off of his skin. whiskey, no doubt.

i clear my throat. “i didn’t peg you for a whiskey guy.” i say, hoping to clear some of the overwhelming awkwardness.

he grimaces when i touch an alcohol pad around the wound, cleaning the dried blood surrounding the cut.

“i’m any typa’ guy on the right occasion.” he gives a toothy grin as he says this, abs flexing from my touch.

i blink. finally meeting his eyes, i realize just how close our bodies were, my hands on his torso, standing between his legs as he sits on the counter.

i knew he was supposed to be fit considering his work involved constantly pushing his body to the brink, but man.

he was toned, abs chiseled, biceps molded and flexing with every touch to his wound. his body resembled that of a god, and even if his body was bruised and broken it still looked perfect.

his eyes are piercing, ruby-bright red paired with a shiny, toothy grin placed between his lips.

“whatcha starin’ at, hm?” he slurs. i can feel the breathe from his lips.

my eyes flick away. i murmur a, “..nothing”, clearing my throat and picking up the needle to suture the wound. "so.. what happened for you to get this wound?"

"you're really beautiful, y'know that?" katsuki breathes, eyes scanning over my face.

"what?" i flush, momentarily freezing.

he chuckles, the scent of alcohol seeping over my face as he breathes out, "everyday, when you show up in those outfits ya got.. drives me insane.."

i am unsure what to do. staring into katsuki's eyes, i can see he's totally out of it; he doesn't mean any of this, it's just the alcohol talking!

.. then again, drunk words are sober thoughts.

i scoff, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear as i rip my gaze away. "you're drunk, katsuki," slowly, i am getting used to the name, "you're just talking nonesense."

"i'd never lie t' a pretty girl like you." he says, leaning closer, dangerously close. "anyone ever tell ya you got the most beautiful eyes?"

he reaches a hand toward me, tipping my chin up to look at him, rough and calloused hands scraping against the skin across my jaw.

suddenly, the room is too hot, his touch is too hot and i can feel myself slowly going insane. i find myself wanting more, more, his hands all over--

no! what the hell am i saying, he's drunk, and unlike himself. once he sobers up, he'll realize how stupid his words were.

but oh, his touch was addicting.

"katsuki.." i whisper, feeling his hand slowly move across my collarbone. he leans toward me, his lips resting over my ear, his breath on my skin flowing down my neck. so warm, so soothing.

"y'know, everyday when you show up in them' jeans ya wear.." he inhales, the sound loud in my ear, "makes me so fucking turned on."

i take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, trying to resist; he wouldn't want this, not if he were sober.

i swallow, "katsuki." i say with more certainty.

"mm, say that again." he rasps, kissing just below my ear with such gentleness i am surprised. his lips are hot, wet, his tongue dragging softly over my skin. i feel my body heat up, having to lean against the counter because i was afraid my legs would give out.

resist. resist, all you have to do is push away.

"you.. you wouldn't want this if you were sober." i huff, my face a bright, hot pink of fluster.

a chuckle comes from his chest, "this is all i want when i'm sober. all i can think 'bout, girl."

he pulls away from my neck, and i sigh in relief before opening my eyes to see him right in-front of me. his hand grabs my chin, slanting my head to the side, waiting painfully close as if to wait for me to make the first move.

and i know it's bad. the cliche of bosses sleeping with their assistants always irked me, and considering i was an assistant for dynamight i never considered he would ever sleep with me.

but now... if what he is saying is true, my predictions were nothing but the complete opposite.

and all i can think is: well, fuck, as i crash my lips against his. his mouth is hot, fiery, just as i assumed it to be. his tongue instantly pushes against mine, teeth grazing each other as our lips meet in a hasty battle.

tongues dancing against each other, i am instantly overwhelmed. kissing has never been this sweet, this passionate with my previous partners. a raw, thick naturalness comes between katsuki and i, as if being this close to one another was simply fate.

"this is.. bad--!" i mutter between the breathes we are forced to take, his hand instead finding my hips and pulling me against the counter. i am forced to stand on my tippy-toes as his other hand finds my hair, grasping it as if to hold him to reality.

i understand that much. i feel like if it weren't for his grasp on my skin, i would simply be in a dream instead of this being a reality.

and if this is a dream, i don't think i want to ever wake up.

i bring a hand up to his torso, my hand accidentally grazing over his wound. he groans into my lips, hand clutching my hair even tighter, yet he doesnt stop his assault to dominate my mouth.

i gasp. he's wounded! what am i thinking?!

gathering all the restraint in my body, i push away from him, my back slamming into the wall behind me. i finally take a breath, heavy pants leaving my mouth as i stare at him.

a groan of frustration leaves his lips, his back falling against the wall. it seemed the dopamine had allowed the affect of the wound to become nothing more than a little thorn in his side, but now that it had run out the pain started coming back.

"please.." katsuki whispers, "'feels better when yer kissing me.."

then, there's a knock on the door.

"y/n? is everything alright in there?" mina's voice comes from outside the door.

i look between katsuki and the door, seeing his love-drunk eyes and his current state; anyone with eyes could see he was aroused, not to mention the prominent boner tenting his pants.

"uh—“ i say, "yeah I’m—i'm okay." i say back, clearing my throat, "jus' go back to bed, mina."

"you sure..? you're talking kinda weird, i'm just gonna come in—“

"no!' i panic, before realizing my tone was still suspicious.

"that' the acid freak from school?" katsuki's brows furrow, "what's that brat doin' here?"

"who's that?!" mina calls from outside the door, "wait.. thats—!"

"OKAY!" i yell in frustration, "i'm opening the door!"

i slowly crack open the door, quickly closing it behind me and leaving katsuki in the bathroom.

mina’s eyes are wide. “what. the fuck. is katsuki bakugo doing in our apartment at three in the morning?!”

i sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, “i don’t know. he just.. he just came to the front door, injured.”

“so.. bring him to the hospital!” mina says in a duh tone.

“how do you think it’d look if his assistant was with him at three in the morning?” i say in a whisper-yell, “look, it’s just a simple cut. i can suture it up, and he’ll be fine by the morning.”

she shifts on her feet, uneasy. “okay. but it still feels weird.”

i run a hand over my face, “yeah, i know. it is weird.”

she eyes me, her head slanting ever so slightly. “are you alright? you look all… flustered..” then, her eyes widen as if in a realization, “wait—!”

before she can speak, i cut her off. “okayimleavingnowbye!” i sputter, rushing toward the bathroom and closing it behind me.

i inhale a deep breath, face flushing at the idea of being caught making out with my boss.

“how about you uh.. do me a favour and stitch me up now, huh, princess?” katsuki smiles as he says this.

i turn to him. “don’t call me that.”

“uh-huh.”

#katsuki mha #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #mha x reader #mha

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lookingfts · 2 months ago

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New drabble!

I've mentioned before that I'm participating in another prompt game, and this week's word is "soap." Enjoy this mildly smutty drabble.

Lilies.

The word he had whispered as he sniffed Kate like a deranged lunatic, desperate to drink her in until she was merged with his bones, and miraculously she had fallen into him just as desperately. Clinging to his shirt, scratching at his skin, whimpering in his ear as he took her apart for the first time.

His obsession hadn’t abated, even though he had access to Kate’s flawless skin regularly. A little smirk would form on her face when he buried his nose in the curve of her neck, but she would simply tilt her head, sighing as he pressed kisses to her warm flesh. The scent of her made him drunk, as if he was under a spell from a potion that she brewed, and he had no desire to break it.

Long had he wondered whether it was actually lilies that intoxicated him, or he craved the scent because it was on her skin. Anthony was quite enamored with everything about Kathani Sharma, after all.

It had been a long day for them both, and Anthony could think of no better way to unwind than a hot, unhurried shower. Neither of them had rushed to complete their normal routine, simply standing under the steaming spray and letting the magic of his very expensive showerhead soothe their muscles. The sensation of a naked Kate in his arms – and what it said about the safety she felt with him – was still a revelation each time. He thought it might always be.

“Can you hand me the soap, baby?” Fuck, even that nickname shook him to his core. Kate had a way of making him feel like something precious, without even trying. Like something wanted.

He took the bar from the niche, the lily fragrance filling his nose. Anthony thought he might go utterly insane if the company ever discontinued it. Hell, he would buy the company and restart production himself.

An idea entered his mind, a small thing that quickly took up space until he was aching to follow it. “Can I do it for you?”

There was that momentary pause. Where Kate considered his request, and Anthony’s traitorous brain wondered whether this would be the time that she asked him to stop being so needy.

He did need her. Like he had never allowed himself to need anyone. And how could that not grow tiring to someone who had always craved independence?

But Kate merely took the hand that was splayed on her stomach and brought it up to her perfect mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

Reluctantly separating himself from her, only enough to make space for his arm, Anthony ran the bar lightly across her shoulder, watching the suds lather against her wet skin. She truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, let alone touched. Every inch of her took his breath away, from the normally riotous curls slicked against her back to the tight curve of her arse down to her endless legs.

“You’re spending a lot of time on that shoulder,” she teased, mirth in her voice, and he felt…light. Always so light, with her.

“Sorry,” Anthony said, mostly unapologetically. “I can’t stop staring at you.”

Her breath hitched a little, like it always did when he let it slip how much he craved her. A good hitch, he thought. He was learning the differences. “Don’t just stare,” Kate murmured, reaching up and sweeping her wet mass of hair over her other shoulder.

Anthony saw no reason to refuse her invitation. Slipping a hand down to her slim waist, he made her shiver with a brush of his fingertips. With deliberate slowness, he worked the soap in circles across her shoulders and down her toned back. Occasionally she would make a little noise in the back of her throat, her muscles flexing, but she said nothing.

Kneeling on the padded bathmat, he started at the back of her ankles and soaped up her legs, admiring each defined curve, and finished on her tight arse, lightly tracing the seam as she audibly exhaled.

Gently, Anthony turned her to face him, and Kate went willingly. This was not an unfamiliar sight, him on his knees for her. Ready to fulfill every desire she had denied herself all these years.

Tilting his head up, he met her eyes, filled with softness and arousal. The soap ran up her shins, her thighs, lingering on the crease where she was shining and a little swollen. Over her flat stomach and sweeping across the undersides of her breasts before he reached her nipples, stiff and puckered.

Dropping her head back, Kate moaned softly as he swirled soap over the peaks in turn. The scent was almost suffocating now, so concentrated in the lather that covered her body, and Anthony thought he would very willingly die just like this.

Freeing the showerhead, Anthony rinsed her off thoroughly, the suds running over their feet and disappearing down the drain. He placed it back in its cradle and skimmed his eyes over her face, finding her cheeks flushed and her pupils blown. “Did I do it right?”

“You’re so-.” She had no intention of finishing that sentence, obviously, as she crashed into him and captured his lips with fervor. Anthony was near mindless as he backed her against the tile wall and lifted her up, sliding right into her warm, waiting cunt like he was meant to be there. “It won’t take much, baby, please.”

He felt obscenely proud that he had gotten her so close already. Watching Kate come was a borderline religious experience, and he wanted to give it to her as often and in whichever way she asked.

It was messy, Kate wrapped around his hips and Anthony gripping the metal bar for dear life as he drove into her, but soon she was clenching down around him and he was spilling hard inside her and they slumped together against the wall, shaking and panting.

“This was not a very efficient shower,” Kate chuckled into his shoulder, all the tension of the day bled from her body. Holding him as though she ached for it as badly as he did.

Anthony trailed his nose along her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her. Lilies. He was never going to tire of it. “I’m okay with that.”

#bridgerton #kanthony #kate x anthony #anthony x kate #bridgerton fic

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year ago

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a mess of holy things 1 also on ao3 // next cw: implied religious trauma/abuse

It feels weird to be in this room.

It’s so… empty.

Not that Steve’s room at his parents’ house back home is full. His walls were always void of photos and art and everything people on TV had, still are now that he’s gone, always covered in that wallpaper his mother picked when he was eleven. He was never allowed to talk badly about it, not that he would have had he been granted permission. But these walls don’t have wallpaper on them. They’re bare, white, empty.

He stares at them when his parents leave.

He sits on the edge of his bed, which is smaller than his bed back home, and naked except for the two blue suitcases he brought with him, and he looks across the room. At the bare wall. He doesn’t really feel the urge to cover it with anything, but it still feels sort of unnerving to look at. Like there’s something wrong with it.

But Steve doesn’t think the walls are what his father is worried about with him living here for college.

He’d had to listen to him for weeks after getting the acceptance letter in the mail. The school is popular for its business course, which of course is the reason Steve applied in the first place, despite his indifference when it comes to business, but it’s in the city. Steve had never been to a city before today.

It’s noisier than it is back home, he thinks as he turns to look out his window. From where he’s sitting he can only see the tops of trees; he got lucky in that his room faces away from the other dorm buildings around his, and he takes a moment to watch the leaves blow in the wind for a moment. He can hear voices from downstairs, muffled but still audible. It sounds like they’re arguing, but Steve can’t tell if they are or not; he had the same issue back home when he could hear his parents’ voices from his room upstairs. Though they were usually arguing when he cracked his door open.

He can hear cars from outside, a motorcycle revving, a distant siren that fades after a few moments. Some laughter that somehow feels more distant than anything else.

He stands after another second, crossing the small distance to his desk that’s in front of the window, setting his hands on the chair as he leans over it to look outside. He’s on the third floor. When he leans over farther he can see some people gathered in a circle in the grass. One is laying on his back, his hands on his belly as he laughs, and as Steve watches, a girl next to him reaches over to smack his leg. One boy in the group is smoking a cigarette. Steve looks away.

There’s a corkboard on the other side of the bed, next to some shelving. Steve looks at it, listening to the boy laugh. He doesn’t think he has anything to put on it, but maybe he can get a calendar or something.

It feels so quiet in here. Even with the noises outside.

But he’s never minded the silence.

He unpacks slowly. He does the cardboard boxes first. There isn’t much, just some old textbooks from his father, textbooks he used when he went to business school. Steve tried to tell him that they probably use different textbooks now, especially considering he goes to a different school than the one his father went to, but he insisted these books are the best, so Steve stayed quiet. He doesn’t like to argue, especially with his father. The books are padded with his bedding, which he tosses onto one of the suitcases while he unpacks, as he stacks the books on one of the shelves next to his desk.

His winter clothes go into the wardrobe, his towel and soaps into the bathroom, and when he finds his paper and post-it notes and stationary, he makes a note to buy toilet paper and a bathmat. He knew he’d forget some things.

When he unpacks the suitcases, he does so slowly. He won’t admit it to himself, but it kind of feels like he’s procrastinating as he does it, like he doesn’t want to get to it.

He knows what he’s looking for, what he’s avoiding. It’s in the second suitcase, carefully wrapped in one of his favorite sweaters, and when he spots the red knit, he pauses, standing up straight and just looking for a moment.

He unpacks everything around it. It’s hot in his room when he finishes, and he’s sweating through the shirt he’s wearing. He opens his window and plugs in the fan his father packed for him before he pauses and cracks open the window above his desk. The group of people has left, probably because the sun is going down now, but he can still smell the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. But he can’t tell if it’s just his mind providing the smell because he knows it was there or not.

That’s happened before, him smelling or hearing things that he knows aren’t really there. Lingering cigarette smoke or weed smoke, the remnants of secular music that rattle around in his head like it’s empty except for echoing drum beats. It’s frustrating. He doesn’t want to hear the music, or smell those smells, and he knows he’s not supposed to. He’s caught himself humming along to songs that he doesn’t even know more times than he can count, and every time he just lets his head fall. He recites prayers that tend to take the place of the music.

His suitcase is empty except for the sweater. He supposes he should just finish so he can make his bed.

He kneels on the mattress, reaching over into the suitcase to pull it out, holding it with both hands like it might break even though he’s had it for as long as he can remember, and he knows that it won’t shatter to pieces in his hands. He still kind of feels like his hands have that ability. To break anything.

Especially something like this.

He unwraps the crucifix, and he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath. The cross is wood. Jesus is gold. Steve doesn’t think it’s real gold, but it’s gleaming at him nonetheless. He drops the sweater on the bed again, and with a shaking hand, he sets the crucifix on one of the shelves next to his desk. It’s up high, looking down at the rest of the room in judgement.

Steve looks away, exhaling.

He puts the sweater in his wardrobe, folded carefully so he doesn’t stretch the yarn. And then he makes his bed. It’s hard to get the corners of the mattress right because of how the room is laid out, but he manages it, and when he’s done, he takes a shower. He’s grateful to his parents for paying for him to have his own bathroom, grateful that he doesn’t have to wait for showers to be available or risk having to talk to people in the hallways.

He thinks that might be part of why they paid for it. They, meaning his father specifically. He makes the decisions. Steve’s mom just agrees and stays quiet.

His dad doesn’t like the idea of Steve being in the city.

Not because of the noise, or the trash, or because it’s something that’s foreign to Steve, somewhere that he doesn’t feel particularly, entirely safe, but because of the people that Steve is surrounded by. In his words, heathens and hippies, chain-smokers and Satanists. Steve had to very carefully tell him that he’s responsible for who he spends time with, and he’s always been conscious of his friends’ mindsets and focuses and goals. Which is the truth. His only friends from home he met in church as a child.

Though met may be generous; their mothers had been friends and they had been stuck together in the playroom when they were small, but as soon as they were old enough to sit still, even when they didn’t want to, they were separated to sit with their families. But they were all Steve knew, so they stayed together in school, even when Steve decided he didn’t really like them that much. Which is why he’s kind of glad he’s here in the city; it’s so much less likely that he’ll run into a familiar face, someone he went to school with. He feels just inches closer to escaping.

Escaping.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that.

He shouldn’t be thinking about leaving home. He shouldn’t be happy about being here in this empty room instead of in his parents’ house.

It’s highlighted in his copy of the Bible, the one he got when he was ten that he’s kept on his bedside for almost a decade. It’s highlighted in yellow. Important.

Ephesians 6:1-3.

1 aChildren, bobey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. 2 aHonour thy father and mother; (which is the first commandment with promise;) 3 That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.

It’s hard sometimes. But he tries. And he likes to think that that’s enough for now.

He doesn’t have anything to eat. His parents didn’t get anything for him on the way to his dorm, and then they left right after helping him move everything into his room and lecturing him about being mindful of who he’s friends with. So he just takes a shower and says his nighttime prayer, and he goes to bed.

His room isn’t as dark as his room at his parents’ house. There are lights outside, lining the sidewalk his room overlooks, and they peer through the windows when he pulls them shut. He stares at the ceiling. He kind of wishes there was something to see on it instead of white paint. But when he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s facing the sky full of stars.

He manages to drift off after a while, but he wakes up around midnight to the smell of weed. He wrinkles his nose, blinking his eyes open and squinting as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He rolls over, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks across the room to his open window, and he sighs heavily. His limbs are sore as he gets up heavily. He’s pretty sure he has a bruise or two on his legs but carrying in the boxes.

He’s still squinting as he leans over his desk to look out the window. There’s another group of people where the others had been earlier, and of course Steve would get stuck with the room right above a popular smoking spot. There are fewer people in this group than there had been in the other, but two of them are smoking, watching a third as she spins at the center of their little circle. Her skirt fans around her legs, and another person starts clapping. The girl giggles and sits back down heavily, reaching for her friend’s cigarette. Steve watches for another moment before he pulls his window shut. He moves his fan closer to his bed.

It’s not that it’s particularly weird to not have friends.

But he doesn’t speak at all without anyone he knows around, and his throat starts to feel weird after about a week. He didn’t realize how little he spoke when he wasn’t with his friends. He knew he didn’t talk much at home, but that’s… different.

It’s not necessarily that he wasn’t allowed to talk at home. He just wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t have to.

And now he doesn’t have to because there’s no one to hear him. Attendance is taken in the form of a sheet of paper by the door, every student’s name typed out neatly, waiting for a signature next to it, and Steve isn’t to volunteer answers when his professors pose questions to the class. He listens quietly. Takes notes.

He supposes he’s avoiding the others’ eyes after a while. He doesn’t know why; it’s like he’s scared that they’ll look into him, that they’ll find something he doesn’t want them to. A few of them offer friendly smiles, polite waves, and Steve reciprocates, but in a way that lets them know he won’t be joining them, or making conversation, or any of the things normal people do. Steve doesn’t really think he counts as a normal person. His parents would say that he isn’t like the others, because he’s enlightened, because he’s saved.

But he’s starting to wonder if that’s exactly what it is, just… Maybe not in the way his parents think.

He doesn’t know if he feels lonely. If he knows what it feels like to be lonely. It’s an odd feeling, this uncertainty, but he doesn’t think it’s a bad feeling. The solitude is nice sometimes. The quiet. But he does wonder if this is what his life is going to be like from now on, so quiet and slow and…

Boring.

It’s boring.

He’ll barely admit it to himself, but he’s bored in his dorm room. Bored of the white walls and plain blankets, of his textbooks and his professors’ droning voices. Bored of the same breakfast every morning (eggs and toast, a cup of black coffee), of the same walk to his lectures (past the other dorm building and two lecture halls, through a pathway that cuts across a park that’s spotted with benches and trash cans). Bored of his degree. Already.

He doesn’t tell his parents all of this during their weekly phone calls, of course. His voice is rough as he speaks to them, but they don’t question it. Of course they don’t. Steve doesn’t think they even notice. Their calls are always filled with the same conversations:

My classes are going well.

Everything is turned in on time.

I have an essay due in a few weeks.

The outline is already done.

My hallway has been quiet.

My professors seem nice.

I haven’t made any friends.

I’ve been focussing on my schoolwork.

Friends aren’t my priority right now.

They let it slide. As long as he’s passing his classes, as long as he’s praying. They don’t ask if he’s been to church since he started college. (He hasn’t. He doesn’t know if he wants to, even though he knows where the church is in the city, even though he knows what times services start and end. He practically has the schedule memorized.)

And he’s bored.

Bored.

The library in the city is better than the one on campus in Steve’s opinion.

It’s a bit noisier with the city outside, with cars and trucks and motorcycles, sirens and construction and shouting, but it’s not just students there, which Steve thinks is what he likes. On campus, every room is filled with people his age, people he should know how to talk to, people he should be spending time with and chatting with and becoming friends with, and there’s this pressure on his chest the whole time. Like he’s doing something wrong as he’s looking through his textbooks and analyzing his notes.

In the city, there are a few people that Steve would recognize as students at his college, but there are also children carrying picturebooks, whispering loudly to their parents, and teenagers doing their homework, and elderly people looking through shelves of books, and Steve somehow feels less lonely here.

He starts going to the public library a few weeks into the school year on a whim; at first it was just to see what the library was like, just to get out of his dorm room and finally explore a little after so much boredom, but it’s become a common thing for him. It’s nice to see the city, even if there’s a sense of wrongness that follows him around as he looks at the other people. At the women in their short skirts, at the couples making out against the walls of buildings. All the people his parents would scoff at and turn toward Steve to give him a lecture because they can’t give it to the person they’re actually judging.

But for some reason, Steve likes seeing these people. He doesn’t know if it’s a sense of adventure that he gets in seeing these people and not hearing a whole spiel about how they’ll end up in Hell and how God is watching them, and oh, may God lead them to the light, despite the fact that they tend to look pretty happy with themselves as and where they are. There aren’t as many of these people in the library (save for the couple Steve saw making out behind a bookshelf; he managed to get away before they noticed him there.), but he still likes it there. There are so many more people in this public library than the one in his hometown, but it’s still just as quiet.

There are more study rooms in this library than the one back home. There’s one on the second floor that Steve likes: it’s small and sort of tucked away into a corner, the door creaky and a little hard to push open. The table is wobbly the same way his desks were in high school, and there are old doodles on it, some in ink or smudged graphite, others carved into the wood and smoothed down over time.

Every time Steve reaches for the door, he says a little prayer that there’s no one inside, and so far, he hasn’t walked in on anybody. He always anticipates it, stepping inside and making wide-eyed eye contact with a stranger, mumbling an apology in his rough, barely-used voice before he leaves and never comes back just because he can’t handle it. But maybe his prayers are working. Or maybe he’s just lucky.

He thinks he’s just lucky.

He’s also lucky that no one has come in while he’s working. Maybe because it’s so tucked away, hidden in some bookshelves, nobody really sees it.

The quiet city sounds are even quieter when he’s in this room, the vehicles and sirens and loud laughter all muffled behind the walls, and the sounds of his studying seem unusually loud in turn, the scratching of his pencil, the turning of his pages, and soft thuds of the table leg tapping the ground as he works, wobbling back and forth and back and forth. He likes it here. It might be his favorite place that he’s found since he started college, quiet and peaceful and away from it all.

He hears a truck pass outside as he turns the page in his textbook. It’s a second-hand book, one he bought after reading the supply list for one of his classes, and some of the lines are already marked, highlighted in a fading yellow or circled with smudged pencil. He ignores the annotations at first, copying down the text that he thinks is important, and then he goes back to see what the book’s previous owners thought was important. He hesitates, then writes it all down too.

He startles when the door opens abruptly, jumping and looking up, his hand fumbling with his pen. He drops it as a man enters the room, carrying a backpack. He’s got long hair that seems to obstruct his vision until he tosses his head, flicking his hair out of the way, and he closes the door behind himself, letting out a breath before he looks up and his eyes meet Steve’s.

“Jesus Christ—”

Steve’s eyes widen as he watches the man startle, turning to hide his face as he presses a ring-clad hand to his chest.

“Sorry,” the man says breathily, flinging his hair away again. “Shit. Uh.” He takes another breath, awkwardly running a hand through his hair, pushing it back, facing Steve. It’s longer than Steve’s ever seen on a man, past his shoulders and wavy, frizzy like it should be curly. There are bits of metal on his face, piercings in places Steve’s never seen: on the bridge of his nose between his eyes, on his eyebrows, his mouth. “There usually isn’t, uhm, anyone in here.”

“Oh,” Steve says finally, blinking at him. His eyes flick up and down the man’s body, scanning the angel on his t-shirt, patches and pins on his denim jacket, the rips in his jeans. He’s never seen anyone dressed like this before, so… dark. Even his boots are intimidating. The rings on his fingers look heavy, and Steve has to tear his eyes away from them.

“I’m just… I’m just studying,” he says finally. “If you… wanna share.”

“Okay,” the man says, and he’s smiling awkwardly now. He has a nice smile. It digs lines into his cheeks and makes his eyes squint, but Steve can still see how dark and shiny they are. Like a deer’s.

He watches the man sit at the other end of the table, watches him set his bag on the ground and pull some books out of it to set them on the table. Steve glances at the books and stops, staring. Atop one book that's plain brown, untitled, the spine bare, are a few colorful ones, reading Dungeons & Dragons above various illustrations of monsters. Steve feels the man glance over at him, and he looks away sharply, back down at his textbook and notebook.

It’s suddenly too quiet, even though there’s more noise than there was a minute ago. Steve listens to him rifle through his bag and glances out of the corner of his eye to watch him pull a pen out of the biggest pocket.

Steve looks away again. Finishes the sentence he’d been writing when the man came in. Turns the page of his textbook and tries to read the next paragraph.

It’s not a minute later that he looks up at the man again. He’s sitting funnily. One leg brought up onto his chair, arm around it, his cheek almost resting on his knee. The rip in his jeans shows his skin under it, and he looks even paler against the dark fabric. He’s writing in the brown book, and Steve’s eyes skim down to his hands. He’s right-handed, and his nails are painted black. The polish is chipping.

Steve looks back and forth between him and his notebook, glancing and staring, noticing something new every time he looks. There’s a tattoo covering the back of his hand. It looks like some kind of flower.

When he leans back in his seat, looking down at his book, he lifts a hand to his mouth and nibbles at his nail for a moment before he grimaces and lowers his hand. When he lowers his hand, Steve can see the tattoo that’s covering his neck and throat; it’s a bat, its wings outstretched, its mouth in some grotesque expression. Steve looks away.

He feels nervous, somehow.

The man seems nice enough. He smiled at Steve. Apologized for his reaction. He’s being quiet, respectful of their shared space. Keeping all of his things on his side of the table.

But the angel on his t-shirt has a skull instead of a face. He’s wearing at least three necklaces, silver chains and one with a charm that Steve can’t quite identify. There are tattoos on his fingers, partially hidden under his heavy rings that click every time he does something with his hands. The patches on his jacket have symbols on them that would prompt Steve’s parents into prayer.

And Steve isn’t sure how to feel about him.

He knows he isn’t supposed to like him.

But it feels odd to dislike someone because of their hair, their clothes, the art on their skin.

And he has a nice smile.

Steve faces his notebook but can’t tear his eyes away from the man. He watches him write, glancing back and forth between the colorful Dungeons & Dragons books and his brown notebook, watches him twist one of his rings around his finger, watches his lips twist as he thinks. It’s a while that Steve sits here, watching and staring, looking at his tattoos, at his piercings, at his hair (which he keeps re-tucking behind his ear).

“I can feel you looking at me,” the man says finally, and Steve drops his pen, his face flushing with heat.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide, but the man just smiles at his notebook, scribbling something down before he looks up at Steve again. And Steve can see his piercings clearly now, two through both of his eyebrows, one through the bridge of his nose, one on either side of his bottom lip. They’re silver studs, and they gleam in the sunlight coming in through the window.

“‘S okay,” he says lightly, gently, smiling. “I get it a lot.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they look at each other, and Steve feels oddly self-conscious as the man’s eyes flick over him, like he’s analysing the shirt Steve is wearing, the way his hair is pushed back. But the man’s smile doesn’t waver, even as he leans over his notebook and gestures to Steve with a jerk of his chin.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Uhm.” Steve finally looks away, glances down at where his handwriting has lifted up off the lines of his notebook, distracted. “…Business management and administration.”

“Sounds exciting,” the man says dryly, and Steve just shakes his head, which prompts a laugh from him. “I’m assuming you go to college here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve says awkwardly, crossing his arms over the table. “I’m a freshman.”

“How are you liking it?”

“Uh,” Steve says again. “…I like it.”

He just raises an eyebrow like he’s amused, silently promoting Steve, like he’s poking him in the side.

“It’s kinda lonely,” Steve says with a light shrug.

“You don’t have friends?”

“I…” He shrugs again. “I’m not… very social, I guess. I had friends in high school, but I think…” He hesitates, oddly unfamiliar with the sound of his voice after being silent for so long, but the man looks so patient, listening closely like he actually wants to hear what Steve has to say. “I think I didn’t really like them that much,” he says finally. “I took a gap year after grad and they all left for college and it was like I… I could breathe without them.”

He shrugs again, but the man is just smiling now. Like he gets it. He has a really nice smile. Steve looks at it, at the way his piercings shift slightly as his lips curve.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Steve blinks. Looks back into his eyes. (They’re so dark.)

“Sorry,” he says, cheeks flushing with heat again. “I just… I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

The man’s smile turns sly, and he sets his chin on his palm, resting his elbow on the table.

“Never seen a freak?” he says smoothly.

“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use,” Steve says hesitantly. The man laughs brightly, almost childishly, and Steve can’t suppress his own smile.

“What’s, uhm. What’s Slayer?” Steve asks, glancing at the man’s shirt, watching him lean back to look at his own chest like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing.

“It’s a band,” he says. “One of my favorites.”

“What kind of music is it?” Steve asks curiously, and he doesn’t think he'd never be talking this much if it were anyone else, but the man’s eyes are trained on him so kindly. Steve knows he should be avoiding him at all costs, but he seems sweet in a way that Steve can’t really describe.

“Metal,” the man says lightly.

Steve looks at him blankly, and he starts to smile again, pressing his lips together.

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

“I don’t listen to music.”

“At all?”

Steve shakes his head, squeezing his upper arm.

“My father says media distracts the soul from its righteous duties.”

He looks up at him nervously, because that’s such a weird thing to say, isn’t it? But the man’s eyes are sparkling at him, and he’s still smiling.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look righteous.”

“You don’t.”

A laugh bursts out of him, and Steve finally cracks a smile, tilting his head at him.

“Yeah, I know,” he says finally, still beaming at Steve.

And then they fall quiet, just looking at each other. Like they’re both studying each other, taking note of what’s different. His long frizzy curls, Steve’s carefully tamed hair. His painted, chipped nails, Steve’s bare ones that he’s never really thought twice about. His worn t-shirt and patched jacket and Steve’s collared shirt that’s tucked into his pants.

“I, uhm…” the man finally says, hesitating, tapping a finger on the table lightly. “I live really close to here, if you wanna give Slayer a listen.”

Steve blinks, taken aback by the invitation, but before he can respond, the man gestures to Steve’s books.

“Unless you’re too busy with business management.”

Steve flips his notebook shut silently. The man laughs brightly.

“Sure,” Steve says, surprising himself. His parents would kill him.

But it feels kind of exciting, putting his books in his bag as the man does the same, still smiling. Steve thinks he must smile a lot.

permanent taglist: @estrellami-1 @theplantscientist @spectrum-spectre @carlprocastinator1000 @starman-jpg <3 holy things taglist: @stevesbipanic @pearynice @ao3whore @slowandsteddie <3 (comment to be added/removed to/from either list!!)

♡ buy me a coffee ♡

#and so it begins #lmk if you want to be added or removed from either taglist!!#some aspects of this fic might be kinda heavy so its no problem at all if you want to be removed :)#very very excited about this fic tho im so stoked #steddie #steddie fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #a mess of holy things

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lafiametta · 13 days ago

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Im so glad im not the only one still stuck on anora x igor😭😭 love them sm

As for a 1 word prompt i think hug could result in something sweet or even unexpected, but i could also leave a word-vomit here and maybe you’ll feel inspired by one of them:)) so let me just

ride, dinner, dance, call, sweatpants, beach, couch, deli

Haha, thank you for all the prompts! I’m going with the first one, but I may come back to some of the others because they’re so good! :)

She wakes a little before two and shuffles into the kitchen. It’s quiet, so Vera must be out somewhere. There’s a quarter of the Honey Nut Cheerios left, which she eats while absently scrolling through TikTok. None of it’s particularly interesting, so she flips over to her texts. There’s one from Vera (“went 2 nico’s. get more tp at the store thx”) and a string of messages from Lulu, detailing some kind of crazy shit that went down last night involving two of their new dancers, a stolen g-string, hair-pulling, and a broken bottle of Cristal.

The last one, sent an hour ago from a contact she put into her phone as Hunchback Weirdo, is in all-caps, as if he didn’t fully trust himself with punctuation.

COME BY AT 3 OK?

She holds down the text and sends a thumbs-up reaction. He’s been coming by her house every Sunday at three for the last month and a half and he doesn’t really need to text each time, but she knows he likes to check with her to make sure it’s alright.

They don’t ever stay at the house that long—normally she just grabs her jacket and meets him on the porch, then they head in the direction of the beach. It’s only a few blocks to the boardwalk, a wide expanse that somehow feels just big enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side. It was awkward at first—neither of them really knew what to say after everything that had happened in his grandmother’s car—but after a while the quiet grew easier, and they learned how to talk in ways that seemed safe. He talks about his grandmother a lot, and about growing up in Russia. Ani’s childhood stories are far less heart-warming, so she avoids them, instead detailing all the things Vera—or Vera’s shitty boyfriend—had done to piss her off that week, along with anything fun or outrageous that had happened at work. She’s got a job at a new club now, secured through a glowing reference from Jimmy, and like any place full of drunk men and insecure women, there’s always drama.

They don’t ever talk about what happened in the car.

She thinks about it sometimes, the memory pulling deep and hard in her chest, a strange mixture of shame and sadness and gratitude that she doesn’t know where to put. Being around him makes it a little easier, which is why when he comes by she always goes with him, despite how fucking strange the whole thing really is.

A minute after three there’s a knock at the door—Ani’s already in her jacket, fingers flipping back the deadbolt.

It’s warmer out today, a tiny promise of spring, but the wind is brisk and tugging against her hair and cheeks, and she sinks deeper into the bulk of her jacket. Igor’s only in a black hoodie; she doesn’t ask him if he’s cold.

Along the boardwalk, there are older men in rumpled suits and women in headscarves sitting together on benches. A kid runs along the beach, trying to get a kite to lift into the air. For a moment, they’re walking close enough that their fingers brush together and Ani quickly stuffs her hands into her pockets, doing her best to ignore the unsteady feeling in her stomach.

By the time they get down to Coney Island the feeling has subsided enough that she lets him buy her a pretzel, which she eats piece by piece against the metal railing overlooking the beach while he smokes.

She’s already told him about Nico, how he had clogged their toilet two days ago and then fucked everything up more by continuing to flush, the whole thing overflowing and ruining their bathmat.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” she mutters. “I can’t believe my sister lets him fuck her.”

She laughs a little, although it’s mostly a sigh, and then lets the silence settle around them as they stare out at the mostly empty beach. He hasn’t finished the cigarette yet, so she reaches out for a quick drag.

“So how’s Garnik doing?” she asks as she hands it back, not realizing until she asked that part of her was actually curious. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t mentioned Vanya or the Zakharovs at all, but it seemed a little weird he never said anything about the two Armenians, who he probably still saw all the time.

“Garnik?”

“Yeah, Garnik. His face still look like a fuckin’ raccoon?”

Igor shrugs, then drops the cigarette butt to the ground and stomps it out with the toe of his sneaker. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how your boss’s face looks?”

There’s a tiny shake of his head, and he turns to lean back against the railing. “I don’t work for him. For any of them.”

The words cut through her more strongly than the wind, leaving only questions in their wake.

“Since when?” she asks.

He turns his face to finally look at her, those blue eyes trained on hers in a way that always felt like she was something worth looking at. She had hated it at first—the intensity behind it—but now she’s wondering what it was really trying to convey.

“Since we come back from Vegas.”

For a moment she’s uncharacteristically speechless. He hadn’t worked for them since Vegas? He had quit his job—for what? For her? No, that made no sense. What was she to him? She had been a problem he had been sent to fix, a rock in someone else’s shoe, and then she had fucked him and cried all over him and run away. And now? She still has no fucking clue what they are. But she had thought she had been left alone to handle all of it, and he’s telling her that she’s not alone, that he walked away to meet her on the other side. And he’s here, with her, knocking on her front door every Sunday, trading stupid stories with her as they follow the path along the beach, looking after her in a way she hadn’t really understood until this moment.

He’s standing here, next to her, the March wind whipping against the fabric of his hoodie.

Ani steps closer until she’s right in front of him, her arms reaching out to tightly curl around his back. She remembers the feel of him, the warmth, and leans in, her cheek pressing up against the top of his shoulder. There’s a moment of hesitation—she hopes it’s only out of surprise—and then his arms wrap solidly around her, drawing her into the hug.

“Hi,” he says, the sound soft, like laughter.

“Hey,” she says, like she’s saying it for the first time.

[send me a one-word Anora x Igor prompt]

#anora 2024 #anora movie #anora #anora mikheeva #igor #anora x igor #anigor #fanfiction #anora one-word prompts

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citizenkenz · 2 months ago

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November 25, 2024

I wanna sleep so bad but my roommate/friend WILL NOT SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! Like she's not even talking to anyone. She's talking to herself. And this isn't something I'm like judging her for or anything, but this shit is driving me insane. She's been doing it since she woke up. She goes into the bathroom for hours on end and does it. She does it with her headphones on. She does it with them off. She does it when we're in class together.

She's not even saying actual words and she doesn't know she does it. Anytime I point it out she's all like😮 and it stops for maybe 6 seconds and then she's at it again.

AND we have to take all our classes together next semester because she can't handle not being in a class without me. I'm at... My wits end. I need a break from her before I crash out... But I can't get a break because I'm her ride home! 🤗😀 I LOVE THAT FOR ME!

You know the saying "too much of a good thing"? That's what's happening!

And it's not just the talking to herself that's driving me insane. It's the other little noises, the weird ones where she just screams or groans out loud out of nowhere. No, this isn't a tick. The inconsiderate way she plays her show/movie/video at max volume whenever she's watching something. She has two sets of headphone, yet doesn't use either of them. What the hell is going AWNNN?!?!

Another thing that particularly pisses me off is that she keeps moving the bathmat from in front of the shower so there's water all over the floor in the bathroom. Like what the fuck did I buy it for if you're just gonna shove it behind the toilet while you go in there and talk to yourself? I literally bought it. Not her, not my parents. Me. Now if I take it back home and don't bring it back like I did my flannel (which she got mad at me for, because God forbid I don't wanna bring something I OWN back to the dorm for her to wear and never give back), I'll be in the wrong. Right? Cool.

All I wanna do is sleep. She won't let me. I can't leave the room because she's all in my shit whenever I leave (and by shit I mean my business because 9 times out of 10,whenever I leave, she wants to leave too! 🤗😀) I NEED A BREAK! FUCK!

I thought she was finally being quiet. There are Instagram reels playing at like 60 on her phone now. Her light is still on. I can't turn it off because she's going to turn around and say "I'm using that" like she did last time. (She then proceeded to use that thing for 3 more minutes then shut it off)

I need a break. I wanna be alone so badly next semester. I hate to say this because she's my friend and I love her to pieces.... But if she can't come back next semester, I think I'll jump for joy.

Man, that took a weight off my chest.

Oh my god, her phone is getting- it's quiet! YES!

Never mind, she's talking to herself again.

I don't know what to do. All I wanna do is sleep.

This sharing a room shit was getting old last year. Now it's just ancient. I could blow dust off this shit fr.

#college vent #college #college life #i hate it here #im so tired #personal vent #vent post #vent

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moocha-muses · 1 year ago

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"I'll be out in a few minutes, sweetheart. I'm just enjoying a nice soak."

"The floor is covered-"

"You can take me out to buy a thicker bathmat tomorrow!"

"You are a menace (<3)."

#ts2 #the sims 2 #ts2 gameplay #owlcreek #link #milolink #kennethlink

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jagdishstore · 2 years ago

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alisonagosti · 10 months ago

Text

Found at Skatepark

I adopted my dog Harvey from the Burbank Animal Shelter on February 12, 2012. At the time, he was nameless, and the card on his cage only had three words written on it: "Found at skatepark." He was filthy and scared, but he walked right up to me and put his two paws up on the bars so that I could scratch his belly, and that was it. I bought him for $70 and took him home the next day. Your life can change that quickly.

Things I want to remember: barking at me every time I'd come through the front door, His deep desire to roll on dead bugs, napping with him in the crook of my arm.

At the time, I was working two minimum-wage jobs, was obsessed with my sketch team, and had a roommate who would later be charged with money laundering. I had no business taking care of myself, let alone a dog. But I wanted so desperately to feel a sense of home— some version of family that I was so completely starved of. At this point in my life, I had no idea how to express that love was something I wanted so deeply and yet completely feared. When you're broke in your twenties, you don't always have the tools to examine your childhood and your parental models; sometimes, you just have to buy a dog and hope that it helps.

Things didn't go smoothly; he suffered from horrible separation anxiety, and when I would leave to go to work, he would bark so loudly and for so long that my neighbor finally slid a handwritten note under my door that simply stated, "Your dog's bark is so shrill and frantic -- it's like nothing I've ever heard before." Not helpful, but a valid observation.

He was one of the most stubborn creatures I've ever met. He refused to be housebroken for much of his early life. I gotta be honest; he never really locked that in -- he was 90% housebroken at best. He would steal food if given any opportunity. Once, when I was painting an accent wall, he rolled in the paint tray for presumably no other reason other than he decided he wanted to. Our lives seemed to mirror each other at the time, and since he never judged me for over-drafting my bank account or stumbling in drunk, who was I to judge him for going through the garbage?

Things I want to remember: His insistence on following me into the bathroom, patiently watching me pee and poop, sleeping on the bathmat as I showered.

It's not that he didn't know the difference between right and wrong. He knew the rules, would assess the situation and then proceed accordingly. If I was out and he needed to pee, why should he hold it? If a sandwich was left unattended, why should he not eat it? Philosophically he raised questions that my young mind was not capable of debating.

Some may call this asshole behavior, myself included. But Harvey also possessed a kindness and ease with people that I envied. I imagined him as a proud young man on the day of his bar mitzvah, happily introducing himself and encouraging you to check out the dessert bar, "We have cake in pop form and by the slice! Please help yourselves!" He never met a stranger in his life; encouraging or demanding pets from anyone. Literally anyone, he was not picky. I loved to watch him happily trot up to people at the dog park, wagging his tail and waiting expectantly until they obliged.

Things I want to remember: My favorite compliment I ever received for Harvey, "He's perfectly proportional, a lot of little dogs aren't like that."

I loved to watch people melt in front of him: a living teddy bear with oversized ears. He indiscriminately trusted everybody and wanted to sit on every lap. Somehow, people would instinctively hold him like a baby, and he would stay in that space for as long as he was permitted.

I did not have the same effect on people.

As we got older, I finally started making money; we moved to New York and experienced snow for the first time (we did not care for it).

Things I want to remember: Landing at Laguardia at 5 AM and traveling to my new apartment. My furniture hadn't arrived yet so I slept on the clothes from my suitcase with Harvey in my arms.

He took everything in stride and quelled the loneliness of a new city. For much of my time on the east coast, he felt like my only friend.

Things I want to remember: Coming home early from work to find Harvey and my dog walker asleep on the couch.

I started a relationship that was abusive. When he would yell at me, Harvey would hide, and I worried about his safety long before I considered my own. When I eventually fled back to Los Angeles, it felt like we'd both aged several decades.

We entered our 30s at roughly the same time, and Harvey really came into his own. His food theft reached new heights of creativity. On a vacation, I made the mistake of leaving a room service tray in the room with Harvey while I went to lay out at the pool. When I came back, he had pulled some of my clothes out of my bag. I didn't think much of it, but when we got home the next day, he quietly waited for me to unpack before retrieving a room service dinner roll that he'd stashed away in there. The art of it. The patience. He had become a master.

Things I want to remember: Holding him when I was sad, him generously allowing my tears to fall on his fur.

Another breakup or two, another six months of crying into Harvey's fur before Covid hit. For a good part of 2020, he was the only thing I touched. Outside of logging onto Zoom for work, he was my only purpose. At nine, he had become a reasonable man. Still capable of zoomies, not above destruction or scampery in the name of food, but a calmness had settled over him and eventually me as well.

I fostered a puppy during the pandemic, just like everybody else, and I decided to adopt him. An unforgivable betrayal in Harvey's eyes. The new calm of our house was now loudly disrupted by the idiocy of a puppy. I'll always wonder if he felt replaced. He wasn't. He could never be. We were just adding to our family.

I eventually emerged from my Covid bunker to go on a date with the man who recently became my fiancé. When he first met Harvey, he said, "he really likes me!" I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was just another guest at Harv's unending bar mitzvah; he'd eventually realize it on his own. My family became the four of us, and we became The Unit. Man, I fucking love The Unit. I didn't realize that coming home could be the most exciting part of my day.

Harvey continued to age; he thickened around his middle, and little things started to go wrong. He developed a limp that was eventually fixed with anti-inflammatories, and he developed allergies. But he always bounced back. He seemed indestructible. Looking at him, you would never know he was almost 11. His white fur hid any signs of grey, and he still had the bouncy gait of a children's cartoon character. He had his final act of chaos that Thanksgiving. When we set him down without a leash and he took off after a pitbull (this is not an indictment on pitbulls — I only mention it because of the size difference and sheer lunacy of it — Harvey is an asshole, don’t forget that part). Harv ran after this dog faster than I'd seen him move in years. All four feet off the ground, a fluffy bullet on his way for vengeance. In one simple move, the pitbull took Harvey's head in his mouth and flung him a few feet into the grass. It all happened in a second. When I reached him, he was lying on the ground, stunned. It wasn't until I picked him up that I saw the massive gash on the left side of his head as blood started to spill out. I will never understand why he did that. He decided he wanted to, I guess.

Even that was no big deal for him. Antibiotics and a cone for a couple of weeks and he was back to normal. He really seemed indestructible.

Then, about a year ago, Harvey got really sick and was diagnosed with diabetes -- a disease I didn't think dogs could get. And again, he bounced right back once we figured out his insulin dosage. It became my morning routine. Feed the dogs, shake the insulin, inject, dispose of the needle, repeat at dinner. I almost enjoyed it. The ritual of it. Just a small dose of translucent liquid, and he was functional. He was my buddy, just like he'd always been.

Then, he unceremoniously went blind, a common complication of the disease. He took it in stride, learning the layout of our place and confidently patrolling the dog park. He still went on walks and still played occasionally. And I really thought that this would just be the new normal for the next couple of years, at least.

Things I want to remember: After he went blind, we would often lose him in the house, asleep in tiny spaces or little nooks, watching him quietly stare at a blank wall while his nose was inches away.

Then a week ago, he stopped eating. For a few days I was able to bribe him with turkey and rice but he eventually refused that as well. We went to the vet the next morning, he could no longer stand on his own. Of course I thought that this might be the end, I also had seen him defy Death at least twice and I had no reason to think he would get Harvey this time.

The vet took X-rays that revealed an evil black mass had taken over his whole belly; I finally realized that we weren't going to wiggle out of this one. I was brought into a second room by a woman who is best described as Kate Mckinnon's character from the Barbie movie. She had sparkly nail polish, although I can't remember the color, just the sparkles. She started by telling me not to cry, and I wondered to myself what exactly constituted crying, if not this exact situation. I Facetimed my fiancé, who is working out of the country. Weird Barbie returned with my dog, my best friend of 12 years. He could no longer support his head on his own. I held him like a baby -- like I'd done thousands of times before.

"There are so many puppies that need good homes in the shelters." I looked at Harvey for backup, I think in earlier years, he would've given me a look that meant, "Can you believe this lady? She is NOT invited to my bar mitzvah." I didn't acknowledge the comment, and she followed up by saying, "Do you want me to stay with you?"

"No," I answered without thinking, and she disappeared out of the room and back into her rightful place at the bottom of a toybox. I won't go into the next part because it's too hard. To sum it up, he died in my arms. The vet held up a stethoscope to his chest and whispered quietly, "And he has passed." I felt everything in my chest -- lungs, heart, guts -- all ripped out in one moment. It was, by far, the most painful moment of my life.

Things I want to remember: Holding him after he died.

And then he pooped on me. Just a little bit, but he got one more joke in, and I respect him for it.

--- In the nights since he passed I find myself wondering if he knew that I loved him and if I loved him enough. I'm afraid the answer is no. How can you ever love something enough? How can one 11-pound dog ever know what he meant to me?

I didn't. I couldn't. But he did it so effortlessly.

He was my constant and my family when I didn't have any, a beacon of kindness, and also the funniest person I've ever known. So goodbye, my sweet Harv, my grandpa baby, and my fuzz. You will always be the co-founding member of The Unit. I love you.

#wrote

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