#paused my other art to do this right away hope its at least a tiny bit worthwhile

[crunchchute]

can you draw butch dude

is this anything

[lumosinlove]

Well, this got longer than I thought it would, so I’ll have to publish in a few parts as I write...

But Happy Birthday, Finn, my favorite :)

Find it here on Ao3

~

Of Silence And Slow Time

part i of iii

~

New York City, 1920

~

Everyone told Finn that the statue looked like him, that he simply must go and see it.

“Really, Finn,” his older brother Alex said. “It’s the eyes, the face, it’s the mouth. It’s uncanny.”

Finn had just looked over Alex and the man and woman he seemed to always have at his side ever since the war ended. Natalie, a nurse whom he’d met in France, and Kasey a Canadian from another unit—they’d ended up in the hospital together.

“It’s in France,” Finn said flatly. “I know you’re forgetting about it all, but I’m not exactly keen on going back there. It took me ages to get home.”

It had taken everything for him to get home.

Alex, to Finn’s relief, nodded at Natalie and Kasey to go get themselves a drink at the bar down the street, told them that he’d meet them there. Finn stared down at the book open and unseeing in his lap. He wasn’t even sure what he was reading, on that he wanted to. His mind didn’t seem to follow him just right these days. Cars became bombs sometimes. Sleep was all dreams.

Alex sat beside him on their parents’ old sofa.

“Fish,” Alex said softly, and moved his hand slow, where Finn could see it, before resting it gently around his shoulders. “You can’t sit here all day. That’s not going to help you, and I know you don’t like it. You’ve never sat still like this.”

“I’m not going back to France.”

“It’s Paris,” Alex said, and gently flipped Finn’s wrist over to reveal the tiny globe his friend Jackson had dotted there with a needle and ink. “You’ve always wanted…don’t let this war stop you any longer.”

Finn stared down at the reminder he’d asked his friend for, ink permanent black. He’d never been farther than New England before the war. Paris, he’d always thought, gazing at his collection of books. Rome. Athens, Barcelona—

Finn swallowed hard. “Looks just like me, huh?”

Alex’s grin was enough to pull one out of Finn, just slightly. “It was bizarre.” Alex squeezed his shoulders. “I’ll even meet you there later if you want, once we’re through with Canada.”

Finn sent a wary glance towards where Natalie and Kasey had left.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You’d like them. And, who knows who you’ll meet over there. We ran into all sorts of people, people like you’ve never seen. It’s why—” Alex broke off slightly, and looked after the nurse and soldier, too. Finn blinked at the nervous bob of his throat, and then his smile. “There are all sorts of love and art in this world of ours. I know it feels like it’s all war, I felt that too, but it’s not. Please let me help you see that.”

Finn rubbed a thumb over his tattoo, and closed his book.

Everything felt like war. He was so tired of it he thought he’d be crushed.

He looked up at his brother. “I don’t have much money.”

Alex just grinned and slapped him on the back, then pulled him into a tight embrace.

~

Finn arrived in Paris with a lump in his throat. He stumbled through half-French greetings and requests to his taxi, who looked at him sourly and turned out to have dropped him off four streets away from his hotel—maybe on purpose. Maybe because it was barely six in the morning.

Finn was annoyed at first, and then he began to walk.

Paris’ cobblestones were like those in the West Village, only they weren’t. There were glimpses of his home in the uneven tread of his feet, but these stones were darker, as if soaked with more time and more place. It calmed him, while the brief glance towards France’s rolling hills had sent him back to his cabin on the rocky ship, shaking and gasping for air. He’d barely eaten during the entire journey besides forcing down the occasional breakfast sludge, and his legs had wobbled so fiercely upon stepping back onto land, he’d had to sit down.

Finn paused now, closing his eyes and leaning against the nearest building. He’d been so stupid the first time, decked out in his new uniform, eyes on the war like it was some prize to be won. The comfort waned with his scattering mind and Finn tried to draw a steady breath in. The lump in his throat only grew tighter and he squeezed the handle of his small suitcase.

“Monsieur?” came a voice, spilled over with concern.

Finn’s eyes flashed open and he pushed himself straight, blinking through the pale morning light. There was a boy standing there, around his age, with bright blond hair and worried blue eyes. He was tall, with a neat white apron tied around his hips.

“Ça va?” the boy took a hesitant step forward. His eyes glanced towards Finn’s suitcase, and he nodded in realization, then spoke in accented English. “Are you all right?”

Finn looked behind the boy to see the cafe, slowly opening, from which he must have come. There was an abandoned stack of chairs he was putting out for the day, and his apron had an embroidered name at one corner, Finn realized, that matched the sign above.

Le Lion.

“Yes,” Finn breathed, but found himself unable to speak louder. “I’m fine.”

The boy just shook his head, and gestured behind him. “Non. You must sit down. S’il vous plaît. Please.”

Finn didn’t know how to refuse him.

A few minutes later, he found himself stationed at one of the cafe’s tables with a steaming pot of coffee in front of him, a croissant, and a plate of softly scrambled eggs.

“You look like you need more than butter and bread,” the boy had said, wiping strong looking hands on his apron. “You are from America?”

Finn nodded. He had been worried he would be able to stomach the food after the boy went through so much trouble, but upon his first bite of eggs, he felt ravenous.

“Yes,” Finn nodded, brushing his hands off from croissant crumbs. “Sorry, yes,” he held out his hand. “Finn.”

“Leo,” the boy smiled, and took his hand. “It is a pleasure.”

Finn found himself returning that smile with one that, for the first time in a long time, felt like his own. He tried to put coins into Leo’s hand when it was all over, but Leo simply waved him off and said he hoped to see Finn again.

~

The Louvre was more than Finn could have imagined. It was like walking across the ocean floor, new rarities at every corner. And, of course, there was the matter of the statue. Alex had said it would be with all the other works from ancient Greece. He didn’t have trouble following the signs to the correct gallery, walking through the white marble hallways. When he did reach the Greek galleries, his first thought was that the perfectly white statues nearly blended in with everything else, at least until he found a plaque that said it had all been painted once. Finn smiled to himself. Maybe his apparent stony doppelgänger had had red hair, too.

Imagining Alex and his long stride in these halls was easy. And it was quiet here, and distracting, which let Finn close his eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of old stone, like a church, or a river’s bank.

When he opened them, he had found it. He was staring into his own face. His eyes were blank. He reached up to feel the shape of his own jaw as he looked at the statue’s, on display in the way the head was slightly turned, jaw set, brow low, as if in focus. Finn blinked, pulled out of the daze of seeing it, and his eyes landed on the museum card beside it. There was a word in ancient Greek, said to have been carved more visibly into the bust’s base. Future, it translated to. Thought to be made in the name of a God, though he may be lost now. There is no other surviving work by this artist.

Finn looked back at the eyes, so much like his own he could have seen brown there in the blank irises, and thought about when this strange statue had been carved. He’d always loved the way ancient Greece was sometimes described in poetry. It had gotten him through many long nights in the trenches. Serene, warm, and with nothing to do but lounge in the olive groves. Working the land and coming home at sundown to wine and honey and spiced meat. He’d longed for it. He longed for it still, this simple-seeming past.

The next thing he felt was warm wind. He smelled salt water.

The museum melted around him and his shoes slipped into sand before disappearing entirely.

~

Finn turned around to the sound of someone shouting, worried it was at him, only to find a brunette boy storming towards him—then past him—a foreign language continuing to fly off of his tongue. But more importantly, the boy was dressed in a simple garment of white cloth that left his strong, tanned legs and arms completely bare, and his feet were sandaled. Finn reached down to smooth his suit, only to find it gone, as well, replaced with a similar getup. He stared down at his bare skin, so pale in the bright sunlight.

And then the foreign language morphed, like a scratched record, and became English to his ears.

“—I’m telling you, Leo, I won’t go. Not without you.”

Leo?

And there the blond boy was, sitting in the shade of low trees at the edge of the beach. He was holding some sort of musical instrument, plucking at its strings almost sadly, head bowed.

“You have to,” Leo replied. “The oath says—“

He stopped mid-sentence, having looked up and spotted Finn. It made the brunette turn, and then Finn’s back was in the sand and there was a thin, rough blade at his throat.

Green eyes bore down into his own, a growl ripping from the boy’s throat. “Spartan.”

Finn choked out a breath, his hand going around the boy’s wrist. “No—no.”

“Logan,” came Leo’s voice, and then the knife’s pressure was released, pulled back by Leo, but the boy—Logan—was still sitting firmly on Finn’s hips. Finn felt his entire body flush with the sheer lack of fabric between them, but Logan didn’t seem to either mind or notice.

“I’m not a—Spartan,” Finn managed. “What the hell, I…” He looked to his left, at the sparkling waves lapping there, and then to the two boys looming above him. “Where am I?”

That made both of them freeze, the knife twitching in Logan’s hand.

“Ithaca,” Leo offered timidly, then glanced out at sea, as if that was where Finn had come from. Finn just stared at him.

He was the boy from the cafe. He was sure of it. His blue eyes filled with the same concern as they had on that early morning cobblestone street.

“Are you all right?” Leo asked.

“He is a spy,” Logan said, and went for him again.

Finn was ready this time. He knocked a leg around Logan’s waist, putting him on his back, and then rolled away from him and to his feet, knife in hand. He raised it for the two of them to see and then tossed it a little ways down the beach. “I’m not a spy. I…I’m just lost.”

It was true. In more ways than he’d even thought before.

“Please,” he managed more quietly.

He watched Leo and Logan exchange a look, unsure of what it meant, until Logan turned on his heel and Leo gestured for Finn to follow.

~

“Are you at war?” Finn asked he was led through the city streets. It had been a hot walk up a long road built into a steep hill, all the way up to what Finn assumed was the inner city and acropolis. Water ran along the side of the street—no doubt with sewage—and they crossed via stepping stones, pressing themselves against the walls whenever carts rattled by—carts filled with men with shields and swords or spears.

Logan, who brought up the rear behind him, having retrieved his knife, scoffed. “Aren’t we always?”

“And where are you taking me?”

“Where we take any question we can’t answer,” Leo said from in front of him, golden hair gleaming. “Pascal.”

[messymessyml]

Breaking and Entering

I'll be moving this one over to AO3 at some point (done, available here), but I'll start this off on Tumblr. This is a lighthearted, multi-chapter Jasonette story.

Summary:

Marinette is away from home when a curious visitor drops in. The kwami don't see any problem letting the man in; the question is: what will the guardian think when she realizes an intruder was in her house while she was gone?

Chapter 1 is below the cut.

Chapter 1: What did I come back to now?

Marinette felt a wave of relief hit her as her key turned smoothly in the lock. She was more than ready to unload her bags and take a well-deserved night in after a whirlwind week of consulting with clients in Metropolis. She’d decided to take Tikki and Sass with her and rent a hotel for the week as most of her clients were only available for early morning consultations, and while it was the most effective way to make sure she didn’t miss a meeting, she was glad to be back home.

Gotham may not be as glitzy or have as many potential clients as Metropolis, but it more than made up for that with the anonymity that Gotham allowed her. The local mentality of ‘take no shit’ and ‘mind your own damn business and I’ll mind mine’ allowed the kwami and her freedom that they wouldn’t get in Metropolis, a city crawling with news stations and a baffling love of all things mundane. Half the time when she visited Metropolis it felt like she had a target on her back; the paparazzi were worse in Metropolis than they ever were in her Parisian hero days and that held for her professional pseudonym as well as plain Marinette. It was a wonder that with so many news outlets (and Superman to report on for crying out loud) that she was still the topic of a news piece twice in the past week: once as MDC and once as plain old Marinette. In all seriousness was helping with a local tree planting event for Earth Day that newsworthy?

‘Enough of that’, she thought, realizing that although her door was now unlocked, she’d thought so much about arriving home that she hadn’t even fully opened her door. A slight twinge of embarrassment hit her. Carrying her tiny friends everywhere was always a blessing, but sometimes, she mused, it might be nice not to have an audience for every action she took—no matter how embarrassing.

Letting go of that train of thought, Marinette stepped through and closed her door behind her, feeling tension bleed out of her shoulders. The underlying scent of vanilla and blossom honey hit her nose as she strode over to the kitchen island. She set her bags to the side and took a hold of one of her swinging barstools with the intention to sit for a bit before making any attempt at dinner for the kwami and herself. Absently tracking the path Sass and Tikki took as they flew in the direction of the room where she kept the Miracle Box, she hesitated to sit as she noticed a slowly building feeling of unease hit her. Something, she thought, was off.

Sharpening her gaze and gripping the barstool a little tighter, Marinette scanned her apartment. At first glance, the living space looked unchanged from how she left it; the furniture was where it belonged, and her shelves and wall art were unmoved. As she looked closer though, she saw items around the house that were shifted a bit more than they would be if the kwami had decided to explore while she was away: the living room rug was centered, the dishes she had left to dry right before leaving the house a week ago were put away, and the barstool she was currently grasping was a bit more level than it had ever been, thrifted as it were. The kwami were a joy to interact with and an honor to serve as their guardian, but cleaners and tinkers they were not.

Marinette released her grip on the stool, rounding the kitchen island to open the cabinets. Like she thought, the dishes she had washed a week ago were put away and the towers of plates and bowls looked straighter than they were normally. Her gut churned as the beginning stages of worry started to fill her.

A chorus of greetings from behind her met her ears, disrupting her thoughts. Turning, Marinette saw the kwami flying towards her from the hallway.

“Marinette, did you have a nice trip?” Mullo squeaked.

“Guardian, I hope all went well on your trip. It is wonderful to have you back home.” Wayzz said.

The other kwami threw in their own noises and words of agreement, mirroring Wayzz’s welcome.

Marinette couldn’t help her small smile, replying, “My trip went well, and I am happy to be back here with you all.” She paused, hesitating before she asked, “Did anything happen while we were away?”

“Not much, Pigtails.” Plagg swam leisurely into view, tailed closely by Tikki, both twirling as they approached. “Some fighting outside, and a bit of a showdown on rooftops at the end of the block, but no damage to our building.”

Wayzz intercepted Plagg’s path, floating into the center of her vision to say, “That may be true, Plagg; however, one of the combatants took a breather on our balcony by using the garden for cover. He didn’t seem injured, but he was breathing heavier than was wise. Most of us hid in the box while I continued to strengthen the wards on the outer walls and windows.”

Marinette interrupted, “No one entered the apartment?”

Wayzz hesitated, then said “The man stayed hidden as best he could, but he was quite large, and I could feel the shifting balance; if he stayed on the balcony, he would have drawn fire here. I strengthened the barrier outwards then loosened the barrier on the balcony doors, undid the latch for him, and asked Trixx to hide us from view. He had a protector’s spirit and none of us could feel an intent to harm any but the ones he’d been fighting outside. I am sorry, Guardian, for making this decision without your input.”

Marinette took a deep breath to fend off the impending tension headache, unclenching the hand she had used to subconsciously gripped her other wrist. She loosened the muscles around her eyes to soften her gaze. “It’s alright, Wayzz. I wasn’t there, and I trust your intuition. What did he do?”

“He seemed distrustful of the open door at first but ended up entering almost silently and quickly moved to scan the apartment.”

Trixx added, “I made sure he could not see the Miracle Box and that he was not visible from the outside at any point, but he stayed away from the windows for the most part.”

Roarr piped in, “He has a fierce spirit, and I agree with Wayzz that he has a strong protective streak.”

She heard some murmurs of agreement from the other kwami, some of them breaking out into small discussion pertaining to the man’s character. “If so many of you saw him, did you leave the Miracle Box then? What did you see?” Desperately, Marinette wished that the immortal beings she called friends could get to the points.

“Some of us came out to see, but most of us stayed in the box. Trixx’s illusions held; he didn’t see or hear any of us.” Barkk confirmed.

“Yes, he mostly stayed in the living room. He sat right here for a while!” Saying this, Pollen surged towards the end of the couch, landing with their back to the armrest in a bored sprawl. “Like this!”

Plagg, swaying upside down near the ceiling, lazily added, “He wasn’t much fun. All he did was check his guns then started cleaning the place. Boring.”

“Guns?! Cleaning? Why?” Alarmed, Marinette’s heartbeat started to pound at the picture painted by the kwami. They had let a large combatant enter her apartment and all he did was inspect his guns and clean??? ‘This can’t be real’, she thought. ‘Was I caught up in one of Scarecrow’s attacks on the way home?’

“He had good manners at the least.” Kaalki sniffed. “His gear smelled of money and he fixed that stool of yours that never would have entered the premises if you had listened to me from the start. At least now it isn’t horrendously squeaky.”

“Hey!” Mullo protested.

Kaalki just turned away.

“He needed the protection.” Wayzz apologetically said. “He didn’t seem interested in your workroom and he wouldn’t have been able to find the box, so we observed. He cleaned a bit and left after checking that the coast was clear outside.”

Marinette allowed her shoulders to sag. “Alright. If you’re sure.” Glancing around, she gave the kwami a smile, eyes hesitating on the glass doors leading to the balcony, she absently added, “Thank you for keeping an eye on things while I was gone.”

Striding over to the doors leading out to the balcony, she peered out. Nothing seemed out of place out here, but she couldn’t be certain. Checking the door handles, she noticed that one of the kwami or her mystery visitor must have relatched the lock. Unlocking it, she stepped out and went to sit at her patio table. Leaning back in her chair, she let her head tip back to view the sunset, partially obscured by the balcony two floors above her own. Her apartment building had mostly staggered the balconies to allow more light to reach its inhabitants, a must in Gotham’s dreary weather.

After a few moments, she let her head droop forward to land in her hands. As much as she loved them, the kwami’s survival instincts always seemed at odds with hers. She couldn’t tell whether that was due to her anxiety amplifying everything past the point of reason or that the kwami’s inherent existence rendering most danger obsolete, but while some intruder might not be a danger to beings that could turn intangible and invisible at will, she was definitely a bit more breakable (‘Mortal’, her brain whispered) than them. If she had been here? Who knows how that visit might have gone?

Taking a few more minutes to calm her body’s response, a few deep breaths, and a moment or two of gratitude that nothing bad had happened, she straightened a bit as the evening wind started to pick up and a splash of white started to flutter at the edge of her vision. Glancing up, her eye caught on a piece of paper at the other end of the table that was weighted down with a rock she had decorated a while back with paintings of ladybugs and cats playfully chasing each other across a meadow. That particular rock usually spent time in the catnip bed Plagg had insisted on and Tikki had seconded as a nod to both kwami. Curious, she reached out and grabbed the sheet of paper underneath. Opening it, she read:

Dear Stranger,

I was in a bit of a tight spot and hanging around your balcony when your door swung open. Haunted house, much? Hope you don’t mind, but I ended up using your house as a temporary safe house while you were gone. Don’t worry, I made sure no one saw me entering or exiting, so you shouldn’t have any problems from the type of shit that follows me.

On the topic of haunted houses, are you sure yours isn’t haunted? Your house is unnervingly the calmest- and safest-feeling place I’ve been in a while, but I kept seeing blurs out of the corner of my eye and I was NOT concussed. Might want to talk to someone about that.

I ended up tidying a bit while you were gone, hope you don’t mind. Fairs fair, you (unknowingly, I know) lent me a place to stay, I tidied up a bit. Stay out of trouble, alright?

Cheers,

- Red Hood

The Red Hood? The RED HOOD is who they let into the house? For kwami’s sake, what were they thinking?!?

[thecousinsdangereux]

the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

--

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

“Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

[retrogradedreaming]

UHHHH maybe,, you could write a little thing for reki making the sk8 fam tea? and kaoru thinking hes gonna have to pretend he likes it but then "oh wait reki can actually make tea what-"

just bc this has been living in my head for awhile sdkljfs

(capt-snoozles)

It turns out I am completely incapable of writing ANYTHING short, so have a full one shot type thing, I guess. I hope it's okay that I kinda borrowed headcanons from you and @that-was-anticlimactic for Reki with TS at a couple of small moments in the fic?

----

It used to be Kaoru alone who visited Kojiro’s restaurant when it was closed on Mondays. But since the start of winter break, Sia la Luce had become much livelier now that Reki, Langa, and Miya weren’t in school all day, and Shadow came when his days off lined up right. If Kaoru were being honest, it took some time to get used to the space no longer being only his and Kojiro’s, but he’d grown to like how their group came together like this.

The afternoons were the quietest part of these days. Kojiro took these opportunities to try out new recipes on them, leaving everyone contentedly full and pleasantly sleepy. Today, Langa had actually fallen asleep in the booth, and Reki sat beside Kaoru at the counter, playing with a tiny skateboard and making soft sounds like a small motor. Shadow and Miya sat at a table across the room, arguing over whether clown or cat makeup looked cooler while Kojiro finished cleaning. Kaoru let himself sink into the lull, Reki’s noises and that of the skateboard wheels on the counter an almost comforting presence beside him. And yet, one thing was missing, keeping him from truly relaxing.

“Seems like a good afternoon for tea,” Kojiro said, as if reading his mind as he appeared out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “You want me to make some?”

“Absolutely not,” Kaoru scoffed. “People who microwave their tea should be arrested.”

“There’s no way you can tell the difference,” Kojiro said, defensive. “Hot water is hot water.”

“Only an uncultured pig would believe that,” Kaoru snapped. He was about to stand, to tell Kojiro he’d make the tea himself like he always inevitably had to, when Reki all but leaped from his seat, skateboard abandoned for the moment.

“I’ll make it!” he offered, and the way his face lit up meant that Kaoru took too long to say not to bother. By the time he’d found his words, Reki had already bounded around the counter and into the kitchen, and Kojiro didn’t even try to stop him. Before Kaoru could tell Kojiro to stop him, Reki called out to Kojiro, asking about the industrial stove, and soon, Kojiro was not only allowing Reki to make the tea, but encouraging him.

Kaoru supposed this was a step up from Kojiro’s microwave technique, but if Kaoru were likely to trust anyone other than himself to make a decent cup of tea, it wouldn’t be Reki. The idea that he’d wanted his tea made well and was unlikely to receive it as such set him on edge. As he listened to the water boil and the conversation continued around him, he found himself wrapping a strand of his hair around his finger and tugging, letting it go, and repeating the process until his scalp hurt. He didn’t even notice that Langa had woken up until he appeared beside Kaoru and spoke.

“What’s Reki doing?” he asked.

“Making tea,” Kaoru said, doing his best not to appear so anxious about something so small.

Langa peered over the edge of the counter to where Kojiro and Reki were talking in the kitchen, and then turned back to Kaoru. “I like how he makes it. I never liked it before I met him.”

Kaoru hummed a halfhearted response. He doubted that Langa’s standards were very high, given that he’d grown up in Canada. He’d likely had tea often enough, given that his mother was Japanese, but Kaoru knew from experience that plenty of people even here in Okinawa had no idea how to brew a proper cup. It was about timing, knowing how hot to make the water, how long to steep the leaves, and so many people rushed the process—or worse, forgot about it and steeped too long—that Kaoru preferred to make his own.

He couldn’t help but envision Reki handing him a bitter cup, or one that tasted like little more than hot leaf juice. He grimaced at the idea of having to drink it and pretend he liked it, suffering all the while. He would have to wait until he was home later to make something better for himself.

He was still trying to think of a polite way to decline the tea he’d obviously wanted when Reki came out bearing a tray of steaming cups and began making the rounds through the restaurant. Reki handed the first one to Langa, who accepted it, smiling softly up at Reki. Langa sipped the tea immediately, only to flinch and draw it away after the first sip.

Not promising, Kaoru thought. If he’d boiled the water, it was ruined, even if it was something as simple as green tea. And yet, Langa only took another sip while Reki looked on approvingly.

“It’s good,” Langa finally proclaimed, and Reki glowed as if he’d received praise from the emperor himself. Reki moved on, handing Kaoru his cup.

“Thank you,” Kaoru said, accepting it with both hands. Fortunately, Reki moved on to Shadow and Miya without waiting for Kaoru to try it, which meant that he didn’t know Kaoru only held onto it without making a move to taste it. If nothing else, he could enjoy the warmth that crawled from his fingertips all the way to his elbows.

Neither Miya nor Shadow hesitated in drinking theirs, though Kaoru couldn’t imagine they cared much how it tasted, as long as it was hot. And yet, as he watched, the two of them looked just as pleased as Langa when they tried it.

“Oh wow, the slime makes good tea,” Miya pronounced, hugging the cup close to him like a space heater.

“Damn, this is pretty good,” Shadow said, drinking deeply and draining half the cup. “How’d you even learn to make it like this?”

Reki shrugged, taking up his own cup, the last on the tray. He set the tray down on the counter and took the empty seat beside Langa. “I dunno, I guess I just picked it up over the years. It’s kinda like making skateboards, y’know? You have to figure out how all the parts fit together, and if you do it wrong, the tea doesn’t taste right.”

Kaoru looked up at him from the murky depths of his tea, brows raised. When it came to making tea, the analogy was rather profound, and Kaoru couldn’t argue it. Reki was right—tea was about the sum of its parts, the pieces fitting together perfectly. And as with building skateboards, the person making it had to know exactly how to combine each piece to create the whole.

“That doesn’t make any sense, but whatever,” Shadow said, taking another sip. “All I care about is that it doesn’t suck.”

“How come you’ve never made us tea before?” Miya asked, eyes trained on the Switch he’d pulled from his pocket now that he’d abandoned his conversation with Shadow.

“I don’t really have the patience for it,” Reki said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s kinda like, if I don’t wanna put in the time to do it right, why bother?”

While everyone was wrapped up in conversation, Kaoru finally chanced a discreet sip. If it was as bad as he’d expected, he could school his expression appropriately while they were all distracted. Perhaps he could even get away without having to lie about how good it was. And yet, when the tea touched his tongue, he paused.

It wasn’t too hot.

It wasn’t too weak or too strong.

It wasn’t too bitter and the leaves didn’t taste as though they’d been burnt.

It was, as far as Kaoru was concerned, some of the best tea he’d had outside his own home. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words to say so. He sipped it again, just to make sure he hadn’t deluded himself based on everyone else’s praise. Sure enough, it was almost more delicious the second time.

“You surprised?” Kojiro murmured at his ear, his own cup dangling from his fingertips. Kaoru jumped, nearly spilling his tea. When he turned to face him, Kojiro’s lips quirked in a smug grin, and he raised one brow meaningfully. Kaoru shot him a hard glower in return, a silent command to keep his mouth shut before Kaoru turned back to Reki.

“It’s delicious,” Kaoru said, and it wasn’t forced in the least. “I’m impressed.”

Reki, who had already immersed himself in talking to Langa, gaped at Kaoru, one of his hoodie strings falling from between his teeth. Then, he flashed a wide grin. “Glad you like it!”

“Have you ever practiced tea ceremony?” Kaoru asked, reluctantly setting his tea down on the counter.

“Nah, my parents let me try it once when I was younger, but I kept messing up the steps,” Reki said. “It’s not really fun when people get mad at you for doing it wrong.”

“I studied it for some time,” Kaoru said, remembering how the order felt comforting, how the amount of concentration it required gave his anxious mind something to focus on, how the simple yet refined aesthetic felt like clearing his head. In recent years, he didn’t have time for it with his calligraphy business, but a part of him missed it. “It’s quite a bit different from drinking tea like this, but if you wanted to, perhaps we could do a...modified version of it. Something less formal with everyone here.”

Reki’s eyes brightened, and he looked to Langa, who only seemed to share his enthusiasm. “It sounds fun, yeah! A lot better than getting yelled at by a bunch of old people because ‘tradition.’”

“I’d say so,” Kaoru said, and they devolved into talking about their favorite teas and the best ways to brew them. Kaoru couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to someone who actually understood that tea was an art even more than it was a drink. But Reki did, and when the rest of the group finally left, leaving Kaoru and Kojiro alone in the restaurant to clean up, Kojiro nudged him with an elbow.

“You didn’t think Reki could make tea like that, did you?” he said, the words teasing but too close to Kaoru’s own thoughts for comfort.

“Shut up or I’ll leave you here to wash dishes alone,” Kaoru quipped, even as he accepted the next cup to dry. “I will admit, I was pleasantly surprised.”

“I knew you would be,” Kojiro said as he dried his hands and stretched.

“Anything is better than microwaved tea,” Kaoru said. And although it was true, he couldn’t help but look forward to the next Monday, and the last before the kids started school again.

[lostcoves]

– parisian nights 

+ ft. tamaki amajiki

+ wc: 2.5k

+ format: one-shot

+ premise: tamaki amajiki, heir to amajiki enterprises, has it all. yet, all he wants is you. could a sudden trip to paris be enough to win your heart?

+ note: my piece for @bakugohoex​’s 3k collab! hope you all enjoy!

tamaki amajiki, in a literal sense, had it all and anything he wanted was at a snap of his well-manicured fingertips. every luxury sports car, every trip to the tropics, every gaming system was only one lip pout to his daddy and mommy. he was spoiled to say the least but what kind of rich kid wasn’t?

it wasn’t until tamaki stumbled upon you that he took a moment to reevaluate his life as a rich boy.

you had humble beginnings, coming from a family of average societal standing. your family didn’t have to worry about money but they were nowhere close to the standing of the amajiki family. humble and modest, tamaki thought you were the cutest thing in the whole wide world! 

and what tamaki liked, tamaki got.

he remembered flashing you a fat tip for your service at the coffee shop you worked as a barista at. tamaki struggled with social interaction at times but all of that went out the window the moment he locked eyes with you. he found that he didn’t have to work on his social skills, as long as he had the money to buy the friendships and interactions.

he thought you were the same as the others, easily swayed by money.

yet, you weren’t. 

you rejected the tip and told him to put it in the communal tip jar for all the baristas shared from. tamaki was stunned but did what you asked of him. anxiety bubbled in his stomach and his facade of suave rich guy nearly cracked.

but tamaki wouldn’t give up so easily.

─────────────────

“morning, amajiki-san,” you greeted him every morning with that same gentle smile of yours. barely any customers were in the coffee shop, which tamaki preferred. he utterly despised crowds of people.

“good morning, (l/n)-san,” he returned the greeting and the smile.

“the usual?” you already got a medium-sized cup out.

“yes please,” he hummed. tamaki actually hated coffee, it made his anxiety worse but he would risk an anxiety attack if it meant he could interact with you.

you nodded and got to work, preparing a medium iced coffee for tamaki. he watched you move around from behind the counter, his eyes fixated on your gorgeous form.

“one medium iced coffee for amajiki-san!” you handed the coffee to tamaki.

“thank you,” tamaki fished out an envelope from his pocket, “your tip.”

you furrowed your eyebrows at the envelope and took it cautiously, “what’s this, amajiki-san?”

“your tip,” tamaki repeated. 

carefully, you opened up the envelope and pulled out its contents. 

“amajiki-san..” you uttered his first name, “what the hell is this?”

“two tickets to paris,” tamaki leaned against the counter, “well, the tickets are more of a formality. we’ll be taking my private jet to the city.”

“amajiki-san..” you sighed. 

“pretty please, (l/n)-san?” tamaki flashed you his famous puppy eyes. 

“why should i go with a guy i barely know?”

ouch, that hurt. 

“well, we can use this as an opportunity to get to know one another.”

you frowned, “i’ll have to think about it.”

“come to this address in a week from now at two in the afternoon,” tamaki got out a pen from his pocket and wrote down an address on a piece of napkin, “if you’re interested in coming.”

you took the napkin and nodded, “very well then.”

tamaki could only hope that you would come.

─────────────────

tamaki paced around outside the private jet, frantically checking his watch every two minutes. it was nearly two o’clock and you still weren’t near yet. you weren’t coming, tamaki decided, much to his dismay. 

“amajiki-sama?” the pilot poked his head outside the jet, “ready to take off?”

“no, not yet!” tamaki hollered. the pilot flashed a thumbs up and returned inside the plane. tamaki let out a heavy sigh, where were you?

“am i late?”

tamaki perked up at the sound of your voice. he saw your figure approaching the jet, the wind ruffling your white sundress and sunhat. a lone suitcase rolled behind you. 

“you came,” tamaki stated in surprise.

“didn’t think i was gonna show?” you chuckled.

tamaki let out a soft laugh and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “yeah..”

“well, i’m here!” you smiled, “you’re gonna treat me to the trip of a lifetime, correct? why in the world would i miss out on that?”

tamaki’s heart fluttered at the sight of your smile, “well, what are we waiting for? let’s get this trip started.”

a flight attendant exited the jet and took your luggage. tamaki took your hand and guided you inside the jet. your lips formed a small ‘o’ in shock at the interior of the jet. it was much larger on the inside than it was on the outside with push-lined seats and entertainment systems galore. a person could live without worry in this jet.

“you own this?” you asked tamaki, as you took a seat in one of the comfortable looking seats. 

“my parents do,” he answered, “they use it for business trips.”

“i see,” you eyed at the approaching concession cart. the flight attendant before earlier was operating it and she offered you a wide selection of drinks and snacks. you ended up getting a plain green tea while tamaki got a bag of honey barbecue flavored chips. 

“so what made you decide to invite me on this trip?” you took a long drag of your green tea.

tamaki paused from munching on his chips. he cleared his throat, “i thought ‘why not?’ in all honesty,” that was a lie, tamaki wanted to impress you with a flashy trip to the city of love.

“do you take all the girls you’ve met on trips to paris?”

“only the girls i like.”

tamaki almost choked at his comment, his cheeks flushing a nice shade of pink. you raised your eyebrows at him in an act of bewilderment. tamaki attempted to change the conversation and informed you, “we should be there in thirteen hours, so it’s best to “get situated.”

you gave him a nod, “alrighty. well, i’ll be asleep so you have fun.”

tamaki opened his mouth to reply, only to given the cold shoulder as you reclined your seat and got noise canceling headphones on. he watched, as you situated yourself and promptly fell asleep. he chuckled, that was adorable.

a two day trip to paris, what could possibly go wrong?

─────────────────

“(l/n)-san.”

tamaki gently removed your noise cancelling headphones from your head.

“we’re here, in paris.”

you let out a groan, as your eyes slowly opened. how long were you out? a couple of hours?

“you slept the whole trip,” tamaki laughed quietly.

“oh.. i did? sorry,” you murmured, rubbing the guck out of your eyes.

tamaki brushed a loose hair out of your face, “it’s alright.”

you blushed slightly at his warm touch but masked with a cough, “so! uh! whatcha wanna do in paris?”

tamaki blinked, he hadn’t planned that far ahead.

“would you like to see the louvre?”

─────────────────

japan had nothing on the bustling streets of paris. the sidewalks were filled to the brim with people mulling about, some on their phones with shopping bags and others chatting amongst themselves. the louvre was only a block away, crowded with tourists eager to see the mona lisa.

“no need to worry about the crowds,” tamaki gave you a smile when you two approached the louvre, “i set aside us a private tour of the musuem.”

“oh really?” you crossed your arms with disdain.

tamaki pouted, “would.. would you rather do a normal tour?”

you smiled, “yes please.”

the two of you pushed your way through the crowds and entered the louvre, you staring in awe of the artworks. tamaki concealed a small smile at your wonderment, he found it to be absolutely cute to watch. 

you’re more than a work of art, (f/n). was what tamaki wanted to say but he didn’t have the courage nor the guts to say it. 

“wow, the mona lisa is so tiny!” you commented to tamaki when you two found the famed piece of art. you were right, the mona lisa was surprisingly small. you grabbed tamaki by the hand and pulled him closer to the painting, “look how beautiful it is, amajiki-san.”

tamaki grew flustered at your touch but gave your hand a light squeeze, “(l/n)-san.. you can call me tamaki, if you want.”

you gave him a look and tamaki cursed internally. was it too soon to be on a first name basis?

“okay, tamaki.”

tamaki let out a sigh of relief.

“where would you like to go next?” tamaki questioned to you after the two of you finished your tour of the louvre. 

you pondered on the question for a moment. 

“let’s go shopping.”

─────────────────

tamaki patiently waited outside a fitting room, as you tried on various articles of clothing. he offered to pay– his parents gave him an allowance for the trip– and to his surprise, you actually accepted his offer. 

“you alright in there..?” tamaki asked, not wanting to walk in on you half naked.

there was some rustling and you emerged from the dressing room, “how do i look?” you asked tamaki, twirling around in your new dress.

tamaki gulped at the sight of the dress. its neckline highlighted your collarbone quite nicely and hugged your curves just right. he pulled at his collar and adverted his gaze, “er.. you look.. uh.. very nice..”

“i do?” you hugged his arm and pressed yourself against tamaki. he was sweating bullets now, “yes! y- yes, you d- do!” his eyes widened, not his stutter coming back at the worst possible moment.

“you have a stutter?”

shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.

“so wh- what if i d- do..”

“it’s cute.”

tamaki’s eyes widened.

“y- you th- think so?”

you nodded rapidly, “of course i do! i’m not gonna poke fun at it.”

tamaki coughed, “th- thanks.”

“of course,” you released your hold on his arm, “the night is still young, what should we do next?”

tamaki peered outside, nightfall was upon the city.

“a trip to paris isn’t complete without a visit to the effiel tower now, isn’t it?”

─────────────────

being on top of the effiel tower made the world seem so small. 

tamaki took a moment to enjoy the cold breeze that passed through his indigo locks, closing his eyes and just enjoying the feeling of being on top of the world for a moment. you stood next to him, doing the same thing. you hated to admit it but this had been the most fun you have had in a while. all thanks to tamaki amajiki, of course. 

“hey tamaki?”

“yes, (f/n)?”

“can i tell you a secret?”

tamaki opened his eyes, “of course.”

you stared out onto the city of lights and leaned against the guardrail.

“i never left japan until yesterday.”

tamaki laughed, “that’s not much of a secret. it was a little obvious.”

you scrunched your nose up in annoyance, “meanie.”

tamaki acted wounded, “that hurt.”

you rolled your eyes, “i enjoyed today. i hope you can ensure the same for tomorrow.”

tamaki looked down at his shoes and sighed, “i hope i can.”

“hey tamaki?”

“yes?” he looked up.

“what’s the real reason you invited me on this trip?”

tamaki hung his head down low.

“tamaki, look at me.”

he looked back up.

“tell me the truth.”

tamaki couldn’t lie to you anymore.

“it’s because.. i like you, (f/n).”

now it was your turn to hang your head low.

“why me, tamaki?”

tamaki pressed his lips together, “what do you mean?”

taking his hands into yours, the two of you were forced to look one another in the eye. you took a deep breath and began to speak your piece.

“i want to know the real tamaki amajiki. not this fake version. i think the closer we got was what happened in the fitting room. i get it, you’re rich.. but you didn’t have to whisk me away to paris just to confess that you had a crush on me, tamaki.”

“wh- what should have i done instead..?” not the stutter!

you half-smiled, “take me out for coffee, silly.”

was it really that simple?

“maybe i- i do that next time.”

“next time?”

fuck, was there not going to be a next time?

“there won’t be a next time until you tell me about yourself,” you gave tamaki a playful punch in the shoulder. he winced a bit but played it off. tamaki looked back out onto the city, “what would you like to know?”

“what’s it like being an heir?” you leaned against the guardrail.

tamaki tilted his head back and let out a long breathe, “exhausting.”

you cocked your head to the left, “how so?”

“my parents have high expectations of me. forcing me to go to college to study business for the sole purpose of taking over the company. this might sound silly but i wanted to study food science and become a nutritional therapist,” tamaki clasped his hands together tightly, “there’s no true freedom. money has a price and that price is your freedom. the public hounds you, the elite is full of backstabbers, and i just want to settle down with a nice girl.”

“and that nice girl would be?” you smiled.

“you, of course.”

you blushed at tamaki’s response.

“i would give up all the money i have if it means i can be with you,” tamaki confessed with tears in his eyes, “i truly mean it. i fell in love with you the moment i saw you in that coffee shop, (f/n) (l/n).”

“re- really?” now you were stuttering. 

“truly,” tamaki cupped your cheeks and bore his eyes into yours, “i truly mean it. i only want you, (f/n). i would give you everything and anything you could have ever wanted. i want to be there for you.”

“b- but you barely know me!” you protested.

“then let me get to know you,” tamaki fired back.

you were rendered speechless. you adverted your gaze from tamaki and he removed his hands from your face. tamaki bowed his head in disgrace, “i- i’m sorry, (l/n)-san.”

“it’s okay, tamaki!” you exclaimed, “really it is. i admire your fire. i want to get you better, as well. truly, i do.”

tamaki relaxed his shoulders and placed a hand against his chest in an effort to calm his rapidly beating heart. you looked heavenly under the lights of the effiel tower with your new dress and your pearly white smile. he just wanted to kiss your damn face already. 

“tamaki.”

“yes, (f/n)?”

“here,” you pressed a kiss to his lips. tamaki’s eyes widened for a moment before he closed them, allowing himself to get lost in the kiss. your lips tasted like the croissant you had earlier that day. tamaki could kiss you forever. 

“let’s get to know one another better before a second date, okay?”

tamaki was more than fine with that. 

one day, he’ll be yours.

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 3

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 6.3k Warnings: slow burn, canon rewrite, canon-typical violence, cursing Summary: You and Mando choose Sorgan as your place to lay low, only to get wrangled into a risky job. Notes: In my head, Cara Dune is Katy O’Brian.. Yes, I’m ignoring the fact that she plays one of Moff Gideon’s officers lol Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme​​ @beskarhearts​​ @dincrypt​​ @honey-hi​​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00​​ @red-leaders​​ @zoemariefit​​

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

The three of you sat in the cockpit—Mando piloting the ship, you in the copilot seat behind him, and the kid perched on the console. He had slipped out of his own seat, waddled to the front of the cockpit, and managed to grasp the edge of the console with his tiny hands and scrabble his legs against the front of it to shimmy all the way up there. Honestly, it was an impressive feat for such a small being. Mando pretended not to notice, keeping his visor trained on the viewport.

You’d been sitting in silence for a while, watching the stars streak by. It was a fairly comfortable silence, considering you were complete strangers and still trying to feel out the limits of your tenuous alliance.

Looking at the back of Mando’s helmet, the surface of which reflected the bands of hyperspace that surged around the Crest, you thought again about how challenging it was to read him: there was so little to go on. No facial expressions, no significant looks, and very few gestures—even the cadence of his breathing was largely disguised by the helmet and modulator.

That was definitely part of his appeal: the mystery. He was an almost blank canvass where others were open books. Because your survival had hinged on your ability to read people, you had gotten so good at it that the task lost its fun rather quickly. Mando was an interesting new game.

In some ways, the armor forced the Mandalorian to be much more straightforward. Because it obscured his features, he had to ask for what he wanted outright—unless it was from a bounty. He could easily communicate threat with just his stance. Anything else, though, he had to verbalize. You were interested to see how this would play out in his interactions with you. You weren’t a job or his enemy, and you were really hoping that meant he’d eventually be slightly less withholding with you.

The baby, looking around, cooed quietly and reached over to flick a random switch on the panel to his right. Mando disregarded the action, pressing a few buttons in front of him. You stifled a chuckle.

The kid, clearly testing his boundaries, leaned over to flick another switch. It turned green when he activated it, and the sound of a machine whirring kicked in.

“Stop touching things,” snapped Mando, frustrated, turning to look at him. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face, grateful that Mando couldn’t see you.

The child lowered his ears and trilled sadly in response to the admonishment but recovered quickly: his ears pricked back up, and keeping his eyes trained on Mando in what seemed like a purposeful act of open rebellion, he leaned over slowly to flick yet another switch. This one turned red, and the ship rattled in response. You let out a sharp bark of laughter, slapping a hand over your mouth to smother the rest of your reaction.

This time, Mando pushed one large gloved hand past the baby to deactivate the switch and picked him up to set him on his lap. You smiled again, knowing this was likely what the kid was trying to achieve anyways. He wanted attention.

“Do you know his name?” you asked. You assumed he didn’t because he always called him “the kid”...but it also wouldn’t be a surprise if Mando did know his name and just chose to call him that instead.

“No,” he replied. “You ready to pick a planet?” Mando changed the subject abruptly as he reclined to look at you over his shoulder.

“Sure,” you agreed, standing to lean over the back of his chair so you could see the screen in front of him.

After some discussion and research, toggling through the nearby planets on the nav, you decided on Sorgan as your place to lay low. It was a rural planet, sparsely inhabited and undeveloped. Mando described it as “a real backwater skughole.” But there were some small settlements, so there would be food and fuel.

Your stomach gurgled loudly.

“I’m going to go eat,” you said, standing to leave the cockpit.

Mando, still holding the baby, stood to follow.

You moved toward the door just as Mando did the same, both attempting to walk through it together. He paused and stepped back, pressing himself against the wall as far as he could to let you by, gesturing you forward with his free hand.

Without thinking, you touched his arm lightly as you slipped past him in the tight doorway, and he flinched away, wrenching his arm back. You withdrew your hand quickly and looked up at him.

“Sorry,” he explained gruffly, visor tilted down at you. “Reflex.”

“I get it.”

He twitched his hand forward like he was considering reaching for you then decided against it, clenching it into a fist by his side.

You stood in the confined space for a moment, pinned by the mesmerizing void of his visor. Inches from your chest, he was so tall and imposing, somehow equally menacing and alluring as he towered over you. It was hard to ignore his intoxicating magnetism when you were this close to him.

He cocked his head the tiniest bit, and you realized, with a rush of embarrassment, that he was waiting for you to move.

Flustered, you turned and climbed down the ladder to find your pack. Mando followed and sat across the hull from you, after settling the kid into a makeshift crib—a storage box lined with blankets—on the floor beside his feet. He busied himself adjusting something on the complicated armor that covered his forearm, as you ate one of your ration packs.

You studied him as he worked. As far as you could tell—with the glaring exception of the presence of the child—Mando was the definition of a bounty hunter. He worked alone, and all he did was work.

He was clearly not used to casual, nonthreatening human contact, aside from that of the child.

You felt a deep, cutting sadness when you really pondered the solitude of his existence. The bulk of his interactions were violent confrontations. He had the child, but for how long? He seemed a recent acquisition. Did Mando have friends? When was the last time he felt at ease around another adult person?

When was the last time someone touched him, other than a bounty during a fight?

You’d been on the run for years and, at times, it had almost killed you—not the running itself, but the loneliness. No matter how much time you had to adjust, it remained a draining existence. You maintained only loose contacts and casual, fleeting relationships. How long had his life been exactly the same? Decades? Had he ever known anything different?

You looked down at the baby. The presence of the child spoke to the possibility that he at least wanted something different for himself.

The kid seemed to feel your gaze and turned his head to train his huge eyes on you. You smiled at him. He grabbed the edge of the box with his tiny three-fingered hands to haul himself over the side and toddled his way over to where you sat. He hugged your calf, looking up at you expectantly.

Mando was busy fiddling with the controls on his vambrace and didn’t notice.

“Can I?” You gestured down at the kid. Mando’s head flicked up.

“I guess,” he acquiesced hesitantly. He watched as you reached down to pick up the kid.

The baby settled happily into your lap, looking up to reach a hand toward your face. You met his hand with your own, and he was content to latch his little fingers around your much larger one and sit back. He babbled and wiggled the tiny green toes that poked out of the bottom of his outfit, which appeared to be made out of the altered sleeve of an old beige flight jacket.

Despite the fact that the child was more than happy cuddled in your arms, Mando was visibly uncomfortable. Abandoning his task completely, he sat forward with his elbows propped on his knees and watched you tensely.

He didn’t relax until you set the baby back down, turning him toward Mando, and he toddled his way back across the floor. Mando took the kid with him into his bunk when he disappeared to eat.

***

From the ship, Sorgan looked inviting: lush greens and blues, the landscape broken up by winding rivers. Clouds swirled across the atmosphere. Mando touched the Razor Crest down in a clearing of a pristine forest.

Mando wasn’t about to leave you behind with the kid—or with the ship, for that matter—so he informed you that the two of you would set out to the nearest village to find lodging, and he would leave the child behind. You understood that he didn’t have a lot of options, but leaving a toddler alone on a ship seemed like a terrible idea. You decided not to question it for the moment.

It was abundantly clear that Mando was accustomed to running the show and operating alone. He was used to making unilateral decisions...and that was going to have to change if the two of you were ever going to get to a place of easy coexistence. As someone who was also used to making unilateral decisions, you didn’t take well to being told what to do without even being consulted. You figured you’d give him some time to adjust to your presence before bringing this to his attention. You reminded yourself that this was a temporary arrangement.

Before leaving, Mando gave the baby a very serious, very stern talking-to about not touching anything and staying put. This was another instance that made it clear that he hadn’t been in charge of this kid (or any kid) for very long. You tried your best to conceal your amusement while Mando lectured the child. When he started to wag his finger dramatically to punctuate his points, you coughed to cover a laugh that escaped your lips.

As you both gathered what you needed in the hull, you asked, “How effective are your lectures usually?”

He let out a tired sigh, shoulders dropping slightly: “Not very.”

You laughed.

Sure enough, the baby shuffled up behind the two of you as the ramp of the ship lowered.

Mando looked down and sighed heavily.

“Oh, what the hell? Come on.” He strode forward decisively without a backwards glance.

You bent down to scoop up the child, not sure how Mando expected this tiny creature to keep up with his long strides, and followed Mando into the verdant forest.

***

The village was made up of a collection of circular wooden structures with pointed roofs. You ducked after Mando into the public house, the largest building in the small cluster. Good-natured conversation and the smell of something delicious permeated the air. You set the baby down on the floor to walk beside you.

A lothcat curled underneath a table hissed loudly at him as he waddled by, and he cowered in fear. You scowled at Mando, who didn’t react besides tilting his helmet down, and picked the child back up, patting him lightly.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you murmured reassuringly. Mando paused to watch you comfort the kid. You waited for him to pull the baby from your arms or say something to discourage you, but he didn’t. When you looked up at him, he continued forward to find an empty table.

Mando scanned the room carefully as he strode between the tables. You noticed an intimidating woman surveying him as he passed. You seated yourselves, and a woman in an apron approached with a friendly smile on her face.

“Welcome, travelers. Can I interest you in anything?”

“Bone broth for the little one,” requested Mando. Then he turned to look at you.

“One for me too, please.”

“Very well,” replied the woman.

Jerking his head towards the intimidating woman, Mando asked, “That one, over there—when did she arrive?”

The woman hesitated, and then said, “Uh, I’ve seen her here for the last week or so.”

“What’s her business here?”

You studied the woman in question, noting her piecemeal armor and tattoos. She looked like a war-hardened soldier.

“Oh, well there’s not much business in Sorgan, so I can’t say,” the server responded noncommittally. “She doesn’t strike me as a log runner.”

Mando reached into his belt and threw some credits toward her on the table. She brightened.

“Well, thank you, sir. I will get those broths to you as soon as possible, and I will throw in a flagon of spotchka for good measure. I will be right back with that.”

The server left, and the unobstructed view revealed that the woman he’d been asking about had disappeared.

Mando stood quickly.

“Stay with the kid?” he asked, looking down at you.

You hummed your assent, but he watched you for a long moment, as if assessing whether or not this was a safe idea. He was weighing the risk of leaving the kid with you against the risk of not neutralizing the possible threat of this stranger.

“I’m not going anywhere. We agreed to stick together for the time being, remember? Relax,” you assured him. It wasn’t much of a commitment, but what else could you say?

He nodded decisively and turned on his heel.

You and the kid watched him leave. The baby made a small whimpering sound as Mando disappeared through the curtain that hung over the exit.

You considered the baby as you waited for your food. He looked around, curiously taking in his surroundings.

What species is he? You’d never encountered anyone like him. Despite the fact that he was clearly a toddler, he looked a bit like an old man. And a tortoise? And maybe a frog? Whatever he looked like, he was really damn cute. Those big eyes and huge, expressive ears were undeniably adorable. You’d never felt a maternal instinct in your life, but in that moment, you wanted to pick him up and snuggle him again. You resisted the urge.

The server returned with two steaming bowls of broth and a flagon of electric blue liquor. The child immediately reached out for the broth, letting out a string of gibberish.

“It’s too hot. Let’s let it cool.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and let out a disapproving huff.

Despite his protests, you waited until the broth cooled a bit before setting it in front of him. He picked up the bowl and slurped happily.

You didn’t start to worry about Mando until you’d finished your own broth and the drink—you’d figured Mando wasn’t about to drink spotchka—and he still hadn’t come back. You scooped up the kid, who was still holding his little wooden bowl of soup, and slipped out the exit to look for Mando.

The loud sounds of a brawl made it easy to locate him.

He was locked in an intense hand-to-hand fight with the woman. They were both on the ground, Mando on top of her briefly until she used her strong legs to launch him over her body onto his back. He landed with a thud.

Ouch.

You set the baby down on the ground, but neither Mando nor the woman noticed. The two of them seemed fairly equally matched. To be safe, though, you eased your blaster out of its holster and held it loosely by your side.

Before you’d decided whether or not to intervene, the fight ended in a stalemate, both of them flat on their backs, having drawn their blasters simultaneously.

They panted on the ground, until Mando lolled his head to the side and saw you and the kid watching them, the baby slurping his broth loudly.

“You want some soup?” Mando deadpanned, looking up at the woman. You let out a sharp laugh at the unexpected question.

The tension dissolved, and they both brought their blasters back down to their sides.

You sheathed your blaster and offered Mando a hand, and—to your surprise—he took it without hesitation.

“Thanks for jumping in to help,” Mando grunted as he got to his feet slowly and dropped your hand to dust himself off.

“Hey, I was ready to step in,” you held out your blaster pointedly. “I probably wouldn’t have let her kill you.”

The woman chuckled as she straightened up then turned to walk back to the public house.

“Good to know,” retorted Mando, fixing you with an exasperated head tilt.

***

The four of you sat down together and talked for a while, sipping broth. Mando introduced himself to the woman, ignoring you and the kid. His manners seemed to come and go.

The woman shared that her name was Cara Dune.

“And who is this?” Cara inquired, eyebrows raised, looking from you and the baby to Mando.

Interested to hear how he’d explain your presence, you waited to see what Mando would say before answering.

“Long story,” replied Mando. Yep, that seems about right.

You introduced yourself, offering a fake name and sticking out a hand to shake Cara’s hand.

Mando’s head snapped to you: “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“You never asked,” you shrugged.

If Cara was confused that Mando didn’t know your name, she didn’t say anything about it. She shared that she had been a shock trooper in the Alliance, but she was trying to make a new life for herself, away from all that.

When she inquired, you shared a carefully curated set of details about yourself: born on Naboo, studied on Coruscant, now a freelance programmer with a diverse set of clientele and therefore stayed off the grid as a rule, with Mando at the moment to get from one place to the next and find more work—Sorgan was a temporary stopover.

You figured Mando didn’t love the idea of being described as a glorified taxi service, but it was better than disclosing the truth.

Mando leaned forward slightly and fixed you with his unwavering gaze while you spoke but questioned nothing. You knew he likely recognized the gaping holes in your story, considering he’d witnessed firsthand how well you could hold your own in a fight.

He shared little about himself, aside from the fact that he was in the Guild but not currently in pursuit of a bounty. Cara explained that she’d thought Mando was hunting her and that was why she reacted so defensively.

Understandable. That’s a much more reasonable reaction to his attention than flirting with him from afar liked I’d done in Nevarro. Whoops.

Finally, Cara stood: “Well, this has been a real treat, but unless you want to go another round, Mando, either you or I are gonna have to move on, and I was here first.” She turned to you and added: “You, on the other hand, are welcome to stay.” She winked at you and sauntered away.

You let out a surprised laugh, and Mando swiveled his head from Cara to you so fast, he probably tweaked his neck.

You couldn’t decide if it was hilarious or frustrating (probably both) that Cara had warmed to you over the course of a twenty-minute conversation while Mando remained aloof after more than twenty-four hours together.

Mando shook his head like he was willing away an unwelcome thought and leaned an elbow on the table: “Well, looks like this planet is taken.”

“Technically, that only applies to you.”

“You want to stay here?” There was a hint of unease in his otherwise even voice.

“No, Mando. You’re stuck with me for now, remember?”

“Right.”

You leaned forward and placed both your palms on the table: “But before we leave, I would like it on the record that I watched the kid for a full ten minutes without running away or harming a single hair on his wrinkly head.” You reached over to rub one of the child’s ears briefly, and he cooed up at you. “And I am electing not to ditch you and stay here with Cara even though she seems much more fun than you.”

A sound that might have been a laugh crackled through the modulator.

“So maybe you don’t have to breathe down my neck every second when we’re on the Crest?”

“You did almost let Cara kill me.”

You leaned back and laughed. “So, you admit it—you needed help.”

“No—I...That’s not the point.” You enjoyed how easy it was to agitate Mando.

“You’re right, it’s not. The point is that if I’m going to stick around for a while, you’re going to have to give me the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, this doesn’t make sense.”

He hummed noncommittally and rested a hand on the tabletop, gloved fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm.

“I could have abducted the kid and stolen the Crest while Cara took her time kicking your ass, but I didn’t.”

“It sounds like you considered it.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Mando.” 

You fixed him with an impatient stare, and he met your look with his impassive visor.

You huffed, and letting the levity fall away, so he knew you meant it, you asked, “Maybe it would just be easier for me to find some other way out of here?”

His fingers stilled. “No.”

“Okay... so, you’ll lighten up?”

In a well-timed interruption, the kid quirked his head at Mando and let out a string of nonsense that had the upward cadence of a question.

“He’s wondering the same thing.”

The child stretched his arms out toward Mando and wiggled his fingers. “He just wants to be picked up.” Mando scooped him up and tucked him under his arm. “But, point taken. Let’s get out of here,” he said, lifting his hand to flag down the server.

Mando seemed surprised when you reached into your bag and pulled out a small pouch of credits to pay for the food. In reality, it was one of three that you had on you at the moment.

You were a professional at disappearing. You always had a blaster at your back, a knife on your belt, another knife strapped to your ankle, and plenty of credits on your person. Plus, the roughly hewn necklace tucked under your shirt looked unassuming but was worth a small fortune—though, you’d have to be in a really tough spot to ever consider selling it. You were used to leaving places at a moment’s notice. Being prepared for anything was your default state.

Mando should understand that better than anyone.

***

When you returned to the Crest, Mando mumbled something about routine maintenance and disappeared outside with a heavy metal toolbox in hand. The kid was asleep in Mando’s bunk, and you were sitting in the hull, reading about potential planets on your datapad, when you heard strange voices approaching.

Setting down your datapad, you stood and walked down the slope of the ramp at the back of the ship quietly. You peeked your head around the side, staying out of sight, and watched two men speaking to Mando’s back as he continued working at an open panel on the side of the Crest.

The men didn’t look threatening, and Mando was clearly unconcerned. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Our whole village chipped in,” explained one of the men, a touch of desperation in his voice. The other man, who had longer hair, held up a pouch of credits.

Mando turned to face them. “It’s not enough,” he answered simply.

“Are you sure? You don’t even know what the job is?” the man with short, curly hair continued.

“I know it’s not enough. Good luck.”

Rude.

The men were insistent, pleading. Mando’s harsh rebuff surprised you. He seemed to flip flop between being decidedly cold and cautiously warm with strangers, and right now he was the former. You weren’t fooled though. With a little more prodding, you were sure they’d convince him—well, you hoped they’d convince him to take the job and stay.

“This is everything we have. We’ll give you more after the next harvest,” promised the second man.

The side door of the Crest hissed loudly as it opened, and the two men jumped back in surprise. They looked at each other, resigned, when Mando walked up the ramp, ignoring them.

“Come on, let’s head back.”

No, don’t give up yet. He’s secretly soft. He adopts stray babies, protects complete strangers, and offers soup to people who have just thrown him on his ass!

They turned to leave, mumbling sadly to each other. You hurried back up the ramp to meet Mando in the hull. You stopped, settling your hands on your hips.

“What?”

“I mean... we were looking for a reason to stay, and they just gave us one. We were looking for a place to stay middle of nowhere... they just happen to live in the middle of nowhere...”

“Cara—,” he started.

“She seems like a reasonable enough person.”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh then turned to lean out the open side of the ship. “Where do you live?” Mando called after the retreating men.

One of them called, “On a farm. Weren’t you listening? We’re farmers.”

“You have lodging?” Mando clarified.

“Yeah, absolutely!”

“Come up and help,” he said to the men.

The two men paused when they saw you.

“Hi,” you greeted, turning to pull on your boots and grab your bag.

“Hello,” they both replied tentatively.

“She comes too,” Mando stated, jerking his head in your direction, as he began to pack up a chest of weaponry.

“Sure, that’s fine,” one of the men responded.

“And we have to make a stop.”

***

You waited with the two men—they introduced themselves as Caben and Stoke—at their speeder while Mando took the kid and tracked down Cara. They shared that they were krill farmers and needed help because Klatooinian raiders had been terrorizing their settlement.

Mando located Cara quickly, and they met you at the speeder, the back of which was full of weapons. You scooted over to make space for them as the speeder stuttered to life. It was cramped and when everyone was seated, your side was pressed into Mando, the kid settled on his lap.

Mando and Cara talked quietly while you laid your head back to watch the stars. You looked down when you felt something gently press on your thigh. The kid had climbed off of Mando’s lap and was looking up expectantly at you, as if asking permission to crawl into your lap.

You smiled at him and looked up at Mando, posing a silent question.

He nodded once, and you pulled the kid onto your lap. The baby cooed happily, wiggled around to get comfortable, and closed his eyes. You rested your head back again and let the movement of the speeder lull you into a light sleep.

Before you were totally out, you felt Mando adjust beside you, leaning back and stretching an arm over your head. Instinctively, you lifted your head so he could settle his arm down behind you, and you relaxed back so your cheek rested on his cold shoulder.

In a sleepy haze, you decided to capitalize on this opening and let your hand rest on the beskar plate covering his thigh.

***

You woke up when the speeder stuttered to a stop and opened your eyes, rubbing them in the brightness of the morning. You sat up and Mando did the same beside you, moving his arm from where it had been supporting your back. He hadn’t moved all night.

The scene before you was nothing if not idyllic: green and peaceful. Wind whispered through the tall grasses that lined the village, forming a natural buffer between the settlement and the forest. Circular wooden structures, the same pointed shape as the public house, were clustered at the middle of the clearing. Villagers, catching flopping blue krill in flat baskets, waded through square ponds that encircled the small community. Children giggled and called out, running toward the speeder.

“Well, looks like they’re happy to see us,” observed Mando.

“Looks like,” agreed Cara.

The children flocked toward you to see the baby in your arms, and you hopped down to greet them.

***

You spent the morning meeting people, learning the layout of the tiny village. The children took to the kid immediately, following you wherever you carried him. Apparently, Mando had accepted the fact that the child was safe with you because he didn’t object.

The gaggle of children showed you around excitedly, even demonstrating how to expertly sift krill from the ponds. They brought you to the long hall where food—stew and spotchka—was served. You sat on the ground outside, eating and enjoying the sun, with the children and the kid. They watched in enthusiastic disgust as the child caught and ate a live frog.

That afternoon, you and Mando followed the woman who introduced herself as Omera to your lodging. Though there did not seem to be an official leader of the small community, Omera clearly garnered respect. You watched as she gave easy instruction to those around her, and they complied reflexively.

She led you to one of the wooden buildings on the edges of the settlement. You noticed the way Mando stopped in the doorway to admire Omera as she raised a window covering and the afternoon light illuminated her beautiful face.

“Please, come in,” Omera invited warmly. 

You set the baby on the ground, and he waddled a few steps before plopping down to lean against a crate, his eyelids heavy after a full morning of play.

“I hope this is comfortable for the three of you,” Omera continued. “Sorry that all we have is the barn. There is a spare crib for the child.” She gestured at a well-made looking crib. You wondered when the last time the child had slept in a proper bed was.

You picked him up from where he sat dozing on the floor and settled him into the crib.

You looked around the open space of the barn. It was clearly used for storage: it was lined with baskets, furniture, crates, fishing equipment, and more, but a large space in the center of the room was clear. You hadn’t considered until this moment that you might be sharing one room with Mando. Neither of you would be comfortable in these close quarters.

“Oh, we’re not—,” you started.

“This will do fine,” confirmed Mando, cutting you off mid-sentence. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, surprised that he seemed okay with this sleeping arrangement.

“I stacked some blankets over here,” Omera pointed to a stack of quilts in the corner.

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” replied Mando as he turned to unstrap his rifle from his back.

A little girl crept up to the open doorway, looking down at her feet with her hands clasped behind her back. You recognized her from the gaggle of children. She was one of the quieter, shyer kids.

Mando, who was facing the back of the room, whipped around defensively at her movement. His hand hovered threateningly over his blaster.

The little girl gasped and jumped back, disappearing from view. Omera turned to follow her out the door.

You stepped toward Mando and put a steadying hand on his elbow in the space between his armor, drawing his arm away from his weapon. He looked down at where your hand gripped his arm.

“Are you okay?” you asked, under your breath.

He gave you a curt nod and exhaled loudly through the modulator.

You dropped your hand to your side when Omera returned, the little girl hugged tightly to her.

“This is my daughter, Winta,” she explained in her dulcet voice. “We don’t get a lot of visitors around here. She’s not used to strangers.”

Neither is Mando.

Mando stood awkwardly and said nothing.

“It’s nice to meet you, Winta,” you greeted gently. She smiled timidly against her mother’s stomach.

“These people are going to help protect us from the bad ones,” Omera said.

“Thank you,” replied Winta quietly.

“Come on, Winta. Let’s give our guests some room.” Omera took Winta’s hand and lead her away.

As soon as the two of you and the baby were alone, you turned to Mando. “How are we both going to sleep in here? You can’t sleep in your helmet.”

Mando stood frozen, staring at the doorway. He seemed not to have registered that you said anything.

“Mando?”

He turned to you. “I—uh, it’s fine. I didn’t want to inconvenience them any more.”

“But how is this going to work?”

“I can sleep in my helmet.”

“No way, that’s ridiculous. I’ll ask if I can stay with Cara.” You took a step toward the door.

He looked down at the floor. “I’d rather you stay here.”

“Ah...okay. I thought we were past the stage where you felt the need to babysit me,” you joked, hoping that wasn’t the reason for this.

“No. That’s not...” he started to explain but trailed off.

He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, and, despite the prickle of irritation you felt at the confirmation of his mistrust, you felt compelled to fill the uneasy silence that followed.

Avoiding his gaze, you looked over to where the kid was snoozing in the crib. “It’s fine. I’m going to go out for a bit if you want to take it off now. I’ll let you know before I come back in.”

“Thank you.”

You dropped your bag onto a crate and slipped out of the room and into the soft sunlight that shone through the sparse clouds.

Unwittingly, Mando seemed to know how to give you just enough reassurance to keep you around and just enough doubt to keep you guessing about why you were here with him. He was holding you at arm’s length, but not letting you go.

The potential between you was as enticing as it was confusing.

The more time you spent with Mando, the more of a paradox he seemed to be. He was constantly torn between a need to be hard and his instinct to be soft. You had an inkling that at heart, he was soft through and through. How else could you explain the presence of the baby?

His literal and metaphorical armor were clearly worn out of necessity—for several reasons, you guessed: to be successful in a brutal profession, probably as a result of past trauma, and simply because life is just fucking hard. You barely knew him, but you couldn’t help but want to be someone with whom he felt comfortable letting his guard down.

You pushed these thoughts from your mind as you stepped into the dappled light that filtered through the canopy of the forest. You were happy to explore the woods on your own, enjoying the serene atmosphere and natural beauty. It had been a while since you’d been on such a lovely planet. It reminded you of home.

***

When you returned a few hours later, all the villagers were gathering around the barn where Mando and Cara stood on the porch. You walked up to join the crowd and Mando’s visor followed your movement. You smiled at him, and he looked away abruptly, turning to Cara. They exchanged a few words then Mando stepped forward to address everyone.

“Bad news. You can’t live here anymore,” Mando announced. He declared this in an infuriatingly neutral, straightforward way, the same way you’d tell someone there was going to be rain.

They must have seen the same tracks in the forest that I saw.

The villagers broke out in surprised chatter: “What?” “Why?”

Cara and Mando muttered to each other. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you hoped Cara was explaining how callous he’d sounded.

Cara started forward, “I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options.”

Despite her slightly better manner, the villagers broke out in angry protests again.

“You took the job!” Caben cried.

“That was before we knew about the AT-ST!” exclaimed Cara.

Your stomach dropped. You had hoped you were somehow wrong about what those tracks belonged to. It would take serious preparation to successfully take on a band of raiders and an Imperial walker.

“What is that?” asked Caben.

“The armored walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn’t mention,” said Cara indignantly.

That is a pretty important piece of information they had chosen to leave out.

More protests erupted. The villagers shouted pleas over one another. Mando was surveying the desperate villagers, saying nothing. You had a feeling that despite his initial refusal and these adverse circumstances, he would elect to help them anyways. Eventually one of the many heartfelt appeals was likely to sway him—listening to their pleading voices, you knew you would find it hard to refuse them.

Omera’s plaintive voice broke over the crowd, and you suspected she’d be the one to convince him.

“We have nowhere to go,” she entreated.

Mando met your gaze, where you stood silently at the back of the crowd. He cocked his head, and you knew what he was asking. You gave him an understanding smile, nodding your agreement. He bowed his head slightly in response.

You turned and walked away, not needing to hear the rest of the conversation to know that Mando had already decided to stay.

***

Chapter 4

[shatouto]

@obiwanobi allowed me to write a sequel to this lovely raised-as-sith!anakin and jedi!obi-wan fic!! pls enjoy this tiny little 1.3k of hurt/comfort

content warning: description of injuries

capable de deux

The standard clock strikes half past midnight.

Obi-Wan sets the basin on the floor. The man who is no longer Vader sits against the wall like a broken doll, one arm bent in a sickening angle, hands lying palm-up and unclenched between half-crossed legs. He’s not uncooperative, just limp, when Obi-Wan lifts his hands or turns his shoulder to remove the broken armor pieces. He’s not unresponsive, just lackluster, when Obi-Wan decides that the clothes are too mangled to salvage anyway and announces it to him in a murmur. He’s not unfeeling, just very, very quiet. Worryingly quiet.

In the shadow of Anakin’s silence, the only light that comes through is his eyes. Obi-Wan feels Anakin’s gaze like a physical thing, following his every movement in weary wariness as the scissors slowly snips their way along the seams. It’s borderline suffocating, how the air is so thoroughly silent that Obi-Wan can hear exactly how shallow Anakin’s breathing is. He sets all of the blood-soaked scrap fabric aside and dips a cloth in lukewarm water. He meets Anakin’s eyes, before wiping a streak down his front.

Anakin’s body is littered with scars; if there is a patch of unmarred skin left amidst the glossy criss-crossing, it would be dark with bruises. So many scars for someone so young, Obi-Wan catches himself thinking, frowning deeply - because Anakin is young, younger now than any other time Obi-Wan has glimpsed him outside of his distinct helmet. Young enough to be a Padawan, even, had the Jedi found him before the Sith. Obi-Wan sighs.

A deep cauterized gash runs from the tip of Anakin’s shoulder to the middle of his chest, and a fresh burn spreads from his heart to diaphragm, all of which Obi-Wan quickly covers with bacta patches before cleaning the rest. The blaster shot wounds are a more pressing concern, as they are still bleeding. He bites his lip in commiseration, nearly holding his breath as he cleans the too-tender flesh as gently as he can. His lineage does not have a gift for the art of healing, and Anakin’s shields are still rammed up high and tight, so Obi-Wan opts to monitor Anakin’s reactions for any sign of sudden pain.

Anakin doesn’t make a single sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. If it isn’t for his breathing sometimes hitching, Obi-Wan would have thought that Anakin is entirely numb - which would have been worrying. Whenever he glances up to Anakin’s face, their gazes touch; Anakin’s eyes train on his face rather on his moving hands, not alert, but not aimless either.

Water darkens in the basin. Obi-Wan has changed it for a third time, and is on his second washcloth. There is so much blood it’s a miracle that Anakin has made it this far, has dragged himself into the Jedi Temple without getting caught. Obi-Wan works his way down to the slippery patch on Anakin’s thigh, which turns out to be a wound that he can’t - and doesn’t want to - even begin to guess the cause: Raw burnt flesh just ripe for infection on the edge of a gaping cavity still oozing blood.

He whispers an apology as he has done for every touch, dabbing the cloth at the least damaged edge of the wound. This is by far the nastiest wound he’s seen, and Obi-Wan raises his gaze, worried that this might be where Anakin breaks.

Anakin doesn’t.

And somehow it’s even more disquieting.

“You can’t feel it?” Obi-Wan breaks the silence.

Anakin finally blinks at him. Even the confusion is better than the utterly blank look he has been sporting.

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief, short-lived though it is. “Your injuries?” He specifies.

Anakin cocks his head a bit - almost cute, Obi-Wan thinks in passing - but then says in a voice devoid of emotions whatsoever. “It’s not that bad.”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Anakin, there is blood and bruises everywhere on you and I think your arm is badly broken. Can you even feel it?”

Anakin shrugs with his unhurt shoulder. “No.”

“You can’t—” Cold dread bursts in Obi-Wan’s chest like a sheet of ice shattering. He places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Anakin, you need to see a healer! Why did you let me—”

“No, I mean”—Anakin straightens up minutely—“I can’t feel it because it’s not there anymore. It’s just a mechno-arm. Dooku cut my real arm years ago.”

“…Dooku.” Obi-Wan stares at him, voice flat. “Dooku, the other Sith, who’s supposed to be your ally. He cut your arm.”

Anakin makes a vague sound of affirmation, and falls silent, letting Obi-Wan struggle to form a reply to that. Now it’s his turn to look at Anakin in the face, while those now-blue eyes turn towards the ground, lashes so long they cast shadows of their own.

“Don’t call a healer,” Anakin finally mumbles, not looking at him. “I don’t want healers. I don’t want��� people. I don’t like anyone touching me.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, realizing that he still has his left hand on Anakin’s shoulder, while his right rests just over Anakin’s knee, still clutching the washcloth. He makes to pull away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Anakin’s hand flashes up in sudden, unexpected liveliness, immediately squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. His eyelashes quivers.

“You’re not ‘anyone’.”

—

The entire living room smells like bacta with a hint of blood by the time Obi-Wan is done. He locks Vader’s lightsaber with its buzzing red crystal in a drawer, and wraps away the broken prosthetic and ruined armor and shreds of clothing; it’s not safe enough to discard them conventionally, and he will have to burn them later, ideally somewhere unfrequented. Right now, there is no way Obi-Wan can leave his quarters. Not with Anakin limping out of bed at the sound of a fresher door sliding open or shut.

By all rights Anakin should have passed out from lightheaded exhaustion by now, yet he seems even more awake now than even when Obi-Wan first found him on his knees in the hallway. Anakin pauses at the sight of him and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He fixes Obi-Wan with the gaze of a Loth-wolf.

Obi-Wan lets out a sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He takes a seat beside the former Sith. “Anakin,” he enunciates each syllable in a lingering rhythm, “could you please stop watching me like this?”

Anakin blinks at him; so far, Anakin seems capable of two states of being: desperate, and confused. “What do you mean?” He looks deceivingly innocent, covered in bandages and wrapped in Obi-Wan’s colors - a thought that Obi-Wan, startled, quickly shuts down. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth hangs open, his mind running the sentence through. Always? Since before? And then it occurs to him that Vader wore the helmet along with his full suit of armor every time they clashed in battle. The few rare times they crossed paths outside of combat were all hair-thin ceasefires, too tense, too charged with fragile hope for him to notice. It dawns on Obi-Wan that Anakin has no concept of what is an appropriate amount of looking, of staring at someone.

“...Should I not?” Anakin ducks his head a little, and reaches for Obi-Wan’s hand.

By Force, this is a man who demanded surrender from Jedi only to open fire on them, who killed hundreds with just his hands and a lightsaber, who led operations that burn cities of civilians, who scorched the earth of whole planets and poisoned whole systems. This is a man who has done enough evil to make the core of a kyber mountain shudder. He has no rights looking like this, lamb-like in both colors and manners.

But could a child weaned on blood and brought up on broken bones know any better?

“Go to bed, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, in a tone distinctly reminiscent of that which he used with a younger Ahsoka in her rebellious day. (Not that she has gotten any less rebellious; she only moved on to matters more significant than bedtime.) He squeezes Anakin’s hand, and eases him down onto the pillow, and watches Anakin until Anakin can’t watch him back anymore.

And like all infants who fall asleep with a hand in their own, Anakin holds on tight.

[ellewriteswrongs]

picking favorites (a @tsbandau drabble)

if y’all aren’t emotionally invested in @underdog-arts ‘s band au, idk what y’all are even doing /j

anyway, here’s a wholesome family drabble insp. by the band au and my (not-so) subtle obsession with remus and janus. also subbing to their patreon is the best $5 i’ve probably ever spent, no joke

“Honey, you can still pick up Ry, right?” Janus called down the hallway, carrying a basket of laundry on each hip before depositing them in the hallway to put away later. Remus was seated in their shared office catching up on emails as Janus began packing up leftover pasta into containers to take to their show scheduled that night. 

“I told you I got ‘em,” he agreed, banging the last clumps of his protein shake into his mouth with the heel of his hand. “I’m gonna’ jog to V’s and grab the van.”

Janus nodded to themself out of instinct before faltering, their brow furrowing. 

“Wait—Re, that’s like three miles,” they challenged, dumping the dirtied dishes into the sink. “Just take the fucking car.”

Remus’ snort laugh was audible from down the hallway. 

“They asked for the van!” Remus cackled. “And I, for one, do not disappoint. Apparently making my kid’s friends think they’re cool is worth a three-mile jog.”

Janus rolled their eyes, albeit fondly. This was, unfortunately, not news. 

Riley was having an…interesting phase. It wouldn’t be abnormal for kids their age if it weren’t for the fact that their parents were ridiculously competitive, and all of their parents’ friends were eager to get in on it. 

As soon as Remus attended career day in Riley’s first grade classroom, resulting in the entire class of six-year-olds marveling at the fact that their friend’s dad was a “rock star.”

Janus loved that conversation over dinner that night. 

They weren’t jealous. No, in fact, it was probably overdue for Riley to have a bit of a “Daddy’s kid” phase, considering how joined at the hip they were with Janus for multiple years now. But they wanted to win. 

Riley could make their own decisions about picking a favorite parent. As long as that decision was Janus. 

“You’ve gone so-oft,” they sing-songed, smirking as Remus appeared in the kitchen behind them, wrapping one hand around their hip and pressing a kiss to their temple. “Ry’s got you wrapped around their finger.”

Remus have a flash of his crooked grin. 

“Yeah, well…at least I know where they get that from.”

Janus rolled their eyes, trying to hide their reddening face. 

“Sap,” they grumbled fondly. “Hurry up and get on with your run before you’re late to pickup. And tell V I said hey.”

Remus gave an exasperated chuckle and affirmation, but pocketed his keys and wallet nonetheless. 

The jog to Virgil’s apartment wasn’t a particularly strenuous three miles, being downtown and all, and Remus was far from out of shape. Still, three miles was three miles—especially in the late afternoon sun. Needless to say, Virgil wasn’t thrilled to have a giant sweaty man on his doorstep, but he handed over the keys nonetheless. 

The van was old, still clinging to its axels from when Remus himself purchased it from an old neighbor and declared it the band’s “tour bus.” It was nice enough at the time, especially for the price he paid, but it certainly wasn’t still around for anything more than sentimental value. 

Mainly just Remus refusing to get rid of it. 

That, and the fact that, for whatever reason, Riley thought it was the coolest thing ever. 

The drive wasn’t long, only the sitting in traffic of other parents in minivans trying to get into the school parking lot. He…wasn’t a fan of that part of being a parent, that’s for sure. He could do without any other parents, thank you very much, but at least it was fun to see how obvious all of them were in their distaste of both him and Janus, compared to how much their kid absolutely adored them. 

A fact that was only proven when Remus eventually made it to the parking lot and exited his van, only to be met with ear-splitting squeal of “daddy!” and an armful of six-year-old. 

He can’t deny how, even after all these years, the title still makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like…he is a dad. That’s his kid! How fucking rad is that!

He happens to spot a few other parents, along with some of Riley’s friends that he recognizes, and he offers a quick wave with the hand that isn’t mussing up his kid’s hair. 

“You brought the van,” Riley points out with a toothy grin that Remus can’t help mirroring. He can’t help the knot in his throat when he spots the gap in their teeth from their first ever lost tooth—which only meant they were getting much too old and Remus would really appreciate it if they would slow the fuck down.

“I told you I would, didn’t I?” Riley nods, bouncing on Remus’ hip just a bit out of excitement. “I gotta’ warn you though, JJ’s getting pretty jealous.”

Riley laughs before sticking out their tongue and making a fart noise in Remus’s face. 

Remus is, for the thousandth time, bewildered at how Riley couldn’t possibly be more like Janus if they tried. And mostly smitten. He has the coolest kid on Earth, after all. 

“They can suck my butt!” Riley squeals and Jesus Christ, Remus is going to have a heart attack right there in the parking lot. He’s gonna’ have to grill Jan again to make sure those two aren’t secretly biologically related. 

“Hey, your words not mine, squirt,” he smirks, opening the van door and strapping them into the car seat. “And your early bedtime if you let JJ hear any of that.”

He finishes with a pinch on their nose before closing the van door and getting back in the driver’s seat. 

Riley, as soon as the radio turn on, starts protesting very aggressively to listen to “your songs, daddy! Play your songs!” 

Thankfully, he has a CD burned with some of their…cleaner songs for that exact purpose. 

Riley, for lack of a better word, was ‘singing’ along at a volume that Remus would’ve otherwise found hilarious and impressive if it wasn’t right in his ear. Still, there was a certain fondness that came with watching his kid’s excitement over his work—something that, as usual, was paired with thrashing within the confines of a car seat and headbanging their little heart out. 

Along the drive Remus made every attempt to stop the barrage of the screamo singer in the making, but all were ultimately unsuccessful. At least…until he pointed out one particular building out of a strip mall assortment. 

“Hey, you see that store right there? The one with the red sign?” He spoke up, catching Riley’s eager attention in an instant. They placed both hands on the van window to look out. 

“What is it?” They asked, squinting to try and read what was on the sign. 

“You know the snake on my leg?” Riley nodded, quieting down. “That’s where JJ took me to get it.”

They paused, seemingly putting some pieces together in their head.

“How come you only have one?” They asked, still kicking their legs against their seat. “JJ has lots, how come you don’t have lots too?”

Remus chuckled, continuing along the road as the light turned green. 

“‘Cause I don’t need another one. They’re very expensive, you know.”

“Is it ‘cause you’re a wimp?” 

Remus choked on his own spit. 

“N-no,” he choked out, laughing. “No I’m not, I just think it looks better this way.”

He didn’t bother looking into the backseat to see what Riley thought of that answer, but if the return to karaoke that followed was any indication, they were not impressed. Still, he’d probably take the teasing over the screaming, but kids are kids. 

Even as they pulled into their driveway, Remus had to strategically dodge Riley’s flailing limbs in order to un-fasten the seatbelts on their car seat and actually get them in the house. Apparently the music was not as vital to the ‘sing-along’ as he’d hoped it was when he turned the car off. 

“Alright, alright, calm those legs down before you knock my teeth out, will ya’?” Remus teased, placing Riley on his shoulders where they instantly took fistfuls of his hair to hold on. Riley toned down the velocity, but otherwise did not stop. “Careful, squirt, if you wanna’ kick so bad, I’m signing you up to play soccer.”

Riley stopped almost instantaneously, gripping Remus’ hair even tighter as they headed back inside the house, Riley’s tiny backpack slung around Remus’ forearm. 

“Nooo,” they wailed, half punctuated by laughter that echoed through the house. 

“What are we complaining about?” Janus spoke, leaning against the doorway across the room with a fond smile. 

“He said if I kick him in the teeth I have to play soccer,” Riley whined, attempting to climb down from Remus’ shoulders on their own. Janus snorted a laugh before swiftly crossing the room to collect their child and place them on their hip. 

“Wow, your daddy’s so mean,” Janus agreed, raising a challenging eyebrow as they stood in front of their husband. Remus pouted before bending down to steal a kiss.

“Gross,” Riley giggled, pressing a hand on each of their parents’ faces to separate them. 

“Gross?” Janus smirked. “Well in that case, maybe your dad was being a bit unfair.”

Riley turned to Remus to stick out their tongue at him. 

“I mean, soccer? That’s just ridiculous,” Janus continued, a mischievous glint in their eyes. “We’ll obviously have to sign you up for football instead. A punt like that has got to be put to good use.”

Riley immediately went back to their dramatized complaining, this time reaching desperately for Remus to get him to take them back from Janus—to which Remus just held up his hands in mock innocence.

“No can do, kid,” he smirked. “The punishment has to fit the crime, after all.”

Riley continued their attempts to wiggle out of Janus’ unyielding grip.

“Never!” They declared, trying a different approach of reaching over Janus’ shoulder to escape from behind. “I won’t! I won’t do it, I promise!”

Remus and Janus both knew they wouldn’t actively try to hurt either of them, but sometimes it was just more fun to assert rules when it came with shrieking laughter and climbing their parents like a jungle gym.

“Well, now you know where we stand,” Remus spoke in false authority, reaching for one of Riley’s tiny shoes and holding it up to address it as if it were in control of their legs. “I better not see you around these parts again, ya’ hear?” He added in an over-the-top western accent, gesturing to his face. 

Riley squealed with laughter as he held out his hand for a handshake and they shook it with their accused foot. 

“Alright, alright, you two,” Janus intervened with fond exasperation. “Snacks are on the counter, take it or leave it.”

Riley whipped their head around to peer into the kitchen, cheering when they spotted two plates on the kitchen counter, each with a toaster waffle piled high with blueberries. 

“Second…breakfast!” They cheered, drumroll-ing on their leg before whooping and slinking out of Janus’ grip and climbing up onto the kitchen barstools. Remus, giving a fond eye-roll at the enthusiasm, turned to drape his arms over Janus’ shoulders from behind, perching his chin on top of their head. 

“They get it from you, you know,” he mumbled, smirking at the scoff it earned him. 

“Shut up,” Janus grumbled, the smile evident in their voice. “That is all you.”

“Babe, sports are a threat in this house,” he teased. “You’re telling me that came from me?”

“Yeah, I’ll take that one,” they chided, turning around to face their husband. “As long as you’re aware that the energy, the volume—honey, that’s all you.”

Remus quirked his brow with a proud smirk. 

“Or maybe it’s the fact that they sleep for fourteen hours and we haven’t even had eight in the last six years,” he challenged knowingly. “You know, I happen to remember that back in the day…that bed was hardly even for sleeping.”

Janus snorted, their face reddening slightly.

“Is it bad to think of those as the ‘good old days’ already?”

Remus swept a piece of their hair out of their face. 

“Hell no, dude. We lived like kings back then,” he chuckled. “How ‘bout this—I’ll get Ro to take ‘em to the park or something this weekend and I’ll dick you down just like old times, ‘kay?”

Janus sputtered out a cackle, smacking Remus on the chest before covering his mouth with their hand.

“Fucking christ, they’re like two yards away,” they hissed, still laughing. “I am not going to be the one fielding questions about what getting dicked down means, oh my god.”

“You say that like they listen to anything when there’s food in front of them,” Remus countered, nodding in the direction of their kid as Janus rolled their eyes with a chuckle. 

“Now that, is from you,” they grinned, jabbing him in the side with their elbow. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re serving up delicacies like toaster waffles,” Remus said, raising his hands in mock defense. 

Janus gave him a look before crossing their arms. 

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I know you can’t go two hours without food. Go on, there’s one for you, even if it’s probably cold by now,” they teased as Remus excitedly kissed their forehead before practically running to the kitchen. He hopped up to sit on the counter, folding each toaster waffle like a blueberry-filled taco before funneling them into his mouth. 

Janus followed close behind—at a normal pace, thank you very much—and took the actual seat next to their kid, sipping at the cup of tea they had left on the counter before the two had returned home as they listened to Riley regaling their day at school.

———

Realistically, Remus probably should’ve seen it coming. He was a couple days past his previous record of days as Riley’s “favorite” and he knew he likely didn’t have much longer before Janus dethroned him again, but he certainly hadn’t expected the scene he walked in on that night. 

He had heard hushed laughter coming from one of their house’s bathrooms that evening, assuming at first that Janus was just handling Riley’s bath or something like that, but as he cleaned up the mess from their dinner and finished washing the rest of their dishes, he was surprised to find they were still in there. So obviously he had to investigate. 

He knocked on the door, rolling his eyes fondly as shushing and giggles came from within. 

“Everything good in there?” He teased, leaning against the door. “I gotta’ say, I’m a little hurt I didn’t get invited to whatever club this is that hangs out in the bathroom.”

More giggles followed by the oh-so familiar sound of Janus’ shushing. 

“I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself what all the fuss is about,” he sing-songed, slowly creaking open the door before letting out a snort laugh at the scene before him. 

Janus was seated on the edge of the bathtub, wash cloth in hand, as Riley sat on the sink counter, covered on all limbs with temporary tattoos. At least the pieces of tape that Janus had cut into circles and colored black to look like ear gauges were admittedly cute. 

“Oh, I see how it is,” he smirked from against the doorframe. 

“JJ said you’re a wimp,” Riley proudly announced. “I was right.”

Janus stuck their tongue out and made a spitting noise and…yeah, that was their kid alright. Not that Remus would have it any other way. 

[homeformyheart]

no feelings - mason x f!detective (twc)

author’s note: my original intention was to do a post-bakery, heartbreak moment for mason and I started this before the demo updated, but needed to change it since and hopefully it still works. I have no idea if I’ll do a part 2, my original plans don’t spark joy atm, and I was tired of seeing this in my WIPs xD. very minor book 3 spoilers (allusions but no specific mentions). enjoy! *thank you @silma-words for giving this a read-through all those months ago when i was stuck and to @narrativefoiltrope for the parentheses suggestion!

copyright: all characters, except my oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – mason x f!detective (ria knight) rating/warnings: 16+; swearing, angst word count: 1.7k summary: ria wants to end things with mason before she catches feelings for someone who won’t return them. mason isn’t sure what he wants but knows he doesn’t want to give up what they have.

no feelings

mason just stared at the door to ria’s office, the shades obscuring the sight of her but he could still hear the sound of her heartbeat. solid and steady, like her.

he didn’t know why he said what he did. he just knew that she was hurt, even though she pretended not to be. and even though he wanted to talk to her, he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

it didn’t matter though, seeing as how she didn’t seem like she wanted to talk to him anytime soon.

but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

he knocked, hesitantly. once. twice.

“come in,” a voice called out, loud to his senses, vibrating ever so slightly.

he opened the door and paused in the doorway, eyes searching hers for permission.

her head rose from where it had been resting on her arms, fists clenching once she noticed him. she lowered her hands to her lap, but mason had no doubt that her knuckles were white.

“what do you want?” she asked, her features stitching together a mask of indifference.

but he could see the truth in her light blue eyes. it was his special skill after all, being able to read people and get the truth from them.

a skill he tried to avoid using with ria as much as possible for some reason.

when did that happen?

even now, as he was holding her gaze, he knew he wasn’t trying to read her. but he could still sense that something was off. and he wanted, no needed, to figure out what it was.

the silence between them grew as ria’s gaze shifted. she looked expectantly at him. “well? if you don’t have anything new to report on the case, you should leave. i have a lot of work to do.”

he shook his head, a force of habit. he really didn’t know what to say.

she glanced away, eyes flitting across the posters and papers pinned to the wall next to her desk, but mason could see the gears turning in her mind. when she turned back to look at him, the pain from before was replaced by a newfound intensity that slammed into him and sent a prickly, but still pleasant, tingle across his chest and down his arms.

a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as her eyes appraised him, and not unlike the first time they flirted, the motion sent something warm and soothing down south. as her eyes met his again, the warmth turned into a simmering heat and he took a step forward, her darkened irises drawing him in.

he raised an eyebrow at her. while he was no stranger to the constant attraction between them, which pushed and pulled like the tides but always met each other at dusk and dawn, it didn’t seem like the time.

for once, he wanted to talk.

“look, about what i said before,” he started, folding his arms across his chest.

ria made her way around her desk until she was standing in front of him. “you were right. you made it clear that you were only interested in fun, and i agreed,” she shrugged, tapping her fingers lightly on his chest.

his brow furrowed. while he did say something to that affect, it wasn’t what he wanted.

“that’s all this is and all it’s going to be, so i’ll see you later at my apartment?” ria asked pointedly, her lip curling into a smirk.

a frustrated rumble crouched low in the back of his throat. “i never said that this is all it’s going to be,” he snapped, flinching at the volume of his own voice.

ria didn’t move a muscle. her light blue eyes had darkened to a cloudy grey, only a few shades lighter than his own.

“you didn’t have to, sunshine. i’m saying it. so am i seeing you later or not?” she asked, the glare on her face reminding him of the daggers she had hidden under her jacket sleeves.

an uncomfortable itch started in his belly and he subconsciously scratched at the fabric of his shirt, blunt nails digging in harder before he realized the itch was under his skin.

and it was spreading. traveling up toward his chest and out before making its way down his arms. leaving behind a tiny, circular weight in his stomach that he didn’t care for.

he could recognize it for what it was, a form of conflict. swirling counter-clockwise as a hurricane does when it approaches shore. but he didn’t understand why it was there.

what he did understand is that if she wanted to see him, he wanted to see her.

he gave her a slow nod. “i’ll see you later,” he said, hesitating for a brief second with his hand on the doorknob.

he glanced back at her and said softly, “sweetheart.”

~ against her better judgment, ria met mason’s gaze before he left, the murmured pet name on his lips seeming to glide through the air and hit her in the chest. her body slumped back against the desk as he left, energy draining out of her and leaving behind the tempestuous grey look now seared in her mind. his words left an uncomfortable lump in her throat, and she hoped no one else came into her office.

she looked at the clock, a feeble attempt to fast-forward to the end of the day, only for her shoulders to sag at the realization that she basically still had eight hours to go. despite the tension in their earlier conversation and the uncomfortable moments they’ve had since breakfast, ria wasn’t mad at mason.

even though she had stormed out while trying to blink back tears and then he stormed away from her after finding out about bobby, she didn’t blame him.

no, the only person she was fucking pissed off at was herself.

it wasn’t supposed to get this far.

she wasn’t good with feelings. it was always easier to push away any uncomfortable thoughts or emotions by keeping her body physically distracted, preferably with either a partner in the gym or a partner in her bed.

learning how to box and working her way through all the various martial art forms gave her focus after quitting ballet.

(though it did little to quell the feelings of inadequacy caused by things completely out of her control.)

teaching herself how to use knives and rook’s family dagger was a welcome distraction after she was forced to abandon her aspirations to join the army.

(though digging through rook’s old stuff in the attic in desperate protest – to find anything that would tell her he would’ve supported her – only drowned her in the loss.)

flirting and sleeping with every person who showed interest in her and seemed even an inch better than bobby fucking marks.

(though every little fling, whether a one-night stand or a string of awkward first dates, only added supporting evidence to the story she told herself that no one would stick around for her.)

and it was supposed to be the same with mason.

no strings. no baggage. no goddamn feelings.

ria gripped the edge of her desk with her hands until her knuckles turned white. she already broke her first rule of dating: don’t catch feelings.

you can’t get hurt if there aren’t feelings involved, she reminded herself of the mantra that got her out of several attempts at relationships after breaking up with bobby.

but she could still implement her second rule.

~ instead of heading back to the warehouse right away, mason wandered toward the trees bordering the station that offered a shady respite from the scorching sun against his sensitive skin.

the heat was only going to get worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. even in the dark shade of the trees around him, the sun burned against his skin almost as if it were bare. he winced, not even wanting to think about how much worse it might feel if he wasn’t at least wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

they still needed to work together.

he pushed the seemingly random thought out of his mind as quickly as it had appeared, his body reacting viscerally in disagreement to the sentiment.

this wasn’t about maintaining a working relationship with ria.

this was bigger than that.

at least, he assumed, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

he lit a cigarette, trying to distract from how his shirt is quickly becoming an incubator for the heat. smoke curled upward as he leaned his head back against the trunk of a tree.

he was always in it for the fun. it made traveling around and the downtime between missions more bearable.

he didn’t really care for hobbies and interests the way nate and felix did. and he could only take a beating from adam every so often.

having fun, especially with humans – who were so easy to rile up and even easier to read – made the endless time pass in a way that felt normal. for him anyway.

learning all the different ways he could elicit sounds from them. figuring out how quickly he could make them peak. knowing exactly what to do to leave them wanting more.

he took a long drag of the cigarette, closing his eyes and wishing the burn in his lungs would linger a little longer. it numbed the burn on the outside of his body.

but no feelings. that always took the fun out of things.

that was the rule.

and ria was fun, there was no denying that. maybe even the most fun he’s had in a very long time.

she knew his rule. hell, it was her rule too.

it was the perfect situation for him.

maybe he didn’t want to lose out on such an ideal situation. or mess up the team dynamic.

he dumped the cigarette butt onto the floor and put out the embers with his shoe.

whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t ready for things with her to end.

* * * * * taglist: @kelseaaa; @kat-tia801; @anotherbeingsworld; @babycracker; @writer-ish; @gloynporslen; @sosolenoo; @alyssalauren; @wayhavenots; @pearlsandsteel; @gingerbreton; @takemyopenheart; @mevnraels;

[joonkorre]

To my love,

@drarrymicrofic prompt: forbidden

read Paper Hearts by @dorthyanndrarry and have been completely obsessed w draco doing little mundane things as a hobby or bc it's therapeutic etc etc. i had to fold these paper cranes for an art project once. it's fucking addictive lmao. ao3

tw: very brief mention of blood

It’s just a thing Draco does when he’s bored. A past-time, or a hobby, even. If it’s past midnight and less tiring to be honest, he’d admit that it’s a coping method. But he never really feels like that as of late, as expected from a permanent resident in what is now the Dark Lord’s lair.

Light, clean air, silence, and Merlin knows what else, are lacking in abundance in the Malfoy Manor these days. However, with owl posts too easily intercepted and words too eagerly etched on skin rather than blank pages, paper is readily available. Draco has a lot of free time, being ‘Lucius’s worthless son’ and all. Thus, he writes.

Are you out there? How do you fare?

I haven’t eaten breakfast today. Perhaps I should’ve, but Nagini never leaves.

Will Harry Potter ever get caught?

I tried to go out today. Do you know how it feels to have blood drained from your feet?

Comments of nonsensical nature like so. They help, though. Draco doesn’t quite know the psychology behind it, but he can’t help writing them. A passing interest, then once every two weeks, then every other day, then any piece of paper he can find. Any piece large enough.

To my love,

That Luna girl cries again.

He doesn’t understand why—he’s never understood much, now that he thinks about it—but he’s taken to writing those three words before every message. It feels nice, he supposes, to pretend there’s someone who looks forward to reading his letters, regardless of how boring or awful they are. No matter, a tiny phrase never hurts anyone. He hopes. How many things (small, insignificant things) did he say that—?

To my love,

The last of Mother’s roses have faded to a dull grey. They used to be the color of lilac.

He’s used his wand as a light tonight, a whispered Lumos scarcely bright enough to write down a sentence and cut a strip of paper away, making a square. Familiar folds and creases give way easily beneath his calloused fingers in the dark. Feeling the precise pleats, he bends the wings, then pulls out the tail and the neck. He runs a finger down the neck’s tip. Its head is formed.

To my love,

Should I have killed him?

Cracking open the dirty window right beside his bed, the cool scent of fog and sleepy meadows wafts against his face. A gentle tap of his wand, and the paper crane floats away into the night with minute flaps of wings. Where is it going? He never knows. To his love?

To my love,

There’s a suitcase hidden inside my mattress, ready to go.

Draco closes the window and slides under the cover. Staring up at the swirling darkness of his canopy, he hopes the crane gets to, say, the nearby valley before descending.

To my love,

Let’s run away together.

The scenery is nice there, at least.

----

There’s an analogy to be made about shackles and penance and father’s sins. Draco wouldn’t know. He’s not in the right state of mind to ponder it.

A shame. It’d be nice if his last thought before the Kiss is something poetic.

“He was but a child,” he hears his mother scream. A deafening crash echoes throughout the vast space as her chains weigh more with each word spoken out of turn, forcing her to the dirty floor. “A child!”

Titters and jeers swell in the overheated courtroom. Draco shifts his neck against his collar, silent. Much herculean effort has to be made to ensure his legs are still, lest he rushes to his mother’s side and. Well. He doesn’t know if moving without permission also results in the same punishment. It’ll be improper to collapse in defeat before he’s supposed to: after the Dementor’s had its way with him.

He stands there, unable to do all but look at the particularly orange tile four paces from his position.

“Before Draco Malfoy is given the Dementor’s Kiss as punishment for his crimes, relatives and loved ones are now allowed to say their last words to him,” the Wizengamot judge whose name Draco has let slipped out of his mind in a daze says with a bored drawl.

“If Mrs. Malfoy had just waited for this announcement, she wouldn’t be in her… predicament,” he says, his ‘but what can I do?’ attitude spurring the courtroom to snickers. Draco asks himself, for a brief, horrid moment, if Fiendfyre can be called forth without a wand.

After the laughter has died down, the judge says, “Is there a relative or loved one here who has something to tell Draco Malfoy before we proceed?”

The only one in the vicinity is his mother, whose sobs are choked off by heavy chains. His father has fled. Probably died, too, bless him.

The judge doesn’t even let Draco finish taking a breath and continues, “Alright. Draco Malfoy, you—”

“Wait.”

All noises cease, leaving behind the squeaking of trainers against tiles. Draco doesn’t look up even as the sounds get closer to where he stands.

“Mr, Mr. Potter,” the judge stammers, “you are not Mr. Malfoy’s relative nor loved one.”

“We have history. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Ratty trainers come into Draco’s field of vision. It’s already too late.

“I—yes, that should be enough, Mr. Potter.”

“Thought so.”

Potter’s presence covers up the especially orange tile, and now Draco can look nowhere else but at the many pockets of the man's olive green jacket. Lifting his head remains a horrible idea.

Nothing seems to move, then, even dust particles seem to pause mid-air. From what Draco can deduce, Potter is content to just stare at him for a bit.

“Thanks for helping me out that time,” Potter finally says. Draco doesn’t know what he wants him to say. That night was fucking hell on earth, he could barely remember it with how hard he blocks it out of his head. So what if he didn’t turn Potter in? What does it matter?

Draco stays silent, even as Potter rustles in his innumerable pockets and grumbles when he can’t seem to find what he’s searching for. Before Draco knows it, Potter hums in pleasant surprise.

“I want to give you something,” he says, holding the mystery object out in a closed fist. Draco frowns, tempted to let his face shift into something long-past and glare at the man in front of him. “Come, now, don’t be stubborn.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco reaches for the object, wrists aching from the iron bands, pulsating with heat. To his confusion, Potter covers Draco's hand with both of his. The man is a furnace, his palms possibly even warmer than the iron bands, the sensation sending volatile, feverish streaks of lightning up Draco’s arms. Potter then tucks an item into Draco’s hand, keeping his hands close by as Draco peers at what he is gifted. His eyes widen.

A paper crane.

Potter's left forearm shifts a bit, jostling the jacket sleeve and capturing Draco’s eyes. This can’t be right. Draco glances at Potter’s right arm and the visibly holstered wand that he always carries with him. Back to his left arm, where the head of another wand is but a hint in the shadow. Draco would’ve thought so as well, would’ve thought Potter is being cautious, if not for the instant familiarity striking him like an elbow to the throat.

His head whips up so quickly his neck strains within the collar. Knowing emerald eyes meet his gaze. “Potter, no.”

An eyebrow cocks up. “Did you not say you want to run away?” Potter whispers back. His fingers trail to the edge of Draco’s armbands like they’re trying to sneak under and touch bare skin.

Draco gasps. Nothing makes sense anymore, absolutely nothing at all.

But from the way the court is growing evidently agitated, from the way Potter doesn’t let them bother him one bit, from the way he waits, endlessly patient.

Potter might be the only one able to make sense of anything at all.

Draco leans a hair closer, so his voice is clear to no one but the two of them.

“My mother,” he says, watching Potter’s irises get swallowed up by pure black. “Remember what she did for you, Potter, please. She can’t stay here…”

Potter nods, promising a later date, that they will both get her. And Merlin help him, Draco trusts every word.

A chair tumbles onto the ground. Shouts explode into existence, footsteps thumping. Draco grips Potter’s left forearm as Potter’s wand effortlessly slides out of its holster into a waiting hand. The fizzling heat of hastily casted hexes slices through the air. With his mother’s shout of relief in his ears, Draco succumbs to the squeezing suffocation of Apparition.

[writers-block246]

OHSHC Imagine- Kyoya, Tamaki, and the Twins react to you playing Just Dance

Authors Note: Hello guys! It’s been a while since I’ve uploaded so here is a draft from the summer of my four favorite boys. Don’t worry, I’m working on some new stuff and will be up soon! I’m currently watching MHA so there will be content of that :) anyways enjoy this for now

TW: suggestive themes

• tamaki suoh

you smiled as you watched the disc slide into the console. just dance: a game you haven’t played in years, but one of your favorite video games growing up.

‘just dance! dance, dance!’ you heard the game say, and indeed you shall.

you guided the tiny hand across the screen to choose one of your old favorite dances. you pressed ‘a’ and the music recognized as good girl by carrie underwood started to play.

you play through half of the song and you already were 3 stars in. you heard the familiar squeak of your bedroom door open, the smell of tamaki’s cologne entering the room, though your oblivious self did not notice his presence.

your boyfriend leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as his eyes were stuck on your moving body.

he chuckled.

“you enjoying yourself there, princess?”

you gasped, pausing the game, turning to tamaki.

“hey babe,” you managed to say, blushing at the sudden embarrassment.

he must have sensed your shift of emotions because the next thing you knew his arms wrapped around your waist, turning on his princely charms you always fell for.

he caressed the side of your face, causing your pink cheeks to deepen to a crimson red, something tamaki was only able to do.

“now princess, don’t be embarrassed... you dance so gracefully. the sight of your smile causes the fountain inside of me to start overflowing.”

one thing for sure is he had a way with words.

“besides my love, you look sooo cute when you’re dancing!”

you laughed as you grabbed another wii remote, handing it to tamaki.

“wanna dance with me?”

he smiled as he grabbed the remote.

“okay, you may look cute while dancing but i will still beat you.”

“bring it on,” you said as you unpaused the game.

tamaki may have had a way with words, and he may be amazing at ballroom dancing, but one thing for sure:

he will never master the art of just dance the way you do.

the scores proved it.

player 1: 5 stars

player 2: 2 stars

• kyoya ootori

you began to grow bored watching kyoya type away at his laptop, he was sitting at his desk for hours as you were trying to find a foolproof way for him to finally stop. he had been working on something for the clients of the infamous host club, and nothing you could do could convince him to take a break.

you sighed and stood up, walking over to his dresser, where sat a wide screen tv and a game console. you flipped through the games he owned, pulling out just dance. you look over at kyoya, still clacking away at the keyboard. you roll your eyes and put the game on.

you scroll though the options and suddenly got an idea. you turn on the song mr saxobeat, hoping to gain your boyfriend’s attention with the suggestive moves in the dance.

the song began to play, and you turned to face kyoya, moving your hands seductively as if you were trying to pull him in with a non existent rope. he was facing your direction but his eyes did not even move off of the screen.

you continued without worrying about kyoya, until you get to the bridge of the song. you moved your body along to the beat, kyoya finally looked up and watched you with a smirk on his face. you had him exactly where you wanted him.

soon the song was back to the beginning, pulling the non existent seductive rope, to which kyoya actually played along with.

he walked towards you and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into the warmth of his body.

“finally, i got you to get off the stupid laptop,” you muffled into his chest.

he chuckled softly, his hands on your hips.

“you should play with me kyo... i’m sure you’d be just fine at this game.”

he pulled away from you, adjusting his glasses as he kept that damn smirk on his face.

“that is an intriguing offer, in its own way. is this all part of your plan?”

“pshhh, no. it’s just that i would totally beat you..”

he kissed your temple.

“challenge accepted, my love. though, you should know. i never lose.”

and he was right, he never played the damn game in his life, and still managed to beat you. and the fucker still went back to that laptop right afterwards.

though, he still looked up at you when you were doing some not so kid friendly moves. and that’s when the laptop shut.

• hikaru hitachiin

you had just arrived at your boyfriend’s house, you stood at the door after knocking, waiting for hikaru. to your surprise, his twin, kaoru opened the door.

“hey, y/n, nice to see you, come on in,” the boy said, opening the door slightly for you to enter their mansion of a home.

“hikaru is in the living room, he’s kinda been in a shitty mood all day, so good luck,” kaoru warned before heading off.

this was no surprise to you, however, you were one of the few people who can change his mood within seconds.

you walked into the large room, seeing your boyfriend, slumped over on the couch.

“hey handsome, you okay?”

he crossed his arms as he felt the shift of the mattress.

“yeah, just bored. i was waiting for you all day.”

oh yeah, that’s right. you came over a few hours late. you decided you needed to find a way to make up for his bored-ness.

you put a hand on his knee, looking up to see his slight blush.

you move your hand slowly up his thigh and to his waistband, you hear his breathing hitch. bingo! now you knew exactly what you were gonna do.

you pulled your hand away and walked towards the tv. you heard hikaru groan.

“y/n...”

“oh hush, hikaru.. i’m gonna make it up to you.”

“i thought that was the part where you make it up!”

you chuckled as you turned on just dance, scrolling to the song.

“this is the part where i make it up to you,” you smirked knowing full well how suggestive this song was.

the song on the floor by jennifer lopez started to play. you knew the moves by heart.

you turned to face hikaru, imitating the moves of the tiny woman on the screen.

you noticed his demeanor change, and you can see the bulge in his dress pants grow. you could tell he especially liked when you shook your hips to the beat of the music.

at that point, the red haired boy couldn’t hold back any longer. he practically rushed to the tv, yanking the console’s cord out of the socket.

“aw hikaru... why’d you spoil my fun?” you smirked.

“i think you made it up to me plenty,” he spoke lowly, tugging at your jeans.

and soon enough, you both were literally on the floor.

• kaoru hitachiin

you sighed, turning towards your long-time boyfriend, kaoru. you were laying in his bed watching movies for the past couple of hours, but now you were quite bored, even though you did enjoy the comfort of being in his arms.

he looked down at you as you looked up at him, and you immediately locked eyes.

“bored?” you both asked.

you heard him chuckle as you shuffled closer into his chest.

“yeah,” you answered.

“well, what do you wanna do? we could go to the park, i could ask the club to get together, i can have hikaru grab us a pizza or something, uh—“

you smile just before you cut him off.

“i have the greatest idea.”

you suddenly see him perk up.

“ooh! are we gonna make out?”

you shook your head, then kissed his cheek.

“maybe later, handsome,” you said as you sat up, “i actually was thinking about a game i played when i was younger.”

“oh! a commoner’s game, fun!”

you gave him a glare, signaling him to shut up. you continued, grabbing your bag at the end of the bed.

“i actually brought it with me, you wanna play?”

“sure!” he said with a grin, taking the disc from you, “just dance? never heard of it.”

“seriously? it is like the best game of all time, kaoru! all you do is dance, but lucky for you, at least you’d look good doing it.”

he blushed at the compliment, not used to hearing any from anyone. he was used to handing them out to the ladies who came to the host club. but he learned to get used to them, especially when hearing it from you.

he popped the game into the console.

“you can have first pick, babe,” he said.

he had no idea what he was in for. you picked oh no by marina and the diamonds, one of your favorites.

not even a minute into the song, he was already complaining.

“y/n! how are you so good at this?”

the reason he said this was because he almost tripped over his own two feet for a spin move. you obviously perfected the move and dived right into a whole new one, scoring perfect on that one as well.

“well, i spent my whole childhood on this game, kaoru, maybe this is something i can teach you for once.”

he chuckled.

“i’ll tell you one thing, you are the one who looks good doing this, not me,” he breathed out, watching as you perfect yet another move, blushing slightly at the fact you were shaking your hips.

though being right beside him, you could feel his stare on you.

“get your mind out of the gutter, hitachiin, you have other things to worry about, like beating me at this game!”

“i don’t think so y/n,” he practically flops on the bed and lets out a breath.

“that i can agree on you with,” you say arrogantly, finishing the song.

“hey!”

you laughed, laying on top of him, seeing the red headed boy smirk.

“now can you take me up on that make out session, love?” he asked as he wrapped his arms across your body.

you chose to answer him by filling the gap between you both, both of you chuckling as you start to get carried away.

You were not bored anymore, that was for sure.

-Admin Maddie

[saturdaysky]

Hello hello, would you tell me more about the Simple Stress Relief WIP? It sounds exactly like my cup of tea :D

(from the ask me about my WIPs meme)

But of course! It may very much be your cup of tea. :)

This WIP began as part of a tiny Valentine’s Day fic & art exchange on discord, and sort of took off from there. Here’s the summary:

The first day of the Aeor expedition goes horribly, and Essek cannot sleep. It’s a good thing, then, that Caleb knocks on his door late at night with an offer: no words. No complicated conversations. Just some simple stress relief.

If only things were simple between them.

Basically, Essek and Caleb have a one night stand in an attempt to Not Think About Things. Naturally, this is an excellent idea that doesn’t have any messy emotional repercussions in the morning.

In addition to writing what I hope are some hot hot scenes, I took the chance to explore a few things I’m interested in:

Essek’s anxiety, made worse by the shitshow of adventuring

Essek’s dedication to making sure the Nein live, at cost to himself

The weight of being trusted with someone’s safety

I reread this WIP and there are parts of it I really like! I hope to finish it sometime. As such, I shall post part of two scenes. They’re long because I’m proud of this and want to share. The shadowgast one is under the cut.

CW for: descriptions of anxiety, injury, blood, canon-typical violence (all this content is also under the cut)

Essek vs an adventuring-induced nervous breakdown:

The fire is low. It’s such a silly thing to worry about, Essek knows, but a chill has crept into the room. It curls in the corners like one of the Tower cats, and twines about Essek in a persistent and annoying fashion. 

He rises and turns the logs with the pretty bronze stoker Caleb had provided as part of the suite. It does little to alter the fire; some effect of magery, he muses idly. Then he settles back in at the gorgeous, thoughtful Vermaloc-wood desk he can’t appreciate right now, and resumes his preparations. Caduceus had given him tea earlier, and the homely cup pins down the corner of Essek’s notes.

(“You look like you could use a bit of soothing,” the firbolg had said, pressing a cup into Essek’s hands. “The Savalas were always good for that, very kind folks.” Essek had not even tried to comprehend the link between the two statements, merely thanked him and left.)

The brew had been good for his nerves when he’d remembered to drink it. Unfortunately, the chill has stolen this too, and the tea has long since gone unpleasantly cold.

He moves to replace the chipped cup on its saucer and stares blankly at his notes on hazards encountered on the first day of the Nein’s expedition into Aeor.

The day was… long. But they have all made it in one piece, so Essek has done his job, if he can only make his body believe it. Energy still thrums in his veins, and every sound, every quiet soothing whisper the Tower makes sets his teeth on edge. His shoulder aches, too, a distant pain he does his best to ignore.

There’s no threat here, in Caleb’s wonderful spell. It’s safe. Very few things can penetrate a well-hidden Mansion, and the Nein are comfortable, so Essek should be as well.

But.

But.

It has been only one day in the shattered city and his friends have skirted death a dozen times. It is difficult, he finds, to chase away the images of blood pooling in broken Aeorian cobblestones. Impossible to unhear the Nein's anguished yells or the soft oh Veth let out when a hidden ward impaled her before Essek’s eyes.

He does not know how to forget the heat of arterial blood as it seeps through his clamped fingers, nor the terrible speed at which it escapes the body of a friend. The phantom warmth of it still courses over his skin when his thoughts wander from his notes, like it has carved a channel in his mind and is flowing still.

It’s not. They’d all made it out, like they always do. But it is worse than he’d ever imagined, to adventure with the Nein. It’s terrifying.

The teacup rattles in its setting. Essek unclenches frozen fingers and lets it go, then presses his face into his hands, as if a barrier of bone and flesh could stop the images from painting themselves across his eyelids when he blinks.

Tomorrow will be better, he hopes. He has twelve and a half double-sided pages of notes on the dangers encountered, with proposed methods of avoidance and disposal. He has fixed them in his mind. Now he needs to rest so he can cast, but if the shocky pulses of adrenaline that hit him with each wayward memory of the day are anything to go by, rest will be elusive.

Well, when the mind is unwilling, the body must make do; he will have to wait for exhaustion to take him, and hope it is enough. He settles himself on the bed — thoughtfully equipped with both a padded incline for trancing and covers for sleeping — and breathes, and waits, and grows cooler by the minute.

It is paradoxically easier to ignore the images if he leans into them, he learns. Veth’s blood, hot and bright. The snick of the ward, which he will remember forever, just as he will the acrid smell of the ward-spell. Pain — an impact, nauseating but unimportant. Heartbreak and terror, on the faces of the Nein.

If he wears these sensations into his mind, the edges of them will fray and become familiar. A steady horror is better than an unsteady drumbeat of shock, at least for resting.

Time passes. Memory frays. And then, there’s a knock at the door.

Caleb proposes a one-night stand:

"I cannot sleep either," Caleb eventually murmurs into the silence. Essek considers what to do with the statement, and then Caleb adds, “But maybe we can help each other.”

He raises his head just enough to look at Essek from beneath his lashes, then leans forward and reaches out a hand slowly, pausing just before touching Essek's cheek. Essek can feel the slight heat of Caleb's skin in the air, and his throat goes dry.

Whatever Caleb wants is going to hurt, he thinks, and it's going to work because Essek is weak.

Caleb’s hand trembles. "You are right, you know. I did not knock on your bedchamber to talk. There is... much between us that requires words, but- This. This could be simple, for now. Tonight, it could just be us. There are many ways to forget."

Caleb is looking at him desperately, hungrily, from beneath those lashes and his regard sears through Essek, knocking the air out of him.

But the feeling sours in his stomach. He is done with that whole game. He lost it, utterly, and couldn’t see it until he’d traded away any chance at winning. Now, his remaining life can be counted in months, if not days. Now, thousands have died for Essek’s fruitless curiosity. Now, nothing is simple between himself and Caleb.

Oh. Perhaps Essek will get what he wants after all. It could be simple. He has done simple before: the garnering of a favor in exchange for his nights. It had been easy enough, sometimes pleasant, and had mostly provided useful leverage in gaining power to pursue his goals.

Tonight, something in him craves the simplicity on offer, of losing one's self entirely in the physical. It thrills him in a way it has not before.

"Caleb,” he says in a voice that is less steady than he’d like, “We both know you do not trust me, so why are you offering this?"

Caleb’s eyes take him in, inch-by-slow-inch. His palm settles on Essek's cheek. 

Caleb swallows audibly, and he looks over Essek with naked heat in his eyes. All at once, Essek becomes intensely aware that he’s wearing nothing but an open shell of his robes over a close-fitting black underlayer. There's a lot to see, if one was looking.

Desire hits Essek so strongly he's dizzy with it.

He wants this. He wants to push out the horrible memories of the day and replace them with Caleb’s callused hand sliding under his shirt and holding him close. He wants to hear Caleb’s beautiful voice roughen as they take each other apart, and then he wants to kiss that clever mouth so deeply that Caleb forgets his troubles and thinks only of Essek and pleasure and safety and hope, like those are things Essek could give him.

Caleb drags his gaze back up to meet Essek’s. His hand is distractingly warm. "We don't need trust for this," he says. 

It’s what Essek was expecting, but it stings anyway.

[calif0rnia-lovers]

four letters.

a/n: 1/10 of stories I was initially hesitant to post. not glorifying adultery, just an idea i got from this song.

part: 1/3

pairing: miguel galindo x elena

warnings: themes of adultery. not really smut in this part, it's literally a paragraph?

summary: they met when Miguel's family would visit during the summer. each summer vacation was a mixture of stolen glances and moments. time has passed, and summers are no longer theirs. every time he leaves Mexico, he leaves her with a promise. one day he'll be hers--and only hers. years in and Elena must decide if what she feels for Miguel is love, or something else.

words: 1.9k

Diamonds.

Universally, they represent love. A promise of commitment. A priceless gift you give the woman who has your heart. A gift with the power to project the facade of happiness. A gift with the power to distract even the most intelligent woman from her man’s past mistakes.

And for that reason, diamonds are Miguel’s favorite gift to give.

Each call to his jeweler inspires a substantial chunk of change and a customized gift. The said gift is invariably dressed in a black velvet box, sealed with a golden ribbon. Delivered to an office in Sinaloa on the same day, always two months apart.

Always accompanied with a neatly penned note. A date, time, and location. Short and to the point, signed M.

It arrives two days before him. The need to reschedule, or the mention of a conflict in scheduling, never allowed.

Each delivery carries the same false promise.

One day, my love.

This time, his promise comes in emerald green.

Pressed and shaped into glimmering flowers to accent the black dress she wears. Although the dress itself is a beautiful work of art, fitting as though it was designed just for her, no one is focused on Elena’s dress.

Their focus is on the dollar sign hanging from her neck. It’s impossible to miss. Only so many people, in Sinaloa, could afford such a beautiful piece. With her long dark locks pinned, to rest at the top of her head, Miguel’s necklace is on full display. Paired with her beauty, it is distracting. So distracting, no one notices the matching hairpins.

"You look beautiful as always."

Her heart flutters. A soft smile brightens Elena's face as a familiar warmth trickles down her spine.

A soft kiss ghosts the curve of her shoulder, Miguel's smile coming to rest against her cheek.

“I see my gift suits you well.” His touch lingers against the curve of her neck, pausing to trace the petal of an emerald flower. The smile on his lips is one of admiration, his playful eyes briefly lifting to meet hers. “It seems you’ve attracted the attention of the entire restaurant.”

“Don’t sound too surprised, Mr. Galindo.” Elena’s eyes roll, the grin on her lips causing his to grow. “You’re acting as if this is something new. People always stare at me.”

“Trust me, I know. It's not something I particularly enjoy."

“Too bad,” Elena smiles, lifting her glass of wine to her lips. “I like it when people stare at me, and you are late. You’re lucky I didn’t leave with someone else.”

“Nicholas…” Miguel reads from the baby pink card.

The question in his tone is barely audible, bogged down by something Elena has never heard--at least not from Miguel. It is hard for her to pinpoint. But as she pushes her heels aside, she’s almost certain it is jealousy.

She rounds the corner to find Miguel standing in the center of her kitchen. He has stripped himself of his jacket the white fabric draped carelessly across the back of a nearby stool. His back remains to her as she crosses the room. He does not turn to acknowledge her, even after she drops her purse to the countertop before him.

His focus is no longer on the message.

Ellie. Congratulations on the promotion. We should celebrate. Until then--enjoy your favorites. x Nicholas.

His attention has shifted to the vase of lilies and peonies. A mixture of pinks, white, and corals. A fresh take from the white roses Miguel typically sends.

"These are your favorites?" His thumb gently rubs the petal of a lily. His brow arches as he glances in her direction. "How come you never said anything?"

Elena's eyes lift from the hairpins resting in her palm. Shaking her curls loose, she lets off a tiny shrug.

"The roses are always very beautiful, Miguel." Standing on her toes, she places a kiss against his cheek. "I really appreciate them. You know that."

The words of reassurance are not enough to divert his attention. The soft kiss she leaves against his cheek earns her a glance.

“I didn’t realize you were...seeing anyone.”

“You mean, aside from the man who only comes to see me when his schedule allows?” The slight roll of her eyes tightens Miguel’s jaw. “Because that would be ridiculous.”

She ignores his expression, reaching around him to retrieve the card. She returns it to its original resting place.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Miguel states this as if it is a fact. “Not when you spent the last hour talking about us over dinner--.”

She can’t stop it. The laugh she releases silences Miguel. It is not a sound typically directed at him. It is a sound that makes his skin crawl, eats at him deep inside. Sparks the need to prove himself. It's a feeling he's hated his entire life.

“I’m sorry,” Elena clears her throat, the smile remaining on her lips as he focuses his scowl in the direction of the lilies. “It’s just. I thought we didn’t do that.”

Miguel chooses not to respond. Instead, he focuses on undoing his cuffs. He knows she’s right.

They don’t do that--share personal details about their lives. Or probe for them. In fact, at this point, they’re typically already undressed--the idea of talking about their lives the last thing on their minds.

Elena watches Miguel’s gaze return to the bouquet. They study the flowers before passing over the darkened living room. Searching for other intrusions, signs of another man, that were not here during his last appearance.

“Come on, Mikey,” she sings softly. The warmth of her palms brings his gaze to hers. “Did you come all the way here just to ruin my weekend?”

The corner of his lips turns up. His gaze drops, following the path of Elena’s touch. It drifts down the chest of his shirt pausing to undo the buttons.

“Because I thought you came because you missed me. Isn't that what you said on the phone?” Her lips press against the curve of his jaw, her smile growing as his lips instinctively move to meet hers. She giggles, turning to grind back against him. “So, show me how much you missed me.”

His response is immediate, his hands pressing into the curves of her hips. The weight of his chest pressing her body forward and towards the closest stable surface. With her heels abandoned, her weight shifts to her toes. She stumbles forward in a clumsy attempt at maintaining her balance. She gasps as the chill of the marble countertop presses against the heat of her cheek. A perfect contrast to the hot and heavy hands pushing up the skirt of her dress. Their first exchange is always the same. Quick and messy. Both focused solely on satisfying the need that has built up in their time apart. The note is fresh in his mind and fuels his movements. Bruise his fingers into her hips, leaves her breathless as he sets a pace that nearly splits her open.

Elena can feel the warmth of her cheeks slowly creeping throughout her body as she concentrates on the task at hand.

"What?"

Instead of lifting her gaze, to meet the ones watching her every move, she tries for a second time to tug down the zipper of her dress.

Miguel doesn't speak. Instead, he motions for her to turn around.

The silence, which falls over the darkened kitchen, is a part of the routine. One that lasts long enough for their pulses to taper off. For their highs to drift away, opening their minds to reality.

Elena focuses on the glow of moonlight on the marble before her.

She breaks the silence, her words soft as she tries to press out any sign of hopefulness in her voice. Sounding eager about any aspect of their arrangement has never turned out good.

"Are you leaving tonight?"

The room is quiet, Miguel's fingers pausing for the briefest of seconds. He shifts forward, ducking down to allow his lips to press a soft kiss between her shoulder blades.

"Not tonight." A soft smile finds his lips as she glances over her shoulder at him. "It's your birthday tomorrow. I wouldn't miss it."

She can't suppress the smile that spreads across her face as his lips press against her cheek. His eyes drop to the watch on his wrist as she turns to face him.

“Looks like we got two hours before it's officially Saturday," he chuckles as her arms wrap around his neck.

"Is it too early to start with my birthday demands?"

His response is a soft kiss, his hand drifting to the nape of her neck. It's a kiss that melts her body into his, knotting his fingers in the softness of her hair. By the time he’s pulled away, her pulse is unsteady. His lips brush against her forehead, his touch lingering against her skin before he takes a step back.

"I'll start the bath." He grins, his eyes drifting towards the wine across the room. “Get a bottle or two, and join me.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Her eyes close as his lips press against her forehead. They remain closed as she listens to his footsteps track through the quiet house. They soon fade out as he reaches the top of the steps, and Elena allows her eyes to open.

Her breath catches, her teeth tugging at her lip as her fingers gently brush against her neck. She finds herself standing before the mirror at the base of her steps. Her eyes pass over her reflection, lingering on her disheveled curls, the flush of her cheeks, her swollen lips, the hazy green glow from the moonlit flowers against her skin.

Her fingers comb through her hair, gathering the locks and pushing them over her shoulder. Unlatching the clasp, she carefully places the necklace on the countertop. She leaves it alongside the emerald hairpins. The breath she takes is deep. Her lungs hold the air until they begin to burn. With the weight of her necklace gone her shoulders fall, feeling weightless, as she exhales.

The excitement of his admission bubbles in her stomach, her hands clasping together as she forces herself to take a second breath. This time, as she excels, the excitement slowly deflates.

Getting your hopes up is foolish, Ellie.

Elena turns and crosses the dark kitchen in search of wine.

She retrieves two wine glasses from the cabinet. She pauses, elbows resting against the countertop, as she studies the bottles of wine on display against the cream backsplash. Her fingers stop short of her bottle of choice as a faint jingle fills the quiet room.

Abandoning the task at hand, Elena naturally retrieves her purse. The rose gold iPhone she finds inside is silent, screen pitch black. The ringing is louder now. Her head turns, her brow furrowing, as she looks towards the white jacket draped across the back of the stool to her right.

There is a brief moment of hesitation. A voice of warning--telling her "leave it"--in the back of Elena's mind as she reaches for the jacket.

A silence falls over the room--a blessing in disguise. It is her out. The reminder for Elena to adhere to the promise she made herself the moment she met Miguel Galindo.

Never snoop--never bite off more than you can chew.

What is the saying about curiosity?

With the touch of her finger, the screen illuminates. It reveals a missed call from Emily Galindo. It is not the name that gives Elena pause, but the photo behind the notification. A photo Elena has never seen or anticipated. A photo that breaks the fantasy Elena has spent the evening willingly participating in.

The fantasy typically lasts a few more hours. The one where they both pretend Miguel doesn’t have another life he has built outside of her. A life Miguel's never provided insight into. A life Elena has never asked--nor searched--for details on.

Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have been blindsided by what all his life across the border entails.

The round brown eyes staring back at her own are innocent. Accompanied by a head of dark curls and soft cheeks. The blue top the infant wears matches Miguel’s jacket.

Miguel wears a smile--a distinct smile. The smile wore by every proud father.

One day, my love. I just need time.

The soft plea echos through her mind. It is the same he has whispered each departure when she has asked him to stay--even if just for an hour longer.

Time.

It’s all he’s ever needed. And all she has given.

The arrival of a message paints Elena’s kitchen in a blue glow--breaking her haze of confusion surrounding this new revelation.

Hope you made it safely. Call me when you’re settled. Love you.

Elena's stomach tightens as she rereads the message.

She jumps, her body scrambling to catch the phone as it nearly slips through her fingers. Miguel’s voice drifts down the stairs.

“Need help picking the wine?”

“No--it’s okay. I'm coming.” Elena shakes her head, returning the phone to its original place. She replaces the phone with two wine glasses, mindlessly grabbing the closest bottle.

mayans tags:

@appropriate-writers-name @rosieposie0624 @jjwriter23 @briskywalker @princesspeachypeach @cind-in-real-life @rocketqueen @brownsugarcoffy @chibsytelford @maybeisthemoon @jatriciaaa @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @chellybear98 @silverstarsandsuns @henrycavill19 @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @mayansxlover @holl2712 @pedropcl

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[starsstruck]

cloudbusting; part two.

a classic coffee shop story. harry is a painter that quickly becomes a regular at his neighbourhood cafe, and it just might have something to do with a certain barista. rushed closing shifts, late night grocery shopping, and stolen looks.

pairing: harry x reader warnings: language words: 10.9k

art by holly warburton. (i have no vision for the mc of the fic, people in the images of paintings i use are purely because this is how i envision harry’s art to be !)

series masterlist |

a/n: part 2 babyy ! i’m so excited to share this story you have no idea, i really hope everyone enjoys this chapter ! as always i love to hear your thoughts, please share and let me know what you think ! ❣️

Life apparently was one long grocery run.

When you weren’t heading to and from work, you were going to the grocery store. Somehow never able to do one big trip with enough groceries to last you over a week. Even when you tried, you always found yourself heading back a couple nights later for something that was forgotten.

So here you found yourself, after a shift on a Wednesday night, walking through the brightly lit aisles of a nearby supermarket. With a quick stop home to change out of your jeans, to dress in something a bit more fitting for the hot July evening.

Sound of Mitski filling your ears, stopping in the produce section as you filled a cloth bag with a few heads of broccoli.

Harry spotted you nearly immediately. You were observing a zucchini like it was the last vegetable on the planet, eyebrows furrowed and full attention focused on it before you placed it in the basket that was perched in the crook of your arm.

Slowly walking towards you; not wanting to seem like he had been following you through the store, but also wanting to get the chance to talk to you.

His lips twitched as he took in your outfit, some cutoff shorts with a big beige teeshirt loosely tucked into the waistband. He squinted a bit, making out the face of Cher on the back of the shirt.  

You had moved from the vegetables to the fruits, picking up a couple of peaches at random to place in your basket. He skirted around the few people in the supermarket, heading to the fruit section as well.

Grabbing a bag of green grapes that were directly across from you, he tried not to look at you.

It took a few seconds, but as you walked over to his side of the section you finally glanced at him. Not fully realizing it was Harry right away, having to whip your head back up again as you found his eyes were already on you.

There was a moment of silent staring, neither saying a word, before you gave him a tentative smile and a small wave.

It wasn’t uncommon that you saw regulars out and about outside of the café. Since you lived closed by, and a lot of regulars were patrons that lived in the neighbourhood. More times than you could count you’d had odd encounters and run-ins.

Sometimes they would recognize you and you wouldn’t know who they were, sometimes they would try and strike up a conversation. The most you usually gave them was a polite smile and maybe a little wave.

But as Harry grinned at you, you found yourself taking out your earphones.

“Hey,” he spoke first, shifting the basket in his hands. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You laughed lightly at his words. “Seem to be seeing a lot of you lately…”

Harry felt his cheeks warm. “I mean –” he stumbled over his words. “Not that much. Considering it’s usually at your work.”

“That’s true,” you mumbled, glancing down at your shopping basket, nearly embarrassed by how much snack food you had rather than food to cook with.

“You didn’t come to the show.”

Looking back up to meet his gaze again, you bit your lips together. “Yeah I – sorry.”

There were a lot of reasons you didn’t go. When he had invited you last week, you told him that you were going to be closing that day so you might not be able to go. Which was fully the truth.

The night of, you had briefly considered it. But you also didn’t really know him at all, and found it maybe a bit weird if you went? Even though he invited you.

“Closing took a while and well – anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chuckled. “It was a small show, there’s sure to be more.”

“Why do you need to have your art in a small coffee shop?” Asking after a second. “I mean – if you have shows and everything.”

“Just always looking for something new,” he shrugged. “And the gallery is tiny. I technically work there actually, with a few friends.”

“How do you technically work somewhere?”

“I help out as an art prep,” he explained, propping his grocery basket down on the ground by his feet. “It’s probably the least glamorous job you could have at a gallery. It’s just putting up and taking down exhibitions. Measuring where screws go, that kind of thing.”

You only nodded, still a bit unsure of how he fully didn’t work there.

“They don’t usually need the extra help, so more times than most I’m not needed.” He shrugged, likely reading your confusion.

“Okay,” you nodded again. “You know, there might be other cafés around that could help you out as well.”

You watched his eyebrows rise, smile growing. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” laughing, feeling nearly nervous. “Just trying to help out a local artist.”

“Well,” he bent down, picking up his basket. “Thank you. And I guess you’ll have to see my work another time.”  

Watching the hint of a sly smile grow on his lips, mirroring it in your own expression. “I guess so.”

There was a pause in conversation. “Are you –” he motioned to the basket perched on your arm. “Are you all done? I was just heading to pay.”

“I – uh,” having the bad habit of never making a list when you shopped, you didn’t really know when to stop with your groceries.

“Yeah I’m all done. I just want to grab a few more fruits.” Mumbling as you glanced around, eyes widening at the prices of the berries.

Harry nodded, as he took as small step back. Not moving from where he stood, waiting as you grabbed a small bunch of bananas. You silently wandered past the sections of citrus fruits, picking up some lemons before deciding that should be enough for your shop today.

Harry followed patiently; at first you hadn’t realized that he was staying back for you so the both of you could head out to checkout together.

“All done,” you smiled at him, feeling oddly endeared that he had waited for you.

Walking side by side to the register, placing your items on the conveyor belt with a divider between you and Harry. After paying and bagging your groceries, you were both strolling out into the heavy evening air, moving your sunglasses from the top of your head down to cover your eyes.

“I’m going this way, where are you headed?” He pointed down the street. The sun was casting an orange glow over the building, making them shine golden.

Turning to Harry, letting your eyes skim over him just the slightest bit. He was wearing loose blue jeans that looked worn, a wide hole on the right knee. A white shirt with light blue writing you didn’t get a chance to read, was loosely tucked in. He always seemed to be nicely dressed, even though all the outfits were seemingly casual.

He also had what looked like a hair clip holding some of his hair out from his face, sitting on the top of his head. You had never seen anyone wear their hair like that, and you were finding yourself a bit curious to how he even thought of doing that in the first place.

“I’m headed that way as well, for a bit.” You replied, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I live like fifteen minutes away.”

“We’re close to your work,” Harry glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as you both started walking down the street together.

“Yeah,” you grinned. “It’s nice, living so close to work. It’s only a little walk, no need for a drive or transit.”

“That’s good,” he nodded from next to you. “You’re lucky. I’ve had to lug my paintings on the train a few times, it isn’t the most graceful thing.”

“I know you said you wouldn’t show me a picture of your art,” you started, curiosity getting the best of you. “But can you tell me what kind of paintings?”

He was quiet for a second. “Big ones.”

That was all he said for a moment, and you thought that he was done speaking until he cleared his throat again. “With big colours. I like to uh – I get inspired by just almost, anything that catches my eye, if that makes sense. It comes out in like, big colours and shapes.”

You couldn’t really picture what he meant, but you nodded anyway.

“Like,” he continued. “Think of anything you enjoy, or find nice or just have any feeling towards.”

“I –” you weren’t sure what he was asking of you. “I don’t know.”

He laughed, glancing over at you with a wide smile. “It could be anything. Just, first thing that comes to mind.”

Pausing again, before answering. “I like walking along the water. I just – uh, I don’t know, by the docks. I like the smell of the air. Its like, the diesel mixed with something, I don’t know, it’s probably bad for you but. I like it.”

“What colours does it make you think of?”

That oddly made sense. “Blue. Like –” looking around for a blue that properly described the one you had in mind. Finding nearly the same colour on an awning across the street, stopping to point at it. “Like that blue.”

It was a deep but bright colour, darker than a royal blue. It made you think of the way the sky met the water, on a bright sunny day. It made you think of boats that lined the docks, and the smell of the old wood under your feet as you walked along.

You turned back to face Harry. “Is that too obvious of an answer?”

Laughing again, he shook his head. “Its whatever you feel, there are no wrong answers.”

“So what about it?” You asked, once you started walking again. “What about the blue –like, what about the colour that you think of have to do with your art practice?”

“Well,” he paused, eyes facing forward. “I take inspiration from that; I take whatever shape or colour or person or just, whatever. And then I paint it.”

“Okay,” you drew you the word. “Still would help to see your actual paintings though.”

“You could’ve,” he teased. “Missed out on that.”

“Sorry – oh,” you paused, stopping at the corner of the street where you were turning right. “I’m going this way.”

“Okay,” he stopped next to you. “Oh! Are you working tomorrow?”

You bit back your smile. “No, I have two days off in a row actually. I’ll be back on Saturday.”

He smiled, sun beaming behind him. “I’ll see you then. And hey have a good time off.”

“Thank you,” you hummed, waving by to him with your free hand as you turned in the street.

You didn’t know what it was about Harry. He had an energy, if you will, around him that for some reason set you in a good mood. You had also never really struck up any kind of conversation with a customer outside of work like that, other than the few times you had run into Dani, but that didn’t really count.

Turning around to glance at him, seeing him walk in the opposite direction from you. Unable to help feeling slightly curious about the customer who you were quickly getting to know.

Here !

Reading Mae’s text, buzzing her in and unlocking your front door as well, sending her a quick text to come up.

You had spent the entire day doing laundry and tidying up, grabbing the errands that you had forgotten last night. Your apartment had gotten messy over the past couple of weeks, clothes littering the floor of your room as your ever-growing problem of lacking proper storage continued.

So happy that you had two days off in a row, a luxury. You could spend the first day tidying and getting everything done, and the second day doing something fun.

And now after a day of getting your life together, you had your best friend since college, Mae, coming over to make some dinner.

“Hi!”

Hearing her voice call through your small third floor studio, as she let herself in and locked the door behind her. You followed the sound of her voice, watching as she emerged from around the wall and into the kitchen where you were searching for a bottle of wine.

“It’s so clean in here.” She was glancing around, looking at your empty-of-dishes sink and the put away pile of books that usually sat on your table.

“It’s always clean in here,” you smiled at her, finding the wine you were looking for.

“Sure,” she smiled, keeping her laugh at bay as she knew that really wasn’t the truth.

“How was work?”

“Good,” she sighed, dropping her bag on the table, eyeing the bottle of wine you carried. “I think I’m finally getting Jules to like me. Or at least not hate me.”

“I told you, I doubt she ever hated you,” you replied, knowing all about the partner at the firm that was giving her a tough time.

Having met Mae your first year of college; although the two of you didn’t really get to know each other and get close until the second year. She majored in political science, along with you, except that she now just finished up law school and started working at a law firm.

You had always envied those who knew exactly what they wanted their path to be. Whether that path changed or not, you still wanted to have something to work towards.

Mae had always wanted to go into law, with a specialty in environmental policy and that was exactly what she was doing. You, on the other hand, had no idea what to do after getting your degree. Not applying for grad school unlike the majority of your friends, knowing that you would just be wasting your time and money with more school.

You just never really figured out what it was you wanted to do after. It wasn’t so much that you found yourself stuck; it was just that you knew that there was something missing –that life had to have more to it.

“I know,” she sighed, following you to your couch as you carried two glasses in one hand and the wine in the other. “I just feel like she’s been giving me a tough time – a tougher time than the other associates.”

“I mean,” you paused, opening the bottle. “She’s got to know how smart you are. I doubt that she makes anyone work as hard as you, if she doesn’t think you could handle it.”

“I know, you’re right,” she watched as you poured a generous amount of wine into both glasses, before passing her one of them. “And she did tell me that I was her favourite associate to go to.”

“Oh my god,” Mae was always selling herself short. “She very much never hated you.”

“Mm, I know,” Mae repeated, taking a sip of her wine, a smile now on her face. “Anyway, how about you? How’s work?”

“Same,” you shrugged.

There were never big things to report from work, especially to someone who didn’t particularly understand what it meant when a customer would order something ridiculous, or would return their drink because they thought it would be different. “I’m trying to remember crazy customer’s… oh!”

“I had a woman get mad at me yesterday because a man cut in front of her in line – she said that I should’ve been watching the door to see the order of who was coming in.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mae laughed. “God I really don’t miss working customer service, and having to deal with entitled people like that.”

“It’s the heat,” you pointed to your open window. “Makes people dumber. I know I say this every year, but I swear every summer customers get worse.”

“And oh God,” you continued. “I was also closing with Erinne and she just is the slowest when she cleans the outside. I hate to be too pushy but like – I mean technically I’m her boss, right? I just feel like everything I say to her goes out her head.”

“That’s annoying,” Mae nodded, nearly halfway through her wine. “I know you don’t want to be that manager but you have every right to tell her off.”

“I know,” you took your own sip of wine, smacking your lips together at the slightly sweet flavour. “But I just remember at my old job, when my coworker became the manager and I never really took him seriously.”

“Okay but you’ve been manager ever since you started – and have been there way longer than she has.”

“I just feel almost if I got harsh with her? I’ve never really really gotten mad at anyone.” You thought it over. “But honestly, work is good. It really is the best café I’ve ever worked at.”

It had been too long since the two of you had got a whole evening just the two of you. It was lovely, to say the least.

“Oh! Didn’t you have a date last weekend? How was it?”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t anything, I ended up cancelling.”

“What?” Mae shifted, her legs up on the couch as she turned to face you. “Why?”

Biting your lips together, not really having any true reason for cancelling the date. “I don’t know – I wasn’t that excited in the first place, and he just kind of had an off-putting vibe. We were supposed to go out after my shift was over but it was also just an exhausting day.”

The date would have been with a coworker of Mae’s, one who she had briefly introduced you to but that she didn’t know well herself, as they didn’t directly work together.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have …?”

“Don’t be,” you shook your head, voice light. “Not your fault at all, I just really wasn’t feeling it.”

Your mind drifted, having nearly forgotten about the date that you cancelled over the weekend. You had no energy for it, and no energy to force yourself to like someone you already were sure you wouldn’t hit it off with.

“I get that,” she nodded. “If you don’t feel it you don’t. No use in wasting everyone’s time with someone you’re not excited about.”

“Mm,” you hummed, finishing off your wine. “Though. There is this guy…”

You tried to stop your lips from turning into a smile, hiding half your face in your glass. Mae shifted next to you, waiting for you to continue your story as she knew that look on your face. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know,” you sighed, placing down your glass on the coffee table in front of the couch. “It’s not really anything. He’s been coming into my work a lot lately, flirting with me – or at least I’m pretty sure he is.”

“Oh I’m sure he is,” she nodded. “All your customers are in love with you.”

“They are not,” you laughed. “I’m just good at my job.”

“Has he ever been there when I’ve been in?”

“No,” you shook your head. “I don’t think so. He started coming in a few weeks ago – maybe like a month ago? He wanted to know how he could get his art up on the walls.”

“His art?”

Mae placed her now emptied glass next to yours on the coffee table, as you nodded. “He’s an artist.”

“How old is he?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, around our age, I think. Like 25, 26?”

“What’s his name? I want to see if I can find his Instagram.” She briefly stood, going to grab her phone that was sitting next to her bag on your kitchen counter. Soon returning to sit next to you, unlocking her phone.

“Harry – I don’t know his last name.” You told her. “I don’t know, he kind of seems like he wouldn’t have one.”

Mae glanced up at you as you repositioned yourself next to her so that you could peer over her shoulder. “He’s an artist and it’s 2020. I’m sure he has one. Plus, I’m sure it’s on public.”

You watched her type in ‘Harry’ into the Instagram explore search bar, the simplest of tasks that of course brought her results inconclusive as he didn’t know people she knew.

“Do you know anything else?” She asked, after looking at the profiles of the first ‘Harry’s’ that the search result brought up.

“No,” you thought for a second. “Oh! One second.”

You remembered the small slip of paper he had given you, with the name of the gallery that he had art up at. It might be another dead end, but it was all you had.

“Here,” you called, after finding the small crumpled slip at the bottom of your bag. “He had some art at this gallery.”

Watching over Mae’s shoulder as she grabbed the slip from you, typing in the name of the gallery. Easily finding their Instagram page, scrolling through the first few pictures for anything that would help her search.

“Is this him?” She spoke after a moment, calling your attention away from the wine that you were searching for again and back to her phone.

You squinted at her screen, watching her thumb swipe over a series of photos, one of which had an image of Harry. He was standing next to two paintings, ones you assumed were his. His hands were behind his back, small smile on his face with some baggy white pants and a loose shirt tucked into the waistband, and the same scuffed Vans he always wore.

“Yeah, that’s him,” you hummed, watching as Mae tapped the picture to see if he was tagged in it.

Success in seeing that he was, going over to his page. Mae was right, it was public.

She scrolled for a bit, going past rows of what you assumed was his art. Some fully finished paintings, some close ups, some sketches in pencil crayon. She stopped once she found a picture, three rows down, of him standing in the sunshine with yellow tinted sunglasses on, an open sketchbook held up in his hands.

Tapping on the picture, enlarging it on her screen as she scrolled down a bit to read the caption. “This is him?”

You nodded again. “Yes.”

She glanced away from her phone, up to meet your eyes. Saying your name quickly, with a little laugh. “He’s so cute. I thought you said all the guys who hit on you at work were old and gross.”

“I mean,” you slid in to sit next to her. “They are. He’s not really hitting on me though. I just kind of have the feeling he’s into me, you know how it is? I don’t know.”

She nodded. “Usually when you suspect it, it’s true though, isn’t it? Flirt with him, see what happens.”

You nodded, lip between your teeth, knowing that she was right. Mae glanced back at her phone, before handing it over to you so that you could further inspect his Instagram. “And seriously, he’s really fucking cute.”

She got up from next to you, tapping your thigh with her now free hand. “I’m going to chop veggies for dinner, you keep looking.”

You only laughed absentmindedly at her comment, although not protesting as she moved to start making dinner for the night. Swiping away from the picture of Harry, scrolling through his feed. Most pictures were of his art, some single pictures, some had multiple one’s together in the post.

Reading over his username, harrystylesart. You briefly wondered if that was his real name or just one he used.

Looking at recent posts first, seeing images of pages out of a sketchbook, orange and red shapes drawn across a white page. Swiping through the post, you saw another image of the same book, this time the picture taken from a bit further away. You immediately recognized the slightly worn wooden table, and corner of the familiar little blue mug.

The drawing itself was of something nondescript, the same oranges and reds, this time with blue outlined as well. You tried to make out what it was, but assumed it was just mindless sketching. Your recalled what Harry had told you, about how he liked to use a lot of colour – this must be his process.

Still, you felt oddly happy that he had taken these pictures at your work.

You kept up with your snooping, looking through pictures of his paintings. He was right, about them being big and colourful. Some seemed to have just odd shapes, some had people, some seemed to include places or buildings.

You kind of wished that you understood them, that you knew why he was making these. All his captions were of very few words, most with no captions at all.

That being said, you found yourself genuinely really liking them. Some in particular, just held a specific feeling that you really enjoyed. You didn’t know anymore than that, you just liked to look at them.

“Find anything else?” Mae asked you, once you had shut off her phone and joined her in the kitchen.

“Nothing big,” you hummed, grabbing a pan from under the counter. “I don’t know, I’ll see. Like I said, it’s just a suspicion. Maybe I’m also a bit bored, it has been a while since I’ve been excited about someone.”

Mae nodded along with you, waving her knife in the air as if to point to you. “That’s true too, it is really fun when you start to have a little thing – I almost miss that.”

She had been in a relationship for nearly three years now. “You do not,” you scoffed.

“Okay,” she paused. “Maybe not. Dating is fun but also kind of awful. But seriously, it is nice to be excited about someone.”

“Never said I was excited,” you hummed, though you knew she saw right through you.

“Okay,” she drew out the word, clearly unconvinced. “But remember that last guy you dated? He was no fun. What was his name?”

“Ross,” you wrinkled your nose at the memory. “Yeah he wasn’t great.”

Mae nodded. “You never even told me about him until the end.”

You had a habit of not always telling your friends about your dating life. Sometimes you would fill them in on every gory detail, and other time you would briefly mention that you started seeing someone but it had fizzled.

It was also very telling about how the dates had been – one’s you were excited about were usually heard of right away.

To Mae, it seemed like you dated a lot, but that was also because she had mostly been in longer term relationships. You thought you dated a normal amount -- you often found yourself saying yes, when people were interested because you told yourself that you never knew what could come of it.

“I’ll come in to your work soon,” Mae continued, changing the subject. “I haven’t been in a while, like to properly sit down. Plus, I want to see this guy.”

“I’m back on Saturday, working right through until Thursday.”

Mae thought over he own schedule. “I have Monday off, and it’s usually calmer then too right?”

“Yeah, it should be quiet. Monday,” you paused, remembering there was something particular about that day. “Oh, I’m closing alone then. Everyone has been taking their vacation at once. But you can stay with me for closing if you want, we could get dinner afterwards.”

“Perfect! I’ll bring all my work to get done, and yes dinner sounds lovely.”

The bliss of your days off ended, and the chaos of the weekend shifts followed. The weekend was always a bit crazy – sometimes you lucked out and it was oddly empty but this was no lucky weekend.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were already tired. And it was only the third day in a stretch of a full week of work with no days off.

At least you were working the closing, offering you a small chance to sleep in as you didn’t have to get into work until the early afternoon, although the downside of today’s shift however, was that you were going to be closing alone.

Mae came into work with you, bringing stacks of paperwork with her to the café to work on.

It was about an hour after Mae had arrived, that you saw Harry coming through the side window. He was just reaching to open up the door, and you were trying to catch Mae’s attention to subtly tell her that the guy she had helped you find online was about to come in.

When Harry walked in, he saw you walking over to the front corner and sit yourself on a chair across from someone else.

He kept walking, seeing your attention pulled away as it was obvious you really knew the person you were chatting with. He heard your laugh ring out through the café from behind him, as he spotted his open table in the back and situated himself there.

Not going up to the counter until he saw you behind it again, waiting a couple minutes as you seemed to be taking a tiny break with who he assumed was your friend. Eventually though, he slowly walked to the front until he was standing across from you at the counter.

“Hi,” you called, from where you stood a bit further back, rearranging clean cups under the counter. “What can I get for you today?”

“Over ice, thank you.”

He watched you pause with a little nod, as you didn’t bother to put the order into the system right away and instead moved further back to the espresso machine to make his drink. He left some change on the counter by the till, sliding it far enough in so that you couldn’t miss it.

He walked around the counter until he was on the other side of the espresso machine, seeing half of you hidden to him as you prepared his drink.

“Sorry if that was weird, in the grocery store the other day.”

He watched you peek out from around the machine. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Must be kind of odd to see a regular from your work outside of that setting.”

“A bit,” you smiled. “But not that much. You’d be surprised by how often I run into customers.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “What’s the worst place you’ve even seen a regular?”

“Nothing really that bad. Sometimes it is a bit weird when I’m at their place of work. Like there’s a woman who bartends at Corner Stone, who also comes here a lot – its like we’re each other’s regulars.”

He saw your eyebrows furrow slightly, as if trying to think of some other occurrences you had had outside of work. “Oh! This doesn’t really count as seeing someone, but I’ve found customers on Tinder before.”

“Really? Ever match with any of them?” He bit his lips together, feeling the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“God no. I never used it that much anyway.” You said, laughing lightly. He briefly wondered if you had done it on purpose, mentioning something like that to him. But he had to tell himself that you were really just answering his question.

You had just finished up making his drink, placing it on the counter in front of him and tapping it lightly against the marble as you usually did.

“Why do you always do that?”

“What?” You blinked back at him.

“You always tap the cup on the counter like that.”

“Oh,” you smiled, small shrug in your shoulders. “It’s a habit. It’s to knock out any little air bubbles from when the espresso pours. If the pour is really smooth, there shouldn’t really be any. It doesn’t matter as much when it’s over ice though, since the ice gets in the way.”

“You do this with all drinks?”

“No,” you replied. “I mean with hot milk drinks you need to smooth out the air from the milk bubbles. And before preparing them you also tap out the milk, and the espresso – again if there are bubbles.”

“All about presentation, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” he warmed at the laugh that shook your chest. “When it looks nice it tastes nice too.”

He took a small sip of the cold drink. “I don’t think you’ve ever made me a bad cup of coffee.”

“Glad to hear that.”

The two of you both turned your heads at the same time, at the sound of the door closing shut. A group of three women had just come in, chatting loudly as they all made their way to the front counter.

“I got to –” you pointed your thumb in their direction.

“Of course,” he nodded, watching as you turned away from him. Your hand moved down to your back pocket, tapping over your bum lightly as if searching for something in your pocket. He saw you pull out that red pen you always carried, twirling it between your index and middle finger as you went to stand by the till.

Coffee in hand, Harry walked around the counter and back to his to the table where he had left his things.

You eyed Mae while the group wanting to order continued to read the menu, watching her mouth something you could barely make out. She tilted her chin up, nodding her head towards where Harry had gone to sit.

Shaking your head with a light laugh, not sure what she was trying to tell you. You didn’t have time to find you either, as the woman standing closest to the till interrupted you silent conversation. “We’re ready to order.”

Not getting the change to talk to Harry again until a few hours later, right before closing. You saw him standing by the counter, empty cup in hand that he gently placed into the nearly overflowing buss bin.

“Thank you,” you hummed, walking past him on the opposite side of the counter as you started sweeping the inside. There seemed to be more grounds on the floor today than usual.

“Not a problem,” he grinned. “You seem to be everywhere tonight, I swear I just saw you going back to the washrooms.”

“A lot more to do tonight, since it’s just me closing.” You emptied out the dustbin into the garbage can, deciding that you were done sweeping for the day – hoping that the muck left over on the floor would come out with the mop.

“What do you mean it’s just you?”

You glanced around, as if you hadn’t been alone this entire time. Grabbing the dish bin that was sitting between the two of you, walking to grab whatever was left to be cleaned. Harry followed your motions, from the other side of the counter.

“I’m working alone…” you started slowly. “Usually we have two people close together, but we’re short staffed right now. Today and next week it’s just me.”

“That’s no fun,” he said, looking around and seeing nearly all empty tables now.

“Closing isn’t usually that fun,” you laughed, gathering everything that could be sent through the dishwasher. “It just takes a lot longer when I’m alone.”

“I can imagine cleaning must take a while.” He glanced around, looking at all the floor space that needed to be swept then mopped.

“It’s okay,” you shrugged, grabbing your buss bin. “I get paid by the hour, not on salary so I’ll get a bit of overtime in there.”

He only nodded, and your eyes flicked over to the clock hanging on the wall across from you. “I mean this in the nicest way possible but we are now closed.”

Harry followed your eyes to look up at the clock as well, before glancing back at you. “Are you kicking me out?”

“Yes, I am,” nodding with a chuckle, watching him walk over to where his things still sat on a table, gathering them up. Moving the dish bin to the back to fill up the dishwasher, wiping your wet hands on your jeans to go lock the door after Harry leaves.

“You know I’m not the last one here,” he said to you from where he stood, after your reappeared from the back room. He pointed over to where Mae sat at a front table, bent over an array of papers. She didn’t really seem like she was reading them though, her eyes briefly landing on yours when you looked over.

“She gets to stay with me,” you grinned, walking out from behind the counter. “We’re grabbing dinner after.”

“Nice of you to not make her wait outside.”

You laughed, walking to the front door to hold it open as the last thing to do before ushering Harry outside.

You hadn’t noticed he had come up behind you, arm brushing past you. His hand wrapped around yours on the door handle, taking you by surprise the slightest bit, as he was suddenly so close behind you.

“Oh –” muttered under your breath, taking a step back to move away, but your back only hit Harry’s chest as he had you more or less boxed in. “Sorry.”

Your hand slipped away from between the metal of the handle and the warmth of Harry’s hand, trying to slip out from your closeness to the door to give him space to walk out. Slightly propping it open, deciding to move outside and hold it open from the outside.

Glancing up at him, feeling warmth creep up your skin at the awkwardness of the moment, meeting his eyes with your lips bit between your teeth.

“Sorry,” Harry repeated to you, pushing the door all the way open to walk out. You didn’t miss the red tint on his cheeks, and the way his eyes flicked away from yours so quickly you barely got to hold his gaze.

“Have a good rest of your day,” you smiled, giving him a small wave as you decided to quickly move past whatever moment you had found yourself stuck in.

“I’ll see you,” he flashed that wide smile of his, showing off the dimples that appeared as he brought a hand up to move his sunglasses from the top of his head to lay perched on his nose.

You waved when he turned away, walking down the street away from where you were now closing the door and locking it shut.

Mae who had risen from where she was sitting was now slowly walking over to the counter, leaning her elbows on top of it while she waited for you to join her side.

She had a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, bottom lip lodged between her teeth as if it was nearly impossible for her to keep her mouth shut.

You only laughed at her expression, shaking your head slightly when you walked past her, giving her a little swat with the back of your hand.

“What?” She calls out after you’ve left her alone again, heading to the back to load the last bit of dishes into the dishwasher. “I didn’t say a word.”

“I know what you’re thinking!” You called as you rinsed off old mugs, the traces of coffee now dried to the ceramic.

Double checking that there was nothing left to be sent through, closing the door and pressing the button for the hot water and soap to start cleaning the dishes for the last time of the day.

Emerging out in the open again, on the opposite side of the counter from Mae. You knew there was still mopping left to do outside, but you wanted to get the cash out done first and out of the way.

Mae was silent again, unmoving from her spot as she watched you dump out the coins from the tip jar as you began to lay them out to easily count them. You concentrated for a bit, making small piles of four with your quarters.

“He’s really into you,” she finally said, waiting for you to look back up at her.

You kept your head dipped down, eyes on the counter where all the coins and bills sat to be counted. Biting your lips together as you again found yourself unable to help the slight smile building.

“I know,” you finally uttered, sending her a quick glance with a laugh at her expression.

“He’s even better looking in person.”

“I know,” you repeated, eyes focused downwards at the coins that you were quickly counting. “Now shush! I don’t want to lose count.”

It was the same thing the following week, as it always was. You had your days off, got groceries, ran errands. The weekend was crazy, that was again to be expected especially with the particularly nice weather. Dani had been away, so you hadn’t seen him in about a week.

The week had been just as busy as the previous one, the hot days of late July making more and more people come in for some nice cooled iced drinks. It was a bit crazy to you, how quickly your weeks went by when all you would do was look forward to your days off.

The following Monday, it was nice to have your slow and steady shift again. You had to close alone once more, but this would be the last time as some staff were going to be back from their summer vacation so you would be fully staffed once again.

The afternoon had gone by very slowly, nearly too slow, that you had just been mindlessly cleaning all day. It was good, in a way, because it meant that there would be less cleaning to be done later that evening once the doors were locked and you would be left to finish up alone.

Another commonality with your Monday shift is that Harry was routinely there. Situated in that back corner table he always seemed to get, bag on the chair across from him and things spread out in front of him. You had been too preoccupied with all your reorganizing and cleaning to properly chat with him today. But a small part of you also wanted to see if he would come to you.

Nothing really interesting happened, though, until you were getting ready to start even more closing cleaning and you were passing by his table with a broom in hand.

Sweeping under the empty table across from him first, before moving closer to where he was sitting and letting your eyes wander from the floor to the table, catching a glance at his sketchbook.

It was similar to what you had seen on his Instagram, only this time he had several drawings that were distinctly people.

“Hey,” he suddenly spoke, pulling your attention away from his book and over to where he was now looking at you. “I can see you snooping.”

“Oops,” you shrugged, feigning sheepishness. “I told you, I like to try and figure out the lives of customers. That comes with looking over their shoulder at what they do.”

“Have you figured out the lives of everyone sitting here now?” You didn’t miss how he changed the subject.

“Of course.”

“I think I have too,” he hummed, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as he gazed up at you.

“I see most of these people a few times a week – I think I have a bit more dirt on them than you.” Placing your broom to lean against the wall behind you, making sure it didn’t fall before crossing your arms over your chest.

The shop was nearly empty by this point, but you knew that almost every customer currently sitting at a table had been in here at least once a week.

“What about those two?” He pointed with his chin, nodding his head in the direction of the couple sitting in the back, across from where Harry was. “Do you think its a date, like a new relationship? Or a longer term thing.”

“Oh,” you hummed, having seen those two at least twice a week for the past couple months. “They’ve been dating for at least a year. Minimum.”

“Okay,” he drew out the word, nodding as he agreed with you. “What about those two?” The only other couple was across the shop on the other side, sitting on the big plushy chairs that Dani always sat at. You had never seen them before.

“I would say,” you paused, trying to observe their body language as you stood back with your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. “Second or third date. They’re still sitting across from each other and have nothing else with them to work on – but they seem just touchy enough. Coffee was probably a last-minute idea, but for sure not the first date.”

Looking back at Harry, finding him still watching you. “You really thought about that one, huh.”

“I told you –” eyes flicking back to the couple in question. “I like to figure out people’s lives. Seeing people on coffee dates is always fun. They’re usually always first or new dates, or in long-term relationships.”

“Coffee dates are easy first dates,” Harry murmured, nodding his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you saw a lot of them.”

You thought it over for a second. “I guess I do, yeah. Easy for nervous couples.”

“Can’t imagine you like getting coffee on a first date.”

“Not really,” you said, not missing a beat. Eyes slightly narrowing on him, lips curving, as you silently wondered where he was going with this conversation. “Unless they don’t know what my job is.”

“What about just getting coffee – like not as a first date – is that okay?”

You bit your lips together, eyes briefly leaving his. “Of course.”

He smiled. “Done that recently?”

Was he trying to see if you were single? “No, not recently,” you hummed, eyes flicking back to his.

You only broke his gaze for a second as you watched him pull his bottom lip between his teeth, grin breaking the corners of his mouth. Neither of you spoke for a moment, eyes locked in a little staring contest.

He was the first to look away, clearing his throat as he angled his head towards the front door. “I think I’m keeping you from customers.”

Your attention was pulled away from him, watching a group of four walk in through the door, glancing up at the menu hanging behind the register.

Shooting him one more quick look, before sauntering off to go slid in behind the counter. Hands still placed in the back pocket of your jeans, grabbing the pen that was in one of them as you went to take their order.

After that group there seemed to be another, and another. It wasn’t busy, per se, just steady. And since you were alone, it gave the feeling of being a bit busier since there was no one else there to help you pull shots, or take orders.

Still, slowly customers petered out and there were only a few people left sitting around the café. You had already cleaned the majority of the espresso machine, cleaning out the portafilters and clearing the grounds that collected at the bottom.

Dishes had been constantly running, and you just grabbed the broom to start sweeping the emptier half of the café so that once you were closed, the cleaning wouldn’t take long.

“Closing soon,” you hummed, as you passed by Harry’s table with the broom in hand once more.

“I know, I know, don’t worry.” He put down his pencil, his pause in movement causing you to stop by his table for a second. “You’re closing alone again today, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you breathed, eyes flicking to the clock.

“And you don’t have you friend here to keep you company like last time.”

“I don’t,” you bit your lips together.

He shifted a bit in his chair, feet flat on the ground with one arm placed over the back of the chair as he twisted his body to face you. “Do you, uh –” he paused, flipping his pencil between his fingers. “Do you need any company?”

“What are you suggesting?” You felt the corner of your lips perk to a sly smile.

“If you want,” he quickly started, sitting up straighter. “I could keep you company.”

There was another pause, neither of you speaking for a moment.

But you found yourself nodding to his request. “It’s not that interesting, just me running around cleaning, and counting coins. But I mean – if you want to.”

He nodded along with you. “’Course I do. Plus. I really like this space to work in, it’s inspiring and all that.”

“Okay,” you slowly spoke the word. “But you’re going to have to lift your feet later so I can sweep under your table.”

“Will do.”

You moved past him after that, head still lowered as you swept under the tables across from where Harry sat, moving your little pile of dust and dirt into the dustbin. Busying yourself, since you actually were busy, trying not to smile after your conversation with Harry.

Soon you were ushering the rest of the customers out, the clock hitting seven and the doors being locked. You brought in the patio furniture after fully sweeping and mopping one side of the café, the side that Harry was not sitting at.

The inside cleaning was all nearly done, beans put away, espresso machine fully cleaned and counter wiped down. You were just starting to sweep the second half of the shop, nearly done with the cleaning before you could cash out.

“I can help, if you need.”

Harry had remained fairly quiet after the doors were locked with the two of you still inside. Just as he said, he was still perched over his table with pencils in hand and book open in front of him. You were too busy to really stop by and see what he was doing, assuming he was working on those sketches you had seen when you were spying on his Instagram.

“I’m not paying you,” you teased, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “But seriously, you don’t have to.”

“I can – if you want. I’m bugging you enough, may as well help.”

“I thought you wanted to feel the space, or something? Getting inspired? But really – it’s okay. I’m nearly done here and just need to cash out.”

He paused for a second, before nodding. “Okay, okay. Well I’m here if you need me.”

Conversation stopped there again, for a while at least. You cleaned the washroom, finished mopping all floors and dumped out the dirty water. After all the big cleaning was done, you made yourself a nice cold iced tea in a to go cup that you would take home afterwards.

Grabbing a chair from the back room and bringing it up to the till to sit down while you cashed out, dumping out all the coins and bills from the tip jar first. Counting in silence, not having noticed how Harry had moved tables and was now seated across from you instead of in the back.

“It’s different after closing.”

You glanced up from where you had rows of quarters lined on the counter, trying to not loose your count. “I mean,” you spoke, only after writing down the amount you calculated. “It’s the same – but calmer. Or sometimes more stressful, depending on the day, and who I close with. It’s for sure not as nice as being here alone in the morning.”

You saw Harry nod. “I really like the mornings.”

“You mentioned that,” you hummed, beginning the dreaded task of counting up the smaller coins.

He fell quiet again, watching you quickly move the coins from the counter to the register, counting under your breath while you worked. He didn’t want to distract you and have to start all over again, instead deciding to pull his attention back to his sketch book.

Flipping his pencil between his fingers a couple times, listening to the coins clacking overlapped with the soft sounds of whatever song was playing – he didn’t know it. Finding himself drawing small things he saw around the shop; the way the mugs were stacked, the way the leaves on a plant fell to one side, the way there always seemed to be umbrellas shoved in the vase out front even though it hadn’t rained in weeks.

And then he found his eyes falling back to you; the line that formed between your brows as you focused on counting, the way you sat with one leg tucked under the other, the small movement of your lips as you spoke under your breath.

He hadn’t fully realized he was colouring in the curve of your cheeks until he caught himself unable to stop looking up at you. Using the only pencil crayons he brought with him, colouring you in with two shades of blue.

Starting your outline over again and again, each time focusing on a different part of you that he could see. Squinting as he drew the soft curve of your eyelashes, and then the rise of your hairline, and the dip of skin from your neck until the soft green colour of your shirt started below your collarbones.

After a couple minutes in silence, your sudden movement from where you were sitting brought his attention back up to you, watching as you walked away from the till to the back, quickly coming back with a little baggy in hand.

He shut his sketchbook with the pencils still resting between the pages, rising to his feet with a little push back of his chair. The noise brought your attention to him for a second, eyes flicking between him and your task at hand.

“You did that fast,” he hummed, leaning his elbows down on the counter across from you. You were bagging the counted money, writing down the amounts of the day. Harry tried to not let his eyes linger on your hands. Not wanting to seem like he was spying on how much money you had made in a day, when he was really watching the way you were gently gripping the pen that was being swiveled between your fingertips.

“You learn a few tricks over the years to make it go faster,” you murmured, zipping shut your baggies that would be placed in the safe for the night.

Once you were all done, the only thing left was one last load of dishes to run through before you could close for the night.You began to wait for the dishes to clean, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the space was around you and Harry, the soft music of Mazzy Star creating a dreamy atmosphere.

You also realized you had no real reason for letting Harry stay past closing – it wasn’t like the two of you were doing anything afterwards. But you also knew that you were maybe expecting something, and just maybe the two of you would be doing something together once you were off work.

Bringing the dish rack filled with clean steaming dishes to the front counter, letting them drip dry for a bit before you started to put them away.

Harry was tentatively walking over to where you were, not completely crossing the invisible line that separated the inside to the outside of the café, but pushing it enough.

“Sure you don’t need a hand?” He asked, once he was leaning against the counter that the dishes were sitting on.

“I told you, I can’t pay you for any of it,” you joked. “But really, it’s okay. I’m nearly done.”

He only nodded, watching as you looped your fingers through the handles of mugs to carry more of them at once.

You wondered really what Harry had to gain from watching you finish up your closing shift. You knew he said he liked the space of the café, that it inspired him. Whether that was bullshit or not, you didn’t mind his company.

Still slightly curious about how he was spending all his time at your work, and how he didn’t seem to have anything else going on at the moment other than watching you put away still steaming hot dishes.

“I know you said you kind of work at that gallery,” you started. “But I mean – and I don’t mean this in a bad way but, don’t you have another job? Like not a 9 to 5 but, I don’t know. You’re here weekday’s and weekends, sometimes early and sometimes late.”

Pausing, not sure if you were properly vocalizing the small curiosities you had about Harry. “You know I like trying to figure out the lives of customers but – I mean what do you do?”

He was silent for a bit, and a first you thought you had made a bit of an idiot of yourself but you saw the small tug at the corner of his lips, indicating a smile.

“I’ve been telling you,” he finally said, eyes gleaming when he looked at you. “I’m an artist. That is my 9 to 5. I manage to get some small jobs here and there to make some extra money, but so far I’ve been able to make a living. Get’s a bit tough sometimes but lately I’ve been managing to get a slow and steady stream of commissions.”

You felt a bit bad, nearly dumb for asking. “What kind of small jobs?”

“Well,” he leant against the counter across from you. “Some art handling at galleries. I taught a few classes, probably not very well, at a community centre. Just small things to make some money on the side. But like I said, being an artist is my 9 to 5.”

“Oh,” the word sounded so small in response. “That’s really cool. I mean that, that’s just … really cool.”

You didn’t know why you found yourself so lost for words. He had explained it to you so casually, so nonchalant about following what he wanted.

Picking up the now empty dish tray, bringing it to the back. You didn’t pay that close attention to what you were doing, quickly rinsing it out and turning off the dishwasher. Your mind was wandering, Harry’s words running through your head over and over.

Not realizing it at first, but when you dipped your head down to make sure the dishwasher was properly drained, your vision went a bit blurry. There were small tears pricking at your eyes, building at your waterline and threatening to spill over.

Quickly tilting your head back as if the tears would fall back into their ducts, dabbing the skin under your eyes with the back of your hand.

There was no real reason for the sudden tears that appeared, you knew that. It was probably a culmination of too many busy days of not enough rest. But another small voice was telling you something else, and you knew exactly why you were crying.

But for now, you couldn’t indulge your thoughts too much since you knew that would only open the gates for more tears to come. Shaking your head, pulling out your phone from your pocket to use as a makeshift mirror to make sure the whites of your eyes weren’t shining red.

Keeping your head down a bit as you walked out, avoiding Harry’s gaze. Grabbing your cup filled with iced tea you had made for yourself before cashing out, taking a long sip as if more hydration would make you look as if you hadn’t been crying.

Silently checking over that everything was all ready for the opening shift tomorrow morning. Heading to the iPad to clock out, closing the POS for the day.

“I’m all done,” you finally spoke while heading to the back room for the last time, making sure the fridge door was properly shut before grabbing your bag and keys to leave for the day.

Waiting by the alarm system when you gathered all your things, watching over your shoulder as Harry stood by the door with his own bag. Punching in the security code to set the alarm for the night, hearing the paced beeping that started and alerted the time you had to walk out and lock the door.

He propped the front door open for you, holding it open before waiting while you  locked it shut, double checking it was properly closed.

“I just have to…” you muttered under your breath, heading in the opposite direction to the other side of the café. There was an emergency exit in the back, that usually remained lock but sometimes someone would unlock it and forget to close it again, so you always made sure to check.

The door didn’t budge when you pulled on it, finding it properly closed. You met up with Harry again, avoiding his gaze as you kept your eyes trained down on the pavement under your feet.

You knew there had been a big and sudden shift in your mood, but you couldn’t think of any reason to explain it so you simply remained silent.

But, you also didn’t want to start explaining why you were suddenly crying.

“Which way are you headed?”

“Uhm,” you had to think for a second, although you took the same path every single day. “This way.”

Pointing ahead in the direction you would walk down before turning over to the block your apartment was on. Harry hummed next to you, beginning the walk by your side.

Remaining quiet for the first couple minutes, keeping your eyes more or less downcast. Knowing you probably didn’t have the best energy to be around right now, and not even wanting to bother with any kind of small talk.

“Are you alright?”

Lost in your own head, you had almost forgotten about Harry walking next to you in the cooling air of the city. You turned to him for a brief moment, eyes flitting over his before looking forward again.

“Yeah I – I’m just tired. Long couple of days.”

Before Harry got a chance to speak, you realized that you need to turn onto your block. “I’m going here – I’ll see you around.”

You turned the block, stopping for barely a second as Harry uttered a small “See you,” before you walked the opposite direction of him.

Pace picking up as you wanted nothing more than to be home at the moment, quickly walking the rest of the way home.

Finally closing your door behind you, not caring where your bag ended up on the floor and going to immediately crack open a window, airing out the stuffy apartment. You busied yourself with lighting a stick of sandalwood incense, letting the smoke slowly blow out the window, the smell starting to fill the room.

It wasn’t until you went to change into a sweatshirt and shorts, catching a glance of your appearance in the mirror when you suddenly felt tears well up again. Reaching for your phone, deciding that if you were going to wallow in your sudden sadness that you should have a soundtrack for it.

Pouring yourself a glass of wine, knowing you should make something to eat as well but not having the energy for it at the moment.

You only took one sip of the drink before placing it back down on the counter, feeling small tears fall from the corner of your eyes. Wiping under your face with the back of your sleeve, knowing more tears were to come.

The sudden cry had come out a bit out of no where. It sometimes was like that, the unexpected surge of tears that suddenly needed to fall from your eyes.

What surprised you, was that it was triggered by what Harry told you. Him telling you that his work as an artist was his 9 to 5 job, that he was following what he always wanted to do and was so far able to get by.

It was similar to the way you felt with Mae, sometimes. The two of you had graduated with the same degrees, but she was following her dream while you had the same job you held all throughout college. Sure, maybe the location of the job was different, and this time you were manager, but it still felt like the same job.

It wasn’t that you felt unfulfilled in life, and you did really like your job. It was just that there was sure to be more – this couldn’t be it for the rest of your life.

And the small, snarky comment from family or even customers didn’t help. You had had customers ask you if you were just working there “for now” and if it was “some place you were trying to get out of.” It was condescending really, and you always politely smiled at them and told them no, but it never helped with feeling not good enough.

So sitting with your wine, and a little cry, was very much what you needed right now.

[isla-04]

| the art of falling in love with a dead girl.

miya atsumu x f!reader | part 2

Summary: love conquers all. a foolish boy will believe in anything just to get you to stay, just for one more day. one more second with you is all he wishes for, a second that you may not have.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of depressions and suicide

there was only so much time promised for a single person.

some were promised an entire lifetime. some were promised an eternity.

but there were a handful of those of us that were promised much shorter: months, weeks, or even days. sometimes those days weren’t even promised, sometimes our clock would run out much quicker than the time stamp we were given originally. we were forced to watch from the sidelines while others enjoyed their life to the fullest, stretching their days as far as they could. essentially, we’ve become dead men walking. or women, in your case. 

at what point do we decide to accept our fate? at what point do we realize that our time is limited, compared to others who have an entire life to experience all the things we could only dream of doing? truly, there’s no exact point in time, but rather a feeling that we live with until our time is up. it starts off a simple whisper in the back of our head and grows into a fully matured voice that constantly creates conversation in our minds. 

the voice of disappointment, where every little thing you do is no longer good enough for not only yourself but the world around you as well. one of anger, where every wrongdoing that has come your way adds fuel to your fire and eventually burns over your entire body, just waiting to lash out on whoever’s innocent soul is near. a voice of anxiety that feels as if it were crawling through your veins, instilling its poison in your blood to the point where you feel like you can no longer breathe properly. this voice sits in the back of your head, hushed and judgmental, and when you finally acknowledge that its there it will push to the forefront of your mind. dismantling your senses and clouding your vision, this voice becomes another body in your own. a body that has corrupted your soul with its apparent hatred. 

rather than being given both the angel and the devil, the devil sits alone on both shoulders directing your every move. often times, against your will as well. maybe he was the one who stole your time, or maybe it was yourself. maybe you weren’t strong enough to fight off his thoughts, or were they yours? not that it would matter in the end.

once you’ve accepted the fact that there was only a short amount of time assigned to you, you’ve lost the desire to keep living for the rest of that time. there wasn’t much anyways, so why continue? in the end, your efforts would’ve been for nothing if you were no longer going to be here. 

but what others don’t realize is that despite the fact that you’ve accepted your end, life actually seems to become easier. the motivation to get out of bed, shower, clean up, and do normal things returns in that short period of time before you leave. the smile on your face becomes genuine and the laughs you let out, they sound exactly like they did when you were a small child. you become the best you that you’ve ever been because finally, that voice in the back of your head will no longer be there to harm you.

maybe that’s what caused him to fall for you. maybe it was the genuine smile and laughs that you gave him after he told one of his jokes. they were stupid and to others, came off as failed attempts of flirting. but you laughed and you smiled as if he was the greatest comedian of all times. you only ever looked at him with kind and soft eyes, never raised your voice to him, never turned your back. 

if he was excited he would jump circles around you, like a child excited to get ice cream. he would speak at a mile a minute, never pausing to take a breath, but he was too excited to waste a minute on breathing. he needed to tell you about whatever he was excited about, just so he could see your smile and here your voice. that silky voice that made his heart clench every time you spoke. you would be excited right along with him, even if you didn’t quite catch what he said to you in his jumbled sentences that he called english. 

if he was nervous, you would draw spirals on the back of his hands in order to calm him down. “in...out...in...out. do that three more times, okay?” you would say to him before every game, even if he wasn’t nervous. but something about the way you worried for him made him feel safe, like he would always be cared for. like he would always have someone to fall back on.

if he was angry, you would be the first person to ask what was wrong, letting him rant and complain about whatever it was that got him so worked up. you wouldn’t interrupt or try to invalidate how he felt. he could rant for hours or days, and you would be right next to him with open ears. once he’d calm down, you would be right there to help him assess the situation. could he have handled it differently? was he in the right or was he in the wrong? no matter what it was that you suggested, he’d be 100% willing to do it.

but the part of you that he appreciated and would cherish forever, was that you were willing to carry his weight on your shoulders when he couldn’t do it himself. you would be waiting for him with opens arms and he’d collapsed right into them. the first few times you hadn’t properly prepared for him to actually collapse, and you were the poor boy nearly fell onto the concrete sidewalk. as he cried into your chest, you would softly run your hands through his hair and massage his temples; you were no stranger to the headaches that would soon follow after crying this hard. the sweet nothings you would whisper into his ear, affirming that he would be okay and that this would get better, helped him pick himself up again.

you took care of him like a mother took care of her child, but to him, it felt different. he hadn’t been sure before, but when he looked into your bright eyes, he knew; atsumu fell in love with you. he fell in love with your whole being actually, and there was no part of you that he could ever hate. everything about you was perfect to him.

you never judged him or called him out for his pathetic jokes, never shunned him away when he was upset, never ordered him to quiet down when he was too excited or ridiculed him when he got angry; but you didn’t really do much these days. unbeknownst to him, you were one of the few who weren’t promised a lifetime. he had eternity, and you had ‘till the end of the week.

the eyes that he believed held the universe, were the same ones that cried for hours at night in the dark. the same ones that were red and puffy in the mornings after those late night cries. the same ones that needed to constantly hold back their own tears during the day because you felt like the weight of the world would collapse onto you. 

the shoulders that he would cry on were the same ones that slouched whenever you sat down because holding his emotional weight along with your own was beginning to overwhelm you. how were you to help him when you couldn’t even help yourself? the chest atsumu would cry into was the same one that felt empty. it felt like there was a large gaping hole in the middle right where your heart should’ve been. 

but here you were, taking care of him. you did it all on your own account, not because you felt like you owed him anything, but after a while things were not as easy as they used to be. that voice in the back of your head would get louder each year, pushing you further and further into a dark hole. a hole that got deeper over time, one that you never saw an opening to. one that felt infinite, so deep that not even a sliver of light could touch you. the clock that you were assigned at birth was nearing its end and when the big hand hit twelve, a new day would start, one without you.

as much as you cherished your time with atsumu, you knew that it was coming to an end. sooner or later you would have to say goodbye, and not just for the night, but for life. a permanent goodbye that you knew would leave a scar on his heart, but this choice was yours and you made it already. you were ready to leave, ready to go, ready to finally let your conscience rest and ease the aching in your heart. this was it. it was time, so with tears in your eyes you let go.

birdy’s notes: please do not repost, rewrite or claim as yours. thank you!

- this is my first official post and i hope that it was at least decent. i might attempt to make this a tiny series, but i’m not completely sure yet.