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shurisneakers · 1 month ago

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unsolved (v)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, witchcraft

A/N: it's like i never left amirite (im sorry it has been like 10 months pls forgive me ily guys let's pretend this series never went on hiatus) (i had cancer and college but now I've graduated from both and i live babyyy. anyway. welcome back to my house of horrors)

Previous part || Series masterlist

When you tell Maya you want to do witchcraft, you'd done so with the full expectation of defending your idea with the force of a PhD student who was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

She surprisingly agrees.

“Really?” It's hard to stop the astonishment from entering your voice. Honestly, it sort of pisses you off that the Canva presentation you spent five hours on wouldn't actually see the light of day.

“Yeah, sure. I think it'd do well with the older demographic. ” She shrugs.

"Really?" Now you weren't sure she was on the same plane of existence as you were.

“Make some animals talk. Conjure up some parking spots.”

Ah.

“I was thinking more like... hexing people and shadow demons,” you test slowly.

That seems to tether her to reality.

Her head cranes towards you centimetre by centimetre, like she was buffering in real time.

“Are you insane?" she states, not very much sounding like she was expecting an answer. "Do you want to end up on the news? Do you know how vicious Facebook groups can be?”

“No PR is bad PR,” you preach wisely, parroting advice you’d seen bots on Twitter tell other bots.

“That doesn’t apply to you. I already have a tough time explaining Stephen Strange and why he’s not literally the devil to the public."

Now that was a little unfair. Perhaps it warranted another Canva presentation.

"Have you considered that I'm hotter and significantly cooler than Stephen Strange?" you suggest helpfully.

She squints at you, or more likely your audacity. "I will not have another scandal on my hands this week.”

“But next week is okay?”

Her hardened stare tells you quickly what a thousand words cannot.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Thou limit me so, Maya. How is one to find you invigorating content in these trying circumstances?”

Maya taps your shoulder on her way out, crooning, “There’s a reason I asked you to do this series. You’ll figure it out.”

You hide a smile with an all too dramatic sigh. “Thou compliment me so. How am I to not fall in love with thee?”

Maya shakes her head playfully. “Nothing that will get me called into a press conference by mid-day. No hexing. No extreme curses. ”

“Mid-level curses it is, then” you call after her.

Her leaving figure does not give you a reply.

After a week of staring at the corner of his room through the night, delirious to the point where he seriously considered using Sam’s Amazon Prime account to buy his own stupid ghost apparatuses, Bucky throws in the towel.

Clearly, he was mistaken. Sleep deprived and probably missing his family a little more than he would have ever admitted to a living soul.

Bucky's sleep deprivation adds to his already charming and sociable personality.

No one would touch him with a ten-foot pole. Bucky’s usually grumpy and while everyone had sort of built a tolerance towards his regular nonsense, he was now the very sexy combination of grumpy and sensitive.

For his part, after last week's shenanigans, Bucky has stuck to avoiding anything and everything horror.

He watches only romcoms and finds that while everyone says he seems most like Harry from Harry Met Sally, he hates that Mike Wazowski motherfucker with a passion.

While everyone else seems to get the memo, you have chosen to ignore it blissfully, and have instead been prancing about all week, shoving meme after meme into his face.

Bucky Barnes smiling compilations that were 7 seconds long. Bucky Barnes social media fanfictions that showed him replying far more than he had ever replied to anyone in real life ever.

Bucky’s learnt to ignore you with a long-suffering glare. You adapt quickly, skillfully dodge the daggers shooting out of his eyes and shove another TikTok in his face. It is an edit of him to Toxic by Britney Spears. He doesn't want to ask where they got some of the footage they used.

After the fifth Twitter screenshot, he takes to avoiding you like the plague.

Unfortunately for Maya, that involved avoiding the set too. He sees on the official The Graveyard Shift channels that there’s an announcement put out about an episode delay.

It is undeniably his fault. No, he still won't answer the group chat or the several knocks at his door every day.

But because the universe is invested in his sorrow, you seem to find him wherever he goes.

In the garden, digging through the vegetable bed.

In the storeroom, looking through oversized cookware.

When he walked into the alley behind the Tower and found you there, he hissed at you like a feral cat and you asked very loudly what the fuck was wrong with him.

He checks every part of him and all his clothes for a tracker but no-- you just seem to have a karmic connection level of being exactly where he is.

When he runs into you for the fourth time at the library, he really thinks he’s lost it.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice sharp.

You look at him in wonder. “Your ego is so big it could have its own gravitational pull. How do you carry around your massive head all day?"

“Everywhere I go, you’re there.” He continues, finger pointing in accusation.

“Bitch, you're the one who walked in here," you exclaim. "I’ve been here all day.”

“Doing what?”

“Who’s following who now?” you dare.

“Because you’re in this section.” He does a quick check to see what section it actually is. Witchcraft and Wizardry. He may not have known that when he accused you but he definitely was not wrong.

“Why do you care what I do here?”

Because he's wondering if he’s managed to shut down production permanently and sent a bunch of people into unemployment.

“I don’t trust you here," he settles on instead. "What are you actually doing?"

“I’m learning things. Gaining knowledge. And such." You gesture vaguely before you narrow your eyes at him. "Not that you would know, you ape.”

He scoffs. He had the intelligence of a thousand suns, mind you.

“You don’t even have a book," he counters.

“So? I’m gaining knowledge through osmosis.” You look around. “I’m absorbing.”

His nose twitches, teeth clenched.

“Whatever,” he mumbles instead, turning his attention to the bookshelf.

As he thumbs through various titles he’s too annoyed to read, a small movement catches his attention.

He watches you from the corner of his eyes.

“What?” you demand, this whole exchange too damn loud for a library.

“What?” he challenges right back. “Why are you watching me?”

“Why am I– you’re the one staring at me.” You throw your hands up. “First you follow me here, second you accuse me of things that would get me burnt at the stake a couple of years ago, third you accuse me of watching you just 'cause you know you're pretty. You–”

Bucky narrows his eyes, not missing the random compliment you slipped in.

“Hold on just one second. That’s why you’ve been avoiding everyone all week.” You stare at him, wide-eyed and unrelenting.

He thinks he must have missed some part of the conversation because he has no idea why you're looking at him like you've figured him all out.

“That’s why you’ve been so jumpy and sleep deprived ever since that episode you filmed.”

Bucky’s gaze doesn’t waver, but his mind races and his breath falters for a second. There’s no goddamn way you knew what had gone down, he’d deleted every footage that could possibly–

“You missed me.”

He stops his overthinking right in its tracks.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” You tilt your head, face full of pure sympathy. “You filmed one episode without me by your side and realised you couldn’t live without me.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, eyes pressed closed tighty, partially in relief.

“You want me, don’t you? You want me so bad it makes you throw u–”

“Fuck off.” Bucky turns on his heel at the speed of light.

“You have a fat, raging crush–”

“I’m fuckin' moving out.” His voice is like rocks.

“You can move out, but you can never move on, baby,” you whisper-shout. “When’d you realise you liked me, Bucky? Night one? The first hou–”

He slams the library door behind him.

From: Stevie Left some strawberries outside your door. They’re good.

From: Stevie How are you doing today, by the way?

From: Bucky alive

From: Bucky and thanks

From: Stevie Anything we have to talk about? Your wood chisels didn’t break again, did they?

From: Bucky nothing im fine

From: Stevie You sure? Time for a Cypress Hills visit?

From: Bucky no im fine

From: Stevie You haven’t left the room in a week. Beat your old record and I'm going to start getting worried here.

Bucky stares at his phone wondering how he ended up with a mother a century after his own died, before sighing.

From: Bucky going to film a video this week. im fine

From: Bucky promise

Because there really was no other way to convince Steve that he as leaving the cave he constructed from his comforter.

From: Steve Good to hear. I’m always across the hallway if you need anything.

From: Bucky i know. your gramophone won’t let me forget it.

From: Steve Dick.

From: Bucky it is too damn loud. old ass

From: Steve Got a new record. Haven’t listened to it yet.

From: Bucky ill be there in 10

That Friday, Bucky walks onto the set in his finest black hoodie and darkest sunglasses, looking less like a badass and entirely like a hungover teenager.

Before he has a chance to even register what’s going on, he is ambushed by lights, a team touching up his face and his stupid dollar store sunglasses leave him before he has a chance to protest.

“I told you he’d show up,” you pipe up proudly from your place at the table. “Lil' shit simply missed me too–”

“Stop,” he interrupts, finally getting around to look at the set when the foundation brushes stop assaulting his line of vision.

For a hot second, he thinks you've taken over Steve's cooking show.

There are candles floating around, which he assumes you're holding up. A large… cauldron, gigantic wooden mixing spoons and 50 little bowls worth of ingredients are neatly arranged on the table.

“What the hell is going on?” he questions immediately. “What is all this?”

“Mise en place, baby,” you reply, shutting a book you had on the table loudly before looking at him. “You’re on dish duty. Come on.”

“What?” His eyebrows pull into a frown.

You dust off your hands before reaching under the table and chucking an apron at him. “Back when I worked as a line cook, the number one rule was to clean up as you go. I like to think of it as--”

“What is going on here?” he specifies, already trying to piece together your timeline in his head with every new piece of lore.

“Welcome to my kitchen, motherfucker.” Your grin is nefarious. “We're gonna do some witchcraft.”

After he spends fifteen minutes on the phone with Maya confirming that yes, that is indeed the episode and that the heads up he needed would have reached him if he opened the seventeen million messages on the group chat– he finally comes to stand behind the bench with you, a tick in his jaw but also with enough self-awareness to be sheepish.

He thought his grand return to the channel would be a simple video with some ghost reading or whatever, not… this.

He turns to you, ready to reach a compromise that ends with him not having to be there at all.

But in the fifteen minutes he had turned his attention to the call, you’ve somehow convinced them to start rolling before he gets the chance to leave, so he’s immediately hit with a--

“We’re on in three…two–”

“Where is your apron?” you demand, looking him up and down.

“I’m not wearing that shit.” It had some stupid slogan like ‘Life is about taking whisks!’ and he had already been through enough.

“Jeez, annyone would think that you're not in love with me--"

"I'm not."

"--by the way you're so ungrateful. I got that custom-made for you,” you tsk. “I could've gotten the other one. Mine could've said ‘he’s my sweet potato’ and yours could've said ‘I yam’.”

Bucky experiences a whole-body chill.

“Whatever," you dismiss with a wave of hand before looking into the camera. "Before we get started, we recognize that for some, witchcraft is a deeply meaningful religion and spiritual practice that should be approached with respect and curiosity.”

“We’re not claiming this is the definitive guide to witchcraft, we’re simply trying out a book that’s been highly recommended for better or worse, and seeing where it leads us. Whaddya say, Bucko?

You look at him for input. Bucky stares at the dusty, hole-ridden monstrosity on the table.

“What’s it called?” Bucky asks finally after a long pause.

You tap the thick, old book. “Witchcraft for Weenies: A Totally Legit Guide to Authentic Witchcraft by A. Harkness.”

“Is that the actual name or are you just making it up?”

“Rich coming from the only one between us who actually lied on camera--" you glare at him. "I would never fabricate my sources, I’m a champion for academic integrity.”

You pick up the book to show him, flipping it towards the camera too and sure enough, the book that was basically falling apart at the binding was called exactly that.

“Let’s-a go, baby.”

You stare at him, lips pressed together. Bucky gives no inclination towards changing his answer.

“Fine. We’re going to do this the hard way, I see.” You exhale, reaching into the pocket of your apron.

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together when you brandish a deck of cards, yank his arm towards you and drop it into his open palm.

“Shuffle," you command.

Something very familiar faces him.

Bucky stares at the cards before looking back at you. “Why’s my face on it?”

“It’s a tarot deck I got from Comic Con,” you insist. “Avengers themed. Now shuffle it.”

He thinks you left that card on top on purpose, but regardless, he's already been too much of a menace to the crew to be the cause of any more disturbance.

So he slowly begins, careful and skilled, before you scoff in his face.

“Faster, grandpa," you chide. “I’ve seen the way those hands cut garlic when no one’s around, I know you move faster than that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but complies anyway, shuffling the cards with the adeptness only a certain Jim Morita could have taught him in a dark tent to keep him awake on a night watch.

“Faster,” you goad, face smug. “Faster. Come on now, Barnes, your age finally catching up to you?”

It’s stupid– he doesn’t even know why he’s actually complying and increasing his speed. He can’t believe that he was letting you pressure him.

“C’mon, faster, Barnes, you abso-”

His hands were moving so fast by then that they’d have to put the video in slow motion to catch all the movement.

“Faster–” and in the commotion, a few cards fly out.

“Brilliant, thanks.” You slam them down on the table, plucking the deck out of his hand before he has a chance to process why the fuck he actually went ahead with what you were trying.

“Right, so the universe has decided that these will be your cards,” you tell him, and he finally looks down at what had fallen out of the deck.

The cards show Sam’s Captain America shield, Carol Danvers, and Spider-Man, with words written below.

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man,” you read out thoughtfully.

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they’ll fall out of his skull.

“You know, I’m going to just make a general assumption and say you need help.” You hum to yourself. “I'm gonna make a potion to get you some.”

“Get me some?” He's too busy trying to figure out what the cards could possibly mean to see that he's walked straight into that one.

“Get you some perspective. You need an advisor who’ll dish it to you straight. Give you the facts, no bullshit–”

"No." He had too many of those in his life and he has had enough of people being “honest” and "straightforward” and telling him his moustache was ugly every time he dared to try out a new look–

Until you reach under the table and again and suddenly, there’s a white creature buzzing around on the table in front of him.

“Behold– your new advisor,” you announce.

From the corner of his eye Bucky can see the production team scrambling to figure out where the hell this was going. He lip-reads producers’ orders to find adoption links or resources to insert during post-production, and teasers on social media, to make this look more planned. Great, so no one was prepared-- it wasn't just him.

“Whose fucking cat is this?” He looks down at it, all white except for a few brown spots all around, green eyes and evil in her aura.

“Relax, I'll give her back when we're done.”

“Give her ba–” he echoes. “Where did you get her?”

“The alley outside,” you coo, rubbing under her chin. “I checked and she doesn’t have an owner. But look at her, she’s meant to be here.”

Bucky looks at the cat. The cat looks back at him, irises narrowing into slits. His nose twitches.

“You can’t just bring a cat–”

“Remember to adopt, not shop,” you say to the camera before clapping your hand. “Anyway. If my potion goes according to plan, she will be giving you unsolicited life advice for eternity.”

“You will be unemployed, then,” Bucky manages to add while watching the chaos unfold behind the camera.

“Nonsense, I’m irreplaceable.” You grin. “Besides, you can't manufacture chemistry like this even in a cauldron.”

You send him a flying kiss. His glower was as sharp as laser beams.

“Let’s get started.” You grin at the camera.

Bucky tries to pet the cat. She hisses at him.

Well all-fucking-right then.

One hour later, things have descended into madness of the most mundane kind.

It was precisely when you started telling him ten minutes in that a book had nothing on your instincts and raw intelligence that Bucky knew that this was going to shit.

The cauldron was on an electric stove unlike the open fire demanded by the book because the team had enough foresight to know it would be a fire hazard.

You toss in something that looks like cardamom but he isn’t sure at this point. He just wanted to get away from the bright lights and the strange smiling liquid boiling awai.

The cat sits obediently by your side, watching curiously. He is convinced that she is evil.

Unfortunately, Bucky has had to hold her back twice when she tried to stick her paw in to attack a bubble, and at this point, he doesn’t think he has it in him to do it a third time.

You read the recipe as if it makes any sort of fucking difference now.

“We’re almost done,” you sing.

Bucky nurses his headache. “Don't give me hope.”

“Put some more reegelbeetle seeds in,” you dictate. “This is gonna work, I can feel it.”

Bucky uses his free hand to do as you say. He doesn’t even think it’s the right one, he just reaches for whatever is closer to you and you don't seem to care either.

You toss in some more seeds, stir twice and then turn off the stove.

“Boom.” You lift the spoon up, watching the thick liquid drip back. “This is either a talking potion or a hex.”

"Hex to do what?”

“I think it activates dormant allergies.” You squint at the book that literally had no significance besides being a prop. “You got any?”

“No.” But it makes him think of Steve’s pollen allergies.

“Oh. Well, then there’s only one outcome here.”

“Alright, here we go.” Of the gigantic pot that you’d just stirred, you fish the tiniest amount out on the smallest spoon he’d ever seen, which you also apparently stored in the vast space that was your apron pocket.

The cat watches you hold the spoon near its face.

It takes a sniff. Then two. Finally, after deeming it non-poisonous, it sticks out its tongue the tiniest bit and takes a lick.

The whole crew is silent.

Bucky’s hand is still pressing against his temples.

“Tell us your name,” you urge, voice hopeful.

The cat looks at Bucky, and for a second, something akin to understanding flashes in its eyes. It’s uncanny and weird and something about it unsettles him deeply.

You seem to catch it too because you look at him in surprise. He looks back at you, face pulled into a frown.

And for a moment, he wonders. If you'd somehow done it. Because there’s no fucking way–

Then it meows.

He exhales.

Your shoulders drop as you let out an “Aw, man.”

"Great. Goodbye. Like and subcribce to the bell icon," he calls out, dusting his hands against his pants.

Someone from the production crew sneezes.

Both of you turn to him immediately.

At the same instant, someone else all the way on the opposite end sneezes again, and the whole crew turns to look at them, before another sneezes in the front.

“We did it!” you cheer.

“We didn’t do jack,” Bucky interjects immediately as the crew errupts into a cacophony of chatter and sneezes.

“It’s a hex that activates allergies and they’re sneezing,” you point towards them with the spoon, triumphant.

“You threw fifteen fuckin' pounds of pepper in there,” he argues. “You've turned this room into a sandstorm of dry spices. This proves nothing.”

“I’ve connected the dots.” Your eyes shine, ignoring him.

“You didn’t connect shit.”

“I’ve connected them.”

Someone in the corner sneezes. He wonders if Steve’s allergies would be activated by the trace amounts of... cursed soup that he carries with him back to the floor.

“Well, we can’t leave them like this, Bucky.” You look around, tsking. “We gotta make a reverse hex or something.”

“You can,” he says. “It’s called opening the windows.”

“Nope,” you pop the last syllable. “We’re making another potion. C’mon.”

“First of all, this is not a potion–” he begins, but is interrupted by a buzz on his phone, the screen lit up by a text on the groupchat.

From: Maya I don’t give a shit if it’s placebo or not. Make a damn potion before you get sued for hexing employees.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Beautiful. Grab the ash sphinx flakes,” you brandish another big cauldron from fuck knows where.

Bucky stares at you, unmoving.

“Just get the oregano,” you sigh.

The cat tries sticking her paw in the pot again.

Bucky feels a sneeze incoming.

Whether the hex and subsequent anti-hex Maya forced you to make at gunpoint was real or not, is yet to be determined scientifically.

What actually does happen, is the damn apron you give him carries enough trace amount of your stupid experiment, that it somehow activates Steve’s very real pollen allergy. Bucky finds himself on edge for the rest of the day every time the man rattles the walls with his middle aged dad sneezing.

It carries on over to his show, which means Steve’s episode on baking a 1950s chocolate cake from tomato soup is edited extremely strangely to cut out every sneeze.

Which means Nat’s episode on spy inaccuracies in Argylle takes twice as long to film because they have to take a few seconds every time Steve’s sneezes interrupt her from the set next door.

Which means Bruce’s video on the science behind memory is delayed on shooting.

All in all, something does seemed to have been hexed, but it mostly seems to be everyone’s fucking productivity.

Finally, everyone manages to get through the day, and the videos are sent to post production.

The same night when everyone’s gathered at the dining table to commemorate the end of another shoot day, Bucky slips out, knowing that Steve would save him a slice of pizza if he never returned.

He goes back to the library to return his copy of Understanding Wood Finishing, when his curiosity leads him back down a familiar path.

It’s where he finds you again, in the same corner as the last time, on the floor, surrounded by shelves.

“You again.” You quirk an eyebrow when he appears from the shadows. "Aren't you supposed to be eating pizza?"

“What are you absorbing now?” he asks, voice low for once, respecting the sanctity of the library now that day had slipped into night and everything seemed a bit more solemn now.

“Nothing,” you answer.

“Then why are you here?”

He figured you’d be out there, introducing everyone to the cat that was now set to be roaming the halls, before someone assumed it was a shapeshifting enemy and dealt with it accordingly.

“God forbid someone get some peace and quiet for once,” you mumble. “It’s too loud out there.”

Oh.

You don’t say anything else, leaning back against the bookshelf with your eyes closed.

There really isn't a need for more words. He gets it.

The understadning leaves silence in its wake. Bucky doesn't really have anything to say.

“Did you come here just to stare at me?” you ask finally. “Did you finally admit your feelings?”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “I’m not in love with you.”

“Only a matter of time.” You smile before changes to something more subdued, a bit more serious. “You wanna talk about what’s actually been bugging you for the last week?”

Bucky looks at you wearily. “The tarot cards tell you something?”

You eye him. “Not more than what’s obvious. Wanna talk about it?”

He swallows, throat suddenly feeling like it's closing in on itself.

“No.”

“Alrighty.”

You say nothing more than that, leaving the both of you in relative quiet, save for the buzz of the warm fluorescent light above.

Bucky takes an awkward seat next to you on the floor.

You pry open an eye to look at him in suspicion.

“Y’mind?” he manges.

“Mind what?”

He gestures to himself uncomforably, readiy to jump up and leave at any second.

You observe him for a second, and for once he stares back with no irritation in his look, just permission.

“No, you can sit.” You close your eyes. “So long as you don’t tell anyone else 'bout this place.”

If there’s anything Bucky’s good at, it’s keeping a secret.

He settles back into the shelf with an exhale, letting the weight of day roll off his shoulders.

You wordlessly slide a thermos towards him. He doesn’t even have to open it to know it’s the damn soup from that afternoon.

And if he’s being honest, it doesn’t taste that bad at all.

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qqueenofhades · 5 months ago

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can you assuage my creeping fear about the debate between harris and trump? my brain is like. the media will be salivating over any chance to get the story HARRIS FLUBS THE DEBATE MORE AT 6 unless she's 100% perfect for it. i keep telling myself that she's an incredibly seasoned prosecutor who knows exactly what to do to unravel these sorts of people, she has plenty of time to prepare, he's completely gone over the edge into incoherence most of the time, but i also keep thinking of how, after weeks of her absolutely pile-driving the republican party, the media will be circling for any mistake, mis-step, or imperfection to blow out of proportion to make it seem like she's failing. i guess what i'm afraid of is the other shoe dropping? or the bubble bursting? i'm afraid of this hope?

i was barely aware of obama in 2008, too young to vote and not paying attention, so i don't know how this kind of momentum turned into the juggernaut that got him elected. i know you believe that the same can happen here, how did he take on the predatory press?

Well, first, we need to recognize that the media treatment of the debate WILL be wildly unfair, full stop. If Trump shows up and puts on pants, he will be applauded by the media, because they have the lowest imaginable bar where he is concerned and everything that would have been multiply-disqualifying for any other candidate makes them just shrug and find a way to make excuses for him. So yes, he will literally be congratulated if he shows up on September 10, because that is how the media works. See: three relentless weeks of bullying Biden out of the race after the bad debate, barely mentioning Trump's equally insane diatribes at the same debate, and now, when he's gone full-on demented and is raving about AI-generated crowds at Kamala's events? Nary a peep. Lol.

However, the main narrative that's emerging from the Harris takeover is that voters and the media are miles apart on where they actually see this race going, and without the media's favorite chew toy of Biden's shortcomings, it has become increasingly difficult to avoid focusing on Trump's flaws, even tangentially. See the mainstream media reporters whining constantly that Harris hasn't given them a press conference and congratulating Trump for lying to them nonstop for an hour; they simply have no frame of reference that's remotely useful, because they are so beholden to making Trump look like a normal candidate and focusing on Harris's "flaws" as if they are remotely comparable to his. But at the same time, there has been a far heightened level of pushback on this BS manipulation, and everybody can see through it, precisely because the media and/or the right-wing smear machine has tried this so many times before and their tactics are now completely transparent. Ordinary voters don't give a shit whether Harris WiLl tAkE qUesTioNs fRoM tHe mEdiA; they're too busy flooding her campaign with donations, attending her rallies, signing up for volunteer shifts, and so forth. In fact, the reason the media is trying SO HARD to kill her momentum is because they, like Trump, rely on doing so. The more they try and don't succeed, the more panicked they'll get. We have to prepare for that, and we have to have her back.

That said, we should recall that Harris easily crushed Pence in their debate in 2020, and Pence was actually halfway presentable at it compared to Trump (which is a low bar, but still). The way Trump "wins" is that he just repeats a lot of lies forcefully and over and over, which Biden was ill-prepared to counter because he has a far more deliberate and decisive speaking style (related to stutter/speech difficulties, temperament as a politician, etc). Everything that I have seen from the Harris campaign in terms of communication so far, however, has been the exact kind of clapback that makes Trump look stupid and which shows that they are very attuned to the kind of strategies that work against that nonsensical bullying Gish gallop. Therefore, I have to trust that they have INTENSIVELY studied what went wrong with Biden/Trump in June, and also empowered Kamala to do what she does in her fashion and which has been extremely successful thus far at knocking down Trump's BS. Also, she's just a better and more fluent communicator than Biden, she looks and sounds more energetic, and those stupid aesthetic Vibes are half of the battle when it comes to convincing the public.

Also, we should recognize that Trump looked deeply creepy on stage at the debates with HRC in 2016, and that was when he was downright sane compared to now. He stalked her, he stood behind her, he rolled his eyes, he bullied her, and people noticed that (he subsequently won the election, yes, but if nothing else, 2024 feels nothing like 2016). If he has to stand on stage with a black woman kicking his ass, after his appearance at the NABJ event in Chicago quickly became a touchstone for how badly he fucked it up, he is going to just look BAD, and when that's the case, people will immediately fit it into the existing narrative (that he's scared of Harris and deeply racist and unglued). You can also play your part in making sure it does. At least half of the Bidengate furor came from Democrats melting down and yelling about it afterward, and that led into the knives-out media coverage that spiraled for 3.5 weeks until Biden withdrew. We can, yknow, NOT DO THAT this time!

So: yeah. We have to be aware that yes, the media coverage of the debate will find absolutely every excuse to praise Trump and bash Harris, because that's just baked in. However, we can also understand that there's a wide-and-getting-wider CHASM between how ordinary voters see things right now and how the media is desperate to play it, and the more transparent they get, the more easily we are able to call it out. (See Lawrence O'Donnell's rant the other night.) We are going to have to keep doing that and not let up, but it's not going to go well for Trump either way and it's still an open question as to whether he even shows up after trying SO hard to dodge. It's not out of the question that he'll announce on September 4 that by Harris not showing up to the Fox debate she never agreed to and which exists only in his deluded mind, he doesn't have to do the same on September 10. He is a scared fucking orange chickenshit who KNOWS he's badly outmatched against Harris and whose entire campaign strategy at this point relies on lying low and trying not to make voters remember again how much they hate him, which is already backfiring. And with your help, we can make him MORE scared all the way to prison. Let's do it.

#andromeda3116 #ask #politics for ts #the giant orange monster #harris walz 2024

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 9 months ago

Text

Playin’ Games (Choso x Self-Insert!Reader 18+ One Shot) [COMMISSION FILL]

Pairing: Choso Kamo x Self-Insert!Reader (Friends to Lovers & Forbidden Love)

Synopsis: In which your brother's best friend calls from his business trip to play a game of truth or dare over a Skype call, but it quickly turns into something else once your brother heads to bed and naughty pics and strip teasing get involved.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+; No Curse AU; Reader is Black, Fem & Plus-Sized; Musician!Choso; Truth or Dare; Alcohol Consumption; Lowkey Flirting; Sending Nudes; Sexual Tension; Strip Tease; Fingering; Clit Stimulation; Facefucking; Blood Play; Feral MDom!Choso; fsub!Reader; Almost Caught; Sneaky Sex; Hold The Moan; Cowgirl; Spit Play; Spanking; Unprotected PIV Sex; Creampie; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Thank you again for @curiouscutie143 for asking me to write this for a commission & continuing to trust me to write about her fucking 2D animated characters lmaoo. I hope you enjoy! -Jazz 🩷🩷🩷

**********

“I dare you to go to the kitchen without using your feet.”

“How in the hell am I supposed to do that?” Choso asks, dumbfounded.

“You’ve got an ass, dontcha?” your brother shoots back from behind his laptop. Choso looks at you and then at your brother, completely done. “What are you, twelve?” he scoffs.

Your brother smirks at the screen while you giggle in the background, busy scrolling on Twitter while you watch this stupid game unfold on Zoom. “Thirteen, actually,” he answers. “Now you finna do it or not?”

Choso sighs, but pushes himself back from his computer desk in his spacious hotel suite and angles the camera to his MacBook Air down so you and your bro can see him. With his back to you, he lowers himself down to the ground and scoots to the kitchenette on his very toned and firm behind like a dog without once ever using his feet.

Your bro laughs wildly at this, slapping his knee. “You look so dumb!” he cackles. You can’t help but giggle too, having watched them play ‘Truth or Dare’ on the app he and Choso are connected on for rounds. Despite being grown-ass adults, they’re still kids at heart.

You can’t help but love their relationship. Despite Choso being larger than life as a musician and the opposite of your brother (stoic and quiet while your bro is wild and a damn near crackhead), he never once treated your bro any differently when he started blowing up. Their decade-old friendship has only grown over time. That includes making calls when Choso is on business trips.

Right now, he is an hour away from where you are for a press conference tour. “It’s for a damn movie cameo,” he sighed when he told you and your bro the news. “It’s only for three days, but trust and believe, I don’t wanna go.” To keep him company, your bro called him in his hotel room and suggested a game to pass the time on a boring Saturday night.

When he gets to the kitchen, Choso gets up and goes into the fridge for some chilled wine. You watch his muscles flex underneath his shirt and his toned ass in his sweats. His black hair is styled in a mullet and hangs slightly in his face, his piercings (one on the eyebrow, the other pierced in his bottom lip) glint at you, and his arms sinewy with muscles and ink always have the girls wet…including you.

He then walks back to his laptop and he sits back down. “Y/N, how do you approve of your brother’s childish behavior?” he sighs as he pops open the wine.

“Because she’s just as childish as me,” your brother chuckles. You smack him on the arm. “Not true, dickhead,” you grumble. “Only because it’s fun watchin’ you do all of these stupid dares…plus I can see that those squats are workin’ for you, Choso.”

Choso gives you an almost bashful smile while your brother gives you a disgusted look. “Ew, Y/N,” he comments. “Stop tryin’ to fuck my friend.” You gape at him, scoffing. “Says the main one who’s been tryin’ to fuck my friends since high school!” you scoff and kick at him. “Slut.”

Choso laughs as your brother tries to hit you back, but knocks his beer over. He swears, jumping off of the couch and under the coffee table to clean it up. “Thank you, Y/N,” Choso says through the screen in that smooth, soft, deep voice you’re so addicted to. “Maybe one day, I’ll invite you to my kickboxing classes, though I think I’d be a better instructor.” You think you imagine it, but you believe you see him wink at you.

“I’m sure you would,” you reply, not meaning it to come off so seductive, but it just does. You see his gorgeous eyes, dark and intoxicating, briefly flit down to your cleavage that has been exposed from under your robe. All you’re wearing underneath it are your sweats and a cami…without a bra. Though it’s your usual sleep attire, Choso’s gaze makes you feel like it’s lingerie.

“Whatcha say, Y/N?” your bro asks. “You made me drop my damn beer!” He shoves you out of the way and you quickly close your robe. “Just about Choso possibly inviting me to a kickboxing class just to show me up.”

Choso raises his hands in mock offense. “Guilty as charged,” he chuckles. “So whose turn is it now?” He jumps right back into the game like he wasn’t just flirting with you and eyeing down his best friend’s sister.

That’s another thing that’s grown over time: your relationship with Choso. You’ve always had a crush on him, but since growing up, that crush has only intensified when you began to see how fine he was. You don’t recall quite when the flirting started, but when it did, neither one of you could stop.

You couldn’t get enough of it: the sly looks at each other over your brother’s shoulder when you go out together or whenever Choso visits; the lowkey, flirtatious compliments you throw at each other; the playful arguments; the small touches on the arm or the back, innocent and comforting but exciting. You feel in your gut that Choso feels the same way you do for him, but you don’t dare bring it up or acknowledge your feelings because of your brother. It would make things too awkward and uncomfortable, you’re sure! So you keep quiet.

You groan, tossing your phone aside once you look at the time: 9:15 PM. “Can y’all stop here for now? Y’all have been playin’ this for over an hour!” Your brother, tipsy, narrows his eyes at you. “Hell no!” he exclaims. “Drunk truth or dare is the best! And you not even playin’, so why are you complainin’ ‘bout it?”

You glare at him and plunk him in the head with your thumb and forefinger. “Because, smartass, I have a meeting tomorrow morning at 8 AM and I need to be up at 7 to get ready.” Choso scowls at the idea of this as he sips his wine. “A work meeting on a Sunday?” he asks. “Where do you work, Y/N? In Hell?”

“Yes,” you joke, earning the sexiest laugh you’ve ever heard from him. “It’s some kind of team meeting my office does every month to check in on everybody and see if we have any issues with the company. It’s fine, just as long as it’s virtual which it always is.”

Choso smiles happily at you, the sight of it almost blinding and tortuous. Why is this man so fine yet so unavailable?! “Congrats again on that promotion! I knew you’d get in eventually. I’m sure it was the pencil skirts instead of your brains.” He smirks teasingly at you. “Oh, yes, definitely,” you giggle. “And the heels.”

That piques Choso’s interest intensely. “Oh, heels, hm?” he thoughtfully hums. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in heels before.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, not at all catching onto what’s happening between you two. “Can y’all stop talkin’ ‘bout shoes and get on with the next game?” he huffs. “It’s my turn!”

Choso’s eyes trail over to you sitting behind your brother, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Actually…Y/N, you sure you don’t wanna play? We can just do truths with you if you’re not comfortable with dares. I’d feel bad to see you just sittin’ there without playing one round.”

“Uh…” You think about it for a moment. It couldn’t hurt, especially since you don’t go to bed until 10 PM. Plus, the look in Choso’s eyes is getting to you…like he wants you to stay. “Sure, why the hell not?” You shrug, earning a joyous smile. “Truth or dare then?” your brother asks.

You look at Choso, who is already looking at you, on the screen. “Truth.” Your bro presses the button on his phone and laughs at the truth prompt written. “Who was your childhood crush?” he reads. “No celebrities or 2D animated characters allowed. Damn, this app is stirrin’ the pot!”

Your eyes widen, panic striking you. How are you supposed to answer that when the man sitting here on call with you is your childhood crush? Not to mention how awkward the truth would make things. “Uh…” You trail off, the silence thickening as the two wait for your response.

You can almost feel Choso’s eyes burning into you. You look away to your bro instead to avoid breaking out into a sweat. “Don’t laugh,” you begin, “but it was my second-grade bully. I thought about kissing him so many times even though he kept pullin’ my braids in class.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that guy,” your brother responds. “You gave him that anonymous V-Day card you made in art class that one time in third grade, right?” You nod, giggling. “Yeah!” you laugh. “He told me he still had it in eighth grade! By that time, he was sweet.”

“Well, that’s cute,” Choso’s says, sounding odd. You can’t put your finger on why. “I remember I got an anonymous V-Day card in third grade too, but never found out who it was. What a coincidence.” You chew on your bottom lip and your body becomes hot with shame for lying. Choso knows damn well that you a damn lie because you gave that anonymous V-Day card to him all those years ago.

“I-I’m gonna go get a drink,” you weakly say and hurry from the couch to the kitchen. You’re glad to have some privacy and to pour yourself some wine from the fridge. You take three greedy sips, letting it calm your rapidly beating heart. You should’ve never agreed to do this. It’s too awkward. Too tense. Maybe going to bed is a better idea. Maybe–

“Oh, shit!” your overly-dramatic brother yells out. Immediately, you run back into the living room after nearly dropping your glass. “What is it?” you huff. “What happened?” Your bro hands you his phone as he opens his second beer. “Read this dare for Choso!” he guffaws.

You take the phone and read it aloud for Choso to hear: “‘I dare you to take a thirst trap photo and post it on all of your social media accounts.’.” You gape at Choso who looks just as perplexed as you. Why is this game so horny?!

Your bro smirks at Choso on the laptop. “Well, you gon’ do it, Cho?” he cackles. “You’ve gotta do what the app says unless you too pussy.” The black-haired, tatted stud contemplates this as he sips his wine.

“Don’t listen to him, Choso,” you huff, slapping your sibling on the back of the neck. “He’s just bein’ a dick as usual.”

But Choso is already standing up, angling the computer camera up so you can see him. “Nah, I’ll do it. Have you ever known me as someone who backs down from a challenge, Y/N?” He gives you a slight wink that even you almost missed and your mouth goes dry like the Sahara desert when he reaches for his shirt. Before you realize it, you’re watching him lift his shirt over his head and expose his impressive, toned body.

Inked abs. Tatted biceps. Pecs and pierced, pink nipples you want to suck on. Your eyes run greedily down his form as takes his phone and snaps a quick picture, the flash on his phone going off. “There, happy?” he asks. Your brother shakes his head. “Post it or it ain’t happen!” he demands. Choso rolls his eyes but does as he’s told and takes a moment to type some things on his phone.

Minutes later, your and your bro’s phones go off, signaling the arrival of new notifications. Your brother erupts with laughter, throwing his head back. “There it goes!” he laughs. “Damn, Cho, you been workin’ out on your trip?”

You go to IG and sure enough, there it is: the thirst trap that is now making rounds and generating thousands of likes and horny comments below. So many people talking about how they’d let Choso fold them like lawn chairs and use their holes up. You definitely understand and relate, your mind going to crazy places as you stare at his abs and his hair that you want to yank on while he fucks you. “Damn,” you whisper.

“See somethin’ you like, Y/N?” Choso asks, his voice washing you in heat and tingles. You don’t look at him, too afraid that he’ll see you drooling or you may start fucking your brother’s laptop. You have no choice but to keep your thighs clamped shut and your mind straight despite the sips of wine you take as the game rolls on.

At some point, as time goes on, your brother gets tired and drags his drunk ass upstairs, leaving you and Choso alone. You feel like you should hang up the call and go to sleep, but you find yourself staying with your wine glass half empty. “So what are you gonna do now?” Choso asks after a beat of awkward silence. “Go to bed?” At this point, he has put his shirt back on, much to your dismay.

“I’m more interested in talkin’ to you,” you say and then flush at your boldness. Usually, you’re not afraid to shoot your shot first, but to do it to Choso so brazenly makes you feel odd. Or maybe it’s just the wine talking. “I-I mean, it’s been a minute since we’ve seen each other, y’know?”

Choso looks like he’s happy you made the first move regardless. He rests his chin on his knuckles, staring you down from behind the screen. “So what’s this about your childhood crush bein’ your bully?” he asks. You nearly choke as you sip your wine, feeling warmer and bubblier the more you drink. “Damn, you get straight to it.”

Choso flushes, his pale skin turning red. “Sorry, it’s the alcohol. I can stop if you want me to, but it’s kinda buggin’ me, especially since my childhood crush was you for so many years…which I probably wouldn’t have said if it wasn’t for the wine.”

You gape at him, shocked. “Really?” you softly ask. “I…didn’t know that.” He gives you a sheepish smile. “That’s ‘cause I didn’t want anyone to know,” he explains. “But we’re both grown and mature…most of the time, anyway. I think you can handle a little crush from when we were kids, right?”

You go quiet, letting this information wash over you. Despite the flirting you would do behind your brother’s back, it hits different when you now know that without an inch of uncertainty, he’s felt the same way about you that you have always felt about him. “Y/N?” he asks, his soothing voice pulling you back to reality. He’s looking at you with those burning, passionate eyes. “Was that V-Day card I got from you?” Whether it’s the wine or his magnetic pull, you answer him: “Yeah,” you confess.

“So that story of your bully was bullshit,” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” you repeat because what else is there to say? Choso takes a sip of his wine, still staring you down from behind his laptop. “Whatcha wanna do, Y/N?” he asks.

It’s a simple question, but the way he says it–so deep and seductive–makes something come alive inside of you. It makes your stomach flutter and your nipples harden beneath your top. He has put the ball completely in your court to either continue this little game or call it quits. You choose the latter. “I’ve got an hour before my bedtime,” you say, keeping your voice leveled. “How about another game?”

Choso looks worried. “Don’t you have that meeting tomorrow?” he asks. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on your rest.” You laugh, pouring yourself some more wine…which probably isn’t the best idea. “I once didn’t go to bed until 3 AM because I was binge-watching Korean dramas,” you giggle. “I think I can handle some rounds.”

As soon as you say it, you realize how it sounds. Choso smirks to himself, tapping his finger against his desk. “Oh, can you?” he purrs. “We’ll see. Truth or dare, then?” You choose carefully, weighing your options. “Dare,” you decide.

“I dare you to send me a pic of you in your favorite pumps,” he says without missing a beat. “If you’re comfortable with that. It can be an old pic or a new one. I ain’t picky.” He gives you a warm smile that’s supposed to be unnerving, but it only makes you feel more nervous. You weren’t expecting that dare, but then again, you opened the door to this. “O-Okay,” you stutter.

You proceed to scroll through your phone for the sexiest selfie you can find. You find one of you at a Christmas cocktail party for work in a dress that had heads turning and heels that made you feel like a straight vixen. Without a second thought, you send it over to Choso. There is a ding from his phone and, for a moment, only silence. “Did you get it?” you nervously ask.

Choso is staring at his phone, not moving an inch. “Yeah, I got it,” he answers, his voice light and breathy. “Damn, Y/N, how the fuck are you single?” His question makes butterflies flutter rapidly in your stomach.

You then get a ding from your phone and look down to see the thirst trap photo in your messages. “Oh, you sent me your thirst trap privately, huh?” you chuckle, not looking up, so you don’t see Choso taking another very risque photo of himself. “I feel so special.”

“I sent you somethin’ else too.” The way he says it is like sex to you. Sure enough, a second attachment comes in. You open it and nearly choke on your wine: Choso leaning back against his computer desk, a hand resting on the outline of his very big, very hard, and very obvious bulge beneath his pants. Your lips part in shock, your eyes widening as big as saucers.

“Too much?” he asks, worried that he went too far. As if learning how to function again, you shake your head. “No,” you exhale. “It’s just…big.” You wonder how it’d feel in your hands…or in your mouth…or in another throbbing hole that is bothering you between your thighs. “So I’ve been told,” he sniggers. “I’m guessing it’s up to your liking, then?”

You don’t know why that turns you on–the idea that he’s so interested in whether or not he turns you on–but you find yourself scrolling through your camera roll again and picking one of your faves: a mirror photo of you laid out on your bed on your stomach, your ass tooted up in the air in a thong while the rest of you is naked, your juicy breasts squished against the mattress under you. “Maybe this will tell you so,” you purr and hit send. “I had this saved in my camera ‘cause I looked so hot in it.”

Ding! Choso looks down at his phone and the way he bites his lip makes you drip. “And that you do,” he exhales. “And I’ll ask you again: how the fuck are you single? Shit, princess.”

You bite your own lip, struggling to control yourself. “You’re makin’ me blush,” you giggle. “You know, it looks much better in person.” You pause, scolding yourself and the wine for making you so damn bold.

Choso’s eyes light up with interest. “Oh, yeah?” he asks, practically tossing his phone aside. “I think I should be the judge of that.” He leans into the camera, making your heart pound. “Take that off,” he demands, nodding at your robe. “It’s just me, Y/N.”

Yes, just him. Just your brother’s best friend. Just the man you’ve known since childhood and have been crushing on for years. But something in his eyes makes you realize that you can trust him with anything. So you rise from the couch and slowly slip off your rope in front of the camera. Choso watches, drinking in every move you make. You then turn around and slip off your pants, revealing your panties swallowed by your magnificent ass to him. “Is this okay?” you softly ask.

You turn back to face him and he looks damn pained as he stares at your behind. “Fuck,” he gasps. “It’s more than okay. I’m so tempted to jump in my car and pull up right now.” You scoff with laughter, but at the look in his eyes, you can tell he’s dead-ass.

“Wait, you would?” you gasp. “But…it’s the middle of the night and we’re an hour away!” His eyes flick up to meet yours, firm and not up for the bullshit. “If it’s something you want too, I’d drive to you if you were a week away,” he softly growls, conviction in his words. “I can come over tonight, Y/N, but it’s only if you want me to.”

You gape at him, silenced. You can’t believe this is happening! This is beyond your wildest, wettest dreams! And yet your mind drifts to your brother. If you do this, will it change things? Wouldn’t he hear you? Would he find out? You’d feel so guilty if things were to change between him and Choso because of you. And yet…

“I…I want you to,” you decide. “I really do, but what about my brother?” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “If he’s wasted, he can sleep through a tornado. Nothing has to happen if you’re nervous about that, but I’d like to see you.”

And those words, sweet and considerate yet honest, are what make you fold. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Get here in sixty.” Choso nearly knocks over the table as he shoots up from his desk. “Thirty ‘cause I’ll be doing sixty,” he growls. “Don’t move from that spot.” He blows you a kiss and ends the call, leaving you feeling drunk despite not having sipped that much wine.

Already tipsy and feeling the alcohol’s effects on your body (tingly nipples; brief dizziness; horny thoughts), you switch it out with some water and sip on that while you clean up the living room. You busy yourself wiping down the kitchen countertops, straightening up the couch cushions, and cleaning up your slob of a brother’s beer cans. By the time you finish, thirty minutes have passed and anticipation hits you like a truck.

Where is he? He hasn’t called you yet. What if he’s in traffic? What if something happened? What if he changed his mind? What if–

A ding from your phone makes you jump and you race to answer it, seeing a text message waiting for you:

Chosi: Hey, I’m outside

*read at 11:12 PM*

You roughly swallow and close your robe before walking to answer the door. Choso is standing behind it when you open it, dressed in a jacket and jeans that fill him out so well. You both smile at each other, happy to see one another despite the circumstances.

“Uh, c-come in,” you stammer. He thanks you and walks inside, the scent of his cologne making your kitty purr wildly. You shut the door and shuffle behind him as he strips off his jacket. “You want somethin’ to drink?” ” you ask, nervously wringing your hands.

Choso looks back at you as he hangs up his jacket on the coat rack near the door, his arms talking to you. He turns toward you fully, giving you a good look at how tight his top is on his body. “Do you want me to have somethin’ to drink?” he questions.

You bite your lip, the silence mixed with the sexual tension too much. “No,” you breathe. He then saunters up to you, stopping when your nose is nearly brushing his chest. “I’m gonna ask you again if you want this, Y/N,” he whispers. “We can stop here and I can leave.” You look up into his eyes–those firm, beautiful eyes–and trail your hands up his chest. “No, don’t,” you plea. “Don’t leave.”

His hands softly caress your sides, moving across your waist. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs into your ear, his minty breath fanning across your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut, his seductive ways finally getting to you. “I want you,” you answer through a dry mouth. “I want this.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His lips are on yours immediately and you nearly melt. His kiss is sweet and soft yet passionate, making you feel like you’re in a Disney movie when the princess finally kisses her prince. His hands move down to your ass, squeezing it, emitting a moan from you. Pulling away, he moves down to your neck and peppers it in kisses, coaxing you to tilt your head back for more.

“You have no fuckin’ right to be this hot,” he growls against your neck. “Makin’ me feel this fuckin’ crazy.”

He pushes against you, insisting that you feel his hard-on in his jeans. “Choso, please,” you mewl. “I need you.” You grip his shirt, imploring him to understand how goddamn horny you are. He pulls away and smirks down at you, chortling. “So impatient. Did those pictures rile you up?” He doesn’t need an answer. Instead, he sits down on the couch with his leg spread, staring up at you in hunger. “Get naked for me.”

Like a puppet on a string, you do as he says and slowly take off your rope. Then it’s your top and bottoms. Then the undies. The more you take off, the harder Choso gets, forming a more obvious bulge in his pants as he stares you down. When you’re finally done and standing naked in front of him, he sits back against the cushions and pats his lap.

You feel somewhat weird about it since Choso is so much smaller than you in terms of size, but the man welcomes all of your rolls, curves, and softness when you sit down in his lap naked while he remains clothed. “Your pictures do not do you any justice, babe,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss, suck, and lap at your nipples. You moan, your hands tangling in his mullet. “So sexy,” he whispers against your nipples. “I’ve wanted to do this for so, so long.”

His fingers toy with your plushy thighs and ass, squeezing the flesh to his liking. “Me too,” you moan. He chuckles against your nipple, nibbling at it with his teeth. “Yeah? You’ve dreamed of me touchin’ you like this?” His hand is suddenly probing your thighs open to toy with your pussy, his fingers gently rubbing your clit.

You gasp, not being able to control your body. You find yourself sitting fully on his lap, your back to his front, with your legs wide open while he toys with your sobbing, wet cunt. You drip all over his jeans the more he rubs you, creating more and more wetness that floods over your pussy lips. “F-Fuck, Choso!” you whine, the pleasure just too much.

“Hush, baby,” he chuckles. “I appreciate you bein’ so responsive, but your brother is right upstairs. You wouldn’t want him to come down to find my fingers stuffed in that pussy, would you?” You’re confused, feeling his fingers still on your clit. “B-But you don’t–”

Your voice is cut off by a moan when he suddenly sticks one finger inside of you, using his palm to rub your needy, throbbing clit as he finger fucks you. “That’s better,” he laughs into your ear. “Oooh, that pussy is so tight for me. Have you been wantin’ me to this to you, baby?” He curls his finger up against your G-spot and you swear you almost cum. “Tell me,” he demands.

“Yes!” you sob. “Yes, Chosi, I wanted this so bad!” Feral, Choso moans into your ear as he feels you squeeze and squelch around his digit. “You’re too fuckin’ cute,” he says, his voice strained and rough. “I wanna see the face you make when you cum. Can you take another finger for me, babe?”

You nod and your pussy flutters around his magical finger, only getting worse when he inserts another one to fuck you silly. You cover your mouth as moans and whimpers escape you, loving how full you feel. You can only imagine how full you’d feel with his cock finally inside of you. The image brings you closer to the edge and Choso can feel it.

“Cum for me, baby, c’mon,” he coos. “Cum on your brother’s best friend’s fingers like a good little girl.” You have to bite your lip to keep from crying out when you explode all over his digits.

Your moans and cries are muffled by your mouth as you cum all over Choso’s fingers, coating him in your cream. He hums appreciatively and kisses your cheek, slowly stroking your walls as you come down from your high. He finally slips his fingers out of you and puts them up to your lips soaked in your cum. “Taste yourself.” You do so, opening your mouth and letting him insert his digits into your mouth where you swirl your tongue around them and suck on your juices.

“Shit,” Choso groans, grinding himself up into you. You gasp, feeling his hardened cock pushing against you. “I can feel that you liked that,” you giggle. He hums in agreement, gripping your hips as he continues to roll himself into you. “Can I…see it?” you carefully ask, teeming with excitement.

He coaxes you to get up off of his lap and face him. “You’ll have to take it out then,” he murmurs, giving you a stare as hot as molten lava in the dimly lit living room. “Take what you want, Y/N.”

With a fire burning inside of you, you take off his pants and boxers while he strips off his shirt, tossing it aside somewhere. When his hard, pulsing cock finally pops up, you have never been more happy to finally see a dick. He’s absolutely beautiful with smooth skin and a toned stomach leading down to that gorgeous cock.

You settle onto your knees, ready to give him head to last him into next winter. “Your knees okay?” he worriedly asks. Before you can answer, he pulls you up and sits you down on the couch. “Here, switch with me. I want you comfortable.” You flush at his sweetness, never having received such care. “Such a gentleman,” you softly laugh.

Choso gives you a sheepish smile. “I try. Now where were we?” he stands over you, appearing like an Adonis statue with tattoos and a thick cock in your face.

You stand up on your knees on the couch, your greedy hands stroking up and down his body. “Your pictures don’t do you justice either,” you purr, running your palms down his toned, well-defined abs. “How you’re single is a mystery to the world, Sho.” You wrap a hand around him, beginning to stroke his cock up and down, up and down.

Choso bites his lip, looking like he’s been waiting for this moment to finally come. “I didn’t want nobody else,” he softly moans. “I’ve always wanted you.” Overjoyed and completely horny, you give his cockhead a peck and then a kitten lick. “Tell me more,” you beg before you envelop him in your mouth. You immediately go to work, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head as you pump him in and out of your mouth.

“Fuck,” he sighs, tossing his head back. “I-I’ve always wanted you, but–oh, God, babe, yes–I never said anything in fear of ruinin’ things with your brother.” You pop off of his cock, spit connecting his head to your lower lip. “Well, he doesn’t have to know,” you whisper. “We can take things slow.” He raises a brow at you. “This is takin’ things slow?” he chuckles.

You giggle, still pumping his cock with your hand. “After this,” you laugh. “I want you too bad to stop.” You lower your mouth on him again, swallowing him whole.

“I guess a date is on the table for us then,” he groans. “Especially when you look that good on your knees.” He watches you continue to swallow his dick whole, flicking your pink tongue along the head and swirling along the throbbing vein trailing from his head to his heavy balls that you fondle.

“Look up at me,” he demands. “Keep lookin’ at me while I fuck pretty face.” You do so and open your throat, allowing him to fuck your face. He grabs the back of your head as he does so, nailing his hips into your face again and again, his balls slapping your chin. He tosses his head back, overwhelmed by the feeling of your magical mouth sucking him dry.

It doesn’t take him long to go faster, gripping your hair to allow him to pump his cock down your throat like it’s his personal toy. You feel your pussy throb at the sound of his soft moans and the gagging coming from your own mouth, wanting desperately for him to cum. “Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You ‘bout to make me cum! I-I’m gonna–”

“Choso?” your brother suddenly calls. Choso freezes and you tear yourself away from him, your stomach flipping in absolute fear. From the steps, you see the hallway light flicker on and your brother’s shadow against the wall. ‘Shit,’ you think. You try to scramble away to hide, but Choso stops you, putting a finger to his lips. “Just keep quiet,” he whispers. “And keep suckin’.”

His dark eyes flash with mischief and lust as his heavy cock bobs in your face. Tentatively, you place your lips around him again and proceed to suck on him. “Yeah, bro?” he calls, keeping his voice impressively normal. “Yeah, it’s me.” His hand once again finds your head, gently pushing you down farther to muffle the sounds of your wet, lewd sucks.

“When the fuck did you get here?” your brother asks. “Why you here?” Choso bites his lip at the sensations you’re giving him, loving how your plump lips look wrapped around his dick. “Uh…just decided to visit ‘cause I was bored in that hotel,” he lies. “Y/N let me in before she went to bed. She let me sleep on the couch after I promised to make you guys pancakes tomorrow morning.”

His hand reaches over to give your ass a quick spank, making you jump, mostly at the possibility of your brother hearing it. He doesn’t. “That’s cool with me,” he replies, sounding excited about the promise of food. “Lemme see you real quick though. I feel like it’s been ages since we–”

“No, no, don’t!” Choso panics, gripping the back of your head to keep you still. “I look real bad, man, and I wouldn’t wanna break your sleep routine. Just go back to bed! I’ll see you in the morning when we both don’t look like shit.” He and you share a wide-eyed look, both scared shitless but also not wanting to stop.

“Alright,” your brother decides. “But I want my pancakes!” You sigh in relief, feeling Choso do the same. “Alright, man, fine. Just go to bed.” You look up the stairs and see the hallway light flicker off. You stop sucking, listening intently to your brother’s footsteps as he shuffles back into his bedroom. Finally, the bedroom door closes and you hear silence. Choso pauses, waiting with bated breath.

You pop him out of your mouth and sit up, spit dribbling from your lips and your hair a mess. “He’s asleep,” you tell him. “I know: he gets real quiet when he’s asleep.” He looks beyond relieved by that, but still appears worried. “Do you wanna keep going?” he asks, wiping some spit from your lower lip. His touch burns your skin.

Your pussy throbs insistently, pushing you to give her what she needs. “Yes,” you whisper. “We just have to keep quiet.” Choso smiles, bringing you close to him. “I know a thing about quiet cumming,” he chuckles. “I don’t wanna do it down your throat though. I need you fuck you, baby…if you want that too.”

You nearly cum right there. “Yes,” you softly moan as he begins to kiss your neck. “Yes, Choso, baby, I want that.” You’ve wanted that for so, so long! So many nights of dreaming about him in your bed have finally led to this. He pulls away, giving you a look dripping with molten lust. “Get on top then,” he whispers. “I wanna see you bounce on my cock.”

You don’t need to be told twice. He lies back on the couch and keeps comfortable before patting his muscular thighs for you. Softly giggling, you get on top and straddle him before wrapping a hand around his cock and slowly guiding him toward your pussy lips. You glide his head against your slit for a moment, teasing him and earning some luscious whimpers. “Please, baby, don’t tease me,” he begs. “Just put it in.”

You shiver, loving the sound of his pathetic begging. You’re half inclined to keep going just to hear him plea and beg for your pussy, but you’re too horny to do so. So instead, you slowly slip him between your wet, slippery folds. You gasp and brace your hands against his chest, feeling him stretch you. He pauses, searching your face for any sign of pain or discomfort. “I’m okay,” you whisper, giving him a wobbly smile.

He takes your hips, holding them securely. “You take the reins then,” he says. “Ride me, baby. I’m yours, so take it like you need it.” And so you do. With his big hands gripping your hips, you begin to rock and grind against his cock while your fingers rub your clit. The sensations are indescribable. You can’t help but moan and sob at the pleasure though you have to keep each sound hushed.

Choso is losing it below you, overwhelmed by the sight of your perfect titties and stomach jiggling with every move you make. “Fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained from the sheer pleasure. “You feel so fuckin’ good on top of me. Does it feel good for you too?”

Vigorously, you nod, biting your lip so hard that you nearly draw blood. “Yes!” you whimper. “You’re so good, Choso! You feel amazing inside me!” The proud smile that stretches across Choso’s face is almost comical, loving that it’s his cock making you feel this good. For so long, he’s wondered how you’d feel and look fucking him. And now that he finally has it, he’s going to make it last.

He sits up and holds you flush against him, your titties squishing against his chest and his cock sinking deeper into you. Your jaw goes slack and you have to cover your mouth to keep from wailing out in pleasure. “Keep it down, baby doll,” he chuckles in your ear. “You wouldn’t want your bro to come downstairs and see you gettin’ that pussy filled by his buddy, would you?”

You don’t answer, too busy riding him like a stolen car and rubbing your clit against his pelvis. He fucks you back, moaning and whimpering into your ear while his cock drives into you again and again, hitting a spot inside of you that turns you into an animal. You grip his shoulders and back, digging your nails into him. Your nails dig into his back so hard that they puncture his skin and leave long, jagged, angry red lines up and down his back muscles.

If Choso is in any pain, he pretends like he isn’t. Instead, he just keeps fucking you, grinding his hips into yours in one passionate, pleasurable, sweaty dance that quickly sends you over the edge.

“Choso,” you whine. “I’m gonna cum! I-I can’t…” Your voice dies, too lost in the blinding ecstasy. “Bite me,” he demands. His dark eyes stare into yours, begging you. “C’mon, baby, it’s okay. I fuckin’ want it.”

Though alarmed, the pleasure begins to reach its peak, especially when Choso tells you to lean back and begins to rub your clit in small, fast circles. “Cum for me, Y/N,” he whispers. “Do it. Give it to me.” To muffle your moans, you do as he says and bite his shoulder, sinking your teeth into the skin so hard that you break skin.

Choso grunts at the pain, but you also feel him throb and grow harder inside you. Could it be possible that he likes that freaky shit? You have no time to wonder as your orgasm washes over you, making you buck and writhe in his arms. He holds you against him, giving you something to grab onto as the mindblowing orgasm finally fades. “Better?” he chuckles.

You blink at him, your vision adjusting, and finally see the bloody bite mark on his shoulder. “No!” you gasp. “Look at your skin! I’m so–”

“Don’t.” Choso shakes his head, firm and dead serious. “I love that shit. Seein’ you like that was so fuckin’ hot.” Once again, you feel his cock throb inside you and shudder. So he is a freak!

“I can feel that,” you purr. “You’ll need help with that, won’t you?”

Choso looks so happy that you even volunteered. “Turn around,” he demands, his voice low and intoxicating. With a soft moan, you slip off of him and twist around so your ass is in his face. He gives you another spank before dipping down to lightly run his teeth against the soft, fleshy globes and nibble on them. Ass bites. How did he know you love ass bites?!

His ministrations get your pussy throbbing again, especially when he holds his cock up for you to settle down on. “Sit on it,” he whispers and you do, both of you gasping as his cock sinks into your pussy that is even wetter from your second orgasm. “I’m gonna cum you till I cum, okay?” he breathlessly asks. “Can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” you whimper, the last word slipping out. That makes Choso go completely feral. He doesn’t talk for a while as he fucks you stupid from the back, but he doesn’t have to. The way he grips your shit and nails his hips into your backside makes your pussy talk to him, your walls squeezing and gushing around his thick cock. You have to bite a cushion to keep from wailing like a banshee at the way he’s fucking you from behind, the soft clapping of your ass against his thighs making you crazy.

He then tugs you toward him so your back is to his front as he continues to fuck you. His lips attach themselves to your neck, sucking harshly at your tender skin. You weakly moan at the feeling, wincing slightly when his teeth bite into your skin a little too hard. You feel a wetness that Choso quickly licks away, peppering you with kisses.

“You’re so perfect,” he groans, his breath tinged with the metallic scent of your blood. “So fuckin’ mine. I wanna cum in this pussy so bad.”

You can feel it. And you want it. “Do it,” you plea. “Please, Choso, cum in me! I’m so close!” Your hand begins to rub your swollen clit once more, desperate to cum with him.

Luckily, it doesn’t take too long and Choso warns you when it happens. He grips you tight to him and ruts into you like an animal, whining as he does. “Gonna cum!” he pants. “Gonna fuckin’ cum in you! Take it all!”

His cum erupts inside of you like a warm river flooding your insides. He muffles his moans by pressing his face into your neck, gripping your body tight to him as if he is afraid you’ll disappear. You cum right after him, triggered by his slutty sounds, and dig your face into the cushion as you moan and sob. Your pussy flutters and squelches around him as you cream around his cock, creating a ring around the base that marks him as yours. Yours. Finally.

Once your orgasms fade, you share a chaste, exhausted kiss and he gently slips out of you, causing all of his cum to drip down your thighs. Quickly, he grabs a few tissues from the kitchen and cleans you up before tossing them in the trash. Once finished, he lies on his side with you facing him, both of you taking up the couch. “Wow,” he pants, his toned body still soaked in sweat.

You slowly nod, the gravity of what you just did sinking in. “Yeah,” you chuckle. “You’ll have to visit more often on business trips.” He chuckles at your little joke, but his smile quickly fades. “So…you’re okay with this?” he carefully asks. “With us?” He looks down at you, worry in his soulful eyes.

You weigh your options for a moment, understanding what is at stake here…but the feeling of his heart pounding against your fingertips sways you to the side of temptation and what could possibly be. “I am if you are,” you murmur, too embarrassed to look up at him. “I mean, of course, we can go slow if you want. I know we just did that, but we were also tipsy and–”

“Stop,” he interrupts, pressing a finger to your lips. You look up into his eyes and feel like you’re falling. “I want whatever you want, Y/N, and if you’re okay with us being together despite your brother, then I’m down for it. I’ve been wanting this for so long.” And to hear that makes you realize that you’ve made the right choice. With a happy giggle, you lean up to kiss him before cuddling him tight. “I want that too,” you whisper, snuggling into his chest.

You feel warm, kept, and safe. As he snuggles in close to you, you smile as you drift off to sleep and continue smiling as the night goes on. You stay like that, the two of you, until the morning comes and Choso leaves you to sleep while he gets dressed and goes to the kitchen to whip up the pancakes he promised your brother the night before.

You awaken on the couch, naked with the sun pouring through the blinds. Immediately, you remember: your meeting! You look at the clock, sighing in relief when you find that it’s only 6 AM. You have time. You won’t be fired!

You hear Choso in the kitchen whisking pancake batter and sizzling eggs in a pan. The scent of breakfast cooking coaxes you off of the couch and you grab your rope before slowly walking upstairs. The ache of your body and the muscles that you haven’t used in a minute makes you smile to yourself, loving that this ache is from something other than the gym.

You’re glad you decided to cover yourself up when you run into your brother standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth in his sweats. “Hey, you,” you greet him. “You’re up early? You got a girl comin’ over or somethin’?”

He smirks at you, his mouth coated in foam. “Nah, Choso promised me pancakes.” His eyes flick up and down your form. “Why are you up early?” You tap your wrist where an imaginary watch sits. “Meeting, remember? So hurry up with that so I can brush my teeth.” You turn to walk into your bedroom, needing some deodorant and fresh clothes.

“And cover them hickeys,” your brother adds. You immediately stop, frozen.

“As happy as I am that you finally bit the bullet and got together with Choso after pinin’ after him for so long, I’m sure your boss would ask questions.” You turn and look at him, finding him smiling knowingly at you from the bathroom.

“Breakfast is ready!” Choso calls. “Come down if you wanna eat!”

Your brother laughs at you as he shuts the bathroom door, leaving you standing there in a deer in headlights. Well…at least he isn’t mad.

THE END.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my fic shit #my works #black coded reader #jjk smut #choso x black!reader #choso smut #jjk choso #choso x female reader #choso x chubby reader

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thesassypadawan · 11 months ago

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Not A Date *part 1* (Hayden x FemReader)

Summary: You never thought you would get an opportunity like this! Not only are you doing your internship on the set of Revenge of the Sith, but you also get to work one-on-one with Hayden. Who you can’t tell if he’s just being nice or if it’s something a little more than that. Hope you lovelies also enjoy part 2!

Warnings: None, just pure fluff.

Notes: A little something for @jediskywalkerblog! I really enjoyed writing this, made me feel all warm and giggly! Hope you like it!

- “Good morning, angel,” Hayden smiles at you in the mirror.

- “Good morning to you too, Hay,” you giggle, grinning back at him.

- You never thought you would get an opportunity quite like this! Not only are you doing your internship with an actual movie makeup artist! But the set you’re working on just so happens to be for the newest Star Wars film, Revenge of the Sith! One of your absolute favorite movie franchises!

- Storing your bag under the counter, you notice two to-go cups of coffee sitting there. Taking one for yourself, you hand him the other. Humming an appreciative, “Thank you.” Then proceeding to snatch his hat and placing it on your own head. “You won’t be needing this.”

- The best part about all of this though, was meeting and working with him.

- “Anytime, always happy to make you smile,” he replies all cutely, accepting his own cup. “And keep it, it looks good on you.”

- You can feel your face grow warm and you pull the brim down a bit.

- From day one he’s been like this with you. Bringing your favorite drink in the morning, so ‘you can start your day out right’. Taking all his lunch breaks with you, because ‘food tastes better when you have good company’. Waiting for you to be done for the day, even if he finished hours before, so you two could ‘just hangout’.

- He’s so sweet and kind to you. Everything he does is amazing. You want to believe he has a thing for you, but that little voice inside your head keeps telling you… There’s no way a guy like him would want a plain, boring girl like you.

- Clearing his throat, your snapped out of you thoughts. “So we’re still on for watching the cup game tonight, right?”

- Yet another wonderful thing about Hay, he loves hockey as much as you. The minute he found out; he insisted you watch every playoff game with him. Despite your team not qualifying and his losing in the conference semifinals…you two still have a great time.

- Before you can even think of what to say, the words come spilling out of your mouth. “Heck yeah! It’s a date!”

- You don’t know how, but you somehow turn even redder. And your heart, it just about explodes when you notice the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks. “Yeah, it’s a date.

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- You try your best to focus on your work, but your mind keeps wandering. ‘A date?! With him?! Nope, no way! There is no way in hell this is a date! No way, NO WAY!’

- You hurry to gather up your things, including your new hat. Which you quickly pop on, before practically running out the door. Reminding yourself over and over that this wasn’t a…

- There was Hayden, waiting like always. Wearing a huge smile, with a single red rose in hand. “Ready for our date, angel?”

- Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shyly accept the flower. Always so good to you. Maybe, just maybe. “Sure, but I have to ask you something first.”

- Gathering your courage, you place a hand on his chest and gaze up into those deep, blue eyes. “This…what is this exactly? What am I to you?”

- He cups your cheek, rubbing it gently with his thumb. All the while wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in close. “You’re as much mine as I am yours.”

- “That’s all I need to know,” you whisper. Standing on your tip toes, you boldly press your lips against his.

- Hay’s lips are plump and oh so soft. Sweet with a hint of a smokey flavor. And, as crazy as it sounds, you could swear that you feel sparks fly between you two.

- Parting for air, he rests his forehead against yours. “Been waiting to do that for a while,” he chuckles.

- “Yeah, same here,” you giggle.

- You never thought you would get an opportunity quite like this! Not only are you doing your internship with an actual movie makeup artist! But you’re also getting to work with your boyfriend!

- Taking his hand into yours, you give a small tug. “Come on, you big dork, we’re missing the game.”

- Nodding, he happily follows along. “All right, little dork, let’s go. By the way, care to make a bet for the game?”

- “What did you have in mind?”

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen fanfiction #hayden christensen fluff #anakin skywalker #anakin #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #star wars anakin #sw anakin #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin fanfiction #anakin fluff #star wars #star wars prequels #star wars fanfiction #star wars fluff #fluff #fluffy fanfic

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trentcrimminallybeautiful · 2 months ago

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i was talking about how i like to have s1 trent get his brains kissed out (bc he deserves it) and also how if it's ted like. the earlier in the season it is the funnier it becomes. when you're not taking it too seriously. ANYWAY. and now i'm thinking about like. okay, so, ted charms trent pretty early. obviously. he wins him over in episode three, with the interview, but i think he was already at least a little bit reluctantly charmed by his second press conference in episode two. now, i've done plenty of scenarios where they meet pre-canon/ep1 for whatever reason, and i've done plenty where they end up kissing/become closer than in canon during s1. usually during or after episode three. however i am now thinking of what would happen if they somehow met, in a relatively in private, non-professional, one-on-one (or with only their kids, no other adults?) context, etc, between episode one and two, when trent's opinion of him is at the lowest it ever gets (and honestly, probably vice versa, too). and i am just... spinning that.

because, i mean. you know ted's gonna charm him. even if he isn't trying quite as hard without the interview giving him a direct reason, he's gonna charm him. just by being his kind, goofy self, he's gonna charm him, and without the interview to give context and reason to be talking professionally--assuming they are still talking and not avoiding each other, for whatever contrived reason--it's gonna put poor trent in such a snit. liking ted personally, so much, and not knowing how to handle it because as far as he's concerned, this is still someone who is putting the team and everyone who cares about it in a bad situation, but also, even after talking to the man for a few hours, it's already hard to believe he would do that. trent catching on to the fact ted lasso is smarter than he pretends, catching on to the fact that nice and kind and positive attitude is at least mostly if not completely and utterly sincere, and all that--just a little bit earlier. not enough to really make a difference in canon but. idk man. a) assuming this is a barely canon divergent thing it's just kind of fun to imagine that happening b) however back on my s1 trent gets kissed agenda i have literally no idea what circumstances could possibly arise to make that happen however i am CACKLING at the thought.

ANYWAY, back to the point: i just think there's something kind of compelling about that. between episodes one and two, when both of them have the lowest opinion of the other they will ever have, meeting in some innocuous way and being helplessly, unwillingly charmed. ted sees That One Reporter outside the press room only he's affectionately wrestling a frog hat onto a small child, grinning at her when she boops his nose, and can't help a smile at the reminder that even the coldest, rudest people are people, capable of kindness and goofiness, and he hadn't forgotten but it's still nice to see. trent, confronted with the full blast beam of The Lasso Effect right to the face and up close and outside of the press room, away from where he feels most confident, off duty and balance, sans notebook and pen, stumbling just a little into awkwardness, the edge of rudeness that comes from dislike that's tempered by some standard of british politeness and a hint of confusion and then quickly melted away entirely into utter bewilderment and oddly endeared charm, because what. trent crimm has no idea what to think of him. ted finds he actually likes trent, quite a bit--their conversation, however odd, had been entertaining, and despite their, uh, eventful, less-than-ideal first impression, ted may or may not have a favorite journo suddenly. because that sharp-cutting no-holds-barred journo from the press room is also strangely warm, and perpetually bewildered at the smallest kindnesses, and a good dad, nevermind that ted's heart is aching interacting with little kids like that.

idk man i'm just going in circles here i'm rotating and spinning because something something each seeing a better side to the other just a teensy bit earlier and it doesn't really change that much in the long run, unless it does; something something ted has only seen trent once, at his worst, being outright hurtful, and now here they are outside of that context, and trent has only reasons to think ted's incompetent, careless, greedy, an asshole, or some combination of the four, and yet here they are, and just. idk man! something

#also again if somehow we can wrestle this into them kissing that would be SUPER funny.#that would NOT happen in canonverse but like consider: it'd be funny #also pretend they're both already divorced in that scenario #ANYWAY #tedependent #gertspeak #ted x trent #tedtrent #ted/trent #i feel like i ahve more to add but im not sure what so maybe later

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writing-whump · 7 months ago

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Hi Sol! I was really interested to see Isaiah's reaction to learning about the car accident and I wondered if he is suppressing some of his emotions about it? Any chance for a little fic seeing him feeling more upset than he's showing Arnie, and maybe getting sick over it? Could he go to Seline for comfort? Thank you as always for your wonderful writing!

Oh, he is definitely suppressing his emotions very much. This is a great idea, thank you, Lis!

Have some stress sick Isaiah with Seline as caretaker.

Stress sick

Isaiah came home to an empty apartment.

After the chaos and excitement on the full streets and then the whole mission of getting Arnie home giving him focus, the silence was deafening.

He braced himself with his back against the table, suddenly strangely out of sorts at what to do.

There was no one to greet. There was no one to rescue.

There was no one to keep appearances for.

He blinked a few times. His chest felt numb as it did when he experienced something upsetting and had to keep functioning, letting the mask of calmness and the ice cover him enough to do it.

It had been like that for years, since his Executioner training with father. He still found it useful.

But the reality of what Arnie told him...of them both in a car accident....of Hector so tired of healing to the point he was sleeping it off for days already...Arnie getting migraines since he was 13...basically since Isaiah left...could it be related, could that been his doing? And why didn't they call him right away when they had a crash? Why wasn't he there?

Could he really just have lost them...in an unnoticed, mundane moment of a car crash? Gone from one moment to the next through something he couldn't prevent, that he didn't know of, wasn't even there?

Unexpected death.

There was a hole in his stomach at the thought, at the reminder.

The way their mother died. The apartment smelled of her life, her nightgown draped on the bed, the teacup she drank from just a few hours ago in the living room. The handbag she forgot on the table. Just...gone.

Isaiah felt his knees wobbling, leaning more into the table to keep himself upright. His stomach clenched together like a fist, like it wanted to shrivel up inside him.

Just as he felt the nausea crawling up the back of his throat, the door opened.

"Isaiah! You home?" Seline whirled inside, shrugging off her shoes and coat in her hurry to get to him. "You won't believe what happened today!"

She found him in the kitchen, a bright smile on her face. It didn't fit the reality in Isaiah's mind at all.

"You know the abstract for the article that I made you read? It got accepted! I was chosen as one of the speakers at the conference!" Her eyes were sparkling with joy and pride, going from stormy blue to sea blue of a sunny morning.

"I'm going to present my research in Czech Republic!" She crashed into him, hugging him around the neck. He bend down to let her, wrapping his arms around her in return.

Seline pressed a kiss against his lips, leaning away. "Can you believe it? I was there last year at the conference and now I'm actually contributing to it."

Her arms went down his back and pushed herself against him, squeezing his stomach in the process. It gurgled at the pressure, tightening.

Isaiah's shoulders hitched as his cheeks blew out with air, but he managed to stiffle it. His stomach cramped and he did his best to not double over, but the flood of emotion and pain were still out there. This caught him off guard.

Seline looked up at him, smile still dazzling and ignorant in her delight, kissing him. Deeply.

A rush of bubbles went up his throat and he couldn't react quickly enough, his lips pried open by hers. The burp rushed right out between their mouths.

He jumped away from her in panic, pressing his hand against his mouth. Too late. "God, excuse me- I'm-" He burped again, his stomach sloshing angrily with the heavy lunch he had before everything went to hell.

Seline watched him in confusion, pressing her hand against her lips. Her cheeks turned pink as she stared at him. Her eyes went wide.

Isaiah was mortified beyond his worst nightmares. He just burped into her mouth as she was kissing him.

"I'm so sorry, Seline, I-" Isaiah turned his back to her, not being able to stand her gaze. He gripped one of the chairs hard for support. He felt woozy from the horror and his stomach was cramping hard, sending out another string of muffled burps.

"It's okay," she said, sounding dazed. "I'm sorry, I didn't- what's wrong? Do you feel sick?"

"I- I just-" He doubled over the chair, squeezing his eyes shut. The nausea was climbing up his throat and his stomach felt bloated, pressing against his button up and pants and suit and he just did the most unthinkable thing and the accident happened and he-

Another loud wet burp snuck its way out of his throat, announcing a pressing need for the bathroom.

He stumbled towards it, feeling drunk. Sweat sprang up on his skin, his clothes gluing themselves to him immediately.

He knelt down in front of the toilet, opening his mouth. His stomach felt so full, pushing up gas. All the food he ate was sloshing and churning angrily in his belly as it clenched.

The next burp echoed through the whole bathroom as it hit the tiles.

Then he felt cold careful hands on his nape. "Baby. You are feeling sick, aren't you. Poor thing."

Isaiah belched loudly into the toilet. "Go away, please. I don't want you-"

"Shhhh. I'm not going anywhere. You can't expect me to leave you alone like this."

For some reason that had his eyes burning. "I'm sorry, I'm so gross, I-"

"You can't help it. It's alright, nothing happened. I should have noticed sooner. I can be so stupid sometimes."

"No, you are not," he spat into the bowl, panting for breath. "I'm really happy for you, that's amaz-" He shut his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled through him, groaning quietly inside his mouth.

Seline tugged at the collar of his suit jacket. "Let's get you out of these clothes."

Isaiah didn't feel like he could lift his head up. His stomach was churning up a storm and he felt like he could throw up any second. So he let her pull his suit off, one arm at a time.

She even left to put it on rack so it wouldn't get wrinkled, which had appreciative warm spreading over him. He should have thought of that too, that was a suit he really liked.

Seline returned quickly, kneeling down at his side and went to work on unbuttoning his shirt. Her next move was to unzip his pants.

Isaiah felt himself reddening at that. His stomach ballooned out immediately and he sighed in relief as the pressure eased off.

Seline kissed his temple, her hand scratching his sweaty back over the open shirt. "What brought this on? Did you eat something bad?"

He swallowed back the flood of saliva, leaning his forehead against the rim of the toilet. That had her folding up a towel, gently lifting his head up so she could put it under his face to cushion it.

"Just-" he burped loudly, wincing at the sound, "just stress. I'm being so lame, I'm sorry-"

"Don't you apologize for having feelings," she said sternly. "You went out with Arnie today, right? Did it not go well?"

"It was- it was fine, we had fun," he spit up some residual drool, tensing under her hand as another cramp hit him. "Arnie...Arnie told me- they were in a car accident. Three-three days ago." It felt even worse saying it out loud.

Her hand rubbed steady circles on his back. He followed the sensation internally, trying to get the words out. "They had- they almost died. Hector had been recovering from healing- and Arnie could have- can you imagine if he was the one-?" Isaiah wrapped his hands around his stomach as it twisted. It felt like being stabbed with a bunch of knives right in the middle.

Seline brushed his sweaty black hair behind his ear.

"And-and I couldn't- I didn't- when would I have found out? Why didn't they call me- what if-" He gagged at the words, once and twice, stomach slamming against his ribs.

Seline pressed her face against his shoulderblades on the left and he felt a bit reassured by the contact, but the words still ushered up a string of burps. Each was a little wetter at the end and his stomach was still twisting from the knives, the nausea unbearably high. He felt like he was drowning as he burped up some more bile.

"Shhhhh. But they are alright. It's over. You don't have to be afraid of what could have happened, because it already didn't."

He wanted to nod, he wanted to accept that, find any comfort in it, but he burped up a mouthful of acid and bile instead, shuddering.

"I could have lost them," he whined, his head buried in the bowl. He couldn't imagine himself being more gross and for once he didn't care. The panic, the sense of loss and fear constricted his chest.

Her hand on his back stilled, changing directions. It wasn't just a rub. Now it was gentle patting against his upper back. "Let it out, baby. You will feel better."

As if that was the permission he needed to hear, he burped, his whole body heaving as it brought up a small amount of liquid. It started the process alright, his stomach clenching and uncleching as he projectile vomited his whole lunch into the bowl.

He heaved and heaved, thick chunky waves of food and liquid. Seline rubbed his back the whole time, her touch something to focus on as he lost control of his body. His back arched with the strength of the heaves.

He burped up a few more liquid mouthfuls before slumping down against the folded towel in exhaustion. He whined quietly as his stomach still cramped. "I don feel good."

Seline lifted herself on her knees to reach the sink, letting the water run. Then she bend down over him, her hands wet with cold water, putting them against his cheek. "Shhh. I know baby, I know. I'm so sorry. You will feel better in a minute."

As if to prove her wrong, he gagged emptily, turning his head back towards the toilet in time to burp up another wave of liquid.

He heaved and heaved, retasting all the dessert and soup all over, reaching all the way to his breakfast.

He felt her palms against his back as she leaned into him, murmuring little nothings in his ear. "You are doing so well. Almost over. Everything is okay."

After what felt like eternity of heaving, spitting and gagging, he finally felt like he could unwrap his hands from his middle, the knives melting into a puddle of sharp bubbling rocks in his gut.

He folded his hands on the toilet, blowing up some more burps to the side, away from her.

Seline kissed the side of his face still, like he wasn't the most disgusting display of man she had ever seen. Then she planted a kiss into his hair at the back fo his head. "All better now. Think we could get back to the room? We should get you out of these, darling."

Isaiah let her push him away from the toilet, feeling spend and empty and thankfully not as nauseous anymore. His stomach still hurt, in the relaxed way after puking when it felt like it was punched and his throat was burning and tasted like burned potatoes. "Ugh."

She wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling him up and he followed the movement. They stumbled out of the bathroom a little unsteadily, but her clear sense of direction helped him navigate.

They were both panting as they finally flopped down on his bed. She stripped him off his open shirt and pants, looking through his neatly organised cupboard. "Do you have anything lose fitting and comfy at all?"

He let himself fall to the side on the bed, grateful for how cold and soft the cushions were. "No," he said with a quiet snort.

Seline shook her head in exasperation. "At least I know what kind of gift you need now." She put the covers over him, then crawled into the bed beside him to press herself against his back.

"How are you feeling?"

Feeling her warmth and scent behind him, he closed his eyes. "Messed up. Tired. Very embarrassed tomorrow."

She kissed the back of his neck at that. "Scratch that off the to-do-list. It's okay. It's just me."

Her hand rested on top of his shoulder before running gently down to his elbow and back up. He sighed, melting under her fingers.

He could almost sleep, before another thought had his stomach dropping painfully. "Arnie is having migraines," he said quietly.

Seline propped herself up on her elbow to get a view of his face. "Since then?"

"Since he was 13. Or 12." He took a shuddering breath. "Probably since I left."

They were silent for a long minute.

"You can't blame yourself for that. It didn't have to be you. He lost his mother, he is human in a very competive wolf pack, he-"

"He had enough going on without me leaving them both on top," he said with a quiet sob. How was he supposed to live with that? That he caused the kid so much pain?

"I thought I was helping. I thought getting rid of father would put them both-" he took another quick breath, stomach gurgling loudly. Another small burp got out. He felt like he could start throwing up all over again.

"Shhhhh," her hand was in his hair again, pressing herself even closer to him from behind. "It wasn't your fault. You did the best you could about an awful situation that had no right answers. And you know why there wasn't any right solution?"

He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, gagging emptily against it. "No?"

"Because it wasn't your fault. It wasn't your responsibility. You were all children, it wasn't the job of either of you to save the other. There was nothing more or better or right that you could have done. All three of you had it hard." She wrapped her hands around his chest. "Impossibly hard."

He sagged back against the bed, curling into himself. He reached for her hands, pushing them against his racing heart, as if she could keep him together. His fingers intertwined with hers.

"Hold me like this?" he whispered.

Her grip on his hands tightened. "Always."

#sickfic #emeto #vomiting #stress sick #hurt/comfort #whump #whump writing #werewolf wip #Isaiah #angst

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yuzurujenn · 1 year ago

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[2023.07.27] ANA Captain Yuzuru Hanyu’s Journey – Special Interview

(Filmed: 27 July 2023, Archive released: 27 Sept- 17 Dec 2023)

Ladies and gentlemen, Star Alliance members, thank you for boarding ANA’s special flight to Sendai. I am Yuzuru Hanyu, the captain of this flight, and your flight will be departing shortly. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened. Today's flight time is scheduled to be about 1 hour. Well then, let's go on a special journey with me.

-Thank you for having me. How are you spending this hot summer?

-Summer huh... I don't go out much, but I feel like I'm busy every day doing creative work, training, and taking on various offers. Actually, the condition of the ice at the skating rink has gotten quite bad, so in that sense, I'm getting anxious because it's taking a long time to get to the right conditions. It's a restless season for me.

Is the skating rink also affected by the season?

-Yes, as the indoor temperature inevitably rises, the ice will melt, it will become loose, the strength will weaken, and so on, so I spend the summer thinking that it's going to be a challenge.

It’s been 1 year since you turned professional. How do you feel now?

-When I had the press conference, I was very nervous. I remember that scene very well. After the press conference was over, it was on this very day that I approached MIKIKO-sensei to direct the show, it was also the day that I met MIKIKO-sensei for the first time. In a way, it was a day that determined my "GIFT", and then "Notte Stellata", "Fantasy on Ice", and various ice shows. I think it was the day that Yuzuru Hanyu's future was decided.

Has the past year been long?

-I think that this one year was quite short. So many things happened. There were a lot of things going on and I didn’t really have time to catch my breath, so the year seemed too short. But when I say 365 days, if I look at each one of them, each day carries its own weight, I think I’ve spent fulfilling time every day.

Yuzuru Hanyu's new journey begins with "Prologue" (2022.11)

"Prologue" (2022.11) Yuzuru Hanyu's first solo ice show after turning professional

When I made "Prologue", the first thing I thought about was that there was something called "GIFT" that was like the main story, and I wanted this to be a prelude to it. I thought it would be nice by looking back on my life, it will remind them of this when they see “GIFT”, so I created ‘Prologue’ to serve as an introduction to explain the story. In fact, when I finally finished "GIFT" to the end, I really thought that it was like a prologue to my current life now. I feel once again that I want to do my best so that I can continue to produce various chapters of the main story, like the first chapter, the second chapter, the third chapter, and so on.

It was also the prologue of your life, right?

-In fact, initially I just had "GIFT" in mind when I was creating it. However, the story changed in many ways as I progressed and started to skate, and I also received various thoughts from fans. As I went along with the story and the programs, various values emerged in my mind. Through this process I felt like my life as a professional skater had gradually started all over again.

Tokyo Dome performance “GIFT” (2023.2.26)

The first solo Tokyo Dome performance by a skater, Yuzuru Hanyu's life and future on the ice

-It feels like it happened a long time ago, right? But it’s only been half a year, it's strange honestly. If someone says that two or three years have passed, I would believe that indeed that much time has passed. To that extent, I feel that I have done something where I left my soul in the work.

What kind of "GIFT" did you receive from fans?

-Well, I'm a pessimistic person, I think negatively about a lot of things, and I have various constraints within myself, but I realised my existence can also be of use to someone. I think this realisation is the gift that I’ve received from everyone. During the show, there were various effects, lighting, and the light from the wristbands that everyone was wearing. Whenever I saw these, among the 35,000 lights, even if it was just one person, if it makes them feel some colour or emotion for a moment in this world, then it makes me think that my existence is a good thing.

[There were many things that I couldn't do, but little by little, I could do more. Each time, the world became warmer. I loved that world. That’s why I wanted to become warmer and warmer, by learning to do more - Quote from [GIFT] narration]

-When I looked back on my life so far, I had this image of being involved in skating and have been living with skating, but when I dug deeper into why I chose skating, I realised that I liked that world when skating went well. I wondered how I could convey this feeling to everyone, regardless of age or gender, in an abstract way. If the whole world could be like the warm world that I am talking about, then maybe everyone could be kinder. I chose those words with this in mind.

Did you enjoy directing?

-It's fun, but at the same time I feel like I have to dig into a lot of things within myself, and in the process, I found that I've been carrying all kinds of walls within me or I've neglected some issues. So that is tough, but I'm sure by reflecting on myself deeper in this way, I can purify my thoughts. The various suffering you may be carrying, such as pain or loneliness, I hope that if I show you my own heart, it can be an opportunity for everyone to re-examine their hearts a little more closely. This is what I think about most now that I am involved in production and direction.

YUZURU HANYU x [TRAVEL]

-Physically, traveling to different countries or other places was only for competitions or expeditions. In that sense, I may not have ‘travelled’, but I often went abroad, and even went to many places in Japan for competitions. Even now, I go to many places to perform in ice shows.

What do you bring on board a plane?

-Earphones, audio player, battery, a game console, what else, supplements, I think. It's heavy every time. There were batteries and various cables, and there were about 5 earphones in the case, so every time the inspectors from overseas would ask, "What are these?” I will be stopped.

5 earphones are too much, isn’t it?

-Maybe there are too many cables.

How do you spend your time on board?

-For example, when it comes to traveling before a competition or a show, I would spend most of my time thinking about the time difference, stretching, jet lag, and so on. I would calculate these things, considering how much sleep I could get and also making adjustments to make sure that I could get the right amount of sleep. But on the way back, I would be completely free. Since I could spend my time as I wanted, I would play games of course, but I also liked to look back on my performances during the expedition, or look at the clouds outside the window, the sun above the clouds, and the way the light reflects off the clouds.

Do you prefer the aisle seat or the window seat?

-I like the seat next to the window. I think it's great that airplanes can go above the clouds, even if it's cloudy or rainy. Of course, there are times thick clouds will make it difficult to reach above, and there may be a turbulence, but you know that there is always a sun above the clouds during the day, and there is the moon at night, I really think that is a unique sight on the plane. The rays of the sun, or the light of the moon reflecting through the gaps or the uneven surface of the clouds really look like a scenery out of this world. No two sceneries are ever the same, they change every 0.1 second. I think there must be some meaning in having encountered such a scenery. I like spending my time on the plane like this.

What are your memories of your travel time?

-When I was a student, I spent a lot of time on airplanes doing reports or research. When I had to travel from Canada to Japan or other countries, I had a lot of time, so during those times I tried to finish my assignments on the plane so that I could concentrate on my performance. Of course there were people around me, but when it was dark and I only had my book and reading lamp on, I felt as if I was in my own space, so I was able to concentrate and relax while doing my assignments.

What's your routine for the day you depart on a trip?

-When I go on a travel, usually there must be a competition scheduled, so I try to clean my room as much as possible before I leave, not to make a wish, but to prepare myself for the performance. After all, tidying up the room is like a time for me to put my thoughts and feelings in order. Especially when I pack, things tend to get messy, so I try to keep it as clean as possible. Yes, I try to tidy up every time before leaving.

It's amazing how you can tidy up when you have the least time.

-It’s really hectic, but on the contrary, I will feel uneasy if it is not organised. Sometimes I’d think about ‘I didn’t tidy up here, will I make a mistake in my performance?’. I’ll get caught up in the thought. So, every time I’ll point my finger to confirm and say, ‘Ah, this is sorted, that is sorted’. It is always like this.

FLIGHT LOG: What does "journey" mean to Yuzuru Hanyu?

A mirror to know yourself

Finding a mirror in the middle of life

-For example, it's really difficult to feel your own existence in the dark. If you were to stand somewhere with all five senses gone, and stay there for hours, you would lose track of who you are, you couldn't touch anything, you couldn't feel anything. After such an experience, when you go outside and feel various things, you can really feel that you are alive, can't you? That's an extreme example, but I think that maybe we’re experiencing the same thing in life. As we live our lives feeling all kinds of things, I'm sure that at some point we’d feel lonely and become isolated, and there must be something that can only be felt because we’ve been in the darkness once. I think that it's because we're able to feel such things that we come to understand our own existence. Those stories and events are like mirrors, and we live our lives searching for where that "mirror" is. I think that this is the so-called journey of life.

- (Wearing the captain’s uniform) It's embarrassing, it's embarrassing. I don't get a chance to wear this often, so I'm very nervous. It's so embarrassing.

What is the key point to distinguish a captain’s uniform?

-Line?

Yes, the captain's uniform has 4 lines, and the co-pilot's uniform has 3 lines.

-It definitely has a weight to it. It makes me nervous, and excited at the same time.

With Hanyu dressed as the captain, let’s move to the next scene!

(Virtual Tour)

-Wow, awesome. This is fantastic. It’s so dreamy. Wow, I can feel the Earth.

How many countries have you been to so far?

-About 16. I went to many places in Europe in my junior years, like Bulgaria, Poland, Croatia, and more recently Sweden. I guess a lot of European countries. Of course, I also went to Canada, the U.S., and Russia. There were people who I competed with and improved together in these places.

Where was your first international competition?

-The first time I participated in a competition was in Finland. Tampere, Finland. Ah, I found it, it’s so big (points to the map).

[Tampere, Finland. Finland's second largest city. Since it can be accessed from the capital Helsinki in as little as one and a half hours, it is a popular city for day trips. You can enjoy nature while cruising the lakes and rivers.]

-I was 9 years old, and I celebrated my birthday in the airplane. I turned 10.

On the plane?

-Yes. I'm not sure if it was on the way there or on the way back, but I was told that I could see the Northern Lights. I wanted to see it, but I was on the aisle side so I couldn't see it at all. I really wanted to see it.

Was there any celebration on the plane?

-No, not at all. At that time, even though it was before my birthday, I already had my birthday present in my hands. I thought it was a great event. My birthday was on December 7th, and I left on the 6th, but I was really happy to have the birthday present already. I was feeling like “Not until the 7th, it's not my birthday yet, so I shouldn't open it yet”.

What were your memories of your first international competition?

-It was my first international competition and I was very confident, but in fact, I was competing in a category higher than usual. Generally speaking, it would have been impossible to win, but I won somehow. It was the ‘Santa Claus Cup’, so all the judges were dressed up as Santas. That was very memorable.

So Santa Claus gave you the score?

-Yes. Back then, the scoring system was different from now. They were holding up scoreboards with a score of 4.3. It was a great competition like this.

Were you nervous about competing abroad for the first time?

-No, I was an overconfident person at that time so I thought I could win no matter what. On the way there in the plane, I was listening to "Eikou no Kakehashi" (Bridge of Glory) thinking, "I've finally come this far", and I was feeling emotional. It felt like I was finally embarking on a journey out to the world.

Did you have time for sightseeing in Finland?

-Since it was my first competition, I wanted to do some sightseeing, and I had a little bit of time, so I went to a place called the Moomin Museum. You can look it up. I’m curious to see what it's like now.

(searching) It may not come up. Maybe I'll search for Tampere Moomin or something. Where is it. Ah found it.

Is this it? Wow, that brings back memories. I don't remember it being this big. It looks quite spacious. I didn't know it was this big. I went there at night at the time, I didn't remember it being that big at all. But I remembered the interior very well. There was a corner where you could experience all kinds of things, and there was an information section about the person who made it. Tampere is like the birthplace of Moomins, and I even bought a Moomin souvenir. It’s really nostalgic.

[Moomin Museum. Approximately 2,000 items are on display, including the original drawings of Tove Jansson, the creator of Moomin. Various interactive exhibits are also popular.]

-Wow, this is the first time I've seen it since then, it brings back memories. I think we went by car, but I don't remember how we got there. But it was December in Finland at the time, so there was very little sunlight. It was mostly dark. I think the sun was up for only about an hour or two at that time.

Memories of Europe?

-The Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen. (searching) From Denmark. Maybe this one.

[13 years old, a brief sightseeing in Copenhagen, Denmark]

-Ah, I went there. Ah, it was around there. I remember this place quite well. You can see the park from the street here. I passed through it to get there.

When did this happen?

-I think this was at the end of my first year of junior high school, around March. It’s quite nostalgic. This was the last time I was able to do any sightseeing during the competition. But I didn't have much time for sightseeing other than here and Tampere, so it’s a very memorable place for me. I think this was my last competition before entering the junior level. I was about 12 years old.

[Little Mermaid Statue (Copenhagen, Denmark). A bronze statue based on Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale "The Little Mermaid". It stands quietly by the sea as a symbol of fairy tale land.]

[Hanyu Yuzuru’s training ground. Canada] - (searching) As expected, cricket club may not be searchable, if I don’t type ‘Toronto’... Ah found it.

Yes. I often come here. Wow, Wilson Avenue. How long I’ve been here. Yes. This is my practice place, how nostalgic.

[Cricket Club (Toronto, Canada). The skating rink where Yuzuru Hanyu was based for about 10 years]

- I had been practicing at this rink for almost 10 years. Amazing. It was about three years before the Sochi Olympics.

Looking back now, what was your time in Canada like?

-Well, at first I didn't know right from left and I couldn't speak English, so I was full of anxiety, but I gradually started doing things like self-checkout and tried to stay away from English as much as possible in my daily life, and I gradually started to feel more comfortable.

[A Place of Growth: Hong Kong]

-I went to Hong Kong twice. I don't really have good memories of either since I couldn't win. In the first competition, I simply didn't have enough skill to win. And in the second competition, I was in an unusual situation where I couldn't even advance to the free skate, so I was really frustrated and I cried a lot. But then, for the first time, I landed the triple toe loop really cleanly. It was at a skating centre in a shopping mall and there were a lot of people watching, and they were cheering excitedly and saying how amazing (that kid) was, so I was really fired up at that moment.

It sure brings back a lot of memories.

-It does.

Did seeing the world lead to growth?

-For me I experienced a lot of growth in competitions, like when I first landed a triple jump, it was during a competition in Hong Kong. It was the first time I felt like I had landed a clean triple jump, but when I was training in Japan, I couldn't land it at all. As I thought, if I had a rival, someone to aspire to, or a good image right next to me, I felt like I could do it too. It seems like I had grown without even realising it.

[Yuzuru Hanyu’s hometown: Sendai]

-Sendai. Sendai has its urban areas, but there's also an abundance of greenery which is really nice. Also, the climate is very pleasant. It doesn't rain a lot, and it's not unbearably hot in the summer, and although it's cold in winter, it doesn't snow like it does on the Sea of Japan. I think it's really comfortable to live there.

As it is the town where I was born and raised, whenever I recall the various sceneries and think of the people who have helped me, I am filled with gratitude, and I often think about how much support I have received in order to get to this point. As such, I hope to give back in some way for the time, energy, and money that was spent on me, whether through my performances, donations or any other ways to express my gratitude.

[FLIGHT LOG: What does “the world” mean to Yuzuru Hanyu?]

Hope and anxiety, brought together by gravity

-It’s a combination of hope and anxiety brought together by gravity. The world, through my experience in all the competitions and travels I have been on, is that it is full of hope, it gives me hope, it teaches me things, it makes me happy, and when I come back to Japan, I can come back with that hope in my heart. But there is also a sense of anxiety when I travel, a culture that I don't understand, or a language I don't understand, or other things that are different, and these things are also part of the world, which is brought together by the gravitational force of the earth and the connection between people and the community. I think it’s a collection of various things.

What is the charm of travel?

-I think just making a lot of plans for a trip and thinking, ``I want to go here'' or ``I want to go there'' is already like a journey of thought. But when you actually go and try things, you'll experience many things up close, or you'll feel scared when you're there, or maybe not everything will go smoothly. That's why there’s a sense of thrill, and that thrill will turn into excitement and joy. I think that's what makes traveling fun.

A message to everyone who challenges the world.

-I think it would be more difficult to find something that doesn't make you anxious when you start out in a new environment. Honestly, at that time, I was excited every day taking on new challenges, and if it was something I liked, I would be thrilled to move forward to the next step, and proceed with much curiosity and excitement. But if I take a step back and think about it calmly, I’m sure that at the same time there is anxiety attached to it too. I think that hope exists not only because things go well, but also because there are things that do not go well. So it is definitely okay to feel the fear of taking on a challenge. The sense of accomplishment you feel when you succeed after trying is surely multiplied many times because of that fear. I believe it turns into joy.

I am sure that everyone is challenging themselves every day, not because they have a goal in mind, but just by living life, you keep challenging yourself. Even if you are never praised for doing things that others think are normal or taken for granted, I think for some people that life will be happy, and for others that life may be boring. So, I believe that by just thinking that you are challenging yourself every day and moving forward, your value of happiness will surely change too.

After becoming a professional, for me, improving my skills and acquiring various ways of expression are my daily gifts. I challenge myself every day, encounter failures, but there are fewer instances that lead to success, so I think I'm accumulating failures every day. But that may be skating for me, for you that may be housework, or that may be your daily work. But I've come to value those small daily failures and joys, and I want to cherish that happiness too.

(end of Virtual Tour)

The second journey in my life

-Talking about it, I now feel like I’m on the second journey in my life. For me, the first journey was up to the Pyeongchang Olympics. When I started that journey, my goal was to win the Olympic Games back-to-back. At that moment, I think that my first journey had already ended. Four years passed from there that led to Beijing, but I don't really think of the time leading up to Beijing was much of a journey.

It’s Pyeongchang, not Beijing?

-Well, I think that for everyone, it’s probably Beijing, or till the day before the press conference. But for me, Pyeongchang was the moment when my dream came true. I think that the first journey ended there, and looking back now, I think after that it was the preparation period for my next journey.

[What was Yuzuru Hanyu’s “First journey of life?”]

-In my mind, travel is a kind of journey to look at oneself, to touch on various things, to gain various insights, to find out what one wants to do, etc. I think it's like a journey of self-discovery, but in a way, my first journey was not like that. It was pretty much like a predetermined destination, and I was being taken there on an airplane. The route was already decided, there were probably various layovers along the way, and amongst those stops, I'm sure there were things like this stop was good, or the next option was better, or that this plane was better, etc. But looking back now, I didn't feel like I was navigating it myself.

[And now, to the “Second Journey of Life”]

-To be honest, I don't really know where my destination is. Maybe as I gain more and more experience and re-examine myself physically, my thoughts, and various other aspects, I may come up with a destination that I want to aim to. But for now, I'm just flying until I run out of fuel, and when I feel like I need to refuel at a certain point, I’ll make a stopover, refuel and fly again.

I’m curious, what kind of fuel does Yuzuru Hanyu use for his airplane?

-I wonder. It's really difficult, but it runs out of fuel all the time. I wasn't the captain on the first trip, there were maintenance crew, assistant staff, I had a lot of supportive people around my seat and I spent my time being very dependent on that support. Now I'm more like the captain and also the control tower. Of course, I’m in charge of the approach of the plane that I'm flying, but I also have to detect the radars of the planes flying around me, thinking about what to do, so in a way it's a bit chaotic.

So, it feels like my fuel runs out very easily. If you ask me what fuels me, well, I guess it's the impressions and the reactions on everyone's faces when I perform. After all, I’d like to know how everyone felt about my performance, the thoughts I put into it, the various techniques and expressions I put into it, how those things were conveyed to the audience, what they liked about it, what they were interested in, and so on. I think that maybe that’s the fuel for me.

[The many "walls" I've encountered in my life's journey]

-The "wall" is there every day. I think about various things every day, and every day there are moments when I feel like “I want to do this”, or “I can't do what I want to do”. I wonder how to overcome that, how to face it, should I just give up today. I think there is some kind of wall that exists every day. The thickness of the wall varies from day to day, and there are days when I have to put a door on the wall, or climb over it, or kick it down. I feel like I spend my time every day looking at and colliding with the walls within myself and my heart in some way.

How did you overcome the obstacles?

- I don't actively try to overcome them much. For example, there was the injury I got when I collided with someone in China, also I've had a lot of injuries myself and I remember how I felt when I got injured at the Pyeongchang Olympics, and in Beijing Olympics I got stuck in a hole and made a mistake in the short program, such are the various obstacles in competition. And I still feel the towering wall that stands in the way of my quadruple axel dream, but more than that, I think that there are ‘walls’ in just living each day. I'm sure there are many different routes out there, and I have to make choices every day, and when making those choices, I wonder if there will be an obstacle in the way or not, or if there will be obstacles later on. I think that's the biggest ‘wall’ for me.

FLIGHT LOG: What are the words that Yuzuru Hanyu value?

-What I value, yes. “Never forget your original intention”.

This is a phrase that I have always treasured ever since I was in junior high school, and it is also my motto. Whenever think about various things and work hard towards something, there will be times that I feel like my footing is unsteady. It is common to gradually forget the feelings you had when you first set out to achieve it, so if I can live without forgetting those initial feelings, I think I can overcome most things. When you start something, you’re probably having fun or enjoying it. You begin with that feeling, being curious and wanting to move forward, but gradually that feeling fades away, it becomes monotonous, and you lose the joy of it. Such things happen. I think it would be nice to always feel something like that initial joy or sense of accomplishment you get as you grow.

How have you taken care of yourself?

-I think I'm probably strongest when I'm thinking about skating, so in a way, those moments may be a situation where I’m taking care of myself. When I move away from skating, my existence… in a way, I think that my skating, the people who watch me skate and my programs are like a mirror of my existence, so I think those moments are the most comforting for me. However, the most difficult moment is when all the effort and preparation I've made, all the things that I've carefully imagined, doesn't translate into results or reflected in my skating, and it's not just my fault, but all sorts of factors pile up which prevents me from doing it the way I wanted. That’s most painful for me.

When you hit a wall, what should you do? Do you have any advice for everyone?

-I think it's good to feel a lot of walls. There are times when you can overcome them if you try, but there are also times when you think you can't overcome them. And before you know it, someone may become your ally and open a door for you, or someone may also tell you that there is another way without breaking down the wall, and I think it's okay for various ways depending on the circumstances around you and how you feel at that time. So, experience many obstacles, think about what you have now, or return to your original intention and think, ‘Why did I come up against this wall?’, or look back in retrospect at the various obstacles you have faced and reflect what you have done repeatedly to get here. I think it is good to have such an opportunity.

[FLIGHT LOG: Captain Yuzuru Hanyu’s journey. Where are you heading to?]

-Uncertain future. I don't think that the person I will be in a second from now has everything decided, and looking at the person a second later, the current self is already in the past, and that is the path in front that I have already walked. All this while, when I was chasing various goals and dreams, I didn't know how the journey would turn out, but I could see the goal, and even though I didn’t know if it was certain or definite, but I have always lived my days trying to make it certain. To be honest, I don't know where the destination is now, but I think that the present is possible because the future is not decided, and the future is visible because it is not certain. I think that is the purpose and goal of my journey from now on.

Are you enjoying the journey now?

-It's not fun, to be honest. It's funny that it’s not fun. But I think I'm having a fulfilling life every day, thinking about various things, absorbing many things, learning various things, and then from there it would be great if I could find a mirror each day in which I can re-examine my existence.

[A message from Captain Yuzuru Hanyu to everyone]

-Thank you for watching. I look forward to seeing you again soon on your journey through life.

Source: Own video audio transcript

Online video: https://weibo.com/tv/show/1034:5046894632566792

#羽生結弦 #hanyu yuzuru #yuzuru hanyu #figure skater #interview #machine #translation #ANA

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vivi-in-the-sky-with-diamonds · 2 years ago

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ok i need friends to lovers fake dating trope george harrison fluff and i need it NOW!!

(‘66 revolver era pls bae)

Hi, anon! Sorry this took so long! I received this ask while taking a bath and then swiftly fell asleep, and went to the zoo with my family yesterday lol. I hope this is okay! I've never written this trope before 😅 proofed in UK English (as usual). Enjoy!

Love Me While You Can

(Source) (hope this pic is okay, I tend to mix up my eras but this one came up when I searched George Harrison 1966 lol)

“Y/N!” your best friend, George exclaims, out of breath from running. “Quick, if anyone asks, you’re my girlfriend.” He wraps an arm around you.

“Wh—” you begin to say before you’re swarmed with reporters.

“Y/N! How long have you and George been dating?” asks one of them.

“What is your romantic life like?” asks another.

George takes over answering the questions, occasionally looking to you for confirmation, which is when you’d nod.

“George, how long is this gonna last?” you ask through a gritted smile.

“Just follow my lead, alright, darlin’?” he replies through his own smile. “Yes, we met at the Cavern!”

“We didn’t meet at the Cavern,” you whisper.

“They don’t have to know that.”

You’re not exactly sure what the press conference was originally about but it ended up being an hour of questions about your “relationship” with George.

“George, what was that about?” you ask when you’re finally alone again.

George sighs. “Remember when the paparazzi got that photo of us last week after tea?”

You nod and he continues, “Well, it’s everywhere, with the headline ‘Harrison's new bird’. I tried to tell them the truth but they wouldn’t have it.”

You stand in silence for a moment.

“Alright,” you sigh. “You’re my best friend, George, and I trust you.”

***

It’s the next day, another conference later, when you ask, “George, how long is this gonna last?”

Making sure you’re alone, he whispers, “Look, give it a few weeks. Then we can publicly break up and go back to the way things were.”

You nod, but deep down, you wish you could stay like this.

It’s wrong to have a crush on your best friend, you thought.

***

“Give us a kiss for the camera!” shouts a reporter at the next conference.

George blushes. “Oh, I don’t—”

“Now, Georgie, if they want us to kiss, lets kiss,” you say.

“What?”

“Do you want this to be believable or not?” you whisper.

He wipes the look of surprise from his face before turning to give you a gentle peck on the lips.

It’s not a first kiss anyone would’ve imagined; it barely even counts as kiss with such a short duration.

“That one’s going to be everywhere later,” you laugh later.

***

You and George are walking, hand-in-hand. You’d adopted the habit since George had “asked you out".

Yet another camera flash lights up the air. One would think that two weeks of this would cause you to become accustomed to it, but it still surprises you.

“Put your head on my shoulder,” George whispers.

“Paul Anka, is that you?” you snort.

George snickers. “No, seriously.”

You giggle and do as he said. “This is actually quite nice.”

Though you can’t see it, George’s mouth turns up into a grin as he rests his head atop yours.

***

Weeks came and went. The day came that you were dreading.

“Alright, Y/N, when I say what I need to, I need you to look surprised and upset,” George tells you.

You sigh with a frown. “George, are you sure? What if it’s not the right time?”

He looks at you, an eyebrow quirked. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to stay in a ‘relationship’ with me.” He smirks.

You blush. “I— Well, I just—” You feel yourself getting more flustered by the second. “Yes, George! To tell you the truth, these past few weeks have been the best of my life!”

“Then let’s be in a real relationship,” George replies without a second thought.

“...but what about you? You don’t like me back...”

He smiles. “Who said I didn’t?”

That evening, being trailed by reporters again, George really gives them something to take a photo of.

A big, wet kiss on your lips, with more feeling than you’d ever experienced in your life.

#mine #george harrison #george harrison x reader #the beatles #the beatles imagines #the beatles x reader #the beatles fanfiction #beatles imagines #beatles imagine #beatles x reader #vivi in the sky with fanfics #request fic

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eastwindmlk · 1 year ago

Text

“You’re wrong.” A voice came from behind James, taking him by surprise. The point of his pencil was almost going through the newspaper. His head whipped around to see an unfamiliar face peering at him from between the seats behind him. “Uh, thank you? But I am pretty sure about this one.” He muttered, too confused to question the woman. His eyes drifted back to his crossword. “Suit yourself, but you are wrong.” She chirped, disappearing back into her seat without offering what she believed to be the right answer. Which suited James just fine. He did not need help to solve it.

A few minutes went by, and the train halted at the next station. A chilly breeze was going through the car as people bustled in, shaking snow from their heads and shoulders before settling into a spot. Tapping at the next clue that stumped him, his lips rubbing together in thought. Pressing them together, the lady behind him appeared again. “You are thinking of the wrong type of season.”

James turned a quarter so he could see her properly, wondering what type of person would feel the need to meddle in his puzzling time. He was not sure what he was expecting, but it was not a set of brilliant green eyes framed with thick lashes. Red-painted lips, wearing a knowing smile. So, at least she was cute. Not that it made what she was doing less rude.

“What makes you say that?” He asked before having thought over whether he really wanted an answer. “You’re thinking food seasoning, but you’re doing the Times crossword.” James nodded. So far, she was right. Taking off his glasses to polish them, he thought over her words, a smile creeping onto his face. “Fall. It is bloody fall.” He realised, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Looking at the woman for confirmation, he felt oddly proud when she nodded, withdrawing once more.

Another station passed them by; he finished his crossword in peace before turning to stare out of the window. The afternoon skies were already dark grey, and he was watching street lights fly past. “You’re a long way from home; what brings you to Scotland?” James asked, seemingly out of the blue, having the urge to engage the lady behind him in conversation. There was a long pause, thinking that maybe she hadn’t heard him. Or he had assumed he had not been talking to her, which made sense. Turning in his seat, peering along the gap in chairs, he offered her a smile.

The green eyes stared back at him, a little baffled. A paperback copy of Salem’s Lot being lowered. “Huh?” The lady blinked at him, her head cocking slightly. “You’re not from around here, are you? So, why are you heading to Edinburgh?” He tried again, feeling a little less confident than he had moments ago. The smile on his face turned more awkward the longer he persisted. “Am I wrong?”

“No, no, you’re not. South London, born and raised.” She smiled, and the book was now closed on her lap. “I’m here for a conference. Speaking at one, actually.” James watched her hands wring together for a moment before she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I severely underestimated how long a four-hour train ride actually is.” he hoped that being honest would put her at ease a little.

“You’re right! Four hours is forever on a train!” Her laugh reassured him a little, making her seem less nervous. “What about you? Because you don’t sound very northern either.” Now it was James’s turn to laugh and shrug. “Same, actually. But I am recruiting.” She hummed, nodding slowly, before extending her hand. “Lily Evans, pleasure to meet you.” Reaching over the seat to shake her hand, he smiled. “James Potter, pleasure is all mine.”, “Say, there is a very empty seat next to me and about two more hours. I think my masseuse will murder me if I keep sitting like this.”

And like that, she was sitting next to him. The two hours melted away like it was nothing. He learned they were going to the same conference. As well as having similar tastes in music, films, and food. She bought them a drink in the dining car, and he produced an entire roll of chocolate cookies from his bag. When the train pulled into Waverley station, it signalled the end of their journey. Pulling on his gloves, James contemplated asking for her number or her card. Anything.

But Lily beat him to it. “So, second date tonight? Dinner?” A question he did not have to think twice about. Nodding maybe a little too eagerly. “Meet me at the ticket booth at six.” It wasn’t until she was already halfway down the platform that he wondered why she had called it a second date. A question he was sure to ask her that night.

#jily #31prompts #jilytober #jily fic #jilytober2023 #jily fanfiction #jilytoberfest2023 #james potter #lily evans #muggle au #jple #jily microfic #microfiction #james x lily

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ajwamiju · 8 months ago

Text

Scene 9: Worse Than A Romance Drama

CW: Talks about sex, smoking

Note: I can finally start slowly posting act 2, which if you see from the masterlist has quite a bit of chapters (which can change). I will start slowly and post a bit erratically, at least until I'm done with this semester.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The day you and Suna are handed the script immediately shoots down your comment about what could be worse than acting in a full-fledged romance drama. The way you and Suna stare at the script in horror is almost comical if anyone were to watch the scene.

The premise of the movie tells a story of your character, Nakamura Ryoba, and Suna’s character, Inoue Yasuhiro. The two are a newly married couple that had just moved into a new town to start their little family when weird things started to happen. The movie is a classic quiet town that is too good to be true which turns out to actually be a whole cult with demons, gore, and the whole horror movie package.

The problem starts on page 10 of the script.

The scene starts off after Yasuhiro and Ryoba’s wedding, and as most newly-married couples do, they have the steamiest sex possible for their first night together. At first the two of you are optimistic, thinking it’s simply a scene that alludes to the two getting intimate but no.

The scene continues on explicitly, down to the finest details of what Yasuhiro and Ryoba sound like during the deed. The two of you frantically flip the script as Kita and Kasumi watch on, knowing they’ll face your wrath once the two of you go through the whole script.

You two counted a total of 10 sex scenes for 12 episodes, with the first 9 episodes having at least one sex scene, one of the episodes even has two. Unfortunately for you two, Kita and Kasumi had failed to make sure just what the sub-genre of the series is before they accepted the contract on your behalf.

“Are you two insane?!” You shriek in horror as you hide your face in your hand. “An erotic horror series? Are you trying to kill us?”

“I didn’t have much trust in Azuma-san to begin with, but you, Kita-san? I had so much faith in you!” Suna fumes. “We can’t do this!”

“I’m so, so, so sorry! Eita told me about the offer and since he’s also going to be in the series, I thought it would be safe for you two to do it!” Kasumi trembles. “We both didn’t know it would contain this many sex scenes until we were handed the script as well!”

“We’ve already agreed to the contracts on your behalf as you two instructed.” Kita adds calmly, yet there’s a look of remorse in his eyes as he keeps his gaze away from the two of you. “I made the same mistake as Azuma-san as the twins are also starring in the movie and I assumed it would be a do-able movie.”

“You trust the Miyas? The two boneheads that are just there to attract female fans no matter how shitty the movie is?” Suna asks incredulously, massaging his temples from the frustration. “I can’t believe this, we can’t even back out from this.”

“Kasumi, mark my words when I say I’m going to hunt that stupid boyfriend of yours down and actually murder him.” You say with a murderous gaze. “That son of a bitch has fucked me over far too many times!”

“You still won’t let that one time go…?” Kasumi mumbles.

“Kasumi! I almost had to hold a press conference ‘cause he couldn’t keep his dick dry for just two hours! And it’s not just that one time!”

Kita flinches at your reaction and it seems to know just how royally he and Kasumi fucked up. The expressions both you and Suna are wearing are ones he’s used to seeing on a screen, he has never thought he’d feel like the characters on the screen receiving your murderous glares, yet he feels his spine shivering at this very moment. “We apologise deeply…” He mutters, averting his gaze once more.

“I can’t believe this…” You mutter under your breath as you reach for your cigarette pack, lighting one up quickly to ease your anger.

Suna snatches the cigarette pack wordlessly and lights a stick for himself, clicking his tongue as the nicotine barely does anything to ease his nerves. “When is the first day of shooting?” He asks.

“In two months. We requested to leave all the sex scenes until the last possible second.” Kita answers.

Two months.

You and Suna have two months to mentally prepare yourselves to give the best possible performance for this shitshow of a series you two got dragged into. You glance over at Suna and he seems to be thinking of having a discussion with you, if the glint of desperation in his eyes says anything.

“You two stay here.” Suna says as the two of you stand up to go to his spare room, which he uses to rehearse his lines, to start the discussion with you.

Once the door closes behind you, you immediately start the deep discussion, trying to find a solution to the sticky situation on hand. “Should we try to negotiate with Director Nekomata to make the sex scenes less explicit?” You start, pacing around the room.

“We can always try that… can we also try to negotiate to just… erase the scenes completely? Like, make it allude to Yasuhiro and Ryoba just… having sex without us having to act it out.” Suna asks before taking a drag from his cigarette, watching you pace around the room as he leans on a wall.

“That’s wishful thinking. Sex is actually a major plot point in the movie.” You sigh and take a drag of your cigarette, pulling the smoke in before blowing it out. “The sex scene in episode 3 foreshadows just how much the cult keeps a close eye on Yasuhiro and Ryoba, episode 4 is when the demon activity starts, episode 6 is when it starts to escalate, episode 8– why are they even having sex when they have a feeling their lives are being threatened?!”

“That’s true. I guess, episodes 7 to 9 are some sort of desperate attempt to… regain some sense of normality?” Suna says as he sighs. “And what’s up with the double sex scenes for episode 9?”

“Ryoba accidentally fucks the demon, bro. That kinda, like, marks the end of whatever normality Yasuhiro and Ryoba had.” You answer, remembering the slight detail for the post-credit scene in episode 12. “The aftermath of that fiasco is also shown in the post credit scene for episode 12 when it turns out the kid Ryoba has isn’t actually Yasuhiro’s kid, but the demon’s instead.”

“... Should we still try to make our managers suffer a little by asking them to somehow reduce either the amount of sex scenes or make them less explicit? Maybe even both?”

You stop to think for a moment before you nod. “Fine, I guess we can still always try.” You say as you stop pacing the room. “It’s going to be so fucking weird to see you moaning and shit.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Suna grumbles as he walks to the door to tell your managers of the conclusion of your discussion.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Taglist: @mirophobic @atrashsith @lilith412426 @rntrsuna @reignsaway @fallenisded @sunaemoby @buttercupp-baby @akari-fujikawa @omlxlaure @soonajeeme @nicerthanu @lifeisnotyahoo @toges-cough-syrup (Drop it here to be included in the taglist!)

#haikyu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyū!!#hq x reader #suna fic #suna fluff #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou #suna rintarō #hq suna #suna x reader #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro haikyuu

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oflights · 2 years ago

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oh have I missed the chance for prompts??? I hope not. Ummmm let’s see. How about your choice of the lads going to one of the below places:

* sushi conveyor belt restaurant

* way overpriced boozy brunch

* garden seating at a pub, on a hot summer night

so, as we've already discussed, i low-key want to do ALL of these and as such have screenshotted this to return to some of them. but this one is, in a roundabout way, garden seating at a pub on a hot summer (june) night. in new york! finally!

it's also 2.3k word again (just fuck my life, honestly) and it's getting back together fic. i'm sorry. this is who i am. i hope you like it!!

It’s a beautiful night, the stickiness of the summer day having faded a bit with the sun, just gone down an hour or so ago. There are lovely, multicolored paper lanterns filled with magical light strung up above, crisscrossing the width of the garden area, scattering it in purposeful rainbow. The low, cheerful din of glasses clinking against the wooden tables and excited chatter washes over the space.

There is a nice breeze, one Draco has been told means he should be grateful this is late June in New York and not August, where breezes flee. It’s still hot, unexpectedly so; he is very aware of wearing long sleeves and concedes his agent was probably right about that. He just didn’t want—people here like to ask about his tattoo when back home they know better, or worse, really. He doesn’t want to talk about that.

He finishes his drink trying not to even think about it, drumming his fingers against his own wooden table and shaking his head when a waitress asks him if he wants a refill. Carlo, his agent, gives him an unimpressed look and says, “If we’re going to wait to start, you might as well have another drink to calm your nerves.”

“I’m not nervous,” Draco says automatically, and Carlo snorts.

“Sure. Look, if that’s the case, we might as well—”

“Just a few more minutes; they’ll be here,” Draco cuts in quickly, and now Carlo sighs.

“A few more minutes, all right. But if we wait any longer the people who want to be here will actually just leave, and then we’ll have booked all this for nothing.”

Draco nods distractedly, already looking away and glancing out over the other tables without trying to be too obvious about it or catch anyone’s eye. He still has to nod at people—people he can’t really believe exist, people excited to see him read to them, people who have read his book with their actual eyes and liked it and bought it and maybe told their friends to buy it. They have it with them, holding it in their hands. It’s startling every time he thinks about it. It still seems like a trick, like someone is going to jump out from somewhere and say “Got you!”

This is the first reading he’s doing in person, ever. He’d done a successful launch party in London, had done something of a press round, even—terrifying, the whole time, even as it all went well. He’d read from his book on the wireless, he’d chatted with a few people who walked up to him in Diagon Alley, bewilderingly, happily. He likes to talk about his book.

But now Draco’s half a world away from all that, because apparently his book is selling really well in the States, better even than back home, and the international affiliate of his publisher wanted him to do a book tour to support the second printing, which means conferences and events and more press and—

And a reading, to strangers, in a beautiful garden area behind a large, apparently historic pub in the magical area nestled between the West Village and Greenwich Village. The sounds and lights of the city around them are muffled, muted, like the world has narrowed down only to this.

It’s a long way to go, for him and for all of the people Draco had rather desperately invited—all of his friends, who had had to break their promises to come one by one as family and job issues waylaid them.

Even his extended friends, the kind he only sees at rare and rarer pub nights every few months or at weddings or funerals or��he’d given out invitations to them, too, had offered to arrange Portkeys and stays in New York even once the book tour takes him elsewhere.

A few had said they’d try to come, but as the people he’s closer to had cancelled—Pansy, histrionically heartbroken about it, Blaise playing it so cool it was clear he truly was upset, Greg and Millie and Daphne and Theo and all of them full of regrets and work and kids and things that Draco didn’t have to keep him from doing something mad like traveling around the world for a stupid little book—Draco had resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn’t come either. Why would Hermione Granger or Neville Longbottom go out of their way for someone they see once every few months now, ever since—when the people he sees at least twice a week on average couldn’t make it?

Draco had even invited—he was desperate—and he knew he wouldn’t come because they were over, of course, any obligation to come to things like this had ceased when all that had ended, so there was no way—but just in case—

He'd told himself that was all okay because his parents had promised. They don’t understand any of it, of course—Father thinks it’s a silly hobby gone a bit too far, and perhaps it had started that way, a diversion from the drudgery of managing the Malfoy estate, but now it’s all this, it’s Draco’s life that he doesn’t get—but they had said they’d be here to support him. They have no jobs, he is their family, they can arrange international Portkeys in their sleep—there’s no reason for them not to come. He’s certain they’ll be here.

Draco cranes his neck, searching the tables for any telltale blond hair he’s missed, eyes flicking to the back entrance to the pub where he’s sure they’ll emerge at any moment. Maybe they missed their Portkey and had to reschedule. Maybe there was a delay at the terminal. Maybe they decided to sleep off the time difference at their hotel and didn’t set a wakeup Floo. Maybe—

“Draco,” Carlo says, very gentle, but not patient. “We’ve got to start. I’m sorry, but I don’t think they’re coming.”

Draco shakes his head, even as the truth of that settles in the pit of his stomach like a sinking stone. He swallows past a lump in his throat, wishing he did have a new drink so his hands could be damp with cool condensation instead of clammy, anxious sweat.

He is not nervous. “You can do this,” Carlo tells him. “Just keep an eye on me; I’m here.” Draco likes talking about his book. He likes being around people, chatting with them—it’s just reading, his own words, he practically knows them by heart, they’re etched into his skin far deeper than the Mark, scratched over his heart—

But he really, really wanted his parents to come. He truly thought they would.

“All right,” Draco says finally, still shaking his head but forcing himself to come to terms. He talks himself into it as he stands up, rationalizing—it was definitely the time difference. They’re napping; Mother will wake up horrified, and they’ll get late drinks and perhaps midnight room service and laugh about it later.

That’s how he gets himself to the edge of the garden under the brightest lights, standing at a Levitating podium that settles to the ground once he reaches it. It’s hotter here, under the lights; he wants to rip his sleeves off and use them to dab at his sweaty temples. He has to take deep breaths.

Draco looks out over the crowd, their eager faces, and tries to focus on Carlo—but his face is too soft, too close to pity. He tries to look at nothing instead, knows soon he’ll be reading anyway so it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t have to look at the fact that his parents aren’t here. But first he has to talk a little, introduce himself, thank people for coming, all of these people who don’t even know him, didn’t raise him, still showed up because they liked his work that much when his parents haven’t even read—

“Hello,” Draco makes himself say, a small huff of a laugh, as charming a grin as he can muster. For a moment, that’s all he can muster; his throat is tightening, his sleeves feel like they’re getting smaller. He doesn’t think it’s possible to be strangled at your wrists, but perhaps they’re cutting off the circulation there, constricting his blood flow enough to explain why breathing is so treacherous. “I—I’m so glad you’re all here. I’m so glad that I’m here.”

More words, successful. Words are his thing, Draco reminds himself. He can do this. “And I’m—I’m grateful, really. Impossibly so. It’s really—this month, in this place, and I’m barely starting to understand how much it means to everyone because all I’ve known, all I’ve put into this book, is what it means to me—what it means to be like us, or so I assume, in what feels like a very small world, and—” He breaks off, making slightly panicked eye contact with Carlo—who taps the rainbow pin on his lapel and gives him a thumbs up, encouraging, he can do this.

Draco manages to open his mouth again, but all that emerges is a puff of slightly distressed air. And that’s when movement from the back entrance distracts him thoroughly, gratefully, another place to fix his gaze—which widens, steals more breath.

Rushing through the doorway, knocking into a slotted wooden chair and swearing, is Harry. He’s got Draco’s book wedged under his armpit, he’s whispering apologies to people he bumps into; he drags a chair out from a table with a bunch of strangers, apologizing to them and then hurriedly turning to face Draco with a slightly sweaty, flustered face.

Harry grins when Draco catches his eye. His glasses reflect the rainbow lights a little, and he looks a mess in the loveliest, most familiar way. He’s practically vibrating in his seat, excited, maybe nervous, too, and he’s—here. He’d gotten the invitation Draco sent in desperation, the note he’d scrawled I’m sure you’re busy with work, and I know we don’t really see much of each other anymore, and it’s a long way to go, but if you want to, if you have any interest, it would mean a lot be nice of you and nice to see you—and he’d Portkeyed halfway across the world and he’s here, somehow, bewilderingly, happily.

And suddenly all of Draco’s words are right there, easy, ready to be plucked up and tossed out with every confidence at where they’ll land. It’s a familiar feeling, a specific kind of confidence he’d thought entirely out of reach once he and Harry broke up and descended into the awkward, not-quite friends they’ve been since. Harry is here, and he cares for him, at least enough to show up for him, and Draco can do this because Harry clearly believes he can. It must not have even been a question in his mind, for him to come all this way.

“I’m so grateful we’re all here together,” Draco says. He touches his own pin, looks around, keeps talking. “Being together like this in a small world—it makes it feel much bigger.”

He goes on; he reads. He chokes himself a little but only for good reasons, looking up and seeing people listening, their eyes shining, laughing at the best of moments. He looks into Harry’s eyes, grins back at him, softens it when he catches Harry swiping his fingers behind his glasses as subtly as possible.

After, Draco gets another drink and sits at various tables, signing books, chatting happily. He gravitates towards Harry, who has his own drink and seems to be waiting, but when they near each other Harry whispers, “No, you can keep—I’ll wait for you, Draco, it’s all right.”

“Thank you,” Draco whispers back, hoping Harry knows how much he means it.

And there’s every opportunity to tell him as the crowd thins and the pub staff comes out to start stacking chairs and taking down the lights. Carlo leaves after hugging Draco and telling him how brilliant he’d been, telling him to get excited about doing this again two nights from now in Boston. And then there’s Harry, here, waiting.

“I’m sorry I was late,” Harry says once Draco joins him in the only other unstacked chair. The lights are all gone now, the pub staff telling them they can hang out while they finish closing up inside, the only light streaming from that backdoor. “And that I didn’t, um, tell you I was coming. I was just so—I’d heard about it, of course, but I didn’t know if you’d want me here really, I thought maybe you were just—”

“I wanted you here,” Draco says, realizing he was desperate but not in just the way he’d imagined. “I—I am so happy you came.”

“Me too,” Harry says, and then he laughs a little. “Even though I can barely see you.” He taps his wand a few times and shoots brilliantly bright, multicolored sparks out of it; they rise up to form a glowing, rainbow swirl of light above them, like all the lanterns have cracked open and spilled above them.

It’s beautiful, and Harry looks beautiful beneath it, the colors splayed across his skin as he puts his wand down, reaches out, and takes Draco’s hands. “Better,” Harry says, and then: “I’m so fucking proud of you, Draco.”

Relief, rushing and sweets, hits Draco so fast that it’s all he can feel for a moment. Gone is the disappointment, nerves, dread—all of it falls away. He can do this, he thinks; he did it.

“Do you want to—I mean, you came all this way, and this place is closing but I’m sure there are others we could—maybe food? And we could—I’d love to just—” His words are gone again but now it’s because it feels like there’s too many, that there’s so much he wants to say to Harry and it’s all got to come out quickly because “—and I’m going to Boston very soon, I’m sorry, but maybe—”

“Never been to Boston,” Harry says, smiling so fondly. He squeezes Draco’s hands.

#drarry #drarry fic #oflights #oknowkiss #asks #my fic #fic prompts #why am i like this!!!#this just spiraled #i could probably write 20k more of it tbh #also: happy pride!!!#this is the most pride fill yet :')

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 months ago

Note

hello i have a (very basic) fic prompt: established relationship hurt/comfort malcolm/rose. :))

genuinely diabolical of me to answer a prompt you sent almost a year ago—at one in the morning, on a random wednesday. but... better late than never? if you see this, which i hope you do... i'm so sorry it took so long. hopefully the 5k wordcount makes up for the wait.

content warnings for: medical emergencies, hospitals, canon-typical swearing (honestly, i think i kept things rather mild), and daddy issues

[read on AO3] [send me a prompt]

He comes home white as a sheet.

There has always been something faintly spectral about him. Two days without enough sleep and his bones tend to press up at the underside of his skin, turning his face into a craggy mess of shadow and light. He credits his milky, changeable complexion to a combination of his heritage and London's dismal weather.

Though—she's done what she can for him, in the months since they started seeing each other. They take walks along the Thames, sometimes. She stays over as many nights as she can and tries to make sure he gets a bit of actual rest.

They went to the seaside exactly once, for a conference, and while he worked almost the entire time, she did get him outside where the chill wind could buffet some colour into his cheeks. Eventually.

(She persuaded him to kiss her on the boardwalk, to ignore the possibility of the press spying on them, because “who would even recognise Malcolm Tucker when he's smiling?”)

But no matter how she tries, he is always pale and drawn and tense in a way that is not remotely healthy.

She knows she nags him about it, probably too much. Pushes. “This job is gonna kill you one day,” she told him matter-of-factly, one very late night in bed. Her hand was splayed on his bare chest, over his heart, as she spoke.

His fingers crept up to tangle with hers, and he let out a long breath, like a laugh too tired to embody itself. He hadn’t been home in over seventy-two hours.

“Already has,” he said. “You're looking at a ghost, darling.”

So she dragged the bedsheet up over his head and refused to let him out until he said “boo,” and he laughed a little and called her a child, and her fear dissipated so she could very nearly forget the darkness under his eyes, the tremor in his hands.

But when he comes home in the middle of the workday, looking like that—well, for the first time, she actually believes him.

She's looking at a ghost. A wraith. A shadow.

At first, she thinks things might not be as bad as they look.

“Steve fucking Fleming,” she sneers at the television, determined to be angry since Malcolm cannot be. He is beyond anger, having travelled to some more remote psychological peak. But she is merely mortal, flat-footed, here on the ground. Radiantly, righteously pissed. “Who does he think he is?”

He doesn't respond. His eyes are glued to the screen, where the ticker scrolls past spewing bullshit about his resignation. As if anyone on earth would believe that.

His body is a harp string, pulled so tight that it might snap at the smallest pluck. She reads him loud and clear, like he's wearing a big sign that says Do Not Touch. He'd been hounded by the press on the way in, probably bumped and jostled and while it boils her blood, she knows him. Knows he needs a minute alone.

At a loss for anything useful to do, she falls back on what she knows. The solution to any crisis, at least in the Tyler household.

Tea.

Water splashes into the kettle with probably an unnecessary degree of violence and noise-making. Malcolm likes his weak, bag out with lots of milk, so it'll hardly take a minute, she tells herself. Then she can go to him. Hug him, hard. Tell him the truth, which is that she loves him and fucking hates his job.

She taps the fingers of one hand on the countertop, her thumb ring clicking impatiently against the side of his mug with the other.

“I give it a week,” she calls out, eyes tense on the hissing kettle. “Maybe less, before they’re begging you to come back. You’ll see.”

Then: “Who's the bald one you hate so much? Julius? Well, there'll be a shitstorm anyway, with his report, and—and you know he'll come crawling on his hands and knees, asking you to clean it up. Do you…?”

Her voice gets lost in her throat for a moment, making her wonder if she should even ask this. If he'll even bother answering.

“Will you, when he asks?” Her hesitation is painfully obvious. “Will you go back?”

Nothing.

The only sound is the kettle, her thumb ring, the tinny voice of a reporter coming through the television speakers. And out the window, she thinks she can hear paparazzi—camera shutters clicking, animated voices in the street.

“Vultures,” she spits, like the word is poison.

She's interacted with the press since she was barely more than a baby, off and on, the relationship as rocky as the one between her parents. Pete Tyler, the mogul. The wunderkind. The absent. But the papers were always there, reporting on every jet ride to far off places. Every time he left them behind. Until the one time he didn’t come back.

The water boils, and she fixes Malcolm's tea, then hers. She wants so badly to run back into the living room and gather him all up in her arms, even though it makes no sense. He's not a wounded bird. He would hate the very thought of her pity. So she picks both mugs up carefully, tells herself this will help.

Until there is a large thump.

“Malcolm?” she says, feet frozen to the floor for a whole three seconds. “Malcolm.” Did he throw something? Certainly not. Drop something?

Instinct draws her from the kitchen, where the first thing she sees is the TV screen: on it, the Prime Minister, standing outside 10 Downing Street surrounded by dozens of microphones. His voice carries through the living room.

“...terribly sorry to see him go, but Malcolm Tucker has our full support in whatever he chooses to do next. We respect his decision to step away from politics, and are eager to begin this new—”

“Bollocks,” Rose spits, a fraction of a second before she notices the space where Malcolm should be standing is empty.

And he’s just lying there, face down.

On the floor.

Two mugs hit, a second after.

They won't let her ride in the fucking ambulance.

So she has to take his car. Which means she first has to find the spare keys—his must be in his coat pocket still, which he was wearing when they carted him off on a fucking stretcher—and by the time she does find them, the paps, who had only just begun clearing off when the ambulance showed up, are back in force. She can barely edge the sleek, black BMW out of the driveway without taking out some camera guy’s kneecaps. Honestly, she almost slams the gas anyway.

By then, the flashing lights of the EMS are long gone, so she has nothing to clear her way. It takes ages—a lifetime, a trillion lifetimes—to make it to the hospital, and the whole time she keeps thinking, What if he's dead? You're looking at a ghost, darling. What if he's dead? On and on and on.

Her head is a traffic jam all on its own, leaving her unconscionably distracted while she finds a parking space. But she musters up a little dignity for the walk into A&E.

And yes, of course, she can already see the zombie horde waiting outside the doors, eager to get their teeth into the fearsome, famous Malcolm Tucker, so recently fallen from grace. It’s one hell of a story—a surprise resignation gone so awry that it put a former political colossus in hospital. And while it isn't likely they'll know what she is to him, she doesn't want to risk making a bad situation worse.

She pulls up the hood of her sweatshirt and plunges through the gathered mass, making straight for the door.

But she must have used up all her luck finding a place to park.

“Is that—?”

“That's her!”

“Rose?” one of the more aggressive paps shouts. “Rose Tyler?” Her hands ball into fists, and she shoves them in her pockets.

“Are you visiting a patient? Rose!”

Instead of shouting back—I don't know, you fucking pigs!—she just forces her way forward. The sight of an irritated-looking nurse jamming his head out the door is a lifeline above all the bobbing heads and enormous camera rigs.

“Rose,” cries another zombie-vulture-waste-of-space, “is it true that Malcolm Tucker left the government to work for your father's company?”

“Unless all of you are going to admit yourselves into this hospital, clear off!” The nurse is the one shouting now. “You are interfering with the care and safety of our patients!”

That, of course, sets off another round of shouted questions about Malcolm's condition, about Pete Tyler’s condition—what a laugh—and Rose despairs of ever getting through until the nurse notices her—perhaps her pink hood, or her horror-struck eyes—in the midst of them.

His own gaze sharpens, and he pushes the door open wider.

“Clear a path, or I'm calling security,” he says, voice heavy with threat. “Back off.”

It's not terribly intimidating, but it's enough for the frontmost row of hacks to back down, leaving just enough room for her to be spat out in the entryway. She stumbles a little, and the nurse catches her.

“You're not one of them, are you?” he asks, hesitating for just barely a second—but then she swipes off her hood, and his uncertainty vanishes.

He nods, eyebrows lifting, then slams the glass doors shut behind them. It quiets the paparazzi to merely a dull roar.

“So, the rumours are true.”

She knows what he’s seeing right now; it's the same thing everyone sees: Pete Tyler's apparently estranged daughter, the long lost Vitex heiress who came back out of nowhere—read: the Powell Estate—a year ago, after nearly a decade out of the limelight.

And, allegedly, Malcolm Tucker's scandalously young paramour.

That's always been the worst of it: the way people look at her as if she's a toddler, not twenty-seven years old. Pampered little rich girl. As if she hadn't been just as surprised as anybody when her parents reconnected, remarried. Reintroducing her to a small but overwhelming world, one where he happened to exist.

Everything had changed, and then it changed again the moment she descended that giant staircase outside the reception hall, still dressed in her ugly, frilly, Jackie-selected bridesmaid's gown—and there he was. Smirking at her behind his hand, the bastard.

He changed everything.

She sets her shoulders, trying to look like more than she is, and stares down the nurse—his badge says Rory, with a little smiley sticker next to it.

He isn't smiling at all, sensing her intentions. “I’m sorry, but only family are allowed to—”

“I'm his wife,” she interrupts with a lie, bald-faced and glaringly desperate. She doubles down. “Rose Tyler. We're married. It was a… secret thing. Family only. ‘Cause of the press, yeah?” The way she says press is positively vicious. “And my parents, you know, they had this huge wedding and it just seemed impractical to have two in a year. Such a waste of money…”

She's overcomplicating—babbling, in fact, making her story less believable with every word. Surely the paramedics will have left a record of her prior statements, panicked pleading between sobs. But in spite of Rory's dubious look, he seems inclined to take pity on her. Her heart hammers as he considers for an eternal moment, blinking several times in what looks like an effort to clear his head.

“Please,” she says. Her voice breaks. “I've got to see him.”

In a tone of utter resignation, he tells her the room number.

She doesn’t need the room number, in the end. She just follows the shouting.

“—unless you want me to fucking shove that syringe up your cockhole and wiggle it around like an X-rated re-enactment of the Very Hungry Caterpillar, you'd best remove this fucking IV—”

So, he's awake.

A gaggle of nurses are lingering either in or around the doorway, watching the shitshow like it’s a particularly engrossing episode of Hospital, and Rose has to clear her throat to get through them. Her pink hoodie stands out like a beacon among all the scrubs.

“How is he?” she pauses just long enough to ask, voice low under the roiling stream of vitriol pouring from the room. “What's happened?”

One of them, a woman with a badge that says Hame—adorned with yet another smiley face sticker—looks at her sheepishly.

“Are you—?”

“His wife.” The lie comes more fluidly this time. So fluidly the nurse doesn't even blink in surprise.

“He woke up in the ambulance,” Hame offers, “and he's been… like this… ever since he arrived.”

Rose's lids momentarily flutter with the effort not to roll her eyes. But the relief comes fast on the heels of irritation. All the blood which had been pounding through her legs, prompting her to run, dissipates; she can only give a dizzy nod in return and stumble through the doorway.

“—you fucking deaf? I’m fine, I feel fine, as I've been telling all of you for the last half an hour! Look, I was test-driving my new Victorian fainting couch and fell a little to the left, that’s all, no big fucking deal. I'm absolutely fine!”

“Malcolm,” she says.

And he looks at her.

His face—God, his face. It’s waxy, pale as the moon, and his hair is sticking up like he's been running his hands through it, or like he's been in a pub fight. This impression is further supported by the blooming discolouration on his right cheekbone. It must have been from the fall. The fall she missed, because she was making fucking tea.

He doesn't look small on the gurney, doesn't look weak or unnaturally still or withered or any of those things she's heard people say about visiting their loved ones in hospital. But he looks like he's gone ten rounds with something much, much stronger than he is. The whole world, maybe, has beaten him.

Her chin wobbles.

“Oh, not you fucking too!” His eyes, marginally sunken, get wide all of the sudden. “I'm just fine, Rose—lot of fuss over nothing, all right? Just—no, darling, don't you do that, don't—”

But it's too late.

Tears break free of her waterline as she lurches toward the hospital bed. She barely has the wherewithal to mind the IV—still attached, which he’s thrilled about, no doubt—as she wraps herself around the nearest piece of him she can reach. Which happens to be his arm, warding her off.

She pulls the pale limb to her chest, feeling its warmth. Letting it saturate her. She hides her face in his bent knuckles and lets out a watery, choked noise that's struggling not to be a sob.

“Can you just—Rose—fucking give us a minute, all right? You can get on with the anal probe or whatever the hell you plan to do to me later, just all of you get out of—yes, thank you, thanks a fucking bundle. All of you, scram.” Malcolm's voice sounds like it's coming down a very long corridor, echoing wrongly in her skull. She can't feel her knees, which is a strange thing to notice, because she's not normally aware of them at all. “Rose? Rose, come on, darling, you're making a scene.”

He reels her in by bending his arm, which moves stiffly. She holds it tighter, breathing deep. Trying to swim back to some kind of surface. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“S’all right. Hell of a day, isn't it?” he says, sounding more normal. Or maybe her ears are working right again. “Couldn't have come at a better moment. Seems I'm about to have quite a lot of time off.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not the one blubbering, now am I?” counters Malcolm. “That's enough, all right, save it for the funeral.” He seems to recognise that's the wrong thing to say just a beat too late, when her shocked gaze finds his.

“That's not funny,” she says. “That's not even remotely funny.”

Some of the force leaves him, rounding his shoulders. “I know.”

She goes on, refusing to let go of his hand. She's speaking directly into his fist, and she doesn't care. “Damn you, Malcolm, I told you! I said, ‘This job is gonna kill you,’ and look where we are!”

“I'm not dead yet,” he insists. “And, if I might point out—it was losing the job that nearly killed me.”

That's it—her knees can't take it any more. They just sort of go out from under her, and she's lucky she's close enough to collapse into a seat beside the hospital bed.

“You scared me,” she manages to say. “I don't—I'm not even sure what happened, I just heard this thud, and then you were there on the floor!” He makes a soft shushing noise, which she ignores. “You have to let them look after you, Malcolm, you can't just—”

“All right,” he interrupts, vocally reluctant. But the hand against her chin finally opens, fingers searching out her face. “Fine. Fine, Rose, but I'm sure it's nothing.”

She gives a watery laugh. “Yeah, just your life. You've only got the one, you know.”

“I know,” he nods. But she can't be sure if he really believes her—if it even matters to him.

(You're looking at a ghost, darling.)

It's not nothing. Of course it's not.

It's a myocardial infarction—a bloody heart attack. Mild, according to the doctor, but nothing to joke about. Rose doesn't want to budge from Malcolm's side, and she’s heard people are supposed to take notes with this sort of stuff, so she gets her phone out and starts typing out anything she can make sense of, anything that sounds even tenuously important, anything she can spell. She tries to ask questions.

Malcolm keeps shooting glances at her while the doctor coolly, calmly explains that this should be a wakeup call.

“Cardiac events of this nature are often a warning sign that other, more concerning events are incoming, such as another heart attack or a stroke,” he says, “unless serious changes are made in regards to health and stress levels. Your heart is functioning normally—for now.”

His emphasis makes Rose's own heart thump painfully.

“But we'd like to keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, we will discuss a health management plan.”

Malcolm seems inclined to buck against authority, as he nearly always does, and Rose doesn’t mean to, but she squeezes his fingers so tight she can feel the bones shift. And he nods instead.

“All right,” he says, eyes sliding towards her. They look pale, bleached by the fluorescence. “One night.”

She doesn’t want to make a scene again, so she runs to the ladies room. But when she gets there, she can’t cry anymore. She can only face her reflection in the mirror.

She's the one who looks like a ghost.

When Malcolm finally falls asleep that night—a feat which seems nearly impossible with nurses coming and going—Rose slips out into the hallway and dials a number she's been avoiding for hours. Maybe longer, if she's honest.

“Hullo?”

It's—it's too much.

She sniffs, and realises her airways are so tight, swollen by all the tears still left to shed.

“Pete?” she creaks out.

The shift is instant. “Rose? What’s wrong, love?” She can imagine him sitting up straight in bed, probably patting around trying to get her mother up.

“Don't wake Mum.”

“All right, what's happened?”

“It's Malcolm. He…”

“Oh, God. Rose, I'm—I got the call, but I didn't—I’m sorry, love, it just seemed…”

“Like bullshit,” she flatly fills in the blanks for him. Impossible. Like something that would never, ever happen, not to him. “I know. But it's not. He had a heart attack.” Voice low, her eyes scan the hallway, dimmed for the night shift; even now, she fears the click of the camera shutter, of being seen. Of compounding the problem. “I’m here with him, and he's… He's not taken it well.”

Pete snorts, and she would laugh, too, except that she can't.

“I can imagine. Is there anything you need? We can come down, but—”

“The press, yeah,” she sighs. “No, there's no need. Visiting hours are over anyway. I just wanted to ask…” The excess energy, the nerves build up like static until she's tapping her foot to try and let some of it out. “Look, I know I said I didn't want any money or favours or…”

“Anything, Rose. You know we’ll do anything.”

There's not a trace of blame in his voice, that's the worst part. Not even an ounce of bitterness.

He's always understood, ever since he came back into her life, that it might be too little, too late. That this—their non-relationship relationship—is not something to be solved by his money or his access. In fact, she’s sort of suspected he admires her decision to have nothing to do with Vitex, nothing to do with his public profile, regardless of how much it could benefit her. But…

Tears trail down her cheeks. It’s not for her, so it’s different.

“Two weeks at the lake cottage. Would that be—?”

He doesn’t even let her finish. “Of course.” She hears shuffling, rustling like he's gotten out of bed and started rooting around his nightstand. “I'll call Graham tomorrow, get it set up for you.”

“He can't do anything strenuous,” she adds, “and I don't want to leave him alone, so we'd have to order in for most things.”

“I'll take care of it,” Pete replies smoothly. “There’ll be fresh wood for the stove, too, if the temperature drops.”

Her voice comes out barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

“When do you want to go?”

“As soon as he's released.” There's a clutch in her chest, twin sensations of guilt and horror digging their hands in. She’s never planned more than a birthday present behind his back. “I’ll clear it with his doctor first, but I don't want to give him time to argue with me, and if we stay home—I mean, the paps'll be all over us. He won’t get a minute’s rest.”

If her father notices her misuse of the word “home,” he doesn't mention it.

“I'll handle travel arrangements,” is all he says. “D'you need someone to go and pack for you?”

“No, I can do it.” She sniffs, trying to gather herself. “Seriously, this is—I just want you to know…” But her voice dissolves.

“I know, love. I do.”

“I've got to go,” Rose manages, seconds or minutes later. The tears have slowed, and she can breathe again, and all she can think of is crawling back into that awful hospital bed beside Malcolm and falling asleep with his heart beating safely under her ear. Now that she’s got some sort of plan, she thinks she might have a shot at rest.

There’s just an instant of hesitation, then her dad says, “Rose? You know, Malcolm… he's been on his own a long time, love.”

That almost makes her scoff. As if she doesn’t know.

“Been making a ruin of his life, if you ask me, but he's always been self-sufficient. And if I’m honest, I don't think…” He trails off. She can sense that he’s searching for words, and presses her impatient lips together. She owes Pete that much, at least. “I don't think he knows how to let someone love him. Understand?”

Weakly, she answers. “Yeah.”

“So he might try to act like he doesn't need it, but he does. ‘Cause the way you love him—love, he'd be a fool to leave all that on the table.” There's urgency in his voice, an undercurrent of something she can’t identify. And then he says, “He's lucky to have you, Rose,” and she feels the words pressing into her heart, touching some aching place she's been pretending doesn't hurt. But it does hurt. “So lucky.”

It’s never stopped hurting.

“Never forget that.” The words come to her thick with tears, and she wonders if he’s been hurting, too. All this time. “All right?”

She squeezes her hand into a fist and wishes like she used to when she was just a kid. Wishes her father was here, with his arms around her.

This isn't that, but it's as close as they've been, maybe ever. As honest.

So she says, quietly, “All right, Dad.”

“Everythin’ okay?” Malcolm mumbles blearily. He’s blinking at her before she can even climb back into the hospital bed. And here she’d been all worried about waking him. But in second, his washed-out gaze is wide and alert—a shadow of his normal self—his hand lifting to make room for her beside him. “Thought you might've gone home.”

Home.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. “Don't be stupid.”

She wishes she could stop the renewed flow of tears, but she's too tired to turn them off—to do anything but curl up against him and let them soak his hospital gown.

“Not going anywhere,” she sniffs out.

Malcolm hums, but says nothing. Just strokes his hand up and down her arm. He's cooler than he should be, veins filled with foreign hospital fluids, so she nestles in, sharing her body heat. Their combined weight sinks them into the mattress, closer to each other. It's like a small pocket of shared gravity, belonging only to them.

“I called my dad,” she says, she doesn’t know how long after.

His hand pauses. “Oh, yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?” Talk about a non-sequitur.

There’s shifting against her, and she looks up, easing her weight off him in case he's uncomfortable. God knows he's got no chance of escaping, so at least she can not crowd him.

But he’s not trying to move. Just settling. “Rose,” he says, holding her gaze, “where's this coming from?”

She blinks.

“My heart, you berk.”

“I know that,” and he rolls his eyes, lids fluttering. “I mean, where is this leading to?”

“Well, I'm gonna ask you to do something I know you won't want to do, and before I ask, I just—I dunno, thought it would be important for you to know.” She almost pouts at his unchanging stare. “That I love you.” Nothing. “And that I'm asking because I love you.”

He answers too quickly. “No, I don’t think we should open things up to a third.” Quippy, light. The effort of it hurts her head.

“Jesus, Malcolm.”

“I know it works for a lot of people,” he blithely continues, ignoring her narrowing gaze, “but I’ve already sowed pretty much all the wild oats I want to sow.”

“Malcolm.”

“And we’re not getting a dog either.”

“I want you to take a break.” She meant to finesse it a bit, but no, she’s just blurting it out now and he’s just staring at her. Chin tucked, like they’re just curled up on the couch and she’s telling him she wants chips for dinner, again. “A holiday,” she presses on. “Two weeks. My dad’s got this place near Windermere, it’s called Rose Cottage—I know,” she adds, before he can even open his mouth to comment, “Rose Cottage, horrendous. He’s still getting the hang of apologies. But he said it’s ours if we need it, everything’s set up. It’s quiet, peaceful, but not so boring you’ll go mad locked up there, I think. Plenty to see in close walking distance. There’s a lovely garden and a library, and we can just take the train, and—”

She is rambling.

And he just watches her do it. Watches her dig this hole right in front of him. Possibly he’s trying to think his way out of the situation.

“I mean, if you don’t want me there,” to see you like this, god, please don’t say that, “if it would be better, we could hire a nurse and you can go by yourself. The important thing is you need to rest, but I didn’t think—I mean, it’s not just about you recuperating either. I guess I thought… we could…”

She shakes her head, wishing it would clear. Wishing she could say things in a more helpful way. But all she’s got is this endless stream of, Don’t go back, don’t go back there. Don’t go back to them.

“Can you take pity on me for, like, five seconds and say something, maybe?”

“All right,” he says. “C’mere, shift.”

He waits for her to resettle, her head in the curve of his shoulder, her arm poised carefully around his waist. She’s never been surprised by his capacity for gentleness, or his overt affection, though she’s sure it would shock the shit out of practically anyone else. Maybe not Pete. But to her, it always made sense. There’s the side of the moon you see, and then there’s what’s hidden beyond. Smudgy and impossible unless you look from a different angle.

Malcolm loves like that.

He lets her breathing regulate before he speaks again. “I don’t want to do that.”

Even laying down, her shoulders sag a little.

“I don’t want to turn off my phone, stay in some quaint little middle-of-nowhere called Rose fucking Cottage, doing nothing for two weeks while the world moves on. While my party makes a fucking laughingstock of itself—which,” he adds, “—I know they all will, more than likely already have. Fucking disaster waiting to happen.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of heat in his voice. The energy that is essentially Malcolm, his constant belief that the world should be better than this, that it’s always letting him down with its many varied incompetencies. But it fades back into something slower.

Sadder, she thinks.

“I don’t want to end my career notorious, with a heart attack that nobody’s happy I survived. Almost nobody,” he corrects when she moves to argue. “I don’t want a holiday, Rose. How you can even call it that when we both know you’ll be playing nursemaid—shuffling my sorry arse around, ordering takeaway and doling out probably a whole rainbow of little colour-coded pills… Jesus. It’s miserable, and humiliating, and frankly, it’s hardly a holiday at all. But it’s one I particularly don’t want to take without the woman I love.”

She blinks again, her eyelids feeling so heavy, mind so slow. But her heart lurches in her chest like it’s lighter than air. “Really?”

“Yes, darling. So I guess you’d better come along, if you think you can stand it.” He must feel how relieved she is. How every bit of her begins to unspool.

“I can.”

His lips land soft against her head, breath gusting out over her rumpled hair, and his hand resumes its steady path up and down her arm. She thinks that’s the end of it. Until: “You know, the doctor said something funny earlier, when you were out of the room. Called you my wife. ‘I’m glad your wife is so serious about your care,’ he told me.”

Oh, god. Honestly, she’d forgotten, in the midst of everything else. The lie she’d come up with in the heat of the moment, in her desperation to see him. She should’ve known it would get back to him somehow. It’s either very good or very bad that she’s too tired to react with appropriate embarrassment.

“He seemed to think quite highly of you. All your notes and questions. And I thought, ‘Now that’s interesting.’ ‘Cause I didn’t want to correct him.”

She can’t help it. Her arm tightens, her whole body burrowing closer. Ribbons of warmth trail through her, centralising around her heart. “They weren’t going to let me see you,” she says. It’s all the explanation she feels she needs.

“I didn’t want you to see me either.”

“That’s just stupid. I always want to see you.”

His chest judders with a silent laugh, and then he sucks in a short, pained breath. But he doesn’t let her squirm away, just holds her tighter. “I know,” he says quietly. “I have come to discover that I’m a very stupid man.”

“Well, I’m bloody brilliant, and I have a plan to get you better and keep you around for a long time, so don’t—you shouldn’t even bother arguing with me,” she says, going for some measure of authority. She can’t take her eyes off the machines at his bedside. Numbers blurring in and out, back and forth. Thinking, You’re not a ghost. There, look—your heart’s beating. “And even if you do, I won’t listen.”

It’s mine to keep.

“I’ll try not to.” She hears the smile in his voice. Smiles herself. It feels like a good stretch, muscles that need to be tended to after an endless tense day.

“You fight everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to fight me.”

He answers in a whisper, close. “I know.” Nobody else would believe it.

But it’s close enough to a promise. The words wash over her head, more air than sound, and she holds them tight while the world goes fuzzy and soft at the edges. And eventually, Rose sleeps, exactly as she wanted to. With his heart beating steadily, safely beneath her head.

#hiiiiii i'm back <3 #i'm so sleepy so i'm gonna try to tag things really quick wahhh #malcolm tucker #rose tyler #tuckerrose #malcolm tucker x rose tyler #dw x ttoi #dw fic #my fic #prompt fic #hurt/comfort #twelveinch #< that tag is not a Thing i just think it's funny #if anyone reads this and finds a typo please don't tell me until the morning when i'm gonna do probably another round of editing ok byee #abbey.txt

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