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nationalharryleague · 4 years

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The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF

Word count: 2.5K

A/N: Hi everyone! This is 2.5k of absolute tooth rotting fluff that was inspired by the Golden music video and the ultra talented @theharriediaries!! Thank you to Soph and Lu (@meetmymouth) for beta reading and giving me some direction when I needed it!! You can find more of my writing in my masterlist and I would LOVE if you could give me some feedback!! My requests are also open in my ask!!

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“The Italians drink a lot over dinner,” Harry told you in an informative tone, an attempt to order yet another very expensive bottle of red. “Wine is very important in Italian culture,” he tipsily explained across the table, dimples prominent from his cheeky smile. “I learned that in my Italian classes.”

“Oh, did you?” you teased back at him, feeling a bit floaty as you finished your third glass, only for Harry to fill it right back up, emptying the bottle on the table. You laughed and shook your head as you watched him make eye contact with the waiter, motioning for him to bring another bottle over.

“Vino, vino, vino,” he hummed under his breath, playing with the empty glass in front of him that was soon filled up again with the deep red liquid that had stained his pouty lips a deep red and his tongue purple. The two of you sat in the front patio of a small restaurant down the block from your hotel, under a giant and bright moon that made his eyes sparkle even more than usual.

He had a boyish flush to his cheeks, which could have been from the wine or the remnants of a scaldingly hot day in Italy; maybe both. You could still feel the summer heat radiating back up from the pavement below you after it had baked in the sun all day. The oppressive heat still hung in the air, just enough for a light sheen of sweat to be covering you both that seemed to make Harry glow on the dimly lit patio.

You two had found yourself in Italy while Harry had some time off because he insisted he needed to go and practice his Italian. “Devo andare per la mia istruzione,” he told you one day after he got home from his class. “I have to go for my education,” he translated a moment later after being met with a blank look from you. He practiced all day every day. He struck up conversations with locals, spoke with every fan who came to say hi, and attempted to translate menus and order every meal. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but he was trying nonetheless.

Harry in Italy was a special version of himself. He was smiley and carefree and always trying to fatten you up or get you drunk. When he was here, he seemed to wholeheartedly become the H you always knew, abandoning the rockstar and becoming the mushy and emotional man that told you he loved you in every sentence and needed to be touching you at all times. His hair had lightened a tiny bit from your days outdoors, his skin had grown tan and taken on a golden tone, a side effect of him constantly ignoring when you told him to put on sunscreen.

You drank and ate and talked until the restaurant was closing down around you, a common occurrence when you two had the opportunity to slow down and just be together for a while, trying to forget that there was anything else going on in the world outside this tiny town. If he hadn’t captivated the wait staff with his broken Italian and charming smile earlier in the night, you were sure you would have been met with eyerolls from those cleaning up around you. Eventually, you two walked hand in hand out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk along the windy road, both of you full and drunk, and beginning the short walk back to your hotel.

He was smiling so wide his dimpled cheeks must have been hurting, a bright smile encouraged by the alcohol running through his system. His hair flopped over his forehead, curlier than usual because of the sea air and his lips were an even deeper purple than before. His beautiful mouth babbled, every thought in his head flowing past his lips in a slightly slurred mix of italian and english; a verbal expression of excitement and clumsiness.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight beside you, your fingers lazily interlocked with his, tugging him back when he moved too close to the street, hoping his wobbly legs wouldn’t trip on the uneven cobblestone sidewalk. You primarily didn’t want him to tear or stain his favorite light blue blazer if he took a tumble. He once told you it was his favorite because he thought the color looked like the sky on the day you had met. You remember blushing and pushing him away from you, telling him he was cheesy with a playful eye roll. “It’s my job to be cheesy!” he had defended himself. “Also, I’m not being cheesy, I’m a man in love.”

You were brought back into reality when he stopped in his tracks and pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your torso. “We should dance,” he beamed, eyes wide like it was the greatest idea he had ever thought of.

“There’s no music, H,” you regrettably informed him while pushing his curls away from his forehead. You couldn’t help but lean in and press a light kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm and slightly sweaty on your lips, a salty taste invading your mouth.

“We don’t need music. All the music is up here,” he winked while tapping his temple. “We're listening to classical.”

“Oh I see, music man,” you joked, unable to contain your giggles.

“Shh,” he attempted to quell your laughter, bringing his pointer finger to your lips. “Can’t hear the music.” A sarcastic seriousness played across his face, prompting another grin to sneak onto your lips. You pressed a kiss to his finger, before giving into his demand and falling quiet.

You could never fight the spell he put you under. You lived in a cloud of Harry, an intoxicating daze that made you unable to focus on the bad of the world when he was around. He had seemed to melt down the walls you had built before you had met, a fact that made him endearingly call you his ‘Ice Queen’ every once in a while. The charm and wit he carried with him wiped away your practicality, always knowing how to convince you to play along with his antics and throw your precious caution to the wind. He was your rose colored glasses. He made your heart jump all day long and unexpected bursts of joy were felt in your chest whenever he smiled, laughed, or said your name. You were enamored by him, an all consuming love you couldn’t escape from.

“What are you thinking about, pet?” he asked softly, breaking through your loving haze. “You have your thinking face on.” A light smile continued to play on his lips but it was softer now, taking on a gentle questioning quality.

“Just thinking about how much I love you,” you confessed.

His eyebrows perked up and so did the corners of his mouth into a delightful smirk. “I mean, who doesn’t?” His smart ass comment earned himself a playful slap to his chest, but your attempt to wiggle out of his arms was thwarted when he pulled you even tighter to him. “That’s no way to treat your dance partner, my love.”

“I want a different dance partner,” you taunted, sticking the tip of your tongue out at him.

One of his hands fell from your shoulders to the small of your waist, the other found one of yours and he began to sway with care side to side. “Too bad, we’re already dancing,” he spoke softly into your ear. You two moved in an easy rhythm to a song only Harry could hear, a more caring and tender tone taking over for your previously playful one.

His cheek pressed to your temple and your bodies pressed loosely to each other. If you tried hard enough, you could hear the man’s soft hum of a melody you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Your feet fell carefully, wary of the uneven pavement in your heels, but you reminded yourself even if you were to fall, the arm looped around your waist would be sure to catch you. Small kisses peppered your forehead and you were released from his grasp for only a second for him to twirl you around, the skirt of your dress splaying out around you before being enveloped in him once again.

“I love you, angel,” he murmured softly when you found yourself resting back against his chest. He had abandoned his joking tone, shifting to a gentler and more serious cadence, pouring his soul into every word that left his lips as they brushed against your forehead. “I am so happy that I get to spend my life with you.”

“I love you so much. This is a happier life than I could have ever imagined for myself,” you spoke after a thoughtful pause. You were still swaying calmly, seeming to move in time with the cool breeze settling over the two of you, but Harry’s humming had been abandoned for a reflective silence.

“What kind of house do you want us to live in one day?” he asked abruptly, choosing to move in a seemingly unrelated direction.

“It has to be big; with enough rooms to fill with lots of cats and dogs, and when the time comes, maybe a baby. And I want a big porch to sit on together and watch the world go by on.” You felt him nod thoughtfully and with a hum of agreement.

“Do you want it to be the only house we ever live in? Or do you want to try out different places to find your favorite?”

“I think I want it to be our one house. I want us to be the crazy old people who have lived in the old rickety house at the end of the block forever; the ones who always have stories to tell and grandchildren constantly coming and going.”

“Can we be the ones who brag about never having a fight?”

“Do you mean the ones who lie?” you asked with a chuckle, looking up to face him. He broke out into a high pitched giggle, your favorite laugh of his. It warmed you to your core knowing that you were the only one who could make him laugh like that.

“Exactly,” he nodded in confirmation, still chuckling to himself.

“We can lie and say we’ve never had a fight as long as we never stop getting wine drunk and slow dancing to no music on random streets while on vacation,” you quipped.

“Sounds like a plan, my love.”

“I know we’ve talked about doing it, but when do you want to get married? I don’t want to inconvenience either of our careers with wedding planning or anything like that. I don’t really care as long as we get to spend our lives together.” The words fell freely from your mouth, the wine still running through your veins blocking the inhibition that probably should have kept the words inside your head.

“Getting married to you wouldn’t be an inconvenience, darling.”

“I know. Wrong words,” you chuckled. “Well, I guess I should have asked when you want to get engaged,” you corrected yourself. “I suppose we have to do that first.”

“Why not now?” he asked, with a mischievous twang in his voice. You felt one of his arms slip from around you and start rummaging in his jacket pocket.

“What?”

“I said,” he began again, “why not now?” His hand emerged from his pocket, presenting you with a tiny red velvet ring box.

Your mind went blank. Your usually rapid and incessant thoughts seemed to stop altogether in a mix of shock and awe. You knew this day, or night, would come eventually. You two had discussed a future together extensively and had agreed you didn’t want to spend your lives with anyone else, but you had never imagined the moment he asked you to be his forever. You had never imagined this moment.

His eyebrows slicked up, lips curled in a devilish smile, and he sank down onto one knee before you. Your hands flew up to your face and the wetness on your fingertips alerted you to the tears that had begun to fall down your cheeks, your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears.

“My dear,” Harry began as he settled onto the sidewalk, balancing carefully on the cobblestone ground. “I have been in love with you since the very first day I met you and that adorable little snort slipped out when you laughed at one of my bad jokes. You have been the first thought I have in the morning and the last thought I have before I fall asleep for longer than you know. You are kind and smart and funny and you light up every room you walk into. I do not want to spend another second of my life without knowing you’ll be by my side for the rest of it. Will you marry me?”

He looked up at you with hopeful eyes and you looked down at him through tearful ones. You began a furious nod, before choking out the only word he wanted to hear. “Yes,” you sobbed, holding out a shaky hand for him to slide the ring onto.

The ring was beautiful; dazzling under the light of the full moon and the dim street lights above you. It slid onto your ring finger with ease, sitting snugly like the ring was made just for you. It was simple, which Harry knew was your style and it held one (large) diamond in a simple silver setting, no bells or whistles needed.

Harry grabbed you by the waist as soon as the ring was secure and picked you up in his arms and spun, twirling you around like the two of you had just slipped out of a rom-com. Delighted giggles fell from both of your lips before he finally stopped, your laughter pausing when your lips found his.

It was a salty kiss, due to the sheen of sweat still sitting on Harry’s skin and the tears that were still streaming down your own, but it just felt so right. He was warm and smiling, lips still tasting of the pinot noir you had shared. Your lips moved together in a perfect harmony like they were meant for each other.

“Thank god you said yes,” Harry breathed when you finally separated. “I’ve been carrying that ring with me everywhere we go for two months now.”

With a playful eye roll, you pulled the curly man to you and connected your lips once again, unable to get enough of him. His intoxicating cologne filled your nostrils and you had never felt more safe or happy. The love you shared felt like when the sun warms your skin under a golden hour sunset; bright yet soft, spectacular yet easy. And you were ready for it to never end.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! FEEDBACK AND REBLOGS ARE SUPER APPRECIATED!!

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles reader insert #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #harry fluff #harry fanfic #one direction #one direction fanfic #harry styles fic #my writing

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commander-diomika · 3 years

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Pairing: Zolf Smith/Cel Sidebottom Word Count: 2100 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Spanking, Asexual Character, Non-Sexual Kink, Kink Negotiation, RQG kinktober, Kinktober 2021, Aftercare Prompt: Spanking Summary: Cel has a favourite method of stress relief that they haven't indulged in awhile. Zolf seems like the kind of person who would be able to help. Notes: Trans feminine non binary Cel coz why not? You know they've got the potions to make just about anything work.

Cel has always admired Zolf’s hands. Like a miniature of his stature, they were broad, probably twice the breadth of Cel’s slender ones, and yet there was something so deft and gentle about them. The way that Zolf tied a complex knot, or kneaded dough, held a certain fascination for them.

“I wanted to ask something from you, Zolf. A favour, probably, and I know you like helping people but I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes but I was just thinking that if y-”

Zolf held up one of those delightful hands and Cel stopped. “I’m listenin’, Cel. What can I do for you?”

“There’s this thing, that I like, it’s sort of a stress relief thing, and I haven’t had a chance to do it in a long time and I know you would be very good at it-”

“Cel. Specifics, please? I can’t say yes ‘r no if you don’t tell me what you’re askin’.”

Cel took a sharp breath in, their eyes bright and guileless, “I’d like you to spank me.”

Zolf looked momentarily poleaxed. Wherever he might have guessed this was going, that was NOT it.

“But I want to say, it’s not a sex thing. It’s honestly just,” they fluttered their hands as if extrapolating, “-nice! And I came to you because I know that you wouldn’t read into that anything that wasn’t there because, well, that’s just the kind of person you are.”

Zolf turned the idea over slowly, not even realising when he started to slightly nod his head. “I reckon I could do that for you.”

…

Cel led Zolf to their room, face glowing with excitement.

“Ok!”

Zolf wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, or how to get started on such a strange request, but he trusted that Cel knew enough about their needs to lead the way.

“Now, first question. Would you be comfortable if I was naked? I know some people make a big thing out of nudity. Honestly, I’d just be more comfortable that way, but! Only if you are also comfortable with that.” For once Cel actually managed to finish their sentence and waited for Zolf’s response, head tilted.

Zolf shrugged. He was on a similar page when it came to nudity. It meant exactly no more or less than what people assigned to it. “Whatever you like. This is your show.”

Cel beamed and started on the buttons of their shirt. Zolf admired the unique aesthetics of their body as they undressed, long limbs, surprisingly square and sinewy shoulders, small peaked breasts and their prick resting soft between their legs.

They left the goggles perched jauntily on the top of their head. Zolf, whilst not completely certain what they did, knew they were magically imbued. He didn’t find it too strange that Cel might prefer to leave them on even in an intimate situation. Or if it was strange, no more than Cel usually was.

“Do you think I’ll be at a workable height if I lean over this desk?” Without waiting for a response, Cel cleared the surface of said desk with a tinkling clatter of metal and mystery components.

Zolf’s mouth twitched in a fond smile. “Should be right.”

With another absolutely winning smile, Cel turned, moved the chair, and leant their long torso over the surface, perching on their elbows. The table was of a height that folded them to a right angle, maybe a bit sharper if they rested their chest all the way down.

Cel looked over their shoulder, stomach giving a little thrill of excitement as Zolf came over. It really had been too long, and they were looking forward to having those lovely hands on their backside.

Zolf rested on hand in the small of Cel’s back, and waited, as if for some kind of starting signal.

Right! Cel realised through their anticipation. For all that Zolf always radiated an air of reassuring competency, there was every chance he’d never done this before. Perhaps Cel had gotten slightly ahead of things by stripping off and presenting their bare arse to him over a desk.

“So, if you just… give me a few whacks and I’ll let you know where things stand? Focus on this rounded part-“ they indicated with a hand “- but I’d like it if you went down my thighs a bit as well.”

“I’m guessin' you’d prefer if I try not to touch b’tween your legs.” Zolf clarified.

“Yes, correct. There’s “nice, neurochemically stimulating pain,” and “ouch no fun” pain and I’d definitely prefer the former and not the latter. If you just keep a nice steady pace, the area will warm as blood comes to the surface in a mild inflammation response, my tolerance will build, and you’ll be able to increase intensity.”

Zolf smiled that fond little smile again as Cel continued. “We can calibrate a nice starting spot together. I don’t think you’ll get too carried away, but if it’s too much I’ll just say “stop” or if I need a moment I’ll say “pause.””

Zolf simply nodded. That was the information he had been seeking, plus the typical Cel extra. “Ready?” was all he said.

Cel nodded, and Zolf wound up and gave their buttock a smack with a tempered amount of force. Their arse was quite lean and firm beneath his hand.

“Oof! Yes! You can go up from there, by about twenty percent to start.”

Zolf wasn’t entirely sure his understanding of his strength could be broken down to a percentile, but he did his best.

Together, they calibrated. He’d give two or three spanks, Cel would offer feedback, and he’d go again. After two or three rounds of this, Cel settled their chest all the way down to the desk, cushioning their head on their forearms.

“That’s perfect, Zolf, thank you! Continue just like that!” They gave their hips a little inviting wiggle. “Please,” they added as an afterthought, voice slightly muffled into the desk.

Zolf gave a small chuckle and continued.

He settled into a rhythm; It was surprisingly satisfying. By Cel’s metric he was probably using about fifty percent of his strength, alternating cheeks with one hand still resting in the small of Cel’s back. He brought the blows down their thighs and was rewarded with a little squirm and a delighted puff of air from Cel as he did so.

Zolf’s palm grew warm, and Cel’s pale skin reddened beneath the firm blows. He watched their torso melt a little further into the desk, and when they turned their head, he noted that same red flush across their cheekbones. He slowed momentarily when they gave a small moan, but they hadn’t asked for a pause, so he could only take that as a good sign.

A few minutes later Zolf changed hands, coming to stand on the other side of them. He expected the small pause to be filled with Cel’s usual chatter, but they remained silent.

Zolf didn’t think he’d ever been a room with Cel without hearing them speak for this length of time.

When his other hand had grown as warm from impact as the first, Cel spoke. “Pause.” Their voice was breathy in a way that Zolf had never heard before. He paused, and without thinking took both hands and gave both of Cel’s arsecheeks a massaging squeeze. Cel sighed with pleasure.

“My tolerance has definitely gone up. If you could increase the intensity? I can take about twenty to thirty percent more.” They dropped their head back onto their forearms, and again, after a sufficient pause for it to occur to them, they added, “Please.”

Zolf gave what was asked of him. The flesh under his palms was achingly warm now, and on the rounded parts where he had been hitting most frequently, there was a slight raised area, starting to darken from flushed pink to a deeper, purple tinged colour.

When they asked for another pause, this time they sounded drunk. They got their arms underneath them and straightened up.

“Had enough?” Zolf asked, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d intended.

“No, no it’s just-” They turned blinked somewhat owlishly at him, their cheeks a delightful shade of pink. “My legs are starting to give, a little. Which is good! I am nicely full of the endorphins released by this kind of process.”

They licked their lips, and Zolf couldn’t help but think that Cel looked incredibly cute like this.

“If it alright with you…” For the first time in this whole scenario, they sounded hesitant. “Could I lie down? In your lap, maybe? Only if you’re comfortable with that.”

Zolf swallowed. As they came up off the desk and turned, Zolf couldn’t help but let his eyes dip to their crotch. Well, he didn’t have to dip very far, with their height difference. Cel’s prick was still soft between their legs. Perhaps if they had been hard, he might have felt awkward about taking them into his lap, but it seemed they had been accurate in reporting that this was purely about sensation for them.

He nodded, and went to settle on Cel’s bed. Before Cel joined him, their hands fluttered, reaching toward their head as they considered something. “Hm,” was all they said, again surprising Zolf with their lack of patter.

Cel clambered onto the bed with shy smile. They crawled over him and draped their long body across his thighs, arse perked up over his lap. Zolf could feel a touch of tension in the body where it touched his. Cel turned their head to look at him, thoughtful through their slightly sensation-drunk haze.

“Um,” they said, and brought their hands up, delicately removing the goggles and handing them to Zolf. “Could you put those on the dresser, please?”

Zolf couldn’t help but feel he was being handed something more than a pair of goggles as he obeyed.

Cel closed their eyes, and sighed, unsteady but relieved. “Could you- not hard- but could you hold onto my hair?” Again, Cel was shyer than Zolf had come to expect from them. “Only if your comfortable with it.”

Zolf smiled and his stomach swooped a little at that. There was something warm in his chest, this feeling of being trusted with something rare and precious. “Sure.”

He curled one hand into the short hair at the nape of Cel’s neck, and as he gripped, he felt that last measure of tension go out of the body resting against his.

“Ready?” He asked softly. Cel nodded, slightly pulling their own hair in his grasp.

The shift in energy from the desk to the bed was palpable as Zolf started up his firm blows again. Cel sighed, and whimpered and shifted against him, and this time they didn’t need to speak; Cel had fed Zolf enough data for him to be able to read the request for more, and harder, and faster. He felt his own breath start to quicken from exertion, let his smacks rise and swell and push, seeking more of those little pleasured gasps that Cel now seemed more comfortable releasing.

He wasn’t quite giving them everything he had, but through the nice, dreamy rhythm he had fallen into, he found himself marvelling that this skinny alchemist could take as much as they were. The sweet spots of Cels’ arse was now dark with pre-bruising and their toes curled and rubbed into the coverlet on the bed.

He gave a few hearty spanks and Cel gasped into the covers. Zolf felt them go completely limp. Suddenly there was just a puddle of sweaty half-elf in his lap.

“Cel? Hey now.” He ran his hand up Cel’s spine, suddenly worried. “Is that enough?”

Cel groaned out an assent and rubbed their face against the covers. If they were wiping away tears, Zolf didn’t mention it. “Yes. I- thank you, Zolf.”

He helped Cel off his lap and they laid their long body out flat, their tall hair flattened with sweat against their forehead. They smiled dreamily at him. “That. Was. Perfect.”

Zolf felt any worry drain out of him, and his heart felt full and delighted. There was nothing he liked more than helping people, no matter that this was a new and unconventional method of doing so.

“Is there anythin’,” his voice felt wobbly and he cleared his throat to try again. “Anythin’ you need now? Healin’, water?”

Cel shook their head at both the offers, then smiled, a bit less bright than their usual smile, something hazier and more relaxed. “Actually. I wouldn’t mind a hug. Only if you’re-”

“-comfortable with that,” he finished with Cel and their mouth twisted wryly. “’Course.” He laid down next to them and gathered the loose-limbed half-half elf to his chest.

They stayed like that for a long moment, before Cel piped up, their voice sounding steadier for being held. “Zolf?”

“Mm?”

“I just realised- uhm- should we perhaps have sound proofed the room first?”

#rqg kinktober #kinktober #hank writes #cel sidebottom #zolf smith #rqg fan fic #rusty quill gaming #yall??? writing cel is so fucking fun?

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standarrow · 4 years

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abbacchio essay under the cut because he’s so important to me (god this is so long im sorry i have adhd i hope this is readable<3)

tl;dr being on how i think he healed and handled up until part 5 :”) + thoughts on his relationship to the team

tw!!! for all of the usual things that pertain to his backstory including: [death, alcohol abuse, police, ptsd/depression, etc]

i may be projecting<3 its fine

to start:

im not a fan of the way a lot of people handle handle abbas trauma and illness. the "entering a relationship fixes your problems<3" shit. or the romanticization of depression...i see both a lot, along with utilizing his substance issues as like a catalyst. i dont have to say why that shit isnt ok or healthy.

getting into it (because i want it to be this deep):

there is ... a lot of guilt that he shoulders around the death of his partner. someone he was friends with (and relied on him as a literal partner) died because He fucked up. that person wanted to protect him and died selflessly while he'd broken his own morals and he feels like it should have been him to pay for it.

but he wasnt. and now he suddenly has two mistakes and blood on his hands. getting fired doesnt even Begin to fix that, so he withdraws because he cant trust himself, cant trust the institution he was already disillusioned from, and imo hes angry that he didnt get punished worse for his own crimes (but cops always get off easy)

bruno finds him in the worst place of his life and gives him a chance to put schedule in his life, to protect even if its not in the way he originally thought he would. he still doesnt trust himself, i do not think he takes to working with a partner easily (what if he fucks up again. he'll get bruno/narancia/fugo killed.) and i think that reflects in why moody blues isnt meant for combat. combat = danger.

obligatory moody blues being an allegory for his trauma and ptsd surrounding the death of his partner.. constantly haunted by his own mistake and reliving that moment. heavily referencing his wish to redo, to know every detail of that prick he let bribe him that killed his partner, to have Control. because abbacchio isnt really about The Moment -- he's making sure the Moment doesnt have a chance to come to fruition. its nipping it in the bud before the weed can kill. he wants to make sure he can figure out whats going on First and protect. to figure out past events and prevent future danger.

starting to heal:

i’ve done a timeline previously: he graduates high school in 1998, six months for the police academy, 6 months before hes out again.. joins passione in december (rainy season) of 1999, and by december of 2000 (~4 months before part 5) hes like.... well. doing better in terms of his alcoholism. we see abbacchio by part 5 occasionally and seemingly comfortably enjoying a glass or two, which speaks that after some time working hes sort gained some..... confidence in his ability to keep his intake low.

working for bruno means he cant drink as often or binge as much, hes needed and that structure keeps him in check, its not easy and yes he slips but its about and overall upwards climb because any progress is good progress... he builds a rapport with the team, comes to appreciate brunos role in giving him a chance and some peace of mind, sees himself in fugo, treats narancia like a little brother. relationships with others cant Fix your problems but friendship and structure can help, they can be there when you need it.

hes starting to trust himself more. and his relationship to fugo and nara were as crucial as his one with bruno is.

in purple haze feedback we see that he's been teamed up with fugo, and he knows fugos stand ability very well (see mirror man fight)... they Get each other and abbacchio sees a lot of his anger and distrust at himself in fugo, and easily calms fugo down when he gets upset (see mirror man episode in the car)

fugo helped him trust himself and others more .. that other people arent Fragile and arent going to die on him every time they get into danger and its not His fault. he relies on fugo and vice versa. the kid is powerful but also a smart tactician and extremely capable. they Get each other and it helps abbacchio trust himself in combat situations and helps calm his paranoia about getting someone killed while working ... and nara is just sunshine. hes an annoying little brother but it helps him retain normalcy. some sense of like. not everything is doom and gloom

his depression and general self? depreciation perhaps doesnt leave him because those kinds of thoughts mould your brain a certain way.. they dont just go away without some work. but perhaps time with bruno helps him start to realise his worth, the way the team appreciates him and his ability. his self consciousness can start to fall away a little bit. i think by the time december of 2000 (a year after his recruitment by my timeline) hes like... a lot more comfortable with the schedule of his life, it helps him get out of bed, gives his brain a structure to latch onto. the responsibility of overseeing the younger ones and helping bruno gives him the sort of hope for this original goal of wanting to protect

@ bruno (in a more romantic sense perhaps + why i think he distrusts giorno so much)

his relationship to bruno isnt fucking “godlike savior<3″ because thats.... needless to say Very unhealthy.

their relationship doesnt reach a point by where i think Either would even want to enter a relationship until about a year in (~4 months before part 5 begins)... theres a certain uncertainty i think bruno has with wanting to help abbacchio, he respects and cares about the other man and canonically sees him as his senior.. and i think theres a certain wall there that bruno isnt sure he wants to try to knock down, meanwhile abbacchio isnt sure when he built those walls but theyre safe (and what happens if you try to reach out?)

i think they sort of fall into it and its not... planned. its a little impulsive but it feels natural and they help each other because bruno is this comfort to abba, is the reason he has this structure and has made this progress himself and hes not....crediting it all to bruno obviously but bruno did play a Large Role. and bruno is all about little white lies, appearances. Yes hes fine. Dont worry, he has things under control.

and i think to an extent abbacchio knows of brunos softer spots (as does fugo, bc of the reason he and fugo team up as described in phf is to protect him) but abba doesnt realise to the extent that bruno is .... hiding his real fears. brunos a lot about compartmentalization (hi zippers) and being let into brunos internal... thoughts beyond the occasional worries he mightve shared is a big step for them. bruno buries a lot of his internal problems and worries. he has to. hes got to keep moving, keep working; people rely on him... but abbacchio is the person he doesnt feel like he needs to protect because theyre equals and maybe he can let someone in to shoulder his worries and vice versa. theyre partners.

which is why i think abbacchio initially distrusts giorno so much... its not tht he doesnt trust bruno, but bruno doesnt Tell him about this. he realizes he might not know all brunos fears (specifically @ his distate and hate towards the mafia i made the point about in the bruno isnt evil post where its like.. he Couldntve shared that information, otherwise he would endanger abbacchio)

and it scares him. it freaks him the fuck out because he doesnt understand who this kid is or why bruno trusts him so much but he trusts bruno so he goes with it, even if he doesnt Understand.

anyways thts my TEDtalk ty i love you for reading this if you got here<3

#EDIT: ok 2 rb if you want!!!#leone abbacchio #im not tagging it otherwise i just want this findable in my own tagging system LOL #all of this is from discord from dming adrian and simon so hi guys if youre reading the tags #i deal with a lot of the issues abbacchio does but i understand that that doesnt mean i didnt use language that might be incorrect #i understand and apologize !! feel free to send an ask but otherwise pls im not trying to start meta discourse over an anime character #i just wanted to get my thoughts out because im tired of seeing representations of him that i just. feel are SO so ugly #esp as someone whos struggled with the issues #caleb.txt #caleb meta hour

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abri-chan · 4 years

Note

I saw you talking about X Reader fics and trying to write for Giorno, what would you say are your biggest pet peeves when it comes to Giorno x Reader fics or just general Giorno based fics? I'm trying to write for Giorno for a fic. that pairs him with a female OC and I check other fics for inspiration apart from the manga and purple haze feedback, and it seems like there are specifically three different versions of Giorno that show up in fics

I’ll be honest the xReader fics I read are smut (yeah I know I don’t write smut myself but hey I need my porn). The fic I’m writing for Giorno is actually a somber one kinda and is about him and Dio, so no reader or OC in that one.

Also, I kinda approach readers as OCs a lot, so we’re similar there. (I do have actual OCs tho!) I would like to know more about what you think the three versions are.

I’m rambling here, and not all may be useful. These include xCharacter, xReader, or just Gen.

Submissive Giorno. I’m separating top/bottom and sub/dom here. I feel like Giorno is always ultimately in control. I kinda HC Giorno as being a thot like Dio, in that he will not hesitate to use charm or sex to get what he wants. But even though Giorno could be fine with humiliation I think even that is calculated. There were some nice examples in abbagio fics where physically it seems Abbacchio was in charge: he was getting payback for Giorno’s behavior, but emotionally it was Giorno that drove him into getting rough with him. I joke that the D in Don Giovanna stands for Dom, but I believe Giorno is always in control of how the situation unfolds, bedroom or not.

Innocent, childlike, or melancholic Giorno. This is a big one. I’ll admit I ship Giorno into what could be considered incestuous because I think his dynamics with other Joestars are interesting (he’s partly Dio after all). I used to consume giotaro/giojota/giodio for a while. Great art by some artists, but the fics I’ve read... not the best. I feel giobru falls under this category too. Not that the stories the fics tell are bad per se; it’s the characterization of Giorno that is off. It seems when Giorno is paired with an older character or manlier character he comes off either as overly naive or overly depressed. (I believe Giorno would fuck over any other Joestar except maybe Jolyne) While as far as we’re shown (through behavior, never thoughts) Giorno manipulated his capo (Bruno) and became Boss in 14 days. You can argue that maybe if Giorno falls in love he’d wear his heart on his sleeve and I don’t quite buy it because it would be too much of a drastic change. IMO Giorno kicked melancholy in the face when the nameless gangster gave him hope-- he seems “a look towards the future kind” of guy.

I’m not saying he doesn’t have any feelings or thoughts on the sacrifice of his comrades, and I do believe Giorno grew a lot in what a leader should be (specifically the opposite of Diavolo): value loyalty (Narancia, Abbacchio), be open to what your subordinates think (Mista in Ghiaccio’s fight), pay people by their worth (the entire La Squadra fiasco could have been avoided). But I think Giorno sees them as a testament or sacrifice to a bigger vision: his bigger vision. So he looks at the bad aspects with respect and awe instead of depression or melancholy. Which brings me to the fourth point.

Give power when power is due. After Giorno becomes Don describe a Don lifestyle. Don’t have Trish just walk into his room anytime or Giorno lazying around. Don’t have him friendly with Mista or Fugo, because they’re not on the same level-- there’s a huge power imbalance and idc how much Giorno values them, he needs to maintain order and hierarchy. Yes he may be 15 in some fics but he never even acted 15 in the actual story. I feel being Don forced him to mature faster-- think of how helicopter parents force their children to perform adult feats in academics (taking college classes) or arts (child prodigies in music). You’d have to deal with the ramification of a character never having a childhood and not being allowed to have one.

Especially if you want to explore romantic relationships, you’d have to deal with how a huge power imbalance comes into play. I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised if Giorno didn’t intend to fall in love but instead planned for it. He’d task a trusted subordinate one day to find him a suitable wife (using wife since your OC is female). How would love unfold for someone that has it planned on how it should be and things don’t go according to plan?

(fourth point) There’s something wrong with Giorno. And I don’t know what it is, but I feel a good characterization would be able to capture it (if not in words in events or overall feeling it conveys). A lot of fics are not even wrong, in the sense that: yes Giorno would be overly romantic and prince charming. He’d also be unforgiving and cruel. But he’s somewhat never quite here or there. Maybe there’s something to be explore with Golden Experience Requiem: you chase a personality trait Giorno may have and realize you have return to the starting point without quite pinpointing it (just like Diavolo can never quite die).

I haven’t read PHF, only skimmed a bit, but there were some points where it gave off this vibe. For example, if I remember correctly Sheila was Giorno’s bodyguard. But then he just sends her away to find Fugo and the question is why? I mean the Don does need a bodyguard and especially trusted people-- you’d have to find another person to replace Sheila if something went wrong. You can read it as Fugo was important because Purple Haze is a dangerous stand, so Giorno must send his best wo(men). But the disturbing way I read it was that Sheila resembled Narancia’s devotion to Bruno in her devotion to Giorno. I think Fugo comments on how he thought Sheila was just as naive as Narancia at first. Did Giorno actually do this on purpose, because he knew what Sheila would remind Fugo of? That’s twisted, and I don’t know if PHF touches on that, or if it was just a coincidence: the author went for a character that resembles Narancia but not with the extension of how it would make Giorno look (this was emergent). There were also fans that screamed ‘fugio canon’ but idk did Giorno say those words (there’s this nice scene towards the end) to manipulate Fugo?

---

By the way isabelbuccellati has done very nice characterizations of Don Giovanna. Unfortunately she only has one public fic up on AO3 (it is nsfw so check at your own risk). I think the way she writes him has some depth you don’t usually see in his characterizations (these writings aren’t public tho).

But you can hop over to her tumblr and ask about Giorno, she’s a very nice person. She’s also one of the few people I’d trust to write smut of my fics.

---

Another advice would be to not be afraid to write a strong OC, because that way you can explore the characters around them through reactivity. You may end up putting Giorno in a situation that throws light into some hidden aspect of his personality.

I don’t mean strong in the sense of “great powers” or “great personality” or “role model”. I mean strong in the sense that she has presence in the story: for good or bad, with all the virtues and flaws, someone could definitely say “This is a person. This is a believable person.”

#anime manga rambles #Giorno Giovanna #jojo #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #Ougon no Kaze #Golden Wind #Vento Aureo

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angryinternetduck · 4 years

Text

Meet Me In the Hallway

1.8k words. harry styles x ofc This is the sequel to Only Angel :)

Harry leaned against the wall outside Arabella’s flat, chest heaving, and looked at the ceiling, willing the tears away. Despite himself, despite the fight and her problems and everything, he found himself already missing her.

He didn’t want to fight. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, as he called her out for missing their date and for cheating on him, he was regretting it. He knew she wasn’t the relationship type. He’d known it since the start.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to break it off, because he liked her. He really liked her. And despite all her faults, despite how much she hurt him, there was always that little voice in the back of his head telling him that they’d work it out. It was the same voice that was telling him it’d get better - that eventually, she’d realize that she couldn’t go without him. That eventually, she’d stop hurting him, and he’d get better. That they’d get better.

It was getting a bit ridiculous, Harry thought as he finally pulled himself away from the wall and towards his car. She’d hurt him, and break his heart, over and over and over again, but in the end, she was the one that healed him.

She was the pain, and she was the morphine, and Harry was an addict.

Harry sighed, hearing the little voice speak again.

Maybe it’ll work out, it said. Maybe it’ll get better.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

***

Harry’s flat was nice. It was pretty big. Only problem was, the TV was on the same wall as the door, which meant the sofa faced the door, which made it increasingly more difficult for Harry to focus on what was happening on the telly rather than staring at the door.

He was mad at her. She’d broken his heart.

But he was still hoping she’d come around.

He was still hoping for that knock, for that apology.

It seemed like centuries before it came.

***

Harry was staring at the ceiling when he heard her. He was lying on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling, when he heard her signature knock. Well, it wasn’t really hers, but Harry was hoping, so at that moment, she was the only person in the world who could be behind that door.

Knock, knock - pause - knock.

Harry jumped up, practically knocking his head on one of the little tables around him, and then froze, his hand hovering above the door knob. He took a breath, straightening his shirt and squaring his shoulders, and then opened the door with the hope that she wouldn’t be able to tell how desperate he was.

She was wearing jeans, and a sweatshirt that Harry was slightly suspicious was his, and sneakers, and she was trying for a smile. “Hi,” she said quietly. “Hi,” Harry replied, and she cleared her throat. “Um - I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Harry didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “and I -” She took a deep breath, and then went on, “I promise to try harder,” she said. “I’ve never done… I’ve never really done” - she gestured between them - “this before. And I need to… I’ve gotta get better, I know, but I’ll - I’ll try. I swear.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay,” Harry said.

He didn’t elaborate, and she frowned. “That’s… it?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah.”

She gave a wry laugh, and ran a hand over her face. “Okay then. Um… Do you wanna go out for dinner?” she asked. Harry’s brows jumped. “Thought you said -” She shook her head, cutting him off, and told him, “I know, but - this is trying. I’ve gotta… I’ve gotta get better, right? So… practice. Dinner.”

Harry grinned, kissing her before he could stop himself, and said, “Dinner.”

She laughed, kissing him back, and nodded. “Dinner,” she said.

***

Harry smiled as Arabella swung their hands up and down, humming some song he couldn’t quite place as they walked down the hallway of her flat complex. They paused in front of her door, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

Harry grinned, leaning into it as she pressed him up against the wall. “Had a lot of fun tonight, Bell,” he murmured against her lips, and she smiled a bit. “Me, too,” she whispered, trailing kisses down his neck.

“Should do it again,” Harry said, and she nodded. “Mhm,” she hummed, but Harry could tell she didn’t mean it. “Thank you,” he murmured as she pressed kisses against his jawline, “for coming.”

“Course,” she said.

“Really,” Harry insisted, gently pushing her off so he could meet her eyes. “I really appreciate it.” She smiled, biting her lip, and shrugged, fiddling with his tie. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah, I know.”

There was a beat of silence, and she finally looked up. “What?” she asked. “Why’re you looking at me like that, huh?” Harry bit his lip. “I really like you, Bell,” he murmured, and she grinned. “Certainly hope so,” she laughed.

“No, really,” Harry said, and her smile faded.

“Like you too, Styles,” she told him, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“I - I think -” Harry took a breath. “I think I love you, Arabella,” he whispered.

She froze, going still in his arms. “I had fun tonight,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”

And then she turned around, and walked into her flat, and closed the door.

***

Harry wanted to slap himself.

How could he be so stupid?

She’d told him this was new, she told him she wasn’t used to this, and he went and declared his love for her the first opportunity he got. Ridiculous. He should have waited. Or he shouldn’t have said it at all...

He didn’t want to go home. He knew his flat would mock him, telling him how lonely he was, how stupid he was, how he should have been with Arabella, how stupid he was. He just wanted to go back in time.

But he couldn’t, so he walked out of her building and onto the street. It was pretty late, and the bright lights of the city skyline were so cheerful that Harry decided to find them. They couldn’t be that far away, right?

Wrong.

***

Harry was vaguely aware that his feet were beginning to hurt.

He had no idea what time it was, but judging by the sun peeking up from the horizon and the identical buildings around him, it was very, very early, and he was very, very lost. It was a bit cold, too, and when he wondered if there was a sweatshirt in his car, he was absently reminded that he’d have to get that car eventually.

Didn’t matter.

He had his phone, which meant he could call an Uber or something.

So he did.

He was fairly certain the driver recognized him, by the way he kept glancing in the rear view mirror, but he was asleep too quickly for the guy to say anything. He slept clear through the ride, and the driver had to wake him up.

Harry tipped him generously and got out of the car, staring up at his flat complex with the tiniest amount of dread. He walked into the building, and up the stairs, and opened his door, and learned that his theory was one hundred percent correct.

The walls whispered insults at him as he toed off his shoes, and the fan hummed verbal abuse as he collapsed onto his bed, which asked him in a creak why he was alone and not with his girlfriend. His pillows smelled of regret, the covers of misery, his sweatshirt of heartbreak.

But there wasn’t exactly anything he could do about it, was there?

He found himself sinking into his thoughts after a few seconds of lying face planted on his bed, so he pulled himself up to the freezer for a pint of ice cream before plopping onto the couch for the wonderful challenge of keeping his eyes off of the door and on the telly.

Eventually, he fell asleep, ice cream melting in the tub on his lap and TV playing on in the background. He dreamed of Arabella, of his morphine. He wanted more. He wanted the pain to go away, wanted more morphine, wanted Arabella.

***

Arabella liked lilies.

She mentioned it at that dinner date, when there were a few fake ones at the table, and said she loved the purple ones especially. Harry had asked her why, and she’d said because lilies are pretty and purple represents royalty, and she was a queen.

So Harry got her a few lilies, and, sort of in a haze, went to her flat, and knocked.

One, two, three, and the door opened.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said immediately, and she gave him a half smile. “Me, too,” she said. There was a beat of silence, and Harry bit his lip, holding out the flowers. “For your highness,” he said quietly, trying for a joke.

It worked, and she smiled just a bit more and stepped back to let him in.

“I might have a vase,” she said.

Harry nodded, lingering by the doorway as she walked into the kitchen before reappearing with a glass vase filled halfway with water. She took the flowers from him, letting the silence hang between them, and set them in the vase, and put it on the table.

She stood next to him, her arms crossed against her chest, as they pretended to admire how the flowers looked on the wooden table. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Harry finally said, breaking the silence.

She didn’t reply.

“I know this is new, and I don’t expect -” He paused. “I know it’s a lot,” he said, “so I don’t expect anything.” He took a breath, carefully taking her hand in his, and she let him, and so he went on, “I really like you, Bell, and I know that’s a lot. So you don’t have to say anything, or - or do anything, really. Just…” He gave a bit of a smile and lifted her hand, kissing her knuckle gently. “Just let me adore you.”

A beat of silence, and then she grinned and pressed a kiss to his lips. “If you insist.” Harry felt relief pour through his system as their lips met, felt her morphine rush through his body, and he never wanted to leave.

But in the back of his mind, there was a little voice.

It was different.

This one asked, will you ever talk about it?

And Harry kissed Arabella harder.

No.

Because really, he’d already gone without her.

He’d been alone. He felt what it was like to be without her.

And he couldn’t do it.

He might have to walk through fire for her, but that was okay.

He needed her.

Her, and only her.

Nothing else would do.

**********

hope you liked it!!!!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated 💜 thanks for reading!

masterlist | ask

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #only angel #meet me in the hallway #stream harry styles #hs1 #harry styles story #liles #sequel #idk lol #hope you like it :)#fics

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joiedecombat · 5 years

Text

HOW WELL YOU KNOW ME

This one also ran out of control, which was... probably to be expected, honestly. I am sorry I took so long, I swear I will try to get my other pending prompts out faster!

25: The smell of ozone during a storm.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of going back out there,” Theron said.

Lightning forked through the sky of Yavin 4, punctuating his words with timing he couldn’t have paid for. The flash of it lit the guilty embarrassment that crossed Maia's face as she glanced toward him, before she raised her eyebrows and did her best to school her expression into one of surprise.

Damn but the woman was easy to read.

“Of course I’m not.” The crack of a thunderclap almost drowned out her entirely predictable reply. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Theron cocked a dubious eyebrow. Sure, she’d shed her sodden and filthy outer robe, tugged off her muddy boots to wring the squelch out of her socks, and generally done a good impression of settling in to wait out the storm under the dubious shelter of the Republic backup comms tent. But he wasn’t a trained observer of people for nothing. He hadn’t missed the way her attention kept straying outward through the sheeting rain, past the encampment toward the jungle, as though her eyes were drawn to some objective a long way off.

Right now those eyes held his, wide and impossibly blue, a transparent attempt to convince him of her sincerity with eye contact alone. If he’d never met her before, it might have actually worked. As it was, Theron didn’t even have to say anything - he just waited, watching her expectantly, until she finally looked away with a lopsided smile.

Busted.

“All right,” Maia conceded, “maybe a little. But only thinking. I’m not foolhardy enough to try actually going out in--” she waved a hand toward the open mouth of the tent, “--that.”

Outside, rain hammered down on the Coalition base camp in curtains of water, muffling all sound beneath its white noise and making visibility at any distance more like a wish. The jungle beyond the camp was barely a suggestion of shapes through the haze.

Another strobe of lightning turned it all black and silver for a fraction of a second. “Good,” said Theron, absently starting a silent count. “It’d look pretty bad for the rest of us if we lost the star of the Jedi Order in the jungle. Again.”

Maia lifted her chin, mouth opening to retort only to close again as thunder boomed with the force of a detonation. Closer this time, Theron judged - the worst of the storm had yet to hit them. By the time the reverberations faded, she’d tucked the flash of indignation away.

“I made it back fine, didn’t I? Scourge and I just lost track of each other in the scuffle. It could happen to anyone.”

“Hmm.” It was probably some kind of character flaw that made him want to poke at that thin veneer of Jedi composure, to see the woman underneath show her face again. “‘Navigation sense of a blind mooka.’ I think that’s how Kimble put it.”

A flush of pink colored her cheeks. “Doc talks too much.”

Theron chose not to mention the rest of what Kimble had said after Scourge came out of the jungle without her, or how close he’d come to punching her medic in the face before Satele had arrived to lay down the law. He suspected Maia wouldn’t take his side, and that was a discussion he really didn’t feel like having with her right now. Or in general, to be honest.

The rational part of him knew he wasn’t being entirely fair. From Korriban to Rishi he’d heard Kimble lapse into alarmed swearing over the comms - a sure signal that Maia had yet again launched herself into danger without waiting for her backup - too many times to doubt how much the other man cared about keeping her in one piece. Theron still half wanted to punch the guy. The idea of listening to Maia patiently tell him that Doc was right, she could take care of herself and sending out a search party with a storm looming dark on the horizon would only have risked making more victims in need of rescue, prickled under his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach.

So Theron kept his mouth shut and let the drumming of rain on the tent’s durasilk canopy fill the silence.

Silence didn’t seem to bother Maia; she wore it comfortably, never compelled to talk just to fill the void. Pretending to occupy himself with studying a readout on his datapad, Theron watched her sidelong as she undid the band holding her hair and shook it out of its half-collapsed knot. The rain-wet mass of it spilled down her back, dark and heavy and longer than he'd expected. With a strange little jolt, he realized he’d never seen her with it down before.

Why it should even matter, he had no idea, but suddenly the space inside the tent felt very close. The driving rain rendered the rest of the camp hushed and distant, creating an illusion of privacy - as though it were only the two of them on the whole jungle moon. As Maia worked at combing her hair into some kind of order with her fingers, Theron caught himself holding his breath.

She’s a Jedi, he told himself. Get a grip already.

Not that she looked like much of a Jedi at the moment, perched on the edge of an equipment trunk with her feet bare and straggling wisps of damp hair sticking to her face. The picture she made couldn’t have been further from the figure that strode out of the jungle in the midst of the downpour, covered in mud and worse than mud, her head held high. With steam hissing off her lightsabers and refracting the blades’ glow around her in a corona of blue and violet, she’d looked more mythical than real - like something sprung fully-formed from the point where lightning struck the ground, bright enough to burn anyone who dared come too close.

Which was way too fanciful a thought for Theron Shan, and hard to reconcile with the very real flesh and blood of the woman who was currently biting her lip as she tried to worry loose a stubborn tangle with her fingertips. And just how she could be this much of a mystery when everything she felt showed on her face for the world to read, Theron wasn't sure.

He never had been able to resist a mystery.

Maia finished bundling her hair up at the nape of her neck and secured the band back in place. From the way her shoulders dropped, he thought she might have sighed, but the sound of it was lost under the rainfall.

“To be honest…” She spoke softly, getting to her feet. “I’m not very good at waiting.”

He put aside the datapad he hadn’t been looking at as she padded across the tent and came up alongside him. “We’re on Revan’s timetable,” she said, once more gazing out through the rain towards the jungle. “I just… can’t help feeling like I should be doing something.”

The storm wind blew spatters of rain in through the open tent flap. Maia curled her arms around herself against the chill in the wet air; this time, Theron could hear the breath chuff out of her in a self-deprecating little laugh.

“Impatience is a bad quality for a Jedi.” She looked toward him with a hint of a smile playing over her mouth, eyes bright with the conspiratorial amusement of one sharing a private, secret joke. “I probably shouldn’t admit to it out loud.”

If either of them shifted even a little to the side, their arms would brush. The air felt charged, tingling against his skin, as though the slightest contact would send a spark jolting between them. Theron opted not to test the theory. “Maybe,” he said. “For what it’s worth, though, I know the feeling.”

Her lips curved, the hint of a smile warming as she studied his face with an expression akin to wonder, like he'd said something profound. “You do,” she murmured, voice almost lost under the rain. “Don't you?”

Theron opened his mouth to say - something, but the words didn't come. Reflected in her eyes he caught a glimpse of a silent understanding, a sense of being not just seen but known. Recognized. Your shortcomings are safe with me, it said. I won’t tell anyone.

Oh, he thought.

Lightning blazed blue-white and purple, sending a crackle of feedback through his implants; the explosion of thunder came only a heartbeat after. Theron hadn’t been aware of moving, but somehow the two of them stood face to face, unconsciously oriented toward one another and close enough to touch.

Alarms buzzed along his nerve endings: Danger! Danger! Abort!

Theron ignored them, distracted by a droplet of rain tracing a slow, glimmering track along the side of Maia's face. Curiosity was absolutely going to be the death of him, because this could not possibly end anywhere good and there were a million reasons he should be taking a step back, but none of that seemed as important just now as the memory of the way she’d kissed him in those last stolen moments before they’d pulled out of Rishi. He could practically still feel her mouth on his, soft and unexpected and careful of his split lip - the sigh that she’d breathed out as they parted feathering warm against his bruised skin.

If he kissed her right now, would she taste like lightning? Would her lips part against his, until the clean, sharp sweetness of the ozone-laced air after a storm raced over his tongue? If he buried his hands in the wet silk of her hair and bent his head to hers, suggested they steal away somewhere really private together to burn off their restless energy--

--most likely she’d remember who and what she was, and that would be an immediate end to that. But Theron couldn’t help wondering.

Couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out and brush the back of his finger over the curve of her cheek, catching the raindrop that hung suspended like a tear. Her chilled skin warmed to his touch, and Maia stood very still, the trace of a blush tinting her cheekbones. She didn’t speak. He couldn’t be entirely sure she even breathed - or maybe he was the one holding his breath again. Maybe they both were, in case the wrong move, the wrong word, the wrong sound would shatter the illusion and bring reality crashing back in.

Any second, he thought, uncurling his hand to let his fingertips graze down along the line of her jaw. Any second now, she’d pull back. She’d turn away to avoid his eyes as she made some flustered apology, trying to pull composure back around herself like a robe.

He skimmed his thumb across her chin, over the ridge of the little diagonal scar that he still hadn’t gotten the story of. Any second now one of them was going to have a sudden rush of sanity to the brain and it was almost certainly going to be Maia, because after all she was a Jedi and Jedi didn’t do attachments, and any second now she was going to remember that.

Maia’s head tipped back, tilting her face up toward him. Her lips parted as she drew in a quiet breath.

Any second now...

“Master Jedi.” The brisk voice sent them jerking apart like they’d touched the same live wire. Sergeant Rusk stood in the downpour outside the tent, with a waterproof poncho draped over his armor and rain dripping steadily from his craggy face.

“You’re needed at the command center,” he told Maia, stoically deadpan.

“--Ah,” said Maia, blushing hard enough to be visible from across the camp. “Of course.” She took a step in Rusk’s direction, realized she was barefoot, and hastily turned back to where she’d left her boots while Theron tried to decide who he wanted to shoot more, the Chagrian or himself. “I’m sorry. Give me just a moment.”

Under other circumstances, Theron probably would’ve enjoyed watching the truly priceless series of faces she made as she went through the unpleasant process of putting her damp socks back on so that she could shove her feet back into her boots. As it was, he occupied himself with feigning nonchalance and casually positioning himself just so at the opening of the tent, ensuring that Rusk couldn’t come under the shelter of the durasilk without physically pushing past him. By the time Maia had her boots on and was hurrying back across the tent to join the sergeant, he’d shrugged out of his jacket and had it in his hands.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

Maia looked at the jacket, then down at herself, before lifting her eyes back to his. “I’m already soaked, though.”

Huffing, Theron dropped the red leatheris unceremoniously over her head. “Just get going.”

She laughed and went, head ducked under the makeshift shield of his jacket as she darted out into the storm. Rusk nodded curtly and tromped after her. In moments the pair of them had receded into the haze of rainfall, splashing through the muck off towards the temp shelter that served as the Coalition’s command center.

Well, Theron thought. Shit.

He blew out a breath and shook himself a little in an effort to settle his jangling nerves, not that it helped much. Turning away, he moved to collect the datapad he’d set down, tapped out a quick command string.

By the time he’d satisfied himself that the tracer he’d dropped into his jacket pocket was reading properly, and that its directional signal could be routed to his ocular implant if he needed to, he had some of his equilibrium back. Another command sequence terminated the active homing program and set the tracer back into passive mode - a minor precaution, just in case.

There was, he thought, no sense in being excessive.

#swtor #shadow of revan #theron shan #theron shan x jedi knight #sensory prompts #oc: maia sunder #the adventures of jedi knight and disaster spy #good idea bad idea with theron shan #UST #fanfic #wittyblather #thank you for the prompt!!

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kingofthewilderwest · 5 years

Note

Don't worry, I take over my sleep time to read and write fanfictions. I wouldn't have time otherwise! I have an entire Word page with only links to fanfictions I still have to read! And it's all right to not read fanfictions if you don't want to. It's just an hobby among others. Anyway, you wrote fanfictions?? Now I'm curious, could I have a link, if you don't mind? Have a good night too and sorry for my grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language (btw, thank you for the likes

From this. Sorry I’m slow replying!! thanks for your wonderful messages! :)

No worries about grammar! Your English is great, and even if it weren’t, that’s no bother to me either. :) The fact that you’re communicating in a language that isn’t your first… just means you have extra skills and are even more awesome! :)

I love how dedicated you are to looking at others’ fanfictions, even creating a Word document page to make sure you remember them. That’s beautiful and cool. And I’m getting curious about what you’ve written, too!

Thanks so much for asking about my fics - this touches me! Sure, I’m happy to share! I tend to post all fics on tumblr and FFN, with FFN being my primary hub. On tumblr I use the tag #my fanfiction and tag all stories by their title. My FFN profile is kingofthewilderwest.

I’m so so so so so SO touched when anyone reads or interacts with my fics (though since I write casually, I ask no constructive criticism

THE VIGILANTE’S WAR

HTTYD. YEAR: 2014. LENGTH: 57,110 WORDS. A mysterious, antagonistic dragon rider dubbed “the Vigilante” crosses paths with Hiccup, and her increasingly violent actions appear to be leading to war against Berk.

He tightened his hands, loosened them again. Breathed in, breathed out. He could feel himself stooped in the dirt, his shoulders hunched over his head, his knees buried in the ground and tucked underneath his torso. His neck was bent low close to the earth, providing him a good view of his hands and the ground and nothing else.

Well, and the blood.

That can’t possibly be all mine.

- PROLOGUE: FROM OUT OF THE HAZE

HTTYD 2′s original drafts had Valka as the main antagonist. I found this so interesting that I decided to rewrite HTTYD 2 - with a few of my own spins - on this concept. One of my most well-known fics, “The Vigilante’s War” is where I’ve gotten the most thorough reviews and most emotional reactions.

THE VIGILANTE’S LEGACY

HTTYD. YEARS: 2014-2016. LENGTH: 20,546 WORDS. There’s been four years of war between three factions. Drago’s army. The Vigilante and her dragons. Berk and their allies. But now, Chief Hiccup believes there’s a way to end the conflict. Sequel to “The Vigilante’s War.”

Hiccup spoke up. Cleared his voice. Tapped his pointer finger apprehensively on the cell’s iron door. “You said we were making a mistake.” Might as well speak straight to the point of his visit. “Something about ‘you and every one of your warriors are making a mistake’ or – or something like that.”

For a moment Hiccup wondered if Valka actually would reply. The calculating gaze she gave him from the corner of her prison certainly did not seem a positive sign. However, then, with a steady, lilting cadence to her voice, she succinctly affirmed, “I did.” Just those two words. Nothing more.

- VIII. THE MISTAKES OF WAR

It’s unfinished; I haven’t updated because I ran out of steam and didn’t receive enough reader feedback encouraging me to continue. Though I did have a very vivid final chapter in mind… that I still love… which I never got to…?

MEMOIRS

HTTYD. YEARS: 2015-2016. LENGTH: 44,289 WORDS. My ongoing collection of drabbles for HTTYD. Angst, pain, comfort, humor, crossovers, crack, it’s all there. Favorites include “Family Portrait,” “Stubble,” “Buffcup the Brawny,” and “Remember When.”

He held her hand softly, one wrinkled hand laid gently on top of another. It was just her and him now in the house all alone – for their children had left on a voyage with the grandkids, and would not be back for a week yet, if even two. It evoked the quietness of the old days, back before they were old, back during the times when they were newlyweds and younger even than their grandchildren were today. Oh, but the smell of her hair was just as refreshing now as when it was blonde.

- REMEMBER WHEN

DINNER AT DRAGON’S EDGE

HTTYD. YEAR: 2015. LENGTH: 5,452 WORDS. The gang’s settling in at Dragon’s Edge. To make sure everything operates smoothly, Hiccup suggests a chore rotation system. That means everyone has to do their fair share of the cooking… but it doesn’t mean everyone is a fair cook.

“Oh my gods, is this dinner or what the rats threw away?” Snotlout exclaimed, terrified at the Unidentified Edible Object before him.

Tuffnut picked it up with one experimental hand and held it out before him at a safe distance. People would have held poisonous snakes or bloodied torture devices more cheerily. Squinting his eyes and peering carefully at the peculiar specimen pinched between his fingers, rubbing under his chin with his other, free hand, Tuffnut remarked, “Looks something like what Barf and Belch poop out after they get sick and…”

- 1. ASSIGNING JOBS

This humorous fic I think is where I do best capturing HTTYD character personalities and interactions.

[SUPER]HERO THE HARD WAY

HTTYD. YEARS: 2014-2017. LENGTH: 86,566 WORDS. In a modern world where Berk is full of superheroes battling the League of Outcasts, power-less Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third struggles to receive appreciation for who he is. Through his crime-fighting journey, Hiccup learns that, while he might not have powers, he can become a Hero the Hard Way.

“I wasn’t born with anything. Don’t have anything. I’m the son of Chief Stoick “Skullcrusher” and I don’t have anything. Not even a superpower to turn objects purple. Which frankly would be completely pointless but at least it would have been something.“

He realized he was babbling and promptly shut his mouth. He looked over at Fishlegs, who appeared to be wordlessly processing the information. The teenager appeared baffled moreso than anything else, which at least meant he was not outright rejecting him.

“So you’re going to train to be a superhero… and you don’t have any powers? I got that right?”

“You got that right.”

“Wow.” Fishlegs said.

Hiccup waited for more.

“That’s actually really cool.”

- CHAPTER THREE: SIDEKICKED

This started as me intending to write one crack chapter. It turned into me envisioning a ROB / DOB modern AU where all characters were superheroes. The final product became a retelling of HTTYD 1′s basic concept: Hiccup gaining his peers’ approval despite being different. Somehow, despite me 70% adlibbing by the seat of my pants (should I be admitting this?), I had great fun. And it brought in the most reviews, follows, and favorites of any of my posted stories! Thanks for the reads and support, everyone!!!

RESET OR RESUME

UT. YEAR: 2016-2017. LENGTH: 85,841 WORDS. Gaster’s research unlocks the secret of time travel. After the Royal Scientist’s untimely end, one of Gaster’s colleagues - Sans - finds himself with the power to Reset. Confronted with unpleasant timelines and dangerous choices, Sans must decide how to navigate through time… if it’s worth resetting for a better future, continuing with hope for the present, or simply giving up.

No longer timid and silent, the human happily babbled all sorts of nonsense to Sans, everything from how to bake snow pies to how weird Sans’ skull looked to how beautiful the ribbon in their hair was to their opinions of Papyrus’ ‘battle body’ to how their mom didn’t like the color black to their personal opinion of ferrets to a long narrative of their encounter with a snail-loving old lady they met on the other side of the Ruins door. Everything could be the topic of a conversation. There was no filter and even less sense of restraint for this child.

“How are you a SKELETON?” their happy little high-pitched voice squeaked. They flew gallantly over a twig that rested, flat, on the surface of the snow. Powder flew everywhere as they landed heavily into the snowbank. “That means – that means you should be DEAD, you know!”

“who says i’m not dead?” Sans trolled with a wink.

With a shrieking giggle, they exclaimed, “Don’t be silly! Only ghosts are dead!”

“i could be a skeleton ghost.”

“No you – no you can’t.” The human seemed to be quite confident about their knowledge in paranormal metaphysics. “You can be a skeleton. You can be a ghost. But nobody – NOBODY – can be a skeleton ghost.”

“is that so?”

“YES so! You CAN’T be both. That would be wrong.” Maybe the human mentally categorized skeletons and ghosts as separate Halloween creatures, ensuring they were mutually exclusive concepts. It was always challenging to comprehend a child’s train of logic. “Except…” and now the child paused, leaning down and tugging at the sleeve of their sweater. Something thoughtful – at least as much as one so young could be thoughtful – passed over their eyes. They cocked their head to the side and stared at Sans. In the same sort of innocence with which they had talked about ferrets, the human inquired, “…can ghosts also be dust?”

- 5. KNOCKS [[File 5.2 IH-20150701-3-3]]

I have particular fondness for this fic. I spent more energy and care with this than any other I’ve posted. Drenched it through with UT lore. Edited and revised thoroughly. Had two beta readers examine my ASL for accurate representation. I wrote extensive outlines that were several page long color-coded charts, had all this meticulous structuring going on…

The problem was, this was an impossibly ambitious project. Life got in the way, too. The 85,841 words here aren’t close to the end of Part 1. The final two Parts were going to explain the weirdness within Part 1 (the story doesn’t begin in chronological order - it gets pieced together like a puzzle). What I planned to write would have included a complex characterization arc for Sans, every human child that’s visited the underground, and multiple resets containing main character deaths… until the story would end with Sans confronting Frisk in the Genocide Route.

Hopefully, despite the incompleteness, this is enjoyable from its comedy to its angst! I would at least encourage people to read the first few chapters! Or “Socks” - an entire chapter devoted to Sans and Gaster pulling sock pranks on each other.

SOMEHOW THEY’RE STILL OFFICERS

FMAB. YEAR: 2018-2019. LENGTH: 6,036 WORDS. Ahhhhhh yes. Team Mustang. The hand-selected, elite group of military officers who effectively spend their time… doing nonsense.

Everyone was scrambling at once. Mustang rushed forward to greet their guest, perfect composure only broken by the fast pace at which he moved. In fact the colonel’s posture was almost a proud enough display to make his lack of shirt go unnoticed. But Falman chucked his cards away at the same time he tried to salute; Breda was ducking from Falman’s sudden card shower; Fuery was launching pants and underwear in Havoc’s face; and Lieutenant Hawkeye, obviously abashed to be in this room at all, was covering her eyes with her hand in what was either her life’s longest sigh, or a pathetic attempt to hide her face and identity.

- WE WERE JUST PLAYING CARDS

My collection of FMA drabbles, particularly stories of Team Mustang shenanigans. Prompts / requests welcome for more adventures!

I have a few other drabbles posted, too. I also have unfinished chapters of Voltron fanfictions on my computer that I could share, too? Maybe I should? I’m currently working on several Royai fanfictions, other FMA drabbles, and a longer Deponia fanfiction.

Thank you again for being so nice and connecting with me over fanfiction and fandom and FMA and more. You’re a really wonderful and cool person and you made my day.

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diverdowns · 7 years

Text

beacon (read on ao3?) pannacotta fugo / guido mista; implied pannacotta fugo / guido mista / giorno giovanna rated T; 1.8k. spoilers through the end of p5 + slight allusions to (but no spoilers for) events of purple haze feedback. takes place during some unspecified time after phf.

(send me more rarepair requests?)

Fugo saw the blow coming towards Mista’s back, and he was moving before he could stop to think.

His Stand materialized, throwing itself forward to absorb the punch, and Fugo watched, detached, as the enemy Stand’s arm tore its way through Purple Haze’s torso.

His legs shuddered and collapsed under him, and Fugo watched as his Stand mirrored him, clutching at its midsection and twitching like a crushed bug. Mista whirled around with a yell of Fugo’s name, Sex Pistols yelping in the background as he fired off a volley of bullets. Fugo sucked in a relieved breath as he watched the would-be assassin drop to the ground, neat exit wounds drilled through the center of his forehead.

“You fuckin’ dumbass,” Mista said, shock seeping into his voice as he ran over to Fugo, kneeling in front of him. “What did you do that for?”

“Better me than you,” Fugo replied, wincing. He glanced down at the damage, eyes widening at the gash in his torso that threatened to tear him in two. As if on cue, the pain hit him all at once, and he choked on a scream, head thumping back against the wall he’d fallen against. Fugo slammed a hand down over the wound with a hiss, futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“No way,” Mista breathed, voice tinged with horror. “You hate me, remember? You’re not gonna die for me, Fugo, not today.” Mista’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides and he shook his head, eyes laced with confusion. “Why would you even —”

“You two,” Fugo rasped out, interrupting him. His voice went hoarse and he started to taste iron, sharp on the tip of his tongue. He coughed, weakly, blood welling up at the corners of his lips. “You and Giorno — you’re all I have left. Can’t lose another —” Another person I care about. His vision blurred, Mista’s outline doubling and swimming in a way that made Fugo sick. Pain wracked his body, sharp and overwhelming.

“Fugo, you bastard,” Mista growled, shaking him. Fugo stifled a cry at the movement as it jostled his wounds, blood pooling out sluggishly behind his fingers. “You don’t get to say shit like that and then die on me, got it? Giorno’s comin’, just — just hold on, okay?”

“It’s not so bad,” Fugo said. The pain was ebbing out, replaced by a strange sense of calm and a bone-deep weariness. “But I’m damn tired, Mista. I think this is it.”

“Fugo,” Mista hissed. “If you die on me right now, I’m gonna fucking hunt you down in the goddamn afterlife and kill you again, you hear?” Fugo smiled faintly at the threat.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he murmured. Mista yelled something, frustrated and scared, but Fugo’s hearing was going fuzzy, ears ringing as the world started to darken and wobble before his eyes.

It’s better this way, he wanted to say. Buccellati, Abbacchio, Narancia — they’re all waiting on me. I should have died with them to begin with. I’m a dead man walking, no matter how you look at it.

“Fugo, stay with me!” Mista’s voice echoed distantly, muffled. Fugo blinked, unseeing.

“Listen,” Fugo said. It was getting harder to breathe, he noted, with a sense of sick fascination. “Got something to tell you. Mista. Remember — at that restaurant, what you asked me?”

(Memories floated up to the surface — Mista’s voice, derisive and dismissive, his eyes gleaming with a hint of something like disgust as he’d pulled Fugo aside.

“Listen, it’s none of my business, but — are you queer for Giorno or something?”)

“Yeah,” Mista urged. His voice seemed small and suddenly afraid. “Yeah, I remember.”

“It’s — not just Giorno,” Fugo grit out, thoughts swimming in his head. I always want what I can’t have. It was difficult to arrange his words coherently through the pain and the weight that pushed heavy on his chest, his ribs. Damn it, he thought, read between the lines. Mista’s eyes widened, and Fugo relaxed, eyes fluttering shut. It’s done.

“Fugo, the fuck are you saying?” Mista’s voice took on a strange, pleading tone, his arms tensing around Fugo’s shoulders. “Hey — if you got something to say, tell me later, after we get out of this.”

“Not gonna make it,” Fugo insisted, and Mista froze, a full-body reaction, before he started to run his mouth almost desperately.

“Fugo, c’mon — you’re gonna be okay, Giorno’s gonna patch you up — Fugo, please, we need you —”

Mista’s voice started to fade out, and Fugo sighed as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Fugo opened his eyes to unfamiliar sheets, breath shuddering out of him in a rush as he clutched, hard at the sheets. He was in a room he’d seen before, somewhere in the mansion Giorno had repurposed to serve as the de facto base of Passione operations in Naples. Perhaps more importantly, he wasn’t dead. Fugo stared up at the ceiling, eyes glaring blankly at the peeling drywall, before an inhale at his side caught his attention.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called, cautious, and Fugo turned to meet Mista’s gaze. He was surprised — had Mista been waiting by his bedside the entire time? I did save his life, I guess. He tried to think of something appropriate to say, but came up empty.

“I’m not dead,” Fugo said, finally. He ran hands over his own torso, marveling at the smooth, unbroken skin beneath his fingers. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or if he was disappointed.

“Yeah. Giorno got to you in time.” Fugo closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It was easier to speak his mind when he was on the verge of death. Living, and dealing with the aftermath — that was the hard part.

“Fugo,” Mista said. His voice was hesitant, unsure — a far cry from his usual tone. “I, uh. I’m not good at this kind of thing, you know that, but —”

“I don’t need your pity,” Fugo muttered, flinching when he felt a hand encircle his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not — listen, okay? I thought you fuckin’ hated my guts, man, and then you pull something like that, and you — just, god, Fugo, you pull something like that and then you tell me that —”

“Don’t,” Fugo said, eyes fluttering open. “Just forget it —”

“Damn it, let me finish!” Mista’s hand tightened around Fugo’s wrist, and Fugo suppressed a hiss of pain, quieting. “Listen. You mean a lot, to Giorno. And, I, uh —”

Mista cut himself off, flushing and looking away with a soft curse.

“Like you said, it’s — not just Giorno,” Mista said, quickly, unwilling to meet Fugo’s eyes. You mean a lot to me, Fugo translated, warmth hesitantly making its way into his chest to curl heady and bright under his ribs. He pushed it away, swallowing it down. “Shit, dude, it sounded so much smoother when you said it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Fugo asked, bluntly. Mista made a frustrated noise, raising his free hand to tug at the hem of his hat nervously.

“I’m tryin’ to say that you’re not alone, Fugo, no matter what kind of bullshit you seem to spout to yourself in your own mind.” His fingers relaxed their grip around Fugo’s arm, thumb tracing a slow path across the back of Fugo’s hand. “We’ll figure it out, the three of us.”

Fugo felt Mista’s words rattle through him like a blow. The three of us. He wanted it, wanted it so bad it hurt, sometimes. But Fugo knew better than to let himself get caught up in false hope, false dreams.

“Holy shit,” Mista muttered, “you’re doing it again.” Fugo let out a questioning grunt. “That thing, where you get caught up in what you assume what other people are tryin’ to say before they can even explain themselves.”

Mista sighed. “For such a smart son of a bitch, you really make this shit too difficult, y’know that?” He shifted, discomfited by Fugo’s silence. “It’s partially my fault, I guess. After the shit with Trish, and — well. Giorno believed in you, the whole time. I was too harsh, and that’s on me. I wanted someone to blame, y’know, for —”

For Buccellati. For Abbacchio. For Narancia. The names, unspoken, settled heavily in the air between them, familiar weights in the pit of Fugo’s stomach.

“But,” Mista said, tone steely. “I was wrong, alright? It’s not your damn fault, Fugo. None of it was. And if you took your head out of your ass for one goddamn second, you’d see that. I didn’t — I didn’t ask to join Passione, y’know? None of us did, really, except Giorno, I guess. I did it cause I didn’t have anywhere else to go — all of us did. But with Giorno, and you — it’s a good thing we got going here, I guess. For the first time, I want to stay. And that’s — okay, I guess, is what I’m trying to say. It’s a good thing we got going here, and it’s okay to want that.”

A pause.

“Jesus, Fugo, say something.”

Fugo swallowed, thickly, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. He wasn’t going to cry, not now, not in front of Mista (ever, if he could help it) — but the words picked at something sharp and broken in his chest, something he’d been covering up with missions and danger and adrenaline. With Giorno, and you, Mista had said. The three of us. It felt — right. What am I supposed to say to something like that?

“You and Giorno, you don’t want —” Fugo said, the words slipping out. You don’t want me, Fugo finished, in his head. A coward, who can barely control his own Stand.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what I want,” Mista said, sharply. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yeah,” Fugo whispered, finding his voice. “Yeah, maybe.”

Mista’s hand slid down Fugo’s arm, settling tentatively across the back of his hand as Mista leaned down, pressing hesitant lips to Fugo’s temple as his other hand brushed messy bangs out of Fugo’s face. He smelled like gunpowder and sweat and blood, familiar and grounding, and Fugo’s breath stuttered, eyes closing beneath the touch.

“I want you, alright?” Mista said. “Fuck it, I — I wanna give this thing a try, whatever it is. And it’s okay to admit that you want it too, damn it. It’s weird, watching you beat yourself up over shit like this.”

“Okay,” Fugo said, his voice thin, tenuous. “Yeah. Fuck, Mista.”

I want you. Fugo still didn’t believe it, not really, but he’d take what he could get, turning minutely into the touch.

“Damn,” Mista groaned, shifting forward and muffling his voice in Fugo’s shoulder. “We suck at this, huh?”

Fugo held back an undignified snort, huffing amusedly before averting his eyes and speaking, voice soft. “Yeah. We really do. But — we’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Mista echoed, and something like hope bloomed bright in Fugo’s chest.

#pannacotta fugo #guido mista #fugomista #mistafugo #i mean this ship doesn't really even exist #so whatever #txt #vento aureo spoilers

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saintmccann · 7 years

Text

#1 all because of the El Croquis

So this is my first fic, and I’ve never written Van before so if I could get some feedback on how I did with his dialogue/movements/general aura I’d love that. I wrote in second-person POV for the present-time stuff and I wrote in first-person POV for the flashback stuff. I hope it’s not confusing! Also, I feel like this could make a great sequel. Just let me know if you have any feedback. Thank you all so much for reading! Enjoy!

This one’s about a reader who studies architecture and is looking for an architecture journal called El Croquis in the library, but comes across something much better in the end.

-------------------

In a sleep-deprived haze, you sit back in your chair under the warm, dim fairy lights above you. With weary hands you open the first drawer of your old worn desk, grabbing your black leather journal. Wobbling slightly as you twist around your piano keyboard adjacent to the desk, you pick up your wine glass off the concrete floor and turn to the journal laying in front of you. From the ceramic cup you spun yourself on the pottery wheel in school, you find your best fountain pen. Staring at the paper, you have no words --- you need to record what happened tonight before sleep whisks you away and you forget everything. You begin:

Today I found another piece of myself.

You swirl the last bit of red wine that’s left in your glass, and finish it off. You remember that show on Netflix, Sense8, and marvel at how that’s not far off from how truly connected people can become in reality, and how sometimes the universe brings people into your life that can fit so perfectly in every way possible.

You pick up your pen and start to write again.

Browsing through the architecture library with a close knit group of people from my studio, following our professor through the narrow shelves, and her showing us book after book of the most beautiful work imaginable, I felt at home. All of us stood huddled around her in the tiny, three foot gaps between shelves; an incredibly intimate scenario for a university library. Nooks and crannies for reading and perusing, peeking at each other through the spaces where books weren’t.

At the end of the library perusal, our professor said goodbye to us and left through the glass doors around the corner of the long hallway. I looked down at my watch and realized I had the rest of the day to work on whatever I wanted, and maybe go out for a few drinks tonight with some friends if the forecasted rain didn’t hit until later. I was lucky that my last class ended at 11:00a.m. on Fridays; just before the cafe rush at the front of the school of design’s library got too hectic.

As I walked down the same long hallway my professor and fellow students had exited from just moments earlier to grab a cuppa, something peculiar caught my eye. A sign for the most recent El Croquis journal boasted that our school had obtained a copy and bound it already -- I looked up the call numbers for the book and I rushed to the back section of the library to try to find it.

Squinting at the paper numbers taped to the shelves, I couldn’t find it. I slowly walked up and down each aisle of the library, and then back to the sign. “Coming to Section D on April 16,” it read. April 16 was today. Just then, I had a thought - what if it was still in the back room? I hated going back there because of the dingy lights and the damp, gravelly smell of cement blocks. I decided to brave it to find the newest edition of one of the world’s best architecture journals and have a look at it.

After asking permission from the library techs to go into the room, I went down the stairs to the basement. I opened the creaky door to the back room, which was quite spacious; it was situated underneath the campus lawn space, which was about the size of a football field. The books and shelves that had become too worn to show off in the front part of the library were cast off into this room; the back corner is also where the books were bound by the student library techs. I walked the main corridor between the shelves to the back end of the room where I was sure I’d find the book.

Instead, I found six guys huddled in between makeshift room dividers made of bookshelves arranged in a mildly square shape, passing a joint around, sitting on top of stacks of books, and cackling unintelligibly in thick British accents. The smoke was surely going to infiltrate the books’ pages and never leave.

I had approached quietly up until I stepped on some crumpled paper that had most likely been flung from this microcosm the boys had created.

“Oi!” the one with the short, dark hair yelled as he heard the crunch of the paper under my shoe, “lads we’ve been found!” and all but one of the guys jumped and bolted past me with wild expressions, gripping their bag of joints tightly, laughing down the main corridor toward exit, sending my hair and nearby papers into a flurry. The racing footsteps echoed down the hallway.

I peered down at the man who was still there in the makeshift room. He was asleep on the floor, head laying on one stack of books and his arm propped on another smaller stack next to it. He looked dead peaceful. His eyelashes were impossibly long, and rested there near the tops of his cheekbones, which were quite chiseled. His jaw was a little crooked, and his lips were plump and the corner of his mouth was resting on the top of one of the books in the stack. My eyes traveled down the rest of him, realizing his gold necklace tucked into his black shirt under the leather jacket, and how his arms looked toned from here… and that’s when I noticed it. The new El Croquis. On top of the stack under his arm.

I moved over to him and slowly dropped down to my knees so that I could get a better angle on the situation. I thought, Should I wake up the guy? He’s not really supposed to be in here anyway, and I really want to get my hands on that book.

I decided to shimmy the book out from under his arm and try not to wake him; I’m not one for conversations with strangers, especially considering how weird the conversation for this situation would be. I slowly reached to pull the El Croquis from under his elbow and twisted it around so it wouldn’t hit his limp fingers. A corner of it caught on his leather jacket and my breath hitched - pleasedontwakeuppleasedontwakeuppleasedontwakeup - I thought with each beat of my heart as my pulse sped up. He stayed asleep. I lowered my purse to the floor, allowing my movements become a little daintier, and I opened the book’s cover a bit so the jacket sleeve would slip away from the corner. I gathered myself for a second, kneeling on the ground with the El Croquis tucked into my chest, and internally cursed myself for going through this much trouble for an architecture journal. I stood up, and padded away from him as quietly as possible.

I got to the newer portion of the library and checked the book out at the counter. I put it in my purse and set on my way to get a cup of hot tea from the Starbucks on the other side of campus because during my El Croquis escapade, the library cafe had closed for the employee’s lunch hour. I looked outside, and surely enough with the day I had already experienced, it was raining harder than it had in a long time just to add onto the trouble I went through. I decided to use the back exit of the library since I had nothing but the denim shirt I was wearing over my black short sleeve shirt to shield me from the rain.

A rich, cold rain was beating down on everything, and much earlier than the meteorologists had expected. Jumping out into mayhem from the stale purple hallway, I walked half a mile to my apartment. The drains were gurgling and sipping on the water as it ran down the street. The shirt I was holding over my head gradually got heavier and heavier with water, and moisture was seeping in my hair and in my boots but the reflection on the street and the buildings twinkling behind the droplets and the wet pitter patters on my hands filled me with a kind of nostalgia. It was like a scene from a movie.

When I stepped across the threshold of my apartment in sodden shoes and threw my keys down on the table next to the door, I peeled off my clothes and took a searing hot shower. When I got out, I wrapped myself in a towel, sat on my bed and pulled out my phone. I had a text from Jen asking what my plans were for tonight, another text from Chris asking the same question, a text from Brooke telling me which bars to hit up tonight, and three missed calls from a weird number.

I answered everyone’s texts, and contemplated calling the weird number back. I left my phone on the dresser and made myself a snack in the kitchen. I was taking the contents of my backpack and putting them in their respective places; pencils and pens in the cup, books in the bin under the desk, the El Croquis in plain sight on the nightstand, ready for night reading. I heard a faint ringing and went to get my phone again. It was the weird number from earlier.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hellooo, is this y/n?” The caller’s accent was British, like the guys from the library earlier. Oh, geez, I thought to myself.

“....Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”

“So uh, you left your wallet here in the library, and, well, I found it and got ya number off the studio access card.”

Great. So much for a sly reconnaissance mission for the El Croquis. The cute sleeping guy now had my wallet AND he knows my name AND he’d seen my shitty ID photo.

“You there, love?”

“Yeah, sorry. Um, where can I pick it up from you? Thanks for not leaving it there.”

“Well, I’m hangin’ with my friend Larry - his mate’s an exchange student here from where we’re from and he’s got a house ‘round here. I can text ya the address. He’s ‘avin a party tonight anyway so we’ll be here all night. Oh, and you’re welcome.”

There was some muffled talk about “gig” and “tonight” and “lids” in the background as he spoke.

“Right, so I’ll text you the address. I’ll see you later then, yeah?” he said into the phone.

“Yeah. Also, one last thing - what’s your name?”

“Van.”

“Alright Van, thanks, didn’t want to keep thinking some spam caller was trying to reach me again.”

***

Shortly after Van had called and sent me the address, I texted Jen, Chris, and Brooke and told them I was going to a party in the neighborhood tonight. They replied that Brooke had found some fantastic club on the other side of the city and they were all going to try it out. I told them I had to go to this one party to get my wallet, but they responded they were already on their way to the other choice. Sigh. I was riding solo. I ate a quick dinner, put on some minimal makeup, and wore my signature “architect” look: black jeans, black top, black chelsea boots, and some geometric jewelry. I went for some boxy cube earrings.

I walked to the house since it was only about a 10 minute walk from my place. Someone was exiting as I was entering the house, so I made my way in and looked around for Van. I spotted him in the corner of the kitchen chatting to one of the guys who had been smoking in the library earlier, who had big bouncy curls and thick-rimmed glasses. As I approached, the curly one said, “Come to bust us again?” in a cheeky tone and I rolled my eyes.

“Van, could I get my wallet please?” I asked him.

“Mmmm…. It seems there’s been a slight hiccup in your retrieval of the wallet.”

“What do you mean there’s a hiccup?” I asked.

“I can only reveal the wallet’s secret location if you stay and party with us lids until midnight.”

I stared back at him with an expression of disbelief for a moment, and then checked my watch. He just winked at me with a smirk on his face.

“That’s four hours away, Van,” I said through my teeth. I was starting to get a little pissed off.

“Did ya come here alone?”

“What?”

“Where’re your mates? Pretty girl like you has to have mates,” he said with a smile.

Ignoring his latter comment, you replied, “They went to another party across town.”

“So, love, looks like your schedule’s completely free! Here, come have a drink with me and meet everyone.”

Van hovered his hand over the small of my back and led me out to the patio outside where the makeshift bar was. He stopped me on one side of the bar and walked around to the other.

“Now then, what would you like?” He looked sort of cute, playing bartender.

“Vodka Sprite please. And make it a strong one.”

***

9:00p.m.

Van and I had just made the rounds through the entire house. He introduced me to literally everyone that had come in to party, and was cordial to everyone. He even made me snicker a few times with cheeky comments to others, even though I was supposed to be mad about him making me stay here until midnight. By now, I had consumed 2 ½ Vodka Sprites, mixed by Van himself, and Van had drank as much as I had plus what he had before I arrived. We were equally tipsy, and I was slowly forgetting that I was here for my wallet.

“Low” by Flo Rida had just come on over the speakers, a certain change from the previous chill music they had been playing here; it’s obvious whoever had the aux cord was ready to turn the party up. Van said, “Let’s dance!” and I clutched my red solo cup tighter. It was getting harder and harder to resist his charm. He wiggled his hips to the music, and it was obvious he wanted me to join him and the other people dancing in the living room. He hopped over to me, took my hand, and then used his other hand to take my solo cup and chug the rest of the contents while he walked backwards into the living room.

With no cup in my hands, Van had the opportunity to swing me around and around and around the room with his hands in mine. He wove in and out of people, sometimes having to raise our hands high to get over people who weren’t moving out of the way in time for us to plow through the room and outside where even more people gathered. We danced, tipsy and all-smiles, only focused on each other, for a long time.

****

10:00p.m.

Another hour had passed and Van and I had grown a lot closer. He couldn’t keep his hands off me - but in a respectful sort of way. He put his hand on my back to guide me to the next person he knew, and he had his arm around me when he was talking to people. He kept looking at me with those big, blue eyes framed by dark eyelashes, inviting me to participate in the conversation. Inviting me into his world.

We ran, hand in hand, back to the bar outside, and he started mixing everything he could together, throwing caution to the wind while I watched him with my chin resting on my hand. I was enjoying watching him. A little bit of vodka, a little bit of rum. Something blue; something gold with bubbles. This and that. He shook it with his hand over the rim of the cup, and then poured half of it into another cup, not afraid to accidentally pour some out all over the patio, and knock over a few bottles of liquor in the process. He held one out to me, and linked our right arms together over the bar. With our arms still linked, we drank from our own cups.

As soon as the liquid hit my tongue, I had to spit it out, and from the sound he made, Van did too. We both spit the nasty concoction into the grass, noses wrinkling and throats burning and lots of coughing. Van fell over me onto the grass and kept coughing and laughing at the same time.

A few minutes later, whatever he mixed hit the both of us and we were stumbling everywhere, having to mutter slurred apologies to the people we bumped into. One of those people I recognized; it was Kyle, one of my acquaintances from a lower-classmen studio.

“Heyyyyy Kyle!” I called out to him, even though he was about four feet from me.

“Hi Y/N! How’s it going? Great party, right?”

“I’ll say,” Van said, tripping into the room just as I had moments before.

“Oh! Y/N, you know Van?” Kyle said in a less drunk version of Van’s accent; he must be the exchange student his entire friend group knew.

“You know Van?” I slurred back at him. “I just met Van today. He stole my wallet.”

“Noooooo I didn’t!” Van playfully replied in a high pitched voice, swatting my hand in denial.

“So, Y/N, how’s that architecture project coming? You finished your exploded axons and section views yet? That’s been the real kicker for me. I’m still working on building my 3D model as well. So much work.” Kyle was trying to have a legitimate conversation with me, and I felt bad because Van was trying to distract me and I wasn’t in the right mind to be talking about coursework seriously.

“It’s fine… My project is based on simplicity and elegance, and experiential maps, so it’s coming along nicely. It’s all about emotional experiences you can convey in the spaces, that atmosphere, ya know?” I knew I was slurring every word I spoke to him. “I think the final review will be a cinch if I can pull off the rendered views,” I said as Van wrapped his arms around me from the side and started whispering things about art and big words in my ear. Kyle started realizing that we were getting cozy, and so it was then that he decided to break off from the conversation. “So some tosser mixed together a lot of our alcohol and wasted a lot of it, so if you two want another drink, you can have friend privileges and raid the stash of wine in my room. There’s a lot of it that I bought for just this kind of situation. Have at it!” He said with a wave of his hands. “Not that you need anymore,” he muttered.

Of course, Van and I immediately locked hands and ran through the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall and up the stairs to the bedrooms. Van threw open the door to the bathroom by accident and Van’s friend Bondy was heavily making out with a girl who had Bondy’s hat on backwards and was sitting on the bathroom counter. They didn’t even notice we had opened the door and kept on kissing furiously. Van shut it, and we both looked at each other for a moment before erupting into raucous laughter. We almost fell back down the stairs from laughing so hard and clinging onto each other roughly, and people started staring at us wondering what was going on.

The next door we opened was to a bedroom, and we began searching for the wine. We looked on the dressers, in the closets, and in the drawers, like it was a game. I got down on my hands and knees to look under the tiny bed, and Van did the same from the other side of the bed. We were laughing the entire time, and our hands met under the bed while searching for bottles. Van held tight to the hand he brushed up against. Under the tiny bed, he looked at me with those eyes that sparkled even in the dark, and we realized our faces were only a foot apart now. The atmosphere changed. The laughter stopped and we stared at each other, mouths falling open, eyes darting to and from each other’s lips as we realized what we really wanted to do.

“Just what the HELL are you two doing in here?” A guy, not Kyle, but still British, shouted as he walked into the room. Van and I hit our heads on the underside of the bedframe looming above us as he walked in, and we grimaced and grumbled in pain. The guy dragged Van out from underneath the bed by his feet, and Van yelped, “Larry, stop!” In a high pitched voice.

“Mate, we’ve gotta keep you in sight. Straighten up.” Larry turned to me and said, “And as for you, miss, don’t let him drink anything else.”

***

11:00p.m.

We had found the wine in Kyle’s bedroom and we stashed a bottle of champagne and a bottle of red wine behind the fireplace screen for later, whenever that would be. At Larry’s request, we had stopped drinking. He’d even given me his number just in case Van had decided otherwise and needed to be given a talking-to by Larry. And although we were now just tipsy instead of drunk, Van continued the touching. Brushing fingers up and down my arm, holding my hands even when we weren’t walking anywhere.

We both sat close, thighs touching, Van’s arm around me on the little couch someone had dragged from inside the living room to the backyard. Most everyone was inside the house now, waiting around for more alcohol to arrive since Van had mixed up most of the stuff they had before. He told me earlier he slipped Kyle some money to pay for what he mussed up.

Underneath the blue and green lights Kyle had strung up earlier that day, we sat in silence for a while and watched the people inside have conversations and go about their drunkened business.

Van spoke up first, his voice low. “You’ve got less than an hour to go.”

“Mmm?” I murmured, drawn from the quiet by his raspy voice.

“Your wallet.” He replied.

“Yeah? Haven’t checked the time in a while, what with being distracted and all.” I shot him a small smirk.

“Distracted?” Van played like he didn’t know what I meant.

“Oh, ya know, drunk dancing, bumping into Kyle, looking for the wine, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Speaking of Kyle - that was a nice talk you two had. That art stuff, I mean. Don’t know much about it, but I vibed with the idea that emotional experiences have effects on how people perceive things.” He continued as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and fumbled for a lighter. “Atmosphere means a lot to anyone who’s on the receiving end of a work, whatever that work may be.” He lit the cigarette. “And that simplicity and elegance, right, from seeing the true potential realized, that’s what people look for.” He blew a puff of smoke to the sky.

Van looked so beautiful in the soft blue-green light the overhead strands cast on his face. I took a finger and traced over the line of his nose, across his lips, and down to his chin. He watched me intently. I traced across his jawline, almost to his earlobe, and down his neck to the collar bone poking out of his shirt. I put my hand down and gave him a small smile.

“In every building I design I take the experiences I’ve had in my own life and I use what I feel to create the aura that people feel when they walk in. There’s only one first impression. It’s got to count.”

“Your first impression was an interesting one, love, how you proper slithered a book out from under my arm today in the library so casually. Real talent there,” Van chuckled.

My eyes almost popped out of my head. “You were awake? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“For the same reason you didn’t try to talk to me! Strange way to meet a person, yeah?” He smiled and took another puff from the cig.

I checked my watch. 11:50p.m.

Larry came over to us and sat down next to Van. “People’re gettin’ antzy, ay? Great party, great vibes. Love the lights.” Boy, Larry talked fast. He lit up a cigarette as well and motioned to the people inside, capturing Van in a banterous conversation about guitars and sets or something. A little left out, I stood up and walked into the house partly to get away from the smoke, and partly to give Van some alone time with Larry. Walking away from Van was physically difficult; his warmth had been so near to me all night that lack of it was uncomfortable. I realized just how chilly the April night had gotten.

I found the bottles of wine behind the fireplace screen and thought about popping the champagne. There wasn’t really a reason to, though. Maybe when I got my wallet back! I chuckled to myself. I meandered around the house, trying to find some other of Van’s friends like Bondy or Benji or Bob to speak to, but they were nowhere to be found.

I circled around back to the living room, about to go outside through the sliding glass doors to the backyard. Arms tightened around my waist just as I was about to pass the threshold, and a voice whispered in my ear, “I believe I have something of yours.” I twist around and there Van is with my wallet in his outstretched hand. I wiggled my hips a little as he handed it over. I smiled and hugged him. “Thank you so much for finally giving this back! Took me forever to get it.”

“You’re welcome, love.” He stood there, a little awkwardly. I didn’t really know what to say. Maybe we were done here. After all, most of the stuff we did involved us being drunk and not particularly normal. Maybe that’s just what Van did at parties.

“Well…. I’ve had such a lovely time tonight…. See you soon, then” I replied. I slowly started to turn around and walk toward the door, a little disappointed that the night was over.

“Y/N, wait! You’re gonna miss the best part!” Van called after me.

I turned back around to face him. “What do you mean? Isn’t the party over at midnight? Like, now?” His actions were confusing me.

He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t place. “The show?” He questioned.

“What show?”

“Catfish and the Bottlemen. Please stay and watch!”

I wanted to stay with him, but I didn’t really want to watch one of the crappy bands that usually played at the university parties here.

“Van, I’ve never really heard of them, and the name sounds a bit odd…. Maybe next time? It’s kind of late…” I was starting to feel funny. He was pressing about this. I looked back up at him, and he looked very disappointed. He turned and briskly walked outside, bolting into the crowd looking a little angry. Or determined?

I headed outside shortly after Van, and he pushed through the small crowd to get to the front of the stage, probably before the band started playing. I shook my head. I took a right and was walking across the yard along the side of the house until I heard someone speak up on the microphone right as I was about to exit the yard.

“Hi everyone, I’m Van from Catfish and the Bottlemen, and this song’s called Kathleen” he said, breathing heavily from the run up to the stage. I stopped in my tracks and slowly pivoted. There he was, on stage! With a guitar! With Bondy and Benji and Bob!

As Van sang the first lines, my mouth was still hanging wide open. I walked back to the small crowd that had gathered in Kyle’s backyard. Out of nowhere, a hand grabbed my arm from the outskirts of the crowd and helped me move toward the front. I twisted my head over my shoulder and realized Larry was the one pushing me up there. As soon as he stopped pushing me, I was right there in the front, and could register what was happening.

His voice was incredible. Raspy when it got louder, and so smooth and effortless at the same time because he sang what he knew with such raw emotion. He was probably waking up everyone in the neighborhood with those pipes, and he didn’t seem embarrassed at all, though he didn’t really need to be. He was the best I’d ever seen live.

***

1:00a.m.

The show had been amazing, nothing like I’d ever seen before. The blue lights beaming down on Van and the boys created an atmosphere so cool and beyond heavenly. Van had made eye contact with me so much during the show, and at one point it was so sensual that I felt a little self-conscious. The last riff of a song called Tyrants was played and Van hopped down off the stage right in front of me, dripping sweat with Larry trying to pat him with a towel. He shooed Larry off and put an arm around my waist, pulling me toward him and pushing our hips together. “How was that for a first impression?” He asked. He ran his tongue across his lips before he crashed them onto mine in a short, but hot, kiss. Everyone watched and some people even gasped.

“How bout summa that champagne?” He grinned, and brushed his nose up against mine; I just nodded, still in awe of the aura he created and the fact that he just kissed me in it.

Larry had already thought ahead to bring a bottle nearby; he gave it to Van, and it was popped right there. The foam ran into the grass, cork nowhere to be found, and he held it to my lips to drink.

***

?:??a.m.

Stumbling through the streets of Kyle’s neighborhood, Van and I laughed and bantered and slurred our way up against many a tree to kiss each other senseless. We had lost the other boys a while ago on their way to find some fried food. We ran through the alleys of the neighborhood, trying not to hit our then-stashed bottles of wine on anything. My feet were getting tired. Van tried to carry me through the dark city streets, but he was stumbling too and couldn’t get very far. He teetered over a little too far with me in his arms and I dropped the champagne bottle. It shattered piercingly loud on the street, green glass flecking everywhere into a million pieces. They reflected in the wet pools of water left by the downpour earlier. Our eyes met again, and I dropped onto my feet and shouted “Run!”

We bolted down the alleyway and turned the corner just as lights were coming on where we had been seconds before.

After a few minutes of running and huffing and puffing and a few more hot stolen kisses against dimly lit lamp posts, we had arrived at my apartment complex. I fumbled for my keys as Van kissed my neck from behind.

Once inside my apartment, I set everything down and took the bottle of red wine from Van’s hands - the last bottle left from the party - while he looked around my place curiously. I poured us two glasses of the thick red wine.

Van sat down in my desk chair and stared at the piano keyboard. “Do you play?”

“Why else would it be in my apartment?” I gave him a coy smile.

He scooted off the chair to sit on the floor while I took the chair. I started playing some of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, my favorite classical song. Van was enraptured with the way my fingers glided across the keys, hitting every note perfectly. Under the warm yellow lights of my desk, he smiled and set his head against my thigh as I played him many a composition. His eyes glistened, probably as mine did earlier when I watched him have a hand at his own craft.

We sat like that for a while as I played. Van peered up at me through long eyelashes, watching me concentrate on tunes I hadn’t attempted in a while. Chuckling when I hit a very wrong key.

When I had exhausted my repertoire, Van took to looking through my vinyls I set up on a table near the balcony of my tiny studio apartment. I sat at the table, sipping my red wine, listening to him murmur “good record” or “don’t know this one” and the like. I started sketching on some scrap paper. Drawing a mass of green and blue meeting a warm abstraction of yellow and orange. I overlayed some geometric shapes on top of the swirls of color.

Van plopped on top of my bed next to my desk, setting his wine glass on the nightstand. The wine was gone from his glass. I realized he had also thoughtfully corked the bottle and put it on the counter.

I moved to put my glass on the floor next to the piano keyboard, still a little wine left in it. I climbed on the bed next to Van; he sat up. Never breaking eye contact, I slid the same leather jacket I had tried so hard not to come into contact with earlier off his shoulders. He put his hands on either side of my face and kissed me delicately.

He pulled away from me and helped me lay onto the bed next to him. He pulled off his shoes and socks and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed, and then did the same for mine. He climbed back onto the bed, lying on his side, head propped up with one elbow. He reached out and ran one of my cube earrings through his fingers.

“You’re gorgeous, you know.” Once again, it was he who spoke up. I smiled and thanked him quietly. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I said. After a pause, I kept on: “I had a really great time tonight. You’re lovely. The more time I’ve spent with you the more I’ve realized I’ve never had someone get on with me so well. It just worked today.” Van’s subsequent lean-in for a long, passionate kiss was his answer to that.

When we broke the kiss for air, I sat up. “Hold on. I have to do something before I forget.” He stared at me as I got up, sleepily walked over to my desk, and sat down. I opened the first drawer of my old worn desk next to the piano we just played together, grabbing my black leather journal, not unlike Van’s jacket. I picked up the glass of wine from the floor and set it next to the journal. I grabbed a pen from this old ceramic cup I made forever ago, and began to write this epic. I drained the glass of wine.

And here we are.

You look up at Van, who’s been patiently waiting for you to finish writing. He didn’t ask questions. He probably does the same thing when he gets song ideas. He’s hunched over something on the other side of the bed, looking perfectly at ease. You get up from your desk, and peel off your jeans. Van takes this as a cue to return his attention to you, nevermind whatever he was doing before. He watches you as you return the cube earrings to your jewelry box and brush out your hair. His eyes ask permission that he can strip down to his own makeshift pajamas. You nod ever so slightly and walk into the bathroom. You take off your bra and put on a bigger, warm black t-shirt over your skin. You take off the little bit of makeup you had on, brush your teeth and look at yourself in the mirror, loving how mussed your hair looks from staying out so late. When you return to the main room, Van is already under the silky sheets and most of his clothes are strewn across the floor.

You climb under too, and love the feel of your skin on his. He wraps his arms around you and the both of you drift off into a fulfilling sleep.

****

The piercing light of the sun through the windows blinded you at an ungodly hour. A voice said, “go back to sleep, love,” and drew the curtains. The voice left to have a smoke on the tiny balcony.

****

You awaken to the side of the bed being much too cold for your liking. The night before is a blur; you remember some things… you remember a boy…. He was in a band… You may have slept with him. You stand up from the bed, body aching from a hangover. You sit at your desk and start to read the journal at the open page.

Memory refreshed, you stand to make yourself some breakfast. You’re a little surprised; Van left no note. You wonder if he was just in it for last night only. He didn’t seem like the type to do that, but at least you’re glad you didn’t do anything but kiss him.

Breakfast was delicious - eggs and avocado salt and peppered on toast, and a heaping bowl of fruit.

You sat back on the bed with a full stomach, contemplating everything. At last, you decided that if he wanted to leave and be done with it, then so be it. No chance in chasing someone who doesn’t want to be committed. You’re disappointed, but at least he didn’t bail later when you were more emotionally invested. Although he spent the night with you. Played a show and wanted you to stay. Looked through your records. And played piano with you. And ran through the alleyways wasted, kissing you dirty up against light posts like you’ve never been kissed before. Sigh.

You open the El Croquis book that was on the nightstand and start flipping through the beautiful photos of built projects, reveling in the precisions of the plans and the ways the sites were mapped. You came across some wild projects that would probably influence your later work. They had everything you wanted in a project, all that stuff you said to Van last night.

You sit there flipping through the glossy pages for more than an hour, reading dissertations and examining the plans. This was one of the best journals that El Croquis had ever released. You were saddened as you made it to the end of the journal; that same feeling you get when you want to finish a book as quickly as possible because it gets so good, but then you’re sad when there’s no story left.

You flip to the last page, and gasp.

Taped over the back inside binding is the sketch you made last night, of the green and blue and yellow with the shapes overlayed. New lines inside the shapes denoted pockets of rooms, and new thicker lines showed boundaries of places, and soon you realize the sketch had been made into a rudimentary version of Kyle’s house, and parts of his neighborhood you got lost in, and your apartment. Van had studied the El Croquis to produce a mapping of your journey together while you had written about the same journey; your roles had reversed. Scrawled above what you both had drawn, he wrote simply, “El Croquis forgot one.”

You closed the book, smile beaming, and you hopped off the bed, walked around it, and your foot hit something solid. You realized a little something was peeking out from under the bed skirt…. Van’s phone. How ironic.

Immediately, you dial Larry’s number.

“Hello? Y/N?” a confused Larry answers. You can hear Van speaking in the background.

“Hi Larry. Could you hand me over to Van real quick?” You say in a chipper voice.

“Yeah, sure. One second.”

The phone crackles as it’s being handed from person to person until it reaches Van.

“Heeello?”

“I believe I have something of yours.”

#vanfiction #van fic #first one woo!!!

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