#the carpet is too fluffy (I paced and danced in my old [OLD] room so the carpet is rough now)

[insistonyourcupofstars]

this is not how i am supposed to start my year.

#so years ago my parents bought our current house #but there were some sligh foundational issues - nothing too big at the time #since then our house has been taken over by cracks in our walls and doors and windows #and I had to MOVE out of my room (my SANCTUARY) into the spare bedroom #and now I cannot sleep #the carpet is too fluffy (I paced and danced in my old [OLD] room so the carpet is rough now) #the room it Too Clean (I had to discard my jeans on the floor just to give it a little messiness) #it's much warmer in here #the window is different #this room has so much space - TOO MUCH SPACE for just little old me #a vaulted ceiling?? nope. nope nope nope I need my flat one #I need my room smaller it is meant for one person only -> moi #even sherlock is freaking the fuck out because he cannot go into the old room #SPEAKING OF WHICH #my beautiful precious room now looks like a tornado hit it!!! #cardboard boxes trash and clothes are all across my floor and I now have two different mattresses just hanging out #in my poor old room #and I HAVE. NO. BOOKSHELF. #all my life I've always had a bookshelf for my books and knick knacks and cute little succulents #all my life. bookshelf. #no bookshelf here #only vaulted ceiling #and the closet is too big for me!!! #I don't need all of this space and I don't need all of this change #some of this furniture I'm using isn't even mine! #my mother (an actual godsend) helped me bring in as much of my furniture as we could #but my bedframe is gone - the one I'm using is too big and hits the wall to easy! #I know okay I KNOW that I need to be an adult about this but I am freaking the fuck out #in six to eight months I'm not going to be living here anyways I'm going to be living in college #so all of this had to happen sooner or later right??

[robinskey]

Apple Pie (Billy x Reader)

Request: Could I request a BillyxReader, reader is the girl next door and Billy finds himself looking for glimpses everyday after seeing her when he first moved in doing laundry, humming and just smiling which makes Billy not mind being at home because he knows there’s just this ray of sunshine. She brings a pie she baked to welcome his family & Billy is starved for baking cos his mum used to bake for him & he hasn’t had any in years. It makes him feel really happy? I’m ready for some fluffy goodness ❤️

A/N: This prompt is freaking adorable and I’m SO glad you requested it, @sweetboibilly.

Warnings: Slightly angsty and some foul language. Also, Neil Hargrove being a jerk/implications of abuse. Story under the cut.

Billy never expected to fall for the literal girl next door.

His first glimpse of you occurred on his first night in Hawkins. In the early hours of Thursday morning, Billy’s father had dragged him out of his warm bed. He was forced to load his entire life onto a moving truck, then follow it (and his father’s erratic driving) for thousands of miles in his Camaro. Susan, Billy’s stepmother, trailed behind him in his father’s pickup truck. In the rearview mirror, Billy could see her gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, terrified of wrecking it. Susan didn’t own a car; her driver’s license had expired years ago. She relied on her husband for transportation. Putting Susan behind the wheel had been a terrible idea. However, Neil had insisted that they didn’t have a choice. There were four people to transport in three cars, and he wasn’t about to let Susan’s fourteen-year-old daughter drive his prized possession across the country.

Late Friday evening, the caravan finally arrived at their new address. Billy found the run-down one-story house underwhelming, to say the least. Faded paint covered the chipped paneling, and overgrown vines crept up the sides of the house. The thud of Billy’s car door slamming shut caused a small critter to scurry off the porch.

After thirty-some hours of virtually-non-stop driving, everyone was exhausted and wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep. But as the head of the household aptly reminded them, their new home was empty. They couldn’t collapse into a bed that wasn’t set up yet or press their heads into pillows that hadn’t been unpacked.

Billy glanced around, taking in his new surroundings. Flickering streetlights gleamed down on the fractured sidewalk. Small houses similar to his lined the street, all of them identically dead. 

Except for one.

In the house next to his, a light clicked on in a tiny room. The silhouette of a girl carrying a basket on her hip appeared. He watched as you placed the basket on top of a counter and started removing articles of clothing from it, then dropping them into what Billy assumed was a washing machine. Despite the chilly October air, someone had left the window open. You hummed a soft melody, which carried on the breeze to Billy’s ears. Your graceful, fluid movements mirrored those of a ballerina, the song to which you danced light and dreamlike. It was the sort of sound a person could get lost in, and Billy did-until the bark of his father bit into his trance.

“Billy! Get your ass over here, and unload these damn boxes!”

Regretfully, Billy stopped watching the pixie of a girl to help his father. He spent the next hour dragging heavy furniture into the house while his dad “supervised.” After sliding the last box into the living room, Billy collapsed on the front step, his face drenched in sweat and muscles aching. When he looked toward your house, darkness had consumed it once more, and you were long gone.

***

Billy, Susan, and Max spent Saturday unpacking boxes and reassembling furniture. (Neil had helped for about thirty minutes, but as soon as his easy chair was set up, he became useless.) Throughout the day, Billy peeked out the window whenever he could, hoping to steal a glimpse of you. Once, he spotted you walking your dog down the sidewalk. Another time, you were sweeping the porch. It wasn’t until that evening, however, when Billy was taping posters up on the walls of his new bedroom, that he was able to see you for more than a few seconds at a time.

The room across from Billy’s had been dead all day. Billy didn’t think much of it; he figured your family probably used it for storage or something. But then, a switch flipped, suddenly illuminating the space with color. To be more, accurate, actually, it illuminated the space with yellow. Everything-the pale walls, the sunflower-printed quilt over the bed, the painted dresser-everything in the room was coated in different shades of yellow. It might have made him want to vomit if you hadn’t appeared in the doorway, shifting his focus from the horrid color scheme of your bedroom to the princess who inhabited it.

He watched for several minutes while you paced around your room, ponytail swinging behind you. You brought one nail up to your lips to chew on it; clearly, something was bothering you. Eventually, you flopped onto your bed and reached for an object on the bedside table-a dandelion-hued telephone. To Billy’s surprise, he was able to make out the words you spoke into the phone-probably because of your bad habit of leaving windows open.

“Hey, Darcy. It’s Y/N,” you said. 

Y/N. What a nice name.

“Yeah, so I’m calling for advice...Apparently, we have new neighbors, and-I don’t know if they’ve got a son, Darce! My mom just mentioned at dinner that someone by the name of Neil Hargrove bought Mrs. Chesterfield’s old house...Wait, you recognize that name?” 

You listened for a moment, then shot up quickly.

“No way,” you said, almost too quietly for Billy to hear. “Wait, hang on, Darce. It’s really cold in here-I must have forgotten the close the window this morning.”

Billy dove towards the floor as you rose from your bed. Gentle footsteps padded across carpet. Then, there was a faint click of glass and the jerk of curtains being pulled. When Billy peeked out his window again, he could only make out a shadowy figure holding a rectangle up to her ear.

“You know, Billy, you’re a lot of things, but I never took you for a Peeping Tom.”

A wiry redhead stood in the doorway to his room, a smug smirk on her lips.

“Buzz off, Max,” Billy said, slamming the door in the know-it-all’s face.

***

Sunday morning.

After stirring out of bed, Billy headed towards his window. He squinted at the room opposite his in the bright sunlight, but there was not much to see. The house was still motionless, lifeless-the curtains still drawn over the window. He had no idea what time it actually was. His alarm clock read 9:32, but that couldn’t have been right. Neil never would have let Billy sleep past 7:00 for fear of him wasting the day away like a lazy bum. Finally, Billy remembered: Today, the elder Hargrove started at his new job.

Billy pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans before stumbling into the kitchen, still half-drunken with sleep. Aside from the television droning on in the corner of the room, the place was just as dead as the neighbors’. He knew Susan planned to spend the day applying to various jobs in town, but Max wouldn’t have wanted to tag along. Thankfully, a short note left on the counter explained her whereabouts: Skateboarding. Be back never.

God. They drag him to this stupid town and then ditch him within a day. 

Itching for a glass of orange juice, Billy whipped open the refrigerator door. It, of course, was empty, and it would probably stay that way for a few days, unless Billy made a trip to the grocery store himself. Not wanting to deal with the stares of overly-nosy fellow shoppers trying to place the new face, Billy settled for tap water.

He leaned against the sink as he tipped the glass to his lips. He downed the entire cup in one go, then gazed out the window. Across his overgrown lawn, Billy spotted a tiny flurry of motion. A small girl was making a beeline towards his house.

“Shit,” Billy mumbled. He panicked, knowing he had about a minute to make himself presentable. Billy wasted about thirty seconds making a mental list of hygenic priorities before realizing that if he kept thinking, he wouldn’t be able to accomplish any of them. He managed to gargle a bit of mouthwash and run a comb through his curls before a gentle fist knocked at the front door.

“Coming!” Billy called from his bedroom. He jogged through the hallway and flung open the door before actually halting to a complete stop.

You stood on the front step, slightly rocking on your heels. Billy first noticed that you were even prettier up close. Then, a sweet, fruity smell drifted to his nostrils, and he glanced down at the glass dish in your arms, covered by a dishrag.

You cleared your throat. Billy wondered if the strain in his voice had anything to do with the fact that he hadn’t showered yet today. But then you flashed him a shy smile, and it was enough to melt away his fears.

“Hi,” you piped up. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N? My parents and I live next door. I, um-I just wanted to welcome your family to the neighborhood.”

Billy chuckled despite himself. 

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but it’s just me here,” he said.

“Consider me thoroughly disappointed,” you said with a wink. “In all honesty, though, it’s lovely to meet you, uh…”

“Billy,” he said, finally mirroring your grin. “Nice to meet you, too, Y/N.” He gestured to the covered dish in your hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh!” you cried in realization.

You tugged at the cloth, revealing a pastry with a beautiful lattice design sprinkled with sugar on top. Billy started salivating almost immediately. He hadn’t been this close in proximity to a homemade baked good like that in years. Not since, well…

“I didn’t know what kind of pie you guys would like. Heck, I didn’t even know if you guys liked sweets, but I wanted to do something nice for my new neighbors. I figured most people will at least tolerate apple pie, so...” You started bouncing on your heels again, and it was so cute that Billy almost forgot to respond.

“This looks...amazing,” he said honestly, then stepped back a little to allow you room to pass. “Do you want to come in for a bit? We could sample this masterpiece together.”

You bit your lip, gaze darting toward your house anxiously.

“I-I probably shouldn’t. My dad would lose it if he knew I was alone in a house with a guy.”

It was Billy’s turn to wink at you.

“I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

The corners of your mouth tugged upwards. You glanced toward your home once more before darting into Billy’s, claiming that “one piece of pie won’t hurt.”

Taglist: @novaddictx @sweetboibilly

If you want to be added to the taglist for my writing or for a specific character, leave a reply or send me a message! Thanks for reading. <3 

If you liked this story, feel free to check out my masterlist. :)

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x fem #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove drabble #billy hargrove one shot #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #parker-potter writes

[niallsstainedcoffeecup]

Rom-Coms and Rotten Sushi

Harry and his best friend, Y/N, watch romantic comedies over sushi, but Harry falls ill and Y/N must take care of him.  One of you lovely people requested this story.  I hope you all enjoy.  Feedback and Requests are welcomed.  Lots of Love!

           The buttery popcorn popped in the cheap black microwave.  Y/N slipped the green uniform down her legs.  The pastel pink sweater hugged her swaying hips while she shuffled across the cool hardwood floor toward the kitchen.  Her fluffy white socks avoided the water spill near her cat’s water bowl. Mittens cleaned his orange toes on the stack of mail covering Y/N’s rickety kitchen table.  Y/N hummed along with the man’s soft voice, craving a love like the singers.  The blue cabinet squeaked open, revealing rows of mismatched cups.  Red wine circled around the glasses, filling the air with the sour grape scent.  Y/N checked the broken clock, tugging on her sweats.  Harry’s gray message popped up on Y/N’s cracked screen. Hey love, I’m almost to your apartment.  I bought you a surprise.-H Y/N flicked through her Netflix suggestions, choosing Harry’s favorite romantic comedies.  She counted down the days until Harry and hers movie nights. The microwave dinged, distracting Y/N from her fluttering heart.   *  *  *  *  *              The matted brown carpet crunched under Harry’s worn boots.  Green wallpaper rolled up along the bare walls. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the scent of pot someone on the third floor smoked.  His green eyes lit up when Y/N’s golden apartment number shined like a beacon.  He tousled his short, curly locks how Y/N liked them.  His stomach flipped when his warm hand grabbed the cold knob.  The door creaked open, revealing the blue and purple circular rug that Harry vomited on one night after too many green apple vodka shots.  He slipped the black coat down his arms, tossing it on the broken wooden chair.   “Harry?” Y/N’s sweet voice called out, warming Harry’s heart. “Yeah love, meet me in the kitchen?” Harry asked, passing the crooked portraits of Y/N’s memories. Harry set the plastic white bag on Y/N’s empty counter.  He greeted Mittens, who decided to nap atop the fridge.  Y/N slid into the kitchen, slamming her face against Harry’s sturdy chest. “I missed you,” Y/N mumbled. Harry chuckled, kissing Y/N’s soft hair, “I missed you too.  I have a gift for you.” Y/N squealed, breaking away from Harry’s embrace.  Harry grinned, leaning against the neon alphabet magnets on the gurgling fridge. Y/N uncovered the gas station sushi, scowling once her eyes landed on the fish. “I don’t eat sushi,” Y/N whined. Harry shook his head, “It’s amazing.  I think we should try it.  It cost me, my last twenty dollar bill.” Y/N pouted, “Harry, I don’t want to eat it. Please don’t make me eat it.” Harry rolled his eyes, slinging an arm across Y/N’s shoulders, “I would never make you eat it, but you’ll miss out on the amazing flavor.” Y/N and Harry plopped down on Y/N’s floral couch she purchased at an old lady’s garage sale.  Harry stuffed the sushi into his mouth while Y/N munched on her burnt popcorn.   *  *  *  *  *              Hugh Grant kissed the curly haired brunette despite the rain coating their flimsy clothing.  Y/N dragged her fingers through Harry’s brown curls, inhaling the woody cologne surrounding her dizzy brain.  Harry’s dazed green eyes focused on the screen while his head pressed against Y/N’s warm lap.   “I always wanted to kiss in the rain,” Harry admitted, flicking Y/N’s knee. Y/N swatted at Harry’s shoulder, “Why? Do you want to get sick?” Harry rolled his eyes, twisting around so his eyes met Y/N’s starry eyes, “I think it’s romantic.” Y/N snorted, “Romantic my ass.  He better pay for my doctor’s visit when I eventually get sick from the rain.” Harry chuckled, clutching his churning stomach. He faced the screen, watching the white credits whizz by on the black screen.  He groaned, swallowing the hot saliva gathering in his mouth.  His clammy hands lifted his weak body up, carrying him toward Y/N’s restroom.  Y/N furrowed her brows, listening to Harry’s moans and groans until a splash sounded from her bathroom.  She gasped, following the sick boy into her tiny bathroom.  Harry leaned over the toilet, clutching the sides until his knuckles turned white.  Y/N frowned, brushing Harry’s curls away from his sweating face.  Harry finished falling backward against Y/N’s bathtub stained with blue nail polish.  His chest heaved up and down until his heart finally returned to its normal pace. “I don’t feel good,” Harry mumbled, wiping the vomit from the corner of his rosy lips. Y/N nodded, rubbing Harry’s back in soothing circles.  The couple sat under the flickering fluorescent lights until Harry reassured Y/N he wouldn’t vomit on her carpet. *  *  *  *  *              The white comforter covered Harry’s pale, shivering figure.  Dark purple circled around Harry’s drooping green eyes.  Y/N covered Harry’s feet with a pair of black fuzzy socks.  Steaming water poured over the green towel dampening the dry areas. Y/N pressed the wet cloth across Harry’s forehead.  Harry admired Y/N’s shadow dancing along the wall under the television’s lights. “Are you okay?” Y/N asked, rubbing Harry’s back. Harry nodded, “I think it was the sushi.” Y/N chuckled, pressing her lips to Harry’s temple, “I agree.  I’m glad I didn’t eat it.  Do you want to watch more movies, or do you want to sleep?” Harry shook his head, “I want to watch more romantic comedies.” Y/N nodded, clicking on another romantic comedy.  She dragged her fingers through Harry’s hair while his eyes drooped shut.  His heavy breathing slowed after twenty minutes of watching Sandra Bullock flirt with Ryan Reynolds.  Harry whimpered in his sleep, cuddling closer against Y/N’s warm chest.  Y/N smiled, her heart fluttered against her ribcage.  She froze, realizing her feelings weren’t platonic.  Her heart craved Harry’s rosy lips on her plump lips. Did she love Harry?  When did she fall in love with him?  Harry’s lips pressed against her neck, causing her train of thought to crash against her hammering heart.  She recalled one night when Harry danced along the bar, singing romantic indie songs at her.  His green eyes sparkled under those bar lights.  The tattooed swallows poked out from his black shirt, calling Y/N’s name. Y/N loved Harry. *  *  *  *  *  *              “Fucking shit,” Y/N shouted, clutching her burnt thumb to her chest.   The sizzling bacon mocked Y/N and her throbbing thumb.  Harry startled awake, clutching the couch’s torn arms.  He glanced around the room, recalling the horrors from last night. Mittens meowed, weaving between Harry’s feet as he shuffled into the kitchen.  He smiled, watching Y/N sing along with her favorite indie band. “Morning,” Harry’s husky voice broke out. Y/N spun around, grinning at her best friend, “Hey, I’m making you breakfast.” “What happened?” Harry asked, pointing at the SpongeBob band-aid taped around Y/N’s thumb. “I burnt my thumb on the bacon.  How do you like your eggs?  Burnt or really burnt?” Y/N asked, handing Harry a plate. Harry chuckled, sprinkling salt and pepper onto his yellow eggs, “Thank you.” Y/N nodded, admiring Harry as he stuffed his mouth full with rubbery eggs.  She plopped down in front of Harry, sipping on her orange juice. “I love you,” Y/N confessed. Harry smiled, shoveling more eggs into his mouth, “I love you too.” “No, I love you in the way that I want to kiss you,” Y/N mumbled, tapping her fingers against the table. Harry’s wide eyes stared into Y/N’s nervous eyes, “You love me?” Y/N nodded, “I found out last night.  I nearly jumped out of the window.” Harry rolled his eyes, wiping the butter from his mouth, “I love you too.” Y/N smiled, “Yeah?  Like you want to kiss me too?” Harry chuckled, “Yeah, like I want to kiss you right now.” Y/N giggled, listening to Harry’s chair scrape across the linoleum tile.  With three large steps, Harry bent down, cupping Y/N’s cheeks.  They stared into each other’s eyes, smiling until the corners of their lips started to twitch.  Y/N leaned in, capturing Harry’s lips with hers.  Harry melted into the kiss, holding Y/N’s body against his. Y/N clung to Harry’s shoulders desperately as if she might drift away without Harry’s body keeping her planted there. “Yeah, I love you,” Harry admitted. Y/N rolled her eyes, sharing another kiss with Harry.  The couple soon forgot their breakfast, spending their morning sharing lazy morning kisses.

#mine #writing #story #fanfic #fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #one direction #one direction imagines #one direction imagine #1d #1d imagines #1d imagine

[in-the-name-of-the-holy-reborn]

Father Christmas - Tsuna

Arc 2 Secret Santa 2017 Participation   @theincrediblemoonchild , I really hope you enjoyed this little story and I wish you a wonderful Christmas ♥

The wind picked up when the sky darken onto the sweet suburbs of Namimori, announcing a cold night as the sweet film of snow settled on the restless pavements. People quickened their pace under the light of the street lamps, eager to join their comfy home away from the chilly weather of December. In one of this few perfectly tidy and identical houses, a wonderful mommy was cooking some pancakes while humming the Disney song playing on the tv, she smiled to herself, listening to her toddler singing and dancing on the couch waiting for his favorite snack to come. When the last notes of the credits rang, Tsuna got to his feet a happy glint still on his face, he pushed the button of the video recorder to rewind the movie, stopping by the window on his way to get a new one when he saw the snow flakes falling slowly. He let out the biggest sigh his little lungs could hold, landing his tiny hand on the cold steamy surface, a frown formed on his brows and he looked at the reflexion of his mother figure in the kitchen before letting his eyes wandered on the dark garden. The sudden silence grabbed Nana’s attention and she turned her head toward a focused Tsuna who hadn’t moved from the window. She slowly put down the last crepe on the plate and slipped behind her son with the delicacy of a cat, she seized him by the waist and carry him in the air as she kissed his belly with loudly sound, filling the room with laughter, she sat him down on her knees only when he couldn’t catch his breath anymore. The little boy wiped away the tears at the corner of his eyes, his mind back to his concern as soon as he caught the white dress on the grass, his frown back, he lowered his eyes on his sleeves before speaking in a rather stern voice for a child. «Mommy, do you think he’s cold out there?» Nana arched an eyebrow, eyeing cautiously the window, ready to strike if a prowler was sneaking outside. «Who are you talking about?» After a pause, Tsuna couldn’t gather his courage to answer properly to his mom, he didn’t watched her brownish hues when he lied «Santa. I-I don’t want him to catch a cold.» With a tender smile, she brushed away few pesky strands of hair, leaving a sweet peck on his forehead at the cute yet funny tought of Santa catching a cold, she let out a giggle as she got up, leaving Tsuna on the ground. «What if we knit him a scarf? Would you want to help mom so we could put it under the Christmas tree?» A faint smile grazed his lips as he nodded, looking at his happy mom walking away with a light step. The little boy sigh again when she was out of sight, maybe he should have share what was on his heart, he was a child and no children should keep that weight on their chest. But her smile was the only thing that could warm him in his deepest sorrow and he didn’t want it to fade away with the simple mention of him, him, who made her smile way more brighter than ever when he hugged them. When she came back with her basket full of wool balls, Tsuna’s concerned expression didn’t budge, still looking at the carpet, he blurted out. «Daddy will not be there for Christmas hn’?» Nana dropped the ball she was holding, words like keen knives breaking through her frail composure, she pinched her lips offering a smile which didn’t reach her eyes as she answered, like always «I-I don’t know honey, you know dad has to work very hard.. I can’t guarantee you, but he tries! You know how much he loves you, he loves us! Hey I’ve got an idea, do you want to write a letter with all the gifts you want for Christmas?!» He turned his head as to flee away from the sweet lies she was offering to him, he hoped, from the bottom of his heart she was telling the truth, that he will see him barge throught the front door to held both of them and never leave ever again. He answered with an almost inaudible sound of his throat, his eyes already on the dark street only enlightened by the cold light of the street lamp. Days passed and the little house was decorated little by little for the incoming event, the conversation long forgotten gave way to happy chit-chats and Christmas songs within the little family. Unbeknownst Nana, Tsuna’s little heart clenched each time the sound of the front door resound in their cosy home as he, more than once, sprinted toward the lobby to discover only the postman or the old neighbor sharing some recipes. Christmas eve was finally there and the last hopes of the future Vongola Boss were dying slowly as minutes passed, drowning in his cinnamon hot milk, the warmth of his mom love helped him understand he didn’t need anything else and he decided to forgot about this man he used to call dad. Tsuna opened his eyes on the dark ceilling, blinking several time to help them adjust as the silence of the night was embracing the city since hours while the snow kept falling flabbily on the desertic streets. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to got back to sleep, excited to discovered all the gifts waiting for him, and, at the same time, frightened by the idea of all the horrible monsters that could hide under his bed. Before his mind borrowed a too terrific path, who would surely have guided him to a drenched bed, the soft clicking sound of the front door reached his ears while beams of light appeared on the floor. After spending few minutes listening to rustling noises coming from the living room, Tsuna persuaded himself that he was thirsty and opened his door cautiously as he went down the stairs without thinking twice about it. His mouth formed a perfect O shape when he discovered, on his tip-toe a man dressing in red and white putting down well wrapped boxes under the illuminated tree. Santa turned around, a satisfied smile on his lips when all the gifts were on the tiles, facing the little boy who hadn’t budge, he tried to stay composed and hid his voice as much as he could when he addressed to him. «Hello there, shouldn’t you be in bed?» No answer came from the nervous child, he hesitated at first but took a firm step toward the unknown man, he stopped to studied his face from his 3 feet, plundging into exhausted honey eyes, he then landed his own on the gifts, a sad expression running on his face. The red man kneeled down to his height as he spoke again. «What is it? Don’t you think you’ll be pleased with all those presents? - Sure, thanks.» Tsuna smiled politely to the man before boldly adding «I don’t think what I asked is in here, these boxes are not big enough» The man let out an heartly laugh behind his false beard, ruffling the beadhead of the boy «Oh yeah ? And what did you wanted, bigger than all the boxes wrapped here, I don’t think my faithful steeds would be able to carry anything else to be honest!» Tsuna offered a polite smile once again, he looked at the ground, hoping the Old Good Santa hadn’t been offended by his words, feeling the pressure, he gave those words «I’m sorry that’s not what I meant, I don’t want them to be tired, I only wanted to see mom’s brighter smile, I hoped you could have bring daddy in your hood» A hand still on Tsuna’s head, stroking his silky hair, the man didn’t find the strenght to answer, a guilty expression well hidden behind fluffy white hair. He wanted to pull off this ridiculous mask, he wanted to hold him, covered him with kisses and hug him tight, but he didn’t move and looked at him retreated to his bedroom after encouragements and a good night kiss. When the door of Tsuna’s room was shut, Iemitsu pulled off his hat and beard, scrubbing his tired face and letting out a huge sigh, he fell on the sofa, looking at the house and the details of the family life he missed so much. His eyes on the ceiling, he spent the rest of the night sitting there, wondering how much of a burden he was for his family and how many time he had left before he totally lose them, falling asleep on those thoughts haunting him each time he closed his eyes. — When Tsuna and Nana reached the living room smiling hand in hand after the first rays of sunshine hit his bedroom windows. They faced an interesting scene playing under their eyes, the red suit was lying on the floor as all of Iemitsu body was spread in an awkward position, he was only in his underpants, the red hand knitted scarf around his neck, the empty pitcher of eggnog was reversed on the table whereas loud snoring were coming out of his open mouth. Tsuna was the first to broke the ‘silence’ in a barely audible whisper «Mommy, he stole the gifts we made for Santa.. He even snatch off his clothes and beard..what are we going to say to the police ?»

#Christmas #gift #arc 2 #Tsuna #child #iemitsu #nana #story #fanfiction #khr #reborn! #katekyo hitman reborn #hitman reborn #theincrediblemoonchild #Merry Christmas #tsunayoshi #sawada #picture #fanart

[alberteamllc]

SMART PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND ME (721)

It’s hot in Agresjia and the breeze never really stops tasting like salt. It gets to her hair, which she never really bothered to take care of that much anyway, but now she wakes up every morning to find a pile that’s dry and frizzy and above all else, big. Every day she decides to go get it cut, reaches to the bedside to fumble for her coin purse, gives up, goes back to sleep.

Words she thought she’d never say: well, the money’s good. But the money was good, and a different kind of girl, she thought, could carve out a decently fulfilling life with this happy disparity between labor and compensation, but she was mostly bored, and she knew that when she got bored she got depressed, she’d heard it from Tavi and she’d heard it from Elam and she’d heart it from Tartuffe and from everyone else. She was depressed in the army too but that was a different thing. She still couldn’t eat a biscuit without cringing, bracing herself for that unpleasant hard crack of long-march cooking.

She wakes up sweating, which folk lore insists that elves can’t do, but what the hell does folk lore know about half breeds and bastards she wonders, scrubbing her face with a wet wash cloth. She doesn’t bother dealing with her hair, just ties it back. It’s not like I’m getting all dressed up for anybody important. Just the crown bloody prince.

She’d been a little taken aback when he’d summoned her to the city five months ago. Maybe she shouldn’t have been. He was one of them, after all, as good as one of them, and even a Starry Messenger that’s out of the field is a Messenger for life, and you looked after your brothers and sisters. He was famous for it. And in fact she’d known him briefly on the campaign, he leading his little city-state’s proud but scrappy army, she putting up with entirely different forms of piss-poor weather and acting as a go-between between human and elven camps, making sure lives weren’t lost over quibbles in ad-hoc translation. They’d barely spoken. He’d nodded at the little silver constellation pinning back her cloak, and asked under whom she’d studied, and offered her a swig of the exquisite fucking stuff he kept in the flask beside his saddle. I’m Adeline Ingwers, your… highness? He sounded it out. Adeline Ingwers. I’ll remember that.

Her salary was thirty gold pieces a month, a figure that had made her cough violently when she first read the missive from the palace. She’d fished in her pockets and handed the messenger boy a shiny five-silver coin. What the hell, she could afford it now. Her job was, on paper, to aid the crown in long-term projects pertaining to elven philology and ancient history, a kind of jerry-rigged one-woman anthropologist, literary critic, archaeologist, apologist, and proof-reader for good measure. The prince was working on something big but the letter didn’t say what. She’d packed her bags that night.

She finds herself rehearsing all of this each time she makes that walk to the palace, running the math in her head again, double checking how long she can coast if this job dries up. Well… forever, she figures, but that doesn’t keep her from checking them again. Four gold pieces a month got her lodgings she’d call palatial, not that you’d guess it from the rime of clothes and books coating the floor, the piled dishes. She felt weird hiring a maid so she didn’t. Four gold pieces a month and so much left over. She eventually treated herself, bought a roomy little one-story house on the wrong side of town, cash up front, and filled it wall to wall with books. She worried about silverfish and thought back often to her childhood. Watery soup with thin roots, scrawny chickens. All six kids piled onto one low pallet, mother and father snoring three feet away, and now she’s a homeowner with a studio uptown to boot.

She nods to the guards, and makes a detour through the courtyard to sneak a look at the knghts sparring. Ilan Sarmasik, who always seemed distracted, a little mopey at times, but a decent person, cultured but not learned, so he could talk about a poem or a tale without having to sweatily establish his mastery over it. Faris Svette, young, who Adeline liked to observe in commiseration, the fluffy white mane on her head also turning into some ghoulish dandelion in the hot months. And old Verlaine Porlock, who was sword to a prince who died long ago and haunted the palace like a pensioned ghost, leaning on his halberd and watching his two pupils flit across the training ground at each other. There was a lot of history in this place if you bothered to learn it. She kept promising she’d find the time some day.

She finds the prince’s study door shut-- as good as locked--and when he emerges she’s been waiting in an antechember for fifteen minutes, lazily absorbing the room’s phalanx of starchy family portraits and marble busts of people with the prince’s nose and the queen’s aggressive chin, the fire roaring in the fireplace despite the sticky heat of the season. He’s impeccably dressed even in his offtime and she knows he’s holding back the urge to plead, once again, for her to permit a tailor to swing by her apartment, his treat, but she likes her robes with the elbows worn smooth, and she likes the only sarouels she ever found that fits just right so she can write in the pose that feels most natural, that is, as Tavi always teased, crunched up on her back like a dead insect, that she likes so much that she bought three pairs when she was stationed in Kukudhra, at the time an extravagance. Ok, she concedes, glancing down, she might have accidentally walked across town in her slippers, and that might be a flash of her little toe peeking out between the fake velvet and the cheap sole. But the prince is nothing if not polite, and he merely shakes her hand and holds open the door as she passes through.

He waves broadly to an assortment of objects arranged in a chunky row on his desk, smiling proudly at his finds. Adeline sees at a glance that at least some of it is junk but she knows he’ll take the news in stride.

“Handsome spread, your Highness. What have you been getting yourself into?”

He paces behind her as she begins to inspect the items, pulling little multi-paned monocle from her tunic and bending over each piece in turn.

“I took a trip out towards Faxfleet and Bottsford with Sir Sarmasik. There were rumors of a barrow that had opened up after the last heavy rain and, well, I couldn’t help myself. Some halfling salvagers had already gotten to it, sadly-- I had to haggle for all of this. I’m sure you’re chomping at the bit to tell me how badly they’ve cheated me, so I’ll forgo letting you in on how much I paid for the lot”

“Help yourself to a new pair of boots on the way back? Wouldn’t want to stomp mud all around these ritzy carpets after around out in Faxfleet, your Highness.”

“Rich talk from the young woman currently haunting my office with the world’s most alarming cuticle.”

“Har har, your HIghness. Try having to walk to work every day.”

“I walk quite a bit. It’s a large palace.”

“Sarmasik doesn’t carry you?”

He laughs under his breath and they lapse into the familiar silence that tells him that she’s working. The prince is sharp-- in some fields, she’d concede, he’s probably brilliant. But he gets at an archaeological site like a little kid. Everything’s a priceless find to him until it’s not. Case in point-- the cup in her hand. Circa three years ago, of the “shop around the corner from the fish market” dynasty. Probably thrown into a ditch and washed into the ruins by the heavy rain. But this…. this was interesting. She picks it up and immediately feels the urge to toss it down. That’s always a sign. Of something.

“Now what’s this beauty, your Highness?”

“Isn’t that your job? Well, hm, obviously it looks like a circlet or a diadem of some kind.”

“Don’t start developing hat-envy on me prince, you can call it a crown. This was in the barrow?”

“Yes. I suppose. That’s what I was told”

She snaps her fingers impatiently like a teacher trying to jog a pupil’ memory. “And... . what? Just sitting out? Was it on an altar? Was it displayed? Did you pry it off of somebody? Context, your Highness, context!” She catches herself. Other princes would have a person’s head for less, but Anselm just rolls his eyes, circling around the desk to peer at the crown from the other side.

“Just… jumbled up with detritus I imagine. Rubble. When Ilan and I had a look inside it looked like it might have been a burial chamber. A central slab-- a priest or something of the like-- surrounded by five other slabs in a radial pattern.”

“That sounds like--”

“Druidry?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but the dates don’t make sense…”

She shrugs.

“That’s what makes the Valley such a hell for serious academics. Hard to pin a date n a site when they come roaring up out of the dirt according to their own whims. We do our best, your Highness, but we’re always guessing.”

He looks irritated. She’s telling him things he already knows and he doesn’t like it, so she walks it back.

“But you’re right, of course. It’s unusual to say the least, although jumping to anomalous seems premature.”

Next to the crown is a crude stone knife, filigreed with little dancing figures, a stick-figure body tied to a sacrificial altar. There’s a buzz in her brain, a sudden shooting headache. It occurs to her to take the knife and drive it through the prince’s eye, fit the crown to her head, and sit down laughing beside his corpse. She shakes it away and puts the crown down like it was a burning brand. A blurriness she hadn’t noticed clears from her thoughts.

“Ahem. Soo… yeah. Moving on, this knife is interesting. It, again is typical in some ways of the druidic stoneworking you’d see in sites six or seven hundred years old well off to the West. Let’s take this conversation to that weapons display up the tower a bit, I’ve got an urge to compare this to something you showed me there a little while ago…”

“Ah. The axe? I see. Well, after you--”

As they leave he puts a hand on her shoulder like a friend, like a peer, and she allows it, and later in the evening, after the sun is down and they’ve had some wine and laughed about the same old senile lecturers back at the Tower of the Stars, she checks in with the seneschal and he hands her her check without saying a word. The walk back to her apartment is not too long but she drags it out, and, hyper-aware of her ragged house slippers now, stops to savor the feel of the smooth paving stones on her feet. It wasn’t like this in Dahora during the war when her parents wouldn’t let her run barefoot because the soil was so thick with spear-heads and shattered masonry. Tavi had always told her about this place, this Agresjia, with that Tavi self-effacement. She hadn’t told Andeline how lovely it could be, how that accursed salt air could be a gift too, something you turned your face up to and drank. She misses the cold. She keeps walking past the well-lit streets of the well-to-do, past her apartment, through alleys and night markets to her neglected little bonus house, full of books and garbage and probably insects. She unlocks the door and passes through to the only chair in the place and sits in silence for a long time.

He was lying. He was lying and smiling and he thought they were friends in spite of this. She pushes aside the heavy book-case that made her buy this house in the first place, a slab on rusty rollers that led down into what had once been some enterprising person’s hideout for swampweed packing or illegal charcuterie, but which now held the books she didn’t want Nevyah’s rent-a-spies to be poking through, if he thought to have them do so, and she knew he never gave a thought to her. Her logs. She pages through them, back and forth. The bastard was doing it. Inquiries he’d started making idly, that made the rounds of antiquarians and collectors, after ancient pharmakons, amulets against sickness and age. And this thing behind it all-- druidic, that was true, but buried deep, way down below, a fragment in the most effaced and dispersed bits of myth and taboo of the Valley. That twitch of the nerve she’d felt, that call to violence-- was that this crown, its weight on the brow of anyone who touched it? This was no chance find-- this was something he’d been searching for, desperately, she’s sure of it now. Rumors about the prince-- about this campaign against death, this obsession-- she’d heard them all at the Tower. And not quite believed them. But she’d kept them in her mind when accepted this job, and had kept an eye out. Everything suspicious about him-- everything behind that front of charm and erudition-- was beginning to click into place. She notes the day’s events down, cracks open a bottle of beer, and falls asleep fully clothed on the floor.

The next morning she buys a tooth brush and uses it and takes a leisurely amble uphill back towards the shops she can afford now, the shops she has no reason to avoid, and buys a new pair of fine, soft leather boots, with sturdy soles and a tiny ribbon on each cuff. She throws her old slippers in a trash-heap as she winds her way to the palace, munching all the while on a vegetable skewer, fragrant and delicious. At the foot of that tower she looks up at it blotting the sun and turns away, blinded, before straightening her lapels and marching in. Later, realizing a mistake in notation at the same time as her, he jokes in that familiar way, that suggests they’re in on it together, this universe of fools, smart people, like you and I, like you and I and Nevyah and every damned idiot that ever thought reading books and knowing dead languages meant you understood what was good for people, what they really needed but didn’t know, and she laughs, scoffs really, but he takes that scoff as something other than what it is.

[mabelmadnessss-blog]

Impulse 13 - Panic

Impulse 12 - Satin Lips

Harley jumped out of her skin when she heard the gun shot ring out. She was currently laying in the bath, trying to soak away her thoughts. She knew the shot came from the Joker, he was pissed and obviously used violence to express it. She wasn't surprised, though Harley did secretly hope that he'd shot Hutch, she'd never wished death on another human being before but he was an exception.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the bedroom door open. The Joker had entered, it sounded like he was smashing glass and furniture. Cursing under her breath, Harley sank back into the tub. Just when things went quiet, she heard him shouting on the phone. "I don't care! Just get your ass over to the club right now! We have the fate Sammy boy to discuss."

Sam? What? Sam from Arkham, the creep that asked me out every damn day for a whole week, that Sam?

She sat still in the bath, listening to banging and things being broken and thrown across the room. Harley then heard the Joker muttering to himself "Boyfriend, don't make me laugh, the only thing that he could ever pull would be a door handle."

She had no idea what he was going on about, but she giggled a little. His footsteps came closer. Knowing he was going to come in, she gathered all the bubbles from the bath over her body, trying to keep some dignity. The door creaked open, J didn't even look at her, but she saw him. Anger plastered all over his face with a shine of sweat on his brow. He was dressed in a suit, blood clinging to his knuckles desperately. He must have smashed something with his fist. Despite his disheveled look, he looked Damn fine. His shirt was purple, unbuttoned slightly but still fitting him like a glove. He wore a silver blazer over the top, with thick golden chains hung around his neck paired with equally big rings on his bone white fingers. It would of looked tacky on anyone else, but he pulled it off perfectly.

He lent over the sink to the mirror, slicking his hair back and straightened his jacket. The Joker ignored her the whole time he was in there, he was still pissed about earlier but she could see that something else had bothered him. Just before he left the bathroom, He smirked and glanced briefly over his shoulder at her, then slammed the door behind himself.

"Silent treatment is it? Fine two can play at that game. You stupid jerk." Harley muttered.

After her long soak, she stepped out the bath and wrapped herself in a fluffy green towel. It was just the comfort she needed. Opening the bathroom door she saw the destruction he had caused, clothes scattered all over the floor and bed, with cologne bottle smashed against the wall and soaked into the carpet. Among all the mess she saw a little note on the bed.

'Gone out. This room better be tidy when I come back, and you better still be here. - J '

"Charming." Harley scoffed.

Picking up one of his clean shirts on the floor, she dressed. This shirt was a metallic black colour and fitted her better than the other one. Pulling her hair up into a scruffy ponytail, she begun to clean the room. She took this opportunity to have a nose around. Walking over to his dresser, she saw various tubes of hair gel, lipstick and a small black box which contained his jewelry. Pulling open the draws she saw a range of weapons, a gun, quite small but no doubt powerful. Four identical knives, a grenade, two green bottles with 'J-Tox' written on them. Obviously his infamous Joker toxin. There was another knife, but this one had an Ivory handle.

Harley was tempted to remove all these object for her own safety, but decided against it. He'd go even more ape shit if he found out she had been snooping. After the room was tidy, her stomach started to rumble, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't eaten since she arrived.

"I could eat a horse." Harley groaned. She wondered if she was allowed to leave the room, but her hunger was so powerful that she just didn't care. Harley walked down the stairs cautiously, checking if there was anyone around. But it seemed as though everyone had gone out, probably something to do with the Joker's phone conversation.

Now in the kitchen, she scanned the fridge for food. Laying her eyes on some eggs, tomato and cheese, she brought them over to the counter and made herself a huge omelette. Taking the plate over to the lounge, she sat in front of the smashed T.V

Bored, she finished her food and washed up. Before leaving the kitchen, she noticed a small black pistol sitting on the bar stool. Curiosity got the better of her and she picked it up. Testing the weight in her hands, she couldn't help but notice how natural it felt, like it belonged under her power. Inspecting the weapon, she took off the safety catch and cocked it back, aiming at the door. Acting like she knew what she was doing, her finger was twitching on the trigger, she didn't want to fire it but some natural instinct told her to. Her finger ran over the trigger and pulled. The shot was fast, the kick was slight not as much as she'd expected and the rush was amazing.

That was incredible.

She laughed at the fact that a tiny weapon like this could end a life. That if someone walked through the door right now, she could kill them instantly. Harley watched the smoke rise from the barrel, dancing in front of her face, she was hypnotized. She moved the gun closer, running the barrel from her chin, down her neck to her collar bone. It was still hot, but not unbearable. Bringing it back up to her jawline, she played with the trigger guard. The power she felt was immense, in this moment she was at her own mercy. She didn't want to kill herself but being both the victim and the threat to her own life...Felt like freedom. Coming out of her trance, she gasped and threw the gun on the floor, and it slid under the bench out of sight.

What's happening to me?

Running out of the kitchen back to the Joker's bedroom, she fell hard on the bed. Tears streaming down her face. What she'd felt was wrong, but at the same time, it felt so right?

The King of Diamonds club was busy when the Joker entered, most of his clientele were old men with money, looking for a good time with the girls that Joker hired on a Friday night. He had no interest in the urges that normal men felt towards women, but he did with Harley... He wanted her so badly it hurt, and he was sure that she knew this.

When he entered the club with his men, they all dispersed into their own booths while Joker sat in his regular one. He didn't have to wait long for Jerry to arrive. He quickly approached, clutching a file tightly in his hands.

"Good evening Jerry, have something for me I see?" J asked, eyeing up the item.

"Yes boss, all the files related to the Arkham break out case and Harley's kidnap." He slapped the folder on the table.

"Good. And Sam?"

"He's being handled. All his details are in the file." Jerry said.

"Good work, you seem to have redeemed yourself... Which is a shame, because I felt like a kill tonight." J smiled, tilting his head to one side.

"Sorry about that Boss. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news, but I was being interviewed by the GCPD. They suspect someone under your employ has been working on the inside. But they don't suspect it's me." He told him.

"Good." J nodded.

"And Boss, not only is Sam pretending to be Harley's man, he's also selling his story to the papers." Jerry said, jittery with the new information that he had gathered.

Joker growled and slammed his fist on the table, his eyes turning foggy. "I want him brought to me. Alive, understand?"

"Y-yes boss."

They continued with their discussion over Arkham and the police investigation. It looked like they had no new leads and Batman hadn't made his involvement known yet, but all in good time. The first 48 Hours in an abduction case were crucial and it seemed, with the first 24 over, the police still weren't any further into finding them. They had focused too much on Sam's lies and Dr Leland's analysis of the Joker that they forgotten about the real joke here. He had escaped straight out the front door, and no one stopped him.

Later that night the Joker returned, stinking of alcohol and stumbling through the door. All the other Henchmen were back at their own homes. Still furious with Harley, he wandered into the kitchen to find some more drink. He threw the file on the counter and pulled some whiskey out of the cupboard. He lent against the side, drinking straight out of the bottle. J squinted his eyes when he saw a bullet hole in the kitchen door. He slowly paced towards it and ran his finger over the burnt surface. He glanced down to the floor, seeing a pistol lying under the bench. There was no blood so he knew no one had been shot, at least not in the kitchen.

"Shit, Harley!" Joker breathed. Dropping the whiskey bottle on the floor, it smashed around his feet. He picked up the gun and ran upstairs, scanning the floor for blood. but still nothing.

Reaching his room he busted the door open. "Harley!?"

A sigh of genuine relief escaped his lips when he saw her stretched out over the bed, one arm under her head and her legs tangled in the bed covers. Dropping the gun on the floor, he knelt on the bed. Facing her now, he watched her sleep peacefully, her lips were slightly parted and she breathed deeply. He saw that her eyelids were red. She'd definitely been crying again.

Stupid Girl.

Somehow he'd ended up having 'feelings' for this blonde in his bed. He didn't love her, he didn't know what he felt, but it wasn't love, no, no, no, the Joker doesn't love. Conflicted by his thoughts, he gave her a sharp backhand to the face. Joker then grabbed her neck, pinning her down and climbing on top of her. She cried out, in a mixture of shock and pain, struggling against his body.

"You put a bullet through my fucking kitchen door!" He yelled.

Harley gasped at his presence, and the looming stench of alcohol. "How did you-? It was accident, I swe-swear."

"How did it feel Harley? Huh? firing a gun, releasing a bullet, how did it feel in your hands?" J asked, leaning closer.

"It felt-"

"Speak up!" He shouted.

"Incredible, it felt Incredible." Harley countered back, with wide eyes.

Releasing his grip on her neck, Joker placed each of his hands either side of her head. "Tell me about it." He whispered.

"When I touched it-" Harley gasped. "When I felt its weight in my hands, it - it felt natural, like it was made to be held by me." She searched his eyes for any clue to what he was thinking, but nothing. "And that's when I took the safety off... I cocked it back and aimed it at the door... then I, then I shot."

"How did it feel?" Joker asked, leaning down. He placed his lips on her neck and began tugging at her skin kissing gently. She moaned at his touch and his change of mood.

Gathering her thoughts and closing her eyes against him, she continued. "Empowering, it felt like in that one shot, I was free." J's left hand ran down her body to her waist. His lips were now moving up to her ear, biting and sucking his way up her jawline. She rolled her head back in bliss.

Why does something so bad feel so good?

"Then?" He asked between kisses.

"Then, I saw the smoke rise up from the gun." She gasped again. "I pressed the hot barrel onto my skin, pressing hard and dragging it down my neck. Then - then back up under my chin. It hurt but in a good way." She groaned. "My finger curled round the trigger, wanting to pull."

Jokers head shot up immediately. "What!?" He grabbed her face in both hands and searched her eyes, he soon realised he wasn't looking at Harleen Quinzel's face anymore. He was looking at Harley Quinn's...even if she didn't know it yet. Scared by his reaction, tears began to slip from the corner of her eye.

"Don't you ever do that again! Understand me!? Not to yourself, never to yourself... Not unless I say so."

#Joker and Harley fan fiction #the joker #Harley Quinn #Impulse #my writing #jxhq