tag meme: pick an item to borrow/steal from my living room
a small copper arts & crafts trough
an antique teapot shaped like a cottage
a peach-coloured Royal Winton lotus dessert dish full of dried rose petals
a rotating bookshelf
a pine chest guaranteed to hold at least one woodworker
a tiny Imari bowl containing two china mice
a broken holosteric barometer
an old camera lens I really need to get checked
NO bad cat because he has GONE HOME
Voting ended onJun 22
thank you @balaenosphere! that was fun. tagging @scribblingface, @starspray, @anoteinpink, @jbe200, @captainkaltar, @femchef, anyone else who wants to play!
bungou stray dogs | G | 908 words
nakahara chuuya x reader/oc
breaking up with chuuya was the best option until it wasn’t. when he finds his way back to you, is your heart ready to open up for him again? (chuuya ft. exes to lovers)
in hindsight, of course this was exactly where this was going to go.
no rationalizing or emotional processing could have prepared you for this moment, in the middle of a thunderstorm, your heart thudding as hard as the rain outside…
chuuya, the man you once loved with all your heart and soul, standing outside your door.
he’s dressed casually, like he was on his way to pick up some tissues at the convenience store below his building when he’d decided to just run. he’s wearing a hoodie underneath a leather jacket, some black denim pants, his trusty boots.
and he’s drenched, of course. head to toe soaking with the rain, and yet he just stands there, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking up at you with a slightly open mouth as if looking for words to say.
he looks into your eyes searching for something and a part of you deep inside hopes he finds it.
“come in,” you say, even if your throat is constricted. you’d rather not him have sick at your doorstep, after all. you make a gesture with your hands, but he does not move. just stares at you. “chuuya… you’re going to get drenched.”
“we’ve done worse to each other,” he finally utters. the sound of his voice after so long rips open a wound that you thought had long healed. it makes you look up and finally look him in the eyes, and you realize the tracks the rain have made on his face look like the were made of tears. something in you aches for him.
you shake your head. “i’m not doing this, chuuya. we’ve been through this.”
months have passed. gods, you’ve lost count already. one minute it was just a month and the next it’s been nine. ten now, has it been? when chuuya had brought you home at this exact doorstep and said, this is going to be our last date. i’m sorry. when chuuya had taken the heart you had given to him so gently and crushed it in his fists.
he was right. he was right and that’s what kept you going—he was right in saying that he couldn’t have any liabilities in his line of work. that he was doing this for your safety; that he’d rather you be alive and cared for in someone else’s arms than in his and yet in constant danger. you knew, with all rational thought, that he did the right thing in having dumped you.
yet he’s here again?
yet you open the door again?
you look at each other, waiting for the other to say something. holding chuuya’s gaze is painful. something in your gut scrambles and he looks like he’s in agony, too. you still don’t know what brought him here of all days. after so long.
deep inside, you know he is gauging if you’re going to take his words well. he’s always done that; always wanting to make sure he doesn’t hurt you with what he says. but you just want him to talk. you just want to hear him again.
you don’t know why.
“chuuya…” is all you manage to say, his name so heavy in your mouth.
but it breaks something between the two of you, and chuuya finally talks.
“there’s a dent in my heart where you used to be in it,” he says, final and absolute. “i wanted to see if you felt the same.”
a dent. a dent! that’s to underestimate it, what he’s left in your heart. a hollow like a black hole, eating you up from the inside out. you chuckle, full of self-pity. “a dent doesn’t cut it.”
“it doesn’t,” chuuya agrees. “what i’m saying is—there’s a part of my heart still molded in the shape of you. and i had to tell you.”
the pulsing of your heart feels too much now. “what do you want, chuuya?”
“you,” he says, so sure. his gaze on you is intense, gray eyes cloudy with pain and yet so clear. “it was a mistake. i shouldn’t have—i was willing to fight for ya. i still am. but i was a coward. maybe i still am. i don’t want to be anymore, which is why i’m here.”
take me back.
the words are left unsaid but hang heavily between the two of you.
take me back, if you want to.
“what happens… after?”
the question is vague but so was his supplication. but it does not matter. gravity keeps you both steady. you know your answer to his question before he’s even asked it.
“the same,” chuuya promises. “everything we did. everything we were—then better. i’ll do better. shape me up to be the man you deserve. i want to be the one that gets to love you.”
outside, the storm has slowed down, the leaves on trees now barely shaking, the road having a glassy sheen from the lightly pattering rain. inside chuuya is a chaos you know contrasts what is behind him.
when you reach out with a hand, he takes it, presses a kiss on your knuckles like he always has. his hands are cold. you want to warm them.
“you’re an idiot,” you say, using your held hands as leverage to pull him into the threshold, out of the rain. he laughs, oh, sound low and self-deprecating, but it is his laughter nonetheless.
“your idiot,” he says, looks up at you like begging for mercy.
A particular stupol meeting is almost always on Saturday and the various states of hung over I’ve been to that in. I once went after the worst night in my drinking life: I was sitting in the meeting room with hypothermia, the shakes, a pounding heart and still very drunk. I didn’t really contribute, just watched Fwb be a pain in their ass which was great and tried to work out where the bruises and scrapes on my had come from. No one can call me uncommitted.
I sat down and turned my macbook on so I could listen to stuff while I tidy my room and I've not moved. I'm now on the 3rd episode of cabin pressure. Dammit.
I SAW DOTCOM AT NYCC ONCE SO I THINK I DID INHERIT THIS TITLE FROM HIM. I'M SO HAPPY FOR US.
Now it’s not just my alcoholism, bad parentage, terrible diet, incomprehensible way of speaking, irrational and childish mind and temper, frequenting of strip clubs, ADHD, blocked memories, terrible childhood, and public displays of insanity that makes me similar to Tracy Jordan!!!
