I love the scream in save and the verses in drown and anathema in itself and the “Don’t take don’t take it take it take it” in guns for hands and the fact the tyler wrote trees when he was 17 and the last minute of kitchen sink and chorus in not today and josh’s energy when he drums and how taken by sleep, goner, falling too, truce, taxi cab, tonight, and a car a torch a death will bring you to tears and the second verse of glowing eyes and and josh’s back flip and when tyler shakes his head or his hands and all of taken by sleep and the screams in slowtown and the scream in goner that makes chills run down your spine the fact that heathens is still a twenty one pilots song and the heart and soul and the battle that is every note and every lyric in every song they’ve ever written.
The young man and the young girl across the street kissed. When they pulled away, the girl was crying. The young man hugged her tightly before they managed to catch a cab. Both scurried into the car and it immediately sped off, leaving the man watching them alone.
You and Peter sprint into the hospital. “I’m here to see [M/n]!” you exclaimed. “She’s awake! Isshe awake?”
“I can take them,” Palmer said to the receptionist. You and Peter gladly followed her, hands tightly intertwined. “How is she?” you asked, trying not to cry again.
You’d already cried off your eye makeup in the cab.
“She’s tired and groggy but asked to see you as soon as she woke up,” Christine told you. “That’s a really good sign,” she added.
Your knees wobbled when you were brought to the room. Peter kissed the side of your head, holding you up, as you walked in.
“Mama,” you cried, rushing forward. You fell by the bed, grasping her hand in yours.
“Ssh,” she cooed. “It’s alright, dear, it’s alright.”
“May’s here,” Peter said a while later. “I’ll let you guys be alone for a minute.”
You smiled at him as he left.
“So,” your mother said, sipping on her water. “You’re finally dating. How did that happen? Last time I checked you weren’t talking.”
You blushed, smoothing out your dress. “Long story. I don’t want to tell you everything already,” you teased. “You’re dressed quite nice, were you out on a date?” she gushed. “Kinda,” you said slowly. “We were on our way to the Homecoming dance but then you woke up.”
She put a hand over her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry for ruining your evening, then,” she teased. You could only hug her again. “I missed you so much,” you whispered. “I honestly thought you were going to-”
“[Y/n], honey, I didn’t,” she cut you off. “I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”
In the end, your mother couldn’t be checked out quite yet. And you weren’t allowed to spend the night. It took a lot of convincing from May, your mom, Peter, and the doctors to finally get you to agree to going back home (on the condition you could come back the next day).
Your mother, settled down in her bed, alone once more. Her heart beat gently, contently. You were okay and finally with Peter. She’d always liked Peter, though every time she suggested him to you, you would immediately shut down.
“You didn’t tell her,” a voice muttered. She sat upwards, startled at the broken silence.“Why?” the voice asked.
Your mother swallowed down her instinct, which was to yell for help and make him disappear. “I didn’t think it was the right time. [Y/n] is doing so well. She’s getting a grip on her powers already. And don’t tell me you can’t see it. There’s hardly been an earthquake in the past week!”
“She doesn’t even know she has powers,” the voice replied angrily. “She has no idea what she’s doing. She’s a rare child, we both know it, but controlling and not knowing are two different things, Alya.” Your mother gripped onto the blankets tightly. “Don’t call me that,” she quickly said. “That isn’t my name anymore.”
“But it was once. Whatever happened?”
She glared into the darkness of the hospital room. “I realized that you were wrong. I realized that I wanted my daughter-”
“Our!” the voice yelled.
“She will never ever be yours,” your mother hissed. “[Y/n] will not know about you nor about what she can do. I forbid it!”
Let’s get some small Oda hcs out before his birthday ends yea? -C
He’s always wanted to go on the big ferris wheel in Yokohama but never got the chance to. Dazai, ango, and him promised they’d go for Oda’s birthday one year but yknow things happen.
Usually the one to carry Ango or Dazai to a cab or their own cars if they happen to get obliterated at the bar. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does he’ll drive them home and walk the rest of the way to his place depending on whose car he took.
When he reads with the kids he’ll do different voices for each character in the story.
Speaking of those adorable kids, his favorite sound to hear is their laughter. He’s really at ease when he comes back from work and hears them giggling.
He can’t sleep well if the area around him is too noisy. Trees and rain are one thing but people yelling and stomping are another so he learns to invest in earplugs when it gets a little rambunctious near his apartment (which isn’t too often).
Made the mistake of trying Dazai’s homemade (experiments) cooking a second time and blacked out for 8 hours only to find himself sleeping in front of his apartment door.
Every so often he’ll take a good hour-long bath to release some tension and ends up almost falling asleep every time.
He’s really good at cards and gambling in general but darts are by far the thing he’s best at and it helps that he enjoys it.
This man can give a real thorough massage that has the recipient moaning and groaning the entire time. He’s a bit rough when he gets super focused on getting knots out but snaps out once the person asks him to go a little lighter.
If he has a nightmare he usually won’t try to go back to sleep after it. He’ll make tea and write small blurbs of stories he thought about during the week cause if he did try to go to sleep after, he’d just wake up again from more bad dreams.
When one of the kids has a birthday, he always gets them a gift they go wild over. He picks up subtle hints as to what their likes and dislikes are until he ends up ruminating on the perfect present for them.
For his birthday he really didn’t expect the kids to get together with the restaurant owner to make him his favorite curry. It ends up a little soggy and a little too spiced but he eats every ounce and loves it.
A magnificent city. So many people everywhere. The air thick with heat. Streets cracking open. The traffic almost like a dance, cars weaving across lanes trying to get somewhere fast faster fast. Yellow cabs and black cars. Scaffolding cloaking buildings. Bodegas with grimy windows. So many restaurants. So many people. Skyscrapers, one after the other as far as the eye can see. Everyone dressed fashionably. Dark, raw denim and hard leather shoes. Business suits, tailored to fit. Women in sheath dresses and high heels. Teenagers in basketball shorts. The smell of shit and piss, hot, inescapable. Crowded sidewalks. Everyone moving fast faster than me, always standing out in the crowd, trying to hide in plain sight and stay out of the way. Food carts, steaming on the steaming pavement. Hotdogs of suspicious provenance. No appetite. Construction workers and other men who work with their bodies standing in clumps of three, dirty tshirts stained with sweat and paint and who knows, worn work boots, voices heavy with that New York accent, jawing about everything and nothing and then it’s back to work. Jackhammers. Cranes high in the sky with cables dangling. So many people everywhere. Three days in a radio studio. Interviewing fancy people. Trying to create something. Women in workout clothes with perfectly chiseled bodies and angular faces. Everyone wearing headphones. At night, the air still thick with heat, cooling too slowly. Easier to breathe, though. A steakhouse, crowded, young professionals with impeccable and expensive haircuts drinking expensive drinks and boasting of exploits real and imagined. Brown people everywhere, so many kinds of brown. So many languages moving through the air. Huge strollers. Crowded parks. Lunch in a church sanctuary. Cold hotel room. Huge bed. No sleep, staring at that empty space. Writing a hundred letters I can’t send. I might send. Like a vital organ is missing. Slick hotel bar, rooftop, stylish, weathered leather couches. Cocktail servers in identical tight minidresses. Gin. Each day I count the hours I need to wear a mask, play pretend and then when I can be how I feel, the relief of my shoulders and face falling. So much quiet. Nothing to say. Olympics and strange sports and amazing athletes doing things I don’t even dream of. A Brooklyn bar. Over capacity. Sweating. Sweating. Reading about Ina and Channing and teaching. Autographs. Compliments that are kind and baffling. A grand old building, also in Brooklyn. Sold out crowd of people who want to…. hear me? Long signing line. A moment to forget. And then it’s over. And I don’t want to forget anyway. Holding on from a distance. Because I can’t, despite all efforts, do otherwise. It’s allowed. Black car. The airport. Crowded, chaotic, filthy, damp. Home. And then if I don’t change my mind on to another magnificent city, likely someday will be home city. You, everywhere.