dayum this man

2

fayeharuno-uchiha : Imagine Kakashi wearing a suit on his first day as Hokage. (⊙O⊙)

Translation: sign me the FUCK up 👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌th 👌 ere👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit

a red signal—

Looking back, I’m so thankful we somehow managed to make things happen.

I wasn’t prepared for it. Call it cliche and whatnot, but it just felt like the universe was trying to send us a message, one that we only just received in time. It was partly my fault, for being so indecisive and the usual wreck that I am, but I can’t deny that she was hesitant too. I’ve long since forgiven her for her mistakes, though, and so has she for mine.

It was Wednesday, or ‘hump day’ as some people so gloriously call it. The Tube was packed to bursting, and I remember being unbearably close to an unkempt stranger in his late-twenties, his bomber jacket reeking of weed and his snapback hovering dangerously close to my eyes. All I could think about was trying to make it to the next stop, where thankfully I’d be able to squeeze my way through the crowd and run out into the sweet-tasting, polluted air above.

And just as this wonderful thought came to me, the train came to a lumbering, cruel halt in the middle of the tunnel.

“Sorry ‘bout that ladies and gents, we are currently being held at a red signal. Should be on our way in a couple minutes time, I do apologise for any inconvenience this has caused to your journey this evening.”

A chorus of sighs and grunts of frustration echoed throughout the carriage. I couldn’t help but exhale sharply, causing the rebellious man-child before me to recoil slightly in disgust before turning his back. I chose to make no comment; my fingers were itching for a light at this point.

After an eternity of internal suffering and unnecessary bodily contact, the train finally rumbled into action once more. I could hardly contain my anticipation for departing, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The first thing I’d do was light a smoke, I told myself. The platform suddenly slid into view through the windows, and I began to edge and push my way toward the doors, but in my haste I must’ve caught my watch on someone’s handbag, for I suddenly felt myself dragging an unwilling passenger with me out the train.

“Hey, hey! Careful now!”

The colourful accent caught me off guard. I stopped trying to free myself and looked up at my captive. And I was stunned. The woman before me had a pair of inquisitive blue eyes, prompting me for an answer. Perhaps I was taking too long; the corner of her nude lips seemed to twitch at my stumbling hesitation.

“Sorry,” I blurted in a rush, stepping away from the edge of the platform with her. Clumsy fingers finally uncaught her strap from my watch. “So sorry.”

“That’s all right. I don’t blame you for wanting to get out in a hurry,” the stranger replied cheerfully, shrugging into her shoulder bag once more.

“I should’ve been more careful, I’m terribly embarrassed…”

“Please, stop apologising.” She flashed me a devious smile. “It was my stop anyway.”

We walked toward the exit sign together, fairly alone now in the breezy, dimly-lit tunnel. My heart was caught in my throat. Where were the words that usually came so easily? Why did I suddenly feel like all the years of flirtatious gambling and acquired skills had vanished in the blink of an eye? The escalators came into view. I let her on first, leaving a step between us, trying not to notice the cut of her navy shift dress and how they revealed a pair of lean, athletic legs.

“What do you do?” she asked me, tossing that mane of dark hair over one shoulder, sending me reeling with her scent.

“Ah, I’m in music.”

”Ooh, an artiste.”

I shook my head sheepishly. “Not quite. Piano teacher, for kids.”

“Oh. How disappointing,” she joked, and I laughed along with her, aware that the end of the escalator was fast approaching.

Click click. Two modest high heels stepped expertly toward the turnstiles. And in my muddled desperation at her leaving, I stood there for a second or two before I finally went after her, fingers grazing her elbow, and asked: “Could I have your number?”

We stared at each other. The sound of the city seemed to drown out for a heartbeat. I was dimly aware I was in another commuter’s way, but I felt rooted to the spot, my only desire in that moment to hear what this beautiful, funny stranger had to say. She seemed to debate it over and over, those blue eyes losing their warmth and openness, just for a little while, as she retreated within her mind.

Her lips started moving before it’d even registered in my brain. But the answer made me smile like a child, and as we parted and I went up the stairs and walked toward my apartment, all I could think about was that kind, Welsh voice—the thought of having a smoke long disappearing into the back of my mind—and how badly I wanted to tell Aubrey about this feeling, about what I felt to be something truly rare and fleeting.

”Meet me for lunch. Tomorrow, here at 12. I’ll decide then if you’re worthy or not.”

It is not fair how badly he can fuck me up just standing there.

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