Ok for the Drarry prompt if you're still doing it..... First kisses in the rain
They had been getting drunker and drunker for the past two hours.
They had just finished a case, with an ex-Death Eater and potions smuggling and it had taken months of investigation and food trucks and stakeouts and dry, parching thirst for each other (but that went unsaid), but they had finally caught the guy.
Them, the partners extraordinaire, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.
A drink to celebrate had turned into an all-nighter at some hole-in-the-wall underground Wizarding bar in Camden, with rounds being bought for the both of them for each crazy Auror story they told with drunken enthusiasm.
At this point, they were either taking other stories and inserting their names or wildly inventing ones, making up solutions to cases still unsolved, but the drinks kept coming. The lights were dim and the temperature was rising with every piece of clothing Harry removed, every inch Draco rolled up his sleeves, every drink and every body that left the room.
“Last call, gentlemen,” the bartender finally said, somewhere around two a.m., winking at them both.
“Blimeh,” Harry slurred, shaking his head. “That’s–it’s late.”
Draco nodded slowly, distracted by the glaze in Harry’s eyes and the exaggerated mess of hair that looked incredibly soft in the haze of the dimming candles and primitive electric wiring.
“We need,” he announced, “a–spell. Soppering. Sober.”
Harry shook his head. “No…no drunk magic. I’s–the law, Drake!”
Draco blinked, laughing into the last of his beer. “Did…did you call me Drake?”
They both dissolved into giggles, unconsciously leaning into each other as the bartender approached with two vials.
“Sobering potions,” he said, setting them down. “On the house. Won’t clear you totally up, in your state, mind you, but it’ll be enough to get you home.”
Draco nodded and grabbed one as Harry squinted at the bartender.
“Why–why aren’t you drunk?”
“Harry,” Draco murmured, clumsily pushing the other vial towards the brunet.
Harry took it immediately, throwing an arm around Draco’s shoulders as he did so, bringing him in closer. Draco laughed again as he almost slipped off of the bar stool, the warmth of Harry’s arm doing nothing to sober him up.
“Together,” Harry vowed solemnly, lifting his vial. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Draco replied, raising his own and downing it with Harry.
They exhaled together and immediately, Draco felt a wonderful clearing of his mind, like someone throwing open the curtains on a sunny morning or standing under cold spray after a hot run. He enjoyed the return of his only slightly impaired mental faculties for all of five seconds before Harry exhaled again and he was returned completely to reality, to Harry’s breath across their shared space and the obvious weight of Harry’s arm around his shoulders.
His eyes traveled up to Harry’s, who stared back with shocking heat and clarity.
“Hey,” he said, and Draco smiled, his heartbeat quickening.
“Hi,” he said back.
“All right, gentlemen?”
They both jumped violently at the intrusion, knocking their heads together with a painful smack.
The bartender, Ted, frowned apologetically as they both straightened up, rubbing their foreheads. “Sorry, boys. I’m callin’ it, though. Have a safe night.”
He watched Draco and Harry slide off of their stools and troop slowly towards the door.
“Oh boys,” he called, just as Harry put his hand on the knob, “I think it’s raining.”
Harry yanked the door open, the deafening beat of heavy rain against the harshness of the city berating them all. The rain was coming down incredibly fast and their immediate path offered no cover.
Harry shrugged helplessly at Draco, both of them frozen in the safety of the doorway. “Ask Ted if he has an umbrella?”
Draco blinked. “What the hell is–”
“Oh, nevermind,” Harry sighed, turning back to the door. “We can’t Apparate in rain and drunk…”
“Kind of drunk,” Draco corrected.
“Let’s just find cover and do it,” Draco resolved, steeling himself. “But we’ve got to go out there.”
“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Ready?”
Draco nodded and they both sprinted out into the rain, gasping in displeasure as the rain hit their skin and their hair, drenching them immediately.
The only source of light they had were the dim Muggle lampposts and string of fairy lights against the buildings. Draco assumed the street was empty, but his vision was too impaired to make a final call.
“Do you see anything?” Draco yelled to Harry, who standing two feet in front of him and taking off his glasses to stuff them in his robes. Harry simply looked at him in reply.
“Fair,” Draco said to himself. Harry jerked his head one way and they took off again, this time staying close together. They ran down a side street and skidded around a corner, Draco slipping with a yell on a surprise gutter.
Harry turned immediately to catch him, slipping too and crashing into Draco, making them both stumble back across the sidewalk and slam against the brick of the row of buildings, Harry’s arms still around Draco’s waist and Draco’s feet entangled with Harry’s, back flush against the hard wall, and they both realized somewhat belatedly that the rain had stopped.
Draco blinked rapidly, trying to process their new situation and think around the large obtrusion currently hugging him in an alleyway. First of all, the rain hadn’t stopped, but they had been lucky enough to fall under a canopy of a storefront, providing them sound coverage from the rain that still hammered around them. Second of all, Harry’s breath was coming shallowly against Draco’s face, making him shiver with tension and from the cold of the rain.
Neither of them said a word, but Draco slowly dragged his eyes from Harry’s dripping torso and up his neck to his eyes, once again blazing with intensity. Draco’s own breath stuttered as a sort of current ran between them, communicating their want as if on a wire.
They both pressed forward, open lips meeting in the middle with some sort of noise from both of them, their mouths sliding together and apart with the slip of water, tongues entangling without any sort of grace, breathless and sore lungs aching for breath and heart aching for more.
Draco pulled back first, his head thudding against the back building with a groan.
Harry went immediately to his neck, licking unsteady patterns on the wet skin, making Draco damn near keel over.
“We’re drunk,” Draco gasped, contradicting himself by pressing into Harry’s touch.
Harry brought his head up at this to look Draco in the eye, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.
“Do you want to stop?” he asked softly.
Draco shook his head immediately. “I just thought–you’re drunk, still, so if you…”
“Draco,” Harry interrupted seriously, “if I’m sober enough to Apparate home, I’m sober enough to kiss you.”
The thrill of the statement was replaced fairly quickly with a truly sobering realization, one that made him sigh in exasperation and close his eyes.
“What?” Harry asked, hand dropping from Draco’s face.
“Repelling Charm,” Draco replied, shaking his head. “We could have used a water repelling charm.”
THIS WAS FUN.
One leaf falls from the canopy
That’s many meters high.
It drifts this way, and then that way
Meanders from the sky
Like a tiny green parachute-
It’s descent careful, slow.
It’s earthward journey culminates
In the mulch far below.
Born to a Russian peasant family in 1916, Anna Yegorova was one of the deadliest and most celebrated Soviet pilots of World War II. While working as a factory worker before the war, Yegorova received pilots training and eventually became a flight instructor. When the Germans invaded in 1941, she volunteered for the Soviet Air Force, however Soviet commanders at the time were slow to accept women for combat service. Instead, she was assigned to fly an aging rickety biplane as a reconnaissance pilot. Between 1941 and 1942 she flew 100 reconnaissance missions, many of which were very dangerous. On her 100th mission, her plane was intercepted by a German fighter. Completely outclassed in her puttering antique biplane, she was easily shot down by the fighter. Having no parachute she was forced to crash land as her plane erupted into flames around her. After the crash, she hid in a corn field as the German fighter straffed her with machine guns until running out of ammo and flying away. Despite suffering horrific burns over much of her body, she returned to base and personally delivered her maps. For her actions she was promoted to Lieutenant and assigned for training at a combat aviation school.
While in combat training Yegorova gained a reputation as one of the best pilots of her class. She was trained to fly the Ilyushin IL-2 Sturmovik, a heavily armed and armored ground attack aircraft nicknamed “The Flying Tank”. Throughout the war, the IL-2 was used as a close air support craft, and was specifically used to destroy German tanks. After graduating combat aviation school in 1943, she was assigned command of an IL-2 squadron that was part of the 805th Attack Aviation Regiment. Over the next year she commanded 177 combat missions, destroying scores of German tanks, armored vehicles, and trucks. A true terror of sky, she was known as a superior pilot and a fearless combat leader. Among the enemy she was known as the “Flying Witch”. During her combat duty, she was awarded the Order of Lenin, two Orders of the Red Banner, and two Orders of the Patriotic War 1st Class.
On an attack on a German column in Auguast of 1944, an anti craft shell exploded below the seat of her cockpit, the force of which blew her through her cockpit canopy. Before falling unconscious Yegorova pulled the rip cord or her parachute. However the parachute failed to open completely, and she was sent screaming to the earth until she slammed into the ground. Soviet officials believed she was dead, and posthumously awarded her the title “Hero of the Soviet Union”.
As if by miracle, Yegorova was alive, but she was seriously injured with several broken ribs, dislocated arms and shoulders, severe spinal fractures, a concussion, burns, and numerous internal injuries. Barely alive and slipping in and out of a coma, Yegorova was sent to Kustrin Prison Camp in Poland, where she was dumped in a prison cell and left to die. Fortunately, she was tended by another prisoner, a Russian physician named Georgy Sinyakov. Amazingly, working 20 hours a day with little food or medical supplies, Dr. Sinyakov was able to nurse her back to health. A selfless healer who treated thousands of POW’s with what little he had, he even sacrificed some of his own rations so that Yegorova would live. Despite his care, her wounds never completely healed and she suffered physical disability the rest of her life. When she was barely strong enough to stand, the German SS and Gestapo began to interrogate her, often resorting to beatings and torture. During her imprisonment, she told nothing to her interrogators.
In January of 1945, Kustrin Prison Camp was liberated by the Red Army. The guards of the camp had planned to shoot all the prisoners before leaving, however Dr. Sinyakov convinced the Germans to leave without firing a shot. While she was free of German imprisonment, Yegorova’s ordeal was far from over. Under Stalin’s orders Soviet soldiers, sailors, and airmen were forbidden from surrendering, and to Stalin there were no Soviet POW’s, only traitors. Upon liberation, Yegorova was arrested by the Soviet NKVD and interrogated for 11 days on suspicion of being a spy and a traitor. She was also stripped of all her awards and titles, with her combat record being erased from all official Soviet documents. After all the combat, her life threating injuries which left her body permanently wrecked and disfigured, the torture at the hands of the Germans, and having all of her life’s accomplishment revoked, the moment of her life which brought tears to her eyes even decades later was when an NKVD interrogator called her “a fascist bitch”. One the 11th day of her interrogation she finally made the demand, “You can shoot me, but I will not let you torture me!”. Later that day, she was cleared of charges and released when Soviet Air Force commanders intervened on her behalf. She was declared an invalid and released from military service.
After the war, Yegorova married, raised a family with two children, and desperately petitioned the Soviet Government to restore her service record and awards. Finally, in 1965 her awards were returned, including the coveted title “Hero of the Soviet Union”. On a side note, Dr. Simyakov, an earthly saint IMO, received no recognition for his work at Kustrin Prison Camp while he was alive, despite the accounts of thousands of Soviet servicemen who he had treated while at the camp. He returned to his life as a doctor, and passed away in 1978. Anna Yegorova passed away on the 29th of October, 2009, at the age of 93.
Imagine being someone of noble birth and Zen being nothing more than a lowly knight. You’re sleeping peacefully on your canopy bed when you feel a chill from the windows, rousing you from your sleep. When you awake, you see a familiar silhouette on the other side of the canopy before a hand draws the material back, revealing Zen’s figure. His eyes almost seem to glow in the dark, and he keeps your gaze, a mischievous smirk playing on his features. You open your mouth to ask why he’s there when the two of you planned to secretly meet tomorrow morning, but Zen places his forefinger to his lips, silently telling you to be quiet, and you nod in understanding. You couldn’t wait either. The two of you exchange a smile as the knight crawls onto your bed, allowing the canopy to fall back in place to give the two of you some privacy before Zen wraps his arms around you and captures your lips.
Another Wattpad request. I do not own Haldir. He belongs to J.R.R.Tolkien.
Warnings: Mentions of bullying and it’s a bit short.
Pairings: Haldir x modern!goth reader
When you read Tolkien’s “Lord
of the Rings” books, you never imagined that elves would be as big of
bullies as the people back at home. You had been reading the book when you fell
asleep one night and woke up in Middle Earth. Now, normally, you would have
been thrilled to get away from your home. See, people thought you
were…different. You always wore dark clothes and listened to music that most
people didn’t care for. Goth, they called you. You were just expressing
yourself in your opinion.
If you feel like it, maybe something about Logan taking care of you after a big surgery?? You write caring soft Logan really well:)
Thanks boo! here ya go :)
You were clumsy, there was no denying that. In fact, for as long as you had been on this earth, you had even attributed it as part of your natural charm. As a woman, people always felt like your clumsiness would lead you down the path of a romantic comedy – causing you to find the man of your dreams. Typically it landed you in emergency rooms or doctors offices, ER doctors learning your name all too quickly as they murmured about your inability to get out of trouble. Typically while sewing in a stitch or resetting a bone.
There was nothing romantic about being a klutz.
That was until you had thrown yourself into Logan.
It was comical really. You were walking down a flight of stairs in an evening gown, the high slit long dress bringing attention to you in all the wrong ways. Your gay best friend, Ramon, had insisted that you bought it the minute you tried it on a Nordstrom Rack store.
“That dress was made for your breast.” He had exclaimed when you walked out, the purple gown bringing out the pigmentation in your skin, the color in your irises. And he was right. Your cleavage looked to die for in the gown paired with the high slit that did wonders for your thighs. You were a walking femme fatale.
You were feeling like a goddess ready to slay the night away when you tripped. You couldn’t remember on what because the time you realized it you were flying in the air and all you could hope for was that you didn’t flash the large group of people that Ramon worked with. That was, until you realized that you hadn’t impacted the ground and instead were being cushioned by two strong arms. You opened an eye, your face scrunched up from the fear of falling when your irises fell on his chocolate brown eyes. He had been grinning at you as he helped you get your landing, his eyes drinking you in.
After that he had become inseparable.
He spent the whole night at your side, forgetting his purpose at the party. When you refused to leave with him it made the chase even more ridiculous. It had been Ramon’s urging that had finally gotten you to go on a date.
“The bloody CEO of our company wants to take you on a date. Girls would kill for a date with him. Just go. Go and maybe I’ll get a promotion just for knowing you.”
You had rolled your eyes and relented. And that was how Logan had won you over.
It was also how you had ended up laying in his large king size bed, your casted foot propped up on pillows as he walks in with a tray of your favorite snacks.
“Babe - Ill be fine.” you said as you burrowed deeper into his bed. You don’t know why you insisted Logan came to your small loft in Brooklyn, sleeping on your used mattress when he had a real life cloud to sleep on.
Either you were really good in bed or Logan liked you more than you knew.
“You broke your femur. Your femur. That’s an important fucking bone. Its like the biggest one in your leg.”
He placed the tray on the night stand before he sat on the bed, adjusting your pillows and you moaned.
“Why are you moving the pillows? I want to rest.”
“I thought you wanted to watch a movie? Crap did I , here I’ll leave you alone.” he pulled away and you looked up at him before laughing, sitting up on your elbows.
“Logan it’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’ve actually broken this leg twice. I got into a pretty gnarly accident when I tried to learn to snowboard…” you frowned, remembering the excruciating pain your leg endured in the cold after running into a tree headfirst.
Logan watched you, his mouth dropped open in disbelief before saying,
“You’ve broken this leg twice!?”
You shrug, falling back in the canopy of pillows, a smile on your face.
“I told you - I’m a klutz.”
“Babe, you’re not a klutz. That bike corrier shouldn’t have been pedaling so goddamn fast down the street. Who would’ve know that cab driver would have swerved in front of us - missing me but somehow you roll on top of his…..babe” he looks at you like seeing you for the first time before slowly saying, “Maybe…you know, maybe you are a klutz. That or you’re really unlucky.”
His eyes furrow together as if realizing it for the first time and you look at him smiling, unable to contain your amusement.
“I know - I’m a mess.”
He turns back to you, grabbing the ends of the blanket and tucking them in at your sides.
“Not a mess, just….. well you’re you. And, you’re still the most intelligent, adorable, fun woman that I’ve ever met. And I love you - even if you are really clum-” his hands freeze over the blankets as his dark eyes look into your own.
You had been dating for eight months and you both never had put a label to your relationship. Though you slept together, went to things together, exclusively belonged to the other neither of you voiced what you knew to be true into this relationship. Of course you thought it but you knew about Logan’s reputation thanks to Ramon. You were going to take whatever this was for as long as you could. Even being able to know Logan was an honor but being his lover was a gift.
The idea of him loving you seemed foreign - like super powers in a modern world.
He watches the way you watch him, his eyes diluted with uncertainty and fear. He wants to take it back, you could see it in his face. For what reason you can’t pinpoint. Instead you look down, playing with your fingers before whispering,
“It’s ok Logan. You don’t have to explain that you don’t really love me. I know I’m not anything special….”
“Stop it.” his voice is cold as you look up at him and this time he grips your hands, his knuckles white from the grip.
“Don’t ever say that you’re not special. You mean the world to me. And I love you.” he says it again, those last three words falling out of his mouth carelessly. Yet his eyes are more confident and he squeezes your fingers again.
“I love that I have to catch you from tripping over yourself or the way your not afraid to challenge me or when you make me buy really cheap knock off purses for you because you know the funds are helping a family get through a week. I love you.” he says it again and this time the shaky edge is gone as he smiles at you.
You lean up to him, trying to meet his lips for a kiss around the same time he looks up at you and you both knock your foreheads, causing you both to groan. He chuckles as he places a kiss on your forehead and you whisper,
Enjoy the finest dining in Granite Falls under a leafy canopy of gorgeous blossoms. With a menu offering you a great selection of locally sourced fish, meat and produce, you’ll be sure to find something new on the menu each time you visit. Make sure to try the house nectar (it’s grown in the foothills of the mountain range) before relaxing around the campfire after your meal.
Base Game + Outdoor Retreat + Dine Out only.
No custom content.
Mei • When the rain starts falling, you find Mei out in the small garden, under a tree with her eyes closed. She’s in civilian clothing, a pale blue cheongsam with pink and white flowers all over the front of it. • You don’t realize that she’s talking to you until her hand cups your cheek, the heat that reddens your cheek makes her giggle. • She fucking gorgeous and adorable, OK? Sue me. • So the two of you sit under the tree, McCree drops by and hands you guys a blanket to huddle under (he winks at you as he chases after Hanzo). • There’s no lightning, not really, but the thunder rolls overhead like a gong or roar. The rain comes down harder and falling drips pass the canopy, her glasses are suddenly dotted with raindrops and her adorable nose • The two of you run inside and curl up on the couch with everyone else; your legs stretch across the couch and over Mei lap where she’ll scratch your legs if you help paint her fingernails. Zarya, Reinhardt, and Lucio get in on that action because why not? • The pictures are all over D.Va’s social media.
Torbjorn • The rain is slapping against the building, it’s making the sea frothy, a thin mist veils the coast and everyone is at least interested. Everyone but Torbjorn. • Oh sure, he’s camped out in the living room with everyone else but he’s not bothered. The leaks are a little troubling but the building is old, he’s already gone around and fixed everything that can be fixed. • If anything, he making rather crude rusting jokes about Bastion and Zenyatta, so politely infer that if omnics and cyborgs rust, humans just become prunes. • You banter back and forth about this for a while, Reinhardt playing referee between you. • Any dwarf name mentioned in Tolkien’s works are a fitting nickname, infuriating him further. • It’s all harmless in the end though, he lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he tinkers with things. Eventually the chatter dies down into storytelling, Torbjorn’s a master wordsmith and shares childhood fairy tales of the huldra or mara. • Torbjorn swears by his beard he’s seen a lindworm, and swam in the same water as a nix. • When the rain clears, you make a point to find one of those old timey bookshops and find a collection of Scandinavian tales.
Symmetra • The coolness of the air and near constant rain is very calming for Symmetra, a welcomed change from the blistering heat of India. Still, she’s still cold and doesn’t feel comfortable asking anymore for hugs or blankets. • You though? You are an attentive little bugger, so you seek her out. • However, when you offer warmth, she starts overthinking it completely. What’s your aim? Did Lucio put you up to this? This is a joke, isn’t it? • So she brushes you off a couple of times, but you see her fidgeting – almost dancing – as the chill creeps into her. Once she sees you staring, she escapes to her room and you have Athena to thank for letting you in. • You give Symmetra your sweater and bundle her in blankets, ensuring her this is totally your idea and not an ulterior motive. You settle in behind her, trying to make small talk but she doesn’t catch on. She’s content with your warmth and the feeling of safety you give off. • No one else is going to know about this though, she hopes you realize this. • Every once and a while, your brush a hand along her arms and nuzzle into her neck; Symmetra isn’t one for PDA but she hasn’t rebuked you yet. • But after a while she gets tired and wants some space, so you give it to her and leave the sweater behind. • You don’t get it back until your scent is gone from it. And that takes a while, my friend.
D.Va • She’s a little pouty about the storm because it interferes with her gaming so you pull out all the board games you’ve been saving for this occasion. • Snake n’ Ladders, Sorry, Trouble, Guess Who, Clue, Scrabble (no Monopoly, because Lucio’s still sore over losing and Junkrat gloats a bit too much). • D.Va is completely thrown because you seem to be dominantly these games when your video game prowess is sub-par. • Not gonna lie though, she’s kind of turned on by how ruthless you are against players in Sorry and yet you leave her alone. • TV reception is terrible so you crank out the old DVD and Blu-Ray player, initially a marathon of Uwe Boll video games movies, and the notorious Super Mario Bros. It’s painfully cheesy and terrible, but she curled into your side like a kitten. • The crowning glory of the evening is when you pull out your secret weapon: a blue and beaten up Gameboy Advance SP. You haggled for nearly two hours with the shop keeper to get it and you only have Tetris on it but, man, does she love you so much right now. • You carry her into her room because she’s so engrossed in the game, and you let it slip that it was supposed to be a birthday gift but you got impatient. Brownie points, friend. Major brownie points.
Bastion • Bastion doesn’t have a room, he kind of settles down wherever he can like in the garden or in the basement. Problem? But the walls aren’t thick enough to disguise the sound of thunder. • You can’t understand Bastion but you get the feeling the thunderstorms scare him and because he’s so big, he “sleeps” in the basement. Which is flooding, by the way. • You pull as many towels as you can to mop the floor, a vacuum to suck up the water as Bastion chirps uncomfortably in the few dry spots on the ground. • Mercy, Tracer, Zenyatta, and Genji help in the cleanup. • You focus on drying of Bastion and scrubbing the dirt off him, he beeps enthusiastically once the rains stops, and you both move outside into the garden. The birds flock to Bastion, shaking the water from their feathers, and he swoons with each tiny body that perches atop him. • The ground is still wet and he’ll likely get dirty but you don’t mind much, happy Bastion isn’t so panicked. • And after a while of giving the birds attention, he turns to you. Reaching out his hand, you take it as he hoists you on top of his shoulders. He points at a tall willow, you part the curtain of emerald green leaves and Bastion beeps – a small nest with two robins and a patch of eggs. How they survived the rainfall, you don’t know, but you also recognize bits of hair suspiciously similar to Torbjorn. A tattered piece of McCree’s serape. A bit of scarf from both Hanzo and Genji. Bright orange cloth from Zenyatta. • “Better not let Torbjorn find out you’re collecting his hair; he might have a heart attack or something.” • “Beep beep!” • “I won’t tell, promise.”
Zenyatta • You spend most of the morning in mediation with Zenyatta and Genji, ignoring the rain until water seeps under the cracks of a few of the rooms. Zenyatta’s included. You and Genji help your master clean up his room, surprised at its sparseness. Zenyatta travels remarkably light but there are some old tapestries, prayer beads, a small envelop with photographs. • Among them, there are picture of Mondatta and Genji, a few scenic landscapes, and group photos of the nearly assembled Overwatch team. You and Genji feature most prominently in these photos, you can’t help but release a sigh of relief they went undamaged. • But there’s a woven quilt of coarse white fibre, small sky blue beads arranged in a diamond pattern that seems so familiar. You glance at the photos in Genji’s hands, he cycles through them and pauses on pictures of Mondatta – the pattern matching the one on his forehead. The quilt is marred in brown dust, slowly unravelling. • It has to be a present from the late omnic, you carefully pick it off the ground, turning and nearly bumping into Zenyatta himself. • “I think I can mend it.” It doesn’t look like a sewing method you recognize. • “Do not trouble yourself, my friend. It is a rare weave Mondatta himself created, it would be impossible to replicate.” • You know that feeling when you want to cry, but you stoutly refuse to? How a knot grows in your throat, making breathing a chore? Yeah, that’s the feeling that you get. It doesn’t seem fair, that Zenyatta should have to lose something from a precious person in his life. You still have the very first teddy your parents gave you, and you certainly couldn’t imagine just giving it up. • Zenyatta seems to sense this and gently folds the quilt up, gifting it to you. • “But who am I to stop you?” • You spend the better part of the day and the next week or so mending the quilt however you can. Sewing had never been a hobby of yours, but you pull every resource from the internet, and enlist Soldier 76’s skills as a tailor (who else would patch up his and Gabe’s clothing?). • Catching Zenyatta alone, you drape the quilt around his shoulders and he lets out an appreciate hum at the red and orange yawn border, and thin threads of green swim around the blue orbs in the centre of the quilt to represent Genji. You are represented in patches of your favourite colour made in small stars and a crescent moon. • “It’s not…exactly how I wanted it to look but…I hope it’s OK.” • “My dear, it is beautiful.”
Ana Amari • You and Ana are lounging about the in kitchen when the rain kicks it back into full gear, the glass shaking with each tumultuous roar of thunder. Ana’s coarse hands find yours and give them a gentle squeeze and the two of you share one of the couches, leaning equally on each other’s shoulders. • It’s a little busy in Watchtower but the two of you are confident your rambunctious children can sort themselves out, Fareeha is the only one who lingers as Ana re-braids her hair. • TV’s still down, Lucio pulls a tiny keyboard into the living room and starts playing acoustic versions of all his songs to pass the time, it gets McCree dancing and he pulls Hanzo onto the makeshift dancefloor. Fareeha laughs at the display but it doesn’t stop for from grabbing Angela and following after them. Reinhardt doesn’t know quite what he’s doing but he’s enjoying himself at least. • You give Ana a sly look and she shaking her head, chuckling as you pull her onto her feet and drag her into the centre of the room. • You have no idea the monster you’ve unleashed. • She is twirling and leaping like a ballerina in your arms, you struggle to match her pace as Lucio plays something more upbeat. She spins away from you and tugs McCree forward, launching an awkward Hanzo into your arms. Reinhardt pulls 76 from the couch and pulls him into the fray, he catches on Hanzo’s shoulders and you tip right into Fareeha as Angela rescues McCree. Ana goes for Hana and the two of them amble around the dancers like gazettes. • Partners switch up frequently, everyone gets a chance dance – Ana and Gabriel perform a fierce tango that 76 consistently interrupts. • Is it raining at all? There’s music in the air mingling with heat and cheer, no Talon, no terrorists. • At last, you latch onto Ana’s hips and pull her in for a kiss before hoisting her into the air and spinning her around. • Her laughter is heaven sent; Fareeha is cheering, and the two of you sweep across the dancefloor as if it was something the gods made for you.
The rain poured down and where was Skye? Instead of being inside, wrapped in a blanket drinking hot chocolate with her cat on her lap like any other night, she sat outside on the cold, wet concrete. Under the canopy of a coffee shop mocha, where she had ordered her usual green tea. Well, not order it in so many words. More or less pointed and stuttered a small thanks.
Page after page Skye flipped, noticing the shuffle of feet pasting her. Some would mutter about the young girl sitting in the rain, but it didn’t bother the brunette. Actually, she loved it. The only thing she hated was when droplets would fall from the canopy and smear the print on her library book. She would whimper slightly and wipe at it with the sleeve of her sweater and push up her glasses on the bridge of her nose before continuing to read.