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678. All of the Weasleys have very unique sleeping habits. Arthur talks in his sleep and Molly is a snorer but a light sleeper. Bill needs approximately 258932793357 pillows (and Fleur) to get comfortable, Charlie sleeps with his mouth open which leads to VERY loud snoring. Percy used to sleepwalk when he was younger. Fred tosses and turns around a lot- he often ends up in really strange positions, plus, he can sleep EVERYWHERE and is a morning person. George is a snorer, a "sleep-cuddler" and he needs a lot of coffee to be able to face a morning. Ron's a heavy sleeper. His snoring makes a chainsaw sound that is some how lovely and quiet. Also, he needs to chat to someone before going to sleep. Ginny drools a lot, which embarrasses her to no end.


          It was dark. Then again, it was always dark, an absent sort of lack of light. And that was the truth of it – there was an absence more than a dark. A dark made it sound like there was something to stare into, and there just wasn’t. Steve remembered, of course. He remembered seeing the flash of white, the way it had been absolutely everywhere. He remembered other things, remembered them in vivid, bright details, crystal-clear. Faces, buildings, letters, pictures. His mother, Peggy, Howard, the Commandos… Bucky.

          Waking up had been overwhelming. He’d opened his eyes in a strange room, and he’d heard a game he already knew. There had been nothing he could see but he’d heard the sound of the game, the sounds of the street – muffled and off, but there. He’d smelled soap and metal and wood, the faint hint of a perfume he didn’t recognize. When a woman had walked in, he’d panicked at the unfamiliar tone, at the ones that had followed. He’d found his way out, stumbled, running, and it was probably a miracle he hadn’t run face-first into something. He’d found himself in the middle of a street, concrete warm under his feet, the city too damn noisy around him, and the scent of something – more.

          And he was alone. That hadn’t changed. He’d been alone since the train. It was sharper, now, maybe. He was farther away and he’d never felt closer to that moment, to the ache of it.

          He managed, though, training, learning to do things in an entirely new way. He’d learned to read again, using Braille, had found a way to mark his money and his clothes. SHIELD helped, and the media loved to run stories about a man out of time, unable to see what the future held for him. The ice had kept him preserved, and it had taken something else, had damaged that one part of him the scientists couldn’t explain – refused to call it permanent with the miracle of the serum thrumming through his veins, even if Steve felt the weight of it. It was awkward and wrong, and he stayed in his room, unable to draw, unable to throw himself into a fight he wanted to dig into if only because what the hell else was he good for? What was the point if he couldn’t use what he’d been given. A hell of a lot had been taken away – the people he loved, his home, his time, his sight. But, he still had everything Dr. Erskine had given him with the serum. He’d be damned if he wasted it.

          It took time, though, to relearn so damn much. The shield was his, and he knew every inch of it. And it sat, waiting, by his bed, as he sat, waiting, on a couch, listening to the sounds of the radio. When he heard something else, Steve sat up slightly, cocking his head to the side and just listening. The soft, pale blue shirt he was wearing pulled up slightly on his side as he leaned forward and Steve’s hand itched to pull it down. Instead, he forced his fingers to remain still, quiet and calm on the cushion, right beside his phone. “Who’s there?”

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See, nothing about us is gentle.

It’s Monday, and we crash-land into each other’s life that hazardous way teenagers do, full of too much hope and too little taste of the world. You ask me, here in this chemical-and-gunpowder-and-booze shoebox bedroom, if I am terrified of change. I drown my answer in the intoxication of your being.

Tuesday: you drag me by the hand, and we charge into uncharted wasteland, running without looking, running with the grand newness of things. The beast hums while hovering above the Earth, and as I lie awake in its belly matching my breath with your own, I keep thinking about the inevitable stumble and fall.

Wednesday: you fall. Then the world we know falls. Then we realize the futility of our effort in a bout of midweek blues. While we’re crawling out of the rubble, your blood-stained hand latching on to mine, you ask me again if I am terrified of change. I am. Because I fall, too. For you.

Except, nothing about us is gentle.

I do not simply fall for you. I follow you into war. I fight and fumble. I bleed and do it all over again for you. I cut myself raw for you. And here at the bottom of the ocean, I would die for you…

…Thursday: you’re just flesh and a beating heart and bright brown eyes, but when you leave, you split atoms and leave a crater in my chest. Love is destructive, the week is long, and I am tired, so forgive me if I seem spiteful. Forgive me if I don’t understand the ache between your vertebrae. I didn’t know you were trying to shoulder the world. Forgive me forgive me forgive me.

Friday morning and life trudges forward, all the cogs grinding and chains rattling. You wipe the blood off your brows and tell me, “maybe there is.” Maybe there is air in drowning. Maybe there is renewed strength in fractured bones. Maybe there is in me the privilege to one day wake up next to you. I’ll build my dreams on that “maybe.”

But then again, nothing about us is gentle.

Please come back. You can be my Friday night bad decisions and drunken kisses that end in breathless laughter. Saturday I’ll make you burned toast and we’ll dance down the hallway just to make everyone roll their eyes. I know I promised dinner but Sunday we can go to brunch instead. I’ll take you to a museum so you can look at art and I can look at you.

There is a weekend ahead and a whole life waiting, so please come back. I know nothing about us is gentle, but love itself can be.

—  an undelivered note from an engineer to a biochemist (vi.)
Mood X Origins X Nen

Continued from here

“Your left eye…. Runa-san.. was it always that color?”  Gon wondered that maybe the fever was responsible for the anomaly but then again, the medicine man had made it sound as if he’d met others like her.  Did that mean their eyes too?  Gon could only guess what he was talking about.  It didn’t seem like a bad guess. 

“I mean.. well.. maybe your kin have it too? Like maybe it’s something that happens at a certain age?  What am I saying?  I’m such a bakka.  I’m no good at this deduction stuff.  Killua’s really smart.  He would know what to do.”  Gon’s shoulders drooped.  It was too soon to give up.  

“How about we narrow the search down to reports of fevers around where King’s mold is found?”  He looked up his lady friend with a weak smile.  Why did the cybernet have to be so big?