#//Left it to grow out over the years bc he immediately regretted what he’d done

[dutybcrne]

In addition to tearing apart their thesis as a result of their fallout, Kaveh had cut his hair short after he’d been left alone with the torn thesis. It was messy and extremely choppy, almost as short as Alhaitham had his.

[iluvloganhowlett]

Feel free to reject this request since it’s kinda heavy, but maybe Hugh kissing the reader’s sh scars but it’s like friends to lovers? Preferably f reader but gen is fine too

YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL ❀˖°

in which logan draws stars around your scars

warnings: HEAVY MENTIONS OF SH⚠️⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS IS A TOPIC YOU CANNOT HANDLE, angst, blood

i actually love this request as someone who struggles w sh themselves so pls don’t be afraid to ask smt like this!

i also switched it to logan instead of hugh bc i feel like he just fits the part better and this isn’t friends to lovers it’s just lovers😭 sorry

“you drew stars around my scars. but now im bleeding.”

you couldn’t help it, the burning sensation of the blood dripping down over your old scars was a feeling you couldn’t resist.

for 2 years now you’ve told yourself that you’d stop, thay you’d get better. especially since logan came around and made you want to get better. but you couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried.

more sooner than later did the tears of guilt and regret begin pooling your eyes, the hot liquid dripping down your face as you held the cold towel to your wrist harder.

you knew logan would be up here any minute; his class was coming to an end soon. the last thing you needed was him walking in on you cutting yourself after you told him you’d stop.

you took a deep breath, drying your wrist and slapping a few bandaids on it before looking at yourself in the mirror; you were a mess. your face was flushed, covered in streaks of dried tears as the new ones kept coming. your hair was a ruffled mess, you were drowning in your hoodie and fuck did your wrist burn.

“y/n/n?” you heard from afar, shit. surely logan was in your bedroom, waiting for you to come out of the bathroom.

you sighed, praying that your voice would be strong. “i’m in here, just a minute!” you called out, cursing yourself for your voice cracking at the last second.

immediately logan’s concern grew higher, slowly approaching the door and leaning his head against it. your nervous sobs were hard to miss, especially from right against the door.

“y/n,” logan called firmly, “open the door f’me please.”

your eyes widened, noticing how logan’s voice grew louder. it didn’t take you long to pick up on how close logan was to you.

“i can’t,” your voice cracked, you looked down at your hands that shook rapidly, afraid of what was to come.

logan’s brows furrowed, he’d had enough. you heard one of his claws retract as he picked the lock.

quickly, you took out your box, shoving your blade into it and throwing it god knows where into the drawer just before logan barged in.

“are you okay in here?” he asked, glancing down at your exposed wrist, covered in bandaids.

you followed his eyes, yours widening when you noticed you forgot to roll down your sleeve.

logan felt like he could physically feel the pit growing in his stomach, realizing what you had done. logan had never understood why you chose to hurt yourself like this. but he did understand what it was like to endure so much pressure and emotion that you don’t know how to contain it. and so he never screamed, or yelled, or frankly even asked ‘why?,’ because not everyone has a ‘why.’

your tears were flowing once more as you moved closer to logan, “i’m sorry,” you sobbed, burying yourself in his arms.

he immediately welcomed you, wrapping his strong

arms around your shoulders, rocking you back and forth in hopes to calm you down.

he looks down at you, his own eyes glossed over slightly, he hates seeing you like this, especially when he knows he can’t do anything about it.

soon logan loosens his grip, reaching gently for your left wrist and bringing it up to his lips, planting a soft and gentle kiss on one of your old scars.

“my baby,” he mutters, kissing another one while ensuring he leaves your fresh one alone, “my sweet baby.”

you can do nothing but sob harder. you’d expected numerous reactions out of logan but this definitely wasn’t one of them.

“i love you,” kiss. “i’ll always love you, doll.” kiss. “y’know that? i’ll never stop loving you.” kiss.

your eyes dart down as you feel a drop of water on your wrist as logan continues kissing up and down your arm.

he was crying.

his confidence wavers, “you’re beautiful,” kiss. “so, so beautiful,” his voice begins to crack as he leans a head down on your shoulder.

logan takes a deep breath before dropping your wrists and instead taking your face in his hands, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “you’re always gonna be beautiful t’me, alright? the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”

it was the first time you’d ever seen logan cry this hard, the hot tears pouring down his face at an unbelievable pace. you’d be a monster to say this didn’t make you tear up in the slightest.

you place your hands on his wrists, his hands still holding onto your face. slowly he leans in, closing the space between you two. kissing you in such a gentle, loving way that it makes your legs feel weak.

“i love you, logan.”

“you’re beautiful, peach.”

this is so sad☹️

taglist!!

@velvrei @spazwayy @oatmilkriver @sseleniaa @mei-simp @wittyjasontodd @wolverinesangel @realsimpbitchshit @pickuptruck01 @keigohawks @thereallchristine @zeeader @pink-jello-fish @twinky-wink @malfoys-demigod @seamlessepiphany @withafoll @lulawantmula @gigachadcowboy

[megthemewlingquim]

  ❛   i want you. and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twist in my dark soul.   ❜   Bucky gets jealous of someone (Sam maybe) but he doesn't think he deserves the reader bc of his past? Followed by some very sweet smut?

Sugar, Sweetheart, Angel

Summary: Bucky can't help himself when it comes to you — especially when Sam's away with a girl.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: sweet... but not too explicit smut, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, corny poetry about jealousy, Bucky being shy but very, very loving

A/N: Hi, loves! Happy Kinktober. This is my DAY ONE entry. I promise, I will get into more explicit smut as the month goes on.

“Nah, go on, man. Have your fun.”

Mistake Number One.

He feels the regret immediately after the words slip out of his mouth, and it only worsens when he sees Sam go off with a girl — a dame — beside him. She’s beautiful, with chocolate skin and velvet eyes and long, braided hair.

But, in his lonesome state, he turns and sees you.

Dancing to the unrecognizable tune that’s pulsing through everyone at the club, lit up by neon purple, green and blue lights and a smile that literally glows in the dark.

Mistake Number Two. 

Because his eyes don’t leave your figure and his mouth doesn’t open and — of course — his pants have gotten much, much tighter. 

Hope rises within him, but it quickly fades.

You’ve been on Bucky’s mind for ages.

You started out as Sam’s friend, his partner in superhero work. No, you couldn’t fly or move things with your mind or control lightning and thunder, but you could hack into computers and software, and you could actually use a knife well. You met both Sam and Bucky after the war for the world, after he and Sam were dusted and you lost your boyfriend for five years. And of course, with no contact for that long, even if it’s not intentional, a relationship can crack and dissolve.

So you were a hardened, tough wreck, but one that was starting to pick up pieces and put yourself back together. You were starting to learn to love again, and to fight for what you loved and who you loved... which, when you started working with Sam, was only your family.

Bucky was completely awestruck when he saw you for the first time. He was reminded of all of the pretty dames from the 40′s, the ones with shorter hair and cherry red lipstick. You brought him back to his sergeant years....

And when you make eye contact with him for one, split second moment, even before his sergeant years.

And there he is.

The boy who grew up with very overprotective parents. The boy who was scared of growing up, the boy who was so shy around the fifth grade girls. And the sixth grade girls. And so on.

Bucky is transported back to those years, and all he can do is look at you.

You’re free, it seems. You’re liberated, you’re unhinged, as you dance and sway to the tune... which now seems to be a slower, more psychedelic song. (Sam taught him that word. Enter Pink Floyd.) Your arms lift and you look up, absolutely content and so in love with the music and the lights and...

Well, not with him. That’s for sure.

He sighs, going over to sit at a vacant table. It smells of beer, the aftermath of an arm wrestle from whoever sat there last. Lifting a hand up to scratch his stubble, he finally tears his eyes away from you; he does not want to seem creepy.

Mistake Number Three.

Because he does not see you come up to him, sit down on an empty chair beside him.

“See something you like, James?”

He shudders at the use of the name. Not that it’s a bad shudder — it’s just... it sounds lovely coming from your lips.

You must take it as a bad sign, because you look down at your shoes. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Sorry, Buck.”

His voice lifts a little. “No, sweetheart, it’s okay.” The term of endearment goes unnoticed by you. He’s used it with you so often, and even the first time you were numb to it. It fell on deaf ears, as it does now. “It’s okay. You can call me that... if you want to.”

He pauses. “I... I did see something I liked, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah?” Now it’s your voice that lifts. “And what was that?”

Either you’re really, really ignorant, or you’re doing it to be a tease and to piss him off. Bucky can’t tell.

“You.”

He says it bluntly. No hiding, no blushing, no nothing. Because he knows that you won’t think anything of it.

Not that you don’t like him back. You absolutely do. It’s just that you’ve been so hardened, so toughened, so numb to the fact that anyone might love you back, and Bucky knows it.

“Hm,” you mumble, “thank you.” It’s as sincere as you can make it sound, which isn’t very.

There’s an uncomfortable pause, one in which you’re both thinking the same thing.

“I want you,” he says, “and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twist in my dark soul.”

Every word from Bucky falls from his lips like weights. They drop, then they sit where they land. One lands on your shoe, the others land on the floor. He’s keeping eye contact with you, his gaze intense and... regretful? Introspective? Sincere? Sad?

You blink. And then you laugh.

Not at him, he quickly realizes.

“That’s some Billie Eilish type shit,” you giggle, “but that’s okay. I like her music... but hearing you say it is somehow much more corny.” You break off into more snickers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You do mean the apology.

He’s a little hurt, but he expected it. He accepts the apology wordlessly.

“I’m serious,” he says, and then you shut the hell up. “Completely serious.” He lifts his hand up and points his index finger at you. “You’re the one I want. Not Sam’s dame, not a girl I kissed in a hallway after knowing her for a month seventy years ago and never saw again.”

It’s a little insult to Steve, you remember. But then you remember what Steve actually did, and how he did it, and exactly who he left behind.

So this means something.

“I like you. I want you. And I love you, whether you know it or not.” He stops, leans in close so his lips are less than a centimeter from your ear, whispers the next part: “Whether you’ll accept it or not.”

His breath is hot on your neck, and he takes a warm hand in yours. It’s his flesh hand. Your heart is racing, and you note that Bucky can probably hear it. 

“Buck -” you stammer, “I — I don’t —”

“You don’t have to say yes, sugar,” he says nonchalantly, but with that sincere tone still lingering. “But you have to realize that some people actually do like you. Want you. Love you.”

He pulls back, his face so close to yours it’s almost claustrophobic for you. The tension in the room is overwhelming, and the air is stuffy and hot and you don’t know how to react to any of this.

“I do,” he continues, “even if that son of a bitch didn’t. You’d think that after five years of not seeing you, he’d come rushing back with flowers and chocolates and a weddin’ ring. You’d think that distance would make a relationship stronger, if it’s the right one.”

“He was dead,” you croak.

“So you thought. And what did he do? He left...Tell ya what, sweetheart,” he says, his tone lightening once again. “Why don’t you let me show you how I feel instead of telling you?”

His hand travels up your thigh and stays there.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispers, “and you don’t know how long it’s taken me to actually say it. Because now you’re listening. Now you’re learning. Now, hopefully, you’ll begin to accept it.” He looks down, down at your lips, then back up to your eyes.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks nervous. He stammers out the beginnings of words, never meeting your eyes. "Er — I don't — I don't deserve you. I really don't. You're an absolute angel compared to me. I've — I've killed people, I've done things that you'd recoil at.... I just hope that you come to realize that I love you. I adore you. And if something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself."

It takes a moment for you to collect your thoughts.

You shove them all aside and kiss him.

It’s gentle, and it’s warm and welcoming and it’s Bucky. He lightly takes a hold of your cheek and pulls you further in. The hand that was once on your thigh is now in your hair, at the very back of your head. His lips are soft, which is strange, because you know he used to bite and pick at them, especially when he was nervous... which was often.

You feel like you’re going to topple off of your chair, but if that happens, you won’t mind, because you have Bucky there to catch you.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he says after pulling back, nudging his head at the exit. “My place.”

All you can do is nod your head.

He cooks you dinner, the gentleman. It’s unexpected... you thought you’d just be a fling for tonight.

It’s chicken caprese - seasoned chicken breast with basil, mozzarella cheese, tomatoes and balsamic vinegar. A classic Italian dish, and a classic date night dish.

If you want to call this a date.

After you’re both done, he does the dishes. You both agree to brush your teeth and rinse with mouthwash.

He’s on you directly afterward, latching his lips onto yours in a frenzy. You ground yourself by gripping onto the bathroom counter with white knuckles. He towers over you now, leaning over you and surrounding you with his seemingly much larger form. You’re a small thing.

“Bed — ” he gasps. “Bed, now, please.”

He picks you up, hands on your ass, and you have no choice to wrap your legs around him and hold on. Somehow, you make your way into a bedroom.

He lays you down as if you could break if handled less carefully, and lays down beside you for a minute, doing nothing but taking in the sight of you all breathless and blushing.

He's never seen you blush before. It's a very pretty sight.

"You know," he says, "I haven't done this in forever: properly made love to a woman. But I want to do it right. I want to make you feel loved, sweetheart."

Loved. Not "good". Loved.

"Bucky, there's really no need." There you go again, denying it. It infuriates him and saddens him, but he only sighs.

"How bout this. How bout you... for an hour or so.. just forget about that sonofabitch that left you. Forget about the denial he gave you. And, just for an hour or two, maybe just try to accept the absolute fact that I want to treat you better than he did. Just because he left doesn't mean that I will."

You don't say anything.

"Do you trust me?" he asks rhetorically. "See, you really shouldn't, but you do. I often think, 'How the hell could anyone trust me?' but I accept that fact because you just do.

"That's how I feel with you. You don't think that people should be able to love you, but they do. I do. And I want to show you that.”

“You did make me dinner,” you say with a light smile, your stone exterior cracking a little.

He nods. “That’s one of the million things I’d do for you.” There’s a split second pause that does not prepare you for what he says next. 

“I’d marry you,” he says. Only then does he kiss you, when you’re too stunned to move. You kiss him back, your grip on him heavy this time. He notices, and he smiles.

Clothes are quickly discarded and hot, fast breaths are all you hear for a while. Bucky latches his lips onto your own lips, your neck, your jaw, wherever they can reach, and his hands do the same. 

But when you’re both naked, taking in the sight of each other, your breathing slows, and you both stop, let time pass before anything continues. He breathes out a question, one of consent, and you say yes.

Soft whispers and touches are what your senses take in. Bucky takes note of your every gasp, every whimper and every moan that you make, and remembers what to do to make you do it again.

For example, you like your left breast fondled more than your right. Your neck is a sensitive spot, especially right below your right earlobe. You really like it when he kisses your palms and your inner wrists. You do not like the idea of cunnilingus, unfortunately for Bucky, though you’ve never actually done it.

“Next time maybe we could try it,” he says.  Next time.

You notice, in a random moment, that he does everything with his flesh hand.

His fingers find your intimate parts, and explore there slowly, spreading your wetness all around and rubbing at your clit in slow circles. You don’t moan until the very end, where you’re almost ready to come. His eyes never leave yours, even when yours leave his in a rush of sudden bliss and a shuddered breath.

“Look at me,” he whispers. “I want to see you. I want to see you come.”

You gasp at that, throwing your head forward and looking at him with a look that can only be described as desperation.

“Come for me,” is all he says, a low whisper laced with lust. You clench around his fingers as you come, whining and gasping, and he touches your forehead with his as you’re lost in that wonderful feeling of ecstasy. He mumbles something under his breath, and your brain registers it a millisecond later:

“’Atta girl.”

At that, another rush of pleasure jolts through you and you shudder and twitch, your body becoming oversensitive. 

He doesn’t let you go down on him. Today, he says, is all about you, and you deserve all the loving he can give you today.

Which means he buries himself inside of you quite quickly, holding onto you with an iron grip. You’re on top of him, looking down at his sweaty, awestruck smile.

This is Bucky’s way of making love with you today: very deep, passionate strokes set to a faster rhythm than you thought he would go, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re moaning almost as soon as you feel the first thrust, and your hair hangs a little in his face as you let your head fall closer to his. He wraps his arms around your torso, bringing you closer to him. So, his thrusts are more shallow but you can get all close with him.

You moan and sob, the wonderful feeling of warmth in your gut never leaving once but only growing. Bucky himself grunts as he thrusts, emitting a breathy chuckle once in a while when he notices how hard you’re gripping onto him.

There are no words here, only sounds and gestures. Enough words have been said.

Once you’re both satisfied and his seed starts to dry on your breasts, all you do is look at each other.

Two souls, two people, two broken hearts that have begun to mend.

[apharine]

Sightseeing

Chapter 1

Pairing:  Siane x Nanu

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  T

Read on AO3

My writing commission info!

Summary:   Siane hadn't meant to wind up in Alola, under Nanu's care, while she recovered from a mysterious illness that left her prone to weakness and collapsing. But now that she's here and getting stronger, she wants to see more of Ula'ula than just the rainy skies and the Po Town wall by Nanu's police station. And who could be better suited to give her a tour than the Kahuna of the island himself?

Notes:  Siane is the wonderful HybridDragoness’ OC and she is amazing!  This fic is a commission for Hybrid and I’m honestly so honored to have been able to write for Siane and Nanu bc I love them so much!  Hybrid is a really talented artist and you can find her art of Siane here!  You can also find Hybrid on Twitter and AO3 under the same handle as on Tumblr!

                                         _____________________

“Is every day like this here?”  Siane asks, gesturing vaguely out the window at the grey and looming clouds.  It’s already started to drizzle, and she’s sure that by the afternoon, it’ll be pouring.  Because here, on Route 17, where she’s staying with Nanu in his police department-slash-home, that just seems to be what the weather always does.

She’s hoping that Nanu will just say that it’s been an unusually bad stretch of monsoon season weather for the last….four weeks?  Five?  Siane’s a little foggy on exactly how long it had been, and she has the sudden feeling that time has been getting away from her while she’s been so weak.

But Nanu smirks, sipping at his coffee - black - and lowering the newspaper he’s reading, his shocking crimson eyes meeting hers from across the small kitchen table.

“Pretty much,” he responds easily.  For a moment, Siane is sure he’s watching her for a reaction, but all she does is blink and look at him closely in return.  He’s an odd one to figure out, in some regards - he reminds Siane, oddly, of some of the Pokemon she’s worked with as a conservator, back home.  More specifically, he reminds her of the ones that don’t like humans very much.  

Except…there’s that light in his eyes, that light that he thinks he conceals.  He thinks he’s so surly - and sometimes he is - and he thinks he’s negative in a way that puts her off.  But Siane notices the little gleam of curiosity about him, and she knows exactly what it means.  She’s seen it before, and she’s seen all the Pokemon with it come around, in the end.

“So,” Siane says, finishing her breakfast and sitting back.  “The whole island’s like this?”

Nanu, who had been about to return to his newspaper, sets it down and sighs.  A Meowth cries, brushing against his leg, and he automatically reaches down to pet it.  Siane’s lips curl into a slight smile at the sight.

“No, of course not,” Nanu returns.  “There’s a lot of variety on Ula’ula.”

Siane raises her eyebrows encouragingly.

“Like?”  She prompts.

“There’s Malie City, of course, where the weather is typically nicer.  We’ve got Hokulani Observatory - they picked their site on Mount Hokulani because it’s above the city lights and it’s almost always clear there.  There’s the Haina Desert, too, and the Ula’Ula Meadow just off this Route, which is covered in flowers,” Nanu says, ticking things off on his fingers as he goes.  

“Wait - an actual desert?  On this island?”  Siane says, gesturing again out the window vaguely with a little snicker.  It’s nearly impossible to imagine that there can be a place on this same landmass that isn’t absolutely smothered in rain and puddles.  “You’re sure you’ve got that right?”

“I better,” Nanu grumbles, picking up the Meowth and setting it in his lap.  “I’m Kahuna of ‘this island’, after all.”  He does little finger quotes as he speaks, and Siane can’t resist the way her smile grows on her face at his unintentional antics.  Nanu notices, though, and frowns at her.  “What?”

“Well,” she says, careful to deflect.  She’s learning that being too directly friendly with Nanu often puts him off, and she really doesn’t want to put him off just now.  “I was just kind of thinking…I’m feeling better these days.”

“You nearly passed out before your shower yesterday,” Nanu says sardonically.

“Yeah, but that was like, the only time I had an issue all day,” Siane says, waving his concern off.  Sure, he’d had to catch her, but still - she was doing better, and she hated feeling - or admitting to being - weak.  “Don’t give me that look.  I know I need to get more of my strength back.  But I also need a change of scenery.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to wind up with a Vitamin D deficiency here otherwise.”

To her surprise, Nanu actually makes a little snort through his nose that she thinks is supposed to be laughter.

“Vitamin D deficiency or not, you’re in no shape to be going galavanting around the island alone,” Nanu returns, his voice holding a little of that biting edge that he seems to think is so off-putting.  

“I know,” Siane shrugs easily.  “That’s why I was hoping you’d come with me.”

Siane watches as Nanu takes a sharp breath in, his crimson eyes flashing.

“I have - things to do,” he mumbles, suddenly deflating and looking away.

“I thought it was your day off today,” Siane prods.  She knows she’s being a little pushy - there were plenty of friends back home who would be quick to point that out in a moment like this - but she also knows it’s the only way she stands a chance at getting her way.  And she needs to get her way.  She needs to be stronger - not only for herself, but for all Aedis, too, and she won’t get that if she stays inside this police station forever.

The Meowth in Nanu’s lap jumps off and scampers away, interested in something across the room.

“Yeah.  It’s my day off.  Doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do around here,” Nanu returns, though the biting edge to his voice is gone.

“I can help you with whatever needs to be done tomorrow,” Siane offers.

“Oh?  Then we could just as easily tour the island tomorrow,”  Nanu quips, his eyes narrowing.

“I guess we could,” Siane acquiesces.  “No reason why it’s gotta happen today, right?”  Somehow, the ready admission seems to put Nanu off a little, though he covers it quickly and well, years of his police training likely kicking in at a moment’s notice.

A long silence stretches out between the two of them, and Nanu takes a sip of his coffee, his red eyes drilling into her.  Siane tears her eyes away from the Kahuna, instead looking out the window again.  The rain had picked up a little, and she traces one particularly fat raindrop as it rolls down the window, gathering other droplets in its path.  As easily as she’d admitted that tomorrow worked just as well as today, spending another day doing nothing feels intolerable to her spirit, which is just bursting to be free.

“We can go today,” Nanu finally speaks up, setting his drained coffee cup down on the table.

“We can?”  Siane says, her head whipping around to allow her gaze to refocus on Nanu.  She could swear that the edges of his lips are turned up just the slightest bit - though it’s hard to see for sure at this distance.

“Yeah.  You got me, girl.  No reason I can’t do my stuff tomorrow, either, I guess,” the grey-haired man says.  Siane’s foot bounces just a little in excitement, and her chest feels like it could explode at the thought of sightseeing and adventure.

“Well - thank you,”  Siane says, a grin spreading across her features.  She stands to clean her dishes and get ready to go, but immediately, a wave of dizziness hits her.  She’d stood a little too fast, though she’s able to conceal this from Nanu by putting her hands flat on the table to brace herself.  With the eagerness written all across her face, she’s pretty sure the move just comes across as excitement.  “I promise you won’t regret this - we’ll get through everything you need done tomorrow.  I’m actually really excited about this, you know.  I finally get to see Ula’Ula, and my tour guide is going to be the island’s own Kahuna!”

A crooked smile flashes across Nanu’s face for a moment.

“Finally get to see the island, huh?  Didn’t know you’d been wanting to go for so long,” he comments, arching one eyebrow.  

“I’ve mentioned it, like, three or four times before now,” Siane laughs, standing up straight now that the dizziness had passed.  She gathers up her dishes and sets off for the sink, flashing a teasing smile over her shoulder at Nanu.  The man gathers his dishes and hovers close to her as she walks; he clearly doesn’t trust her on her feet just yet, which Siane figures is just as well at this juncture.

“Didn’t really think you were serious when you were saying that stuff, since you couldn’t make it to the door if you’d tried,” Nanu returns dryly.  

“Well, I was,” Siane says.  “Serious, that is.  And I really am excited about this.  So thank you again.”  She affixes the Kahuna with her best smile, and this time, she definitely sees the way his fingers fidget just a little on his coffee cup.

“Hm,” Nanu says.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”

As Siane moves off to the side to put her rinsed dishes in the dishwasher, he scrubs at his coffee cup with a sponge, trying to get the ring of black out of the bottom and trying even more desperately to convince himself that he had agreeing to this just because he didn’t want her to keep bothering him about it.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he felt a twinge of pride when he thought of all the radiant locations across the island - his island - or that he wanted to see the look on this young woman’s face as she took them all in.

You could have let her go alone, a small voice insists in the back of his mind.  Send Honchkrow with her.  She’d be fine, and Honchkrow could fly her home if she were to have a problem.

But the thought of Siane, crumpled on the ground and hurt, alone, in a strange place, makes his heart clench a little.  And why shouldn’t it?  His job - both as a cop and a Kahuna - was to protect people.  Whether Nanu liked it or not, he was a protector, and the young woman currently telling him she was going to go find some shoes for going out in had landed herself squarely in his protection.

“You’re going to want to change your clothes, too,” he calls after her, putting his coffee cup in the dishwasher.  “The rest of Ula’ula is a lot sunnier and hotter than it is here.”

“Okay!”  Siane calls back, and Nanu allows himself to smile a little to himself as he scratches the ear of a Meowth who’d come up to nuzzle at him on the counter.

Whatever the reason he had agreed to play tour guide for the day, he has to admit that he feels a little excited about it, too.

 ***

 “So, Kahuna,” Siane grins, standing under the eaves of the police station to stay out of the rain.  Nanu glances up from the device he’s trying to operate - apparently called a ride pager - and affixes Siane with what should be a withering gaze, except that she’s in too good of a mood to find it anything other than amusing.  “Where to first?”

“If I can get a Charizard to come, we’ll be going to Malie City first,” Nanu grumbles, turning to frown down at the device again.  “Pretty sure I just - there we go.”

“You use that thing often, huh?”  Siane asks coyly, and Nanu’s eyes flit back up to her, a sharp expression in their red depths - but it vanishes quickly, as soon as Nanu realizes Siane’s teasing is harmless, playful, even.

“Usually I just fly on Honchkrow if I’m going any distance, but I can’t ask him to carry both of us,” Nanu explains.

“Makes sense,” Siane says, shifting on her feet a little.  Nanu’s surprised to find himself taking a step closer to her, just in case that little weight shift was a sign of any impending wooziness.  But no - she seems steady on her feet, and he’s just worrying too much.  “You know, I am a flying-type specialist.  I’m sure Fearow could carry me.”

Nanu frowns at this.  

“No.  I’d feel better if you were on the Ride Pager Charizard.  They come with this, kind of a saddle thing,” Nanu explains, trying to gesture with his hands to indicate what he was talking about.  “You’ll be safer on that.”

The unspoken implication of the hazards of Siane’s unpredictable weakness hangs between them for a moment.

“So what’s in Malie City?”  Siane finally asks.

“Well, there’s the Malie Garden, and the architecture is pretty spectacular in the city.  It’s right on the ocean, too, so you’ll get to see that.  Plus I figured we could pick up some takeout to have for lunch later,” Nanu shrugs.

“Yeah?  Like, a picnic?”  Siane asks, sounding a little excited.  A lopsided smile pulls at Nanu’s lips, but he smooths it over in a flash.

“Something like that.  Mount Hokulani isn’t far from the city, so we can take a bus to the observatory if you’d like,” Nanu continues, thinking through his last-minute plans for the day out loud.

“I wanna see this desert you claim exists here, too,” Siane says, giving Nanu another teasing grin.  Nanu only frowns at her words.

“The desert is halfway across the island, Siane,” he says.  “And the conditions there are harsh. Neither of us are really sure how much you’ll be up to…”

Siane’s face falls, and to Nanu’s surprise, he actually trails off instead of hammering his point home, like he usually would.  He grimaces and glances away, scanning the cloudy skies for any sign of the Charizard he’d called.  Nothing yet, of course.

“We’ll see how the day goes,” Nanu concludes.  Even as he continues to look away from the young woman by his side, he’s surprised to hear himself softening his own words for her.

Must be getting soft in my old age, he thinks to himself, grimacing again.

A long silence stretches out between the two of them, but Nanu can sense the way she continues to shift her weight a little, clearly regaining her sense of anticipation for the day ahead.  Nanu is happy to stay quiet and listen to the rain, which pours off the eaves over them and trickles to the ground in great drops.

Finally, he sees a winged figure approaching through the clouds - Charizard.  He puts one hand up to wave it down, though he knows it’s likely unnecessary - all Ride Pager Charizards know the Island exceptionally well.  Siane looks to him, then back to the approaching Pokemon, and decides to mimic him, waving it down as well.

Hmm.  Cute.

Nanu’s eyes widen at the thought.  Had he - had he just thought she was cute?  No.  Acerola was cute.  Meowth was cute.  A grown young woman relying on him for safety and protection could absolutely not, under any circumstances, be cute.

Charizard lands with a happy roar of greeting, and Siane’s eyes light up at the sight.  She glances over to Nanu, a brilliant smile on her face, and exclaims,

“Are you seeing this?  He’s got a saddle!  And I’ve never seen a Charizard so orange before!  Their faces are different in Aedis, too!”

Before Nanu can reply, she hustles over to the Charizard, approaching him politely and letting him sniff her while she continues to coo over him.  Nanu rolls his eyes, but ultimately smiles to himself.  If she thinks this is exciting, she’s gonna have an amazing day ahead.

[karasuno-writings]

Promise?

Here is the angst I promised! At least the first one!

So I suck at titling things LOL so that is what I could come up with! I really got too much into this scenario like catch me in the kitchen floor at 1am bc the house is crowded and I just neeeded to finish bc I was soooo inspired, so maybe it did turn out nice! Or I hope so at least!! I hope you all like it! It also turned out kinda long!! 

Character: Kuroo Tetsuro

Warnings: I guess angst?

__________________________________________________

“Lets go to my home, kitten” You jumped slightly as your boyfriend, Kuroo, materialized next to you seemingly out of nowhere, smiling softly as he held his hand out. You hummed softly and took his hand in yours, such a feeling that warmed your heart up, letting you know that is where you belonged. 

Your phone buzzed on your pocket and as you took it out to check if it was something important a looming feeling washed over you, the hand in yours suddenly feeling no more like home and instead working only to intensify the weight that settled on your stomach.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.  

“Hey handsome! Whatcha looking at?” You asked, hugging your boyfriend from behind, wrapping your arms on his shoulders. You rest your head on your arm after planting a soft kiss on his cheek, keeping your head close to his. A cheeky smile appeared on Kuroo’s face as he kissed your arm. 

“Well you know how we talked about moving in together in a few years?” He said, wiggling his eyebrows, a small flutter appearing on your chest as you saw his screen, he was indeed looking for apartments in Tokyo. 

You stopped for a second, feeling the flutter no more replaced by an unusual lack of air. While you loved him, you both were still young and the future was unpredictable. You really wanted to be with him forever but keeping your hopes up so young did manage to unease you. Kuroo immediately felt the tension on your arms and letting go turned around, pulling you to sit on his lap.

“What’s wrong, kitten?”  He looked at you with soft eyes

“I just don’t want to get out hopes up...What if something happens? Or one of us has to go?” 

His heart throbbed, and while it hurt thinking about it, there was some truth behind it. He grabbed your hands, wrapping his around them and rubbing his thumb lightly. 

“I know...but hey, we can see it through...look, if something happens we will plan it out and in the end it will all turn out” 

“Really?”

“As long as we keep each other informed we’ll see everything through my love. You’ll have to promise to help me plan it all out though” He looked into your eyes, soft and determined. A small smile appeared on your lips as you wrapped your arms around him, his promises were always sincere and held high importance. It was all a matter of communication, if anything happened there would always be a way.

“Promise?” 

“Promise” You smiled.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dad: I don’t care, there is no choice to be done, we are leaving tomorrow. 

You felt your heart clench, its incessant thumping ringing in your ears as its beating increased slowly, the feeling was suffocating as you swore none of your breaths actually reached your chest, staying as a knot in your throat rather than filling your lungs. Your boyfriend had never given you a reason to feel like this, he never shouted at you, nor raised his voice, and was all too understanding. That was what made things worse.

You managed to hide it all with a deep breath, calming yourself right before he could notice, you knew that in the end he always did. He turned to look at you smiling, he was always so beautiful when he did, the dreading feeling lifting slightly, there was no need to worry him just yet. You smiled back at him, kissing his cheek, his scent filling your nostrils; he always did smell like a delightful mix of fresh laundry and wood which origin you could never pinpoint.  

That relaxed you all the way to your house, driving the fear of your mind for some delightful moments. 

“I’ll go fetch us something to it my love” With a smile you threw your jacket on the couch, heading straight towards the kitchen. 

“Sounds perfect kitten” He answered as you left his sight, sitting right next to where your discarded jacket lay. 

Once there you started chopping up some fruit as a snack for the movie you were sure the two of you would eventually watch. However after a few minutes you started wondering why he had not come to see what you were doing, it was unusual of him to stay on the living room all this time, curiosity got the best of him almost always. Shrugging the thought out of your mind you grabbed the bowls, ready to go back and cuddle up for a while.

The moment you stepped into the living room you felt it, he was not facing you as the couch was headed away from the doorway, yet you knew something was not right. The feeling crept up to you once more, the ringing in your ears growing louder each second that passed, your feet seemed to weight more than usual, making every step painfully difficult to take. 

“Tetsu?” You fought with the lump that lay on your throat, finding it harrowing to speak, you knew you had to. You were now next to the couch, you knew he could see you out of the corner of his eye, nevertheless he did not turn to face you. You felt a heft fall in your stomach all of a sudden, his expression was harsh, he only looked like this at those who had done him wrong. Your breathing became hitched, it was hard to keep your composure.

“Where you even planning to tell me?” Kuroo was desperate, he was sad and distraught, he was not angry, he knew he had to let you explain yourself, however he’d be lying if he said he could fully describe the wave of emotions that had hit him all of a sudden. He was not one to lose composure, that is why he looked so stern, the best way he could handle the information that had just overwhelm him.

“What do yo-”

“Please...don’t...just, you know what I am talking about”

You felt your eyes begin to water as you finally faced him, it was like something was pushing down on your chest, swallowing was now a seemingly impossible task as everything in the room seemed taller, the sensation of shrinking impossible to ignore.

“I didn’t know Kuroo, I wanted to be sure before telling you”

“Tomorrow? You were not sure if you were leaving tomorrow?” The irritation in his voice building up with each word. He was not sure how to react, he was a planner, he was cold blooded when in difficult situations, but you leaving him for who knows how long? Not being able to see you anymore? He could not begin to muster what it would be like. 

“...our promise? The plans we had? If only you had been honest damnit” His voice cracked, it was evident he was hurt, which only managed to make things worse for you.

“It is not my fault, my parents...they just told me” 

“You should have told me right away”

“I didn’t know! I did not want to worry you!” You were practically choking on your words, spitting them out as well as you could. You wanted to explain, but you were not ready for him to find out before you could, you had planned it all out.

“I thought we agreed on something” 

“I was going to tell you today...but you decided to sneak on my phone instead” That was the final straw, he stood up, stern.

“You really think I’d do that?”  The way he spoke, you’d rather have him shout, this was much worse. You felt helpless, insignificant compared to how he appeared to tower over you. You wanted to answer, but you couldn’t seem to find your voice.

“So that is it right? You think that about me. I just...I thought you could hold on to your promises” Still nothing from you, holding back the tears became much harder.

“I thought you wanted to make it all work out…��� Disappointment.

“We can, we c-”

“I am not so sure now”

That is what made it for you, he didn’t think it would all be good for the two of you then, he did not even seem to want to try. Tears finally began pouring down your cheeks as you held on to the jacket you had just managed to retrieve. After all this years he was willing to let go for one slight misunderstanding. You had nothing left to say, sobbing you walked for the door, looking back at him as you opened it, hoping he’d say something else, anything.

He didn’t

That was a mistake that would haunt him for all this years

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Kuroo had just finished grocery shopping, he was stuffing the food on his green bag, ready to call it a day and hang out with Kenma. Everything had been pretty uneventful, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary, however something was a little off, he could not really wrap his mind around it. 

“Sir?” The cashier looked at him with expectant eyes, he had apparently got lost in his thoughts. Smiling apologetically at her he took the change. 

“Sorry! Have a nice day” He pocketed the coins and stepped outside, the day was warm, it seemed oddly cheerful.

He stopped, his feet couldn’t seem to move. Four years of regret falling on top of him like an avalanche as he saw it. He did not want it to be true, he wanted it to be a product of his imagination or just a sick joke. However he was not an idiot, nothing could change the fact you were there, or that you were smiling brighter than he had ever seen. And even if he wanted to, he could not ignore that the happiness that poured out of you was due to the boy who was now holding your hand, sawing it as you practically floated by his side.

His heart shattered, you were practically glowing, you had changed so much in all this time, but it all seemed to be for the better. Your eyes sparkled as you talked to the tall stranger, even more so than how they used to whenever you were by his side. You finally changed your hair, you always told him exactly how you wanted it, but never got around to actually do it, you looked stunning. 

Before he could react and think of what to do, you had spotted him. For a moment your expression shifted, maybe it was while you recognized him, still, as brief as it was he saw that you remembered him, all that happened between the two of you. It did not last long, and you now smiled, waving at him cheerfully and pulling your little friend behind you as you walked up to Kuroo.

“Hi Kuroo!...It has been a long time.” You smiled, he was surprised to find not a bit of resentment in your voice. Snapping out of his trance he managed to smile, as little as he could muster to. He missed the sound of his name on your lips, he just wished you would call him Tetsu one more time.

“Hello Y/N...yes, it has been a while. Why are you here?” He tried to remain calm, it was never hard for him to do so, the only problem was that you knew that all too well. He caught a whiff of your smell, it made him remember all those times you made him caress your hair and skin while holding you so close, your heart beating with his.

“Well, after finally being able to financially support myself I managed to get out of the grasp of my parents and live here in Tokio...like I’ve always dreamed” Your smile seemed apologetical, he knew why, four years were enough time to realize all the mistakes he had made. His heart ached, it used to be a dream of the both of you.

“That’s good” He wished he could say he was happy for you, but he could not. “Kuroo, nice to meet you” He greeted the buffoon that came with you.

“Kira, nice meeting you too” He shook his hand, Kuroo really desired to hate him.

“Well...we need to leave now. I’m glad to see you again” You said, feeling the tension grow, and with one last bow you carried on your path.

Kuroo followed you with his gaze, wanting you to turn and look at him, to be the reason of your smile once more. He wanted you to stay, so you could start it all over. He wanted to say something, try to win you once more. 

But just as you were about to take a turn on the corner of the street, Kuroo saw him place his arm around your shoulders, he saw your smile, the most goddamn beautiful smile he had ever seen.

And you didn’t look back.

[iwritefanfictionsometimes]

still growing up now

for @curlymcclain (and myself bc I’m nothing if not selfish)

AO3

Chapters: 1/1

The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky

Characters: Theodore Decker, Boris Pavlikovsky, James "Hobie" Hobart

Additional Tags: Someone You Meet at the Wrong Time Then Re-meet at the Right One, Post-Canon, Open Ending, Kinda, Fluff, Theo sorts out his emotions, Healing

Summary: It’s been six months since Amsterdam, six months since I’ve been home for any significant period of time and, six months since I last saw Boris. Maybe after not seeing him for eight years, six months should seem like nothing, but with the new clarity of my sobriety and the strange knowledge in the back of my mind that I would kill for Boris it's harder to ignore the pull in my chest when I think of Boris’ curls and the smile in the corner of his mouth when he’s about to do something definitely stupid and possibly illegal.

----

or, the birthday fic

It’s been six months since Amsterdam, six months since I’ve been home for any significant period of time and, six months since I last saw Boris. Maybe after not seeing him for eight years, six months should seem like nothing, but with the new clarity of my sobriety and the strange knowledge in the back of my mind that I would kill for Boris it’s harder to ignore the pull in my chest when I think of Boris’ curls and the smile in the corner of his mouth when he’s about to do something definitely stupid and possibly illegal. 

I’m home now, possibly for good. All the Changelings I can remember selling have been bought back, I’ve righted my wrongs. Or at least, most of them. There’s still the wide and horrible divide between me and Kitsey that I don’t think will ever be repaired. It hadn’t broken her heart when I’d called off the engagement, but it had ruined what stability her family had built. I'm not surprised she can’t forgive me for that. I don’t let myself think of what questions I have that continue to go unanswered. 

Popper barely moves when I open the door, I think it’s a wonder he’s still alive. I kept thinking I would get a call in the middle of Europe telling me I needed to come home right away. But it never came. I can’t help but remember the way he’d screamed and jumped around when Boris walked in with me only six months ago. But he’s always liked Boris better. 

Hobie appears in the doorway to the basement. He looks more tired then I can remember since I showed up at his door unexpectedly after Vegas. It’s not a good look. I want him to smile again like he did while business was doing well. He watches me silently as I drop my bags in the entranceway. I stand there unsurely for a moment —it’s not a familiar feeling— before he sighs and opens his arms. I’m not used to this, even from him, but the hug is good. It means I’m forgiven. 

“Go get cleaned up, Theo, I have to run out for a moment,” Hobie says gruffly once we let go. 

“Oh,” I say awkwardly, “I was just stopping to see you and get some of my clothes.”

Hobie frowns at me. 

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome here. And anyway, I thought it was time to start fresh.”

“What are you talking about, Theo?” 

“I’ve rented a place, an apartment, it’s not far but I thought I should give you some time.”

Hobie looks sad for a moment and he puts a hand on my shoulder. 

“I was never that mad, you know you are welcome to stay,” he tells me gently. 

I don’t know how to explain that this was as much for me as it was for him. I am, after all, a selfish creature. Very few things in my life have been done without any regard for my personal gain. 

I nod instead of trying to explain everything to him. He studies my face for a moment and then pulls away. “Tell me where your apartment is,” he says while putting his coat on, “I’ll bring over some things I’ve been meaning to give you tomorrow.”

Again, I nod. There isn’t really anything I feel I can say. He’s out the door with one last searching look and a flap of his coat. The lightness with which he moves still surprises me. 

I stand there for a moment, both at the bottom and the top of the stairs, before I shake my head and take my first step up to my room. Or I guess my old room. 

It takes longer then I thought it would to pack a suitcase. My room is a maze that my sober self doesn’t know how to navigate. Inevitably I end up standing in the doorway with a suitcase beside me and my home for the last nine years looking nearly as bare as it was when I first came. I only look at it for a second before leaving. I don’t put a name to the churning in my stomach. 

-

Boris is at my apartment. I stop halfway down the hallway, and my heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest. He makes no sense in this hallway. Again, he is a magazine page torn from other chapters of my life. He looks so normal it’s strange, wearing a too-big t-shirt and jeans he looks like any boy waiting outside their friend’s apartment. He looks up when he hears my footsteps stop. There is the startling reality of his face, the paleness of his skin and then how dark his hair is against it, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. There’s a tentative smile in the corner of his mouth, not enough to crinkle his eyes but it’s there. 

“Potter,” he says, like this is normal. 

I would ask him how he knew where I was, but I didn’t really want to know.

“What are you doing here?” I sound more rude then I had intended, but Boris knows me well enough not to be offended.

He smiles a real smile then. My feet carry me over to him without a thought. 

“Do you not know what day it is?” he asks. 

I stumble over the dates in my head before oh. Oh. It’s my birthday. 

Birthdays in Vegas were never big affairs, neither of us had the money or the commitment to make actual plans. But the two I had with him were both memorable. I haven’t had one like that since I left. I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever told Hobie my birthday, although he must know. 

“You missed eight of them.”

I’m not sure what else I could say.

“Yes, but misunderstanding. It is all cleared up now,” he grins, “are you going to let me in?”

I can’t do much else but open the door. I’m hardly about to turn him away, not after thinking I might never see him again. He follows me in and kicks off his boots carelessly in the entryway.

“So, new place!” he observes, “it is very empty, Potter.”

I sigh and wheel my suitcase away from him. He follows me back to the bedroom chatting inanely about the weather and how loud New York is in the summer and ‘Potter! Remember how hot we were in Vegas? Always wearing sweaters!’ 

He wanders around my room as I drag my clothes out of the suitcase and get to work putting them away. I’m running on autopilot now, my mind too caught on —he’s here in my room his hands are on my things— him to make any good decisions about what I should be doing. He picks up the few trinkets I have with careful hands and studies them intensely while talking. I’m too caught up in the loop of Boris to immediately pick up when his voice stops. Then suddenly, I realize the room is too silent. I look up from my clothes to see him standing extremely still with his head bent towards whatever he’s holding in his hands. The line of his shoulders is tense. I stand up slowly, there’s a pounding in my chest where my heart is beating double time. I don’t know what’s in his hands, but whatever is coming feels inevitable. He turns to face me when I stand beside him. 

“You kept it,” he whispers.

I look down to see what he has clenched in his hand. It’s his father’s lighter. The heavy gold one he’d left in my bag a few days after the first birthday I spent with him. I know exactly how it feels in my hands. The swirling designs on the sides are worn down from years of my fingers rubbing them when I was nervous, and the lighter doesn’t even work anymore because of how much I’d used it, and yet, I’d brought it everywhere with me for the last nine years. 

His eyes are dark and startled when they meet mine. 

“I had not expected you would keep it.”

“It’s the only thing I had of yours,” I say, laughing awkwardly. 

It’s still difficult to be honest with him, even if I’ve almost gotten used to being honest with myself. 

There’s a silent minute where I have to clench my fists to stop words I’d regret from bursting out of my mouth, and then he lets out a shaky breath. We’re somehow too close. 

“Potter…” 

“Why did you come, Boris,” I interrupt to ask again, a little more desperate. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles, almost unintelligible through his accent.

His arm is under my hand, I don’t think about it too much. He’s warm. I can’t read whatever is in his eyes, but it leaves me a little short of breath. He’s fidgeting with the lighter still and I’ve never been more aware of the change in our height difference. I’m almost looking at the top of his head because he won’t meet my eyes. The fear from years ago creeps into my chest but I push it down. I worked for this, I didn’t sleep for this, I called a therapist a couple of times for this. Whether I take the leap or not it’s possible I won’t see him for years. I’m tired of it never being the right time. 

“I missed you too.”

It sounds like a secret, and Boris reacts like it’s one, jerking his eyes up to mine so fast it looks like it hurts his neck. There’s a defensive smirk just under his skin, I can tell, but he looks vulnerable like I haven’t seen since the night I left Vegas. I wonder what he would’ve said if I hadn’t refused to hear it. His study of my face must give him the answer he wanted because the fake smirk disappears and his eyes widen.

The lighter clatters to the floor. 

His hand is tight on my shoulder, almost painful, and his face is intense: filled with emotions I don’t understand, and fear.

“This is not a funny joke, Theo,” he hisses, and I know he’s serious because he uses my real name. It sounds odd on his tongue.  

“I’m not joking.”

“Are you high?” he asks, pulling away suddenly. 

“Boris!”

“Is a fair question, Potter.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I have to say this right. There’s years of misunderstandings and unspoken lies to try and explain. 

“I’ve been thinking,” I start, “I know there are things we never talked about.”

Boris’ jaw clenches and he stands a little straighter. The sun reflects in his eyes through the window. It reminds me of Vegas a little, the sun always too bright and too hot, leaving Boris’ skin red and mine brown. But before he burned and peeled he was stunning in sunlight, gold falling on the many high points of his face and making him look like he was glowing. I could never resist him when he looked like that. 

“I also know there are things I don’t remember,” I shift nervously, Boris is completely still. 

“I don’t even know if you have any interest in me, but I just. I’ve been thinking-”

Boris’ hand on my cheek causes my mouth to snap shut. 

“Potter…” he whispers, and that is a secret as well. 

I can’t stop myself from swaying toward him —he’s always had a way of pulling me into his orbit— but I know I need to say this in full. “I didn’t let myself think about anything,” I whisper like the air will shatter if I talk louder.

“Not us, not my mom, and not about my own feelings. I was too empty and too full. And you were dangerous.” 

The brush of his fingers in my hair is distracting, and I want nothing more than to let him pull me in, but I’ve done enough thinking that I know I have to tell him this. There has been too much avoidance in our history. Thankfully Boris is quiet. New York is loud outside, but that hardly matters.

“I still am not sure about most things, but I know there was something-” I still can’t say it.

“Something more?” Boris asks.

“Something I never said.”

He looks up at me and touches the edge of my lips gently. I know there’s a scar there from one of the times he punched me. My breath hitches, I remember his lips on my fingers after both our mouths were bloody, I remember the desperate press of his own lips against mine so long ago. We’re both deathly silent. 

“What was it?” He asks finally. 

I can’t say it. I’ve thought it more times then I can count, and it’s swirling around my head on a loop, but I can’t make the words come out of my mouth. Boris looks like maybe he understands. 

“Is okay, Theo. I understand.”

The air leaves me in a rush and then my lungs are burning because his lips are on mine and I can’t break away to inhale. 

There’s a sense of relief, like this was the inevitable ending to our story —although I’m not sure it really is an end— like if nothing else had been right in my life at least I had given myself this. One thing that was even more perfect for the disaster it started as. I couldn’t help but hate that it had taken so long, even as his hands fist in my hair and shirt, but I know it wouldn’t have been right nine years ago, or even six months. I couldn’t have done this sober and he couldn’t have done it with me high, not again. 

He feels right in a way neither Kitsey or Pippa ever did, no matter how much I made myself believe they were. I place careful hands on his neck and waist and just let myself sink into him. It’s more gentle then I had expected, I had half convinced myself it would be a frantic tumble much like our youth. But of course, when given the chance now he held me like I’d run away. 

It’s several long minutes before I break away. “Are you staying?” I ask quietly. 

He’s silent, stroking his fingers lightly over the lines of my face and staring at me like he can’t quite believe I’m here. I let him. 

“Do you want me to?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to.”

He nods like he knew.

“You know I was always waiting for you, Potter,” he smiles slightly mischievously, “you were always the last to know everything.”

I laugh, because what else is there to do when he looks so happy and there’s something growing in my chest that tells me I might be as well. There’s more to talk about, but tonight I just want to sleep and remember what it feels like to have him beside me and not feel guilty about it this time. 

“Sleep?” I ask. 

He searches my face for a moment. 

“Yes, I think that would be alright.”

-

I look down at him the next morning. The sun is still rising —I’ve gotten used to waking up early for flights—  and it just barely shines through his messy hair, lighting it up to gold. The angles of his face are so familiar, even with years of being apart and the haze of drugs I’d been in. I think maybe I’d remember him even if I forgot everything else. I think I’d forget my own mother before him; maybe I already have. Her voice doesn’t sound familiar in my head anymore. In contrast, his had sometimes been the only one I recognized in my delirium. He clenches a fist in the sheets before his eyes open. Everything about him is startling. His dark hair and eyes against my white sheets, the curl of his lips as he catches me staring, the rasp in his voice from sleep. 

“Shall we just stand here tenderly and gaze?” He mumbles.

I fight the smile rising. 

“We aren’t even standing, Boris.”

He laughs and presses his face into the pillow. 

“Is the thought of it, Potter.”

I don’t respond. Eventually, he blinks up at me and rolls a little so he doesn’t have to crane his neck. I wonder how long he’s waited for this; how long I’ve waited for this. 

“Are you alright?” He asks softly. 

I don’t know. There’s an unnamable feeling bubbling in my chest. I remember waking up a thousand times with him, wrapped up together or across the room, and each time felt dangerous. Could I let myself have this? Even a year ago I would’ve said no, I wouldn’t have even thought of it. But a year ago I didn’t have Boris in my bed looking at me with so much hope (even though he tried to hide it). A year ago I hadn’t spent six months trying to fix the wrong I’d done to the world and to myself. Planes and airports leave a lot of time for self-reflection. Sometime in between Las Angeles and Phoenix, I’d come across the startling realization that almost everything I made myself believe about myself was false in one way or another. 

It wasn’t hard to accept now that Boris made me better. Better in the worst way, yes, but more myself -messy and angry and the opposite of what I’d built my life around- then anyone else ever has. He knew about the worst parts of me and just let me be broken. He was there, and demanded nothing but my honesty.

I’d called Pippa sometime in London. She’d told me one thing after I’d apologized for every misguided advance I’d made. She said that the only way she’d moved on was by letting it hurt. She told me that only once she’d cried and screamed and cut her hair did the pain start draining away. Her voice had been so quiet —like she was afraid of scaring me— when she’d asked if I ever had that. I hadn’t. I’d drowned it all in drugs and alcohol before I even felt half of the pain. So I’d tried. I lay in nameless hotel rooms and stared at the ceiling, will for the tears to come. They hadn’t. I thought about the things I’d avoided for so long because I was scared of how I would react. But my eyes stayed dry. I wondered if I was broken. If the drugs had numbed something inside me to the point of it being unfixable. 

Looking at the boy, man really, in my bed now though I can feel the slightest whispers of emotions squeezing in my chest. 

I lay back down and reach a hand out tentatively between us. His eyes meet mine across what seems like miles of pillow. His fingers slide to meet mine. I can’t look at him. 

“Theo?” his voice is soft and careful, his accent tripping messily around my name. 

I close my eyes. His hand leaves mine but I don’t flinch when his fingers brush my cheek. 

“Open your eyes, Potter,” he whispers. 

His hand spreads across my jaw. His thumb brushes under my eye. I know my eyes are wet when I open them. He raises his eyebrows at me, it’s almost familiar. But not quite. We’d never been this gentle before. I know there is much more to talk about, but I’m determined to ignore that knowledge for as long as I can. For now it’s just this, I can allow myself this without panicking. 

“Are you alright?” he asks again.

‘As long as you stay with me I will be.’ I think, but that feels like too much. 

“I think so,” I say instead.

I hope he hears the rest when I reach a shaking hand across to smooth away his frown.

[love-loser]

cocky student tony x professor peter moved here for mobile users

Even though college was a volatile time for many, this whole higher education thing was going pretty well for Peter. Granted, he’s the one teaching the class, but still, pretty good seeing as see he was so young (25) and oh so (very) endearing, both of which helped him get along with his students.

Well, most of his students.

He never knew just how much one person could annoy him but walking into class, seeing that stupid smirk on the younger boy’s smirk, just made his coffee taste that much bitter, the junior never failing to make his day just a bit shitty, somehow.

Even more- he’d always managed to somehow know the material even though Peter was sure he was either sleeping or on his phone half the time. The Engineering professor could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d seen the brunette actually take notes. And it was already halfway into the semester. It hadn’t even caught Tony off guard when he tried to call on the boy.

What he hated the most, though, was the way Tony’s stupid, stupid, intense, dusky eyes always seemed to undress him everytime he walked into the room. The way his hands made his excessively big iPhone look tiny when he wrapped his capable fingers around it and- not to mention those same fingers that rubbed against his lips as he blatantly checked his own professor out, in class, no less. Did kids these days have no manners?

Yes, maybe Peter was exaggerating just a tiny bit–– it’s not like Tony tormented him everyday or openly harassed him, but it’s the principle of it, see. In Peter’s mind, he only has one goal when it comes to Tony Stark, aka (surprisingly) straight A student, aka genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist most annoying boy on campus.

And that goal: To put him in his place.

Peter can’t imagine what it’ll be like for the student when he gets to senior year in just half a semester–– in fact, even the very thought of Tony treating any of his teachers this way (or anyone) sends the assistant professor’s matchbox heart into insistent, restless flames.

(He chalks it up to just pure concern for his student.) Not jealousy.

Peter even writes up a list between inputting scantron grades, of why exactly he hates Tony’s guts.

Eloquently, he titles it, ❌ Tony Stark ❌.

1. Taller than me by an inch 1.5 cm.

2. Somehow knows my favourite breakfast from panera bread.

3. Always borrows notes from other people when he’s absent EVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS I HAVE COPIES BY MY DESK!

4. Wears those stupid glasses all the time.

5. Spends an average of 6 minutes after class just cleaning up, making me WAIT

6. Never pays attention in class but always sets the curves on tests.

7. Always flirts with other people outside the hall before class. (distracting!)

8.

On the eighth, Peter’s mind draws a blank. He’d thought that he could go on and on when given the chance, but maybe now isn’t the time- after all, he does only have 2 braincells left after mindlessly typing in scores.

It’s about 5:43 pm now, which probably means he should go after entering this last girl’s score and-

Done. Rarely do other professors ever stay this late, but Peter isn’t really in the mood to stick around and see. He grabs his trusty bullet journal- the one he proudly spent 2 and a half hours on in the beginning on the year, and also the one he just slandered Tony in, which, speaking of the devil- Shitshitshit, avoid him before he annoys you, Pete. It turns out his stiff, minecraft esque speedwalking in the other direction still isn’t enough to deter Tony, who looks up from his phone and calls out a nonchalant, “Hey, Mr. Parker!” Peteralmost scoffs at the sheer level of disrespect in that one line- how dare he? Who does he think he is?! At least, that’s what he sputters mentally.

Physically, the brunet is ready to embrace a thousand year nap.

Peter mentally debates whether or not to stop and give Tony the time of day, his aforementioned 2 brain cells bantering back and forth before, eventually, Tony just decides he will have a conversation with Peter, whether he likes it or not. “Hey, earth to Mister,” Tony says, suddenly in front of his face, dangerously close.

“Hi, Tony. You do know my first name isn’t mister, right? And you should be calling me Professor.” Peter says, voice scolding. “Okay, then, professor,” Tony says, though Peter knows he won’t really listen to him, “What’re you doing so late? Isn’t it past your bedtime? You need sleep to grow taller.” Well- okay, this is getting ridiculous.

“That’s no way you should be talking to your elders, much less your lecturer, Tony,” Peter reprimands, starting to walk again. Hopefully, he’ll be left alone now. Unsurprisingly, and to Peter’s horror, Tony only starts striding backwards easily, as if he’d grown up learning how to walk that way. “But you’re so young. You barely look like my elder, much less a teacher,” Tony’s eyes flicker down, then drag back up, and Peter tries not to flush at this. “That’s not to say you don’t look good, though, the opposite, really.”

Peter only scoffs at this, round eyes rolling in disbelief, a warm tinge to his cheeks to top it all off. He stops abruptly, ego puffing just a bit when Tony stumbles.

“Actually, why don’t we talk about that, Tony?” He stops just to mentally imprint Tony’s somewhat panicked expression, before continuing with an adamant, “I’ve seen the way you act in class- the way you look at me,” which sounds much more scandalous than it should be.

Peter’s voice lowers to a hush, registering that they’re still in a school building, where anyone could be listening. Trust no one, not even yourself.

“It’s not appropriate. I’m not some romantic interest for you to try to indulge in, and I’d much rather you put some of that attention to the lecture’s material instead.”

A moment passes by, then two, and Peter is still staring Tony straight in the eyes, his own hard with determination, brows furrowed.

After a pregnant pause, the student clears his throat.

“Do you wanna be?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, yeah, you’re cute professor,” Tony admits shamelessly, “Why don’t you just give me a bit of a chance? I’m not that bad, I’m actually very great.” “That’s exactly what a bad person would say,” Peter points out.

“Let me prove that I’m not, then,” Tony says. Then, his phone dings, “Well, I have to go. But I mean it, mister! Bye,” And with that, Tony bids him goodbye with a wave and a blown kiss.

Peter shudders.

Yuck.

-

What is not so yuck, though, is the next morning, is when Peter gets in at approximately 8:30 am. There’s a still toasty croissant on his desk, with a orange post it note.  

Hope you enjoy this. I was late bc i was picking it up so i just decided to skip for the whole day- TS<3 xoxo

Peter, infuriatingly, knows exactly who wrote the note, and couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. He’d been doing that alot lately. ‘Late picking it up so he just decided to skip the whole day over a croissant, are you kidding me,’ Peter doesn’t bother actually protesting against the innocent pastry, though, instead setting his bag down and taking it out of the pastry bag. He recognises the label- it’s from the campus coffee shop. Tony was late to class picking up food from an establishment on campus.

The kid’s gotta have a demerit, or something, because that might be going just a little too far, even for him. It’s like being late to a party you’re already at, but leave it to Tony Stark to somehow find a way.

Well, that’s too bad. There was suddenly going to be a pop quiz today.

-

Peter, later, finds that he has to reach deep inside himself to not literally slap the living shit out of Tony’s face when the boy opens the door to his lecture hall as the professor is packing up later that day.

“So you are here,” is what he says instead, eyes narrowed accusingly. He still doesn’t get why Peter doesn’t just come to class if he’s already there- are his lessons really that bad?  

“Indeed I am,” is the answer that comes, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Miss me?”

“Never,” He huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Did you at least like the breakfast I got you?”

Hell yes. “No. What would be better, Stark, is if you actually attended class while you were on campus.” Then, he adds in without thought, “Especially mine.” There’s a beat of silence, the words not quite sinking in for the professor yet- it’s a different story for Tony, though. “Especially yours?” Tony asks with a grin, and the tone in his voice makes Peter immediately regret whatever he said to induce said piece of shit’s intonation. “Yes. Is there a problem?” One strong brow raises in inquiry.

“Not at all,” Tony’s stupid smile only widens, “The opposite, really.”

[undyinglegends-blog]

Hi there so please allow me to scream about one Joshua Kiryu bc i've been sitting on this for ages now

I'd like to preface this by saying that Yoshiya "Joshua" Kiryu is not a monster. At least, he's trying not to be anymore.

Joshua knew a few things for certain in life: Firstly, he could see things other people couldn't. He was heavily ostracized by other kids for the things he could see--people with arrow-tipped, wiry wings, people who had died and were now running around Shibuya with timers on their hands, animals with glowing tattoos for legs, arms, tails, that would attack those dead people and cause them to disappear, strange red symbols that would float around, yellow symbols that would latch on to people and, a few times, himself. No one ever believed him, of course. "Stop lying," his parents would tell him. "Stop crying for attention." He eventually learned to just stop mentioning it. Later he learned to just stop telling people the truth at all, since they never believed him. People heard what they wanted to hear, and what they wanted to hear were things that benefitted them in some way. "Home life is fine," he'd say. "I'm fine," he'd say. "Everything's fine," he'd say. And people would believe him then, because that meant they didn't have anything weighing on their conscience.

Secondly, nothing he did was ever good enough for his parents. Top of his class, winning numerous awards in math and science at his school, and it was never enough because that was their expectation for him. Perfection was their standard. Sometimes Joshua would get a couple questions wrong on an exam, and his mother would look at him and tell him she was disappointed, that she expected better of him, that she didn't want a failure for a son, and Joshua would agree because what else could he do? They wouldn't love him if he wasn't perfect. So he tried to be perfect. He really did. But come his tenth birthday, when the world became nothing but him and a pair of silver headphones, he just... stopped caring.

Thirdly, the world was dull and gray to him. Unbeknownst to him, Joshua was suffering from depression. He found himself feeling unmotivated, unusually tired all the time, finding no joy in even the smallest of things that he had found to be hobbies of his. And the world around him felt just as gray and lifeless as he did. It took a lot of effort to just get out of bed in the morning as he grew older.

Then he met Hanekoma.

Hanekoma was and still is the only person that Joshua genuinely trusts, the one person who ever took him seriously and treated him as something of an equal, and most importantly, the one person who actually confirmed that all the things that he had seen for his entire life were real. Hanekoma told him about the Game, the Underground, the Reapers and Players. And Joshua listened to every word, feeling complete relief at the fact that he wasn't crazy.

But the more Hanekoma talked, the more Joshua realized that he didn't want to just learn about the Game; he wanted to be a part of it. There was nothing for him in the living world, he thought. Parents who barely knew he existed and fought all the time (Mother was stressed, Father drank because he was stressed, Mother got more stressed because of his drinking which made Father more stressd), peers who constantly mocked and ridiculed him, and a world that was moving so fast for a tired, goalless boy. In the Reapers' Game, though, there was a goal. Everyone could use pins, everyone was put on equal footing. And there was one goal: to win. There was something.

[SUICIDE TW]

He was afraid of doing it, initially. He didn't want it to hurt. But he knew he had to. He wanted to. He wanted to get out of this endless hell of his life and do something for once.

So on July 30th, 1995, Yoshiya Kiryu hanged himself in his room, and was later found by his mother the next morning. The funeral was minimal; very few attended.

[TW END]

He can still remember the look of hurt, of regret in Hanekoma's eyes when he saw that Joshua had entered the Game. But Joshua excelled in the Game, being able to use a wide variety of pins--not all of them, but certainly a large array of them. He and his partner made it to the end of the week, and while they both had scored enough points to return to life, only Joshua's partner did. Joshua wanted to become a Reaper. He even told him to keep his entry fee--his mark on the world, other people's memories of him, any information about him. He wouldn't need it in the Underground. The Reapers could not keep his entry fee in full, so only minimal information on Yoshiya Kiryu was released back into the living world.

Joshua immediately became a Harrier Reaper, and was very efficient in his job of erasing Players. But upon learning about the position of Composer, the most powerful being in Shibuya, he set his sights on that. For once in his existence, he had drive, motivation, a reason to do something, and it was wonderful. The world, for once, had color to it as he fought and got stronger. This was where his quietness grew into confidence, and confidence grew into arrogance. A couple slips let him find that people’s reactions to him flirting with them--especially cute boys--was not only hilarious, but kept people from getting close to him. Why bother? No matter how lonely you are, your life made it pretty obvious that friends weren’t for you.

Eventually, he took on and defeated the previous Composer. His ethereal form reflected the age of his soul--how long he had existed, how old he would have been had he lived--and suddenly, he could hear everything in Shibuya. Everyone’s thoughts and emotions were readily available to him, all at once without filter. And it stayed like this for around 10 years (if we assume twewy takes place in 2007). Joshua could hear and see everything in the city--every horrible crime, every fight, every meeting between friends, every death. He had to pay special attention to the deaths, of course, to see if they were strong enough to be Players. He was bombarded with information, especially with the rise of popular culture and the city’s fixation of the consumption of goods.

This overexposure to people and consumerism, as well as his own cynical viewpoint warping his perspective, caused Joshua to gradually grow to loathe the city. And the city grew duller and more vapid in response to Joshua’s will. He is the city; the city is him. They affect one another. The omniscience cause him to become horribly numb and disenfranchised, not blinking at death or murder or suicide any longer because he had seen it so many times.

[SUICIDE TW]

Finally, it came to a tipping point, where Joshua was going to destroy Shibuya--and himself along with it. And he thought he was finally going to get his wish for death, to stop his miserable existence. Kitaniji was actively trying to stop him; any of the Reapers who wanted his job could just try to kill him; and even Hanekoma, the one person he genuinely trusted, thought it best to help Minamimoto become Composer and destroy Joshua in order to protect Shibuya. And once more, Joshua Kiryu felt completely and utterly alone. Not even the person he trusted more than anything thought he was worth saving. Every path lead to Joshua’s death in some manner.

[TW END]

So he was willing to put everyone’s lives on the line. He felt nothing as he killed an innocent teenager and made him fight for him, put him through hell just so he could prove that the city was stale and stagnant, just as he had always thought.

The time Joshua spent with Neku began to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind. Neku was no longer fighting for himself, he was fighting for another person, one he had just met and yet already cared about. Multiple times throughout the week, Neku had helped other people, in some cases without a bit of hesitation, because it was the right thing to do. He saw Shibuya’s people grow and change, both in good ways and bad--including his own proxy. It didn’t make sense to him. This want to help and protect people... the fact that someone once as cynical as him could gain that was baffling.

Even as baffling was Joshua faking his sacrifice. Well, not entirely faking. Neku would have most certainly been destroyed by the level i flare, and had Joshua been a tenth of a second later, he could have been seriously injured himself. He didn’t get out of that unscathed, either--the attack had grazed him as he jumped to a parallel world, and it had hurt a lot more than he thought it would. Any later, and he could have easily been in far worse shape. That week in that alternate timeline let him think, and he did everything he could to justify to himself that all of this was wrong, that the moment Neku was presented with a strenuous situation he would revert back to his old ways, and Joshua’s plans to erase Shibuya could go on as planned.

But then Neku didn’t pull the trigger. He had every reason to, but he didn’t. Joshua had won their Game, and he could do as he desired with the city. But he couldn’t destroy it. Not after going through that week with Neku, after watching him fight Kitaniji in order to rescue everyone--Joshua included--from the Conductor, after being unable to shoot Joshua. He didn’t know what was going through Neku’s head or why he didn’t shoot--but some small, deeply-hidden part of him thought that maybe, maybe it was because Neku thought Joshua was worth saving.

“I can’t forgive you. But I trust you.”

He still doesn’t understand how that was possible.

The following week left Joshua to reflect, to fight with Hanekoma over what he had done to protect Shibuya, and to finally realize the disgusting, emotionless monster he had become. Even just a bit of the weight of what he had done slammed into him full-force, and he slunk into momentary despair over what thing he had turned into. Since then he has been guilt-ridden and remorseful, but is unsure of how to even begin to approach the subject. Only recently has he left himself start to acknowledge his emotions, because the guilt and horror at what he had done was just too strong to push aside.

Since the end of TWEWY, Joshua has been trying. He’s been trying to become better. He is slowly beginning to try to understand people, to understand that people’s lives--even his own, to an extent--have value, to try and be just a bit more selfless, to try and care. It’s certainly difficult, uncomfortable, and extremely foreign to him, but he’s trying. (I tend to play him like his KH3D incarnation, hence this is how the original game leads to this--) He doesn’t want to continue to be the monster he had been.

Becoming a Reaper was like he got tinted glasses. Eventually, the luster faded, and the world was gray once more. Because of Neku and crew, Joshua Kiryu finally feels like he can see color in the world that he couldn’t before.

[vickdrops]

Happiness [Bucky x Reader]

Pairing: bucky x reader (Y/N) Genre: angst/fluff Warnings: strong language A/N: someone put ‘angst/fluff’ on my grave bc that’s all I ever write apparently. this is for @hellyeahbarnes​ because she still remembers the title of this from when it was first posted ages ago :P requests for bucky, frank castle, and billy russo are open!

When Bucky met Y/N for the first time, he’d stopped for an entire 5 seconds outside the cafe window, just staring at her face. He’d felt like the entire world (as well as all the haunting weight that never seemed to leave his shoulders) had evaporated into thin air, and all he could think about what how gorgeous this person was. Her hair had been tied loosely in a bun at the nape of her neck, but he remembers so clearly the few, curly tendrils that had escaped and fallen in front of her face.

The first time he saw her, he swore his heart stopped.

He remembers how beautiful her smile had been when he approached her, and stuttered out a shaky “hello” for the first time. And how she laughed like she didn’t have a care in the world, when he couldn’t seem to get anymore words out after that, and stuck her hand out for him to shake, with a breezy “Hi, I’m Y/N. Would you like to have a coffee with me?”

And as they say, the rest was history.

He remembers one night where he’d been lying in bed, terrified to fall close his eyes- no, terrified of what he might see if he closes his eyes, and Y/N had come out of the shower, singing some silly jingle she’d heard on the TV earlier that night. She’d been dancing in one of his shirts, and he couldn’t help the smile that slipped onto his face as he watched this amazing creature slip underneath the covers and whisper to him, “I can’t get the bug repellant ad song out of my head.” And when he’d try to roll his eyes playfully, and trying to banish the thought of the impending nightmares only moments away, she’d crawled over to him of him and snuggled literally on top of his chest. And he can’t remember exactly why she’d done it, but he can remember how, with her weight on top of him, he’d felt properly warm and relaxed for the first time in years.

There were no nightmares that night.

Fuck Hydra- fuck all of that. The girl that had curled up beside him and sang him to sleep, the girl that could calm him down from a panic attack with nothing but her quiet whispers and gentle touches- that was all that mattered to Bucky. And he remember show, right before he fell asleep that night, he forgave his lucky stars. He forgave the stars and the Gods and the universe for the decades of pain, because, if his destiny had been aligned this way so that he could one day fall in love with Y/N, then hell. It had all been worth it.

He remembers how, the next morning, when she was making him pancakes shaped like his face (“It’s pancake art, Buck!”), the words that fell from his mouth were words he never thought he’d ever get to say- but he also remembers how he never once regretted saying them. He’d been standing in the doorway, watching her concentrate so hard on perfecting his pancake-eyebrows, and he’d said it so quietly (but oh, how he’d meant it), that she had almost missed it. Almost.

“Marry me.”

He can still picture her face in his mind, clear as crystal- he can picture the stunned, glazed expression she wore, her cheeks tinged pink and her mouth agape, as she stood with her back to the counter, the pancake of his face burning to a crisp in the pan.

“You- wha- marry you?” She’d breathed, her eyes as round as saucers.

He recalls how that had been the third time in his life that he’d been truly afraid. The first was when Steve first joined the army, because goddamn that kid was going to get trampled in army. And the second was- it still hurts to think about it- his fall off off the train. He’d been truly afraid then. And he was feeling it now for the third time- the fear of being rejected by the only person he could ever see himself loving for the rest of his life. The sheer terror of having to maybe consider what life without her again.

“Okay?”

He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath.

“Okay?” He’d repeated softly, a toothy grin (that he didn’t even know he was capable of pulling) spreading on his face. He remembers how much his cheeks hurt because the last time he’d smiled that hard had been on Coney Island with Steve- almost a lifetime ago.

“Okay,” she’d giggled, and he was across the room in an instant, sweeping her up into the biggest, tightest hug, and, like, Bucky’s not usually a touchy person. But with Y/N- he always wants to touch her. Always wants to be holding her hand, or feeling her leg against his. And so Y/N’s arms (spatula and pancake-batter-fingers and all) were wrapped around his neck and he was lifting her off her toes, and they were spinning, spinning, giggling and grinning because they were gonna get married!

But it never ever goes to plan, does it?

Who was he to think that he, The Winter Soldier, deserved anything but an unhappy ending? And Bucky has this habit, right, of dramatising things and letting his head rule his heart until he feels so isolated, and so when he’d lost control a few weeks later and almost slammed Y/N- his sun and stars and everything in between- into the bathroom door, he made up his mind.

Monsters don’t get fairytale endings; they don’t get the princess. And as much as it had killed Bucky to do it, he locked himself in the bathroom and yelled her to “piss off!” when she’d banged on the door and pleaded for him to just. Let her in. Please.

But he’d yelled some things at her he didn’t mean in a million years (even though he knew that both of them knew that- they still hurt). He’d yelled, and they’d both cried, and she had left his place in the early hours of the morning with tear-stained cheeks and a broken heart. He remembers how utterly empty he had felt, sprawled helplessly on the floor with the shards of the broken mirror he’d punched littered on the ground around him.

And so, here he is, two whole months later, sitting on top of the Avengers tower, staring out at the millions of tiny lights that make up New York City. He’s staring- but not really seeing. All he can think is Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, and how much he misses her and needs her. Fuck, he needs her. He’s been sleeping like shit these past few weeks, ever since he’d let her go. (Honestly though, he was lucky if he slept at all. The nightmares seemed to return with a viciousness that he was defenseless against).

He was keeping her safe by staying away. None of the other avengers know about her, she wasn’t in the SHIELD system (Bucky made sure of that the instant they got involved), and as far as he knows (and he knows her pretty damn well), she’s not actually an undercover SHIELD or HYDRA agent.

She was safe. And if her safety could only be guaranteed by them being apart, then he’d suffer a lifetime to keep her from harm.

So why does the engagement ring in his back pocket feel so damn heavy?

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice brings him back down to reality- the shit, lonely reality he just can’t seem to escape. Bucky turns his head, too tired to give a proper response. Steve keeps his distance, letting Bucky have his space, and Bucky feels a surge of gratitude for his friend. He knows the team is concerned about him- hell, even he’s concerned- but he doesn’t even consider the idea of telling the team about Y/N. (And he’s thought about this a whole lot, right, because how else is he supposed to pass the time? And he’s come to the conclusion that he doesn’t want to tell the team because, mostly, he doesn’t want to endanger her, because this ‘superhero’ business almost comes with a using-loved-ones-for-leverage guarantee, and Y/N isn’t someone he can risk, but also because there’s a party of him that doesn’t want to believe that it’s over. If he tells someone about her, they’ll want to know more- they’ll want to know everything- and using past tense to describe his relationship with Y/N is already painful enough when it’s in his head. He doesn’t think he can do it out loud.)

“There’s a girl downstairs asking for you. We don’t know who she is, but...uh...she says she knows you,” Steve begins, an edge to his voice that Bucky doesn’t recognise.

“Who cares,” Bucky mutters back, running a hand through his hair. He let it grow long again, having no motivation to cut it, and it was almost back to chin-length. He hates it.

“She says her name is Y/N,” Steve adds softly, and Bucky immediately stiffens. His heart is caught in his throat and he can’t breathe. Y/N. Y/N is downstairs and she wants to see him and. He doesn’t know if he can do it.

“I don’t want to see her,” Bucky mutters, glaring at his hands because his head says don’t fucking do it but his heart is saying Y/N.

“Look, I don’t know who she is, but you’re a mess, Buck.” Steve doesn’t come any closer but doesn’t show any signs that he’s leaving, either. “If there’s any chance she can help you...please let her,” he says quietly.

“No need,” comes a soft voice that makes Bucky’s heartbeat double immediately and he’s whipping his head around so fast because he knows that voice. It’s the voice that keeps the nightmares away- the voice he thinks about all the time because he’s so damn scared he’ll forget what it sounds like.

She’s standing a little behind Steve, her glasses slipping off her nose a little, and she’s holding her forearms like she’s holding herself together- Bucky knows what that feels like.

“Y/N,” he breathes, slowly getting to his feet, his eyes locked on hers because she’s real and right in front of him. It’s only been two months, but it feels like forever, so he’s devouring her with his eyes and committing every piece of hair and every slope of her face to memory. He’s a man deprived of water and she’s a fucking waterfall.

“Look, I’ve been thinking a lot, and...I don’t give a shit,” she announces, and Bucky just looks. Looks at her. He opens his mouth to reply, but she just narrows her eyes and continues. “Yeah, you’re the big, scary Winter Solider who could probably kill me before I say ‘avenger’, but honestly, who cares? I love you, I trust you, and I know you feel the same, so you seriously need to quit your little martyr act because you deserve to be happy too.”

Does he?

He doesn’t fully believe it yet, but he’d like it to be true.

“You’re not safe with me,” he says miserably. Y/N rolls her eyes, but Steve interrupts before she can say another world.

“Hey, we’re a family here. And if Y/N is your-your...person, then she’s a part of the family too. And we protect our family, remember?” he says. “We promise to keep her safe, Buck. But she’s right. You deserve to be happy too.”

Y/N walks tentatively towards him, and he’s torn between freezing on the spot and sprinting towards her. But she reaches him before he can decide, and then she’s looping her fingers through his...and he feels whole again.

Bucky Barnes is holding happiness in his hands and he doesn’t plan on letting her go again.

Masterlist // Request Something

[fingersinhisass]

bc carly @aldmerii humored me and answered all 60 questions of the oc question thing for shaelle, i’m gonna do it for al as well even tho literally no one asked so. here goes!

1. WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S BIGGEST FEAR?

having his friends, people he’s grown to trust and care for, discover all the bad shit he did in the past and basically breaking all ties with him. he’s terrified they’ll think he’s a monster bc well. he thinks he’s a monster sometimes too

2. WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S FAVORITE MEMORY?

it’s not one specific memory exactly, more like. a mix of lots of memories. in the summer he used to play outside all day with the other kids who lived in his neighborhood (very poor, pretty decrepit houses, mostly dust and dying grass) and like. those were some of the best times for him? because he was still too young to care that their family didn’t have enough money to send him to school, or that all of his clothes were hand-me-downs with at least one tear that had been fixed, or that his mother’s face was worn with wrinkles that would better suit someone much older than she was. so he’d play pretend with these kids in his neighborhood, and go on “adventures” and kick around pebbles and wrestle in the dirt, and then he’d come back home to his mother calling him, and she’d wash his face and feet and hands gently and tuck him into bed and he’d fall asleep under the heat to the sound of her soft voice and the insects buzzing in the grass.

3. WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S LEAST FAVORITE MEMORY?

he’s got plenty to pick from, so i don’t think there’s one specific worst. but the gazes of people he willfully hurt, potentially even killed, really haunt him. he tries not to think about the stuff he did when he was younger.

4. DOES ANYONE HAVE A CRUSH ON YOUR CHARACTER? IS YOUR CHARACTER AWARE OF THIS?

my beautiful girl shaelle do,,,, and also this one demon dude they helped once. can’t remember his name bc he’s a pretty irrelevant npc. he was aware of that crush, but he has no fucking clue shaelle likes him

5: DESCRIBE YOUR CHARACTER’S DREAM DATE.

oh man. anything romantic that would make his date happy. it’s cliche, but he’s fond of long walks and candlelit dinners. he’s an exceptionally hopeless romantic.

6: WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S SEXUAL ORIENTATION?

lol what’s that????? al likes a lot of people he’s not picky. he’s actually kinda lowkey a ho. 

7: HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT THEIR NAME?

my boi gots lotsa names. his birth name makes him nostalgic, but he doesn’t really attach it to himself anymore -- the only person who can call him that is his mother. the name he used when he was a thief he absolutely despises. he still twitches if he hears it spoken, regardless of if it’s pointed towards him or not. he picked the name he has now himself, so he likes it quite a bit thank you very much. it makes him feel like a distinguished human gentleman. he’s a fucking doof.

8: DOES YOUR CHARACTER HATE ANYONE? WHY?

al is not someone who hates easily. he trusts easily (too stupid to learn from his past mistakes, he’d remark bitterly, but really it’s because he’s an idealist by nature and wants to believe people are inherently good). he doesn’t respond well to betrayal. at all. he accidentally punched a dude to death once for betraying the group. to be fair, the dude was really fucking old, and he only had one hit point left and failed all his death saves so like. not really al’s fault. you woulda done it too if you were in the same situation

9: HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT RELIGION?

neither of his parents are very religious, and he wasn’t raised religious either, so it doesn’t really matter to him all that much

10. WOULD YOUR CHARACTER EVER KILL SOMEONE?

yes, but only if he felt it was justified and there were no better options. he is strongly against killing people who he feels don’t deserve it, but there are some people he would kill without hesitation solely because he believes their death will benefit many others. he’s got. complicated morals.

11: HOW DID YOUR CHARACTER MEET THEIR BEST FRIEND?

he met borem when they were assigned to be partners. they’re both detectives. although not sure how long that friendship is gonna last now...............

12: HOW WOULD/DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT ROLLER COASTERS?

terrified. hates heights. don’t make him do this.

13: WHAT WOULD YOUR CHARACTER DIE FOR?

people he loves. easy.

14: WHAT IS THE CUTEST THING YOUR CHARACTER HAS EVER DONE?

when is my boy not cute, honestly???? idk, i can’t pin down a specific instance. but he’s like. super blushy and awkward around people he’s romantically attracted to, and that’s incredibly adorable. he took shaelle to the prison where her brother was being held so they could see each other again after ten years, and that was also very sweet

15: WHAT MUSIC GENRE WOULD YOUR CHARACTER LISTEN TO?

fuck, idk. he strikes me as the kind of person to just listen to whatever’s on. he doesn’t have a very developed taste in music

16: WHAT OTHER FICTIONAL CHARACTERS REMIND YOU OF YOUR CHARACTER?

jeez. probably gumshoe from ace attorney? mostly because they’re both good good detective boys just trying to do their best and i love both of them desperately.

17: DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE ANY IRRATIONAL FEARS?

heights!!! he hates heights!!!!! which is funny bc his acrobatics score is insane.

18: HOW WOULD YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT HAVING THEIR LIFE RECORDED?

it would make him supremely uncomfortable. he may be very social, but when it comes to his home life he’s intensely private.

19: WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S DEEPEST, DARKEST SECRET?

he gots lotsa those. he’s stolen very important things that resulted in the detriment of others, he’s tortured and killed people, he’s aided in drug trafficking and human trafficking -- with children. which is when he quit, because he couldn’t stand that. he hates watching children suffer.

20: WHAT IS THE MOST SURPRISING THING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER?

he’s actually a really good detective. not because he’s smart, though -- he’s desperately determined to better society, and he’s also just very, very lucky.

21: IS YOUR CHARACTER FLEXIBLE?

oh my god, yeah. listen, my baby got 18 dex, +7 to acrobatics. he is EXTREMELY flexible. wink wink

22: WHAT IS THE WORST THING YOUR CHARACTER HAS EVER DONE?

oops i kinda answered this one already. i’m not gonna go into detail bc i kinda just don’t want to?? listen he’s done bad things he regrets

23: IS YOUR CHARACTER MORALLY GRAY OR BLACK OR WHITE?

hmm. he generally does things with good in mind, and usually he does it in a way that’s not so bad. but sometimes he twists the rules a little bit in a way that’s. ehh?? he’s not entirely against using violence to better things.

24: WHAT PREJUDICES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

he’s generally not a fan of rich people or the ruling class. ofc he’s got a huge crush on shaelle, but like. she’s the exception

25: WOULD YOU WANT TO HANG OUT WITH YOUR CHARACTER?

no bc he’s devastatingly handsome and i’d be terrified.

26: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE HEADCANON FOR YOUR CHARACTER?

him whistle real good. he likes to whistle and sing like. all the time. when he’s just idly doing things at home he does it without even realizing it and he’s a little off-key sometimes but he can carry a tune

27: WHAT WOULD BE THE WORST WAY FOR YOUR CHARACTER TO DIE?

at the hands of a friend, probably

28: WHAT PET WOULD YOUR CHARACTER LIKE TO HAVE?

for a while he had some sort of ferret weasel thing? idk if nj is gonna let me say he’s still got it tho lmao

29: WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHARACTER’S FAVORITE FOOD?

his mom’s recipe for fresh-baked bread. real white bread was a fucking luxurious treat when he was growing up and so whenever his mom would make a small loaf of it, maybe like once or twice a year, it was always so special to him

30: WOULD YOUR CHARACTER HAVE ANY HOBBIES?

he likes to read, especially adventure or romance novels lmao

31: WHAT SOCIAL MEDIA WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE?

i can see him on twitter??? he’d have no idea how to use it though

32: WHAT DOES YOUR CHARACTER LOOK LIKE?

him real hansom. angular features, high cheekbones, tan skin, very fair hair and silver eyes bc he’s a sun elf. long, long eyelashes that are darker than his hair, thick eyebrows. thin build, 5′10, long nose. i’m lov my boy.

33: IN WHAT WAYS IS YOUR CHARACTER LIKE YOU?

he’s loud, goofy, occasionally pretty snarky, expresses emotions like happiness, excitement, and anger very easily, but feels weak showing sadness and tries to suppress it. fails. head over heels for shaelle.

34: WHAT IS CLICHE ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER?

so many of my characters are pretty boys. so many. also he’s a lovable idiot

35: WHAT IS UNIQUE ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER?

i made him myself n he’s got a big ol’ heart.

36: DOES ANYONE WANT TO HARM YOUR CHARACTER?

there are a lot of people who would kill him immediately if they knew where he was and that he wasn’t dead. he has a lot of enemies.

37: DO PEOPLE HAVE JUSTIFIED GRUDGES AGAINST YOUR CHARACTER?

probably. he speaks his mind a lot and can kind of be an asshole sometimes 

38: WHAT ROLE DOES YOUR CHARACTER PLAY IN THEIR STORY?

he’s there to take everyone to fantasy jcpenny

39: WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHARACTER’S NICHE ON TUMBLR?

historical fashion blogs and poetry all the way

40: WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHARACTER’S FAVORITE SCHOOL SUBJECT?

creative writing or some sort of music class. he like both.

41: WOULD YOUR CHARACTER WANT TO HAVE ANY CHILDREN?

YES!!!!! he loves kids. LOVES them. his entire life he’s wanted to be a dad. eventually he’s gonna get married to shaelle and they’re gonna have lotsa babies, but currently he hasn’t had the time to meet anyone or settle down and he’s worried he never will.

42: WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHARACTER’S DREAM CAREER?

he’s doin’ it. basically he just wants to help people however he can and make up for all the bad things he did for so long

43: WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER INSECURE ABOUT?

his social class. especially around shaelle. he definitely thinks he is absolutely not worth her time, and the subject of poverty or the social hierarchy in serin ilyan really touches a nerve for him. he also just really, really wants people to like him. 

44: WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER PROUD OF?

all the good work he’s done as a detective. he’s (surprisingly) solved a lot of cases, and he feels a sense of accomplishment and justice for doing it. like maybe he can start to sleep a little easier knowing he hasn’t just hurt people all his life.

45: WHAT WOULD YOUR CHARACTER CHANGE ABOUT THEMSELVES?

his past. he’d go back and do something different, try to actually work hard and make honest money instead of getting involved in what he did

46: WOULD YOU WANT TO TRADE PLACES WITH YOUR CHARACTER?

hell no. i love him to bits and i’d love to be a really handsome elf man, but like. my boy has way too much guilt that i wouldn’t want to live with.

47: WHAT FANDOMS WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE IN?

al isn’t cool enough to like things like that. plus he’d be very confused by fandom culture i think

48: HOW WOULD YOUR CHARACTER TYPE?

hunt and peck, capitalized first letter but nothing else, punctuation when he sees fit

49: HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER STAND POLITICALLY?

he doesn’t know what, but he knows SOMETHING needs to be done about the poverty in his city. other than that he tends to look at the smaller scale of helping people

50: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER?

he messes up a lot but he never stops trying?? he has a lot of determination and things he believes in and i love him for that. i love him for trying so hard to be good.

51: WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S FAVORITE ANIMAL?

he likes mice, mostly because they were easy to find when he was a kid and he always caught them and tried to train them, but then felt bad and let them go like an hour later

52: HOW WOULD YOUR CHARACTER ACT IN GYM CLASS?

he’s not super strong but he is crazy flexible. probably not a ton of stamina and although he looks like he’s got the body for it he’s not that great at running. he’s just really fucking good at climbing and doing flips and shit. he’s always one of the last people out during dodgeball just bc he’s so good at dodging. he can move FAST.

53: WHAT CLUBS WOULD YOUR CHARACTER JOIN?

he probably wouldn’t join any clubs bc high school is around the time he started down the path of Bad Shit so he definitely wasn’t spending any time hanging around the school if he didn’t have to

54: WHAT IS THE SADDEST THING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER’S LIFE?

he doesn’t realize that people are complicated and that good people are capable of and do bad things sometimes. he’s not a monster for the mistakes he made in the past. he’s genuinely good, he’s doing his best, and people love him and care about him and he needs to know that.

55: WOULD YOUR CHARACTER DO THE ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE?

hm, this question sure dates the original post... yeah he absolutely would. he likes doing dumb things like that, especially if they’re for a good cause. he’s a goof.

56: WHAT’S ONE OF YOUR CHARACTER’S QUIRKS?

he’s very fidgety. he doesn’t even notice it but he’s really not good at staying still

57: HOW WOULD YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT FEMINISM?

i think he wouldn’t understand the complexities of it, but in general he would absolutely be for it. inequality pisses him off.

58: IS YOUR CHARACTER DORKY OR MORE ATHLETIC?

he’s an absolute dork. 100%.

59: WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER?

a lot of the time i worry he’s too contrived and tragic or that i play him out of character or that he’s just like. way too dramatic in general.

60: IF YOU COULD TITLE YOUR CHARACTER’S LIFE, WHAT WOULD YOU TITLE IT?

The Good Boy: Please, Folks, He’s Doing His Best

[rachclgreen]

buy you a rose - (jily drabble) i actually don’t know what this is, i was listening to buy you a rose by AJR and suddenly i was writing. there was no plot in mind, literally no direction. just two little idiots and some background music. could be described as firsts and lasts w/ colors. hope you don’t hate it--if you do that’s cool too though. also, listen to AJR bc their music is rad af. 

james swears on his mother’s favorite blue sweater that he’s never seen eyes such a bright shade of green--like the color of the frogspawn in his father’s potions kits, or the stems of the roses he carefully grows for his mum in the back gardens. really, james hasn’t seen eyes that weren’t blue or brown and had assumed that it wasn’t possible for people to have eyes any other color--but he’s eleven and naive, cut him some slack. he wants to ask her if they’re her real eye color, (you can’t actually have eyes the color of clovers, and moss, and caterpillars) but he and his mum had discussed inside thoughts and outside thoughts for three hours yesterday and he really thinks she’d be disappointed if he couldn’t last a week without mixing the two up.

but really, her eyes can’t possibly be real.

james shifts in his seat, his fingers twitching at his sides. he’s pretty sure he could draw her eyes, if he mixed his two favorite green pencils with a bit of yellow and blue. he tilts his head sideways, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose. he’d need brown as well, if he wanted to get the edges right (which he did). he’d have to owl his mum when he got to the castle, he’d only brought half his pencils from home (a clear mistake, he’d told his dad he’d need the whole set). maybe he’d be able to catch her within the first week of classes and have her sit for a portrait--it’d be the only way to get the exact color perfect, and even then he’d have to watch the lighting. 

lily’s pretty sure she’s never met a boy who stared so blatantly at a girl whilst she cried without once offering condolences, a handkerchief, or something at the very least aside from two wide eyes that won’t move from her own. she rubs her sleeve over her cheeks, brushing the tears away from her eyes, and shoots her best glare at the stupid git who can’t seem to take a hint. pulling her knees to her chest, she shuffles her body towards the wall and glares some more. 

“would you quit staring?” lily finally snaps, her lips in a pronounced pout. 

“sorry,” james mutters, not moving his eyes from hers--and it dawns on him in that moment, he knows that color, its not grass or clover or peppers or any other ridiculous shade of green (how could he be so stupid, its so obvious). “it’s just--your eyes are almost the exact same color as algae.” 

her eyes narrow, and james knows immediately that that should’ve been an inside thought as her shoe hits his head.

all of the students, and professors, and books, and literally every reputable source describe the lake on the hogwarts grounds as the black lake, but james is prepared to fight half of those people because he’s certain that theres shades of purple and red swirling in the depths that have nothing to do with the squid or merfolk that swim within its depths. sirius claims it to be a trick of the light, every time he brings it up. he doesn’t need sirius’ recognition to know he’s right though. all the proof he needs comes in the shaking form of evans, who stands before him in a near transparent school blouse that once was white but is now stained purple. 

he’s pretty certain she’s glaring at him (he didn’t even do anything, he hadn’t realized what sirius was doing until he’d heard the splash and by then, well he couldn’t exactly do more than pull her out of the water could he?) but all he can do is stare at her shirt as it drips with lilac and violet and a dark grey that when mixed together looks like the universe and definitely could be mistaken for black by anyone without an artists eye. 

in the end he trades lily his cloak for her blouse--he swears on his dad’s amaryllis that he’s only trying to be a gentleman, and he’ll return her shirt to her promptly, really. she’s hesitant, because they’re sixteen and sirius is standing at his side, but he really didn’t do anything and she thinks she might be half in love with him anyway. 

“oh brilliant evans, you won’t regret this i swear.” he’s draping his cloak around her shoulders, shielding his body in front of hers as she unbuttons the soaking shirt and ties the cloak tightly against her chest. “i’ve been trying to determine the color of the lake for ages, but i’ve never thought to put it on fabric while looking at it--this is going to be perfect.”

“you know you’re the only redhead i’ve ever met.” james states matter of factly, as though he hadn’t just been discussing quidditch scores with the gideon who’s hair is even more shocking than her own. lily scoffs, pursing her lips and eyeing the two prewett boys (now standing together with benjy and sirius) and wondering when her boyfriend lost his mind. “you do realize you were just speaking with gid a moment ago, right sweetheart?”

he winces at her tone, but shakes his head assuredly. he taps his index finger against the back of her hand, and twirls a bit of her hair around his other.

james wants to tell her that the prewett boys are made up of oranges--bright shades that could rival fruit and fire. it’s a brilliant color, one that he’s drawn with on several occasions over the years. it’s the color of his dad’s favorite mug, and the collars his mum got for the dogs in fourth year before they (he) left them in the woods. 

but her hair. he’d tried to draw it over and over but couldn’t ever get it quite right--not with pencils, oils, or watercolors. she was a shade between the roses he’d taken to buying her for holidays and the scarlet ties they’d worn for seven years in the castle. (he thinks that its closest to the color running through his veins, but that might just be because both shades are close to his heart.) the two aren’t comparable, really no color he’s ever seen could rival the color that falls from her head in waves. 

“they’re gingers lil, it’s different.” and lily just nods because she doesn’t understand, but somehow she hopes that she does.

lily nudges his knee with her foot and holds out one of two steaming mugs filled to the brim with tea and sugar. james grunts in response, two colored pencils clutched tightly in his fingers. she wants to tell him that the two colors are exactly the same--even more than the last two colors were when she DID tell him exactly that. but figures she can’t escape to the kitchen twice in ten minutes because of her inability to hold her own tongue. 

he scratches against the parchment with one pencil, his brows crinkling together tightly as he stares at the color it leaves behind. he stares for several moments that feel like an eternity as she stands there holding two burning mugs--before doing exactly the same with the other pencil. 

“james,” she sighs, placing his mug atop a torn bit of parchment, whilst cradling her own. “they’re nearly the same color, just choose one and be done with it.” but james shakes his head with vehemence. 

“they’re not the same lil,” his voice is low, and he’s pulling the parchment towards his face squinting between the two blues. “merlin, i don’t think either of these is right.” 

james’ head falls backwards as he swears loudly. his fingers are gripping the edges of the parchment so tightly he thinks it’ll probably tear but it doesn’t matter because the baby’s bedroom is meant to look like the color of the sea, and the blues he’s looking between match more closely to the sky of cokeworth. both colors have strong memories attached to them--but cokeworth has petunia and snape and smoggy clouds that make him sick just thinking about them. he wants his baby to be surrounded only by his and lily’s happiest memories; crashing waves and stones skipping across their crests. “i just want it to be perfect.”

lily nods, her fingers grazing over her stomach where a slight bump has begun to rise. they’re nineteen and totally not cut out for this--at least, she doesn’t feel cut out for this. just scared and nervous and slightly motion sick. but james is scrubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, and she can’t imagine anyone she’d rather have as the father of her child than some idiot artist who’s so worried about one shade of a single color that will go into a mix of several other colors (all of which) he’s painstakingly chosen just to capture a single emotion for their baby’s nursery. 

but james drapes his fingers over her hand, and smiles crookedly at her, his other hand toying with two new pencil colors. she rolls her eyes (because they’ll never sleep at this rate), but he’s babbling about memories and scribbling with colors, and maybe she’ll never understand why he’s so specific but she loves him for it anyway.

[itsworn]

We Visit The 400-Car Property For Sale In Canada, It’s Wonderland.

For Sale: Wonderland.

Mike Hall’s 400-car collection and all the land it sits on can be yours if you dare to dream the same dream.

I’m sitting in my rental car outside of JP’s Diner in Salmon Arm, British Columbia, because JP very reasonably doesn’t open his doors before 7 AM. There’s a chill in the air as winter gives way to spring here in BC’s interior, with snow still visible on the mountains that ring the town. I’d driven up here before dawn from Kelowna, with Okanogan Lake’s 85 miles of shoreline my near constant companion just off the right shoulder, the sun creeping through the morning mist that until only a few moments ago shrouded the valley’s rocky peaks.

My contemplation of Canada’s weather patterns is broken by the sudden screech of tires and the insistent thumping of lumpy cam. A voice calls out to me from the entrance to the parking lot, a hearty ‘hey, is that you?’ emanating from the driver’s seat of a burgundy ’68 Chevelle SS. I look over at the clump of blonde dreads hanging out the window of the straight-piped muscle machine and smile. Mike’s here, and he’s now laying twenty feet of rubber on his way to the parking spot beside me.

I couldn’t have asked for a more accurate introduction to the barely contained ball of cerebro-kinetic energy that is Mike Hall. Now contemplating the other side of 60, Hall has barely slowed down in any area of his life. Alternately known ‘the Rusty Rasta,’ and ‘the Rasta Blasta,’ he still scales the cliff faces he’s been climbing since he was a teen, leading his team as they blast away dangerous chunks of rock before they can flatten tourists and locals on highways and rail lines below. With explosives. Lots of explosives. He still drives his 396 Chevelle SS with his foot flat to the floor,  and he’s still buying automobiles by the bushel.

This last character trait is a bit of an issue, you see, because Mike’s in the middle of trying to unload western Canada’s largest treasure trove of cars, trucks, and parts. Spread across three yards (and the contents of one museum) are well more than 350 of Hall’s personally-selected vintage machines, a gamut of rides that ranges from 40s-era domestics and European imports, to blistering 60s muscle, to a penchant for Sunbeam Alpines (of which he owns five).

The catch? He’s keen on selling everything, all at once, including the land and the buildings that sit on it, rather than wasting his time trying to deal the vehicles piecemeal to hundreds of potential online tirekickers. The asking price is a cool $1.4 million Canadian (just over $1 million in Yankee bucks), and it’s been nine months since the listing went live. I didn’t have a million of anything, really, but I did have a camera, and I was determined to walk it through the gates of Mike’s Northwestern wonderland before they closed forever.

It’s our first meeting in person after a few weeks of phone calls, and after shaking hands and waiting for the rest of Mike’s crew to join us, we walk into the diner and pick a table near the middle of the establishment. Plopping down beside Mike at breakfast is Felix, who confirms the Hall has done little to temper his habit in the face of the impending divestment. Along with his partner, Olivier, seated to my left, the two have traveled all the way to B.C. from Switzerland, where Felix’s custom car shop (Cars and Bikes Schaffhausen) is based. They have spent the last five days taking a serious inventory of Mike’s properties and vehicles with an eye towards buying the entire kit and caboodle.

‘Mike, how many cars did you buy even during the short time that we have been here?’ Felix asks, cajoling his new friend. At first, Hall denies having expanded the collection, but before long Felix, bright-eyed and quick to laugh behind his wild beard, has reminded him of the at least four cars Mike picked up, sight-unseen, over the phone while the duo were in earshot.

‘I’ve actually bought about 40 cars, total, since I first listed everything last year,’ Hall finally admits. ‘It’s the same old story: if I see something I want, I buy it and cart it home, no questions asked.’

It’s this take-no-prisoners approach to automotive accumulation that has landed Mike in his current predicament: what to do with so many projects, and a finite amount of time to get them all done. We’re not talking about mid-life malaise, either, although that has played no small part in Hall reconsidering his approach to car collecting. ‘A friend of mine who was in a similar situation – he spent his inheritance on a car collection – died at 65, and his wife sold everything off at pennies on the dollar. It really made me think that if I drop dead tomorrow, I don’t want to be that guy. My own wife would curse me for leaving her with that burden.’

More immediately, it’s largely about the fact that the man spends the vast majority of his time out on the road with his rock scaling business, leaving him few spare moments to restore any of the vehicles he has dragged home.

‘It’s all I ever did, since I was 18 – hang on ropes, blow shit up,’ he told me over a plate of eggs and hash browns. ‘Try not to fall – a four letter word, only happens once,’ he said, with the gallows chuckle of anyone who’s ever had to square away the realities of a dangerous job with the confidence and competence required to get it done, day in, day out.

The entire time we’re talking – shooting the breeze with Felix and Ollie about the classic car market in Switzerland (Mustangs, Camaros, and Mopars, although Felix just finished a $100k C-body restoration for a client), pointing out the framed photos on the wall of the diner of cars that Mike himself brought back to life – Hall is showing me pictures of recent acquisitions and projects-in-progress on his phone. ‘I’ve got ADD,’ he tells me, ‘so it’s easy for me to get distracted.’

That unrestrained enthusiasm for everything (especially if it’s got four wheels) shines through in the comprehensive nature of what Mike’s ended up collecting over the years. When I ask him what he thinks he has the most of, his buddy Avery, who has also joined us for breakfast, chimes in with a resounding ‘JUNK!’ There’s a roar of laughter from the group, who by now are standing in JB’s parking lot getting ready to make the 15 minute drive up to Mike’s.

By the time we get to the yard, however, my rental car panting and foaming at the mouth trying to keep up with Hall’s SS, I can easily see that Avery’s crack simply isn’t true. From the road, row upon row of Mopars, Fords, Buicks, and Oldsmobiles gleam alongside the White Post Auto Museum that abuts the most recent location for Hall’s armada, but that’s not our first stop. Instead, Mike wheels his Chevelle up the dirt path that leads up behind the museum, past two rows of shops, and into a yard framed by shipping containers on the left, and a garage on the right.

‘Welcome to the overflow yard,’ Mike says to me with an expansive sweep of his arms. This is where his latest acquisitions stop to catch their breath before being sorted and moved to a more permanent resting place, and in a word, it’s glorious. My eye darts from the late-60’s Cutlass hardtop to the pair of 67 Dodge Charger 383s sitting side-by-each, to the patina-ed Ford pickup with the bullet hole in the windshield. There’s a mid-50s two-door Chevy wagon facing off against a Pontiac of similar vintage, cuddled up to a three-door, late-60s three-door Suburban and a two-door former GMC ambulance with an air conditioner carved into the side. In short, it’s a (somewhat) moveable feast for the eyes, sitting proud in the B.C. mud.

‘It started with Novas,’ he tells me as we walk through the muddy puddles that separate the machines. ‘My first car was a ’51 International, but really it was the next one, my ’61 Alpine that got things started for me. After I ran that into the side of a mountain at about a hundred miles an hour – it had a V6 Capri motor in it – I ended up buying six or seven little 62-65 Novas, and eventually a ’67 with an L79 that I traded for my Chevelle.’  The SS has its own unique back-story, of course. ‘I sold the car to a buddy, but regretted it and bought it back 15 years later. Turns out he’d never processed the paperwork, so it was titled in my name that entire time. Technically, I’ve owned it for almost 25 years now.’

I asked him when, exactly, the tipping point occurred: the moment in time where ‘six or seven Novas’ became a living, breathing car collection? ‘Probably when it had grown to 30 cars and I had to move it the first time, then it was 60 and I had to move it the second time, then it was 200 and I came home and the gate on my farm was locked and my wife put her foot down and said “get this shit off my farm,” and then it was almost 400 and I’m like “what the fuck have I done?”‘ he replies, laughing.

We maneuver through the overflow and into the body shop, where Mike’s working on restoring a Plymouth Sport Satellite ragtop with a big block – one of the growing numbers of Mopars that he’s added to the fleet in recent years. I ask him how he decides what to buy. ‘My tastes have changed as I’ve evolved over the years, but I still like all kinds of cars,’ he says to me, pointing out the firewall tag on the car that’s hanging, rotisserie-style, awaiting paint. ‘I’ve got 59 through 61 Buick Invicta bubbletops, 60 and 61 Olds bubbletops, just picked up a 61 Cadillac bubbletop. I just love the design, that back window, man, that skinny little back B-pillar, you roll the windows down and there’s eight feet of air. Super cool!’

The Mopar angle has lead him to some interesting places, with a number of low-production Dodges and Plymouths now haunting the grounds. ‘I’ve got another one of these Sport Satellite rags, a numbers-matching 60 Road Runner 383 four-speed, two 70 Super B’s, a 70 Coronet wagon, a ’67 Formula S, a few Demons, and a Duster 340 four-speed Go-Wing car, although that one’s just a shell,’ he tells me as we walk down the dirt road from the overflow paddock to the museum. He wants to take me inside and show me some of his finished projects, which are mixed in on the floor with cars belonging to the White Post’s owners, Vance and Keri Tierney. I see an Alpine, Chevs, rods, a Model T, but the real show-stopper is a 1946 Mercury Ute – probably the only one in the country, and perhaps the only example left in North America. Originally built in Canada as a coupe, and shipped Down Under to be finished, at the time the pickup bed at the back of the Ute was the largest automotive stamping in the world. Most were Fords, but somehow, this one’s a Merc, and I’ll never see another one in my lifetime.

This Canada-by-way-of-Australia-only specimen is one of over a dozen Canuck-specific cars in the collection. Right outside the museum’s side-door is the highway-facing lot that houses the attention-grabbers in the collection, the cars that cause people to pull over, pull in, and start kicking tires. Mixed in with the Dodge and Plymouth crew are Javelins, AMXs, and a gang of Pontiac Beaumont Sport Deluxes, with the latter never having been offered south of the border. Sprouted from the forehead of the Acadian – Canada’s maple-coated Chevy II – Beaumonts were intended to tickle the premium fancies of the moderately well-to-do, becoming their own model line in 1966 and even offering big block power in Sport Deluxe trim (which also featured full consoles and bucket seats), making them kissing cousins to the Chevelle SS. The full-size Pontiac Parisienne (Canada’s B-platform, top-of-line sedan with vague links to both the Bonneville and the Chevrolet Caprice, only…different) is also represented.

Mike’s all-encompassing automotive tastes are reflected everywhere you look: a 1976 Ford Courier pickup sits in a line of retired American iron, a two-door 59 Chevy Brookwood wagon juts its fins out in a row of Invictas, a 66 Mercury Comet Caliente poses beside a Galaxie 500 fastback. At the back, along a fence, sits a wide array of trucks – a ’26 Chevrolet, an Austin panel, and wreckers from the 50s, 60s, and 70s – nestled behind a gathering of Alpines, panel vans, and a single Opel GT.

To describe each and every vehicle that I’m seeing would require an encyclopedic knowledge of the automotive landscape, but not only does Mike instantly identify, without exception, the make, model, and options offered by each of the cars in the yard, he also has their complete back-stories readily available to him via some fantastical mental Rolodex that has tracked the provenance of every purchase he’s ever made for the past four decades. The fount of knowledge and insight that pours from his mouth, without hesitation, is overwhelming as he gives me a guided tour through his ensemble of classic metal. This is no accidental accumulation, nor the tortured self-made prison popularized by a hundred Discovery Channel hoarders, but the conscious realization of a passion that has consumed most of the man’s life.

‘Every car in the yard I thought, ‘I’m going to restore that one day,’ Mike says as we pile into his Chevelle for a quick trip down the road to the field that holds the remainder – or is that motherlode? – of his collection. ‘And then you wake up one morning and you’re 60 fucking years old and you realize, ‘I’m not going to live long enough.’ You’ve have to be 300 to get it done, and you still might not make it.’

After a full-throttle run down the road, where Hall demonstrates the vibration the SS has picked up above 4,000 rpm in third and fourth gear – ‘I think it’s the driveshaft, at this point’ – we arrive at the gate to the last piece of his empire. Consisting of a restoration shop, a small house, and about 200 more cars sitting in the field just a short walk downhill from driveway, it’s where a mix of the less-common, but still solid pieces of his collection live.

‘I’m not really a car restorer, I’m just learning with these projects,’ he tells me on a quick tour of the shop.’ ‘I like buying them, but I’m going to pick easier ones to do from now on. Some of the cars I’ve done in the past should have been crushed, they were in such a sorry state when we started. But I didn’t know that, and I pushed through and restored them anyway – like that Challenger up on the wall of the diner. It was a 318 car, and we did a 340, and I lost 10k on it after I sold it. I had 400 hours of sheet metal work getting the rust out of it, and there was just no money to be made afterward.’

By now we’re picking our way down the hill – the one that made Mike quit smoking several years ago, he tells me – and I’m getting a full view of the field ahead. It’s the kind of eclectic mix you’ll never find in a salvage yard, because it takes heart, not an accountants beady eye, to gather these vehicles together and then take care of them for close to 40 years. My own peepers pick out a pair of FJ40 Land Cruisers, a Studebaker Lark Wagonaire and sedan, a mid-size Mercedes-Benz and of course another Alpine. Old drag cars, their livery faded but still boastful, sit beside a clump of Corvairs, GM pickups, and even a Simca. I’m blown away, but somehow not surprised when Mike reveals yet another piece of Canadian history – a Meteor Ranchero – that counts only 299 original brothers and sisters, with who knows how few remaining.

It’s the automotive equivalent of ‘Field of Dreams,’ only instead of corn, Iowa, and Kevin Costner, we’ve got mountains, metal, and a far more engaging leading man. I stand there in the spring silence for a few moments, gazing out at the cars carefully organized in front of me. Their doting caretaker stands beside me in a rare still moment of his own, a man whose mind is never far from this hallowed ground no matter how far his work takes him into the interior of Canada’s western-most province. For those few, fleeting seconds, I feel like I’ve tapped into that same, calming peace Mike finds here among his treasures.

We drive back to the main yard, the Chevy’s exhaust roaring and the tires squealing away from every stop. There’s more than one kind of Zen to be had out here amongst these machines, and I’m perfectly willing to accept big block bluster as an equally-restorative form of automotive therapy. On the way, Mike reflects on the magnitude of what he has to offer buyers like Felix and Ollie.

‘It’s a pretty tough sell,’ he admits. ‘Someone’s got to be as stupid as me, or as crazy as me to actually see the potential. If you picked 30 cars, restored them, you could sell the other 350 or so to fund the projects. There are a couple of huge shop buildings sitting on the land here in pieces, that could be put up to add another half a million or so to the property’s value.’

‘One guy can’t do all of this,’ he continues, a realization that he’s had for quite some time. ‘You need a team. Someone who can figure out what to part out, someone who can go online and connect with buyers. I don’t part anything – if I buy something for the shell, 30 years later, it’s still the same shell. If I buy it compete, 30 years later it’s still complete, save for a few four-doors that I’m willing to strip.’ It’s not boasting if it’s true, and I’ve just seen how much effort Hall has put into keeping his cars together, intact, and safe from the tin worm while in his care.

The truth is, there aren’t very many individuals like Mike left in the world. The stream of stories about big yards run by equally out-sized personalities has slowed to a trickle, and will eventually dry up completely as land values continue to climb and the number of people with the savvy and resources to maintain these sprawling collections dwindles away. With big-buck auctions brainwashing the masses into believing the only worthwhile classic is a 100-point restoration that doubles as a stand-in for your 401k, interest in drivers or complete, restorable cars as anything other than parts donors is at an all-time low.

Hall knows it, too. We say our good-byes just outside the overflow yard, and as I thanked him profusely for his time and generosity – I’d just been given a half-day guided tour through automotive history – he tells me how as part of the surge in attention his sale had gotten, he had been interviewed by Carol Ott on the CBC Radio 1’s stalwart ‘As It Happens.’

‘She asked me, Mike, how are you going to feel when they’re all gone,’ he says. ‘I’m sitting there in the shop looking out at all those cars, and I just started to cry.’ He pauses. ‘I realized it was like her asking me ‘how would you feel if we killed your kids right in front of you?’

For a moment his face loses the mischievous spark that’s been in his eyes ever since we met that morning. Then, almost as quickly, it’s back, and he smiles, laughs, shakes my hand again. He turns on his heel and walks back to the yard. After all, there are things to do, parts to order, phone calls to make – and children to take care of.

The post We Visit The 400-Car Property For Sale In Canada, It’s Wonderland. appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[love-loser]

16 or 2 👀 or maybe 16 AND 2? Like younger brat tony who’s breadwinner to his exasperated older hubby,,

16. professor peter x cocky student tony 

SORRY OMG THIS IS SO LONG jkhddh thank you for the ask! i didnt know how to combine 2 and 16 so i just wrote 16, but someone else asked for 2 so fear not, you will be getting it. hope you enjoy

prompts here 

MOBILE USERS READ HERE PLS!! 

Even though college was a volatile time for many, this whole higher education thing was going pretty well for Peter. Granted, he’s the one teaching the class, but still, pretty good seeing as see he was so young (25) and oh so (very) endearing, both of which helped him get along with his students.

Well, most of his students.

He never knew just how much one person could annoy him but walking into class, seeing that stupid smirk on the younger boy’s smirk, just made his coffee taste that much bitter, the junior never failing to make his day just a bit shitty, somehow. 

Even more- he’d always managed to somehow know the material even though Peter was sure he was either sleeping or on his phone half the time. The Engineering professor could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d seen the brunette actually take notes. And it was already halfway into the semester. It hadn’t even caught Tony off guard when he tried to call on the boy. 

What he hated the most, though, was the way Tony’s stupid, stupid, intense, dusky eyes always seemed to undress him everytime he walked into the room. The way his hands made his excessively big iPhone look tiny when he wrapped his capable fingers around it and- not to mention those same fingers that rubbed against his lips as he blatantly checked his own professor out, in class, no less. Did kids these days have no manners?

Yes, maybe Peter was exaggerating just a tiny bit–– it’s not like Tony tormented him everyday or openly harassed him, but it’s the principle of it, see. In Peter’s mind, he only has one goal when it comes to Tony Stark, aka (surprisingly) straight A student, aka genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist most annoying boy on campus. 

And that goal: To put him in his place.

Peter can’t imagine what it’ll be like for the student when he gets to senior year in just half a semester–– in fact, even the very thought of Tony treating any of his teachers this way (or anyone) sends the assistant professor’s matchbox heart into insistent, restless flames.

(He chalks it up to just pure concern for his student.)Not jealousy.

Peter even writes up a list between inputting scantron grades, of why exactly he hates Tony’s guts.

Eloquently, he titles it, ❌ Tony Stark ❌.

1. Taller than me by an inch 1.5 cm.

2. Somehow knows my favourite breakfast from panera bread.

3. Always borrows notes from other people when he’s absent EVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS I HAVE COPIES BY MY DESK!

4. Wears those stupid glasses all the time.

5. Spends an average of 6 minutes after class just cleaning up, making me WAIT

6. Never pays attention in class but always sets the curves on tests.

7. Always flirts with other people outside the hall before class. (distracting!)

8.

On the eighth, Peter’s mind draws a blank. He’d thought that he could go on and on when given the chance, but maybe now isn’t the time- after all, he does only have 2 braincells left after mindlessly typing in scores.

It’s about 5:43 pm now, which probably means he should go after entering this last girl’s score and-

Done. Rarely do other professors ever stay this late, but Peter isn’t really in the mood to stick around and see. He grabs his trusty bullet journal- the one he proudly spent 2 and a half hours on in the beginning on the year, and also the one he just slandered Tony in, which, speaking of the devil-Shitshitshit, avoid him before he annoys you, Pete. It turns out his stiff, minecraft esque speedwalking in the other direction still isn’t enough to deter Tony, who looks up from his phone and calls out a nonchalant, “Hey, Mr. Parker!” Peteralmost scoffs at the sheer level of disrespect in that one line- how dare he? Who does he think he is?! At least, that’s what he sputters mentally.

Physically, the brunet is ready to embrace a thousand year nap. 

Peter mentally debates whether or not to stop and give Tony the time of day, his aforementioned 2 brain cells bantering back and forth before, eventually, Tony just decides he will have a conversation with Peter, whether he likes it or not. “Hey, earth to Mister,” Tony says, suddenly in front of his face, dangerously close. 

“Hi, Tony. You do know my first name isn’t mister, right? And you should be calling me Professor.” Peter says, voice scolding. “Okay, then, professor,” Tony says, though Peter knows he won’t really listen to him, “What’re you doing so late? Isn’t it past your bedtime? You need sleep to grow taller.”Well- okay, this is getting ridiculous. 

“That’s no way you should be talking to your elders, much less your lecturer, Tony,” Peter reprimands, starting to walk again. Hopefully, he’ll be left alone now.Unsurprisingly, and to Peter’s horror, Tony only starts striding backwards easily, as if he’d grown up learning how to walk that way. “But you’re so young. You barely look like my elder, much less a teacher,” Tony’s eyes flicker down, then drag back up, and Peter tries not to flush at this. “That’s not to say you don’t look good, though, the opposite, really.”

Peter only scoffs at this, round eyes rolling in disbelief, a warm tinge to his cheeks to top it all off. He stops abruptly, ego puffing just a bit when Tony stumbles.

“Actually, why don’t we talk about that, Tony?” He stops just to mentally imprint Tony’s somewhat panicked expression, before continuing with an adamant, “I’ve seen the way you act in class- the way you look at me,” which sounds much more scandalous than it should be.

Peter’s voice lowers to a hush, registering that they’re still in a school building, where anyone could be listening. Trust no one, not even yourself. 

“It’s not appropriate. I’m not some romantic interest for you to try to indulge in, and I’d much rather you put some of that attention to the lecture’s material instead.”

A moment passes by, then two, and Peter is still staring Tony straight in the eyes, his own hard with determination, brows furrowed. 

After a pregnant pause, the student clears his throat. 

“Do you wanna be?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, yeah, you’re cute professor,” Tony admits shamelessly, “Why don’t you just give me a bit of a chance? I’m not that bad, I’m actually very great.”“That’s exactly what a bad person would say,” Peter points out.

“Let me prove that I’m not, then,” Tony says. Then, his phone dings, “Well, I have to go. But I mean it, mister! Bye,” And with that, Tony bids him goodbye with a wave and a blown kiss.

Peter shudders.

Yuck.

-

What is not so yuck, though, is the next morning, is when Peter gets in at approximately 8:30 am. There’s a still toasty croissant on his desk, with a orange post it note.  

Hope you enjoy this. I was late bc i was picking it up so i just decided to skip for the whole day- TS

Peter, infuriatingly, knows exactly who wrote the note, and couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. He’d been doing that alot lately.‘Late picking it up so he just decided to skip the whole day over a croissant, are you kidding me,’ Peter doesn’t bother actually protesting against the innocent pastry, though, instead setting his bag down and taking it out of the pastry bag. He recognises the label- it’s from the campus coffee shop. Tony was late to class picking up food from an establishment on campus. 

The kid’s gotta have a demerit, or something, because that might be going just a little too far, even for him. It’s like being late to a party you’re already at, but leave it to Tony Stark to somehow find a way. 

Well, that’s too bad. There was suddenly going to be a pop quiz today. 

-

Peter, later, finds that he has to reach deep inside himself to not literally slap the living shit out of Tony’s face when the boy opens the door to his lecture hall as the professor is packing up later that day.

“So you are here,” is what he says instead, eyes narrowed accusingly. He still doesn’t get why Peter doesn’t just come to class if he’s already there- are his lessons really that bad?  

“Indeed I am,” is the answer that comes, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Miss me?” 

“Never,” He huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“Did you at least like the breakfast I got you?”

Hell yes.“No. What would be better, Stark, is if you actually attended class while you were on campus.” Then, he adds in without thought, “Especially mine.”There’s a beat of silence, the words not quite sinking in for the professor yet- it’s a different story for Tony, though. “Especially yours?” Tony asks with a grin, and the tone in his voice makes Peter immediately regret whatever he said to induce said piece of shit’s intonation.“Yes. Is there a problem?” One strong brow raises in inquiry. 

“Not at all,” Tony’s stupid smile only widens, “The opposite, really.”