#no need to go into detail about the mystery stain

[igotsnothing]

Beginning/Previous/Next

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (iv)

SUMMARY: With Soldier Boy alive in the 2020’s, back in America, he starts his mission of vengeance. Of course, his first stop is to you; the only woman he’d truly wanted to start a relationship with, who’d taken his spot only months after his supposed death. And you don’t exactly expect your old lover to appear in your home, with the intent to kill.

WORD COUNT: 2238

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Typical Soldier Boy behaviour, gore, heavy violence, canon divergence.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Finding you was difficult. They were beginning to think Ben had been wrong, that you were six foot under in some unlabelled grave, rotting away. But, Ben was sure. And arguing with him seemed like signing their death warrant.

So, they kept searching. Despite the fact they could have located at least two other Payback members, and had them dead, by now, Ben was insistent on killing you first.

So, they kept fucking searching.

And then they found it.

It was a tiny discrepancy. Something most people would simply brush past. But, Hughie found it, and it was all they needed. They followed the rabbit hole, down and down, finding hidden documents and details not even Ben knew about.

It only took two days to pinpoint your location.

The Appalachian Mountains. In the middle of fucking nowhere. Smack-bang in the middle of one of the largest forests in the entire USA. But, to Ben, that fact was whatever. He had your location. And he was going to find you, even if it meant spending weeks searching every inch of that forest.

Butcher and Hughie knew it was a dumb idea.

But, they got Ben in a car, and started their roadtrip.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

The quiet life was nice, you’d decided. You’d forgotten about Queen Maeve’s uninvited visit, going back to your routine of feeding the animals and drinking coffee on the balcony every morning.

It was weird. You used to be one of the most famous people on the planet. There was blood staining every inch of your hands, and families who were likely still trying to gain justice for the people you killed. You had decades of history. And, yet, you now lived out your days as some sort of Disney princess.

You couldn’t complain. It was better than willingly running into gunfire every week.

Padding through your dark home, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the floors, you headed for the kitchen. You were never too old for a midnight snack. Especially in the comfort of your own home. You turned into the kitchen.

And you saw it. A dark figure, shadowed in the corner.

But, you kept moving, playing oblivious. In your mind, your old training make itself own. Ben’s critiques and advice played like a movie, as you pulled the cabinet open, standing high on your toes to reach for packet of chips. Your senses were on fire, focused in on the quiet breaths, the soft squeaking of boots on the tile.

They moved, and so did you.

You ducked under the fist swinging towards your face, snatching a knife from the block beside the fridge. Holding it tightly in your fist, your stance ready to attack, you looked at the intruder. Every muscle in your body froze.

“Ben?”

He didn’t pull his punches. Ben grabbed you by the throat, using your momentary distraction to his advantage, shoving your back against the sharp edge of the counter. Instinctively, you swiped the knife towards him, but a rough hand caught your wrist, slamming it down onto the counter.

A cry of pain slipped past your lips, fingers releasing the knife. It was his turn to grab it, tossing it from your reach.

No words were spoken, just heavy breathing.

You’d never seen Ben look at you like this before. This look was reserved for those who got on the wrong side of him. Those who disappeared mysteriously overnight and were never found again — but you knew what happened. And so did he.

He was here to kill you.

“Ben—“ You choked out, through the tightening grip his hand had around your throat. The grip tightened, and your breath caught with a squeak, broken gasps for air trying desperately to pull in oxygen.

“How much did they pay you?” He demanded, his voice low and gravelly. “Huh? How much, did they fucking pay you?” There was something about him that was so different. A new edge to him, maybe. But, what caught your attention, was the look in his eyes.

Hurt. He was staring at you like you’d ripped his heart from his chest and stomped on it.

You clawed at his wrist, unable to bring any air into your lungs. Your nails bit into his skin, the scratches down his wrist quickly repairing themselves. He let you go. Not out of mercy. No. He grabbed your collar, lifting your head up, and then slamming it down onto the counter.

Your vision went completely white, all remaining breath knocked from your lungs with a gasp. Blinking desperately to clear the stars, you tried to struggle. But, he slammed you down again. And again. And again. Until he tossed you to the floor like nothing more than a rag doll.

The counter was cracked from the force of it, blood staining the white marble, and splattered across the counter. Your own kitchen. Stained with your blood. You could feel the warm liquid dripping down the back of your head, matting in your hair.

If you weren’t a supe, you’d be dead.

He didn’t let you get a word in, brutal with each of his attacks. As you desperately tried to scramble away, body on fire, he put his foot down on your ankle. Leaning down, staring intently at you, with dark eyes, Ben snarled. “How much?”

“Ben—“ Finally, words escaped. In a pathetic whimper that made his lips twitch in disgust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your breath hitched with pain.

That answer wasn’t good enough for him. You swore you could feel the bones in your jaw crack, as his fist met your cheek. You cried out in pain, the force of the impact whipping you around, hitting your head against the ground.

His hand curled into your hair, forcing your eyes on him. “Don’t fucking lie to me, you bitch.” Your breaths were ragged, with pain and terror, staring up at the man you thought was dead. He seethed, nothing but anger and disgust (and hurt?) in his green eyes. “You whored yourself out to me, huh? Put my dick in your mouth? For what? Fuckin’ soften me up like a weak pussy?”

“Ben—“

“Don’t.” He tugged your hair, hard. “I loved you.” His teeth grit together.

Your heart broke, tears in your eyes as you stared up at him. He loved you. And he thought you’d hurt him? He was dead. He was dead. That’s what they said. They said he was dead. Your mind worked at 100 miles an hour, heart constricting.

He loved you.

Soldier Boy loved you.

You didn’t even think he was capable of that. Sure, you knew you had something special with him, something unique. But love? It’d never crossed your mind. You’d always loved him somewhat, always throwing yourself in front of bullets and danger to protect him. Always following his lead and teasing him.

Always pushing your luck with his temper. Because he never snapped. He never hurt you. He never hit you. You knew you’d loved him, when your heart would dance when he chuckled at your jokes. The way your body reacted to his hands on your hips during your first training session. You knew there was something. But, for sure, you thought it was one-sided.

That, to him, you were a good fuck. Just a hole, as he liked to say about some women.

But, you’d been so wrong. And, all this time, 37 years, he’d been alive. And you’d done nothing.

“I loved you.” He repeated, in a broken seethe. His eyes were less angry now, but still held that hint of vengeance. “I would’ve died for you.” You could’ve sobbed, right there. “We were gonna start a family.”

Your voice was shaky. “Ben. Please. I don’t know what’s going on.” You begged, pathetic and weak. Ben scoffed, emotional. “I thought you were dead. I swear it, Ben!” It was practically a plea; a desperate cry for him to believe you.

He was too blinded by his rage. “I waited every day for you.” He hissed, reaching over and grabbing his discarded shield. “For you to come and get me. To save me. You never came.”

“Ben—“

He shoved you down, head slamming against tile once more. Knees on other side of your hips, Ben gripped the edge of his shield, raising it high.

He was going to kill you. You couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t fight it. All you could do was look at him, tears running tracks through the blood on your face. A silent plea, begging him to not do this.

He rose the shield higher, lined up with the juncture of your throat.

And then he saw it. A glint of metal peeking out from under your shirt. He could recognise them from a mile away. They were his, after all. His dog tags, sat delicately just above your chest, resting on the skin like they were made to be there. His brows furrowed, movements faltering.

His dog tags. You were wearing his dog tags.

Ben hesitated, unsure.

He looked down at you, meeting your teary eyes, and his brain ran wild. Of memories of being a couple. Of the memories of when a big question mark had hung above your relationship, neither of you sure of what was going on, but treating each other like lovers anyway.

Your soft touches; the way your fingers would trace the contours of his muscles in the morning. The way you’d kiss each of his scars, muttering against his skin how perfect he was, despite the flaws and the imperfections littering his body. How gentle you were. He’d never felt a gentle touch before you.

How you’d giggle at his jokes, smile blinding, pretty dimples, cheeks flushed.

God, and those eyes. How they’d shine and shimmer when you looked up at him, like he was made of the stars themselves. He always used to melt when you propped your chin on his chest in bed, looking at him with that cute smile, and he’d trace your face with his thumb, cradling your cheeks like delicate glass.

Those few nights spent together, in the limited time you’d had together as an actual couple. The way you’d move together; perfectly in sync, like you were made for each other.

The way you’d hold him. Laugh with him. Smile at him. The passing touches. The lingering stares across red carpets and events, subtly checking each other out, and then meeting up in the supply closet. The quiet moments together, cooking dinner or merely holding each other. All those times you forced him to dance, and he’d begrudgingly spin you in the kitchen. The dates, and the movie nights, and the silly fights, and how warm his cold penthouse felt when you were with him.

Every memory, every moment, replayed in front of his eyes, as he stared at you. He lost his breath, muscles stiff. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring this shield down and kill you. His chest ached and burnt.

He couldn’t kill you.

So, instead, he hit the blunt edge of shield against your head, and watched your eyes roll back.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Coming to was disorientating and painful.

Every inch of your body ached, from the beating you’d received from Ben. You cringed as the light made the throbbing in your head intensify. Through squinted eyes, you made out the sight in front of you.

You were in your dining room. And there were two… unfamiliar men stood by your table, leaning over files and papers. Movement caught your attention.

Ben. Setting his shield down by the table.

“Ben.” You choked out, instinctively trying to reach out and grab him. To check if he was real. If he was actually stood in front you. Living, breathing. Your hands didn’t move. You looked down, frowning at the sight of tattered rope tying your wrists of the arms of your chair.

The noise drew over the attention of the three men. They exchanged a silent look, and slowly, and rather intimidatingly, approached. You whined a little, at the throbbing pain that made a tremble run it’s course through your body.

One of the unfamiliar men pulled up a chair. “What d’ya know abou’ BCL-RED?” Was that an English or Australian accent? You couldn’t tell through the buzzing in your ears.

“Wha’?” You slurred, blinking rapidly, trying to orientate yourself. “BCL-what-now?” A grunt slipped past your lips. They didn’t look impressed by that answer. “I— I saw it on a file. Back in ‘84. Never figured out what it meant.”

The man learnt forwards. “Neva’ found out?”

Your head shook, and it made the pain increase. Your face scrunched up in agony. “Mm, no.” You groaned, breaths hitched. “It was all classified. Edgar never told me. Mallory and I— we tried to figure it out.”

“Grace Mallory?”

“What? Yes. Grace.” You groaned again. “Jesus. Can you turn off the fucking lights? It feels like there’s a drill in my head.” You tried to push your face into your shoulder, hiding from the light that made your eyes burn and your head feel like Ben was slamming it against the ground again.

There was a beat of silence. “Did you know?” That was Ben. He sounded hesitant.

“Know what?” You peeked up at Ben, eyes squinted to be able to look at him. He looked tense, face expressionless. “I thought you were dead. I don’t know what else to say to convince you. I thought you were dead.”

“How did you not know?” He demanded, his short fuse lit. Ben and his fucking temper.

“I don’t know, Ben!” Your own yell made you wince in pain. “They never told me shit! I tried for 15 years to get answers!”Ben didn’t look convinced. Of course he didn’t. He was so set in his heartbreak and rage, by your supposed betrayal, that he’d utterly convinced himself. “I didn’t know.” You echoed in a broken whisper.

“How’s ‘bout this?” You blinked rapidly, trying to focus in on the accented voice. “We track down the otha’ girl. See what she ‘as to say.” There seemed to be a group-wide agreement.

“Countess?” You grunted, confused. Your gaze flicked between the three men. “I know where she is.”

And that got their attention.

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[two-white-butterflies]

love by listening | daemon targaryen

Description: Daemon Targaryen goes rogue after his wedding to Lady Rhea Royce, unwilling to consummate the marriage. He finds peace in a Dornish tavern. You meet him in said tavern, and quickly become close friends. You share an adventure. Both unaware that the other person is nobility.

graphics from @saradika-graphics

Pairing: princess of dorne!reader/daemon targaryen

Warning: brief making love (not sex, making love)

A/N: I wanted it to give Dunk and Egg vibes. Reader is bubbly and talkative/has her own ambitions. She does what she wants bcs she's all about that high life. Set in Dorne + young daemon targaryen. open ending.

Daemon didn't believe in gods. He doesn't care about the punishment he'll be given after this. A few hours ago, he was forced to go through the wedding with Lady Rhea Royce. In his opinion, she was not an attractive bride. She was lucky to have come from nobility for she had a basic peasant bitch face.

Despite her odd looks, benevolent Daemon still went through with the marriage. He held his tongue, wanted to make his brother proud - but then they started talking about the bedding ceremony, and Daemon knew that he had to get the hell away from there.

Where did that bring him?

To Caraxes, to flying towards Dorne - and drinking inside of a tavern.

"It's the first time I've seen a foreigner in these parts." your voice breaks him free from his thoughts. He was about to swat you away, but a single look at your face changed his mind.

Beautiful.

There were a lot of pretty maidens in Dorne - but you were one of the most beautiful ones so far. "I did not bring any gold." he warned, under the impression that you were a whore. "Gods, I have no intention of fucking you." you lied, quickly sitting beside him.

"The first time I saw a cock. It was disgusting. I actually vowed to only fuck women after that." you smiled at the memory. Reaching for his ale, and taking a drink of it. "- I suppose I never upheld that promise. Women are beautiful but we are too wet for my taste. Men are just lovely and dry, and they are easier to toy with." you giggle.

He could smell the alcohol on your breath.

You were the first maiden he's seen to speak in that manner. He wonders if the maidens back home are like this too, if it weren't for archaic beliefs silencing their true thoughts. Dorne was a magical fucking place. It was how the rest of the six kingdoms needed to be.

"Why are you talking to me?" he asks, his face stoic just in case you had some tricks up your sleeve.

"Well, you are alone." you pointed out. "- and I am alone. Shouldn't two vagabonds protect each other?" you tilted your head.

"What makes you think that I am alone?" he inquires.

"I've been watching you for quite some time now, love. Are you going to give me your name?" you asked in return, continuing to stare deep into his purple eyes - drawing him closer like a siren to the waves. "I'd like to remain an enigma." he answers, matching your mysteriousness.

He finds himself hypnotized by your eyes. Eyes that were lined with kohl. "I won't share my name too, to be fair." you smiled, and now his attention was drawn towards your lips. Stained red with rouge.

The tension between you was palpable. He felt like a moth to a flame. Allured by this beautiful fire. Leaving only one question in his head: will he burn? Fire cannot harm a dragon. He reminds.

His hands reached for the small of your waist. A sudden boldness. He plays with the textured embroidery of your tunic. Pulling you closer to his body, until you were almost sitting on his lap.

"What will I call you?" he frowned, teasing you.

"Think of something witty." you insisted, fingers dancing along the details of his clothed tunic.

"Gevives, then." he settles on a suitable name. "I am relieved that you find me beautiful, love." you laugh, hands trailing upwards to his collar - pulling him closer until your lips were bridged together.

He melts into the kiss, hands firmly wrapped around your waist. He'd be so easy to poison. But alas, you weren't here to kill him.

He presses you against your bed - the first time he's felt lust in a while. If this was going to be a one-time thing, then he'll be thinking about you until the day he died. He's already placed this encounter in his three best fucks. The way that you looked beneath him, he can almost see himself thirty years later still jerking off to you.

You are fucking beautiful.

Naked - and vulnerable against him.

His hands danced along the curve of your waist, delighted at the smoothness of your skin. You reach for his face, cupping his cheek tenderly - staring at him with fascination. "You are so beautiful, like an illusion." you whispered in a voice that makes him want to sleep.

He positions his member at the entrance of your core.

"So good," you cooed - feeling him begin to thrust. You continued staring at each other, that connection remained unbreakable. "Keep going," you whispered, he couldn't help but smile. So talkative, even when making sweet love. "Gevie," he smiles.

Daemon wakes up to the feeling of light on his exposed skin. He lets out a yawn, rubbing his eyes so it adjusts to the brightness of the room quicker. He takes a deep breath - as he remembers what happened last night.

Last night, he fucked a goddess.

He turns to look at your sleeping form.

Beautiful even when sleeping, he thought.

He was thankful that he commanded Caraxes to return to the Red Keep.

He had no responsibility. None but you.

"Good morrow," you greeted, voice still hoarse from last night. "Good morrow," he responds, wrapping his arms around your waist. This type of touch was foreign to him. He's never wrapped his arms around someone after making love.

It felt domestic. Like how marriage was supposed to be.

"I suppose this is where our paths diverge." he says, unwilling to sound needy. But in actuality, he never wants to leave. He wants to stay like this forever. Inside of an inn, with his arms wrapped around the most beautiful woman in the world.

"Not so soon. I think we should still walk together." you hum, pulling him closer to your body until he was laying on your chest.

"I've made the observation that you have a lot of time on your hands." you breathed, his ears pressed against your chest - listening to your heartbeat.

"Your observation is correct." he confirms.

He had the face of a dangerous man. It was a risk to be in a stranger's company, but your heart told you that he could be trusted. He felt like you - exactly like you.

You kept staring at his body. His toned muscles and broad shoulder. "Are you a knight?" you asked, reminded of the tourney in Starfall.

"I am," he answers truthfully, praying that it was something that you liked about men.

"There is a tournament in Starfall. The prize is a dragon egg." you informed, mind already focused towards the next adventure.

"I shall win a dragon egg for you, then." he announces. He finds no harm in having a little adventure with a maiden. He has won all the tourneys he's attended, after all. "Really? I wanted to steal it." you say.

He responds with a chuckle, pushing a strand of your hair away from your face. How dare you steal his heart. "Why steal it when you can have it fair and square?" he asked teasingly.

You continued staring at his face, a look that was indescribable. "I like the sound of that," you smile - pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Ashara's lips pressed into a thin line. "What god has possessed you to bring a man inside of Starfall?" she scolded, leading you and Daemon towards a secluded part of the tourney. "He is my paramour." you announce, your grip remains firm on his hand.

"Your father will kill him." she says plainly. "- a Targaryen bastard, a scandal waiting to emerge." she scoffs.

Daemon's expression softens, quickly turning into amusement.

Do they all believe me to be a bastard? Apologies, I am legitimate, he thinks, but he decides to bite those words back, lest he be sent back to the Red Keep.

"I did not come here as my father's daughter. I came here under a disguise." you reminded, pulling the grey hood up until it was hiding your face. "You shouldn't have come here, anyways. You'll get me into trouble with mine own father." she glared at you.

"I'm sorry Ashara but we won't be bothering you. We merely want to join the tourney and win the dragon-egg." you say out loud, but she silences you with a finger to your lips.

"The prize remains a mystery to those in the audience. Only the competitors truly know. The Targaryens will be furious, we will be answered with fire and blood." Ashara reminds and you nod silently.

"- I'm sorry, I'll stay out of your way. I promise. Now, can you please lead us to the tents?" you ask and the other woman nods, pointing at the white tents in the far distance.

"Thank you," you smile politely - still holding his hand and dragging him to the direction of the other knights.

You paid a squire a decent amount of money to use their armor. Daemon was quick to wear it, but he still missed his sword. The Dark Sister, previously wielded by Queen Visenya. "I've never fought against this much Dornish men before." he breathes.

He had his experience fighting a few of them. They were good warriors, though not good enough to defeat him. "We fight like rattlesnakes, that's what my father always says." you say, placing the last piece of his armor on his body.

"You haven't been here for that long, huh?" you made another observation, and he nods. Though he still keeps his identity a secret.

"I grew up in Kingslanding. My mother died giving birth, and my father died of a burst belly." he chuckles - laughing his sorrows away.

"Prince Baelon is your father." you say with certainty, piecing the information together. "- he would've made a wonderful King." you add, basing off the stories that your father shared.

"I think it is your turn to speak about your past, gevives. And I've spent enough time around you to understand that you aren't lowborn." he urges while adjusting his straps.

"How did you come to that understanding?" you inquired, curious of his way of thinking.

His hands danced along your exposed arm.

"Your skin is smooth like silk." he says, like he was praying. His hands trailed upwards, until his fingers were on your chin. "- and you take good care of your beauty." he finishes - and he stops touching you.

"My father is a nobleman. I am his youngest child, the only daughter after six boys. Which means that I've been exposed to leeches using me ever since I was born. I ran away from them. I can't trust anyone, but I think I can trust you." you reveal pieces of your past to him, unwilling to give him the full information.

He was the first person that called you beautiful without knowledge of your vast fortune. And now he was here, promising to win a tourney just so you'd see a dragon-egg for the first time.

"Six brothers, like the princess of dorne." he teases.

"Mhm," you hummed - freezing.

"Ser, get ready." a squire peeks his head through the tent. Daemon stands up, and offers his hand for you take - helping you stand up.

"Thank you," you smile, regaining your composure.

"I promise to win, my lady." he places a kiss on the back of your hand.

Daemon won the tourney with ease, any knight that dared to fight against him didn't even last five minutes. All of his fights ended the same. He'd strike them down, the opponent would be on the ground and Daemon would only look to the next competitor.

You continued watching him.

Observing every little thing that he's doing. It was evident that there was a piece of the puzzle that you haven't solved yet. A knight as skilled as him should be renowned, and yet the only information you have on him - is that he is the bastard son of Prince Baelon.

He was an interesting mystery.

"The winner of our tourney, Ser..." Ashara rises, only beginning to realize that none of them knew the name of this skilled knight. Your best friend turns to look at you, but you answer with a shrug. It was a little game between you and Daemon - neither one knowing that the other one's real name is.

"Ser Daemon," he opened his mouth - meeting your gaze.

He added the last piece of the puzzle, and your face was struck with eureka. Prince Daemon Targaryen, you thought immediately. "Congratulations, Ser Daemon. Please claim your prize behind the tents." Ashara nodded.

"The audience was complaining, the tourney wasn't entertaining for them." you open the conversation, stepping foot inside of the tent. "I suppose it isn't entertaining when only one person wins." you smirk.

He holds the dragon-egg in his hands. "I promised that I'd win." he answers, patting the empty space beside him. "Here's your dragon-egg, my lady." he chuckles. You gladly sit beside him, laying your head on his shoulder and marveling at the beauty of the egg.

"You are Prince Daemon Targaryen." you announced, confirming your previous suspicions. "I am," he finds himself unable to lie.

"- I think it is only fair that I know your name too, my lady." he adds.

An amused smile paints your lips.

"I am Princess (Your Name) Martell. I can't believe that we meet under these circumstances." you laugh.

A prince and a princess meeting inside of a tavern instead of a castle. Even beginning to fall in love without the pressure of their respective kingdoms. It was something out of a fable.

Daemon reaches for your hand, placing it on top of the dragon-egg. "It is an honor to meet you, my princess." he acknowledges.

[averycutesalamander]

Brighter than the Sun, Bigger than the Moon

wc: 8k. hurt/comfort, angst with a happy (kinda bittersweet?) ending, warning for vague mentions of sex. also up on ao3 if that's your preference

One of the greatest mysteries in the universe is that of soulmates.

They’ve existed for as long as history itself – perhaps even longer. No one knows if it’s the influence of an Aeon, or if it’s something stranger; the most recent theory is that Aha is behind it all, but it’s a joke to even think about getting a straight answer from THEM. Not every soul bond is the same, and they don’t even have to be romantic or sexual; plenty of them start and remain as entirely platonic, but either way, you have a partner for life. The details differ person-by-person as well; some have matching marks, some have a red string, some can't see color until they meet. 

Shared dreams are on the uncommon end of the spectrum - even more so when they live on different planets. Such is the case for you and the boy who will later be known as Boothill. 

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun. 

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller. 

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person. 

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all. 

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears. 

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare. 

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him. 

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty. 

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth. 

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest. 

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing. 

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up. 

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that. 

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive. 

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions. 

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had. 

Neither of you know that it will be the last. 

They lose. 

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win. 

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride. 

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke. 

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink. 

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know. 

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief. 

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky. 

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself: 

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you. 

Two: he's going to slaughter that man. 

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree. 

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top. 

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body. 

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest. 

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one. 

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars. 

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it. 

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel. 

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later. 

No.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you. 

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.” 

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick. 

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream– 

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve. 

And one of the worst things about it all? 

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame. 

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure. 

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you? 

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again. 

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer. 

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree. 

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash. 

Your dream is dead. 

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach. 

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking. 

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then. 

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss. 

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you. 

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling– 

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt. 

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway. 

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time. 

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed. 

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body. 

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.  

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway. 

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again. 

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest. 

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart. 

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual. 

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint. 

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it. 

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him. 

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt. 

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them. 

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod. 

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head. 

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying. 

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes. 

There's only one thing missing, now. 

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold. 

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it. 

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.  

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.  

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after. 

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair. 

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add. 

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person. 

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.  

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek. 

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her. 

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises. 

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand. 

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.  

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips. 

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream. 

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are. 

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face. 

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree. 

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash. 

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

…it's that his love for you is brighter than the sun, and bigger than the moon.

[notsopersonalcharlie]

Honey Belle

Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader fluff - Part of the Biker!Bucky Series

One part lead-up to the future and one part how Bucky and belle met.

Warnings: Mentions of sex and alcohol, discussion of a past relationship that bordered on abusive (non-binary reference), more car talk because i love mini coopers.

Note: My apologizes because i lost all my progress on this when i was about halfway through. Also I just have brainrot about them now sorry in advance.

"No no no no, please baby you can make it its just a litt-" The engine shuddered and then gave out. You groaned, banging your head against the steering wheel as you pulled off to the side of the quiet street. It was getting stifling in the car very quickly. The heat wave was precisely why you needed to take Baby Blue in. Your phone showed another mile and a half on the map you saved. This shop was in some dead end town, but it was the only one that had agreed to service the vintage coop.

"Couldn't have saved me the walk?" you asked to the car as you grabbed your bag and hauled it over your shoulder. You scrawled a note to leave on the windshield and began down the straight road. The trees on either side provided some shade, but there was no sidewalk, so as you continued you could peek back at your car and to check on any oncoming traffic.

The first signs of life you saw came ten minutes into your walk. You hadn't gotten far. It was sweltering and you had to leave straight from work, so your shoes were the least comfortable thing to walk in as you sweat.

Two motorcycles were headed your way, and to your surprise they both stopped. One was wearing a light brown leather jacket, and he pulled off his helmet immediately. He had blond hair and a kind looking smile, but you were also alone in a mysterious location with no signal.

"Hey, you alright?" You stared at them, and took a step back when he took a step toward you.

"Uh-"

"You had an appointment at the Howling Commando? Twenty minutes ago? Blue vintage Austin Mini Cooper?" The other guy had popped up his visor, but hadn't taken off the helmet yet. His blue eyes were sharp, watching you. You took another two steps back.

"Buck, lose the helmet," the blond guy admonished, "We work there, you said when you called that you were worried about the heat and the engine, so when you no-showed we thought you might have gotten stuck. I'm Steve. We talked on the phone the first time I think, and then you talked to Yelena to get the details." The other guy pulled off his helmet and you thought your heart might stop. Sure the blond, Steve, was handsome in a clean cut preppy kind of way, but this guy looked like he walked out of one of the fantasy books your read as a kid. Dark eyebrows slanted over his bright blue eyes, his scruff adding to the rugged look he was sporting. He waved, a shy smile slicing away the fear you had held entirely. It changed his face, you wanted to make it happen again.

"Bucky. We'll get you all fixed up."

-/-/-/-/-

"Belle, ya home?" You looked up from your laptop. You hadn't been able to pull yourself away from the document you were building for the new hires.

"Yeah- I- oh shit. I forgot to start dinner." You turned to find Bucky stepping through the doorway from the kitchen. His grease stained tshirt was tossed over his shoulder already, leaving all his tattoos on display. One in particular always caught your attention, the sketch of a mini cooper right over his heart.

"How many time do I gotta tell you?" He asked, dropping the shirt in the hallway before coming over to you. You stood, tilting your chin to look up at him as he wrapped one arm around your back and cradled the back of your neck with the other.

"You don't have to worry about that stuff, honey. I'll take care of dinner. Finish up your work, it'll be done in no time."

"I need a break, baby, seriously. I'll help." His eyes narrowed.

"You sure?" You nodded, turning back to hit save and taking his outstretched hand to go back into the kitchen. You chopped veggies while he marinated chicken and he told you about his day at the shop. It was a familiar routine by now, three years into your relationship, but you couldn't help but feel the guilt in your stomach again. He spent all day on his feet.

"Hey, lose the face." You looked up at him.

"What?"

"I can feel your thoughts from over here." He set down the spices, rinsing his hands and patting them dry before coming over to you and wrapping you up in his arms. He was anything but weak, and carefully lifted you onto the unoccupied part of the counter and stood between your legs, looking you dead in the eye. You blinked slowly, trying not to fall into the trap of his icy-blue silence. It was impossible.

"I just feel bad is all, you spend all day on your feet and working and then you come home and make dinner. It feels, not fair." Bucky tilted his head to the side, eyebrows up. It was a conversation you had all the time, and you knew how he felt about it. He did serious very well, even if you knew there was a smile lurking just behind it.

"You know that's not how I feel. I love taking care of you. You work so hard every day trying to change the world for the better. I go dick around with my friends all day playing with cars." You snorted.

"I'm serious! My number one and most important job is taking care of my girl. I will make you dinner every night for the rest of our lives together, if that's what it takes to prove it."

"You don't have to do-"

"Nope, you're banished from the kitchen. Go feed Alpine. Get lost." You laughed, taking his face into your hands before he could lift you back off the counter. His lips were warm and soft, and his hands wrapped tighter around your middle as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss before pulling away. You rested your forehead against his, breathing in the smell of motor oil and coffee.

"I love you, James Barnes." He gave you that sweet smile, the one that transformed him into an entirely different man.

"I love you, honey belle. Now get the fuck outta my kitchen."

-/-/-/-/-

You woke up and stretched, yawning as your rubbed your eyes and sat up. And then you became aware again that you were not in your own room and you were laying in an empty bed. You glanced around, noting the distinct lack of a tall tattooed biker who had left hickeys on your chest and had all but fucked you to sleep the night before.

In his place lay a small gray cat, it sat up when you did and surveyed you before jumping gracefully off the bed and leaving out the open door. You stood up, glancing at yourself in the mirror. You were wearing a shirt that said the Howling Commandos Garage and Bar on the front. It was well worn and soft, with little frays on the bottom and the collar. Your hair was a mess and you smoothed it out before following the cat into the rest of the apartment. Your clothes which had been strewn across the living room were neatly folded in a pile on the back of the couch, and there was a note scrawled on top.

Had to head off to fix up your baby. Coffee in the pot. Stay if you'd like. Bucky

Bucky looked wistfully down the block at his apartment building.

"What is your deal today, Barnes?" Sam asked. He was newer, and Steve had brought him in to tend bar, but also help with the books at the garage. Bucky grumbled that they didn't need new people, and Steve returned with patience that just because Bucky didn't want to make new friends, didn't mean they didn't need new staff.

"He's got a crush," Steve laughed from the other side of a pickup.

"I'll have you know I sealed that deal," Bucky shot back. There was a thunk sound and then Steve appeared over the hood, rubbing the top of his head.

"What the hell are you doing there then?" Bucky shrugged.

"She was still asleep. I left her coffee and a note." Sam snorted.

"See her never."

"Her car is literally right in front of me."

"She's gonna take it somewhere else," Sam shot back. Bucky's eyes narrowed, dropping the wrench he had on hand. He was starting towards Sam when a new voice echoed through the garage.

"I would really appreciate it if you fixed my car, not got blood on it." You strolled in the front of the garage and Bucky considered falling to his knees and begging for you to stay with him forever. You were wearing your jeans and sandals from the night before, but on top you had on his Howling Commandos shirt with the original design and logo. You were holding one of the mugs from his kitchen and had an easy smile on your face.

"I thought I'd come check on the progress on my baby. Maybe learn a thing or two." Steve smirked at Bucky and turned back to his work. Sam had suddenly made himself scarce into the office.

"Sure thing, but can't let you learn too much, you might notice some things going wrong just so you can stop by to see me." You nudged Bucky with your elbow, taking a sip of coffee as you followed him back to your car.

"I don't know, I think I could have other reasons to stop by and see you."

-/-/-/-/-

You woke up to sunlight coming in through the open curtains. Bucky was sound asleep on his stomach, face pressed into his pillow and his arm thrown over you. After a moment of relishing the cuteness of him keeping you close while he was asleep, you slipped out of his grasp and headed for the kitchen.

It was mostly clean, and you started a pot of coffee for the morning before tidying up just a little bit more. Bucky had slipped in after you fell asleep. He was working the bar when you left full of a burger and with kisses pepper to your nose promising he'd be home soon. The rest of the staff had ribbed him endlessly while saying goodnight to you.

You grumbled to yourself about having to wake Bucky's whining ass up to take you to work when you noticed something on the counter. Your car keys. Trying not to get your hopes up, you peeked out the front windows and let out a squeal when you saw your car sitting in the driveway, a comically small bow on the hood.

"Wha-Who's there?" Bucky ran out in just his boxers, fists up prepared to fight an intruder apparently, but instead got a chestful of you.

"She's done?" It took him a moment to register what who you were and what you were referring to.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, belle, she's done." You threw your arms around Bucky's shoulders, squeezing him tight.

"Thank you thank you thank you! She'll run for another three years? No problems?" Bucky held you tight, sleep already returning as he nuzzled against your neck.

"Even better. She should be alright for at least another five to ten." You pressed kisses to his face and then his hands, and kissed him goodbye for the day. Your outfit for the morning was already hanging in the bathroom and it made your morning to not have to pack extra clothes for the bike. Instead you put your coffee in a to go mug, your lunchbox in your purse, and headed for the door. The car started up with a hum and you patted the dash, turning on your favorite radio station and rolling down the windows on your way to work.

-/-/-/-/-

You sighed on your way into your apartment. Bucky said he was headed over after you left, and now you had to clean up and start on dinner. Work had been exhausting, and you had found yourself fixing other peoples' work first thing in the morning, which put you back on your own deadlines.

Still, you tossed your bag onto the black hole chair of random items in the bedroom and changed out of your work clothes into something comfy for movie night. You had bought all the ingredients for homemade pizzas over the weekend when you were ambitious about when you were going to get out of work.

"Five minutes on the couch," you muttered to yourself, "then back to work." Five minutes quickly turned into doom scrolling until Bucky knocked on your front door.

"Shit." You jumped off the couch and started pulling things out of the fridge frantically to make it look like you had already started the process. The knocking grew frantic after a minute and you rushed to the door. Bucky's eyes were wide, but he relaxed when he saw you were fine.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you." His soft smile melted your nerves a fraction, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

"You had a long day, I understand." He followed you into the kitchen, and you frowned at the array you had pulled out. Sure you had the pizza dough and sauce but also a jar of pickles, some miso, and a block of tofu.

"What were you planning on making?" Bucky asked, examining the contents of a mystery tupperware.

"Uh..." You considered coming up with a lie about cleaning your fridge, panic welling back up that he would be upset you had gotten sidetracked away from making dinner.

"I... I'm sorry, I panicked when I heard you because I hadn't started making dinner and I knew you would be hungry so I just started pulling things out of the fridge and I..." you could feel yourself beginning to ramble into a spiral.

"Woah! Woah, belle, calm down. It's okay!" Bucky came around the counter, hands on your shoulders to ground you.

"It is really okay, belle, I know you had a long day. You don't have to make me dinner. I mean it. You work long hours and clean up other people's messes all day." You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and looked down at the logo of some motorcycle brand on Bucky's shirt.

"You just work all day at the shop and I know that can be exhausting, so I just wanted to make you food so you'll be..." you trailed off. So he would be what? Had never gotten pissed at you because dinner wasn't on the table or that you didn't get him his drink before yours. He had never thrown his empty can in your direction when you didn't get a new one for him before it was empty. Bucky called your name, pushing your chin up to meet his eyes. They were big and blue and full of concern that grew when he saw the tears in yours.

"Honey, where is this coming from? We could have ordered takeout for all I cared?"

You swallowed and took a deep breath.

"My ex, they were blue collar. Worked in construction. They didn't... they thought I should do all the housework and make dinner since I sat at a desk all day. They would get... angry when I didn't or said I was too tired or it wasn't ready when they got home or I ran out of their favorite drink and... I just want you to be happy." Bucky's frown had deepened and the concern in his blue eyes had turned to anger.

"Where are they now? Who would ever do that to you?" His head turned to see if he could spot any memory of them in the apartment. To your surprise it made you laugh to see him be so protective over something that wasn't there.

"Long gone. I moved states away to leave them. It's why I've been working so much, honestly. When I switched positions I had to do it for a cut, since at the headquarters I was making more. I don't regret it for a second though." You were looking at him now, sincere. If you never moved you wouldn't have been looking for an apartment when your car overheated and you had to go to the Howling Commando. You would have never met Bucky or found an apartment a few blocks away from the bar and him.

"I'm glad you made it here too," he said finally. He wrapped his arms around you, big arms keeping you safe and his chin on your head grounding you to him.

"I know you spend every day working super hard with people you don't really like. I know you love what you do, but I would never hold any of that against you. I spend every day working with my best friends for as long as or short as I'd like. If you never cook me dinner again, I would still be happy as long as we get to sit down and eat together." He paused, and you could feel his heart beat a little faster, a shift in his posture. For the first time:

"And I love you." Your heart leapt, the tears that you had been wiping against his tshirt flowed again.

"I love you too, Bucky."

-/-/-/-/-

You texted Bucky on your way out of work, and blessedly got into your own car with air-conditioning and seatbelts. Not that you didn't trust Bucky or that you didn't like to ride with him, but it was nice to have a seat to sit in.

You began the journey home, it feeling a little longer than it had for the last few weeks when you clung to Bucky's middle with your eyes closed. You were most of the way home when a telltale rumble of motorcycles started up behind you on the long empty road. It reminded you of the first time you rode with Bucky, down this very same road when your car broke down and he took you back to the shop with him while Steve waited with the car. He had said, after securing his extra helmet to your head, that it would be only time you ever rode without the proper shoes or pants on. You had responded cheekily, since he was hot and it didn't seem like it could hurt the speed at which your car got fixed, that he was suggesting that there would be another time. He had followed that with a quick, "I have your phone number. I find another time."

The bikes were getting closer, four of them, and to your surprise Bucky wasn't with them. Steve and Sam rode on either side of you, offering salutes. You couldn't identify who the two behind were but you could tell one of them was Yelena or Natasha. It was not a regular procession, though when they did see your distinctive car when out riding, they always did stop by for a wave. Instead of leading you home, Sam and Steve guided your car to the parking lot at the Howling Commando. The fairy lights were up for the summer and a few of the regulars were already outside enjoying the weather.

"I was going to go home first you know," you whined at Steve, tossing your blazer into the passenger seat before getting out of the car.

"I think this is more important," he said, turning you away from the bar and toward the shop. The garage doors were open, but inside was obstructed by the shadows from the sunset. When you stepped in you froze. The cars and equipment had all been cleared out and a beautiful flower arrangement was across the floor, Bucky was standing a few feet away, looking nervous as the first time he came to pick you up for dinner. He spotted you and swallowed, standing up straighter as you walked towards him.

"Bucky..." You didn't have the words to say as you joined him in the array of flowers.

"Belle. I love you, I have loved you since the minute I saw you on the side of the road. From the second you wrapped your arms around me on my bike for the first time. The first night we spent together and every night since then I have known that I would spend the rest of my life with you. I promise I will make dinner every night if that's what it takes." You grinned at the little inside joke, tears pouring down your cheeks as he got down on one knee.

"Make me the happiest idiot in the world and marry me?"

"Of course I will. I love you."

[nathaslosthershit]

Secret Daughter?

Summary: Fans are speculating as to who the child Jack and his girlfriend were spotted with is.

Liked by trevorzegras, jhugheswag, and 3,539 others

Nhlplayernews: Devils alternative captain & superstar, Jack Hughes, spotted looking pretty comfortable with alleged girlfriend & mysterious child. Could it be the center has been hiding a kid from the world?

user: remember when hockey was about the game?

user: You are on an insta page literally called “player news” dumbass.

user: guys it’s me and Jack’s kid leave us alone!

user: hey girly, I hate to be the one to do this…

user: Trevor liking this 💀

trevorzegras’s story

Replies:

Jackhughes: you are a fucking asshole you know that right?

Trevorzegras: 😎🫶🤑👍

Jackhughes: what the fuck-

It was a widely known fact that Jack Hughes was never one for interviews. No professional athlete ever really was into them with how often they were asked the same questions. But given his most recent injury, and his time off, he finally agreed after being forced asked to do one from the comfort of his own apartment. 

After 30 minutes of having to speak about his team’s playing in recent games, as well as details on his injury and when he is expected back, the end was finally in sight. There was little talk about Jack’s personal life, apart from if he had been talking to his brothers recently, which was quite frankly the most idiotic question. But he was happy, given the most recent rumors, the interviewer had not asked about Jack’s mysterious child he supposedly had and he had thought he had made it out, until…

The soft footsteps were almost inaudible, but as Jack had become accustomed to listening for them at all times, he had immediately heard Eva’s approach. After politely stopping the interviewer who was in the middle of asking what Jack did to fill his days now, the center turned to see his girlfriend’s little sister holding her blanket tightly with tear stained eyes. 

“Aw Eva, didn’t have a good nap?” Jack cooed.

“Bad dream” was all the child said. At this, he beckoned the child forward, letting her sit in his lap as she tried to calm down, still fighting those post-breakdown tears. 

Seeing that Jack was clearly locked in his own world, the interviewer cleared his throat.

“So, I assume this is the secret child we have been hearing a lot about recently?” He pressed.

“She is, but she isn’t my kid. She is my girlfriend’s little sister who is staying with us for a bit.” Jack was fine to clear up the fact that he was not a dad, but he didn’t feel the need to go into the heavy details on why Eva was staying with them. It wasn’t his place.

The interviewer went on to ask the 3 year old a few questions. What her favorite color was, what animals she liked, if she had a best friend, were all discussed at length. Jack was happy to have the spotlight off of him in his own interview, and his large smile as he looked down at the now happy and energetic girl was not unnoticed.

Once Eva’s interview was done, Jack, begrudgingly, went back to answering his, now with Eva settled into his lap. As he talked, she nuzzled into his chest as she went back to sleep. After noticing that she had dozed off, Jack knew he wasn’t going to be able to focus again on this interview, but luckily the man interviewing him had also noticed this.

“Well Jack, I’ll let you get that little one to bed. It was nice talking to you and Eva, hope to see you back on the ice soon.”

—

Eva went back to bed soon after, waking up in a much better mood than before. She was now sitting in the living room playing quietly while Jack made dinner, awaiting his girlfriend’s arrival. 

He turns as the door opens, seeing his very tired girlfriend in the doorway.

“Oh wow, don’t you look like the perfect housewife.” She said pointing to his apron. 

“You will have to wife me up soon, too many people are out here looking for a partner as great as me.” He quips back. 

“Maybe… we will see. How was Eva today?”

“Had a nightmare and woke up early from her nap but she went back to sleep on my lap… during my interview.” His girlfriend turned around at that.

“Shit, I forgot you had that today. I am so sorry Jack I would have arranged a sitter for her.”

“No, no, it's fine I promise. Although now everyone knows about her. He asked her a few questions, nothing crazy just like her favorite toys and such.”

“What did you say about her?” She asks, concerned. Understandably, his girlfriend didn’t want her family’s dirty laundry out there for people to judge.

“Just that she was your sister and staying with us for a bit. If you don't want that I can ask my team to get it cut out. I would have asked you but I didn’t really have time.”

She is quiet for a moment while she thinks. Eva and her family situation was… complicated. Jack knew that. A three year old staying with her 22 year old sister and boyfriend was going to raise some questions from fans. 

“It’s okay. People will find out eventually and now they know you don't have a secret child. I’m sure that is a relief.”

“Honey, you know damn well I didn’t care. And I see Eva as a daughter. She has been in my life almost as long as you have and I adore her. It was kind of cool to see people thinking I was a dad, and a good one at that.” 

She was on the brink of tears hearing this. Bringing Eva home and raising her wasn’t easy, and despite how long they have been together, she was always insecure about how Jack truly felt, even though he had been nothing but accepting and loving to Eva. 

“You’re right. Hey, maybe now she can go to games. She always asks when we watch at home.”

Jack lights up at the idea. “I'll get her a mini version of my jersey. I'll try to get you guys good seats. That will be great.” He immediately walks over to Eva, taking her in his arms as he asks her if she wants to go to one of his games. 

Even after all this time, there is no better site than watching her sister laughing with Jack, a man that had no obligation to love Eva the way he did but did so tenfold.

[jzprncess]

max’s hair, max’s way

pairing: max verstappen x reader

oneshot

word count: 2,489

summary : Y/N discovers an AI image of Max Verstappen with long hair and can’t stop imagining how amazing he’d look with it. After dropping subtle hints, Max finally catches on and humorously entertains the idea. What follows is a hilarious, over-the-top obsession with starting a fan club—Max’s hair revolution is coming, whether he’s ready or not.

note : this one was actually quite easy to write but then again im just in a mood to write so i finished it in a few hours. this was a request that was submitted on my google forms!

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N’s day had been nothing short of a mess. She'd woken up late for a Zoom call, spilled coffee on her favorite sweatshirt (the one she swore was invincible to stains), and had yet another online shopping cart full of things she definitely didn’t need, but had to have. It wasn’t even noon, and she was already on her third attempt at taking a nap that didn’t feel like an awkward lie-down.

But there was one thing that had the potential to make it all better: mindless scrolling.

Her thumb lazily flicked through TikTok, her mind barely engaged as she watched videos that made zero sense, but for some reason, her brain processed them like essential information. It was supposed to be a five-minute break—a little escape before diving back into her ocean of responsibilities. She figured she'd scroll, mindlessly and aimlessly, just to silence the chaos in her head.

But then... she saw it.

It wasn’t some cute puppy video or a cooking hack that would forever change her life. No, no. It was something far more dangerous, far more potent, and absolutely life-changing.

Max Verstappen.

But not just any Max. No, this was an alternate universe Max—a Max created by the magical, terrifying powers of AI. The Max on her screen had hair that cascaded in long, perfect waves, the kind you could only dream about, or maybe see on a runway model. His sharp jawline was even more defined than usual (which shouldn’t be possible, but here we are), and his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—looked even more mysterious, as though he were a brooding poet in an indie movie. He was staring at her, but also not staring at her, if you know what she meant.

And then she saw it.

The hair.

Max’s new look was a cascade of locks that would make any shampoo ad jealous. It was silky, voluminous, perfectly tousled like he’d just walked out of a windstorm of pure glamor. It was glorious. It was breathtaking.

Y/N stopped dead in her tracks. Her thumb froze mid-scroll. Her heart rate ticked up a few notches. Holy shit. She didn’t even care that she was in a coffee-stained hoodie and still hadn’t brushed her hair. Nothing mattered anymore, because here was Max Verstappen, looking like an absolute dreamboat in a way she never thought possible. This wasn’t the Max she’d seen on the racetrack—no, this was a Max that belonged in the front pages of a high fashion magazine, throwing a rebellious look over his shoulder like a 90s pop star.

She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing. Her fingers twitched, ready to swipe, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Max with long hair. Her mind couldn’t let go of the image. It was perfect. He was perfect.

She leaned closer to the screen, squinting to examine every glorious detail, every strand of hair that seemed to defy physics. Could he actually pull this off in real life? Her fingers hovered over the screenshot button for a moment before she snapped it without hesitation.

And then, she did what any sane person would do: she set the image as her phone wallpaper.

There was no going back now. She wasn’t just going to stare at this picture once and forget about it. No, Max Verstappen with long hair was going to become her new obsession. She’d stare at it every time she unlocked her phone, letting the image haunt her dreams. Maybe she’d make it her lock screen too, just to really solidify the insanity.

The idea of Max with long hair, that Max, consumed her. Every time she glanced at the picture, it felt like an out-of-body experience. Was this how people got obsessed with celebrity transformations? Because this was absolutely it. She wasn’t even mad about it. She was already thinking of all the ways she could drop this bombshell on Max—subtle, of course. It had to be subtle. But she had to let him know somehow.

“Maybe I could just send it to him,” she muttered aloud to no one. “No, no... way too obvious.”

A sly grin spread across her face. She wasn’t going to just send the picture. No, she had a better idea. Max wouldn’t even see it coming.

She looked at the time—still early afternoon. Plenty of time to start planning. Oh, this was going to be fun.

After setting the AI picture as her wallpaper for the seventh time that day, Y/N leaned back in her chair, the wheels in her mind turning at lightning speed.

She had the plan now. She wasn’t just going to sit back and hope Max would see the error of his short-haired ways. No, Y/N was going to subtly—so subtly—nudge him into realizing that long hair was, in fact, the future. She’d been around the block enough to know how to manipulate situations for her own personal benefit.

Okay, maybe "manipulate" was too harsh of a word, but it sounded cool.

“Step one,” she muttered to herself, “Casual comments.”

She scrolled through her texts, thinking about what would be the perfect, casual way to throw out the idea of hair transformation.

Max had no idea what was about to hit him.

Y/N had spent the better part of the evening staring at her phone, just waiting for Max to reply to her text. She had done it—sent the casual, completely not obvious message about how “some people” just looked so good with long hair. She leaned back in her chair, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in. There was no way Max could miss the hint. She had done it perfectly. It was subtle, yet not so subtle that it was too subtle. The emoji sealed the deal. 😏

Still, she couldn’t help herself. She had to check her phone again, just to make sure the message had landed.

The screen lit up with a notification from Max. Y/N’s heart did a little dance. Here we go. She clicked it open, already anticipating his response.

Max: "Haha, are you talking about me? I’m not sure I could pull off long hair..."

Y/N froze. The message was a lot more casual than she’d hoped for. She reread it, her eyes scanning for the tiniest hint of curiosity or intrigue, but all she found was... confusion?

What? She thought she’d laid it out perfectly. The whole mysterious vibe thing had been an obvious clue!

Still, she wasn’t going to give up. Not yet. The game had only just begun.

She sat there for a moment, staring at the screen like she was trying to solve an impossible puzzle. A plan. She needed a plan, and it needed to be more than just a text.

Her eyes darted around the room. The walls, the plants, the weirdly shaped lamp on her desk—all were silent witnesses to her genius, or lack thereof, depending on how things went. But then—a light bulb moment.

It was obvious. She wasn’t going to be able to hint at this through mere text alone. No, no. She needed to get creative. She needed to make him see it—to envision the hair that could change his life. This was the moment where her vision and Max’s reality collided.

A slow grin spread across Y/N’s face. She knew just what to do.

Step one: The Subtle Instagram Story.

It was genius. Max would never suspect it. After all, people posted memes, weird videos, and obscure thoughts all the time. But Y/N had something more—something that could convince him without even saying a word.

She snapped a picture of herself—looking effortlessly glamorous, of course—and started typing her story caption.

“Do you ever think about how long hair changes a whole vibe? Like, imagine you had long hair... just think about it... 🧐”

She paused, reading it over. Was this too much? Too obvious? Too ridiculous?

Nah. It was perfect.

She hit post and waited, staring at her phone screen as if it would reveal some deep, philosophical answer to the universe’s mysteries.

The next few minutes felt like an eternity. She could practically feel the electricity buzzing in the air. She didn’t even know if Max was online, but her brain couldn’t shut down. The message was out there now. The seed had been planted. She was too far gone to back out now.

And then, a notification buzzed. It was from Max. She checked it eagerly.

Max: “Is this about me too? Because now I’m starting to wonder if I’m missing out on some kind of hair revolution."

Y/N’s eyes went wide. Was he actually considering it? No, no. He had to be messing with her. She stared at the message for a second longer than she should have, trying to decide if this was a real response or if she had somehow misinterpreted the whole thing.

No. He had to be getting it. She wasn’t backing down now. She had created a monster out of her own wild, absurd imagination, and it was all going exactly as planned.

She quickly typed back, a little too eagerly, but who could blame her?

Y/N: “Imagine the vibe, Max. Imagine the wind in your hair as you race, that confidence flowing through you. Like a whole new level of fabulous.”

There. That was perfect. She leaned back in her chair and waited for a response.

But of course, Max—being Max—didn’t make things easy.

Minutes passed. No reply.

Was he thinking about it? Was he in deep contemplation about whether he’d look good with long hair? Y/N felt like she might explode. Come on, Max. You’ve got this. Just admit it.

She stared at her screen until the words blurred together.

And then, finally, a message came in.

Max: "Alright, alright, I’ll admit it. I’m curious now. But do you really think I’d look good with long hair? I mean, I can’t picture it."

Y/N stared at her phone in disbelief.

This was it. This was her moment. He was actually questioning it. She could already hear the victory music playing in her head.

She took a deep breath, trying not to sound too smug.

Y/N: “Max, I’m telling you, it’s a whole vibe. You might just become the most iconic man in Formula 1 with long hair. People would talk about you for centuries.”

She added a winking emoji for good measure.

Max: “Centuries? Okay, now you’re definitely messing with me.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Oh, she was so close now.

After Max’s message came through, Y/N could barely contain herself. She wanted to scream, to do a victory dance, but instead, she opted for something slightly more composed: a dramatic flailing of her arms in the air and a loud, victorious "YES!" that echoed through her apartment like an over-the-top, one-woman celebration.

Max was actually considering it. He was at least open to the idea of long hair in the future.

This was the moment. She had won.

But the funniest part? Max wasn’t even aware of the scale of Y/N’s obsession. He was just playing along with her ridiculous game, unaware that she was about to go into full, borderline obsessive mode.

She stared at the text again, eyes wide, her heart racing. He was going to do it. One day—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but Max Verstappen would, in fact, grow out his hair. He was practically promising it.

Y/N’s mind whirled with a thousand thoughts, each one more absurd than the last. She could already picture it: Max, standing on the racetrack, hair flying dramatically behind him as he sped past everyone. She could already hear the cheers. It was happening.

She grabbed her phone with shaking hands, barely able to type a coherent message. It was one thing for her to joke about it. But the fact that Max had actually said he’d grow his hair out one day? She couldn’t be the only one who was excited about this.

Y/N: “Max... no joke, I’m going to lose it the day you show up with long hair. I’ll probably start a fan club or something. A whole movement. ‘Max’s Hair, Max’s Way.’ How does that sound?”

She hit send and then immediately regretted it. It sounded insane. What was wrong with her?

She stared at the message for a long moment, debating whether she should delete it or just let it be. But before she could decide, Max’s reply came in like a gift from the hair gods themselves.

Max: “I don’t know about a whole movement, but hey, if I ever grow it out, you can be the president of the fan club. Just... don’t make it too weird, alright?”

Y/N almost dropped her phone. President? He was serious about this. She had an actual title in the most bizarre, ridiculous movement of her life.

Wait. Make it too weird? Oh, Max. She had already made it weird.

She texted back, too quickly, as if he could see her grinning like a maniac.

Y/N: “Deal. I’ll make sure to have the first fan club meeting at your next race. You better be ready for it.”

Max: “I’ll be sure to bring my best hair flip to the race. It’s going to be legendary.”

Y/N clutched her phone to her chest like she had just received the greatest treasure in the world. This was happening. It was happening in the future. She couldn’t wait. The anticipation was going to drive her insane.

But right now? She was going to enjoy the chaos of it all. She leaned back in her chair, hands trembling as she stared at the screen, imagining all the memes, the fan art, the movement. And who knew? Maybe one day, Max Verstappen would really grow out his hair.

Until then, Y/N was going to spend the next few weeks plotting the perfect fan club logo.

And so, Y/N’s obsession grew, her fantasies becoming wilder by the day. Every time she heard a hair-related joke or saw a picture of someone with long hair, she’d start giggling to herself like a schoolgirl with a crush. It wasn’t about Max’s hair anymore; it was about the ridiculous movement she had created, a movement that only she truly understood.

As for Max? He was still blissfully unaware of the full extent of Y/N’s hair dreams, but every now and then, he’d shoot her a quick text.

Max: “So... I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe I’ll start growing it out... one day. You ready to lead the fan club?”

And Y/N would reply with a heart full of excitement and a mind full of absurd possibilities.

Max’s Hair, Max’s Way. It was only a matter of time before the world caught on to the movement.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

taglist : @heluvsjappie @awritingtree @steamy-smokey @alex-wotton

[campchthonic]

Welcome to Camp Chthonic

Camp Chthonic is a new camp for any and all mythological halfbloods regardless of parentage (or even pantheon). The entrance to the underground camp is the Hidden Gem Cafe and it can move to wherever it is needed.

Camp founders Nico di Angelo and Alabaster Torrington would like to extend an invitation to your PJO OC to be a Camper or an Ambassador:

CAMPER- do you feel like you don’t really fit in at camp half blood or camp Jupiter? Would you like to stay at a camp that’s weirder, darker, and more mysterious. Then Camp Chthonic might just be the place for you. if you would like to be a camper please send a message to @campchthonic in this format (more or less)

“Camper- Name-pronouns description- how you encountered Nico/Alabaster or the Hidden Gem Cafe.”

AMBASSADOR- are you pretty set where you are but would like to meet new half-bloods and stay for maybe just a season or so? Become a Camp Chthonic Ambassador! If you’d like to be an ambassador please send a message to @campchthonic in this format more or less

“Ambassador- Name-pronouns -primary camp- description- what do you want your involvement at camp chthonic to be?”

Picture of the camp below:

As you can see there is a greenhouse for growing plants and a great hall for camp council and events. There is also a diverse range of cabins. Treehouse cabin, waterside cabin regular cabins with outdoor lighting, regular cabins with minimal outdoor lighting, and hey, a literal cave if that’s your thing. (Cabin interior pictures will be released contingent upon interest)

This is essentially meant to be a light rpg-esqe blog for people who wan to create or place an interesting character in the chthonic camp to interact with Nico , Alabaster, and others. Some details

1. Alabaster is half Indian in this (Desi Al)

2. Al and Nico founded the camp. (Backstory will be provided if there is interest)

3. Nico and Al like eachother and they are going to be the absolute last ones to figure it out so they will banter, bicker, and flirt and if you ask them about their relationship they’ll say they’re just friends, co-workers even. This is because they are trying to convince themselves more than than they are trying to convince you.

I might make into a discord server depending on interest. Please feel free to ask for any clarification or any questions!

Special credit to @thomas-life for designing the beautiful stained glass on the cafe windows.

Also please reblog and share? I worked really hard on this 🥺. Pretty pretty pleeeease?

[usopps-devotee]

Not your fault

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, someone PLEASE give luffy a hug he needs it

@zoro-kun because you love angst

@euphofic because you also love angst as well as luffy

W.c 1.1k

Part 2: Burnout

It had been late and you were tired, unlike the rest of the crew who seemed to have boundless energy, you just wanted to sleep. Fight after fight, days with little to no rest, yet they still had the energy to party. You on the other hand went back to the ship to get some rest.

Luffy hadn't expected anyone to leave the bar, nor had he expected someone to come back to the ship when yall rented a room for the time spent on the island. He didn't hear the sound of you stepping on the deck of the sunny or walking up to him till it was too late to hide. Mortified as you stare at his tear-stained face, he's expecting you to tell him to suck it up, be a man, and so many other ways of telling him that his emotions made him weak.

Instead, you walk towards him slowly and carefully as if approaching a wild animal, holding your arms out for an embrace. You have no clue what's going through your captain's head, no one ever does, it's one of Luffy's many mysteries. All you know is he needs comfort, he looks like he wants to run, and knowing Luffy he just might. Seeing him hesitate you drop to the deck, not caring about the pain that shot through your already aching knees, arms still held out.

He's clinging to you in an instant, rubber arms pulling his body to yours, knocking the both of you over. His sniffles now sob as he cried into your chest, your shirt is immediately soaked in tears and snot but for the moment you could care less. You ran a hand through his hair, nails caressing his curls and scalp as his hat lay on the floor. Your other hand rubbed comforting circles in his back, slowly deviating in shape. You're startled by the small sorry that left your captain, you've never heard his voice so strained, so pitiful. Heart-shattering in a million pieces as you hold him tighter.

"It's okay Luffy, I promise. Let it all out, I'm here for you."

At that moment, whatever emotions he desperately tried to hold on to slipped through him like water. Years of guilt, anger, sadness, and who knows what else he may not have been able to express, are finally being felt. He's squeezing you so tightly in the back of your mind you're worried you might pop. You remind yourself that his ache is worse than yours, what you've injured for minutes, he's suppressed for years.

Eventually, Luffy lets you know what's on his mind, you're not even sure if he knows he's doing so. Babbling about his past and every mistake he's ever made, losing both sabo and ace, almost losing his crew, every time he's lost a fight, he even tells you about shanks losing his arm. All while blaming himself, blaming his incompetence, his arrogance, his weaknesses, his emotions, everything luffy perceived to be a flaw about himself. Choking on his own words while crying, between hiccups and gasping for air.

You had no clue he had been feeling this way, you doubted the rest of the crew did as well. Before this, you wouldn't have had a clue in the world about the stresses he holds on to. What thoughts keep him awake at night, what he fears more than anything else? Now more than ever you want to keep him safe from the rest of the world.

"If I wasn't so weak things would have turned out better."

"Luffy, it's not your fault. None of it is. Some of these things happened to you as a kid. Even with allies around that was stronger than you might have been at the time, not even they could have stopped what happened. It's not your fault."

Luffy finally lifted his head to look at you, he looked broken, the sight alone almost make you start to cry as well. Tears still flowing like rivers in Egypt, you're in denial about how much snot is covering the both of you. His eyes look over every detail of your face to look for a lie, to see the moment when the rug is pulled from under him and you become just as cold as everyone before. He doesn't expect you to place the straw hat back on his head and brush his hair out of his face, he doesn't expect you to pull him closer and kiss him on the forehead.

He's completely astonished when you tell him that it's okay. It's okay to be afraid sometimes, it's okay to have regrets, and it's okay to have made mistakes, and everyone does. He's never been able to let his guard down around anyone this much, he doesn't know what to do with all the trust he's placed in you. Luffy feels like he's been shattered and here you are picking up the pieces from so long ago.

Another sob racked through his body at your words, he's trembling like a leaf, and the only thing keeping him grounded is you. For years Luffy has been told by so many others his emotions are unacceptable. To hear you speak this truth so softly, so sweetly, he almost wants to deny it but he can't. He wants to cut in and say the things he could, or rather in his head, should have done. He wants to give a rebuttal to every claim that you've laid to rest. But he can't, he just can't.

There is logic to what you have to say, there's reasoning in your words he can't deny. If anything he's questioning all the others who told him not to cry, not to feel, not to express or let anything out. He's doubting what he's been taught, parts of him wonder what other lies he's been told, he'll have to ask you one day.

Slowly but surely he calms down, sniffling as he tries to catch his breath. Taking the time while he's off of your chest, you removed the soaked shirt, wiping away the rest of the tears and snot covering his face. "Why don't we get something to eat hmm? I'm sure the walk and some good food will help." He nods hesitantly, despite his lack of movement. You toss the shirt aside to worry about it later. For now, you're worried about the fact that Luffy's eyes had yet to leave the ground, and when they do he ask you a question that you could never deny.

"Can you hold me for just a little longer?"

[kokabeeeel]

"do you remember our first kiss?" sam asks one day; the two of them curled up together on one of the reading chairs in the library.

he doesn't expect dean to remember his first kiss, but theirs must mean something at least.

"sure i do." and sam hates the way that he's surprised; hates that after all this time he still finds things to doubt his brother on.

he plays it smoothly: tightening his grip on dean's hip - the good one even though he will pinch dean's bad one when he's getting on everyones nerves - and pressing his head further into his shoulder. "that's cool."

"did you really think i wouldn't?"

sam knows every part of dean; all his mannerisms and quirks, how there is no fooling him because dean knows sam just the same.

sam still shrugs his shoulders though.

"sammy." he can't find himself to look dean in the eye, even when dean tilts his chin to face him, he closes his eyes. "look at me, please baby."

he caves, because he always caves when it comes to dean. he's weak.

"it was the middle of summer in 'nighty-nine; you had been sixteen for two months." it was; he had been, it had all felt like a late birthday present. "dad was working some case, so you and i were stuck in some motel in hermann missouri."

sam scrunched his nose up as he recalled the mysterious stain on one of the beds, and the way the entire town stunk of sausage twenty-four seven.

"it was pretty bad, wasn't it?" he's glad that dean feels the same way about that small town. thinking about it, sam doesn't think they've ever gone back there.

"we were sitting on one of the beds, you were complaining about how your bed was the one with the stain, how we should swap - which then turned into how we should share." dean shakes his head but sam can see the fond smile on his face. "you were so dramatic; throwing yourself onto my lap, hands over your eyes, kicking your legs-"

"i was not kicking my legs!"

"oh, yes- yes you were, sammy, almost hand to grab them to keep you steady." sam groans, because yes whilst he was being dramatic and throwing a tantrum only a teenager can throw, he certainly wasn't doing that. "oh, i'm sorry, i thought we were going down memory lane."

he feels the kiss dean leaves in his hair; tiny fourteen-year-old sam who just discovered his feelings for his brother swears to never wash his hair again. "you can skip that part."

"fine, fine, princess." we warms with the nickname. "as i was saying, you had thrown yourself onto my lap, and although your hands were over your eyes, i could've sworn you had started to cry." he had been.

"i felt bad, you know, felt as if i wasn't doing a good job at being an older brother."

"you called me annoying."

he felt dean chuckle before he heard it. "well, if the shoe fits, sammy."

"just carry on with the story, jerk."

"you interrupted me, bitch." and sam supposes dean has a point. "can i continue, or are there other points that need correcting?"

"you were skipping details, de, i thought you said you remembered it." sam can tell by dean's hold on him tightening that he knows sam's being a tease.

"i'll show you remembering."

sam stops him before their lips can meet. "i was promised a story, de." it almost gives sam whiplash how much it reminds him of being five and begging dean to read him to sleep.

"tease." dean whispers against his lips and sam only smiles. "blah blah, thought you were crying, yada yada yada, i pulled your hands away from your eyes and i just- i can't explain it, sammy, but it was like all those moments in romance movies where: time slows, the people around them begin to blur until it's just the two lovers, that filter comes into play... it was all that and so much more, squashed into one feeling."

sam recalls the butterflies that entered his stomach as he peered up at his brother, only to see him looking down at him.

eye contact.

"i called out to you, i said: 'sammy' and you nodded." dean's voice had been so soft back then. "you nodded and then i asked you-"

"have you kissed anyone before."

dean nodded his head. "and when you said no, i asked: 'would you mind if i was your first?' and you just smiled at me."

"well, i had been in love with you for two years at that point." because he had been; at least two years he had been conscious of that love.

"i didn't know that, though, so i asked you again- i kept asking you."

"until i pulled you down by your collar and shut you up."

"yeah, yeah you did."

"the fact i still have to do that."

"now hang on a min-"

gripping dean by his collar, sam turned his head so he could connect their lips.

feeling dean smile, sam returned it; it made it hard to kiss but there were plenty of other times they could get hot and heavy, this was just a simple trip down memory lane.

[artofkhaos404]

what are your villain!todoroki headcanons 👀

Thanks for the ask, man! I got a few...

× Sometime before Shoto decides he wants to go to UA, imagine Dabi leaving an anonymous note for him, asking to meet alone, and on the note are some details listed about Shoto's abusive childhood that no one could have possibly known unless they lived in the Todoroki household. That's a mystery Shoto can't resist solving, so he meets up with him. Dabi reveals his identity as Touya Todoroki and explains to Shoto why he's doing what he's doing- to reveal the truth of Endeavor's evil deeds to the world. Dabi offers Shoto an opportunity to help in this plot, or if nothing else, a way out of his abusive household; coming to live with his brother. Maybe Shoto has to take some time to think about it, but eventually, he makes the decision secretly run away and move in with Dabi to escape Endeavor- but nothing more. However, the more time he spends hanging around the League and hearing their own horror stories, the more time he spends bonding with his brother and experiencing new things with him he was never allowed to before, Todoroki begins to realize just how much damage has been done unto him by his parents. As time goes on, he begins to see their perspective and understand their plight intimately. He grows to hate commercialized heroism in general; because if someone as terrible as Endeavor can become a hero... what could the other greats be hiding behind their masks? And how much pain could be relieved from victims of fake heroes, such as himself and Dabi, if someone were to stop these "heroes?" Wouldn't that act be heroism; true and unadulterated? Shoto then makes the decision to join his brother in the mission that Stain began before them; to tear corrupted hero society to the ground.

× I don't think Shoto would abandon his morals completely as a villain. He would consider himself more akin to an underground hero that works with villains for a common goal. Most of he and Dabi's arguments would probably revolve around this 😅

× His villain costume would be just as simple and practical as his hero costume. I imagine the same design, but in white and black rather than the dark blue.

× Even when he's old enough to get a place of his own, Shoto decides to stay in Dabi's apartment. Growing up with so many siblings, living alone sounds more lonely than it's worth to him despite his introversion. Dabi and Shoto are both quiet types who enjoy their own spaces, but they also both value the comfort of a presence being in the other room.

× I could see Shoto taking in a stray cat, maybe one who is injured or blind or missing an ear, and bringing it back to Dabi's apartment. At first, Dabi said it was a waste of time and money and that he should throw the thing out. But after seeing how much comfort the little furball brought Shoto, he stopped complaining about it.

× Dabi would train Shoto to use his left side; insisting on helping his brother get over the fear of being like their father in order for Shoto to realize his full potential.

× Shoto would have trouble getting along with the more impulsive, violent League members such as Shigaraki- Dabi would often end up playing referee (all the while chuckling at the colorful yet painfully accurate insults Shoto would throw).

× Despite this, Shoto can be just as impulsive if you trigger him on the wrong day. Instead of becoming warmer through the series, like in canon, Shoto would become colder and more heartless as time went on. He would never hurt someone for the thrill, but if he feels you need to be brought to justice or if you step to him, he'll do what he feels like.

× And if you hurt a child and he sees it or hears about it? Might as well count yourself dead. Same goes for Dabi. They may be cruel people, but they don't stand for child abuse.

× It wasn't always this way. When they were first reunited, Shoto saw Dabi do unspeakable things- even to children. But gradually, through one another's influence, Shoto became a better villain and Dabi became a better person.

[isaut]

𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒓— f!reader x chrollo lucilfer. 2.5 k, refurbished. original: ao3

synopsis: during a simple heist job two years ago, chrollo offered you a cigarette outside the library. it isn’t his fault he fell in love with you, is it? I finally felt it was time to give this fic a face lift. I’ve changed a lot since I started her, and it only felt right. If this gets a sign off from tumblr.com I’ll change the ao3 version

The skyline of Sirap is stunning, with the silhouetted buildings twinkling with lights, a hum bubbling from the streets and from the blimps in the sky. It’s a place that Chrollo has found solace in, has even made a home and a routine for himself in the past few years. He’s overstayed his welcome, set by his own nature. It’s been years since he’s fallen back into his mysterious, nomadic ways.  

Sitting in his study, Chrollo’s gaze is not on the skyline. He is not taking in the movements below him, taking up an old pastime of watching as people scurry by and wondering where they are going. Instead, his gaze is fixated on his computer, the blue light of the screen singing his eyes, drying them out. The pen in his hand clicks steadily against the stained oak of his desk. 

The steady click click click of the pen does little to soothe the worries that have begun to stir in his stomach. The unsettling feeling on his soul as he reads the message before him.

It’s an email. From his bank. A simple request for 10 000 000 jenny. With a simple message attached. 

I took care of the man who requested I eliminate your lover. I’ve forwarded his balance to you. You should receive a file from me shortly with details. Congratulations on your relationship. 

In a brief fit of rage that is quite unbecoming of the man he wishes to present himself as, Chrollo slams his hand against his desk before lending back in his chair, stewing over the message. He tears his eyes away from the message, looking instead out the large windows before him. He takes a deep breath of the not fresh air, and it does little to calm his emotions. 

As he watches a blimp float by in the sky, red light blinking against the darkness of the night, Chrollo can’t help but feel silly at how emotional he’s being. He can’t help but remember how he used to feel so indifferent, how everything felt stale. 

Stale like the air around him. 

With little reluctance, Chrollo sends the money over to his somewhat of an ally, Illumi. Their relationship was little more than constant transactions. He stands, stretches his arms above his head. Calling himself a banker had its pros: boring enough no one asked about it. It also had its cons: sometimes sitting in front of a computer for too long, researching his next thrill instead of boring into an excel spreadsheet. 

Chrollo thinks that, at the end of the day, death suits him. Even if he’s falsely climbed into the carriage. Even if his back aches from time to time. He briefly considers doing a few of the stretches his lover had recommended. His lover who had gotten him in the mess. The one where he carefully removes bricks from the walls around him and lays new bricks as he lies to cover up his reality. His lover who was still probably perched in the living room, waiting for him to come out of his office.  

The idea of you patiently waiting on the couch fills Chrollo with an uncomfortable guilt. He scrolls through his phone, looking for a text chain. He can’t find it, and resorts to drafting a new text in a small group message of just himself, Shalnark and Machi. If he took time to be truthful with himself, it felt odd texting the two of them. Even a year later, there’s an uncomfortable void, two of them in fact, of accumulated grief that press against his soul. He can’t shake it, nor can he steep in it. 

We need to have a meeting. In the next few months. 

Not ready to linger in those feelings, Chrollo locks his phone. Perhaps he’d mellow in those thoughts of the all consuming grief tonight, with your head resting on his chest as sleep washes over you. His gaze returns to the skyline. It’s dark out, it must be well past dinnertime. 

Chrollo shuts down his computer with the forceful, long press of a button. Shalnark, who set up the device for him, is berating him for not using softer methods. Chrollo pockets his phone, eager to deposit it somewhere and forget about it until morning. The journey from his office to the living room isn’t a long one, and it’s one he can chart by the way you’ve dappled yourself along the path. 

Gentle music flows from the living room, playing on the speakers that were brought from your apartment when you moved in. There’s a sweatshirt of yours on the ground that he picks up without much thought. He deposits it on the back of the couch, upon arriving to a deserted living room. 

It’s not deserted. There’s a blanket that looks like it used to be wrapped around you, slumped in the corner of the couch. There’s a stack of essays on the middle cushion, and a pen set upon them. Half a glass of wine sits on the coffee table, and beside it is your iPad, unlocked. 

Satisfaction brings the cat back. Chrollo leans over the iPad, investigating what you had been doing. He takes it upon himself to close the online shopping tab after seeing the total in the cart. 

Rounding the corner, you hold a mug of tea in your hands. The brightness of the lemongrass tea fills the air, and you take a deep breath, both of the tea and of the sight of your boyfriend. Both senses wake you up. 

Chrollo picks up the blanket, and sits in its place, throwing it over the armrest. He picks up the essay you had been in the middle of grading and flips it to the cover page. It’s thick, at least ten pages. A Turn About the Room: How Women Have Always Been the Secluded Ones. 

“Done working?” You ask him. 

Chrollo rests his arm along the backside of the couch to take you in. One of his shirts peeks out from below an oversized sweater of yours. Glasses perched atop your nose. He holds his hand out to you, palm up. 

“You should be too.”  

“I see how it is,” You say, coming over to his open hand. Your hand is still warm from holding the mug, and you slide your palm easily against Chrollo’s. 

Only, the man before you isn’t Chrollo, no, there is no mass murderer before you. No grandiose thief. He’s just Kuroro, a man with a penchant for reading and a sadness behind his eyes that’s curtained by charisma and a modern day definition of chivalry. 

A man who’s raising his other hand to take the mug from your own  hands, the heat barely bothering him. His fingers twine with yours, and he brings your hand to his lips to place a kiss upon it. 

“Do you?” 

You nod, leaning over the back of the couch and into his personal space and pressing a kiss against his cheek. He smells warm, of mellow, musky notes that you’ve come to associate when you think of him. Home smells like Kuroro, it smells like the cologne he wears and the aftershave in the morning, curling with a warm drink and incense in the air. 

It’s time to stop working for the day. 

Rounding the couch, you take a seat right beside Kuroro. Truly, you’re more so on top of him with the way your knee hinges over his thigh. Neither of you care. Not when you’re so close, not when the world seems to just be the two of you. 

Kuroro returns your mug to you, his now warmed hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“How’s work going?” You ask, blowing on your tea before taking a tentative sip. 

Kuroro hums at your question, resting his hand on your thigh. He rubs his hand over the smooth, plush skin. He ponders over how to answer, how to toe the line between being honest and being deceitful. It’s all for your safety after all. And here he has been, thinking he’d been doing a good job of maintaining your blissful ignorance to the world he hid in. 

“Stressful,” Kuroro admits, taking a deep breath before raising his gaze. 

“Mon pauvre,” You murmur, “Want some tea?” 

Pressing his brows together, Kuroro nods. You watch with infatuated eyes as he does just as you had earlier: blow on the warm drink, letting the steam lick up his face before taking a small sip. 

“Want to go get dinner?” You pose. “I haven’t eaten yet… We could go to the sushi place down the block.” 

The news Kuroro had received minutes earlier rings in his head. Bounces from ear to ear, unable to be ignored. He thinks of the mom and pop restaurant that had infatuated the two of you, of the kind couple who ran it. Of the grandma who greeted you everytime you came in. Who cooed over how cute of a couple you made. 

He thinks of an assassination attempt on either one of you. Of the chaos it would cause, of the rubble and the debris. He can envision your scared expression. The dead bodies of the kind family he’d come to know so well. 

It tugs at his heartstrings in a way he had believed was long since dead. Perhaps you had made him too soft. Too human. He felt the youth coursing through his soul again. 

With reluctance, Kuroro shakes his head. “I’ll make us something. Then you don’t have to get dressed.” 

“You’re so considerate,” You say with a smile. “What are we having?” 

“I have to check the fridge,” Kuroro replies. “Want to join me in the kitchen?” 

Of course you do. You’d altered your 10 year plan to accommodate the man. You’d follow him anywhere. 

Kuroro is, in his nature, secretive. It has always carried a certain charm with it: adds to the allure of his dark hair, his well-read nature and clean dress. However, you’ve picked up on a few tells he carries around with him. For instance, when he’s set on surprising you there’s a boyish glint in his brown eyes. When he’s morose in thoughts of life, both his own and philosophical, he’s oddly talkative. Always eager to find solace with his head on your chest or in your lap. And when he’s had a bad day at work, he’s quiet. 

You don’t like when he’s quiet. It’s not that you feel the need to fill silence with Kuroro. In fact, normally it’s quite the opposite. Silence is comfortable. 

The silence that hangs in the kitchen is not the comforting closeness you’ve grown to love. 

As Kuroro investigates the fridge for something to eat, you take it upon yourself to put on some music in the background. Amy Winehouse’s voice seeps through the silence. 

“Do you want tteokbokki?” Kuroro asks, holding a bag of rice cakes in his hand. His other rests on the refrigerator door. 

You come to stand beside him, peering into the fridge. It’s barren. Only a few condiments and pickled vegetables litter the shelves. You feel an emptiness in your stomach. Did you eat lunch? 

“Sure,” You say, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “Do you want some help?” 

“Just your company,” Kuroro responds smoothly, closing the door and wrapping his arm around your shoulders. The base notes of his cologne still cling to his skin. There’s cedar and vanilla. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, releasing you slowly. 

The gesture has your heart skipping a beat. You feel your face warm, feel as Kuroro’s hand slides along your shoulders. 

It makes Kuroro smile slightly, watching your reaction come over. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then opens the refrigerator open again. 

“Go sit. I’ll get you some more wine.” 

You wet your lips as you take your place on the kitchen island. Kuroro sets the chilled white wine bottle in front of you, then busies himself in the kitchen, combining spices and sauces together and simmering them over low heat. 

To keep his mind off whatever was bothering him, you launch into telling him about the essays you’ve been grading— Final papers for your class on women’s oppression in literature. You teach it every other year in the spring, and this conversation is reminiscent of one you had when you first met Kuroro. 

This one is about Rokeya’s Sultana’s Dream and Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It’s a fresh take on Austen’s work, and you’re glad to see Rokeya being cited. There are a few inconsistencies in the line of reasoning, but the student is a year too young to technically take the course. She reminds you of yourself, if you’re being completely honest— Ambitious, if not a little scatterbrained. 

Kuroro turns off the stove and sets the pot atop a woven potholder in front of you. He adds side bowls and chopsticks to the spread. 

“I’d love to take a peek,” He says, getting himself a wine glass to join in with your drinking. 

“You can. Want to see it now?” 

Kuroro shakes his head and sits next to you. “You know I’ll get sauce all over it.” 

Shrugging, you pick up your chopsticks. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve spilt on an essay. “Thanks for cooking tonight.” 

“Careful, it’s hot,” Kuroro says as his you’re welcome. 

Even with his stomach pleasantly full, the overhead fan humming, and you pressed up against his side, sleep evades Chrollo. He tilts his head to the side, his hair fanned out on the too soft pillow. All pillows are too soft to him, anyways. He cushions his head for your comfort. 

Sleep’s tireless evasion from Chrollo is not one that he’s a stranger to. He often finds himself in this same position, surrounded by newfound comforts, his heart thrumming softly, his eyes on the twinkling lights of Sirap. Absentmindedly, he rubs his hand up and down your side, taking solace in the way your stomach moves with every deep breath you take. 

When you don’t drink before bed, you’re quick to rouse at his gentle petting. Sometimes, you wake at even the slightest shift. Groggily blinking away and rubbing your eyes, trying to see what’s wrong in the pitch black room. 

Not tonight. Tonight, you’re full and there’s wine in your brain. And Chrollo is alone with his thoughts. 

He turns his head to look at you. Cranes his neck to place a kiss to the top of your head without jostling you. 

There’s a grief on his soul tonight, and it’s not own he’s used to. Albeit accustomed to loss, Chrollo’s heart can’t fathom experiencing the gravity of loss again. To be responsible for someone’s death who was so innocent, who had nothing to do with the circumstances he put her in. 

So he places another kiss to your forehead, and shifts himself to wrap both of his arms around you. Invites your legs to tangle against his. He closes his eyes, and despite wishing for sleep it continues to evade him. So he takes deep breaths of you: shampoo, bodywash, oils and lotions. He lays in the dark, simply waiting. 

[writerofjourneys]

Hi! If requests are still open, could I request Akira/Joker with a female reader who's a phenomenal cook?

Making him lunches, snacks, and occasionally breakfast and dinner too. Boy's bout to be spoiled.

Cooking for Joker

Fandom(s): Persona 5

P5 Protagonist/Joker x Fem Reader

Headcanon

Content: Fluff, romance, food, established relationship, marriage, married life, aged up characters, cooking, domesticity, soft Joker, taking care of each other, affection, declarations of love.

Warnings: None.

Main List | 𝐉𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐫

As the leader of the Phantom Thieves, Akira is busy preparing for heists and fighting Shadows. But not just for being a leader of a mysterious infamous group, he’s busy everywhere. Ranking up confidants, fusing Personas, stocking supplies, studying, Akira’s been dealt with a lot of responsibilities since he got to Tokyo.

Eating at Big Bang Burger all the time and doing those challenges isn’t healthy on a regular basis. He does eat out with the team and his confidants sometimes. And Sojiro does cook breakfast for him on occasion.

But he will have a tendency to overwork himself and forget his own needs. He’s also taking care of Morgana, another mouth to feed besides himself. During lunchtime, Akira would either share his meal or just give it to Morgana.

Though since Morgana is known to keep track of his bedtime, the cat will make reminders for him to eat. The talking feline does pride himself for being responsible.

But you making food for him will send his heart soaring. He’s a lanky male, not too thin, but not so muscular, so he could still go for some more meat in his bones. It’s not only a sweet gesture but also an efficient way to help feed your hardworking boyfriend. He may even blush a little from the adoring sentiment.

Making bentos for him? Touching. Making matching bentos for the two of you? Adorable. Especially if you’re putting great details in the lunches, like making cute faces in the shape of animals and such. Akira will tease that it looks far better to admire, but he’ll happily finish the bento until there’s nothing left. He’s never been a picky eater so he’s open to try anything you make.

Learning about your cooking skills definitely impresses him. Akira likes to improve his own culinary abilities. Working with Sojiro behind the counter helped him discover that passion. So being a phenomenal cook, he’d gladly ask for tips and advice once in a while.

Akira finds himself astounded that someone like him, someone carrying a false criminal record serving probation in an unfamiliar place alone, could have such a loving girlfriend caring for him. He always makes sure to not let you forget his own affections and how much everything you do means.

It becomes a routine for you two to meet up at lunchtime and eat together. Sitting side by side closely, across with legs touching. There’s no doubt that Akira will happily reciprocate in taking turns making meals for you both. A good way to practice his cooking skills despite his busy schedule. If you were to ever be unable to make it, Akira will feel your absence greatly.

Breakfast? Probably best to have something easier to eat as you walk to Shujin side by side on weekdays. It is true as they say that to a person’s heart in general is through the stomach. If you stopped by carrying food filled containers to eat at LeBlanc, Sojiro has no problem with it. He does agree that Akira should be mindful of eating. Depending on if said containers are washable, he’ll let you keep them at the café until you take them back.

Feeding each other is a thing in private. When no one is there, Akira will offer a piece of food to your lips, expression cheeky. It’s something you’d only do behind closed doors.

And in reverse, he’s happy to welcome a spoonful from you. Wiping a stain on his mouth gets him a bit bashful. A napkin? Cute. Your own tongue? Now his face got even redder.

But beware, the leader of the Phantom Thieves has tricks up his sleeve. He’ll reciprocate the action in a sneaky way to tease back.

Dates spent cooking and eating together is very domestic and wholesome. Trying new recipes, sharing some, it’s a lovely way to spend time with one another. Though you’d probably spend that in your home rather than his. Because as nice as the coffee and curry is at the café, you’d have more privacy and space to work on. Akira always has a look in his eyes when he gazes upon you, so much so it makes you bashful every time you see it.

Food turns into a new love language between you.

And once you become adults? Naturally, living together is expected after the deepening of your relationship growing from being high school sweethearts. Cooking together becomes a real staple in your household. Working different jobs may not always let you cook together, but having the thoughtfulness of making food for the other is still as meaningful.

[lilacxquartz]

taking chances;

gn!reader x fiddleford h. mcgucket

summary: tensions were an all time high with your college roommate, so when you both found yourselves pushed together at a party, things started to make even less sense — themes: mutual pining, gender neutral reader, first-time kissing, eventual smut — w.c: ~5k • ao3 • masterlist

a/n: by request, i hope this fulfills your vision after everything that we’ve discussed, i tried my best with it. <3 let’s put him at around 20-22 here.

It was late summer—just the first week of September, in fact. The air outside was still warm and the skies were still welcoming, bright, and full of promise. College was going to be your to be your much-needed fresh start from a life you hoped to leave behind—it just took you a while to get there, you supposed. And now here you were, ready to start life anew in the dead center of Backupsmore College, ready to take on whatever it threw at you.

You were moving in alone, without the help of a relative or a friend, and albeit uncomfortably, lugged your suitcase up the three sets of stairs to your assigned dorm. Number 321, it was. You found it funny, that to go forward, you were to be living in a room that signaled the opposite. Three. Two. One. Not one, two, three. A bittersweet perspective perhaps, but it was what it was and you were always good at that—noticing what went on between the lines—except perhaps where it should have mattered.

Your hand pressed down onto the door handle, not quite sure what to expect as you pushed inside. There was an option to go for a solo room, but you told yourself that if it was going to be different this time—then that meant no more closing yourself away—no more running or isolating, you were going to push through, even if it meant being uncomfortable through a lot of it.

You only started to notice such a thing after you graduated, after all, that pretty much everyone in high school was just as lost as you were, but they pushed forward, simply because that was the only choice. It took you a while of internal loathing and self-inflicted sabotage to get past that point, but now you were ready.

(Because if not now, then when?)

A lanky figure stood before you, dropping something out of a box that they were in the process of unpacking. The first thing you noticed about him was the way his glasses sat crooked against his nose and the way that his shirt messily spilled out of his mustard-yellow jumper, which you noticed, by the way, was perhaps actually stained slightly with real mustard. You found all of those select little details to be oddly endearing in your first impression.

Just like you, there was an equally awkward and lost individual right in your personal space—a comfort like no other—you were so alike (and perhaps more than you both even knew).

Your new mystery roommate seemed startled at your sudden entry, his shoulders stiffening as he frantically whipped his head to the side to take a good look at you. Before you intruded, he was hunched over a desk that was a mess with wires, screws, and an odd sort of contraption. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose with his mouth propped ajar as he searched for a response, his mind faltering for a moment.

You could almost see the mental cogs in his brain turning, trying to figure out how to be a normal human being in such a sudden moment. You were doing the same, after all.

“Oh, uh, hey,” he spoke up after a hot minute, his accent letting slip a little to hint at where he might have been from, “you must be… my new roommate?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you managed, sounding equally nervous.

“I’m Fiddleford,” he replied, extending a shaky hand towards you before clearing his throat, “Fiddleford McGucket.”

You took hold of his hand to shake it. His grip was a little too firm, yet somehow clumsy, but it was warm and you could tell that beneath the nervous demeanour that he let on, that he was kind.

You introduced yourself next, giving him your full name before flicking your eyes back to the mess he caused on his side of the room. “So, are you, um, working on something there?”

“Ah,” Fiddleford replied, his eyes widening as he stepped over to block out the sight with his body, trying to desperately avert your gaze to other matters, his voice trembling as he couldn’t help but stammer out a slurry of scatterbrained responses, “j-just a little, uh, w-well, it’s nothing real fancy. I’m just trying to… rig up a uh, an old radio to work with some other equipment I have, it’s n-nothing too exciting.”

Perhaps it was your fault for letting the conversation die, but you got the impression that he didn’t want to talk about what he was doing, so you didn’t press the issue further. Instead, all you did was clear your throat and tell him that you were going to be back to collect the rest of your stuff, finding it almost hurtful that by the time you returned, he wasn’t there.

Just faint fragments of him remained; his suitcase was there, and his stuff was unpacked, but he moved away his project off to somewhere else.

(Did he think that he was bothering you?)

All potential interactions fizzled down after that first meet and the two of you, despite seeing each other every single day. The two of you both settled into your respective corners of the room and that seemed to be the end of your initial pleasantries. Slowly, your side started to feel like more of your own, while a cold, unfamiliar side filled out the opposite end—your roommate who was more of a stranger—locked himself up in his own little world, unwilling to share beyond what was was already said.

On occasion however, you stole half-asleep glances at Fiddleford as he tinkered around during the odd hours of the night when he thought you weren’t watching. When he thought you were asleep. You liked watching him work on whatever it was beyond the clinical glow of his work lamp, finding all of those focused mutterings that escaped his lips to sound oddly sweet, even finding the satisfied smack of his lips when something went right to sound cute, rather than something bothersome.

He was fascinating in a quiet, unassuming way but that also made him frustrating, because something about him had also made you hesitate—leaving you unsure as to how to bridge the gap between you—that over time, kept moving further and further away.

Days of this later turned into weeks as the two of you settled into the every day of college life. The two of you lived quietly within each other's company, ate in the same canteen and even attended the same overlapping classes—but it was like there was an invisible wall keeping the two of you apart. Every interaction you had was a little too curt—a little too formal. He was far too polite and you were far too cautious, but beyond that, you couldn’t help but feel that there was something more to it all.

Like a buzzing sort of electricity when you were both together, a current that was blocked off by something in the way, yearning to trickle free, buzzing restlessly beneath the surface.

It was especially evident and highly suspicious when in the early mornings, you’d both try to get ready in as much of a rush as possible. You’d both avoid eye contact and dress in the corner or the communal bathroom instead and in class, you’d sit several rows apart, stealing occasional glances from each other, both of you quickly turning your heads away rather than letting the friendly gaze linger.

The evenings were the most difficult though; the small dorm room when packed with two people that you were by then certain, were at least curious about each other yet neither brave enough to make the first move, was a suffocating experience.

Something about it all felt strangely… intimate?

Sometimes, he’d break the silence with what sounded like a weak attempt to make small talk, often about the weather if it suddenly changed outside or idly complain about the class assignments but not making too much sense. At times, you’d indulge and reply, only for the few words exchanged to falter and drop again.

It wasn’t that you meant to be this self-destructive, because if anything, you wanted nothing more than to get to know everything about him—but every time you made the conscious effort to reach out—the words you delicately crafted caught in your throat, dissolving into something unintelligible.

(And if you were reading him correctly, he was struggling with the same damn thing.)

~~~

One fateful evening, deep into the semester, you found yourself at a party, believe it or not. One of the dorm residents, Stanford Pines, convinced (or rather, bullied) you into accepting what he described as one of the biggest parties of the century, swindling you into going, saying that it would be good for ‘someone like you’ and feeling caught out, you reluctantly accepted it. The party itself wasn’t your scene, not by a long shot, but you stuck around as if wanting to prove something to yourself—perhaps to others, too.

The dim lighting flickered against your eyes, making you feel woozy, especially when coupled with the cheap beer that was shoved into your hands, but you were there. You were at a party. In college. That was the dream, right? That’s what people most looked forward to when they were there… right?

The house was packed but also, you were unsure as to whose it was. The party was supposedly organised by Stanford Pines, but he left very little answer as to where this place even came from. Nobody else seemed to mind, however, with everyone else happily drinking and dancing to a tune that you didn’t even recognise. In fact, you couldn’t recognise anyone here either. You were alone… until you weren't, locking your eyes onto a familiar face just across the living room.

Fiddleford. Standing all alone in a corner with a half-empty drink in his hand, looking less than thrilled to be there. Just like you.

You pretended to not see him however, as if to not give him a reason to leave, but on occasion, you’d flick over little glances at him that you were certain he caught onto. It felt like that, in a sea of overflowing confidence that ensnared around you, your mutual nervousness fed off of each other, creating something once again stagnant, pushing you both apart yet again.

Just as you were about to drift off to another room, however, Stanford Pines’ voice cut through the room, somehow overriding his presence through the chaos, “Alright everyone, listen up. We’re all, we’re…” he slurred a bit through his announcement, seeming more than just ‘drunk’, “we’re gonna play a nice little game of spin the bottle.”

“Bit childish, don’t you think?” a voice shouted out—you didn’t recognise whose it was.

“Ah, to hell with maturity,” Stan replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, “gather ‘round, we’re gonna,” he hiccuped mid-sentence before continuing, “we’re all gonna get to know each other.”

The crowded house collectively both groaned and cheered at the same time, leaving your stomach churning with dread. Almost instinctively, you started to back towards the front door, but then you felt Stan’s hand clamp down against your shoulder before you could make your escape.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“I-I uh…” you trailed off as you stammered, “I’m really not cut out for this kind of thi—”

“Nonsense,” he huffed, although in a teasing way, interrupting you mid-sentence, something about his tone was less taunting and more friendly as if struggling to convey that he was plotting something deeper than he let on. “You’ve gotta have fun at least once in your life and you’re not exactly helping yourself standing around on the sidelines like that.”

Before you could protest further, Stanford dragged you over to the floor, propping you down right in between a stranger but also right next to Fiddleford. The circle spanned surprisingly far and all sorts of people were pushed up to the shoulders against each other as you barely kept up. The chaotic slur of both laughter and conversation alike had already dizzied you, leaving you feeling painfully out of place.

And then, it all somehow got worse when the bottle that Stanford spun had landed right on you, almost abruptly so, somehow stopping mechanically, as if controlled. Just like in a nightmare, the whole crowd of unfamiliar faces snapped right at you, focusing the spotlight of unwanted attention where you didn’t want it to shine.

Stanford clapped his hands, seeming almost giddy. “Truth… or dare?” he asked, a mischievous glint playing in his eyes.

“T-truth!” you exclaimed almost immediately—there was no way in hell that you would have him make you do something even potentially humiliating.

“Yeah?” he smiled, thinking to himself for a moment. “Alright... Do you have a crush on anyone in this room?”

Suddenly, you gulped. “H-hey, that’s not fair…”

“It’s not a fair game,” Stan dismissed with a shrug, “you picked truth - so that’s on you.”

You stammered, only to be cut off, “B-but—”

“—No buts,” he shut you up, “rules are rules.”

“N-nobody?” you weakly responded, trying to will yourself to disappear.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” Stan encouraged, “it’s just a game, you can say anyone, really.”

You warily looked around as you tried to pick a ‘safe’ option, only for your eyes to fall upon Fiddleford who was looking at you with wide eyes. It was only a couple of seconds, but your gaze lingered for a little too long, hinting at the obvious truth that you had long refused to acknowledge. Stan, however, was having none of that, picking up on your longing right away.

“Ah, what’s this?” he piped up. “Looks like there is someone after all, huh?”

“W-wait, I didn’t say anything—” you stammered again, only to be predictably cut off once more.

“—Fiddleford, huh?” he continued, watching with some amusement as you buried your sights into the floor, with Fiddleford mirroring you, looking away from you in a rush of embarrassment. In Stanford’s mind, he always knew deep down, you both had something going on, and perhaps he was doing the wrong thing by pushing you both together like this, but he also knew that if you weren’t ready now, then someone like you was never going to be ready without a little push to begin with. It was a necessary push of evil, where he’d get to play the bad guy that would hopefully, leave you with a good end.

This also meant that of course, he wasn’t finished meddling, at least not yet.

Continuing, Stanford got up from where he was sitting, walking over to yank you both up by the collar. “Alright, alright, you’re both gonna figure out whatever… this… is,” he announced, dragging you both towards another portion of the house, shoving you both into a closet.

“W-wait a minute,” you and Fiddleford both protested in unison, your voices sounding completely panicked at the thought and yet, the protests were useless as they fell upon willingly deaf ears. The crowd was clueless as they watched on, yet encouraging as they cheered for the two nerds who were impromptu shoved into a small space together, likely imagining all sorts of things.

The door then slammed shut and before you could both finish voicing your concerns, the lock clicked into place, leaving the two of you sealed in a closet full of coats and in the dark. There seemed to be a light switch, but it didn’t work, leaving you pushed up against each other in a pitch-black space.

You stood stiffly with him for a moment, awkwardly trying to shuffle around the area, only to bump into him several times. Fiddleford did the same, unable to direct himself at all.

“S-sorry,” he muttered out, even now, sounding a touch bit too polite.

“It’s… fine,” you quickly replied, sounding just as formal as you always did.

A mutual silence then brewed between the two of you beyond that short exchange. It was heavy and suffocating, perhaps even more so than the tiny stretch of space between the two of you. Just outside the door, the party continued without you, the sound of clapping and cheering steadily ongoing. Some people chanted for others to chug whatever, while the creak of beds could be heard just upstairs.

“D-do you think they’re letting us out anytime soon?” Fiddleford warily asked.

You shook your head before realising he couldn’t see you, then sighed. “No, I-I don’t think so. Stan locked the door and just… left us here, so, probably not after some time…”

“O-oh,” he fretted.

Another silence followed once again, with neither one of you willing to break the tension apart. You could tell that he was fidgeting as the picking of his nails intensified and his breathing grew nervous. Both of you were lodged in this dreaded place, both seeming uncomfortable beyond your limit.

But then finally, he spoke. His voice sounded a touch hopeful. Something at last changed and Stan’s plan was in motion, “So, did you mean it? …D-do you really like me?”

The question caught you off guard for a moment and if you were anywhere else, you would have tried to run from the question, but you supposed that you couldn’t. Forced to face the truth, you decided to hell with it, and confessed to him at long, long last. “Yeah, um. Yeah, I do. I think I always did.”

You could hear Fiddleford gasp in what almost sounded like disbelief. He tried to reply to you a couple of times, but his words fell flat from the moment he uttered them, and then, after a while, something coherent finally stuck. “R-really? I mean—I thought that maybe you didn’t, especially after you left so suddenly after when we first met… Really?”

“Ah, yeah, I’m sorry,” you backtracked, “I guess I was just as nervous as you and… I didn’t really know how to continue the conversation,” you admitted, hating in a way at just how vulnerable you sounded, “I’m not good with this—I’m not good with people, but I… liked you, yes, from the very moment I saw you.”

The sincerity in your voice caught the two of you both off guard, enough so to even make him stop fidgeting. You listened in as he tried to form a response, the numbing darkness somehow feeling almost loud, leaving you feeling a little overwhelmed from the situation at hand.

“I, uh,” Fiddleford hesitated, letting the silence linger again—even if something about it did feel different this time—it was less heavy and more charged with something else, perhaps that faint spark you once felt, desperate to burst free. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say something smooth, but I’m not that type of person either.”

You cracked a smile, leaving a breathless laugh to roll off of the slip of your tongue. “That’s okay. I’m fucking awful at this, so…”

The silence was at this point, as frequent as it could get, and then suddenly as if by some unseen force, that gap that had been developing between you both had finally dispersed, an unseen force pushing you both together. It wasn’t particularly graceful and it was, very much clumsy, but your lips brushed against his own at long last. You both tasted like stale, cheap beer, and if even for just a moment, the world around you went quiet. Nothing else mattered. The party just outside seemed to fade away, the suffocating void you were both locked within felt lighter, and suddenly, you felt something else arise within you—not just want—but need, too.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Fiddleford immediately backtracked, but you were done running from your life, so you didn’t let him run from his feelings either.

“It’s okay,” you hushed, trying to calm him. Cautiously, you then reached for his hand, leaning your face in again, although this time with more certainty than before. You wanted this just as much as he did.

The second time you kissed him, it was longer, warmer and when it ended, you felt like a part of you was missing and perhaps it felt that way for him too, because he found himself kissing you again. And again. And again. Each time, it felt all the bit more natural, like it was the only thing in this crazy world that made sense.

You surrendered yourself to more of him, not waiting for a second further as you gave in, but then he pulled back slightly, right before the heat of the moment got too hot, too fast.

“O-oh god,” he shakily murmured out, his breath hot on your lips, “w-what if they hear?”

You paused and considered, listening to the cheers just outside; the drumming on the floorboards for something unrelated and the like. “I don’t think they will… so we might be safe, besides… maybe we shouldn’t care for once?”

“I-I just… I’m worried about the aftermath, I guess,” Fiddleford admitted.

“Ah…” you considered, wondering just what sort of mess would spill around the college if news of such an encounter got out, thinking back to all such other ‘scandals’ between other people, “I think we’ll be fine. The news lasts for a week at best… and besides, do we really both want to continue living in fear…?”

“I… that’s a fair point. I guess not…” he admitted. “Do you really want to do this?”

You half scoffed, leaning into his lips again. “Yes,” you replied in an almost exasperated tone, “I like you and I want to do this… but only if you also want to.”

“A-ah, yeah… I just needed to make sure, I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” Fiddleford fretted again, but ultimately calmed down at your continued reassurance.

You still couldn’t see a single thing in the dark, but you could feel the heat of his body radiating from being parked so close by. His hands fumbled around your frame in the darkness, groping, feeling and exploring but never quite lingering just yet.

“I-I have never done something like this before,” he admitted again, yet still continuing to reach around you.

Your hands shook as they reciprocated his caressing motions, mapping around the unfamiliar contours of his flesh. “Me neither,” you confessed, having no real idea if you were doing anything right or not, “we’ll just do what feels right, I suppose.”

“Y-yeah, sounds like a good plan,” he admitted, continuing to reach around you and feel wherever possible, caring less and less wherever his touch landed.

You both shuffled out of the restrictive clothing you both wore, not quite fully undressing but loosening up however possible. His skin soon met with yours and you leaned in close, your mind racing with how on earth to continue. His arousal was apparent, poking up against you within the limited confines, his fingers dipping a touch lower, reaching to press against your sensitive sex, his movements growing more eager with each passing second and yet, still playing it safe.

You, almost on impulse, grinded into his hardness, feeling your stomach tighten in anticipation. A warm slurry of comforting warmth overcame you, rendering you into a flushed mess all the more that you explored; trailing your touch further down, over to his stomach, his hips and finally… just below.

“C-can you touch me?” he let slip, a sliver of confidence peeking out. It felt so refreshing to hear to be wanted back, for him to need you specifically to return such feelings. It made you react in a responsive manner, feeling your own arousal heighten.

Swallowing hard, you tried to proceed with ease, only to deliver it clumsily instead. You dipped your hands into his trousers, pushing down the unzipped pair. Albeit cautiously, you then wrapped your fingers around his length, feeling it grow hard in the palm of your hand. Fiddleford shook out a stream of stuttered out, ragged breaths, leaning his chin into your shoulder as you started to move your hand in languid motions against his now, fully erect cock.

He moved closer towards you, dropping the clothes you wore to the floor as well, positioning himself right against your sex, guided by his quickly building arousal. Fiddleford still had zero idea how to properly proceed, but did what felt right instead, taking your words to heart.

You reached to tangle your fingers in his hair, your voice sounding somehow both confident yet nervous at the same time, “I-I think I’m ready if you are,” you whispered.

“R-right,” Fiddleford followed on, gripping at your hips to get a good hold on you.

Slowly, he searched around to find entry, easing into your core with one strained slip. Although unseen, his eyelids fluttered in the dark and his lips let out a guttural moan as the sensation of heated pleasure took him over for just a moment. Such admission of being so involuntarily turned on awoke something primal in you and you lifted one leg up, allowing for him to press into a more comfortable position—hopefully letting him move around with more ease, given the constricting circumstances, at least.

“This feel okay?” he quietly murmured, trying his best not to hurt you.

“Uhuh,” you muttered back, placing your hand around his shoulder, trying to hold onto him as best as you could before things took a whole new direction. You wanted this. You wanted this so much. Right here and with him.

“So, I’ll just…” he continued, talking to himself more than you, as if to soothe his fluttering heart—he leaned his hips forward, allowing his length to be swallowed by you, letting himself stand there for just a moment and allowing for you to adjust.

After a moment, Fiddleford then began to move. His initial motions were clumsy at first, with no real idea as to what he was doing, but after some time of you both just feeling around each other, of finding the right position and getting comfortable—it all started to feel so right. The found pace felt natural, good, even. His hands clamped around your waist, bucking into the hilt of your depth with strained composure.

“D-does this feel good for you too?” he whispered, unable to find his voice.

You couldn’t reply with any shred of coherency any longer as your face leaned into the crook of his neck where his shoulders met, something similar to a “yes” might have slipped out, but it was barely audible. Instead, you pulled him closer, feeling as your lower stomach began to feel impossibly coiled—like a wound up spring threatening to break free—you felt so good, so damn good.

The sounds of breathless moans—of skin smacking—of the walls creaking started to fill out the small space. His lips on occasion sloppily reached to kiss on your own, needing somewhere to direct his affections, still riding the high of the recent confession.

“This… does this still feel good?” he asked, sounding more coherent that time.

A hum of agreement left your lips, although it sounded strained on delivery as your peak approached. It was very obvious with just how barely he held onto his crumbling composure, that he too was just as close as you were, with his legs stuttering and his breathing uneven, sounding all the more laboured with each passing moment.

“I… I’m close,” you warned, his hold around you growing intense upon your confession. There was something raw about this whole situation; from the feelings exchanged to the intensity of the situation—everything felt almost dizzying, especially as you (both) reached the point of no return.

Fiddleford followed up next, his hips giving out as a final, pushing thrust let spill of all of his pent up want and need. You felt him twitch inside you, releasing fully into the filled out void of your center. A low groan shuddered out of his lips, with his forehead leaning against the wall. The two of you were just barely able to recollect yourselves, feeling depleted from the aftermath.

“Was… was that good? Did I do good?” he kept asking, his words repeating in a slurried babble, his tone suddenly so tender, yet unsure and even a little afraid—as if he was terrified to hear anything otherwise.

Oh, Fiddleford. Although you couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of his face just then, you could already imagine his eyebrows knitted in anticipation, his eyes nervously scanning over you to gain that validation he so rightfully deserved. This was also new for you, but you felt good after—you wanted to do this again and again, in fact, but only with him.

A breathless nod was all that you could reveal for a moment, the words rolling off of your tongue still slightly disjointed, “Yes, yes. So good. Definitely good. Everything was perfect… you were perfect,” you gushed, pulling yourself back after a moment had passed, lazily fumbling with your clothes to pull them back up.

And for a while, it was all quiet again, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was a mutual silence in which no pressure had transpired between the two of you, allowing for the both of you to recover at your own level before heading out to face the real world again.

Fiddleford tried the door first, finding that to his surprise (and yours), the closet was now unlocked. The two of you had the same racing thoughts flood your mind: when? Had someone heard? Perhaps even seen…? The two of you then thought back to how freeing such a confession felt and how good everything else that followed after, felt good too—so perhaps the fear of being discovered was baseless, or at least, it didn’t quite matter so much anymore.

Whatever would happen next, you would at least not have to deal with it alone.

“Are you okay?” you asked as you squeezed at his hand.

Fiddleford’s voice was still trembling just a little, but his words came out with a newfound sense of confidence, sounding much more certain than he ever did before, “Y-yeah, I think so. I feel fine, but it’s just… the idea of returning to a loud house party orchestrated by Pines is not my idea of a good time.”

You laughed, fully understanding his concerns. “Yeah, it’s… quite something. We can try to beeline for the exit and recover a little in our dorm?”

“Sounds good,” he half laughed, feeling relieved that your mind was in the same place as his before adopting a more serious tone, “so, are you ready to deal with whatever comes next?”

“I am,” you assured, equally abuzz with what could happen, for once in your life not quite caring about how it all looked. The accusations, the given approval or even the lack of it—all of it—for once in your life, you didn’t care about what other people thought because as long as you were by his side because then it would all be worth the trouble.

For once in your life, it was all going to be okay.

You were sure of it.

[luvmydogzvm]

H.S teacher Spideypool AU

It’s the first day of school and Peter had just dismissed his last class for lunch. With a long exhale, he flopped in his chair so hard it spun a bit and drifted off to the right, nearly smacking him into the wall that hung a calendar dedicated to kitten scientists that was left by the previous teacher. He keeps forgetting to take it down. Till then it’s stuck in June with an orange tabby covered in ash from a failed experiment. He has no excuse why he hasn’t at least turned to the corresponding month. His head tilted back with his neck resting against the top back of the chair, staring up at the acoustic ceiling, particularly at a tile that has a mysterious orange stain.

Peter’s first class went pretty smoothly, if he does say so himself, some mishaps, but that was expected. His second class was also the same, learning from the first period, there were near to no mishaps then. The same goes for the rest of them, so why was Peter slumped in his chair exhausted you ask? Well, while he was prepared with his introduction, lesson plans, and icebreakers, he just didn’t factor in the energetic and rambunctious students. He had no idea how he could forget such a significant detail. It was to be expected really.

Peter inhaled deeply before sitting up again to let out another sigh through his mouth. “It’s your first day Peter, you knew his job was not going to be that easy.” Peter is in his late twenties and that isn’t considered to be that old, but not too young either, so you would think he could catch up with them, right? Flat out wrong, because Peter was getting up and heading to the teacher's lounge to make himself a coffee that came out watery. Using some creamer from tiny plastic cups that he scavenged from the back of a cabinet.

“Are those still good?” Mr.Rivera– Peter reads off his district I.D–asks when walking in.

“Dunno and don’t wanna. I had freshmen for the last two periods and I need anything with caffeine. Expired or not,” Peter poured in a third one before stirring it in.

Mr. Rivera sipped from his travel mug before he spoke. “Understood. Though some advice, bring your own. Coffee is shit here.”

Peter took a sip from his sticky foam cup and smacked his lips afterward, “Eugh, All I can taste is tap water and sadness.” he said, his upper lip involuntarily curling as he stared daggers at the nasty coffee.

Mr.Rivera let out a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, it does that. I’m Abigail Rivera, 9th grade algebra,” he introduced himself and extended his arm out to shake Peter's hand.

“And I’m Sorry.” Peter said in return, taking his hand and giving it a shake. The side of his lip curled when he got a laugh from the man, “Peter Parker, 9th grade bio and 12th grade chemistry.”

Dropping Peter's hand, he rested his own on his hip. “Gotcha, you’re the newbie replacing Mrs.Newbury?”

Peter nodded while lifting his cup to his lips and drinking his coffee, which didn’t taste any better or worse. He didn't know how to feel about that.

“Her retirement was long awaited. I think she actually stopped teaching three years before and had just made the kids watch Bill Nye The Science Guy.”

Peter mirrored Mr. Rivera's stance as he lowered his cup from his lips. “Oh, Love that guy. Guess that means I’ve got competition huh?”

“Definitely,” Mr. Rivera chuckled. "They still sing his name. But don’t worry, you are young, so you’ll probably get some attention.”

“Really?”

Mr.Rivera, Peter will only ever address him because even if they are colleagues the man has gray hairs from his head to his long stubble, nodded. His aunt May have raised him right. “You are the youngest, and every teacher is married and has kids. Well, maybe not them all, but the majority. There's this one the kids really like. He's got the attitude and humor of a high schooler, so he fits in with the kids—has his own table, actually.”

Peter’s eyebrows perked. He had his fair share of favorite teachers, but he never had any that he ate with—he ate with his friends. Why am I clarifying myself? But seeing other students eating with them? Sure, but having their table, though, maybe that's a little too much.

“Talking about lunch, I'm going to head down there right now. You?”

“Nah, the Mrs. packs me one.” He dangles the most boring style lunch box known to man. Peter thinks it puts his Spider-Man one to shame. “If you see him—trust me, you will—try not to stare.”

Peter raised a brow. “Got it. Usually mine does too, but I was cutting close to being late so I couldn’t stop by any convenience stores,” Peter had finished his sad excuse for a coffee and tossed the cup into the bin that was by the door. He walked towards it, about to leave, but stopped to look back at the confused Mr.Rivera. “I’m Mrs.” He said with a slight grin and left, hearing himself getting another laugh from Mr.Rivera.

On the way to the cafeteria, Peter reflected on his interaction with Mr.Rivera. Saying he made a friend seemed a little too early to say— not to mention desperate, he thinks—but he made a good impression on someone at least, and he could live with that. Then, he reflected on Mr.Rivera. The man looked good for his age. The married man was tall, maybe a foot taller than Peter and he dressed exactly like Peter’s old geometry teacher did when he was a student. A sky blue dress shirt with navy blue dress pants that hugged his legs so snugly that Peter remembered people Mr.Rivera’s age still go to the gym. Or maybe he goes outside, he did have a good tan on him. “Lucky Mrs.Rivera,” Peter muttered to himself before he pushed through the double doors that led to the cafeteria and the noise of chatty youth.

He made his way to the canteen and waited for a student to get their lunch before he walked up to grab a tray. Suddenly, a ladle was shoved in his face, causing him to stumble back and look up wide eyed at the ladle handler.

“End of the line is over there.” She used her ladle direct Peter, he nearly ducked his head. “I ain't dealin’ with none of you line cutters,” a voice too deep and raspy for any woman told Peter. He blinked in response, trying not to falter at the sight of the large lunch lady that looked like she'd dealt with more than just line cutters. Peter had to fight his flight response, which was telling him to go to the back of the line.

Fixing his glasses, which had nearly fallen off his nose, Peter attempted to clarify himself. “Ah no, I'm not a—”

“No?” The woman somehow managed to sound deeper, scarier, and taller too, or Peter was crouching in slight fear.

He quickly patted around his breast pockets, reached into his blazer, took out his teacher's I.D., and showed the women. Swallowing before he spoke. “I’m a—a teacher! Not a student. Though I'm flattered,” he gave a nervous laugh, but it failed to be one and instead, he cleared his throat. He's 28, he should not be having a voice crack.

The giant woman leaned back and her expression changed completely. Ladle safely out of the way of any faces. “Oh! Teacher! Mr. Parker?” She read his name. “Sorry, but you have the face of a baby’s bum. Oh, but the body of a twig! You should eat more, let me serve you sweetie,” before Peter could say, “You don't need to,” a tray was shoved into Peter's hands that had what looked to be everything that was being served. “Enjoy!” Peter looked up to see the giant woman have a giant grin that flashed him a few of her silver teeth.

“Thank you,” Peter squinted his eyes at her name tag. He needed to update his prescription. “Ms. Johnson.” He looked up at her with what he hoped was a smile that didn't show his fear of the woman and turned to leave with his quite hefty tray. He darted for the double doors he entered through—hoping to hurry back to his classroom and eat before lunch ended—when he passed by a large table that was the loudest of the bunch. He stopped in his tracks and took a look because, from the side of his eye, there looked to be a real buff kid—Nope not a kid, Peter corrected himself. Just a big broad-shoulder man sitting with a bunch of teens ranging from tiny freshmen to seniors. The man’s body looked out of place from the children. His silhouette was reminiscent of an old high school bully of Peter's. The only difference is that instead of a varsity jacket and a pair of jeans, the man wore what looked like a black and red compression shirt and a matching red pair of slim-fit gym shorts. So fit, that Peter wondered if it was just barely meeting the dress code.

Oh and the obvious scarring covering every inch of the man that Peter could see, but he wasn't so focused on that. Through the patchy skin, he admired how muscular he was. Eventually his suspicions of him wearing obvious gym attire, his eyes trailed down the man's chest and Peter saw a whistle and the bright blue lanyard around his neck which meant he was a teacher and not some student. Peter mentally sighed in relief—he wasn't trying to get fired or get called ‘The Weird Teacher’ on the first day by looking inappropriately at a student.

This guy seemed more lively than the teachers he'd seen, especially himself. Maybe even more of a student than a teacher by his manners, eating with his mouth open and laughing loudly. Peter guessed the scarred man was in his early forties. He doesn't look too old, but not too young either.

Peter hadn't realized he was staring when the whole table was staring back at him. Those whose backs weren't turned were now. The tight shorts-wearing man was also looking at him blankly.

“Mr. Parker?” A student spoke up, probably questioning why their science teacher was just staring at a bunch of kids and a teacher. Peter did not blame him. He bet on his life he looked like a creep. Great first impression on his future students too, nice going Peter. And the Weird Teacher award goes to…!

Peter was about to say something, he didn't know what, but his mouth opened though the words that came next were not from him.

“You've got a problem Mr?” A male student, who was sitting next to the oh so fit-and-even-fitter clothing-wearing teacher, had stood up with his hands flat on the table as some sort of support or intimidation stance—Peter wasn't sure, probably the latter.

Now Peter is an adult, but the kid was taller and bigger than the others, even compared to Peter he was probably three of him in width. The buzz cut was not helping him look any different than a prisoner. He caught something from the boy's neck—Oh my God, no way that's a tattoo.

“What? No, no! Sorry, I didn't mean to—Just uh, couldn't help myself and noticed you were just sitting here, with them,” he cleared his throat. He jerked his chin toward the other teacher. “I was uh trying to figure out whether you were a teacher or just a special case of a super senior.” He gave a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting away as he used his index finger to push up his glasses.

Some, if not most, of the students from the table eyed him suspiciously. Peter couldn't help but notice a glint of protectiveness in their eyes and from the air around them. Could it be all these kids where this guy's body guards? He could probably take some of the smaller ones. Wait, you are not fighting children!

As Peter was trying to convince himself that he does not need to defend himself like he is reliving his own highschool experience, he saw the scarred man stand up.

“Would you believe me if I say that I get that a lot?” The man said with a grin at the end. Peter saw how the scars stretched and wrinkled at the sides of his lips. “Alright, hold your fire kids! This guy looks like bully food—I don't think there's anything you can say that this guy hasn't heard yet.”

“No Offense, Wade, but if you’re talking about the language back in your day, we can definitely think of better insults for Bobble head over here than just four-eyes.” A girl with mostly black hair and pink highlights spoke up. Peter wonders if her parents know just how much eye shadow is on her face.

“Bobble head, that's a new one.” Peter wasn't the type to over use his teacher powers and get very offended. Peter had to admit this generation was a whole new breed and he couldn’t help but be impressed...

[aimbutmiss]

It was another long night in the office for Crocodile.

To be fair, it was never intentional. He always reminded himself to retreat to his sleeping quarters at acceptable hours as he sat down to get some work done, but the idea was forgotten the moment he picked up a document.

So, he had severe time management problems. Whatever.

He dropped the paper he was holding and rubbed his temple with a groan. He was getting too old for sleepless nights like this. But work never ended with Cross Guild. He had a lot of things to overlook, even with the help he had from Daz and Buggy, who surprisingly made quite the good businessman. And maybe he was being a bit too cautious—too detailed with his work, but he found out the hard way that attention to detail payed off. He wasn't new to all this, he had built Baroque Works from ground up and he had also very much done the same with Cross Guild. He was proud of his meticulous work habits. No matter how many sleepless nights he had, it was always worth it.

And he loved his office; it was his safe place. He loved having a little corner to himself, away from everyone and everything. Karai Bari was loud, always home to some type of festivity. Crocodile was never one for such ruckus, and only allowed it because it helped with crew morale. But no matter what stupid thing was going on out there, he could shut it out and hide in the peaceful silence of this room. He could crunch numbers day and night, without having to deal with nightmares in his bed.

Yes, Sir Crocodile had nightmares; for he was human like any other.

He wasn't ashamed of his demons, but he'd never admit it to anyone if asked about it. He had spent years building the strong, powerful persona he had. He had convinced many that he was invincible, without weakness. It would all crumble if the world found out he woke up in cold sweat some nights, tears staining his face.

Monsters did not cry.

He slammed his head on the desk and closed his eyes for a second. Trying to get his much needed rest from a few seconds of shut eye was ridiculous, but it was better than nothing.

Before he could get up and get back to work, the door to his office slowly opened. He could have looked up to see who it was, not that there were many people who would walk into his office in the dead of night, but he decided to act as if he had fallen asleep for some reason. He just... felt like it. He didn't move an inch as footsteps approached closer to his desk.

"That could be a fire hazard, you idiot."

The mysterious intruder turned out to be just Buggy, which was weird. The clown had no reason to pay him a visit, especially not at this hour. The man picked up the lit cigar on the ashtray and put it out. A few second later, he gently laid a blanket on the "sleeping" man's shoulders, making sure he was covered up nicely. He hadn't moved from his place, so he must have detached his hands to pick it up from wherever.

"You don't have to work yourself this hard, you stubborn old man."

Crocodile was suddenly hyper aware of everything: the smell of Buggy's newly washed hair; his hand on his back, drawing slow circles into his tense muscles... He felt himself involuntarily relax into the touch.

"I could have changed you into something more comfortable and carried you to your bed if you weren't built like a fucking sea king. Oh well, this should do for now."

Before his business partner left the room, he could barely feel him give a kiss on his head. Yet it was enough to make the hairs on his neck stand up.

Buggy walked to the door, trying his best to be silent, and shut the lights. He left with a gentle whisper of "Good night." and Crocodile didn't have it in himself to get up for the next... God knows how long.

Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep just like that. When he woke up the next morning, he had mild back pain from sleeping while hunched over a chair. But despite that, he hadn't slept so well in ages.

No nightmares, just a warm blanket and the lingering smell of shampoo.