#the nostalgia bug bit me so i wanted to drop in

[nowonderyouhavedemons]

whoa hey the hellsite is still here that's craaaaazy

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: the spare bedroom

the nostalgia bug has got me good, y'all. And man, it's so much easier to write for a new fandom, haha. For the four of you who might see this --

title: the spare bedroom pairing: Cloud/Barret rating: E length: 5000 tags: Game: Final Fantasy VII Rebirth (2024), Gongaga (Compilation of FFVII), Friends With Benefits, Size Kink, Oral Sex

summary: After getting out of the desert and making their way to Gongaga, everyone splits up. Cloud comes to check on Barret.

(read on AO3)

Cissnei's house is nice enough. Small. A few beds, like maybe desperate folks have crashed here before. A kitchen. Maybe Tifa'll cook something, if they're lucky. Pay back their host for her generosity. From the burn marks on the stove they better not rely on Cissnei to provide.

Barret's not hungry, though. He's tired but he doesn't want to sleep. Piece of shit of a day, worse than just about any he's had in four years. He sits on the bed shoved against the wall in the back room and rests his elbows on his knees, trying to figure it. Between the plate getting dropped and losing his team and the reactor back in Corel blowing and his arm being shot to bloody broken bits—yeah, he's got a list. Previously he'd had the ranking pretty well defined. Maybe on some later day he'll feel less like a sorry sack of shit about the whole thing but right now, every time he closes his eyes he sees that holding shack at the prison, and he feels the hot dust under his fingers, and in his ears, his best friend saying—

"What are you doing," Cloud says. Barret jolts, opens his eyes.

"I'm bo-ored," Yuffie says, from her slump in the living room around the corner. "This town was supposed to have materia."

"It isn't just going to appear midair. I thought you were a hunter. Go find it." Barret snorts. Kid doesn't even sound like he's trying to be rude. Perfectly practical, that's our SOLDIER. Yuffie makes some whiny noise—Barret is truly not looking forward to Marlene being fifteen—and Cloud sighs, and like he's making a great concession says, "I think I heard the GYC guys talking about training with magic. Maybe you can convince one of them to hand something over."

"Really?" she squeals, and then, calling like to a distant friend, "Materia, never fear! You shall be mine!"

Running sneakers on the stone, the front door slamming closed. Barret tips his head back against the wall, watches the afternoon light coming in through the strange stone-hewed windows. Town's nice. Peaceful. If it were some other day he bets he could enjoy it.

Cloud appears in the archway. His lips part on seeing Barret and then he shakes his head. "Figures. Last place I look."

"Ain't everything in the last place you'd look?" Barret says. He stretches his boots out on the stones. "'Cause you'd stop looking then, right?"

Those big, pretty eyes narrow. "Right." Cloud studies his face and Barret lets him. Nearly all his awful secrets are out in the light, now. Don't make sense to pretend otherwise. Anyway, the rest of 'em didn't abandon him in the desert or kill him where he stood, so he figures little fearless leader here isn't about to run him through. Though, really…

"You need something?" Barret says. Better to head those kinds of thoughts off at the pass. "We ain't moving out already, are we?"

Slight head-shake. "Mission break. We don't even know if that reactor's the right place to look. Everyone needs some downtime."

Barret's got enough going on that he thinks he can be forgiven how it takes him a few seconds. Cloud's looking at the ground, his arms folded over his skinny chest, and Barret stares at him in silence until he sees how the kid's ears and cheekbones are going that telltale pale pink. He'd laugh if he didn't feel like his guts had been torn out and left all over the desert. "Don't know if I'm gonna be good company for that, man," he says.

Cloud rubs the back of his neck. "You're never good company," he says, after a second, and Barret's surprised enough to snort. Cloud's mouth tilts, barely, and then his jaw firms. "That was—messed up, today. It shouldn't have gone down like that."

"My best friend shouldn't have been mown down in a hail of bullets by Shinra goons? With it being my fault?" Barret shrugs. "Yeah, guess I'd agree with that."

Strangest look on the kid's face. He blinks hard, shakes his head. Barret frowns—he knows he sounds bitter but he didn't mean to make the kid cry, damn—but after a few seconds Cloud says, softer than he normally says just about anything, "I can't imagine." He stands there, quiet, while Barret takes a full breath, deep in his lungs, trying to clear out the thick tense fucked-up misery that's solid there, all of a sudden, his chest full of iron ore and sandstorms. Then Cloud steps forward, hands loose at his sides, cheeks pink, chin lifted. "Let me help take your mind off it."

"Cloud—" Barret starts, but Cloud gestures vaguely to the rest of town, interrupts with: "Yuffie's out chasing materia; Red's mushroom hunting; I think Cait's charging; Tifa and Aerith are… I don't know, they're doing girl stuff." He tips his head to the side, toward the real bedroom. "I'm betting that door locks."

Barret sighs. "You thought of everything, huh?"

"I try," Cloud says. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and lets it out slow through his teeth, so it shines in the dim light. Nervous and doing a hell of a job of hiding it, and it might even work if Barret hadn't seen his badass act fail about fifty times by now. "I don't know how to make it better. Maybe it doesn't get better. But there could be an hour that didn't suck."

Damn if the kid hasn't had a 180 in personality from the day they met. Barret's heart's still lead, but—hell, the kid's right. He doesn't want to feel like this anymore. "Long as you promise it won't suck," he says. Feels heavy coming out but, damn, he's trying.

Cloud steps forward between his boots. "Or what," he says, dry.

Barret reaches out, flattens his hand over the kid's chest. The tank's thick wool, surprisingly soft. "Ain't got the energy to mess with you, man," Barret says, more honest than he means to be. Cloud's eyes change, quick as that. He gets a little nod. Barret curls a finger under one of the leather straps on Cloud's armor and tugs. Cloud leans down slow, bending at the waist, pausing for some reason when his breath touches Barret's skin—meeting Barret's eyes, checking, like Barret's some virgin that needs to be gentled—and Barret holds there like a stone until Cloud reaches whatever internal decision had to get made and sinks down the final few inches and kisses him, close-mouthed. Sweet.

He is sweet. Clumsy still, even if they've done this already. Barret holds him by the small of the back over the thick leather brace and lets Cloud take the lead, the weight still dragging at him, but distracted at least—the kid's skin smelling like salt and river-water and the jungle green they waded through to get here and also that weird sharp tang that's always around him, the mako seeping up somehow through his pores. His girl-soft mouth and his girl-soft skin, the touch of wet against Barret's lower lip, his hands warm even through the leather gloves when he frames Barret's jaw, when he sucks in a shuddery breath through his nose, when he makes this tiny deep sound in his chest, like he's tasting something he's been wanting for a while.

Barret's gut wakes, slow. Like it's remembering that he's a man and not just a hollow thing for grief to fill. He presses Cloud's mouth wider, licks his top lip, and Cloud shudders, lets Barret kiss him—deeper—his hands sliding from Barret's jaw to clench in his vest. Then he breaks away—mouth red, wet—and blinks at Barret, and then pulls at his vest, hard, that unnatural strength hauling Barret upright before he's ready so he stumbles forward into the kid, who catches him like it's nothing, and pulls again, until they're in the bedroom, the door slamming behind Barret's back as Cloud pushes him up against it. Cloud has to lift up on his toes and Barret has to bend to get their mouths together again but damn if it's not worth it, with the kid better every time, making those little noises like he's surprised, like he's learning something, like he didn't know he could like it. Hot as hell and not the first time Barret's thought it and certainly not the last, with this warmth building up in him. He was dead ten minutes ago and now he wants—damn, he wants a lot, too much, shit he can't do with responsibility about to come knocking any second, in the bedroom of some stranger's house, with a door that—

"No lock," Barret says, fumbling behind himself. Shit, shit—

Cloud stares up at him hazily, breathing heavy. "Fuck it," he says, rough. "You're a doorstop, right?"

"Screw you," Barret says, surprised into laughing, and Cloud smiles at him and then hooks his sword off that magnet on his back, leans it against the wall—careful like he always is, like the thing that cuts dragons in half will get chipped if he doesn't treat it nice—and then pushes right back in and kisses him, wrapping his arm around Barret's neck, pulling him down enough that it's easy, and then his other hand skimming down Barret's belly to his belt to the front of his fatigues, gripping there, small but firm.

Hell of a lot bolder than he was before. Barret grunts, dips and kisses the kid's jaw, lets his hips curl forward. He's not all the way there but Cloud's curious, feeling the length and the thickening girth and it feels—damn, just right, muffled pressure that's not enough to go crazy over but that feels—like a strong hand gripping his and pulling him out of swamp-muck. His nuts don't mind, that's for damn sure. He drags his fingers down the center of Cloud's back, pressing through the leather, kisses there under the kid's ear and grips his ass in a big handful, squeezes, gets a sweet tiny gasp against his jaw that makes him grin, all unexpected.

"Shut up," Cloud said, and then before Barret can protest that he didn't say nothing at all, he immediately says, "Do you want to—like before?"

Fucking the sweat-damp tunnel between Cloud's thighs, the kid squirming and panting and overcome under his bulk, so hot he's half-surprised the room didn't catch fire. Something that'll be good dreams, as long as he manages to keep his sorry ass alive. Still—"Don't think we can screw up Miss Cissnei's bedroom like that," he says. Regretting it sincerely but also somewhat glad to see Cloud pull back and blink, confused. "Made a mess, creaming you up."

His cheeks are about the color of one of those hibiscus outside, speaking of catching fire. "Right," he says. Just barely unsteady. Barret squeezes his ass again, pulls him in closer against his thigh, and Cloud half-stumbles and—yeah, he's hard too, stiff enough through the uniform that Barret could probably just get the kid to ride his leg, desperate and dizzy with it until he made a mess of himself. And that'd be fun as hell, especially if excuses had to get made about ducking back out to the river for a swim, but Barret's more selfish than that, and, anyway—

"Right," Cloud says again, harder, and then licks his lips, and drops without so much as a by-your-leave to his knees—drops, all at once, hitting the floor with a thud—and reaches for Barret's belt, and Barret's too shocked-stupid to stop him.

Belts aren't complicated and neither are trousers and Cloud's got him unzipped in record time, and that's also when Cloud gets to find out that it's been a long journey and there hasn't been much time for worrying about the delicates. He takes a deep breath and curls his hands into the waistband. "Commando, huh?" He flicks his eyes up.

"You complainin'?" Barret says, spreading his boots. Goddamn, that's a sight.

"I figured you'd need a special sling for this thing," Cloud says, cool as a mountaintop like Barret can't see his ear-tips glowing red under the mess of his hair. He pops the bracer on his right wrist and drags the leather glove off with his teeth, and it's ghostly-pale fingertips on the low of Barret's stomach, dragging down the trail from his navel to the bush he's let grow kinda thick and then touching the root, curious, feeling him all fat and ready. Ready—damn, feels like he could hammer nails—but he doesn't have to wait much longer, with Cloud's fingers peeling back the v of the fatigues and pulling down just enough that his dick—ah—pops free, hanging heavy but hard enough that it's standing out from his hips. Cloud curls his left hand around it—the leather strange and battered-soft—hefts him, fingers barely meeting his thumb—and frowns, and lifts up higher on his knees, and then dips and—presses his lips to the side, over the vein, dry, the heat just—

"Yeah," Barret says, thoughtless, and Cloud glances up at him hot-faced and then closes his eyes, licks instead, his lips dragging stutter-soft up the side of Barret's dick. "Cloud. You done this?"

He holds there with his lips just under the head, bangs hiding his face. Barret fits his hand around the back of Cloud's neck, something twisting so hard and vicious in his gut it almost hurts except that his nuts surge like he could shoot right now, no warning. He slides his thumb up over the soft hollow spot at the top of his spine, feeling the soft puffs of Cloud's breath over the head of his cock—quick, warm. "Wet your mouth," he says, quiet. Tiny space between their skin—he hears the slick noises, Cloud sucking his lower lip—and Barret closes his eyes tight but then opens them again, because hell if he's gonna miss this. "Gotta relax your jaw. Don't try to fit the whole thing. You suffocate, there'll be hell to pay."

"You'd bring me back," Cloud says, absent-minded, and Barret uses the grip at the back of his neck to pull him away—Cloud blinking up at him, startled—but he has to curl down and kiss the kid for that one, knocking his mouth open and really licking inside, pushing his jaw wide, feeling him—wet, yeah, slick and warm and good, and then he stands up again and brushes his thumb over Cloud's smooth cheek and watches him sway softly under that tenderness—what in the hell, every minute's like meeting a new merc—before Cloud licks his lower lip, and bolsters Barret's dick high, and bends to fit his mouth around the head.

Wet shock. Slick, hot—god, there are times Barret prefers this to pussy, of whatever gender. He's too big and most never offer, much less try. Cloud's tongue slicks smooth and strong under the head and Barret grips his hair, presses his hips hard back against the door not to fuck in and maybe actually cause an injury. Little grunt and Cloud pushes down another inch, pulls back, coughs. "Good," Barret says, like a dumbass. "That's good, baby."

"Don't call me that," Cloud says, but he must not mind too much because he licks a sloppy kiss there at the tip and tries again, sliding the tight ring of his lips down and down, the inside of his mouth—he sucks and it's the silk inside his cheeks and his tongue sliding and a hint, ow, of teeth, but with how hard he's trying even that's a kind of harsh hot thing that's swirling tensely at the pit of Barret's belly. Cloud switches hands, gripping with the bare right instead and sliding his left down to hold Barret's nuts, and he laps right at the slit, pressing hard, and Barret—damn, he's trying but he's mortal, isn't he?—fucks his hips forward, chasing it. Knocks into Cloud's throat, makes him yank back, coughing—and Barret does feel like a piece of shit, says, "Damn—sorry, sorry—" but Cloud, being a crazy-ass, says, "Shut up," and kneels up gripping Barret's hips and forces his mouth down. The angle's all off and he hasn't done this or at least hasn't done this with a cock as big as Barret's and he only gets maybe halfway down, but that's insane-making enough, Barret's cockhead threatening the pit of his throat and feeling that tight spasm, his hips pushing forward because he can't not under that demand, closed up in all that heaven. He's so turned around he tries for a second to grab with his right hand, forgetting somehow that it's been gone for four years, and ends up leaving his gun-arm laid heavily over Cloud's back, clanking against his iron pauldron. It's a mind-bending handful of seconds buried about as deep as anyone's managed in years before he remembers he's not supposed to kill the kid and he pulls Cloud away by the hair, his dick emerging into the horrible cold air slick and furious, calling him a fucking dumbass for not leaving it right where it belonged.

Cloud coughs once, slurps spit and air. Barret tips his head back and there are—fuck—tears in his eyes, his face red, his eyes furiously blue. Looking up like it's a challenge and like he's got not a thought in his head, all at the same time. Barret keeps his head still and pushes forward, his dick standing straight out from his hips, lets the cockhead kiss Cloud's mouth. Lets him lick at it, soft-pink and wanting. Pushes past, sliding the sticky-wet along Cloud's bizarrely soft skin, watching the fat dark of it smear along the pale cheek and past, dipping under his ear, brushing the soft ends of his hair until Cloud's lips are pressed to Barret's skin, Barret's nuts against his chin. Barret slides his own fingers against the underside of his dick, brushing Cloud's jaw. Cloud tips his head forward, forehead against Barret's belly. Kisses, careful, at his sack. God, if it were possible. If there were a dozen nights where Barret could hold his head just so and coax him and open his throat, feed in—all the way, past the constriction, in—

He can't wait. He spits in his palm and wraps his fist around his dick, and from lack of options—even crazed-headed as he is he's careful, careful, with the gun, nudging Cloud back with the muzzle against his collarbone—Cloud's eyes opening wide, darker, his jaw dropping—so Barret can feed the head in—just the head, jerking himself, Cloud watching and gripping Barret's hips and then his nuts and then just holding there, cupping Barret's sack and slurping and suckling and licking soft and sweet at the cockhead, this hot urgency in him, wanting it bad enough that he'd choke if Barret let him. Fuck, Barret could choke him. He wrings at his dick, that coil turning in and in and in on itself, tighter and hotter and clawing its way out of his nuts, and he should warn Cloud, should pull him back, should say at least—should say—except it's one of those things he knows, down somewhere deep past every other thing, that no, that this is going to be—that he will—

He bites his lip hard so he doesn't yell out. His hips jerk, once. He follows the pumping release, fisting up and up and up, drives—in—just barely, Cloud gripping his hips and then wrapping his hands over Barret's hand, holding it, letting him pump inside. Cloud's mouth opens and he gasps wetly and Barret watches the white shine on his lip and wrings his dick viciously to pull out another gob of it and then chases that right into Cloud's mouth, forces it back inside when he seems like he might lose it over his chin, and Cloud holds the back of his hand and closes his lips over Barret's thumb and sucks it clean, blurry-eyed, good. Fuck, he's good.

Barret stares at that, for a few seconds. Maybe for eternity. This insane fucker, acting like Barret's giving up the lifestream itself. His tongue pushing hard along the ridge of Barret's thumbnail. How he swallows, and gasps weird around Barret's wet thumb, and then swallows again. Then Barret's brain logs back in, or at least halfway, because he rips his hand away and grips Cloud by the bicep and hauls him bodily to his feet—fucks his tongue into Cloud's mouth for a stolen second to taste himself—bitter, god that's bitter, salt and bleach and Cloud's tongue—and then turns them around, slams Cloud back against the door and goes to his own knees, less gracefully but no less happy to do it.

"What," Cloud says, raw-voiced—god, god, because Barret fucked him there—and Barret says, "You gotta help, baby, can't do this one-handed," and Cloud stares down at him before he fumbles at his waist—rucking up the wide back-belt, peeling open his uniform, and there's—sweet, standard issue Shinra grunt white boxer-briefs with his little dick standing up so hard in them, pushing forward the cotton desperate enough that there's a damp spot at the tip, pink skin shining through the wet. Even kneeling Barret's too tall for this, though—he fumblingly helps Cloud push the trousers and briefs down to his mid-thigh and then picks up one leg, hauls Cloud's knee over his left shoulder to lift him higher—one boot thudding against his back, the other scrambling to brace on the stone floor—and it's awkward, yeah, but at that moment the bed feels a mile away and anyway he can just—"Oh!" Cloud says, as brainless as he's ever been. Barret slurps down, down, to the base—easy—while since he's had the pleasure but it ain't the kind of thing you forget. "What—Barret—"

Barret pulls off, kisses the inches of bare white thigh by his cheek. "Gotta stay quiet, you don't want the whole village coming to see," he says, and when he glances up Cloud's covered his mouth with his gloved hand, staring wide-eyed like Barret's something he never expected to see. Barret'd laugh at how fussed he is—wet-eyed and pink-faced and fluffy-haired as a chick—but it's more fun to grip his tight little ass with his good hand and push him forward into Barret's mouth. Stiff pole of it, leaking all over the place, salt and clean skin and again that strange metal flavor, a tang, somehow all off and weird and addictive all at once. Good mouthful, his nuts a sweet smooth package pulled up so tight to the base he seems ready to shoot, with thirty seconds' worth of decent attention. Barret wants to do him better than that, though, to give back even half of all that good—"Suck," he says, tapping two fingers against the metal back of Cloud's glove. A blink, confusedly hazy. "C'mon, now. My mouth's busy."

Slurped right in, after that. He ducks back down and laps at the smooth sack—truly, he'll never be over how the kid seems to be entirely hairless from the nose down—and kisses Cloud's belly and the knobby little turn of his pelvis where he's too skinny and bites real careful just under his navel, makes Cloud's cock jerk like it's on a damn lead up against the underside of his chin. His fingers are getting what he'd bet would be the gold-star VIP treatment at the Honeybee, Cloud sucking as eagerly as he did dick, and goddamn, if Barret were younger they'd have a real issue on their hands. Even so his nuts are interested, wanting another try.

"Good," he mumbles against Cloud's belly. Another jerk—his dick's pearling clear, oozing. Barret pulls his fingers out of Cloud's mouth and gets a stuttery little gasp, and then a choked noise when he applies them to the red dripping head, smears all the wet around. "Cover your mouth," he says, and Cloud doesn't quite obey but slips his own fingers inside, biting, and that works, too—well enough that when Barret slips his hand around and presses against his asshole the only sound is a chest-deep grunt, not something that'll get shouted to the village and the whole jungle, besides.

Cloud ain't a princess and he's so desperate he don't need coaxing; Barret rubs the wet around, feels him tight, flexing, and doesn't ask before he pushes his middle finger in, quick and all-at-once to the knuckle. Cloud jerks and Barret slurps his dick back in, sucks in little pulses to match his finger fucking in, and Cloud's naked hand fumbles to Barret's shoulder, grips his vest so tight Barret hears a stitch pop. Insanely hot inside. Maybe hotter than other people—those mako treatments, again?—and the ring of muscle clamping hard—and easy, damn, so easy, Barret scrubbing his finger along that front wall where all the good stuff happens and Cloud's breath going strange and high and whiny around his fingers, his thigh flexing over Barret's shoulder and his hips not knowing whether to push back or crush forward. Barret makes it easy for him, encourages the thrust, letting him rock between Barret's hand and his mouth. It feels nice, anyway, right, his lips tight, letting Cloud rock against Barret's tongue pushed flat and hard up against the base, his taste leaking all over 'til Barret's sure he'll only taste that salt-and-metal for days after. He can feel Cloud quickening, though, his tiny noises going deeper, his hips getting desperate, and he crushes his finger in hard and pulls Cloud all the way up against his face, his beard grinding against that smooth sweating skin, his nose crushed in against his belly, sucking, demanding, and—yeah, Cloud's breath stops and his whole body seizes and his bootheel bruises Barret's back and he—shoots, right up into the back of Barret's throat, quick jets that Barret swallows down right away before he pulls back, slurps soft at the head, gets those last few drops. Slippery as mercury.

Cloud's head is tipped back against the door. Fingers still in his mouth, his chest heaving. Barret kisses his cockhead, all flushed and wetly red, and his belly, and then, watching carefully, he tugs his finger out of Cloud's body and then presses back in with two. Thick—he knows, his two fingers are thicker than a lot of men's dicks—but Cloud swallows them up without a whine or a flinch, his body clamping tight but just—taking it. He missed his calling, Barret thinks, and then feels bad for thinking it but—not that bad, really.

"You're so good, baby," he says, meaning it about as sincerely as he's meant anything, and Cloud's eyes open up above and his head drops down, his chin against his chest, meeting Barret's eyes. Not protesting at all. Tilting his hips when Barret grinds his two fingers thick into that spot, his pupils huge and his lips open and everything about him seeming to say—go ahead. Go ahead, make me.

If only. Barret kisses Cloud's belly again, right at the root of his softening dick, and pulls out his fingers and then stands up, bracing against the door to do it. His knees crack, gun-shot loud. Cloud blinks at him, looking up of a sudden with Barret so close, and then gets one of those tiny, goofy smiles.

"Don't you say a thing," Barret says.

"Hm," Cloud says. He looks to the side, where one of the high windows is pouring in that syrupy late afternoon light. "Maybe we can get you a potion, later."

"Man, what'd I say," Barret says, and Cloud grins and then turns back and goes on his toes and kisses him, quick. Just this brief unselfconscious peck, not asking for another thing. He drops back to his heels and he's not smiling anymore but his eyes are soft, and Barret chucks him under the chin, gentle. Dumbass, crazy kid.

He zips up. Cloud gets his uniform back together. In less than a minute, other than how Barret's mouth tastes like cock and metal, looking around the bedroom, no one'd suspect a thing.

Cloud pulls his discarded glove back on, clicks his bracer back together. Twists his wrist back and forth to check the fit. Says, looking down, "You good?"

Barret takes a deep breath. He feels—he doesn't know. It's still this shitty day but it's not worse. His bones feel looser in their sockets and his brain feels somewhat clear and he doesn't—regret at least one thing that happened today. "I'm good," he says. Not exactly true but maybe there's not anything truer.

A steady look, sidelong across Cloud's shoulder. "Good," he says. A little soft. The tip of his tongue touches his lower lip and he swipes one gloved thumb across his mouth, like he's trying not to think about it. If he keeps doing that it's gonna be hell on Barret's composure. But then he settles his shoulders, and picks up that big-ass sword and lets it clank heavily into its place. Looks more like the badass merc he's meant to be. "I'm going to check on the others. If nothing's going on maybe we can rest here, tonight, go on to the reactor in the morning."

"Sounds good to me," Barret says. He opens the door—no one waiting in awkward silence in the rest of the house, thank the planet—and follows Cloud to the entry. Watches Cloud reach for the knob and then grabs his arm. "You—" Cloud lets himself be held still, looking over his shoulder. Barret clears his throat. "You meant it, huh. 'Bout having my back."

Cloud looks at him entirely clear-eyed. No weird tenseness or like he's thinking of ten other things or brooding on whatever dark-ass secrets he keeps locked tight. Just this kid—man, Barret amends—standing there with him. For a minute, steady as a mountain. He nods, once.

Barret swallows. "Hope you know it goes both ways."

A slow breath. "I'm counting on it," Cloud says. Means it, too.

Barret nods back, something settling low at the base of his spine. Something steel-forged, solid. He ain't got a lot of best friends left. He'll do what he can, for this one.

[kieuecaprie]

I kept seeing Toontown stuff on my Tumblr timeline so I decided to go check out Corporate Clash again. Made myself a little deer fren, selected Toon-Up and Squirt (don't you dare) as my starter gags, and played around a bit with it.

I still think Corporate Clash feels much more up my alley than Rewritten, even though I enjoy the fact that I can have a (nearly) purist experience with the latter, it's just that the former has content and my brain like shiny new thing.

I would say what my Toon's name is but the initial custom one I picked out had an unfortunate set of initials so now I'm getting it changed, so hopefully, when it gets approved, I'll be playing a deer named Elpis Elmglow.

Plan on testing it out via Lutris on Steam Deck and might write a report on its performance. So far, it seems fine but it drops frames a bit, the Lutris installer suggests I turn on Esync/FSync, so that's something I should look into, I guess... if I know what the hell that means.

As for the why, I dunno, I just wanted to try it out again because the nostalgia bug hit me again.

[composttea]

🌲 Masterpost 🌲

🌲 Full Fic 🌲

The plane dipped out of the bright, clear sky into a gray haze. Clouds crushed against the windows. I stared at the book in my lap and pretended to read. Three hours ago, I was standing on the warm, solid ground in Phoenix.

My mom stood at the drop-off, smiling. I hefted my suitcase out of the back and made my way over to the side of the SUV.

“Ready?”

I shrugged and she frowned.

“You really don’t have to do this, you know. Phil will be fine on his own.”

A plane roared overhead, drowning her out. Her boyfriend was a baseball player, currently up for recruitment. Spring training was calling his name, and with it my mom.

I leaned in and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I want to, really. Just not looking forward to the flight.”

Renée hugged me back, squeezing my shoulders tight. “Oh, sweetie. I wish you weren’t all on your own.”

“I’ll have Charlie! And school.” I doubted I would be making many friends. I think Renée could tell. Even if she struggled with the practical side of things, she could pick up on the nuances of my feelings better than I could. It was reassuring, but there was nowhere to hide.

The car behind us honked. Renée turned and waved at them.

“Who else is going to keep Charlie company?”

She smiled softly at me. “Did you pack enough clothes? Washington gets cold.”

I waggled my carry-on, containing little more than a book and a fluffy, dark green sweater. Renée had knitted it a few years back, one of many hobbies she had tried out over the years. It was a bit lumpy, but it was the warmest thing I owned. “I’ll be fine, promise.”

I was a bad liar, but a persistent one.

The traffic was starting to pile up, and Renée darted forward to scoop me into a tight hug.

“I love you so much, honey.” She stepped back and looked me in the eyes. Hers were a sparkling green-gold that I envied. Just brown for me. “Call me as soon as you land, okay?”

I nodded and started toward the entrance. I didn’t look back.

Charlie picked me up from the airport in the police cruiser. I sank into my seat as he loaded my bag in the back. The drive to his house was familiar, but things had changed in the three years since I had last visited. The diner had a new sign. The city had patched up a few of the bigger potholes. I considered picking something at random to talk about, just to save us both from the awkward silence.

“You remember Billy Black?”

Charlie and I shared a brain sometimes.

“Yeah?” Of course I remembered Billy. He and my dad had been friends as long as I could remember.

“If you want it, I just bought a ‘63 Chevy off him. He and his son fixed it up over the winter.”

I looked away from the thick mist looming over the road at Charlie. “That’s—wow, thank you.”

He shrugged. After a moment, he tested out a smile. “Agreeing before you even take a look?

“I have very low standards.”

Charlie laughed lightly and tried to continue with the small talk.

We pulled up on the road leading to the house. Like everything else in the town, it was crowded out by green. Trees and moss peeked through every gap and crack in the road. Even the sky looked sickly, like it was starting to go rotten at the horizon.

There was a hulking, red pick-up waiting in the driveway. The fenders curved like boxing gloves, challenging any lesser car to impact. I loved it.

As soon as he got my suitcase upstairs, Charlie mumbled something about a baseball game and made himself scarce. It was eerie being back in my old room. I spent a couple months every summer here as a kid, captured in the layers of pictures and decorations like bugs in amber. Did you know "nostalgia" was originally a sickness? My chest tightened as I took in the faded blue paint and the chipped desk tucked in the corner. Charlie and I found it at a garage sale when I was eleven. I got to unpacking right away, but I took my time. Once my stuff was put away I would be actually living here.

***

A small pile of sawdust and woodchips greeted me in the living room. I had spent the night listening to music, loudly enough that I couldn’t hear anything else. Had someone broken something? My brother emerged from his room a moment later, answering my question.

It was the knife. The knife was too blunt. Must have been. Jasper looked up from straightening his cuffs and glowered at me.

“Good morning.” I waved at the pile on the coffee table. “Trouble last night?”

“It was shaping up nicely, but my hand slipped.” Jasper stalked past me to the coat closet.

I could see the image in his mind with perfect clarity: a waterfowl of some sort, whittled from a block of pine. It splintered into nothing when he lost his focus and crushed it.

“Maybe you should try stone.”

“Maybe you should try staying out of my head,” he snapped. He closed his eyes for a moment before returning my gaze. “Sorry.”

I wasn’t looking forward to babysitting again today. This semester was Jasper’s first full-time enrollment at a high school. We tested the waters last fall. Constance thought he was doing well (and I suppose he was, in terms of body count) , but she didn’t have to hear his every thought about the swathes of humans he was in classes with. But he hadn’t acted on any of it, which was what mattered. It didn’t help things that Jasper was keenly aware of my frustration with him, however hard I tried to disguise it. There were thoughts and feelings we silently agreed never to speak about, and so far, the system was working.

“There’s a new student today.” I met Jasper at the closet and took my coat when he handed it to me. “The Chief’s daughter.”

“Hm.” He pulled on his boots. Does he think I forgot?

“I thought the students might be excited about it—something a little different than usual.”

Jasper’s mouth was pressed into a hard line, but he smiled at me. “Hoping to make a friend?”

I laughed, and he joined me. Since our sister served her time last year, we had to be each other’s company. As much as I disliked looking over my shoulder, it was nice to have anyone to talk to. I know he was annoyed—to put it lightly—at the mental invasiveness of my presence, but he felt the same.

I got to watch the new girl through a hundred lenses, each colored with its own narrative. Isabella arrived this morning in a 1963 Chevy pickup, rust red and extremely vocal. The boy who saw her get out of the truck thought she was pretty—he only had a glimpse of dark brown hair and pale skin, and I frankly didn’t care to look closer. 

I wish I could say it was miserable. In fact, it was just as mind-numbingly dull as it always was. This was Asphodel, not Tartarus. For me, at least. My brother was struggling today. The student body fawned and fussed over Isabella—no, just Bella, she insisted—completely unaware there was a wreck of a vampire a hair’s breadth from snapping in their midst. 

Jasper's gifts were particularly maladapted to a high school environment. Yes, hearing the endless torrent of thoughts of every human I passed was a living nightmare, but experiencing the emotional turmoil of three hundred teenagers for six hours at a time was a special circle of hell. The thoughts I caught when I passed Jas in the halls were enough I considered pulling him aside, as much as he would hate it. He was older—biologically and empirically, by two and sixty years, respectively—but I often felt like the elder sibling, seeing as I had been committed to our family's particular lifestyle significantly longer. It was never easy, abstaining from human blood. Moral high ground was rather weak compensation for the agony of rejecting one's base nature.

I caught him walking to the cafeteria.

Don't. He kept his eyes straight ahead as we moved through the line.

I nodded, picking items for my tray the way one might select a series of paperweights.

The students nearest our table were surprised to see both of us. The Cullens. Only after I took my seat did I realize someone was saying our name out loud. I tilted my head. Jessica Stanley, font of gossip, was explaining our presence to the new girl. Bella was lucky to have landed among her social circle. I personally found her rather insufferable, but I think this was mostly because I had unfiltered access to a bazaar of personal thoughts at all times; I didn’t need any assistance.

Currently, Jessica’s thoughts were scattered. I saw the pair of us through her eyes and grit my teeth. Flawless. Stunning. Irresistible. To her, the pale flesh and sunken eyes faded to the background; if anything, it added to the mystique. The uncanny movement was grace. The stillness was refined composure. Jessica turned back to Bella, scattering my train of thought. I flicked my eyes to my brother, who was counting down from one thousand—in Spanish this time—and frowned.

“The new girl . . .” I started. His face soured.

“What?” He thought I was going to ask about her, if she was a singer. I despised the slang. It made the whole affair sound poetic, as though giving in were in the best interest of both parties. But I had other questions in mind.

“Can you read her?”

Jasper drew his eyebrows together. “Why?”

“I’m curious.” I tried to keep my tone casual, even though I knew he could sense my interest, impatient as it was.

Why? He didn’t bother to speak aloud this time.

“I can’t. Not from here.” I tried again, tuning out the endless chatter of hundreds of students, searching for an unfamiliar voice. I heard Jasper chuckle at my frustration and shot him a glare. After a moment’s hesitation, I fixed my gaze on the girl, on the crown of her soft, brown hair, and listened.

Silence.

Like a void had opened up in the middle of the bustling cafeteria.

Without warning, she looked up, directly at me. Her eyes widened and she looked quickly away. I could see her cheeks flush from our table. I let myself smile. At least she was human.

I looked at my brother again. His rigid posture was unchanged, but his head tilted slightly to the side, like a cat inspecting a mouse.

“She’s uncomfortable. Uneasy.”

“Obviously.” I crossed my arms, tamping down on the quiet jealousy rising from my chest.

Jasper scowled. “You would know if I was lying to you.”

I elbowed him, hard enough to loosen his posture, and smiled. “Not necessarily. You’re crafty.” Bella must have seen the movement, as she looked over at our table again, lingering only a moment before returning to her conversation.

Beside me, Jasper grinned back for a split second, teeth glinting in the discolored light from above.

I let him return to his meditation and tuned back in to the Jessica Stanley show. I fussed with the stem of the waxy apple on my tray. My feigned disinterest was showier than strictly necessary, but I was feeling a bit theatrical.

“They’re not actually related. Probably.” Jessica shrugged, animating her dangling earrings. Her thoughts cycled through the regular gossip of incest and cults. She was of the opinion my mother was some kind of secret celebrity health guru who had us on special diets, thus the general “anemic model” look. I smirked. “They have a sister who’s older.”

“She’s dating Jasper,” Mike interjected. I could see Jessica’s glare in his mind as he shied away. He looked at Bella and noted her confused expression.

“The weird one?” Jessica put it so plainly I had to press my lips together to stop a laugh. I felt a sharp kick to my shin. Jasper was paying more attention than he was willing to admit.

Angela spoke next, her voice melodic in comparison to some of the others at the table. “We don’t know if they're dating. They tend to keep to themselves.”

Jessica nodded, solemn. If there was any settled law at this school, it was that the Cullens were off limits. Look but don’t touch. Bella seemed to get the message, nodding along as she picked at her food.

“Anyway, they moved back here a couple years ago. Their mom got a job at the hospital.” Jessica lowered her voice. “You have to see her. Drop-dead pretty. Like, stupid hot. I can’t believe she’s a doctor.”

Bella seemed intrigued, but distant. Angela lowered her eyes, her face a very composed sort of neutral. I tried to let her keep her thoughts private, but I couldn’t help but overhear flickers of doubt, or perhaps hope. The rest of the table found the old news boring. Eric Yorkie was chomping at the bit, desperate to ask Bella questions but afraid to scare her off.

Angela changed the subject, genuinely curious to know what classes Bella was taking. She stumbled a bit as she walked through her schedule, each of the other students watching with rapt attention, wondering what her school was like in Phoenix. I pitied her, despite myself. Though I couldn’t say I wasn’t curious. I frowned as Jessica steered the conversation to after-school clubs, stemming the flow of Bella trivia for the time being.

I contented myself knowing I would have the chance to get my fill next period.

***

I made it to Bio in one piece. Each of my morning classes had made me introduce myself to the other students, as though they a). cared or b). didn’t already know. I had to wear gym clothes from the school to participate in PE (casualties were kept to a minimum, thankfully, by Jessica's tactful approach to keeping me sidelined). I appreciated it, but the embarrassment was still stinging.

I was running late, and the entire class was seated by the time I entered the classroom. It was humid inside, the central heating no match against the pervasive damp. A tabletop fan sputtered from the front of the room. The teacher—Molina?—smiled at me.

"Isabella?"

"Just Bella." I was still standing in the doorway, frantically trying to calculate where to sit. The room was completely full, and everyone was staring at me. Everyone except for one of the Cullens Jessica pointed out at lunch. I stepped fully into the room, bracing myself for another forced introduction. Instead I got a polite gesture to take a seat. I breathed my relief and walked down the aisle.

Ahead of me, the Cullen boy went stiff. I tried to meet his eyes as I took a seat: my mistake. My stomach turned to lead. My breath stalled in my throat. In the half second it took to pull my chair out, I saw the staggering depth of resentment seeping from the pits in his face. I literally stumbled as I sat down. I heard a quiet snicker from behind me, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I looked away and pulled out my notebook, heart racing. What the hell?

The teacher started talking, picking up mid-topic, and the frigid eyes kept boring holes in my head. Was I afraid? My body said yes—the cold sweat, the dry mouth, that's what this response was—but why? This kid was a freak. He was being a creep.

I looked over out of the corner of my eye, testing. Edward was leaning as far away from me as he possibly could while remaining in his seat. The tendons in his wrist stood out, casting shadows in the harsh fluorescent light. I didn't try to meet his gaze.

I tried to focus on the lecture, I really did, but how could I? After some amount of time, I realized he wasn't breathing. Or he was, but so shallowly I couldn't hear. I tried to surreptitiously sniff my shirt. Was the ghost of PE still haunting me? Unless he could smell shame, I thought I was okay. I let down my hair, hoping to hide behind the curtain in my peripheral vision.

He whimpered. An actual whimper, nearly inaudible, but I was sure of it. I turned on him. I didn't care if the other students were watching this. He was the one being weird.

He was frozen, staring straight ahead. Not even staring. It was like he was absent from his body. I faltered. Was he having a seizure? I glanced around the room, but no one seemed to have noticed. That, or this was normal behavior.

I waited, and waited. For him to drop dead. For laser beams to shoot out of his eyes. I don't know. But the sinking wrongness of the situation continued to lurk and writhe in me until the bell rang.

Before the sound ended, he had swept himself out of the room, leaving a vacuum behind. I didn't know how to describe the ache I felt, or why tears were pricking at my eyes. I did know that I had another class to get to.

The Universe was not content to let me suffer quietly; it insisted on rubbing salt in the wound.

I found myself back at the front office at the end of the day. I was supposed to check in and confirm I wasn't going to run screaming into the woods, or something. The tiny room was crowded with announcements and flyers for far more clubs and activities than a school this size ought to have. In front of the desk was my new nemesis: Edward Cullen. I had almost gotten to the point of thinking it was all in my head. Surely I fabricated the whole scenario to make my awkward first day more eventful. But there he was, lean and imposing, stupid, copper-colored hair looking artfully disheveled, his back to the door, and thankfully, to me.

I overheard his conversation with the administrator. It occurred to me that this was the first time I'd heard his voice. It was slick, subtle like a flytrap.

"There has to be a way."

"I'm sorry, Edward, it's simply too late in the year to change classes."

I felt like I had been slapped in the face. He couldn't possibly be talking about me. That was absurd.

"I've already taken Biology. You can check my record from my last school, it's all there." His voice was pleading. "I'll take an independent study."

The administrator peered up at him over the red rims of her glasses. She sighed. "Look, I've done everything I can. You—”

Edward straightened, startling the woman into silence.

"Fine," he snapped. "I guess it's too late."

I realized he was turning away from the desk a moment later and jumped out of the way as he glided toward the door. He didn't look at me again.

"Hun?"

The administrator was talking to me. I had been standing by the door for several seconds. Once my brain sputtered back to life, I handed her my forms and finished my exchange.

I was shaking when I got into my truck. It took two tries to get the key in the ignition, and the tears I had been holding back finally made their appearance. The little bubble I had been cradling burst. I swiped at my face and sniffed, thankful the noise of the engine muffled the pathetic sounds I was making.

[bamboozledbird]

𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕖 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨𝕤 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕦𝕟𝕥 // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Theo Raeken, background Liam Dunbar Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n) Word Count: 2.8k Tags: angst, emotions, and feelings. oh my. is theo just flirting to drive stiles insane, i can neither confirm or deny, also if you listen to halloween while you read this don’t clock me Warnings: canon-typical violence/gore, descriptions of drowning, sad boiy hours

Request: #7 from the prompt list you just reblogged with stiles pleeeeeeaaaase and thank you wit all my love on top A/N: you know angst is the way to my heart. thank you so much for the request, and i wholeheartedly accept your love xx

It’s quiet at night. There aren’t many things you like about living in a small town, but the quiet, the stars, the sweet glow of lightning bugs in the summer—those things are pretty nice. Normally, you wouldn’t take a shortcut through the Perserve, not after everything that’s happened over the last couple of years, but there’s just something about a warm august evening that makes everything feel okay again, like you’re still seven and the only monsters you’re afraid of are the ones you read about in books. It’s so hard to find her now, that little girl with missing teeth, the innocence of running through the trees and splashing in rain puddles. She’s been covered up with so much ugliness, so much blood, so much grief. 

You sigh and check your phone. It’s late, but not too late to skip your detour across the splintering bridge over the creek. It’s out of your way, but the cicadas are calling, the breeze is ruffling your hair, and you’re taken hostage by another bout of nostalgia.

Cold Creek Bridge is an old, rickety thing, a health hazard you’d discovered with Scott and Stiles a decade ago after you managed to slip away from three sets of overbearing parents. The wood is still riddled with water damage, rotting in several places, and the structural integrity has always been far too precarious for little kids to be playing on—but that hardly mattered to the three of you when there were rocks to throw and the perfect climbing tree on the other side of it.

You end up sitting on the bridge, dirty sneakers by your side, and your feet dangling over the edge. A little content sigh slips through your lips as you close your eyes, leaning back against your palms. For a moment, you just listen to the soft music of cicadas rattling and an owl cooing at her chicks. 

“You look the same.”

You flinch at the strange voice and whip your head towards the sound of the intruder. It takes a second to place his face—it’s been eight years after all, and he’s only been back for a few days. “Theo,” you breathe, relaxing your grip on your keys. A pretty sorry excuse for a weapon, especially against a werewolf, but it was all you had: three stubby metal claws. A tiny wolverine—you grin a little at the thought and then tilt your head, “I’d like to think that I’ve changed a little since the fourth grade.”

Theo drops down next to you—a bit closer than you’d like, but you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt for Scott’s sake—and smiles at you. It’s so charming, blinding almost, even in the low light of dusk, and you can see why people want to believe him. You can also see why Stiles doesn’t. “You look the same when you’re concentrating.” He leans forward and gently taps his finger just above the bridge of your nose, “You still get that little wrinkle right here.” You blink for a moment, and his finger lingers. His smile softens, “And you’re still the prettiest girl in the room.”

You’re almost too surprised to be flustered. Almost. The back of your neck warms as you rest your cheek against your kneecap, “I’m the only girl in the room.”

Theo laughs, and you like the sound. It’s been a while since you’ve heard anyone laugh, longer since you made them. You can’t remember when everything went so wrong—was it when Ally died? When Stiles was possessed? When he broke up with you after you finally got him back? Maybe, it went all the way back to the night Scott was bitten. It doesn’t really matter, you think; it wouldn’t change anything now. Theo shifts, and he’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his thigh, “Prettiest girl in any room. I always thought so, but I was too chickenshit to say it.”

You scoot back a little so that you can turn to face him, mouth twisted up in suspicion. The girl he remembered, the girl you were, she’d believe him—the girl you are has seen too much to take a charming boy at his word. You lick your lips and flush when he tracks the movement of your tongue. His eyes are a confusing color, like they can’t decide if they’re actually blue or green. Either way, they’re unrelenting. Swallowing, your gaze darts to the wooden slats below, and you finally notice the white flowers beside him. “Those are pretty,” you nod towards the blossoms, “lilies, right?”  

Theo lifts the bouquet and strokes the delicate petals with a light touch, studying the yellow center pensively, “They were my sister’s favorite.”

You look down at the water, watching the surface ripple, with your bottom lip tucked behind your teeth. It looks so peaceful now. You can’t see the bottom, and the water winks at you with its slow trickle and the glimmer of moonlight. It’s difficult to imagine someone dying here. You reach for Theo’s hand and rest yours on top of his, “It must be hard. Coming back here.”

Theo nods and tosses the lilies into the creek. Neither of you say anything as you watch them float downstream like little white ghosts. You’re struck with the image of Ophelia drowning in a river with wildflowers clutched in her hand. It’s marginally better than picturing a little girl gasping for air through blue lips, flailing under water until the last bubble pops. You let Theo turn his hand over and lace your fingers together, and for a while all you can hear is the sound of your breathing—and then a branch snaps and a solid thud follows. 

Stiles spills out of a thicket of trees, and Liam trails after him with his hands fisted in his sweatshirt pocket and his lips curled into a small pout. 

“What the hell are you doing out here?” you hiss, but Stiles isn’t looking at you—not exactly. He’s staring at your hand interwoven with Theo’s, a blank expression on his face. You snatch your hand back and push yourself to your feet, “Are you following me?”

Liam’s head swivels back and forth between you and Stiles like a parakeet with an anxiety disorder, and Stiles…Stiles is still looking at your hand like it’s covered in blood. You shove it into the pocket of your jacket and fumble for your tennis shoes. When you look down, Theo is already there like something straight out of a fairytale—on his knee, dirty Nike in hand, smiling at you like he knows you’re going to say yes. “I think he’s following me this time,” Theo says, gently guiding your foot into your sneaker. “What do I have to do to get you to trust me, Stiles?” 

“Getting your hands off of her would be a start,” Stiles snaps, nostrils flaring. You shoot him a pointed glare, but he’s still avoiding your gaze. 

Theo holds his hands up in surrender and then gets to his feet, wiping the dirt off of his jeans, “I didn’t know you two were a thing. That’s my bad, man.”

“We’re not,” you say brusquely, and Stiles clenches his fists by his sides. It’s been so long since you’ve referred to you and Stiles as a we, in any context. It feels a little like heartburn, knowing that now the only thing tying you to him is your memory. Your history. What you were. It’s all past-tense—it’s all over. Has been for well over a year, and sometimes it still hurts exactly the same way it did the day he left. Crippling, paralyzing, so heavy it sent you to the bathroom floor with his t-shirt in your hands.

You never ended up washing it. You kept meaning to for the first few months, but it smelled like him—like cedar and the first grade, like sneaking in through windows and sleeping next to a warm body—like another memory you didn’t want to erase with laundry detergent. It doesn’t smell like much of anything now, hidden in the depths of your closet behind all the other things you try to forget, and you can’t quite decide if that’s worse than lavender soap. 

Theo flickers his gaze between the two of you, something sharp in his eyes that makes them more green than blue, and then he smiles at you, “Clearly, you’ve got some discussing to do. I’ll take the little squirt home.” Liam squawks when Theo places his hands on his shoulders, something about falling in a hole, and you forget to be worried when Stiles jams his hands into his hoodie and turns around to leave. 

You’re tempted to let him, eyes heavy from lack of sleep and chronic stress, but you end up snarling, “What the fuck is your problem?”

Stiles freezes. You can’t see his face, but his shoulders tense and the muscles in his back go taut, “My problem? What’s my problem?” He whips around, and he’s breathing heavily in front of you before you can blink, “I’m not the one cuddling up to a potential psychopath.” 

Your breath falls in uneven, shallow pants once you register how close he is. You can count his eyelashes, so unfairly long and dark, and you think about waking up in a cold sweat to freckled skin smooshed against your neck. On sticky summer nights, it’d been almost insufferable, the way his body chased yours in his sleep—now, it’s one of the things you miss the most. Swallowing, you take a step back and wince when the wooden railing bumps directly against your spine, “I can't help but find it terribly funny that you think you’re in any position to give me dating advice.”

Stiles clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck jumping under the strain, and looks off into the forest. He stays silent for so long you think about shoving past him and calling Lydia for a ride, but his voice cracks through the chirping bugs before you can gather the energy, “You can hate me, but just…don’t trust him.” His eyes are big, desperate, rapidly flickering back and forth between all the nooks and crannies of your face. For a second, it looks like he’s going to reach out for you, but he just wets his bottom lip and shakes his head a little, “Please.” 

You blink up at him and then let out a rather indelicate snort, “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say please.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into a wry smile, barely but it’s still there, and he leans against the railing of the bridge, “That can't possibly be true.”

You rest your arm a few inches away from his and smirk at his warped reflection in the creek, “It’s a good look for you. Keep it in rotation.”

Stiles hums a little and picks at some of the faded paint chipping off of a support beam. You tilt your head, watching him struggle with the mouthful of words rolling around his tongue. He rubs his jaw and grips the railing tightly with his other hand, “I want you to be happy. You know that, right? That’s…that’s all I want.”

The confession rests heavily in your stomach like a rotten pit, and you wonder if happy is even possible for you—for any of you. The moment you think things are starting to turn around, everything tends to fall apart. A kanima paralyzes someone, a witch sacrifices some virgins, your possessed boyfriend tries to kill you.  “I don’t hate you,” you finally say, quiet and soft. You sigh and rake your fingers through your hair, “I never hated you.”

Stiles gives you a look and then smiles a little, “Yes you did.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug and turn to face him, “Okay, maybe a little—but just because it’s written in the ex code of conduct. It’s basically the law when you get dumped out of nowhere.”

Stiles blinks at you with round brown eyes, wide and bottomless. They’re glowing in the moonlight, or maybe that’s just him. “You don’t…” he licks his bottom lip and shakes his head slightly, “you really don’t know?”

You give him a minute shrug and dig the toe of your sneaker into a rotting patch of wood, “You never said.”

“I hurt you,” Stiles whispers, throat raw despite the low volume. You look up from the bridge. His eyes are shut tight, and his fists are clenched by his side. You know that it’s a confession—the guilt is written in every wrinkle and tremor—but you don’t quite understand what he’s confessing to.

Your chin tips up a little as your brows knit together, “...when you broke up with me?”

He shakes his head again and winces, lids still squeezed shut, “When I was…you know…I…he—we hurt you. I couldn’t…I couldn’t look at you. I couldn’t touch you without seeing...without remembering what I did." He's so far away from you now, in a place you can't touch, can't even see. He looks so much older than he is, and you want to scream at the unfairness of it all. He would've become a man on his own, eventually. Life crushes everyone eventually, after all, even the people normal childhoods. You know better than most that trauma teaches, and it teaches quickly—but god he would have fucking grown up without it.

"I can still feel it sometimes," he whispers. "The blood—your blood. I remember everything. The heat, the…” he winces as his tongue curls around the next word, slow and pained, like it has to be pulled out of him with forceps and a scalpel, “power.” He looks like he’s going to be sick, and your stomach twists. “I can hear it too, the way you...choked on your blood, fuck—and god your screams. Yours...fucking you of all people. I never thought—I thought that I couldn't hurt you, like it was physically impossible.”

You drift to his side instinctively and rest your hand on his shoulder after a moment of hesitation. He flinches and opens his eyes, gaze lingering on your hand. The intensity is different this time. Your hand isn’t dripping blood, now it’s holy, his only salvation—but his expression darkens when his eyes trail the length of your arm and land on the puckered, jagged line running over your collarbone. It’s cut off by the neckline of your tank-top, but you both know it continues across your breast. Stiles’s hand trembles in the air and then drops to his side, “You still have the scar.”

Your fingers trace along the line of knitted skin. The nerves are still dead, severed with a blade and pale hands. You can’t feel the sensation of your fingertips brushing over it, but you know it’s there—that it will always be there. It’s a permanent reminder of the worst day of your life, but you’re certain that Stiles wouldn’t guess the right one. “It doesn’t hurt,” you whisper, taking his hand and placing it over your chest, “and remembering doesn’t either. Not anymore.” You don’t have nightmares about Void, at least, not in the last few months. You’re past all that, have been for a while now—but you’ll always be haunted by the way Stiles looked at you after he came back and the numbness after he left a few weeks later.

Stiles’s fingers tremor when he feels your heartbeat. They stroke over the fading line slowly, almost reverently, and come to stop on the curve of your neck. He cups the lean tendons and presses this thumb against the knobs of your spine, “It hurts me.” His lashes flutter against his cheeks for a moment before he closes his eyes, “All the memories do.”

Shuddering, your head tips forward—seeking the support of his shoulder, but he slips away before you can lean into his warmth. It takes you a few seconds to regain your composure, but eventually you manage to stand up straight. You pull your jacket tighter against your torso and shiver, “I believe you.” Stiles’s brow curves in confusion, and you chew on your bottom lip, “If you think Theo’s hiding something, I believe you.”

He stares at you for a moment that feels infinitely longer than it must actually be, and then something breaks behind his eyes. He looks like he’s about to cry, and you spare his pride by looking down at your shoes. “Why?” Stiles clenches his jaw and rubs at his eyes aggressively with the sleeve of his hoodie, “Why would you…after everything?” 

You search his face until he finally meets your gaze. Your eyes are soft but still resolved, “Because of everything.” Stiles’s lips part and close a few times, and you know the urge to kiss him is as stupid as it is overwhelming, so you give him a little smile and turn to leave.

“He’s telling the truth about one thing,” Stiles says quietly, so quietly you almost miss it as you reach the other side of the bridge. “You are the prettiest girl in any room.”

[thesinglesjukebox]

DUA LIPA - "HOUDINI"

[6.44]

We'll stop making the subheads about ourselves when we stop getting handed setups this easy...

Alex Ostroff: This is perfectly fine for a Dua Lipa single. If it was the first one I'd heard since "New Rules" convinced me she could be a proper pop star, I might even be excited about it. But in the middle of the pandemic, despite remaining a quasi-anonymous presence in terms of persona, she gave us "Don't Start Now," "Physical," "Break My Heart," and "Levitating." The narrative hasn't solidified around whether Future Nostalgia was a fluke album full of great songs, or whether it was Dua levelling up and entrenching herself as a global pop star. "Houdini" tries to ignore the weight of expectations and avoid the question. It's a pleasant post-disco tune that's a little too scuzzy to fit in with the previous album, but lacks a chorus to match the ones that came before. The most interesting musical ideas are both saved for the end: (1) the descending synth line that shows up around 2:14, and (2) that funky filtered guitar (??) line that pops up for the outro at 2:45. If either (or both!) appeared earlier in the track, this might merit an [8] -- even without a strong chorus -- but they're bafflingly treated as afterthoughts. [6]

Jonathan Bradley: Firmly on the other side of the pop-disco rupture that was Future Nostalgia, Dua Lipa presses forward with a harder, more streamlined, more singularly focused version of the same. The bass rumbles more, the synths stay squelchy, the delivery is more arched, and the hook is, perhaps, a little too willing to stay within its comfort zone. "Catch me before I go Houdini," she sings; it's a warning of evanescence, and distinctly not the boast of a daring stunt act. [5]

Leah Isobel: Dua Lipa is the pop singer in abstract. Her previous record's embrace of Memphis Group postmodernism parallels her music's sock-puppet habitation of the forms of dance-pop without any grounding substance or, like, movement. To her credit, she's a good ventriloquist. "Houdini" has a great little rollercoaster structure, rattling and clattering up to that big stomach-drop synth riff in the final minute; and while I'm not convinced that anyone involved actually knows who Houdini is, her perfectly irritating, nasal pronunciation of the name makes for an incredibly sticky bit of popcraft. (One wonders how many takes were required to land on "Who-deigh-gnee.") But that's just it. "Houdini" has been popcrafted and sanded to within an inch of its life, so that even its flashes of character feel workshopped. Its emptiness feels purposeful, as if she took "Go girl, give us nothing" as an imperative. [5]

David Moore: I think whether you like this song depends on whether you buy that Dua Lipa is an A-list pop star. To me she's always seemed to punch above her weight in the pop marketplace, and the dumber the song is the better I tend to like it. (Her Barbie song sounded terrible until I saw the movie -- it's like a LEGO Movie song without jokes.) Back in the "New Rules" days I didn't see a ton of daylight between her and rock bottom (Bebe Rexha), so I found the s'fisticated disco turn unconvincing. This, by comparison, is minimally constructed and maximally efficient, like...I dunno, a solid dust buster. It's small and doesn't seem like anything special, but it really sucks! [7]

Aaron Bergstrom: Maybe the critics have it backward: Dua Lipa's fundamental blank-slate-ness is a feature, not a bug. There's a freedom that comes with having absolutely nothing invested in her as an artist. I don't want to make Dua Lipa friendship bracelets. I don't want a Dua Lipa: Homecoming concert documentary. I don't want to know what the Dua Lipa stan army calls themselves. Sometimes I just want a no-strings-attached pop song that seems completely uninterested in cultural relevance. Don't overthink it. Kevin Parker is here because we've been doing disco for three years now and it's time for something else. The central Houdini concept makes absolutely no sense. Who cares! Let's dance! [9]

Joshua Lu: Dua Lipa delivers another quality dance track, but one that could feasibly have been a lead-in to the nth rerelease of Future Nostalgia than an entirely new era. "Houdini" doesn't do enough to differentiate itself from the many other '80s-inspired hits that Dua has already inundated pop radio with -- hits that also had proper final choruses. [6]

Jackie Powell: Is it unfair to compare "Houdini" to "Don't Start Now"? It might be because "Don't Start Now" was Dua Lipa's"Popped" moment: that old show that used to be on Fuse, which chronicled the song that helped an artist achieve household status. "Houdini" is the beginning of Lipa's new era, one she's made clear is far from the disco of Future Nostalgia and Barbie's "Dance the Night," and on first listen, I wasn't sold on how the song makes that statement. But "Houdini" is a grower, in particular via its hook. The verses aren't impressive, but Lipa tells her story in the eight-phrase chorus, which she sings four times in a song that clocks in at just over three minutes long. Kevin Parker and Danny L Harle overlap '70s rock synths in each verse alongside modern EDM synths that are very ARTPOP-era Zedd and work on a track that's trying to sound psychedelic. Lyrically this isn't Lipa's best, but her intonation is one of her under-appreciated strengths -- most obvious in the post-chorus when she accents the phrase "her ways" in the line "maybe you could cause a girl to change her ways." [6]

Will Adams: The knee-jerk Future Nostalgia comparisons upon "Houdini"'s release confused me. (If anything, "Dance the Night" was the clear FN cast-off.) It's disco, yes, but it also has grit, fuzz and a self-seriousness that's carried by the insistent bass ostinato, as if you looped the brooding opening bars of Human League's "Don't You Want Me" and discarded its pleading chorus. Dua Lipa matches the production despite her silly (but endearing) pronunciation of "HOO-dee-nee." And just when "Houdini" starts to feel repetitive, Kevin Parker switches on the rotating multi-colored disco ball, and the fun really starts. [7]

Rose Stuart: The most magical thing about "Houdini" is how effortless it is. Though Dua Lipa has never had a particularly sexy vocal style, here she doesn't need it, all the heat conveyed through that dirty bass line and fuzz guitar solo. [8]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: No I mean this is perfectly good flashdance that verges on greatness, but I just feel like everyone involved (Kevin Parker excepted) could be trying a little harder. One point docked because Dua says "Houdini" like she's still workshopping how to say it right. [7]

Lauren Gilbert: Proof that nonsensical lyrics don't really matter in pop music, as long as you have a hook this good. [10]

Ian Mathers: Ruthlessly efficient, with so little time or space wasted that we don't have the opportunity to think through whether the title metaphor makes sense (imagine if this was called "D.B. Cooper"). But the skronkier version of the backing near the end is even more effective. One wonders if foregrounding that element sooner might have come close to advancing the current state of the art rather than just reflecting it. [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Injecting a little grit, stakes, and vim into Dua's music after the airtight polish of Future Nostalgia would work, if only "Houdini" had a hook strong enough to keep the package together. This is all work; where is the fun? [5]

Andrew Karpan: Dua Lipa is tired. Not tired as in washed up or unwelcome, but literally, physically tired, the kind of thing you can hear on the edge of her breath, the pocketed sigh that occurs between her chant of "I come and I go" and "tell me all the ways you need me." The parallels with the song's titular Hungarian-American magician speak for themselves; he could slip out of everything but was beaten to death on a dare, a kind of desperation that is both mawkish and, from a peculiar distance, moving. But in the present, the grabs at post-tropical dance by way of that faintly familiar Kevin Parker riff are annoying. [5]

Harlan Talib Ockey: Running through the chorus at the beginning sucks a lot of the momentum out of the later choruses, especially since the main instrumental explosion is saved for the end. That ending is really fun -- it uses several of the same synth freakout tricks as Kevin Parker's other child "Let It Happen" -- but gallops offscreen just slightly too soon. I would happily listen to a six minute remix, but a few extra bars are all that's needed. As for Dua, she's become the Reliably Good Pop Star that will show up on time, put in an effortlessly confident performance, and then disappear back to some vacation resort. The lyrics are fine, with room for improvement -- the title drop has "grocery bag" energy. [6]

Katherine St Asaph: Somehow both coasts and tries way too hard, and it feels like the writers think Houdini was a cat. And Kevin Parker doesn't remember that he's the producer and can continue to do stuff until the last 30 seconds. Yet weirdly that works? [8]

Alex Clifton: Thumping, glossy pop that's sticky despite claiming a vanishing act -- precisely what Dua Lipa does best. No notes. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: Oh, she comes and goes like a glitch for sure. "Houdini" isn't a revelation like "Don't Start Now," but still a good time. I kind of wonder if it would have been even more interesting if Dua had given up on traditional verse-chorus structure entirely and just started throwing in left-turn bits like the bridge and outro everywhere. [7]

Brad Shoup: The garbled bassline is good, like a machine-learning "enhancement" of the "You're So Vain" intro. This being a Kevin Parker co-production, there's not much to hold on to, but the textures are exquisite. This being Dua Lipa, there's urgency but no playfulness. Which doesn't seem possible: she's shoehorning Houdini references into a disco version of Styx's "Blue Collar Man". [4]

Taylor Alatorre: More restrained and understated than one might expect a Tame Impala/PC Music production to be, with its "experimental" mandate largely confined to flourishes and trimmings and subtle studio trickery, all in the service of another high-drama Dua Lipa floor-filler that sounds "different, but not too different." The blast of Kevin Parker guitar fuzz that shows up out of nowhere in the last 20 seconds hints at genre-busting ideas that were left on the cutting room floor in order to make "Houdini" a more sleek, efficient vehicle for pop dominance. It leaves me wanting more, but from a business perspective I get it -- save the actual psychedelia for the deep cuts. [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I still remember when A$AP Rocky was meant to seem revelatory for thinking T. Rex was the shit back in 2015, and now Dua Lipa is talking about "changing pop culture" by collaborating with, uh, Kevin Parker. It's deeply dumb to think that rock and psychedelia have uniquely valuable cultural cachet in 2023 (Lil Yachty fans please shut the fuck up), and "Houdini" just sounds like the '80s backwash she spit up on her last album. So what's the point? As ever, Lipa can't rise above the barest semblance of personality, using moments of flashy reverb to mask her passionless singing. The guitar solo adds some bite, but Parker's whole shtick is having a single memorable riff replace good songwriting. "Houdini" is assembly-line pop: everything's in its right place, and it sucks. [2]

Dorian Sinclair: There's this great sound in "Houdini" -- a deep, croaky synth burp that recurs under the verse. It stands out because of how odd it is relative to the steely clarity of most of the other production choices; amid all the polish, that odd little groan brings some welcome tension to the overall sound. Sadly, it's not here for long. [6]

Alfred Soto: There's a lot of bass line to measure up to. [5]

Nortey Dowuona: The drums on this were rolled off a random 1980s pop disco song that never broke, so it got looped and chopped for Dua to continue tickling the nostalgia antennae of the middle-aged yuppies we are, making it clear that at this point in her career, she will appear on her terms. But those terms have already been accepted, praised, and rehashed, replacing the ones that had her making solid R&B with Miguel and doing soundtrack songs for Alita: Battle Angel. May the next Dua Lipa album give us something other than forgotten '80s disco pop. [6]

Oliver Maier: Let's talk about that very first second. What is that? Is that Dua Lipa in the recording booth with the track echoing from her headphones, muttering a confirmation that she's ready to record? Or -- as I think the acoustics more readily suggest -- is it Dua Lipa waiting offstage, track booming across an arena, psyching herself up for her new era? This moment, I think, invites you to view this song in context, as the first lead single since one of this century's biggest pop albums, from a star who has made a personality of professionalism. Dua feels like an anomaly now as we survey a pop landscape smattered with songs about self-doubt and Mental Health™; suddenly, there she is on the hillside, a shimmering Amazon woman who doesn't do vulnerability or care to try. She performs emotions -- elation, desperation, trepidation -- like an athlete, not an actor. When she got made fun of for sucking at dancing, she learned with ruthless efficiency how to do so, and now she's one of maybe four or five popstars who bothers. The three minutes and five seconds of "Houdini" after that "okay" are all business, unlikely to disappoint hardcore Duacolytes and maybe just the right amount of Kevin Parker to win over some Duagnostics. But that "okay" suggests something like the weight of expectations, something hesitant and human. And yes, it's artificial; it's not a document of a real moment. But with some popstars, and especially with Dua Lipa, the text is all you have to work with. This is a moment she or someone on her team chose to insert. For whatever reason, Dua Lipa had to cast a shadow for a second. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

Okay.  I feel in the mood to ramble, and he wasn’t hit upon with an ask, so here’s my character bingo on G’raha Tia. 

(To offer a small bit of context, I started FFXIV roughly right before HW dropped.  I did not do Crystal Tower until...I wanna say a good while ago, it was before it was made mandatory.  As such, I cannot really join the fandom in the nostalgia wave for G’raha and Haurchy, nor did I have those connections to them made when they were current in ARR)

With that out of the way.  I respect G’raha as a character for the story.  I like his character development.  On a personal level? He does bug me.  I find him annoying.  And honestly, this probably dates back to how he first introduces himself--I just remember being very annoyed that I’m getting jerked around trying to get the reagents I needed, and it turns out that the one doing the jerking was this punk who thought it was a good idea to test my skills.  And then he’s just lurking in the background, starting to nurse some serious hero worship, and I’m just like >_> Can we not?

Shadowbringers rolls around.  I admit that the big climatic scene where his hood pops off as we’re struggling with the corrupted Light...again, I didn’t play when CT was current, so it was lost on me.  It was very good, but I didn’t get the emotional impact like so many others did.  Which is fine, to each their own.  However, I can and do take umbrage with his plan.  It makes sense, and to me it seems that it literally was the only way, because I’m pretty fucking sure as the Crystal Exarch, he tried everything else that could be thought of.  And getting Urianger in to be his partner-in-crime was inspired.

However.

I want to know, and please, feel free to point out in the lore where I have possibly missed it, I’m pretty certain I didn’t, but.  HOW IN THE NAME OF EVERYTHING DID YOU THINK YOU WERE GOING TO BE ABLE TO PULL THAT OVER AN ASCIAN?  Never mind that Emet-Selch was the one we were dealing with, we’ll put him to the side for the moment, but just going to the absolute basics.  How in the entire fuck did you and Urianger think ‘okay, if we keep this to ourselves it’s perfectly fine the Asicans won’t find out’?  I’m certain it had to be running through your brains at some point when Emet was either around or spying!  How they managed to keep a lid on that up until the disaster that was Innocence aftermath is beyond me.  And something had to be off kilter, because look who more or less fucked off after she arrived on the First?  Y’stohla!  Homegirl takes one look at Urianger, one look at G’raha, listens to the story and just outright goes ‘I call bullshit.’  Never mind that Y’stohla’s bullshit detection game is on point, the simple fact that she just up and leaves after hearing Urianger’s fake prophecy and dealing with shady Exarch behavior?

Anyway.  Plan = inspired but BAD.  Self-sacrificing yourself, even worse.  I liked his maturity as the Exarch--which probably at least for me means that I prefer G’raha when he’s acting like an ‘adult’ and not the ‘immature greenhorn adventurer’ he was back in CT.  But that probably leads to some deeply personal stuff on my part, as...honestly I couldn’t relate to someone like that, because I never had a chance to experience being immature and a greenie when I was growing up (and we’re not going there suffice to say I feel like my absence of emotions on this possibly a personal failing)

Admittedly though, when the Exarch comes out to play when Raz-at-Han is attacked was def a scene I enjoyed.  Shut the fuck up, pull your shit together, get the hell out.  His dealing with the Omicrons was beautiful and his speech to Sir about what made a person a person was on target. 20/10, would recommend over and over again.  And he did not annoy me as much when on the way to Aglaia

(Deryk you sus AF and I would very much like to beat you with another motherfucker until you fess up about what you’re hiding)

I kinda feel G’raha got/is getting a lot of screen time, but that’s just me.    Also, when it comes to his ships, particularly WoL/G’raha, I...this is literally me.

If you can make it work and it brings you joy, make it work and let it bring you joy.  I’m just very confused.

/end ramble

[local-spoon-does-a-thing]

Sickness

[(Bayverse) Optimus Prime x Reader]

A/N: Here’s some more Papa Bot fic. Should I make a bonus ending/part about them arriving at the gas station or some shit like that? Also this fic got out of hand and idk how it ended up like this. Hope you enjoy!

“Ugh...hey, Optimus? Can you roll down the window? I need some fresh air.” You mumbled out and leaned your head against the door. For some reason, you felt sick to the core. That’s probably because you were, in fact, sick. Perhaps it was something you ate for dinner yesterday? You did have a rough night trying to sleep. But at this moment, you just wanted to jump out of the moving vehicle, lay on the side of the road, and perish. Your stomach was not agreeing with you at all and begged you to purge out whatever was in it. Once the window was rolled down, you immediately poked your head out and took in a deep breath. Ah, that was much better. But that still didn’t get that sickening feeling out of your stomach. Maybe a nice bottle of water would help cure you. Your hand moved towards where the cup holders would be located and attempted to grab a bottle of water. Though, there was nothing. Looking back, you saw that you didn’t even bring water with you. Oh, right, you’ve forgotten. Earlier when Ratchet had suggested that you bring a couple bottles of water for the trip, you refused and reassured him that you were fine when in reality, you were just too lazy to carry them. In defeat, your hand flopped back down and you poked your head out once more.

Currently, you and the team were traveling to another city in a different state, as it was stated that there were some Decepticon sightings located there. This was going to be your first mission with them and after countless of merciless begging to go with them, they finally agreed to let you travel with them. Ratchet and Ironhide thought that it was a horrible idea, Bumblebee was simply ecstatic that you would get to go with them, and Optimus was just too tired to deal with your tantrums like a tired father. Who would’ve thought that out of all the members of the team, you seemed to be the closest with the Autobot leader himself. Anyone else would’ve thought that you two were polar opposites. You were a simple person that liked to joke a lot and showed some signs of arrogance while Optimus was more on the serious and wise side. Little did anyone know that you two balanced each other out. He kept you grounded to reality while you made sure that he would have fun during his time on Earth. Though your adventures with them have just merely started, you can tell that you’ve made an impact on the team. Everyone seemed more on the bright side, even the grumpy medic. They were happy and that was all you’ve ever wanted. However, your stubbornness and pride proved you not to be the easiest person to handle, like now.

“Hey, Optimus? Is there by any chance that you have some water on you? Not that I need it or anything like that. Buuuut... I might need it later.”

The old ‘Bot let out a heavy sigh and the whole truck rumbled along with him. “Didn’t Ratchet tell you earlier in the morning to bring your bottles of water? We’ve said it repeatedly that this would be a long trip-”

“Okay, okay! I get it, I was just asking in case you did have them. No need to go full on mother-mode.” You cut him off mid-sentence before crossing your arms across your chest and slumping into the seat. Moments passed by and your hands dropped down to your stomach and clutched the fabric that was in the way. Okay, you seriously needed to do something about this. You felt nauseous and each second that passed by was torturous. You wanted to tell Optimus about your condition, but c’mon, this was your first mission! You had a feeling that if you were to tell him about this, the team wouldn’t bring you to anymore future missions. And the main course hasn’t even started yet since you were still traveling to the destination. But was this really worth the trouble? I mean, even outside of these missions, you would still be seeing them.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that, it’s just- I don’t think I’m doing too well. I think I might have the stomach bug or something ‘cause I feel like I’m gonna throw up at any moment.” You half heartedly confessed to him.

At this statement, Optimus had wanted to stop the trip abruptly and check if you were okay. Guess you could say that this was his “mother-mode” or at least close to it. Worried thoughts bubbled into his metal head that he had almost forgotten to respond to you, almost giving you an indication that he was irritated and ignoring you. He would have Ratchet check up on you but then again, he only knew about Cybertronian biology, not human.

“Hang in there, [Y/N]. There’s a gas station approximately three miles from here. We’ll take a rest there and examine you.”

He then went on to accelerate his speed and over the radio, went on to report the other members of the team about your condition. You could hear Bee’s worried buzzing, Ironhide’s sigh, and Ratchet’s grumpy  grumbling of “I told you so” that was directed towards you. In response, you rolled your eyes and laid down across the seats, staring at the truck ceiling. The slight bumpiness on the road was somehow a bit soothing, but it wasn’t enough to put you to sleep. What you needed right now was a distraction. And what distraction was better than you annoying your guardian?

“Oppy.” No response.

“Timus.” No response.

“Hey, Boss Bot!” Finally, you got a response. He let out a surprised sound and you can practically hear the gears in his head turn. 

“What is it?”

“I need you to distract me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You were met with silence once again. He was confused with what you wanted. What did you need to be distracted from? You weren’t really doing much other than trying to refrain yourself from puking on him. It didn’t take long for you to notice that he was confused by your request.

“Just...just ask me questions. They can be stupid or not or whatever. I don’t want to focus too much on my nausea.”

“I understand. Very well then. How are your grades in school?”

You groaned and smacked the palms of your hands onto your face. You wanted to answer any other question BUT that one. Okay, so maybe you were lagging a little behind on your subjects than the rest of your classmates, but you could fix it up with a snap of your fingers! Or, that was what you thought. You’ve been so caught up with your alien friends that you didn’t think that school wasn’t as important as saving civilian lives and all that. 

“[Y/N]?” His deep voice pulled you away from your thoughts and you slid your hands down your face.

“It’s uh, it’s going...decent.” Wow, way to make yourself sound believable.

“[Y/N]...” Now there was a stern and serious tone in his voice.

“Don’t worry about it! I got it all under control. Go ahead and ask another question that’s not related at all to school.”

Once again, he let out another heavy sigh. He had a feeling that your reasoning for your grades being “decent” as you say, was because of him. He didn’t want to be the reasoning for you failing classes. What kind of guardian does that? Yes, he has the most fun spending time on you and picking up on your witty jokes, but he knew that if it ever came down to it, he would have to step back and let you focus on things that would matter in the long run. Even when it does break him.

“You need to take your school more seriously, please. You know what will happen if your parents were to find out about your grades dropping, correct? We won’t be able to see each other as much anymore. And as much as I want to be with you, I won’t hesitate to take a couple of steps back.”

That...hurt. You didn’t want to be constantly reminded of the consequences, but that wasn’t what hurt you. The fact that he said that he wouldn’t hesitate gave you a wake up call. You sat up from your lying position and looked at his radio with a panicked and disbelief look. You didn’t know what or how to respond to that. He was serious and you knew that. You looked away in shame and clutched your stomach once more. Optimus then moved his rearview mirror towards your face and saw how you looked. It broke his spark and he wanted to comfort you, but decided not to push further on the subject and change it.

“Is there anything you would like to ask that relates to me?”

You perked up at his question and had a surprised look. Honestly, you didn’t expect that at all and you didn’t even consider asking him questions. If you were to, you had wanted to try to avoid the more sensitive topics that related to the war on his planet and such questions like that.

“Hmm, you know how the Matrix-thingy chooses who the next Prime will be or something like that? Well, what were you like before you became a Prime?”

Like you were, he was caught off-guard by the question. It’s been a long while since he had spoken of his previous life. He felt a faint sense of nostalgia as he reflected on his past self. My, how much he has changed over time. Going from having a simple life to being one of the biggest roles in Cybertron history. If he were not in his vehicle form, he would’ve smiled fondly.

“My previous name was Orion Pax. At certain angles, you could say that I was more like Bumblebee: young and free-spirited. I used to work as a data clerk in Cybertron. My life was quite simple and ordinary before I heard of Megatron and came to a realization that I was not satisfied with what I was doing. That...is all I will tell for now.”

“Aww, what?! Come on, you can’t leave me hanging like that! What happened with you and Megatron? Pleaaase!”

“Some other time, tiny girl. Now, it is my turn to ask a question. Do you know what my favorite color is?”

Okay, now you were confused. Why would he go from asking a serious question to suddenly asking about his favorite color. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, he went for that one. Of course, it’s not like you were going to back down from something as simple as that. However, you had to take a moment to think. Did robots have favorite colors? Did they even have time to consider what color was their favorite? You couldn’t figure out what the answer was until suddenly, it hit you!

“Wait a minute, that’s a trick question! You’ve never told me what your favorite color was! You can’t fool me!” You accused as you pointed your finger at his radio. A deep chuckle came from the radio as you guessed right. 

“Clever girl. Well in that case, I might as well tell what my favorite color is. It’s autumn orange. It gives off a warm feeling along with joy whenever I look at it. Just like whenever I look at you. It reminds me of you.”

Your eyes lit up at his words and your cheeks flushed. That...may or may not be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to you. Plus, it sounded very genuine. A warm feeling swirled your insides and a sincere smile danced across your lips. Who knew that an alien from outer space could be one of the most caring people (er- robot) you knew.

“Whoa, I definitely wasn’t expecting that answer. I didn’t know you had a sappy side.” You lightly joke. “But, thank you. That was really nice of you to say. And you should show your sappy side more often.”

“Heh, I’ll think about it.”

You then raised a hand to your mouth and let out a yawn. Optimus was able to catch it and moved his rear view mirror towards you once more.

“Am I boring you already?” He asked in a fake yet barely noticeable betrayed voice. There was a hint of amusement sprinkled onto there.

And you snapped out of your sleepy trance and sat up straight, all alerted. “Wha- no no no! It was just a yawn! I’m not-”

Your words were cut off when you heard laughter from him. Yeah sure, you’ve heard him chuckle before, but an actual laugh coming from him was quite rare. You laughed along with him until it died down.

“Alright, little one. Go on and get some rest. I’ll wake you up once we get to the gas station.”

You lied down along the seats on your back and closed your eyes. As your drowsiness was pulling you into slumber, you heard the radio turn on as lofi music played on a soft volume. Now this was most definitely making you sleepy. Soon enough, you were knocked out. Optimus silently hoped that they could stay like this for at least a very long time. With the both of you in peace, traveling in the middle of nowhere while relaxing lofi hip hop was playing in the background. Yet another moment that he gets to cherish for as long as he gets to live.

[mehphoobia]

HERE

Pairing- Tom Hiddleston x Reader (news channel anchor)

Summary- People say falling in love can be a scary experience. Well, that scary experience for you had a different meaning for you.

Warnings- blood, horror, mystery, thriller, suspense (I suggest get a water bottle for yourself)

REQUESTS OPEN | MASTERLIST

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"Susan Hive, another 25 y/o was found dead in her apartment approximately at 10:00 am today. Who is the mastermind behind these brutal murders? the mystery is still with the police to crack. The only witness in the case are the walls of the apartment which are covered in parts of human anatomy never seen before just like the other five murders. This is Y/N of NewsToday with cameraperson David on scene." You sighed after finishing your report and looked at the crime scene. The camera person packed his camera and headed towards the van as he couldn't handle the stench. With ripples on your forehead you contemplated your decision. Should you or should you not tell the officers.

But soon you let aside your dilemma. These were brutal murder cases that had everyone shook.

And you had a lead to follow.

"Who are you?" you whispered as you sat in your chair staring at the photo of the deceased Susan Hive with a man. The face was not visible as he wore a black hat and a black overcoat. "Typical" you said gesturing his attire, which was straight out of a murder mystery. Unfortunately, the officers couldn't find him. But the lead you had could directly deliver this man to you.

"North House please" explaining the address to the taxi driver, you couldn't miss his expressions. "You want to go to the North House?" he asked you with genuine concern. "If you are not comfortable, you can just drop me near the curb" you suggested understanding his hesitation. Reluctantly he drove the taxi and there you were. Standing outside the hospital for mental patients. "How much will it be?" asking the driver for the fare you rummaged through your purse.

"I will wait here miss. You can pay me later" he said. Of course, the deaths in this hospital would scare anyone. But you weren't here for the suicides, you were here for the murders.

"I am here to see someone. A Mrs. Hill." you spoke confidentially to the receptionist. "For an investigation, are we?" the receptionist questioned. "It's confidential" you replied with knitted eyebrows. "oh! of course it is." she chuckled.

The receptionist accompanied you to Mrs. Hill's room. She was the oldest patient, who had been in the hospital for for around thirty years. Every patient, every staff member; she had seen for herself. "Are you here for the investigation for Susan Hive?" the receptionist questioned. Your head whipped faster than the wings of a bee. "You knew her?" you enquired. "Yes, I knew all five of them. They were interning under me." she answered.

"Janice Dean" her ID card read. "Of course" you murmured. Ten days back you had found one of the victim's case file from the officers which had something in common. North House, all three of them worked here and now so did Susan Hive.

"Don't worry I won't bug her too much" putting a and on Ms. Dean's shoulder you reassured her. She offered you a tired smile. With that she unlocked the door and you saw Mrs. Hill sitting on her chair.

"He killed another one didn't he?" she enquired in her shaky voice as if she knew it was going to happen. "Yeah. Do you know you he is?" trying to keep your posture, you asked. "No, but I have seen him." she replied. "Black eyes which weren't even his. Long hair which covered his face and the cuts." "Everyone thought, something was wrong in his head. They tried all kinds of medicines but none of them worked. He kept screaming and yelling every day. It would echo you know. The screams. Other patients could feel it too. But the doctors didn't know something." she explained but suddenly trailed off.

"He was possessed" she declared.

"How did he get out. I mean the patient like--" "Demon" she corrected. "We saw a body lying in his room. We thought its him. He had cuts all over his face so it was recognizable. The post mortem reports found out it was one of our doctors. He escaped as his disguise." explained Ms. Dean.

You couldn't get the fact out of your head as you stepped outside the hospital. With quivering hands, you opened the taxi's door. Looking at your condition, the driver ran to the opposite side of the street and bought you a water bottle. "You should go home miss." the driver suggested. "Beverly Hills Apartments please". The driver nodded and drove you home.

Maybe you should tell the police. It was not your job to go after the killer. Of course it would be one of the biggest news article for your company but this, its not worth it. Just then your phone rang. All of that tension and weird feeling in your chest was replaced by a sense of comfort. It was Tom.

"Hey babe! dinner's ready, when are you coming home?" he asked in his cheerful voice. You chuckled and said, "I started right now. Is my kitchen all right?" you mocked. "Uh..sort of. I'll help you clean though" he replied like a child caught doing something wrong. It was comforting to have him in your life. Amidst all of this, he was the exact person you needed. "Love you honey" you said unexpectedly. He could sense your uneasiness and knew your line of work. It can be terrifying sometimes. "Love you too..Hey, I am right here." he said immediately putting a smile on your face.

You met him three years ago. How boring can news conferences be? it was something you knew very well. But it was a little bit tolerable when a hot shot investigating officer suddenly made his way to you. Tom and you immediately clicked. As if you were meant to be. One date led to another and suddenly he started picking you up from your work almost every single day. You remembered he had proposed on your cruise date which had you in complete awe. How could you say no to such a perfect man. His beautiful eyes which were a perfect peek to your universe, his warm embrace and how he fit in your life perfectly made it so much easier. He made it easier.

The sudden nostalgia calmed your nerves and you took a deep breath in. Within no time you were home. You leaped out of the taxi, paid the man and ran to your apartment. As you were going to ring the bell, Tom opened the door and picked you up in his arms. Both of you giggled as he kissed you passionately. With your fingers curling in his long wet hair and his arms coiling your waist, you could melt under his effect and you did.

"Tada!! Fish N chips" Tom declared in his voice that he called his disney voice. You chuckled at his endearing self. Both of you couldn't spend enough time with each other with all these murders. He too was tensed but never showed it in front of you. The least you could do was to help him out. You watched your favorite drama as the both of you ate your dinner.

After the chocolate ice-cream, he got up to get the wet wipe to wipe your face which was covered in chocolate. You were gone out cold because of the tiring day. He picked up the plates and noticed you had run out of kitchen soap. "Back in a few" he wrote on a post it and pasted it on the fridge. He wore his black overcoat and decided to forego his phone and left.

"Tom? babe?" you woke up around five minutes and searched the house. Suddenly the post it note grabbed your attention. You chuckled when you saw it and you knew a lot of unwanted things were gonna be purchased. Who could help it, its Walmart after all.

You saw his phone and found his headphones on the table. He would sit on his chair for hours and listen to his music but he never shared them with you. So you grabbed the opportunity and plugged in his headphones.

"19-21-19-1-14 8-9-12-12" the first song read. Then you realized it was a recording. "Mr Hiddleston sings?" you scoffed as you pressed the play button.

"Ahhh" a woman screamed and with that you immediately grabbed the headphones and threw them. "Oh God" you whined as you rubbed your ears. You played all the five recordings and all of them were similar. Screams. Then it hit you. The numbers were different and were too wrong to be dates. WHAT IF?

"19,S,21,U,19,S,1,A,14,N 8,H,9,I,12,L,12,L" you wrote on a piece of paper. "Susan hill?" you gasped. All the other four recordings added up to the all the other four victims. You sat there staring at the paper.

"It took you long enough" Tom spoke from behind you. You flinched as walked away from him. "Did you?" you asked. "The screams, oh my soul was cleansed" he said as he put his hand on his chest. Tears were rolling down your cheeks as you looked at his face. He was in content, in peace. "Why did you kill them? What had they done to you?" you enquired.

"THEY LAUGHED!!" he yelled. Your eyes widened as you looked at him. It wasn't your Tom, it was someone else.

He was possessed.

"They fucking laughed when I was being experimented on. I cried for help but they were too busy laughing. Fucking bitches" he scoffed. "You know when I made cuts on their skin how peaceful it felt. Slowly, deeply I dragged my knives on their skins and watching them slowly dying because of the pain. So good. They were the ones who cried and screamed and I was the one who laughed." He was a maniac explaining his masterplan. Little did he know everything he said, you were recording it all.

"You think you can run away with it?" you mocked trying to make him spill out. "How will they know Y/N? I am the chief investigating officer." he ran the tip of his fingers on your cheeks. But you didn't waver, he was a demon. "All this time I have been trying to erase all the evidence" he spoke as he turned his back on you.

"But you?" he turned and walked towards you. He bought his face closer to your neck and kissed your neck. If it were any other day, your eyes would slowly close themselves as he would press you against the surface. But today there was nothing but tears. "You are my favorite. I can't leave any witnesses. But don't worry, your screams will live in my recordings. You know how much I love making you scream now don't you my love?" He laughed sheepishly.

THUD THUD. The bang on the door grabbed his attention. He looked at you made a sign with a finger in his lips. Was this the man you loved? Who was he? You thought as you looked at him slowly unlocking the door.

"Ahh LEAVE ME GET OFF" he yelled in surprised as the police officers pinned him on the floor. Slowly you got your phone in front of him which you were hiding behind you and showed him the 911 number. The officers dragged him away but his hooded eyes would not leave your soul.

Two days later, while clearing his room. You found a notebook with all the five victim's name on it which was struck of with a red marker and also five knives covered in dried blood. "Why?" you whimpered as tears made their way down your cheeks. Your company had printed one of the biggest hit ever and were at the top. You were promoted and were appreciated by everyone but at what cost? You were scarred for life.

Back in the North House, Mrs Hill was sitting on her chair as the receptionist were cleaning her room. "Oh no" Mrs Hill exclaimed. "What is it Nana?" enquired Ms. Dean. "Y/N call her!! NOW"

Something was going to happen.

At the prison cell, all the officers were in havoc as one of the security guard was found dead in Tom's prison cell. Hysterical laughs and water droplets echoed through the hallway as Y/N was written on the wall and was struck of by the dead security guards' blood.

You were sleeping when Ms. Dean called you. "Hello" you spoke in your grumpy voice, the sleeping pills were slowly kicking in. "T-TOM!" her line was cut because of the heavy rain. Just then you got a message that Tom had escaped.

"What? where did he go?" you murmured to yourself and then you heard it. The hysterical laughter and the sound of the recording button being pushed.

"I am right here my love" he said.

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A/N: Hey guys, here is my first Tom Hiddleston fic. For the those of you who don't know me personally I am a contemporary dancer and this fiction I had seen being performed on the stage. I loved the suspense and I loved writing it even more. Writing this was a challenge and it was a wonderful experience and I hope you all like this as well.😘

Tom Hiddleston is such a versatile actor and just fits in any character which is the main reason why I love him so much. It was very easy for me to visualize his demeanor in this character and I tried my level best converting it into words. Let me know what you think about this fic.😃

REQUESTS OPEN | MASTERLIST

My requests are open. So ahead and check my masterlist and send me your plots.

Love yourself...you are worth it❣❣

[charlotteswriting]

how would thh cast comfort you // gn!reader -mod kaede

makoto naegi

—even though he's clueless, he'll do his best to cheer you up. his encouraging words already make you feel better, plus he'll hug you. i feel like he gives the best hugs, the hugs that makes you feel loved (i hc nagito and gonta too) he'll try to get anything you want, snacks, chocolate, candies, drinks. keyword, try. he's got like, $1, he can't buy you mcdonald's but still he passes the vibe check because he is so caring.

byakuya togami

—speaking of mcdonald's... he can and will buy you the whole company. that's it, i am out. well... he isn't the best at comforting people because he is blunt, but i feel like he'd show his love by actions, so he'll lend you his shoulder if you feel like crying. he won't complain about it but he might have a disgusted face the whole time. he is trying to get better

mondo owada

—because he doesn't want you to feel trapped inside, he'll take you out and you 2 will ride around the entire town. getting fresh air is always the best, isn't it? after the ride, he'd take you to a calming place to picnic and he would ask you what's wrong while resting his head on your lap. if it's a person bothering you, he'll get pissed at them but if it isn't, he'll be much calmer and try to come up with advice, though he isn't really good at it, he tries his best for u to feel better.

kiyotaka ishimaru

—taka might be dense at first but as soon as he notices your mood, he'll drop everything he has to do and will pay his whole attention to you. i headcanon taka likes to cook, so he'll cook with you or for you! he enjoys baking you cookies. he is actually good at giving advice, he's disappointed that you didn't come to him when you were bothered, he'll be there for you from now on and give you his love.

hifumi yamada

—i feel like hifumi would notice your bad mood but wouldn't know what to do, he'll try to crack jokes but he isn't the best joker around :'( if you have any shows you'd like to watch, he'll watch it with you and that'll be enough to cheer you up! but he talks a lot when watching, so you gotta bear with him. also man himself is comfortable like a pillow, so you can lay on him while watching it

leon kuwata

—he's bothered that you are upset, so he will do his best for you. taking you outside is one of things that comes to his mind first, walking in the streets while holding hands? yes. but if you feel like staying home, that's ok too! he is always down to cuddle. cuddle bug? cuddle bug. and yeah, he'll spoon you, so you don't feel alone.

yasuhiro hagakure

—oh no, it's so awkward. he isn't used to you being like this but he'll still try his best! another one that will take you to mcdonald's, he's a bit broke now, but who else is he going to spend his money on if it's not you? i feel like he'd joke around to lighten up your bad mood and tell you his whole life story. his memories are so terrifying that you eventually forget what's been bothering you. mission accomplished, but at what cost..? he is crying due to the nostalgia.

chihiro fujisaki

—at first he's like, is it me made you sad? :( you give him hugs all the time so it's time to payback! another one that gives the best hugs, they're so sweet. he will listen to every word you have to say patiently and at some point, he'll probably join you crying—if you aren't crying, well, he is crying alone. he'd play games with you until you are tired, it's him usually gets tired first. hearing his little snores in bed is already enough to make you smile. succeed!

kyoko kirigiri

—she can read people well, so she can say something's bothering you, so she'll be more affectionate than usual in return. kyoko will stay with you the whole time and listen to you without judging you, also i feel like she'd do some of your hobbies with you, so you'd feel better. in the end of the day, you know she believes you and it makes you feel better. kyoko will do your hair while you are ranting about your day. it comforts you.

sayaka maizono

—sayaka is geniunely sad, she cares so much. she'll take your hand and ask you if there's anything you'd want to do to feel better, she's down to anything, really. she's worried about your well being so much. like taka, she's a good cook, she'll spoil you a lot! she'll be affectionate the whole day and will not leave your side unless you are feeling better, afterwards, you tell her the reason of your sadness and she's like :0 then :( she is more clingy.

toko fukawa

—toko is aware you aren't feeling at your best, she wants to cheer you up but her low self-esteem doesn't let her. i think she's good at giving hugs, but they won't last long, because she thinks she's not respecting your boundaries. with short hugs and words that won't leave her lips, she isn't the type to comfort, but still just her presence itself helps you to feel better. she'll sit by you and will read with you, sometimes she'll even give you headpats. and i think that's really sweet.

sakura ogami

—i feel like sakura would immediately want to know the problem, so she can solve it. that would make you feel better, right? if you don't feel like talking about it yet, that's ok! she respects your privacy, but she won't leave you alone. she'd never when you are this upset! i think she'd carry you around with those big arms of hers, she knew you enjoyed a lot when she lifted you up or carried you in general. she gives good piggyback rides, too.

asahina aoi

—if you are upset, she's upset too. :( but still she's willing to make you feel better! she will want to talk about it, though that's only if you wanna. she'll take you the nearest donut shop and will buy you snacks as well when returning home. if there is no donut shop around, then she's more than excited to bake some with u! she's so passionate about it. you can't help but laugh at the way she fails baking, she is embarrassed about it but hey! at least you are smiling again

celestia ludenberg

—she knows you good enough to tell you are lying or not, pretending doesn't work on her, peace was never an option. celeste probably going to offer watching movies, i feel like she would like k-drama. also don't @ me but she will play uno with you, and no, don't try to change my mind. i also hc celeste likes birdwatching, there are many things in her mind to do with you. but if you don't like any of these things, she'll just shrug, giving in and joining you, staying with you the whole time.

mukuro ikusaba

—mukuro isn't great at comforting, but she'll not let you stay in a bad mood, either! she'd say you nicest things ever, probably about how much he admires you and stuff like that, well, she does. she is really embarrassed about showing affection, but still will embrace you, just like how you embraced her. will let you rest your head on her shoulder and you'll tell her about what's bothering you. the whole time she has a serious face but in mind she's forcing herself not to have a heart attack because of the closeness

junko enoshima

—now now, the only person she doesn't get bored around is upset? no, we can't have that. thanks to her analyst talent, she could already tell the problem and told mukuro to take care of it. while it's getting solved, she'll spend all of her time with you now! she'll tell you you're the best one around and you have no words for that because you know it's true. she's not the great comforter because her personality changes literally each second, but that's fine, too.

hey hey! this wasn't requested by anyone but still i felt like writing because i was kinda upset lately, and this idea popped out! anyway, hope you enjoy this! tomorrow, i'll be having my exams so i better get back to study :) i won't write for a week and few days but when i am done with them, i'll get back to writing requests immediately!! ily!!! 💖💕

[heli0s-writes]

i need a forest fire*

My submission for @jalapenobarnes​‘s writing challenge. Congratulations on your milestone, Saran! Thank you for hosting! 🧡

Nomad Steve/Reader & the prompt is hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

The title is from James Blake’s song of the same name. 🧡

I'm also double-dipping in the smut prompts with talking dirty over the phone. 1.7k. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

“I miss you.”

“I know.”

“No… I miss you.”

He chuckles and leans his head onto the headboard of yet another motel dwelling-- their stay for the week before they continue to another city, another assignment. Can’t plant his feet anywhere yet. No roots to grow for a while. No sun to warm him.

“How’s it been?”

“Fine enough. Same as usual, gotta keep moving.”

You’re thousands of miles away—disembodied voice in his ear that reminds him of home and his bed. Reminds him of the imprint electrifying his nights—the briefness of a new thing. The wonder of a good thing. A love that sprang slow over time, caught fire overnight, burned to ashes too quick.

“How are you?”

“Mm. Fine enough.”

He hears the squeak of a door, the click of a deadbolt, and the extra chain latching on top. Then, a mattress too noisy to be yours. A familiar ritual now, when you want the little bits of him that he can afford to give. A motel some distance from the compound, always a new one with every call because you’re too careful to make mistakes. Too careful to accidentally give him away.

It makes him smile to pretend that the two of you might be in the same place, sharing the same creaky fucking bed. Maybe breaking it in—breaking it apart.

Steve grits his teeth. Hisses discreetly, but not discreet enough.

“What’s that sound for?”

“Just— in bed. In a bed.”

“Not my bed.”

“No,” he laughs, “Wish I was, though.”

“Remember the last time you were there?” Rustling as you settle down and Steve does so as well, slipping his legs beneath paper thin covers. Imitation—imagination—allowing a domestic fantasy.

He considers it-- maybe half a year ago now—and suddenly his cheeks light up. He could easily give out one of those noises again— have you catch him red-handed dreaming of splayed thighs at the edge of the mattress. Him on his knees, one hand in his lap, practically drooling and a mess from the cheek down.

“You’ve got a beard now, huh? What’ll that be like between my legs?”

Oh, hell.

“Baby…” Steve grinds his skull against the wood, shivering at prickles down his spine, “Baby… Christ. You can’t say that.”

“Are you sharing a room? Are you sharing a room?”

You fucking tease. You would like it if he was sharing a room, just so you could provoke him stupid. Jesus, Steve’s the criminal now but you’ve always been a goddamn minx if he’s ever known one. Whip fucking smart, though, and it broke his heart when you suggested that he’d need someone on the other side, that it’ll be okay, Steve, I won’t punch you too hard.

And he only loved you more when you did punch him too hard. Loved you harder when you gave him coordinates to the Raft, the codes, the blueprints lifted from Ross’ files.

He had one last night then, in your room, before it’d inevitably be ransacked and searched—bugged to hell because Ross only trusted you as far as he could throw you, even if you played all your cards right.

It’s why you catch the bus to motels with a burner phone inside the lining of your jacket. Create nonsensical rotations of locations. Schedule calls without a linear time frame. Sometimes a month, sometimes longer. It’s why he misses you so goddamn much.

“Steve…” A drawl of his name that lets him know exactly what you want of him.

“I’m not sharing a room,” he says cautiously, like a warning, “But Sam’s right next door. And it’s paper thin here.”

“You better be quiet then. You’re not Goody-Two-Shoes Cap anymore, are you? Don’t you wanna try phone sex with your girl?” His chest tightens, throat going dry at your tone, at the way you say your girl, at the possibility of phone sex—as daunting as it is exciting.

“Okay, yeah, sweetheart,” Steve shudders, reaching into his sweats because he can’t say no— he’s already half hard, anyway. Itching for it. “Yeah. You can have me. H-how do you want me?”

“Touching yourself, to start.” A sigh in your voice. He closes his eyes, swallows thickly, imagines your breath over his lips, imagines the way you pepper kisses across his chest. “I always liked watching you do that, pretty boy.”

Steve groans, stroking languidly, building himself up, focusing on the way he can just barely hear the hum in the back of your throat. “You’re pretty.”

A giggle then, snapping him out of his trance and heat overtakes the top of his head. Ugh. He’s not good at this. Being laughed at during sex—regardless of how disembodied—never a good sign. “Fuck,” He grumbles. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like it, Steve; I like you.” Just like that, he’s breathless again. “Hm, wanna know what I’m doing, pretty boy?” And his breath may never come back.

“Remember those little satin panties I wore? Ribbon ties on the side… and you pulled them off with your teeth?”

Of course he does. Delicate lavender and shimmery soft. By the time he dropped to the floor they were already wet in the middle—pastel going rich purple. Your chest-- heaving as you leaned back on the sheets, his hands on the thin skin of your knees, stretching willing legs apart.

Steve catches his cockhead with the crook of his finger. Grunts quietly into the receiver.

“Baby, are you wearing those?”

“Uh-huh, just for you.”

“Are you touching yourself—ah—thinkin’ about me?”

“Every night.”

Fuck. Jesus Christ, you’re bad. He’s gonna blow his load and the call’s only been five minutes.

“What—” another shuddering breath when he grips a little too hard, “—what do you think about me doing?”

You sigh again, whimper like a little punctuation, sheets rustling. “I think about your tongue and how wet you make me,” and your voice is so low, so needy, “I wish you were here, Steve. Touching me all over.” And the picture in his mind of you, so pretty and open, wild at the mere memory of him—

“When you get back,” and there it is, egging his own fist on to match the pace of a subtle and steady sluiced-up rhythm, your fingers working over, inside, back out, twisting and turning. “When you get back, Steve. I’m gonna let you know just how much I miss you.”

He’s hot all over, chasing the ghost of your doting kisses, the phantom touch of your skillful hands. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? You gonna let me make you feel good when you get home?”

“Yes—yes.”

“Keep going. Think about me riding you, baby. Slow at first, how you like, taking you a little bit at a time. You’re always so hard.”

Always for you, yeah, he is. And as much as he loves tasting you—as much as he could spend eternity and a half blessed between your thighs, dedicated to those noises you make when his tongue slips over your clit—his fingers knuckle-deep inside—the way you move on top of him is another sacrament altogether.

Steve jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder—neck cramp tomorrow be damned—and uses both hands. Forgets for a little that you’re not quite there.

Slow, like you said, at first, listening to your recital, the chorus of his breath an applause.

“Now, faster.”

And he’s lost in the roll of your hips, one hand on his chest, the other gripped tight around his shoulder, nails carving crescents into his skin because you need an anchor. He’s lost in the way his heart pounds the sharper the cuts because it means you’ve let yourself go. How you scramble for his fingers next, lacing them through yours, squeezing him there and everywhere.

And oh, how exquisite you look with that sheen of sweat across your chest. Hovering over him like a goddess and fucking him like a wet dream.

“Baby,” red lip pulled pale between his teeth, hands working in tandem—imitation and imagination constructing a well-oiled machine in your absence. “Baby, fuck. Miss you on me—miss you fucking me. God--”

“Yeah? Gonna come?” You’re panting, too, noises high and obscene, the background echo of your hand growing more frantic and unrestrained. “Me too, pretty boy. I want to do everything with you—have all of you. Your hands, your mouth, your cock.”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “I wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. He’s barely finished rucking down his sweats, pulling up the hem of his shirt last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids. He’s spilling out, over his fist, up his clenched abdomen, entire body tight, panting heavy and hard as he tugs at himself a few more times, breathing and listening, heart still clobbering against his ribcage when you whimper one last time.

The comedown is aching, then. His eyes flutter open. Heat smothered cold and lonesome like those ashes. His neck hurts. His heart hurts.

“Steve,” and he hears it in you, too—the same ache, the same want. Like at the end of every call you’ve made to him in the past six months. 

“Steve,” you say again, “It’s okay. You’ll be back soon enough. You’ll have me then. Every night if you’d like.”

Of course he would, but he can’t voice it now, not in all this dark, not when the pain is bubbling up in his throat, not when he loves you so much he can’t stand to worry you with its sound.

“Look on the bright side, you lawless fugitive. Least you know how to have phone sex now. Cap would never.” He laughs at that, happiness like tinder sparking fast from a flame. “You’ll be home soon.”

Home. Home. A place with his bed and his girl. Planting his feet down safely. Growing roots in that rich, soft soil, sprinkled with ash. Tended to by the warmth of your touch.  

“Yeah. I will,” he says, and the fire chases away the dark.

[kinsey3furry300]

A very confused Star Wars Fan desperately tries to justify their belief that “Caravan of Courage” shows the way forward for the franchise. No, really.

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve loved Star Wars. And I mean, all of it. The books, the games, the Lego, the spin-offs: I even enjoy the Holiday Special in a The Room so-bad-you-just-need-to-see-it sort of way.  But particularly the films. But here is when we run into the big problem: I’m just the wrong age. The original trilogy launched before I was born, the prequel trilogy hit cinemas when I was already a teen and while I went and saw them and enjoyed them, I was at that age where I was self-conscious about seeing a “kids” film, and hyper-aware of how silly and cringy those films were in parts. So my indoctrination, my inoculation with the Star Wars bug didn’t happen in the cinema, and it didn’t happen with any of the main franchise works. It happened on home video, on a skiing trip in the French Alps in the early 90’s. I’d have been about 6, and this was the first time I’d ever been abroad other than to see relatives in Ireland.  And I loved it: to this day I love skiing, but more than that, I have very, very fond childhood memories of this trip. This was shortly before I lost my biological mother to cancer, she’d have received her diagnosis just after we got back from the trip. This was when my younger sister stopped being an annoying screaming thing and became and became an actual person I could talk and play and share ideas with, this was before the combination my mothers long illness and my father having just launched his own IT start up meant I didn’t see him or her any more, despite the fact they were in the same house as me. This was this wonderful, nostalgic child-hood bubble when my family was intact, and nothing could ever go wrong. I skied all day with mum and dad, and would come back to the chalet in the evening. It was an English speaking chalet, I met my first real-life American there, and having grown up in the 90’s in the UK nothing was cooler than making friends with an actual American my own age. He had a hulk Hogan action figure with springs in the legs so if you put him on a hard surface and punched his head down, when you let go he’d jump really high in the air. We used to play with it together in the bath, back in that weird 90’s time-bubble when it was possible to convince two sets of parents that this kid you’d just met was you best friend in the world and of course shared bath time was, somehow, normal and appropriate. And fresh from bath time, tired from the day, the parents would give us some hot coco, dump us kids in front of the tv and grab the first shitty low-budget VHS they could find to keep us distracted while they went to the bar. In this particular time, in this particular place, that shitty low budget cartoon was the  complete set of the 1985 Lucasfilm/ABC Ewoks cartoon, plus the two spin off movies, and to this day that cheap, kitschy, kind of bad series has a special warm and cosy place in my heart. I remember being enthralled by the world, in love with the characters, applied by the bad guys and the injustice they caused (to this day I’m still irate about that time Wicket lost his set of beads documenting his progress towards becoming a full warrior and the older Ewoks basically said, tough, you need to re-earn all those merit badges from scratch. This struck me as exactly the sort of bullshit an adult would pull, and pissed me off) and on tenterhooks about what would happen to the characters.

It was also, by a coincidence, the first ever Star Wars media I was exposed to, and the above combination of events probably explains a lot about me.

So I was surprised, the other day, when scrolling Disney+, to find they’d added Caravan of Courage AND Battle for Endor to the roster in my region. Surely Disney wouldn’t want their slick, cool brand associated with this old trash? Surely there could be no place for this in the post-Mandalorian Star Wars cannon? Surely this is a horrible mistake some intern made, right?

Unless…. What if I’ve miss-remembered? What if it’s not just rose-tinted nostalgia goggles, and it’s, in fact, secretly really, really good?

I rushed to my comfy chair, got a blanket, dimmed the lights, made some coco (with rum in it, because why the hell not?) and sat down to re-examine this lost gem.

And wow: it’s every bit as shit as you’d expect.

It has aged exactly as poorly as you’d expect a cheap, mid 80’s direct to video spin-off to age. Caravan of Courage? More like Caravan of Garbage, am I right?

And yet… I still enjoyed every moment.

And it was sitting there, in my pyjamas, watching a cheaply made direct to video cash-grab from just before I was born, seeing it again for the first time in nearly 30 years, and I realised something.

It doesn’t really matter if this film is bad, so long as I enjoy it. And if it doesn’t really mater if this is bad, then I, like many Star Wars fans, wasted a huge amount of time and emotional effort on being butthurt about stuff I didn’t like about the Rise of Skywalker and it’s ilk. Because somewhere, right now, a tired and frustrated parent is putting Disney+ on to keep their kids quiet for two hours. And they won’t think too hard about what they put on, so long as it keeps little Timmy busy for a bit. Somewhere, right now, a kid is watching Rise of Skywalker, and it’s the first Star Wars media they’ve ever seen.

And that’s okay. Because we don’t know what that kids home life is like. We don’t know if it’s good or bad. Maybe it’s great, maybe it’s about to take a dramatic plunge like mine did, and this moment here will be the cosy, warm memory they look back on in 30 years time, and that’s beautiful.  They’re getting introduced to a fun, wonderful fantasy world that could be with them all their lives, through good times and bad, and as fans we should be happy about that.

Star Wars will never, die: it’s too darn profitable, Disney will never let it. And while I hope they learn from their mistakes and make sure every future Star Wars is a timeless gem of story-telling, statistically, if you keep making enough films, some of them will be bad. And while I’d like them all to be great, it’s still okay if they’re bad.

Because nothing can take away my memories of that week in that chalet. Nothing can take-away my memories of when they put the original trilogy on in cinemas for the special edition and I had my jaw hit the floor with how good it was on the big screen, not knowing or caring who shot first. Nothing can take away you memories of the Original Trilogy, the Prequels, or the Clone Wars. Nothing can tarnish the bits of the sequil trilogy that you like, and there are good bits in there.

But wait, what about continuity? What about the sacred, perfect written time-line that used to exist?

Well, what about it? Have you seen any other big, epic fantasy universe before? They’re all a mess. A work of fiction, particularly fantasy, can be extensive, or tightly written, but not both. Harry Potter is only seven books, and the last two feel, tonally, like they’re from an entirely different series. I love them, but the grim-dark kicked in so fast you’ll get whiplash. The Hobbit is a perfect written self-contained novel, and LOTR is *The* big boy high-fantasy trilogy: fast forward 50 years, and Christopher Tolkien is desperately squeezing every last drop of money out of his father’s corpse by finishing and publishing every unfinished note JRR ever wrote right down to his shopping lists. Even Dune goes of the rails with sequels. I can only think of four fantasy works that are both extensive and consistently tightly written, Song of Ice and Fire, Wheel of Time, Malazan: Book of the Fallen and Brandon Sanderson’s Cosmere universe. And even then, the prequels and spin-offs mess with the timelines: the Dunk and Egg novella’s change some character’s canonical ages and timelines, Wheel of Time was going slowly off the rails even before the Jordan died, Forge of Darkness made what was a good metaphor for the creation of it’s world into a literal war deep in the past, and Sanderson’s first Novel Elantris got a re-write to bring it more in line with the rest of the shared universe. The MCU, oft held up as the modern example of tightly planned, well thought out ongoing storytelling, is a lie: it was never as pre-planned out as Disney wants us to think; the first Iron Man, apparently, barely had a script, with Downey ad-lib-ing most of his scenes. None of the MCU films are direct sequels to each-other other than Infinity war and Endgame. There are three Iron Man films, and Three Thor films, and none continue an ongoing story line across multiple films, and the Cap films barely continue an arc, but only where Cap’s relationship with Natasha and Bucky is involved.  Much like these, Star War’s cannon is a complete, nightmarish, confusing, tangled, illogical mess. And it has been since 1984, as Caravan of Courage proves. It was never consistent and well planned.

And that’s okay.

I used to care about plot holes. I used to care about which works were cannon in Star Wars lore. I’m over that now. I’m happy to imagine the books, films and games not as a blow-by-blow historical account of a galaxy far far away, but as campfire stories from within this fun, imaginative world that we’re all invited to listen to. Stories that are in-universe myth and folklore, that we can all snuggle up and listen to while drinking highly alcoholic rum and remembering better times, knowing that wherever the future throws at us, no matter how the world goes to hell around us, we’ll still have the memories, and the ability to make our own new stories in the wonderful Star Wars world we all share.

And that’s okay. No, more than that: that’s beautiful.

Also Star Wars is completely unambiguous on the fact we’re allowed to kill fascists no matter how many times they keep coming back with a new logo, so that’s timely I guess.

So, there’s my hot take two-years after everyone else stopped caring about this stuff, as per bloody usual. Tell me why I’m wrong below, and does anyone else have any truly awful spin-off shows that they kind of have a nostalgic soft spot for?

[kissinginkitchens]

You Bring Me Home—Chapter Two: Where the Heart Is

a/n: Thank you so much for all of the love you have shown to part one! I’m so glad to see that you’re enjoying YBMH so far, the story is just getting started. I hope you’ll stick around for the full thing, so without further ado, here’s chapter two! As always, my inbox is open so feel free to come chat with me when you have finished this part :) Much love, Mel <3

Pairing: Hawai'i!Harry x Original Character

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drug use

Word Count: 5.1k

read part one here

The phone screen flickers to life at the touch of Harry’s finger, flashing the exact same time that it had the last time he checked, though it feels like hours have passed since then. He sighs at the disappointing revelation and turns his phone over so that the screen meets the aged wood of the piano where it rests. In all honesty, Harry has no idea why he agreed to the interview in the first place. He had skillfully dodged the hundreds of requests for an exclusive tell-all following the untimely split of One Direction and successfully avoided the prying eyes of the general public for several months. So why had he indulged the first request from a girl he hardly knew without so much as a blink? The answer seemed a frustrating mystery to him, but to anyone else, the fluttering in his stomach when he caught a glimpse of her yellow Ford Bronco pulling up to the studio and the way he instinctively raked a hand through his hair gave the answer away.

“I know I’m late, I’m sorry!” Alani apologizes, emerging from the car with a notebook nestled under her arm and a smoothie in each hand. She closes the door with her hip before making a beeline to the studio entrance where Harry stands, his right shoulder leaning against the doorframe with the same stoic expression Alani recognizes as his signature look.

“I had to get my sister to cover for me at the café and then I got lost because Google sent me to a Napua restaurant instead of the recording studio,” she rambles in an attempted continuation of her apology. “But anyway, this is for you. A peace offering and a thank you for doing this.”

Harry gingerly takes the green smoothie from her outstretched hand and offers a curt nod in response before ushering her inside.Alani pushes her sunglasses up and settles them into her windswept waves, trailing behind Harry and taking in the space. In one corner across the room, she notices a couple of brightly colored tapestries thumbtacked to the wall with a microphone stand perched in the center, all encased behind a screen of plexiglass. The adjacent wall is lined with guitars all standing at attention and glimmering, despite the dim lighting. Harry stops at the doorway of another room with a couch and a coffee table, the floor littered with wires and pieces of crumpled paper. He motions Alani to step inside and then clears his throat, which catches the attention of two other long-haired men chatting with amused expressions on their faces.

“Sorry lads,” Harry crosses his arms with eyes glued to the floor to avoid their questioning stares. “‘Fraid I have to intrude. Can we have this room?” 

One of the men grins behind a full beard,  popping a peanut M&M into his mouth before standing. “Sure thing, boss man. Let’s bounce, Rowland.”

The other man, also bearded but smaller in stature with a thin, pointed nose nods silently. He continues twirling two drumsticks between his fingers and points one of them at Harry in passing. Alani offers polite smiles at the both of them, and a quiet “thank you” falls from her lips as they exit without another word. Harry closes the door behind them and gestures to the couch, which she takes as her cue to sit.

“I like the uniform,” Alani smiles, gesturing to her hair as a comment on the fact that the three men all share similar lengths and styles.

“Thanks,” is all Harry says, taking a seat across from hers and clearly dismissing her attempt at humor.

To pacify the urge to fill the uncomfortable silence, Alani sips her strawberry smoothie and steals a glance through her eyelashes at Harry who is doing the same. She clears her throat after a minute and sets the drink on the table in front of her; a notebook takes its place on her lap.

“Thank you again for doing this, I really appreciate it,” Alani offers while digging through her bag for her phone. “I’m gonna record this on voice notes, just for the sake of quoting you accurately.”

“Sure,” Harry replies, occupying his gaze with the condensation trickling from the cup onto his fading black jeans. 

Dry retorts from everyone else, especially customers, have little effect on the way Alani conducts herself.  But every short comment from Harry, or lack thereof, makes her feel like a bug under a microscope. She settles her phone onto the coffee table and takes a deep breath to calm the trembling that spreads from her chest into her fingers and toes.

“So first, I wanted to ask about your time in Hawai’i. Are you enjoying it so far?” Alani poses the question lightly, hoping to open him up just enough to extract the story that she’s really looking for.

“It’s nice,” Harry nods, finally meeting her expectant stare. When she doesn’t respond for a beat, he clears his throat and adds on to the statement. “Weather’s good,”

Alani musters a half-hearted smile and glances down at the questions on her page. This is going to take for-fucking-ever, she sighs.

“Is that what drew you here—vacation? Getting away?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,”

The row of guitars behind the singer catches her attention suddenly and guides the next question.

“And to write or.. record?”

Harry shifts in his seat, calculating his response carefully. “Both,”

“Solo stuff?”

Alani watches as he takes a slow sip of his smoothie and crosses his legs, an action which tells her that she’s struck a dead end. Or, at the very least, a door that she hasn’t gained his trust to open yet.

“You were with One Direction for half a decade,” She recovers. “Constantly releasing new music and touring. But now you’re here, doing neither, and haven’t done so for almost a year. What is that transition like?” Alani isn’t sure if Harry will answer when she poses the question, but to her surprise he meets her gaze and nods, as if to say that he accepts the inquiry.

“It’s different than anything I’ve ever done, for sure,” he starts slowly. It’d be a lie to say that he hasn’t given the breakup and, subsequently, his future outside of the band much thought. He thinks about it every day, especially his bandmates and their supportive fans. That much he has been able to unpack privately, but the rest of it—the sudden need to escape and write new music— is still something he can’t quite put into words, so he leans into the nostalgia and hopes it’ll suffice.

“Like you said, it’s been non-stop for the past five years, so I guess it is a bit jarring to come to a sudden halt after so much momentum. Obviously, it’s nice to have the time off, but I love putting out music and touring it. I wouldn’t trade that for anything,”

Alani is grateful to have more than a couple of words of material, despite the fact that it doesn’t really answer the question or tell her anything new about the man sitting crossed legged and closed off in front of her. Looking through her notes, Alani selects another question and embarks on a new angle.

“You were really young when all of that began,” she starts, thinking about how she could never have left her family and home at just 16. Hell, she was 22 and still figuring it out. Hopefully, if all things went well with this interview and Rolling Stone, she would finally find the opportunity to do it. “Do you ever think about where you would be if you hadn’t auditioned for X-Factor?”

Harry knows that she’s playing it safe, trying to feel him out and test the buttons she can push. He also knows that he’s being difficult, much more so than usual due to his nerves. So with an unfamiliar pang in his chest, he decides to relent the tiniest bit.

“Well, I’m starting to think maybe I could’ve been a professional surfer,” he offers matter-of-factly which makes Alani flash an amused grin. Harry’s sudden humor makes the room a bit less suffocating for the both of them and she’s grateful for it.

“Surfing, huh? This I have to see.” she  quips back, suddenly trying to picture him ditching the black skinny jeans for a wetsuit.

He nods with a faint smirk. “Maybe you will.” 

Alani meets his gaze with a shy smile of her own and her eyes fall to his lips for a brief second. The almost imperceptible action sends another foreign jolt through Harry’s chest. She opens her mouth to resume questioning when a loud bang startles them both and causes Harry to spin in his seat, looking through the glass window of the sound booth.

“Sorry!” A man with short, blonde hair and a fading tie dye shirt laughs while lifting the tipped over drum cymbals. “Don’t mind us!”

The two men from earlier straggle in behind and poorly conceal their own fits of laughter. Harry flashes his middle finger briefly, mouthing something that Alani can’t see but knows is undoubtedly rude. She suppresses a giggle and sneaks a glance at her phone, which indicates only a few minutes worth of dialogue. When she lifts her head, the door opens and the blonde man peeks his head in.

“Hello,” he greets with an extended hand before entering and taking a seat next to Alani on the couch. “Tom Hull, or Kid Harpoon...or just Tom, whatever you like best,” 

 She accepts his hand eagerly, not missing the way Harry pinches the bridge of his nose in her peripheral vision. “Mahealani Hale, or just Alani. Nice to meet you,”

“Wow, beautiful name,” Tom compliments. “Sorry to interrupt, I didn’t realize you had company, H,”

“She was just—”

“I’m writing about-” The two speak at the same time, making brief eye contact before Harry turns his attention back to Tom.

“Did you need something?” He asks. Tom’s eyes dart between Harry and Alani before he clears his throat and reclines in his seat.

“Just dropping by to see if you wanted to go for lunch...” he trails off, which Alani takes as a cue to start gathering her belongings.

“Kind of busy here,” Harry offers with a glance back at the girl seated awkwardly across from him. “Another time,”

At this, Tom turns to Alani and ignores his friend’s protests. “Alani, do you eat lunch?”

Before responding, she casts an apprehensive glimpse at Harry who has suddenly become very intrigued by the drink in his lap, purposefully avoiding her eyes.

“Uh.. well yeah, but I don’t-”

“Great! Have lunch with us,”

“Mate—” Harry speaks up.

Tom grins, shrugging. “What? You plan on starving the poor girl?”

“I really can’t, but thank you for the offer,” Alani explains with a sheepish smile, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It was really nice to meet you Tom. And thank you again, Harry, I’ll see you around.”

The musician watches her shuffle out of the sound booth quietly and turns his attention back at Tom, who sits with an incredulous look on his face.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” He asks, standing. “Go after her, dickhead!”

“It’s not like that she’s-”

“I really don’t give a fuck about your excuses, go!”

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, looking out the window as Alani slips through the front door.

She fishes her keys out of her bag and sighs when a familiar voice says her name.

“Alani!” Harry calls from the doorway, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. He makes his way down the steps and over to the driver’s side where she  ghosts the key over the ignition. 

“Come have lunch...please?” 

“It’s okay,” she purses her lips together politely. “I don’t wanna get in the way,”

Harry catches his lower lip between his teeth and runs a hand through his hair, choosing his next words thoughtfully. 

“No, you’re not—you won’t,” he starts. “I would really like it if you joined us for lunch, especially since our time got interrupted. Please, let me make it up to you.”

Alani can’t help the way her stomach flips at the words “our time” that fall from his lips and she finds herself nodding in agreement before her mind has had a chance to intervene. 

She makes her way to the passenger seat of the Range Rover parked behind the studio, which she learns is where all of Harry’s entourage keeps their vehicles. A variety of brightly colored vintage cars are neatly parked, and it amuses her that Harry skips all of them, instead going straight for the black SUV with darkly tinted windows. At least he’s consistent,  she smirks. As Alani climbs into the car, she is met by the warmth of Harry’s scent—something woodsy and vanilla— and the fact that she recognizes it makes her heart pound.

“You can connect your phone,” Harry nods to the stereo as he buckles his seatbelt. “To the Bluetooth, I mean, if you’d like.”

 “Really?” she asks, brow raised in mild disbelief.

“Only if you play something good,” he teases with a stony expression, adjusting the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Alani takes that as a challenge, scrolling through various playlists as Harry peels away onto the main road. Over the speakers, the beginning of “Don’t Worry Baby” by The Beach Boys surrounds the two of them. 

“Is this to your liking, my liege?” Alani poses in an exaggerated British accent that makes Harry cringe, though the small grin on his face gives away his endearment.

“Yes, but please don’t do that accent ever again,” 

“So you admit it, you’re the one with the accent,” she wiggles her brows, eyes peeling away  from the view out her window to Harry in the driver’s seat.

“If it’ll get you to never do that one again, sure,” “Dunno, love,” she continues, watching the coast shimmer under the afternoon sun. “Think  it kinda suits me,”

Harry shakes his head and checks the rearview mirror to make sure that he hasn’t lost Tom, Mitch, and Jeff in the car trailing behind.

“What’s it like?” Alani questions, studying the perfect slope of his pointed nose and strawberry pout.

“What’s what like?”

“England,”

Harry thinks for a second, recalling his London flat, lunches with his mum and sister, the streets of Trafalgar Square, and Abbey Road. 

“Rainy,” is all he says.

Alani scoffs, which draws  his attention over to where she lounges in his passenger seat, sitting comfortably as if it was exactly where she belonged. “That’s all?”

“What?” He questions, though he knows exactly what she means and is perfectly aware of his own stubbornness.

“Just seems like... I don’t know, such a generic description for a place you consider home,”

Harry mulls her response over, the word “home” especially catching his interest. It’s a strange concept in his mind because while, yes, England is where he has spent the majority of his life and where the people he loves most reside, he has never truly felt connected to just one place. And after spending his formative years traveling the world, who could blame him?

“It’s... safe,” he tries again, attempting to verbalize what he’s feeling. “When I’m there, I mean, I feel safe. Like I don’t have to be anyone or do anything specific, I can just... be. No expectations,”

Alani lets Harry’s words sit between them for a moment, sensing that there is still more he wants to say. When she doesn’t respond after a minute,  he continues in an effort to clarify and fill the lull in the conversation.

“I used to think that London was just a starting point and that if I could make it to LA, it would mean that I had really made it, and I would feel more at home there,” he continues, slow and calculated. “But I dunno... when I’m there it still feels like an extended holiday,  like I’m just buying time until I leave for the next place. London doesn’t feel like that, feels much more constant... so yeah, I guess it is home,” 

As if she had read his mind earlier, Alani adds on. “Not to mention that’s where your family is, I’m assuming,” 

Harry nods, once again thinking of his mum and sister. The image of their beaming faces  brings the shadow of a dimple to his cheek.  “Yeah,”

“What’s your family like?” She continues, truly interested and forgetting for a moment about the article she still has to write.

“Kind of small, I guess. S’really just my sister and my mum, but they’re,” Harry pauses, searching for the right words, “They’re the best. My mum’s probably the kindest woman I’ve ever met. Feel pretty lucky with that one, considering what a pest I was as a child,” he chuckles lightly and it’s a sound that Alani hadn’t heard up to this point, but one she knows she’ll replay in her mind over and over again.

“Gem’s pretty patient too—and brilliant, always the studious one,” he adds finally, a dreamy look on his face that Alani much prefers to the stoic one he always dons. .

“Ah yes, there’s always one,” she nods, catching the quirked brow he offers in response.

“Oh yeah? Are you the one in your family?” 

“I guess so. School just seemed to come easily to me,”

“And what made you want to study journalism?” He questions, stopping to let a woman and her toddler cross.

Alani thinks about it for a moment while twirling a strand of fabric from the hem of her ripped shorts around her finger. 

“I’ve always loved to write, ever since I was really little— like short stories and stuff. And I don’t know, I guess I like the idea of traveling and seeking out a story, too.”

Harry nods understandingly, pulling up to a curb across the street from a restaurant that Alani has frequented. It’s relatively empty at Pineapples for a summer afternoon, though most tourists don’t stray too far from the beaches, so Hilo maintains a healthy local population at all times. The pair climb out of the car and Alani makes her way to the rear where the rest of the group has parked. One of the men from earlier greets her with an outstretched hand while Harry chats with the other two that emerge.

“Hi I’m Jeff, it’s nice to meet you.” He smiles warmly,  pushing his sunglasses into his hair. 

“Alani. It’s nice to meet you, Jeff,”

“Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be rude by not saying hi it’s just-”

Alani dismisses his concern with a wave of her hand. “Oh don’t worry about it! I was kind of nervous then, too. I don’t know if he told you, but I’m interviewing Harry,”

“Oh, right! Yeah, he did mention that I think,” Jeff recalls, “Which magazine are you with?”

“None.” Yet, Alani thinks, her mind wandering to the Rolling Stone rejection letter. “It’s for a class, I’m a journalism major. Harry was just being nice and agreed to let me write about his music,”

Jeff nods. “Got it. You know, he’s not normally this serious. Just got a lot on his mind but he’ll loosen up,” he explains quietly just as Alani and Harry’s eyes meet. She quickly averts her gaze back to the kind, bearded man standing before her.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” she smiles appreciatively.

“Where’s Jeffrey?” Harry speaks up, catching her attention. She looks back to Jeff, confused, before he shakes his head.

“Other Jeff, his manager.” He explains.

“Probably already inside, he said he’d meet us here.” Mitch pipes up.

With that, the rest of the crew head into the restaurant while Alani stays a few steps behind to follow their lead.

“Y’okay?” Harry asks, shuffling along beside her.

Alani startles slightly at his unexpected presence, but relaxes as their strides fall into sync.

“Yeah, thanks. And thank you for the invite, too.” She offers, the corners of her mouth upturned softly.  Harry responds with a tight-lipped smile of his own and clears his throat before holding the door open for her.

In the far corner of the restaurant near the open balcony, Harry’s manager Jeff waves the group over to the table he saved. Everyone exchanges greetings and settles into their seats, the two at the end facing each other remain open for Alani and Harry.

“Jeff, this is..Mahealani, did I get that right?” Tom gestures to Alani for approval.

She nods and waves. “Yes, but you can just call me Alani,”

“Nice to meet you,” Jeff calls from the other end of the table, glancing over to Harry in search of  an explanation for her presence.

“I’m writing a piece about Harry and his music,” Alani offers. “But I’d love to talk to all of you, if you have a chance.”

Jeff nods, still shooting Harry a knowing look. “Yeah, sure thing.” 

The two Jeffs, Tom, and Mitch engage in their own conversations, mostly inside jokes that go over Alani’s head. Harry watches, silent for most of the interaction and barely engaging the girl seated across from him, though he is overwhelmingly aware of her presence. When the server comes to take their order, warmth floods to Alani’s cheeks.

“Alani, hey!” the tall server greets, flashing a handsome, pearly-white smile. “Long time, no see. You’re looking good as always,”

“Mahalo, David. You look good, as well,” She smiles politely, catching onto the way that Harry sits a little straighter in her peripheral vision. David still pays no regard to the rest of the table, but his gaze momentarily flickers over Harry and sizes him up before returning to Alani.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were on a date,” he apologizes, which makes Alani’s eyes bulge  and Mitch snicker beside her. 

“Oh no, we’re not—“

“He’s just—” Alani and Harry speak at the same time, eyes darting to one another before she explains.

“I’m... working on something—an article,” she says, and David nods understandingly.

“Oh...right. Big-shot reporter, I almost forgot,” David teases in a snide way that makes Harry’s blood boil with annoyance. “Anyways, what can I get you all? The usual for you, right Alani?”

She nods curtly while the rest of the group take turns ordering. After the server has gone,  Harry notices a shift in her easy-going demeanor and decides that it’s his turn to break the ice.

“Come here often then?” He poses gently, taking a sip of his lemonade.

Her lips press into a tight line as her eyes wander to the other patrons. “Yeah, kinda,”

“Asshole ex-boyfriend ruined that, I’m guessing?”

Alani lets out an amused breath and shakes her head.

“He’s not my ex. I mean we went out, like, once in high school... and maybe a handful of times in college but that’s it, really,” 

Harry studies the uneasiness in her expression trying, and failing, to understand what she’s holding back.

“Seems like you dodged a bullet,” he confides, leaning in. Alani’s eyes meet his and her pursed lips ease into a small grin, which Harry mirrors with a simper of his own. As he rests his smooth chin in his palm, she notices a large, healing scab along the underside of his forearm, and her brows furrow.

“How’d that happen?” Alani asks.

“He jumped out a window,” Mitch intervenes. “Though to be fair, he was high,”

Harry shoots a deathly glare at Mitch and turns back to Alani. “It was a one-time thing.”

“It was shrooms,” Mitch replies with an amused smirk.

“Hardcore,” Alani giggles lightly. 

Mitch swirls the straw in his mimosa with his index finger while extending a pinky at Alani. “You do drugs?”

She shrugs, taking a sip of her Mai Tai. “Smoked weed a few times, though not enough to consider myself a pothead, I guess,”

Mitch snorts and steals a glance at Harry. “Pot makes our boy sleepy, and hungry. Alcohol makes him giggly. Shrooms get him buzzed just right,”

Harry’s cheeks flush and he averts his gaze past Alani where families and visitors roam the streets outside. 

“Jumping out a window’s  ‘just right’? I’d hate to see what going overboard looks like.” she teases, watching the blush of embarrassment creep across the bridge of Harry’s nose and cheeks.

“Keeps things interesting.” Mitch shrugs, turning back to Jeff to join his previous conversation.

 Alani feels a strange sense of endearment wash over her at the thought of a giggly Harry, dimples replacing a deeply furrowed brow. In the short time she’d known and served him at the café, she’d only ever seen him reserved—polite, at best. Alani had hoped that interviewing Harry would provide some insight into his mysterious background, but she didn’t imagine that she would want to know more than what could be penned in her article. In the few minutes spent mingling with him and his friends, she began to think that maybe there was something worth getting to know, not just professionally, but before she can give it a second thought, David returns with their food.

“Thanks, Derek.” Harry says, flashing a facetious grin at David who stands confused for a second before sauntering back to the kitchen. Alani laughs, quickly clasping a hand over her mouth, and Harry’s stomach flips at the sound. He immediately wishes he knew what else he could do to hear it again.

Alani scrapes the last bits of potato off her plate and leans back in her seat, patting her growing food baby. 

“I’m thinking of naming mine Oliver, you?” She sighs contentedly. 

“Anne, after my mum,” he quips back, pulling out his wallet.

Alani reaches into her bag for her own, but Harry shakes his head and speaks up. “Don’t worry about it, ‘s on me,”

“Oh, no Harry you really don’t have to—”

“I don’t mind,” he shrugs, slipping his card onto the small clipboard attached to their receipts.

“Thank you,” Alani smiles, feeling warmth spread through her limbs, but she assumes that it’s mostly due to the rum in her system.

Harry pushes a lock of hair behind his ear and returns the wallet to his back pocket without another word. While there is no alcohol coursing through his blood, he refuses to believe that the burning in his cheeks has anything to do with the girl seated before him.

Alani climbs back into the passenger’s seat of the SUV while Harry settles behind the wheel. He braces his right hand behind the headrest of her seat and skillfully reverses, only becoming aware of their proximity when he turns back to switch gears. Alani peels her eyes from his and focuses on finding a playlist for their journey back to the studio, her mind racing as she clicks shuffle. Harry’s arm retreats, much to Alani’s disappointment, and his ears perk up when he hears the familiar chimes at the beginning of Fleetwood Mac’s “Everywhere”.

“‘S a good one,” Harry breaks the silence, tapping on the steering wheel. “Christine always says it’s her favorite,”

“Christine...McVie?” Alani questions with an eyebrow quirked. “You know Christine McVie?”

“Kind of,” he shrugs, the corners of his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Do you know Stevie Nicks?”

“Yeah. She lives in London,”

“Holy shit!” Alani marvels, covering her mouth in excitement.

Harry chuckles lightly, stealing a glance over at Alani still processing the news. “Big fan?” 

She whips her head away from the window and scoffs. “Massive. Named my car Stevie, actually,”

“Hardcore,” Harry teases, echoing her own comment about his psychedelic escapades.

“Yes, Mr. Spider-Man. In my own right, I suppose it is hardcore,” Alani retorts.

“I thought  Spider-Man climbed buildings. Don’t think he jumped out of them.”

“I’m sure he’s done his fair share of both.”

The two drive down the coast for a while without a word, Harry drumming against the steering wheel as the song dies out while Alani soaks in the view outside her window. Suddenly, she reaches over and taps him on the arm, drawing him out of his reverie. 

“Turn right up there!”

“Why?” Harry asks, already putting his blinker on. 

Alani doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Harry saw it just seconds after turning into the lookout and it left him breathless. The car comes to a stop and Alani wastes no time unbuckling her seatbelt and stepping into the humid air, Harry close behind. Before them, the biggest rainbow either of them had ever seen shimmers in the high afternoon sun like a wall of unbelievable vibrant hues. Harry had never seen one this close, he felt as though he could reach out and feel each color slip through his fingers. 

“Are you making a wish?” Alani asks reverently, as if raising her voice too loud will spook it away. 

“I thought that was for shooting stars,”

“We’re literally staring face to face with a rainbow and you’re gonna argue with me about the logistics of a wish?”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, grinning to himself as his eyes flutter close. 

Harry takes a deep breath and searches his brain for something, anything, but there is only one word pounding in his mind. He doesn’t know why it stood out to him when Alani first said it, but it struck a chord within him that hasn’t stopped reverberating, so it must mean something. Harry swallows the lump forming at the back of his throat and releases the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. When his eyes flutter open again, he steals a peek through the corner of his eye at the girl beside him and then fixes his gaze back on the rainbow. 

“S’quite big, innit?” He remarks, breaking the reverent silence. 

Alani snorts and shakes her head, turning on her heel back to the car. 

“You’re so eloquent. Can’t wait to hear what lyrical gems are hiding in your new album,”

“Heyyy,” Harry pouts, climbing behind the wheel. “Who said anything about an album?” 

As they peel away from the lookout, Harry can sense something has shifted in the atmosphere, though he can’t quite put his finger on it. He opts to ignore it and poses a lighthearted question instead. 

“What’d you wish for?”

Alani narrows her eyes playfully. “You’re not supposed to tell. It won’t come true.”

Harry hums, trying to imagine what she could possibly wish for that would require such secrecy, but his thoughts wander back to the singular word that has haunted his mind since it left her lips. 

Home.

Next Chapter

[whirlybirdwhat]

belong among the wild flowers

For kyo for the 2021 Sake Exchange!!!! I hope you enjoy <33333 READ ON AO3 - outsider pov, ‘you’ are the outsider pov, gen, straw hat focus

--

You’re a seller. A seller of flowers that is. Beautiful flowers from seeds grown all over the world, grown by you and your wife – and.

Well.

Grown by you now, but it’s all the same. 50 years and your flowers haven’t lost their vibrancy, only gained. 

This morning you smile, breathing in the cool air so soothing on your old lungs and head out into the fields of beautiful flowers, filled with oranges, blues, pinks, and –

Red.

There’s – 

There’s red in your fields, between the blues and the yellows. 

The reds are the complete opposite side of the farm, by your wife’s grave, because she loved the color so much.

What is red doing here?

“Shishishi!”

Ah.

The hackles in you calm. Its just a boy.

(Your wife had loved children.)

He’s small, thin, dressed in vibrant baggy blue shorts and a red tee, open to display scarring on his chest. His head is turned away from you, black hair flying in the wind to shield his face but –

There is gold upon his head. Golden straw.

Odd. 

(The last man who came here wearing golden straw had died, his death in the newspaper. Oddly, already, you hope this boy won’t be the same.) 

Its wrapped in a red ribbon, bright red. Red doesn’t belong. Red –

“Shishishi!” The boy laughs and turns to her again, smile wide, scar under his eye sloping and wave like, so much more faded than the angry red across his chest. “Ah! Old person! Do you know where these flowers came from?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Eyes darting to the watering can in your hand and to the dirty but lovingly patched overalls you’re wearing, then back up to him. “Come again?” Is all you can say, but he’s already off on a tangent. 

“Ooh! Pretty! Hey, old person, these are almost like the flowers from back home! And the ones on Robin’s flower beds, the ones from where she grew up – Shishishi, I’m gonna take a few, kay?”

And he reaches down, down down and –

“No!” You yell, sudden, grabbing his hand, and hitting him over the head with your watering can. “Don’t pluck those flowers young man!”

“Owwwwww-why do you have haki?” He rubs at his head, eyes wide, and huh. 

Who knew such a scrawny brat could know haki?

“It’s the New World, brat! All old people know haki!” You tell him, a faint whisper of laughter in your voice. “Stop stealing my flowers!” You snap again as his hands snakes out and snaps back with a rubbery twang. 

“But they aren’t your flowers!”

“Yes they are”

“No! They’re Robins!”

“NO!” You shout, forehead to forehead with this boy. “They’re MINE! I grew them! I loved them! They are mine to pluck!”

He stares at you, pulling back, head cocked to the side, before his eyes brighten. You look at him critically as you bend down, easing dirt back into place and burying a worm back into its home. 

“Ah!” The boy shouts, fist landing in his hand. “They’re your dream!”

Your dream…

You haven’t had yours in a long time. 

When you last did, it was with your wife by your side. 

You shake your head at the boy, irritation bleeding into melancholy. “No. These flowers aren’t my dream.” You ease a petal up, gently brushing off dirt and giving it a gentle kiss. Your wife had always laughed when you did that, right before she gave you a kiss as well. 

“What is?” The boy asks, bending down with you, sitting on his heels and now careful – so very careful – not to touch your flowers. 

“Mm?”

“What’s your dream?” His hand drifts to the same petal you are touching, and you look up, and oh – 

There’s earnesty in his eyes. Honesty. A raw kind of hope, a raw kind of belief. He’s open, and you can never understand him, never want to, never will be able to look deeper than that bone deep honesty but –

You know this boy is a pirate. Only pirates chase dreams as honest as this. Only pirates want dreams as honest as this. 

(How old is he? The last pirate you saw was an old man, and the closest to this boy’s age was still a cabin boy. You don’t think this boy is like that – he can’t be. He’s got too much in him for that.)

Your tongue speaks without your bidding, without your permission. 

“I used to have one. Don’t have it now.”

He gives you a look. And maybe – maybe his eyes catch on the lines on your face, the etches of sorrow, the pockmarks and signs of age and the places your wife kissed.  Maybe he knows that you’re a liar as much as this boy is not. 

“Then what do you want?”

Again – your mouth moves without you wanting it to. This boy has power, some strange presence, a compelling to him that you can’t seem to fight. 

“Well, the Duke’s head would be nice.”

The boy nods, standing up, casting a shadow on you as the sun rises behind him. “Alright! I’ll beat up the Duke for you, and then you’ll give me flowers!”

Wait what –

“Let’s go!” Unstoppable as a whirlwind, this boy grabs your hand and tugs you forward, and off you go,  running through the paths of the flowers and determination in his eyes. 

“BOY WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!” You scream, panicked, watering can left behind. 

“Shishishi!” Is all you get for an answer, a laughter like petal in the end and –

Well.

It’s been awhile since you went on an adventure like this.

-

The boy’s name is Luffy – Monkey D. Luffy.

(There hasn’t been a D. on this island since the last man with a straw hat.)

You learn this because a red-haired girl screams it when you crash into her, raging and furious, leaving Luffy with large bumps on his head. 

“MONKEY D. LUFFY!” She cries, fists raising down and bracelets and log pose catching in the light. “DON’T DO THAT!”

“Owwwww – Nami!” Luffy looks to her, giving her a long reminiscent of puppy dogs and pleading. 

Nami sighs, brushing off dirt from her orange overalls, and gives him her own look, something between terrible fondness and annoyance. “Don’t rocket!” She tells him, before tossing him a tangerine – one of your neighbors, by the looks of it. “Look!”

(You and your wife had walked through the groves when you were young and in puppy love. You had taken a flower and put it in her hair, just as your neighbors’ father had chased you out of the grove for theft. It had been fun.) 

Luffy catches the tangerine, looking it over, then up at Nami. 

“They’re just like Bell-mere’s!” Nami tells him, her eyes bright with something like nostalgia, so different from the rage only moments before. Her enthusiasm is earnest, just like this boy’s, and oh -  they must be crew. “I can’t believe Cocoyashi trees are all the way out here!”

The name catches your attention, with the disbelief, and you smile at her. “Our island, Flors, has plants from across the world – the rarest, prettiest, sturdiest you can think of. Are you from Cocoyashi? Must have been a long time since you saw trees like these.”

She gives you a glance, an assessing look, then tosses her head back and laughs. “No, I have my own trees back our ship. Ah – who are you?”

Trees on a ship? Tangerine trees? What- 

“NAMI!” Luffy interjects, before you can give your name, dancing on the tip of your tongue. “Which way is the Duke?” 

“The Duke?” Her attention switches from you to him in a moment. “There’s a Duke?” You don’t think it’s possible, but her eyes – they seem to turn into belli signs. “Where? Why do you want him? Is he rich?” She’s shaking Luffy now, and you can’t help but let out a laugh, same time as Luffy. 

“Shishishi! If I beat up the Duke, I can get flowers from the field for Robin!” He says, as if it makes perfect sense. It doesn’t. You aren’t sure where he got the idea that you would give him flowers, or that he’ll be able to beat up the Duke, but –

“Okay!” Nami says, brightly, soundly, understanding this wild boy. “I’ll find out where the gold is.”

Gold?

When had gold come into the equation?

“You go ahead – I’m sure if you run around enough someone’s going to come out and yell out you. Then I can have all the Duke’s gold!” In seconds, she’s pulling a staff from her waist, snapping it together and twisting, so that electricity crackles at the top. Her eyes alight, and there’s something dangerous about her. Something a bit deadly, a bit wanting, a bit fierce. “Be done soon Luffy! The log pose should settle by the end of the day, and I want to get out of here before the storm hits!”

Storm?

“Aye Nami!”

You remember deciding that this boy was a pirate, for how he talked about dreams.  You decide this girl must be a pirate, for how she’s unafraid of the storm, the wind, the weather. 

You stare at her, old limbs creaking, bewildered. She reminds you of your wife, when you had first met her, all wild hair and adventure. Something aches, quietly, inside your chest – but, strangely, this time, it isn’t a sad ache. 

Just a nostalgic one.

In  moments, Luffy arm is around yours, and he’s running, your feet off the ground and yourself carried in a side hold. 

“BRAT!” You say, elbowing him with Haki, but this time his own defense is up and you simply have to bear the running for now.

Seeing the island go by, faster than it ever has, you can’t seem to make yourself mad.

-

The next stop is apparently up in a tree, though why you can’t fathom. All you know is Luffy was running and running, and running despite your yells of terror again, and then he stopped, slamming you into his back. It had lasted all but a moment, before he was reaching a hand up and shouting that absolutely dreadful phrase –

“GUM GUM ROCKET!” 

-And dragging you high into the sky, crashing through branches, and into the waiting arms of a long-nosed man. 

He screams. 

You scream. 

He doesn’t drop you though, only settling you on the part of the branch closest to the trunk, and continues scream.

You stop, then start again, because there is a living plant wrapped around him, moving like a wolf, and a bug the size of your head fluttering next to his.  

You are a seller. A gardener. You deal with bugs. Just not the bugs this particular orchard has, because Old Man Johnson is terrifying and likes to collect bugs bigger and bigger than your face. 

Fuck, you think, looking down to the bottom of the forest floor but finding it far too high for your old, brittle legs, even with haki. 

Luffy has no such problem, falling off the branch only to bounce right back up, tumbling into the long-nosed man just as he had tumbled into Nami. “Usopp!” He cries, joy in his face and –

Usopp’s face, morphs from terror to joy and pride and happiness in an instant, his arms coming around to circle Luffy as if this wild boy had always belonged there. It’s sweet. It’s comforting. 

It’s rocking the sturdy branch you are sitting on, and you have no idea how Usopp is managing to keep his balance.

Then you notice the living plant pushing against Usopp’s back, the bug helping, and immediately understand how.

But not why.

Does this man have control over plants or something? A bug devil fruit? His crewmate, Luffy – for what else could Luffy be than his crewmate – has a devil fruit, you think, so it wouldn’t be so surprising.  It’s like magic the way the vines grows and growls, familiar to you in some distant way that you can’t quite name and – 

“Luffy!” Usopp cries, holding Luffy to his chest. “You’re here! When you shot off I tried to look for you, but had to fight a thousand giant flowers first! Each threatening to swallow me whole but I defeated them with my trusty slingshot!”

What? You start to think, something that you think is far too common with these people, before noticing the way Luffy’s face shutters at giant flowers and swallow whole. Odd, you think, odd, but you aren’t the only one to notice. Usopp’s face flicks over Luffy’s with careful affection, cautious notice, and then lunges into another tale. 

“It was after that I stumbled upon these! Look – Luffy they’re just like the island I trained on!” And Usopp shoves a bunch of seeds into Luffy’s face, seeds that split before your eyes and grow into beautiful figures and designs. 

Luffy’s eyes turn into stars as you watch. “OOOOO! From the mystery Island with the plants!”

“Ah Bowin Archipelago Luffy.”

“Bowie Archipelago!”

“Ah, close enough! Anyway – with these I can breed new types of Pop Greens! Like maybe a dragon!”

“A Yeti!”

“A giant tiger!”

“A giant!” They go on like that, trading amazing fantastical thing after amazing fantastical thing, each more incredible with the last, each with full surety that this thing could happen. It’s… its foolishness mixed with childish glee. 

(You remember looking after your neighbors’ children with your wife, watching as they laughed and laughed and laughed. They had the same tender joy that Usopp and Luffy have, though where the children were edgeless and free, Usopp and Luffy’s joy is tempered with age and hard muscle, truth of pirates beyond the fantastical wildness of dreams. Its joy brought into reality.

You wish your wife as here to see it.)

Usopp takes a pause from chattering with Luffy, and also a pause from making the branch bounce far to much for what you’re comfortable with. 

(Your wife had always teased you for your fear of tall, wavering places. It made you smile when you climbed crows nests for her.)

“I do wonder,” the long-nosed sniper ponders, “How these plants got all the way here. The Bowin Archipelago is in Paradise – nowhere near here.”

“Shishishi! Nami’s tangerines were here too!” Luffy tells him with glee. “And Robin’s flowers!”

“Really!? Amazing! Hey – who’s your friend? Do they know anything about this?” Usopp turns to you, gaze piercing like any sniper should.

You gulp.

Then register what he called you. 

“I’m not his-“

“They’re a mystery person!” Luffy cuts in. “I gotta beat up a Duke to get Robin’s flowers from them!”

You would face palm, but that would mean letting go of the trunk.

“A Duke!?” Usopp cries, a mix of fear and readiness. “Did you tell Nami? She’s going to want his money before you beat him up.”

The confidence these people have in this boy – you don’t get why. 

(Maybe you’re starting too. He’s pulled you away from your garden, hasn’t he?)

“Shishishi! Nami knows! She’s gonna get the gold while I beat him up!” 

“Do you even know where the Duke is? What if he’s strong? Terrifying? What if he has a thousand teeth and eyes and wants to eat me for picking his flowers – Luffy you gotta beat him up, you gotta!” Usopp chatters, wavering between fear and terror and sheer bravery. An odd one, this boy is. You like him though. 

“Shishishi! I will!” Luffy promises him, grin stretching wide on his face and promise ready on his tongue, not a doubt in his mind. “Just watch me!”

Usopp melts, just a little. Ease ripples through him, and he lets out a quiet, proud “I know.” Then – he turns to you. “Uh, would you like a ride down?”

Yes. Yes you would. You nod, before Luffy stretches out his hand and oh god not again, your joints are not good for this adventure –

“OI! SHIT HEADS!”

Luffy’s arm stretches back, a laughing tumbling out of his mouth and you turn to your savior.

It’s a man, in the most god-awful shirt you have ever seen, with boat shoes and horrible matching shorts. 

It’s a man, with blonde hair and cigarette and swirly eyebrows shadowing a glare on his face as he holds giant fruits from the seeds of the giant land of Elbalph inn either hand with ease.

It’s a man, who is floating in the air. 

You let out a large squeak but no one seems to notice. 

“SANJI!” Luffy cries, and this must be another one of his man crewmates, and just how many of them are on this island, exploring and racking up havoc. 

You spare a moment to consider how Sanji got over the giant fences Farmer Green had set up. Then you remember, right, he’s flying, and wonder how that’s happening.

Sanji gives a kick, and dodge Luffy’s lunge, letting him fall to the forest floor and bounce back up. “Hey Captain. You guys know where Nami-swan or Robin-chwan are? I found some rare fruits that I can use, and I want to give it a try.”

“Sanji! Meat!” Luffy cries, practically salivating. 

Sanji gives a shrug. “No meat, Captain. Haven’t found anything like that on this island – just plants, plants, and more plants.” Luffy sags where he stands, in a pout so childish, and Sanji’s next words come out in a rush that he tries to play off as nonchalant. “Me and the shit-swordsman can go and cut up a sea king. I think I saw some off the coast.” Here, his tone turns ponderous. “I could make a Sea King platter with this dressing – and palate that with a fruit salad or start shish-kabobbing if we are more pressed for time…”

“And dessert!” A voice pops up, tiny and squeaky, and a racoon dog in a hat pops up from behind Sanji’s shoulder. “You promised me desert!”

“CHOPPER!” Luffy and Usopp cries, and in an instant, the animal is  jumping from where it was clinging to Sanji’s back and into his apparent crew-mates arms. 

“Usopp! Luffy!” The animal cries, holding up his bag. “I was able to restock EVERYTHING I had from the Birdie Kingdom! Even the rare ones that only grew there! I even found the herbs that can help with heart stuff that everyone thought went extinct! This place is AMAZING!” There’s sheer glee in the animal’s – Chopper’s?- gaze and-

Oh dear sweet mother of oceans. The animal speaks. The animal has a name, speaks, and knows medicinal plants.

You want to faint. You want to go back to our flowers. You – you –

Chopper is right next you, holding a vial of spicy something underneath your nose, rescuing you from your faint.

You somewhat wishes he didn’t. You are old and quite done with this, you think. Are any of these folk even paying for what they are grabbing?

“Ah! You’re awake! Make sure to drink more water okay?” Chopper tells you, looking so concerned, and oh, he’s adorable. 

You nod, belatedly, then tune back into the conversation.

“…beat up the Duke for Robin’s flowers!” Luffy is telling Sanji determinedly. 

“Ah! Anything for Robin-chwan!!” Sanji twirls in the air, eyes like hearts. “I’ll help – ah, Never mind. I need to get these to the ship – this kind of fruit supposedly decays within five hours of being cut from the branch, which is why they’re so rare. I think the Duke’s mansion is that way though.” Sanji tilts his head, blonde hair shifting, and gestures to the distance. Luffy follows his line of sight like a dog after a ball. 

“Shishishi! Thank Sanji! Make a biiiiig feast for when we’re done! A party!”

“Alright captain. Chopper!” And Sanji turns to you and the tiny – doctor? Is he a doctor? – and calls over. “You coming with me or do you want to help Luffy beat up a Duke?”

Chopper perks up and turns from you, leaving Sanji to glance over you, mostly hidden behind the very fluffy reindeer. “With you! I want to make these medicines soon as possible so I can get more if needed.” 

Sanji nods, and gives another kick with his legs, keeping him in the air somehow – even with Haki, you have never seen this – and turns to Usopp. “Usopp?”

“Ahhh I would only overshadow Luffy if I went! Too little a job for me!” Usopp crows, hands on his hips, grin on his face. 

“Coward.” Sanji tells him, deadpan clear. You remember the tale this man told at the beginning and wonder what his role on this crew is. 

Usopp squawks but doesn’t deny it to both Chopper and Luffy’s uproarious laughter.  Sanji gives a sly grin, and in seconds, faster than you can tell, Chopper is back on his back and Usopp beside him on the branch. He nods to Luffy, and with a brief “See you, Luffy!” he’s off, kicking his way through the sky.

Usopp stares for a moment then starts yelling again, leaping fearlessly from branch to branch, and you realize, with sudden clarity, that it was not the bravery that was the façade, but the cowardice.  

Luffy’s crew is odd. You just want to wonder how he fits into it all.

-

Luffy takes you on his back this time, scratchy straw placed carefully on his head instead of crushed against your cheek. 

It’s running, so much running, and stretching and stretching.

You have time to think. To wonder. To question.

It builds in you, tumultuous and roiling. This boy – he’s running across the entire island, all for a chance for some flowers. He wants to face the Duke, the Duke who is so terrible, so terribly horrible, just for some flowers. For some Robin.

It’s clear he could so easily take them anyway – you may have haki, but you are no match for the muscles rippling under this boy’s back – but he doesn’t.

You’re dream,  he had said, and it marks him as a Pirate but it just makes you question – 

What’s his dream? Who’s Robin? Why is this straw hat so familiar? Who is he? Cabin boy or crewmate or something more?

You start with the simplest.

“Brat. Who’s Robin?” You ask him as he pauses upon the top of one of Flors’ giant mushrooms. He pauses for only a moment, before turning to you with the most blinding grin. 

“She’s Robin! My archeologist!” My, he says, like she’s his. My, he says, like he’s in charge.

My, he says, like he’s the captain, and suddenly, you realize that’s because he is. 

This boy, smaller than you were when age didn’t bend your back like a willow, with sloping and burning scars, and a smile like the sun – is a captain, the captain of Robin and Nami and Usopp and Sanji and Chopper, and more you haven’t met. A pirate crew in the New World. 

It humbles you, in a way you didn’t expect. 

“She likes flowers?” You ask, instead of voicing why, why does a pirate crew need an archeologist, why do they follow him, who are you straw-hatted boy?

“Yeah! She has a whole garden on the Sunny! And the flowers in your garden are from her home! She showed me a book of them once.” Every word is said with pride, and you wonder how you missed it all before, the way he cried Usopp and Nami and Chopper and Sanji with mine, and love, and protection all those times before. This boy is a Captain.

Then, his words strike you.

Home island.

Those flowers in your garden were from Ohara, given to you by a woman so long ago, a gift from her home island in turn for a glimpse of the stone at the center of Flors. Your wife had loved those flowers.

Ohara is gone now.

These flowers are all that’s left.

These flowers, and Nico Robin.

Oh, you think, oh. 

Straw Hat Luffy, 1.5 billion berry wanted man, laughs from where he carries you, dashing from mushroom to mushroom.

He’s so young, and yet, not really. He’s 19, or so the papers say, and he’s taken on all three of the government strongholds and come out almost on top each time, has fought emperors and warlords, saved kingdoms and islands. He’s young, but not in the naïve way, the childish way. Only the youthful way, in that his face still has baby fat and his smile has crinkles from laughter not rage.

(No one who holds a loved one in their arms like that is young. You speak from experience.

Your wife had been soft and bloodstained when she brush the hair from your face.)

He’s…

This boy – this man…

You have run out of words to describe him.

Suddenly, like before, like in your field of flowers, the words spill from your lips unbidden. This boy has revealed so much by only praising his navigator. You could so easily turn him in. Yet –

“The Duke is a cruel man,” You begin, not really sure if Luffy is listening, not really caring in the end. “He came here ten years ago, drawn by our beautiful, beautiful flowers and plants. He thought he could make a profit, thought he could earn billions from this place and – he – “

Luffy stops moving. 

He doesn’t interrupt. But –

There’s not a lack of care in him. In his eyes as he turns to look at you. It’s a lack of need. 

“I don’t need you to tell me this. The Duke hurt your dream, right?”

You nod, small, quiet. 

“Then I’m going to beat him.”

Simple as that, he smiles at you, not brilliant, not vibrant, but safe. Sure.

(I’m going to turn the world upside down! The last wearer of this hat had cried, so sure, so confidant.

The echo of that – louder and changed and triumphant – is here.)

Luffy moves again, and you don’t speak. You don’t think you possibly could.

-

(Here’s a story, that the future King of the Pirates will never know, but one that draws close to your chest.

You were born and raised on this island, collecting sea grass by the sea, when your wife had washed up on the shore, wild haired and half drowned. You had rescued her, your strange, sea-faring wife, and learned of her travels, her tales, her losses at sea. It’s a miracle she made it to shore.

It’s a miracle she wakes up in your arms, and offers you a kiss. 

You loved her then, and you will love her for the next infinity. She tended the gardens with you, loving the colors and the reds that you had saved her in. She loved and lived and so did you.

Then the Duke, cruel faced and greedy, had shown up, making each of you sell your wares in stead of trade, bringing in outside sales, and taken all of the profit for himself.  

Then the Duke, cruel faced and greedy, had fought your wife who was bold and terrifying and a pirate with her sword still strapped to her waist, even at 30, 40, 50 – 

And struck her down. 

That’s the end of the story, for you are just a gardener, a seller of flowers, with old bones and the haki your wife taught you, who once saw the Pirate King and the archeologist of Ohara, collected seeds from a thousand islands and planted them with care, who had a dream, once, shared with your wife but –

Your wife is dead, and so the story ends here.)

(A boy in straw is here, and so your story blooms.)

-

A voice sings out from the flowers, and it’s with joy that Luffy jumps down, rubber easing the impact that shocks up your back, to sing with a skeleton.

A skeleton, who has an afro and a guitar and who can sing.  

“Yohohohoho!” The skeleton laughs, melodious even without vocal chords. “Hello Luffy!”

“Brook!” Luffy smiles, “Franky!”

Who –

“YEOW LITTLE BRO! Isn’t this island SUPER!?”

A singing skeleton, and a cyborg, with a hair shaped into sunflowers. Sunflowers.

If it weren’t for the sting of the vial still sniffling in your nose, you think you would pass out again. The New World is weird – but not this weird.

Dear mother sea almighty – these two tower, yet are dressed in sparkling floral patterns and shirts. 

Luffy jumps into their arms without hesitation, setting you down just before he does in the first time since the tree and the other members of his crew. The cyborg – Franky, you think, by Luffy’s laughter – catches him easily, swinging him about and finally settling him on his shoulder, where the skeleton, Brook, places a crown of flowers around his hat.

It’s sweet, with love and adoration in every motion. This whole crew is like that, and it hurts you, emboldens you, does to you a thousand things to see them be like that. Loving, without restraints, without fear, whole and happy. It is incredible that this boy, only a teen, this man has been able to gather to him such authority, such power, such loyalty.

It warms you, you think. 

(It strikes a chord in you, you think, of something like jealous but not all at once. You want this, but you will never be a part of this crew, and you never wanted to have this, never knew it was missing before this but – here it is. 

Without you.

You miss your wife.) 

“Who’s this, Luffy?” Franky asks, gesturing to you with a large red hand. Flowers are painted over it, in the colors that the children use to paint the fences. Little handprints scatter about, and its obvious that these two had had a run in with the children of the island, and cared for them, gentle and loving. 

“Shishishi! They have the flowers Robin likes! From her island! I’m gonna beat up the Duke for them so I can get the flowers!”

It’s an old routine by now. You still don’t quite believe he can do it, no matter that you know he has beaten billion belli pirates and warlords and emperors. He’s just – The Duke is –

“Sounds perfect, Luffy! We beat a few of the Duke’s ah, lovely gentlemen there.” And the skeleton waves his hand to the path behind him, sweeped beneath giant flowers, to where bodies lay in the ground, bloody, barely breathing, and decidedly unconscious. 

All covered in the white uniform of the Duke’s men.

Oh, you think, feeling familiar rage bubble up at the sight of them. Oh. 

“They were picking on some SUPER kids! Had to put a stop to it, knew you wouldn’t mind.” Franky enunciates, striking a pose. “Zoro helped out, but we lost him when we turned away for a second.”

“He really blends in with all this green, Yohohohoho!” Brook snickers, and you remember bounty posters with a piercing glare and green hair and none too little blood, and wonder how you lose an entire ex-bounty hunter turned pirate.

You don’t think you will ever know what these people are. Ever. 

“Shishishi! We’ll find him!” Luffy reassures, already grabbing onto you again. 

“Bro, you’re just as bad!” Franky tells him, and you wonder with what? Before Luffy has hauled you onto your back.

(Maybe you should invest in hiring someone to do this. You haven’t been off your feet so much in YEARS.) 

“Shishishi! Bye Franky! Bye Brook!” Luffy shouts, ignoring his crew and dashing off into the woods yet again. “Sanji’s throwing a feast after I beat the Duke!” 

You leave the clearing, bouncing through sunflowers, to the sounds of cheers of “Knock ‘em dead Luffy!” and “A party! How delightful!”

-

Running, and running, and running. Always more running. Are these pirates always like this – running from location to location, dashing and jumping, never settling more than a moment?

“Shishishi! Yeah! What’s the fun in staying still?”

Oh, you said that aloud, didn’t you?

“You’re funny old person!”

“Oh, shove off you brat. What happens when you can’t beat the Duke?”

When, you say, purposeful, deliberate, smothering the hope in your chest. When. 

“I will.” Comes Luffy’s response, and you should have expected that, you should have but – 

“But-”

“I Will.” Comes Luffy’s grin, and – 

“Why?”

It comes out of your throat strangled, half dead because you don’t get him, you don’t, you don’t, an you don’t know why because this boy is just like your love and your wife, adventurous and outgoing. 

“Remember?” He looks at you, never moving, and oh,  you do. “The Duke hurt your dream! He can’t do that!” And he won’t, goes the unspoken promise. 

“Oh,” You say, like you said before, trying to commit that truth to heart. Oh.

-

It’s mid-afternoon by the time you arrive at the Duke’s mansion.  It’s gleaming white, made off the backs of the poor farmers of this station, who only wanted to grow plants and share seeds in peace. It fills you with rage. Horrible, horrible rage that consumes your very soul and makes your bones ache. 

The place where your wife last caressed your face burns. 

“This it?” Luffy asks you, and you give a nod. He slides you off his back, offering a steady arm for your to grab onto, and you both stare at the mansion. You have dreamed of setting this place on fire. Dreamed of it. 

Here, Luffy is ready to make it a reality. 

“Now – where’s the Duke?” Luffy tilts his head to the side, peering at the building. You peer with him, trying to remember where the Duke liked to make his nest when – 

“You! Peasant! Off my lawn!” Comes a voice, a voice that fills you with rage, from the Duke’s own personal garden. 

“Oi – what’re you doing old man? I’m trying to sleep here,” Comes another voice, younger with a deep timber and ooh–

Luffy’s tugged you by the wrist and you go over the hedge, landing squarely in front of – 

“Zoro!” Luffy cries, and tackles the man with three swords, lying on the ground.

Ah.

That’s why Franky and Brook thought this man would blend in. He’s so green. Like a little moss ball. A marimo! 

Adorable. 

Zoro caves easily to Luffy’s demands, catching him and moving aside so Luffy can find his own place wrapped around him, ease in every motion. Comfortability in every act. 

“Hey, Luffy – you know where everyone else is? I was beating up some of the weird guards around this place and wound up here.” Zoro asks, seemingly entirely genuine.

Luffy only throws his head back and cackles. “You got lost!” 

“No, I didn’t! This place moves that’s all! Like Usopp’s plants!”

“No, you’re just stupid Zoro.”

“I am not!”

“Are too!”

“A-HEM!” The Duke calls, interrupting, and to his credit doesn’t even flinch when the unimpressed glares of Zoro and Luffy land on him.

The Duke is – he’s towering. Eleven feet tall with muscles toned and strong, haki perpetually on his fists and a war hammer on his back. He wears pristine white suits, a flower in the lapel, red and plucked from your own garden, and his servants lay out a carpet before him, so he doesn’t have to deign to step in the mud in on an island of farmers and gardeners.

You hate him. You hate him. 

Something flies in the air, landing perfectly on the Duke’s white clothes.

A – a booger?

You look to your right, and there is Luffy, picking his nose and looking entirely unimpressed. “Heh – Who are you?” He asks.

The Duke, pale skinned and furious, goes red.  “I,” He declares, pompous, his servants cowering in the background, “Am The Duke of Flors, Lord” –“

“Ooooh, you’re the Duke! Zoro doesn’t he look like the axe-dude?” Luffy cuts the Duke off before turning entirely to Zoro. Zoro, for his part, cocks his head to the side.

“You know, if I cut off his arm, he really does.”

You stare.

The Duke stares.

Luffy wheels back his hand and smashes his fist into the Duke’s face, coated in haki and a direct hit to the man’s face.

There’s a cracking noise and a scream as the Duke goes flying. 

You stare.

The Duke is too far to see.

Zoro snorts. “What he do?” He asks. Luffy cocks his head toward you and Zoro gives a hum before settling back down into the ground. “Wake me up when you’re done. The bastard interrupted my nap.”

You stare.

Zoro snores.

The Duke comes crashing down from the sky with furious screaming, fist cocked back, only to be met with Luffy bouncing him off and back – blowing himself up like a balloon.

You stare.

The Duke screams.

Luffy laughs, and jumps into the fray, easily knocking back the guards that attack him, and Zoro defending himself easily with one sword as he lies down.

(He has three swords though. Why? Why do you need three swords? You are so confused.)

You stare, surrounded by  guards attacking you as this invincible fortress, surrounded by walls of white and a legacy of blood, begins to be torn down. The Duke comes back, white clothes ruined, trading blows with Luffy who almost looks as if he’s toying with him. In the midst, a skeleton and a cyborg appear, riding atop a motorcycle of all things, knocking down entire walls of this palace that should have never been. 

Usopp appears, the same time as the aerial squadron of the Duke’s arrives, and giving you a small nod head into the battle without a second of fear. He’s – he’s no act of bravery, and now, yyou think you could believe in every one of his tales, as you watch plants bloom to life to become dragons and snakes and forces of nature hundreds of feet tall. Chopper, the small raccoon dog – he’s different now, charging and shifting forms in an instant, and he’s a zoan, but you thought zoans had three forms. 

Not seven.

Not – Chopper crunches something and grows and roars – not eight. 

You are frozen, held in place, even as Sanji comes to drape a jacket over you before heading off, by this crew.

The Straw Hat Pirates, they are called. Dangerous they are called.

And they are.

But you can’t help but feel anything but awe as you stare at them, magnificent and beautiful and deadly, wielding nature and bending it to their very whim. They know they can win – and they know that this is nothing. 

They’re having fun while they do this, with amazing feats and sights that you – even living in the Grand Line, the New World, thought you would never see. The last straw hatted man who came through here, walked these fields and touched these flowers – he had nothing on this. 

“Ah!” A voice next to you says, loud enough amidst the explosions of laughter and fear, familiar and sweet. “Should have known this was where Luffy got up to!” It’s Nami, with a large bag on her back. 

You give her a look, then look at Luffy – now fighting the Duke in the sky, with a giant fist, covered in haki and fire.

This boy – 

“Amazing, isn’t he?” Nami asks you, settling down and adjusting the solid gold crown on her head. “He saved all of us – saved entire kingdoms. Just because we were his friend.”

Really!? Amazing! Hey – who’s your friend? Do they know anything about this? Usopp had said, and Luffy hadn’t protested.

Friend.

The Duke had hurt your dream, and here Luffy is, destroying an entire kingdom for you and your dream. 

It’s – it’s incredible. This boy, he – 

“He’s the man who will be King of the Pirates,” Nami tells you, nothing but truth ringing loud and free in her voice. “And we’re going to follow him, and chase our own dreams.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you watch the Duke fall from the sky, chased by a man made of rubber, chased by a king in a straw hat, chased and chased and chased and –

“So,” Nami smiles to your side, looking into your face. “Are you ready to chase yours again?”

The Duke slams down into the ground in a flurry of petals and red, and oh – 

It’s red. Red your wife’s favorite color, wife the color of your favorite colors, red the color of the horizon and everything god, red, red, red –

Red, the color of the ribbon around a straw hat, and red, the color of the vest of a king. 

It’s beautiful. 

“Yes.” You say, trembling as the Duke fails. “Yes – I’m. I’m ready. My dream – my dream –“

Luffy raises a fist, and delivers a single punch that frees your entire island, avenges your wife, saves you. 

He smiles as he does it, a grin on his lips and a shout to the sky – “I’M THE MAN WHO WILL BE KING OF THE PIRATES!”

It’s red.

“My dream is to collect all the flowers in the world! To shelter them! Even the flowers at Raftel!” It’s like an oath, spilling from your lips, last said hand in hand with your wife but now – now alone, but not, because your wife may be gone but she’s still here – never forgotten, always loved, and alive in your shared dreams.

Nami smiles, Luffy laughs, and you think red looks beautiful in your garden.

-

There’s a party on the shore, next to a ship with a sunflower head, decorated in flowers and the fruits of the island. The Straw Hats celebrate, as well as with the other residents of the island, who praise them and thank them and welcome them, lading their arms with all sorts of delicacies.

You aren’t there. Neither is Luffy.

Instead, the two of you head back to your farm. This time your back is straight and there’s a smile on your face. You stand tall and on your own but not alone and – 

It’s good.

It’s good.

Luffy smiles at you, gentle and brilliant, and you look to the fields where the flowers he wants are – 

Being tended to, by a woman with long black hair and a tender smile. A fishman is next to her, blue and tall, seemingly awkward amidst the yellows and blues and delicate petals, but just as willing to stand with who you can only assume is Robin. 

“Luffy!” She cries first, so happily, showing the petals to Luffy. He jumps into her arms, swinging her arounds, and in quick motions you carefully take the plants from the earth to wrap into a boquet, roots attached to be easily replanted, and had it it Luffy. By the time he sets Robin down, he’s pressing the flowers into her hands.

“For you!” He says, bright, and you know he gave you a dream back  but –

You know, in truth, he really defeated the Duke for his crew. For his family, his nakama. For Robin, to see this bone-deep happiness on her face. 

She smiles, and later you will hear tales from the guards of the stone, who speak of a women who could read the ancient script inscribed upon It while having a thousand arms but – 

For now, you see a woman gifted the world, and know joy. 

The fishman beside her – Jimbe your recognize, first son of the sea – gives a laugh and oh, is there red here, is there love here.

This boy, this king to be, Luffy, he came in and swept you all like wildflowers in the wind, simply to make one person happy.

Amazing, you think, looking around your island that’s unchained and your dream restored and your fields filled with red, how one man’s selfishness, leads to an island’s freedom. 

-

You wave goodbye from the cliffside, your wife’s grave beside you. Upon the ship of a king is a bag, to be filled with the flowers of the island at the end of the sea and returned to you after that.  You had been given a hug before you left, one made of rubber limbs and crushing weight, and watched as he rejoined his crew and celebrated another adventure. 

You had watched the party they had upon the shore, so wondrous, so amazing, and had watched them sing out victory over the crowds, with chopsticks up their noses and a rock star as their backdrop.

The Straw Hat pirates – their names dance on your tongue.

How amazing, how wonderful, how world-shaking to know them, even for just a moment. 

You have met straw hat wearers and archeologists and kings but never – never have you met anyone, just like them.

So you wave from the shore, your wife with you, and belatedly, tragically realize that you gave them your dream, but never your name.

Damnit!

[stusbunker]

AGA: Word to the Wise

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Denny AU Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte, past Dean/Jo

Other characters: Sam, Bobby, Cas, Mick, Ash, Jo

Word Count: 3000 (whoa)

A/N: Sam gets on Dean’s nerves and Dean ends up taking a late night detour. Big talks ahead.

Special thanks to my beta @cracksinthewalls​ who puts up with my whiny ass. Also grateful for @there-must-be-a-lock​‘s insight.

The bowling league was in lean attendance due to a surprise snowstorm, but that didn’t keep Singers’ Slingers from mopping the floor with their competition. Dean ended on a spare in the last game, putting him just over his average for the night. State bowling wasn’t until spring, but if they kept up their momentum Dean was sure they could place well. And a weekend away would be a welcome break from his usual exhaustion. 

Dean still owed Mick a rematch from last year’s trip. Mick drank him under the table and Dean didn’t want to lose two years running, he had a reputation to uphold afterall. Bartending had cut into his training time, among other things.

Ash was the first one to bow out for the night, knowing his side towing business would be busy with vehicles in ditches for however long the storm lasted. Cas bummed a ride with Mick, since his car had never done well in this weather and he was still dragging his feet on upgrading. Dean knew he had been hinting at shopping around, but Dean wasn’t going to push the topic and get dragged into helping or finagling with the salesman for the guy. Cas could figure it out on his own, and Dean was finally in a place where he felt comfortable letting him. Huh.

Sam had been quiet all night, but Dean hadn’t mentioned it, attributing the sour mood to post-break up blues. They bought Bobby his weekly drink, “team dues” as he called it and settled in along the bar. 

Dean kept the conversation going, trying to keep the mood light, but Bobby was too tired to ham it up and Sam was not amused by his brother’s antics. Once Bobby polished off his last beer and headed home to Ellen, Dean was rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Fine, you know what, I’ll reel it in, don’t want to interrupt your sulking,” Dean muttered after another joke fell flat. Sam winced at Dean’s jab, which Dean instantly regretted. Though it did seem to shake Sam out of his funk, if minutely.

“So, tell me about Benny,” Sam brought up with elephantine grace.

Dean stared at Sam like he proclaimed he was quitting the law firm and joining the circus, coulrophobia and all. 

Sam huffed. “What?”

“Nice segue there, counselor,” Dean grumbled. “What about him? Hmm, you want a new bowling bag? Because that was already on my list for you for Christmas.”

“Dude, you don’t have to do that. I mean, that’d be great, but no, I was kind of wondering what your deal was? Like do you hang out a lot?” Sam started fishing.

“Yeah, totally, everynight,” Dean deadpanned. “I mean I only work two jobs when I’m not moving your sorry ass back into Mom and Dad’s.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said, waiting to figure out where he was going with this line of questioning and just shot in the dark. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is this, like, a Cas thing?” Sam choked out, unable to put it any more delicately. 

Dean burned with shame as his hackles raised in defensiveness. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam cocked his head and pursed his lips, unamused and unimpressed. “You know what I mean, man. Don’t make me spell it out.”

Dean wouldn’t budge, he dropped his beer with a thud. “Well, you’re gonna have to, because I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dude!” Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“The fuck is your problem? You got something to say, just say it, Sam.” Dean fumed, daring him with a murderous glare. Sam inhaled pregnantly, face still inching towards bitch mode. Sam eyed the bartender who was trying not to listen and the late game bowlers who suddenly decided they could catch up lane side instead.

What Dean didn’t realize was that he needed Sam to say it. He yearned for it, for his truth to be spoken, and known without him having to say it himself.

“Look, I know this isn’t something we talk about. But, I just want to make sure you’re okay. Alright? In the beginning with Cas, it was like you were obsessed, man. And since he just always seemed to need something from you. I just want to make sure you’re not getting used, I guess,” Sam unraveled the heart of his concern without saying too much, which Dean was not expecting, at all.

Dumbfounded, Dean retreated, annoyance trumping any chance at relief. 

“I think I can handle myself, thanks,” Dean spat. Petulantly, he took a sip from his beer, the cold glass solid in his hand, giving him something to clutch or even throw, if it came down to it.

“I didn’t say---,” Sam broke off. “Fine! You know what? You’re on your own. Just remember that I should have listened to you about Ruby and now I’m paying the price for my own stubbornness.”

Sam stood and reached for his money clip, tossing an extra five on the bar for the dramatics. He gave Dean one last chance to come clean, to own up to what they weren’t saying. Dean stared straight ahead, eyes unfocusing on the liquor labels behind the bar as if Sam had already left. So he did, just as he came: pissed and questioning his brother’s motives.

    Dean didn’t go home after that. Instead he absently followed a plow down the main road until he happened upon a familiar turn off. Which he took slow and steady until it ended in a T. The little brick ranch at the end of the lane held a lot of memories. And it was more inviting than ever with its Christmas card perfection in the falling snow. Dean put the Impala in park and let the radio play, wishing he had a joint just for the sake of something to do. 

He wasn’t there ten minutes before his phone rang, which he answered without processing the caller ID.

“You gonna come in or you just gonna sit out there feeling sorry for yourself?” Jo’s voice sliced across the line.

“Didn’t know if you were still up,” Dean bullshitted.

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Backdoor’s open,” her unimpressed reply. She hung up before Dean could make up an excuse to leave. He slouched out of the car and trudged down the long country driveway. As soon as he had stomped the snow off his boots, Jo welcomed him in with a firm hug and an appraising glint in her eye.

“Thanks, it’s a real mess out there,” Dean explained.

Jo just shook her head at him. “How’d ya bowl?”

“619 series, finished strong in the last few frames,” Dean answered. “Were you at your folks?”

“Nah, just know it’s Wednesday night, which means the boys were at the alley,” Jo smirked as she reached atop her fridge for the good stuff. 

She held up the whiskey in offering and Dean nodded, bending out of his coat. He slipped it over the back of a chair and settled in at the vintage kitchen table. She poured him a glass and watched as he inhaled the first round like he had been outside for hours and needed to fight off a much deeper chill.

“Well alright,” Jo resigned herself to playing shrink and poured Dean another drink. “So, what’s got you stuck in your head, hm?”

Dean weighed his head from side to side as he let the whiskey roll over his tongue. He never got far into a pouting session when Jo was around, but he also didn’t know which chamber of his heart he could stand to prop open for her inspection tonight.

“How’ve you been, Jo? You still schooling those truckers on taking care of their own rigs?” Dean sidestepped with ease.

“You know it,” Jo confirmed. “Not a day goes by that I don’t have to put another asshole in his place. Pays good, though.”

Jo had followed in Bobby’s footsteps and became a mechanic, but two Singers were already one too many for the shop and salvage yard. So she took her skills out to the interstate and made a name for herself as the only female diesel technician in four counties. Dean used to hate it when she would fix something faster than him, but it had been more than a decade since her skills had made him feel inferior. Dean knew Jo’d be his boss someday, but he wasn’t too worried about those far off futures; Bobby wouldn’t retire unless Ellen made him or killed him first.

“How’s Rufus holding up?” Jo teased, knowing her dad’s old friend was getting worse for the wear, much like John had.

“Stubborn, and as glib as ever. Good thing your dad rehired him, because he’s a bit too mouthy for most customers,” Dean admitted.

    Jo hummed with nostalgia. “I gotta swing by and bug you guys sometime, but it just keeps getting busier.”

    Dean sighed. “I hear that. What’s it been? Labor day? No. I haven’t even seen you since the Fourth. Christ!”

“Yeah, well, you’ll see me next week for Thanksgiving, don’t get too sentimental about it now,” Jo quipped. She took a short sip off the bottle as Dean swirled the last of his second helping.

“I’m seeing someone,” Dean staggered the words, like he wasn’t sure if their meanings and sounds fit together.

Jo sighed dramatically, “Finally, the truth is revealed! What’s up? She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“No.” Dean had to bite back his guffaw. “Definitely not.”

“Okay, then why the sad face? Not pulling a Ruby on ya, I hope?” Jo tested the waters.

“No, it’s--uh--- it’s been good. Really good. I just, kind of need to make up my mind if I’m in it for the long haul. Ya know?” Dean clarified, relaxing with each little confession. 

“Uh-oh it’s getting serious,” Jo mock whispered.

Dean rolled his shoulders. “No, well, it could be. I don’t know.”

Jo giggled. “I can’t believe you! You’re fucking twitterpated, aren’t you?!”

“Jo, if you start making Thumper jokes, I’m shutting up right now,” Dean warned with a pointed finger. “Care to top me off while you’re at it?”

“Okay, okay, gosh.” Jo rolled her eyes dramatically as she poured him another drink before pointedly putting it back on the fridge. “But you’re in deep. You’re all blushy about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ready to go big. It just means they’re willing to put up with me until I say the word,” Dean tried to downplay his feelings and Benny’s confession.

“So do it! Bust out the grand gestures already,” Jo encouraged.

Dean scoffed, “I’m not built for commitment, you know that!”

“Except you kinda are! You’ve changed, Dean,” Jo insisted, head hung to pour her honesty from her eyes. “I don’t know when it happened, but you’re not that reckless boy that I knew. You’ve always been a good guy, but now?---- Maybe it’s been since Sam came home, I don’t know. But somewhere along the way you grew up.---- It’s okay to let yourself want something more, you know.”

Dean grumbled and rolled his neck, breaking the eye contact. She always could do this to him, just like her mother, see straight through his every defense. “I always thought it’d be you, you know?”

Jo smiled without teeth. “Firsts can do that to people. But, we’re not those kids anymore, Dean. So, if you’re asking for my permission or seeking my approval---?”

Dean dropped his head to his hands, thick fingers poorly hiding him from Jo. “It’s a guy, Jo. I’m--- I don’t know--- Bi? I guess?”

“Dean?” Jo waited until he stopped being sheepish and looked at her, even if it was only out of the corner of one eye. “You’ve been head over heels for Cas for years. If you dare tell me this is about him, so help me, I will throw you out right now.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh ruefully at that and toss back what was left of his whiskey. “You saw that, huh?”

She didn’t answer, waiting for him to work through it on his own.

“It’s not Cas.” Dean smacked his lips and held up his glass for a refill. Jo stood and brought the bottle back to the table. Dean poured himself three fingers worth and pondered the sloshing liquid before he continued. “Your mom know?”

Jo licked her lips, cocked her head, and sighed.

Dean closed his eyes and asked, “Bobby? Fuck!--- my mom?!”

“No one has ever said it out loud, Dean. I don’t know who knows, honestly. But we’re family, that doesn’t change.” Jo grasped his wrist firmly, he held her hand to his and then she slapped her other one on top. Time stopped long enough for Dean to accept that his secret was finally out, but also that it was safe.

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you, of all people.” Dean thumbed her knuckles, staring into eyes he knew as well as his own.

“Really? Who else would you be talking to about it? Sam? Ash, maybe?” Jo giggled. “I’m honored, actually. It means you stopped hating me.”

Dean pulled his hands away and took another drink. “I never hated you.” 

“Okay, well, maybe it means you stopped hating yourself,” Jo corrected.

Dean’s brows crooked incredulously.

“Too much?” Jo asked apologetically.

Dean shook his head and sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

“Now you’re the one being rude,” Jo muttered before taking a solid drink off the bottle this time.

Dean let himself relax, let the whiskey and conversation work into his muscles and set his worries aside. They talked like the old days and about the old days. Those in between years after high school and before anyone was ready to face responsibility. When half their friends went to college, they had just kept on working. After another hour, Jo leaned back in her chair and started scrutinizing him once again.

“You know how I know you’re happy with what’s his name?” Jo teased.

“Beh--- I didn’t tell you, fuck! Benny, his name is Benny. Goddamnit Joanna Beth,” Dean cursed through a chuckle; more details dragged out of him than he had planned on.

Jo cocked her head and considered the name.“Benny, right. You wanna know how I know?” Jo pushed.

“Fine, how?” Dean held up his hand, beckoning for her to hit him with her response.

“Because this is about the time of night you start giving me the lazy once over. But not tonight,” Jo proclaimed, chin out condescendingly. She had him, every few years they’d find themselves back in each other’s beds, for a night or a weekend and then they’d move on. He always thought of her as his home, his starting point. But maybe they weren’t the same thing at all.

“You still look good, Jo,” Dean replied, trying to save face.

“That’s not what I meant, Dean. Besides, I know!” Jo snarked, straightening her spine and tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore and it spilled out over a toothy grin, making Jo almost choke on her drink. God, Dean felt like anything was possible. That life was good. 

After the hysterics had calmed down, Dean exhaled. “Thanks, Jo. I needed this.”

“You sure did, nobody else was gonna hand you your ass so kindly,” Jo agreed, standing and taking the bottle and Dean’s glass with her to the counter that held the sink. He whined comically, but knew her timing was right. She leaned back and smirked.

Dean grew quiet and Jo waited to see if it was exhaustion, the alcohol or something else. She didn’t have long to prepare.

“How’m I gonna tell my dad?” Dean asked, the pain and panic pulling at his face until she saw the telltale tears well up.

“Fuck ‘im. I mean it, if your dad can’t get his head out of his ass to see how happy you are, he isn’t worth your time,” Jo said adamantly.

Dean let his thoughts roll to the side of his head and licked his lips, biting against the tremor. He quickly wiped away the tears that escaped and inhaled wet and ragged. Jo slipped to his side and ran her hand through his hair, letting his face fall against her chest as he breathed through the onslaught. Dean couldn’t help but think how motherly the affection felt.

She pulled back to look him over at arms’ length. 

“So what now? You want the couch? Or should I call you a ride? I’m sure Sam owes you one,” Jo asked, as no nonsense as ever.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean dismissed her concern, rubbing up his face to wipe off his nose.

“Well, you ain't driving.” Jo held up his keys. Dean blanched, feeling his pockets for them, fruitlessly. He stood to snatch them, but she had already skipped across the kitchen, too far to catch. “Nuh-uh, no way I’m letting you risk your baby. Or your thick skull in this weather.”

 Dean put his hands on his hips, and blinked through the dizziness. He realized he hadn’t stood in a few hours. “Sam.”

“What’s that?” Jo prodded mischievously, ear leaning in as if she couldn’t hear him.

“Very funny. Call Sam, will ya?” Dean rolled his eyes as she scrolled through her contacts, murmuring the names under her breath. His keys were raised in victory, as if he couldn’t reach them above her head. He could have snagged them in an instant, if he wanted to.

 While Jo woke Sam, Dean checked his own phone. Ignoring some texts from his mom and Cas, he selected the conversation with Benny. There were no new messages since that morning. Dean hesitated before relocking his screen.

“Sam’ll be here in twenty. You want something to eat? I’ve got chips.” Jo offered, opening the cupboard.

Tagging: @flamencodiva​ @dolphincliffs​ @dontshootmespence​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​ @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @wingedcatninja​ @defenderrosetyler​ @ericaprice2008  @crashdevlin​  @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary​ @itmighthavebeenintentional​​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​ @there-must-be-a-lock @tatted-trina6​ @cracksinthewalls​ @atc74​​

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Part 10: Spit it Out

[starkeristheendgame]

Tony hadn't been the same since pepper died in a car accident and leaving him with their daughter, morgan. Then everything changed when he and morgan goes to a flower shop and meets florist peter.

I loved this one! Gosh, there were so many ways I wanted to take this. Thank you so much for the prompt, Non! I hope that this satisfies you. I was so tempted to make this a two parter 😅 If you enjoyed this, please consider giving it a reblog! 

TW: Mentions of grief | Grief processing | Allude to depression  SFW

This time of the year always rolls around quicker than he can prepare for it. Her birthday is hard. Their wedding anniversary is harder. But this...The death date...It hits like a freight train, an unstoppable force of grief and nostalgia that if not for Morgan would render him useless. 

As it is, dates outside of Halloween, Christmas and her own birthday don’t really mean much to her at this age, so where he wakes up immediately wanting to go back to sleep for the next week, she wakes up and begins bouncing on his head, shrieking about cereal and flowers. 

“Wh’was ‘ah ‘bout flowers?” he grumbled, rolling away out of the danger zone of her spindly little legs. This was a day of shit-pot luck, though, and no sooner had he settled on his side away from her did a flailing elbow strike him across the temple. 

“Flowers! You left a note on the fridge that said we needed flowers today,” she chirped, planting her tiny hands on his bare shoulder and shaking him with strength no six year old should possess. When his brain had stopped rattling around like a marble in a bean can he grumped and groused his way into sitting upright, rubbing at his temples. 

After Morgan had gone to bed he’d stayed up, drinking the whiskey he’d promised himself he wouldn’t buy and looking at the photographs he’d promised he’d never unbox. It was the same every October 11th, a habit harder to break than being addicted to crack. It left him worse for wear each time, doubling his misery. 

“Alright, bug. Go make yourself cereal. Daddy’s gonna shower and get dressed.” Her bony little heel caught him in the kidney as she scrambled off the bed and he wheezed as he pulled himself upright, staggering into the bathroom. 

Not for the first time, he considered enrolling her in a martial arts class. She could be a champion by the time she was ten, if not just for the fact that all her opponents would be in the accident and emergency room.

He ran the shower too hot and stayed until his skin felt over-hot and numb, and forced himself to dress in a semi-nice shirt and the cleanest pair of jeans he owned. When Pepper was alive he’d always dressed to impress, loving the way she’d tease him or grab him by the shirt to drag him back into the bedroom, but these days the outside world was lucky to see him at all. 

Morgan was on her second bowl of Lucky Charms when he dragged himself downstairs, and she looked at him intensely for a moment. “It’s Mommy’s death birthday, isn’t it?” she asked after a moment and he forced himself to contain the flinch, wandering over to her and soothing a hand over her hair, before he tugged her against his stomach in a hug. 

“It is,” he confirmed roughly. It’d been five years but it was still like rubbing citrus over a fresh wound. He hugged her tighter for a moment, then let her go. “That’s why we have to get flowers today. We have to take them to Mommy’s grave.”

He reached for the lopsided note on the fridge and crumpled it, then threw it in the waste bin. 

Pepper had wanted an ‘environmentally friendly’ burial and had been one of the first people in Manhattan to be buried in a ‘grave pod’, a hemp pod filled with seeds and fertiliser and her body. Over the past five years her burial had birthed a small silver birch tree with a sprinkling of wildflowers at its base. 

The stupid tree made him smile each time he saw it, no matter how much his heart hurt. It was just the type of person she’d been, to do something so out-there and environmentally conscious, even in death. He was smiling now just at the thought of it, a quirk of his lips chased by bitterness as he let Morgan pull him down the street. 

He always let her choose the flower store they went in it, and today she steamrolled other pedestrians out of the way on her mission to reach a gold and blue fronted store that proudly proclaimed itself as The Natural Gallery.

The store front was covered in various bushels and bunches, and even had a small stand full of singular flowers that were clearly left overs or on their way to wilting with a sign say ‘take one and spread some happiness!’

The scent of flora and soil was rich when Morgan yanked him through the doorway, and Tony breathed it in deeply as he looked around. The store’s arrangements inside had been organised like a rainbow, a solid curve of shelves that ran in a horseshoe shape from one wall to the other and behind the service desk. 

Morgan immediately abandoned him to peruse the selection and Tony wandered up to the desk, peering with vague boredom at the unorganised mess that covered the desk as he waited for them to be served. There was a rustle from an open doorway just off to the side, a dull thump, and then what looked to be a teenager came staggering through the open space in a cloud of glitter. 

Tony took a wary step backwards and was prepared to make his excuses to leave when the teenager turned around, and he suddenly found himself utterly disinterested in speaking at all. The young man was a touch on the shorter side but leanly built, with a chiselled face clinging to the last of its baby fat and the most doe-ish set of brown eyes he’d ever seen, shade matching the glitter-dusted mop of curls that sprawled over his temples. 

Pretty. That was the word for it. 

“I knew I heard you guys! Hey, I’m Peter. Sorry about the carnage, it’s a birthday thing,” the young man gasped, shaking off his shirt and bounding up to the desk with energy that could rival Morgan’s. 

“What can I do for you today?” the florist asked, leaning against the counter in a casual pose. Tony noticed for the first time then that he was wearing a women’s style wifebeater, a shirt that proclaimed in glittery pastel letters Nazis deserve to be punched. 

“I uh, I need flowers. For a grave.”

The florist’s cheery face immediately morphed into something softer. Tony hated that so he looked away. Hated the stupid expressions of pity and sympathy that people cast him every time he mentioned Pepper or her death. But when he forced himself to meet Peter’s eye again, it wasn’t exactly pity that he was met with. It was just something...Gentle. 

“Of course. Are there any flowers in particular you know they liked, or any arrangements you had in mind?” the florist was already reaching for a notebook and the sample book as he spoke. Tony glanced over his shoulder to reassure himself that Morgan was still mooning over the pretty flowers, then turned back. 

“Colourful. None of that... Sad, plain crap,” he breathed after a moment, keeping his gaze off to the side. Morgan had found an abandoned flowerhead on the floor and was cradling it carefully in both hands as she waddled towards them. 

“Alright, I think I have an idea for an arrangement. And when are you looking to pick up?” Peter continued, flipping to a blank page in his notebook and immediately beginning to scrawl in slightly messy cursive. 

“Today. Any time.”

The florist seemed surprised, pausing and chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, but then he nodded and jotted down another note. “I can get something done in half an hour? I’ll just need a $10 deposit, and-- Oh, okay.”

Tony held out his bank card, gaze dropping down to Morgan as she approached the counter. “Take the full cost now,” he instructed blandly as she set the flower down on top of the counter. 

“Mister! This one lost his friends. And his body,” she greeted, pushing the flower across the counter towards the florist, who cast her a warm smile and picked up the flower head with the same careful cradle of his palms. 

“Oh dear, so he has,” he agreed, inspecting the flower carefully. “But that’s okay, because I know of a special job he can do even without a body.”

Morgan appraised him for a long moment before speaking. “Flowers don’t have jobs. They don’t need money,” she informed him seriously, before he turned to look up at her Father with pleading eyes. “Can we get cheeseburgers?”

Weak as he was, he couldn’t deny her anything even when he felt like this, and once the florist had rung up his card and handed him the receipt they left the store and headed to the nearest burger van. 

Morgan chose her customary single cheeseburger with so much ketchup it dripped out of the sides, and they sat down on a nearby bench to people watch as they ate. 

“I think his shirt is right,” she piped up after several bites, and he cast her a weary, wary gaze, reaching out to rub ketchup off her mouth with a napkin. 

“Who’s shirt, bug?”

“The pretty flower man. His shirt said we should punch Nazis. I think it’s right.”

Tony blinked at her and wondered where she’d even learned about Nazis (perhaps he should have paid more attention to the curriculum sheet her elementary had mailed him) before he bit into his own burger, watching passively as a particularly bold pigeon chased after a small, fluffy dog. 

They’d passed almost twenty minutes by the time they threw their wrappers in the bin, and Tony let Morgan tow him along back to The Natural Gallery. 

Peter was ready for them when they stepped inside, despite the fact that they were five minutes early. The young florist was half-hidden behind a large arrangement of colourful flowers that made Tony’s chest constrict when he saw them, and he weakly let go of Morgan’s hand so she could power on ahead to the counter. 

Peter looked over to greet them and seemed to realise that Tony needed a moment, because he immediately began to talk to Morgan about the flowers. 

“The tiny blue ones are called forget-me-nots. Your Daddy didn’t want anything plain, so I used these instead of a flower called baby’s breath, which are tiny white flowers. These big ones are sunflowers, these are roses, and look, here’s the flower you found on the floor!”

Tony forced himself to wander closer. The arrangement was an artful splash of primary colours tied together with what looked like coloured rope, and the slightly rumpled flowerhead had been sewn into the front of the front of the rope, almost like a brooch. 

It was the exact kind of simplistic yet artistic thing that Pepper would have loved, and Tony could feel his throat start to close up the longer he stared at it. 

Peter didn’t do him the indignity of offering any pandering sympathies or well wishes, the energetic florist simply explained the meaning behind the flowers used, explained the rope was hemp dyed with red wine so it was all 100% biodegradable, and gave Morgan a pretty, yellow flower to tuck behind her ear.

Tony left him with a $10 tip for being a ray of sunshine despite the fact that he’d undoubtedly been a prickly, unapproachable customer, and that was the end of it. 

Until a few months later, when Morgan hauled his ass straight back to The Natural Gallery like a greyhound after a rabbit for Pepper’s birthday.��

Her birthdays were probably the ‘easiest’ of all the dreaded dates. It was more nostalgic than painful, and he often passed the day away looking through old memories and thinking of all the birthday plans they never got to do together.

This year, however, Morgan insisted on getting Pepper flowers as a present, and hadn’t even hesitated between the car and her single-minded charge to the florist. Tony was beginning to suspect this was premeditated. 

The store hadn’t changed much since they’d last been here, and the florist was already at the counter with another customer when Morgan barged through the door. 

“Hello again, little Miss. Stark,” he waved at her as she hauled Tony towards a display of pink flowers, and he frowned before remembering his name had been on his bank card and he’d told the florist to hold the arrangement under ‘Tony Stark’. It was painfully obvious Morgan was his daughter, so it was also easy to denote that her name would be Morgan Stark.

Still. The kid had remembered, out of all the names and people he’d seen in the months since.

It didn’t take long for the young man to finish up with the customer, and then the florist stepped around the counter, coming towards them with a broad smile. Tony desperately tried to remember the guy’s name, even as he found himself distracted by the lazy-casual outfit the teen wore. 

His nails were painted purple. 

“Peter! Mommy needs flowers for her birthday!” Morgan shrilled in greeting, and Tony could feel his expression twist. She said it so simply, as if ‘Mommy’ was just at work or home and it made that familiar sinking weight in his chest grow. In front of them Peter’s nose scrunched when he smiled, and he set his hands on his hips in mock thought. 

“Hm, that’s a good present for a birthday! Do you know what flowers Mommy likes best? Or her favourite colours?” The florist - Peter - was just as cheerful as Tony vaguely remembered him being the last time. Tony piped up before Morgan could talk again. 

“Same as last time. Please. Colourful.”

Peter seemed to get it instantly. His cheerful smile took on the softest warmth for a moment, before it became vibrant and lively again as he looked down at Morgan. “I think we can manage that, hm? If your Daddy doesn’t mind you being my assistant for a few minutes?”

“Daddy doesn’t mind,” Morgan answered on his behalf, and Tony found he didn’t have the motivation to argue, standing back and watching and Peter let Morgan pull him all around the store, pointing out every bright and pretty flower she came across. 

Against his own will, something fragile and new began to bloom in his chest. It felt horrifyingly like warmth, like something...Verging on fond.

And it wasn’t entirely for Morgan. 

The florist was a natural with her. He didn’t talk to her like most people talked to young children, infantizing and almost condescending. He listened intently to every word she said and taught her little snippets about each flower she pointed out, letting her touch the petals and letting her tow him around without ever reaching for her first, mindful of the fact that she was not only her own person, but the young child of a stranger.

He allowed himself to briefly imagine what it would have been like if Pepper had lived. If they’d had a son before Morgan, so she could grow up with a doting older brother that would smile at her the same way and indulge her every whim. Another doting family member to wrap around her little her finger. 

“And one for Daddy too!” brought him out of his twisted musings and he looked across the room. Peter stood with a little wicker basket full of orange and red flowers, and Morgan had what looked to be a tulip tucked behind one ear. 

Peter was holding another in his hand, and when he looked up the teen tipped his head a little, arching a brow with a smile that said may I?

He grunted, and while Morgan busied herself with preening in a tiny mirror, Peter crossed the room towards him.

“She’s wonderful. I hope if I ever have children, they turn out like her,” the teen murmured as he reached out and carefully tucked the flower into the breast pocket of Tony’s jacket. This close he smelt like flowers and a refreshing undertone, like clean water. 

There was flower pollen in his hair and his lips were bitten a rosy pink. Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose in the barest hint of colour. 

“She takes after her Mother,” he said it before he could even think about the words, but Peter’s smile remained steady and warm, with none of the usual overly sweet pity he was often met with. 

“She takes after you, too. The perfect mix, I imagine.” And was that... A touch of teasing, maybe? The slightest sparkle in those eyes? Tony shifted under the scrutiny and looked over Peter’s shoulder, back to his daughter. 

He supposed it was true. Morgan had every bit her Mother’s personality, but looks wise she’d taken after him the most. Her dark hair, fair skin and shapely jaw were all his features. 

“She’s better than I am,” he breathed after a moment. She had none of his bitterness, none of his cynical bones. Perhaps it was her youth, but not even losing her Mother had soured her outlook on life. When he looked back Peter was still staring at him, and Tony realised just how close they were still standing. 

Evidently, he wasn’t the only one. 

“Are you gonna kiss ‘im?” Morgan asked from a little way across the shop, and Tony jerked, looking at her in alarm, but Peter simply gave a light chuckle, turning away and moving back towards the counter. 

“Your Daddy is very handsome, but I’ve got to organise these flowers for your Mommy! If I get started, do you think you’ll remember to come back in twenty minutes when they’re ready?” 

Morgan solemnly promised to be back here in exactly, precisely twenty minutes, and immediately demanded that Tony took her to find some juice. Tony held her hand as they walked out of the store, and he frowned down at her. 

“Don’t say things like that again, sweetheart. I’m not going to kiss random people. Especially not on Mommy’s birthday.” It came out perhaps a little sharper than he’d intended, and he bought her an extra juice to make up for the almost hurt way she’d looked up at him afterwards. 

The flowers were just as beautiful as last time. He left Peter with another tip, and tried to ignore how Morgan spent ages telling Pepper’s tree all about the ‘pretty flower boy’ that was ‘her and Daddy’s new best friend’. 

He didn’t have the heart to correct her, and he had the sneaking suspicion that the next time she came with him to get flowers for something, she’d drag him straight back to The Natural Gallery. 

He was half right, as it turned out. Morgan’s apparent adoration for the florist had transferred into a love for flowers, which became a blatant excuse to visit Peter again when it became clear Tony didn’t know anything about plants beyond shoving seeds into the soil of their backyard and hoping for the best. 

“Peter will know!” she announced, after five minutes of the two of them standing helplessly in the plant food aisle of their local gardening store, staring at no less than forty different brands and bottles of plant feed. 

“Honey, he’s just a store florist, he might not know everything about actual horticulture,” Tony tried valiantly, but she would hear none of it, and first thing the next morning she woke him up by kicking him squarely in the middle of the spine and shouting PeterPeterPeter!

Thus, he found himself hobbling gingerly into The Natural Gallery barely an hour after its opening time, grimacing at the early morning sunshine and cradling his coffee, which he’d had to pour into a travel mug because the longer he’d taken to drink it, the darker Morgan’s stare had gotten. 

“Hi! Welcome to-- Tony?” Peter came up short where he’d popped around the corner, looking surprised to see them. It had been less than three weeks since their last visit, and the teen looked the most put-together Tony had ever seen him, far too chipper for this hour. 

Morgan greeted him with a wave that bordered on violent, and she promptly ditched Tony in the doorway to bound up to the counter. 

“We want a pretty garden but Daddy is useless and doesn’t know anything about flowers, so you have to come to our house and help us!”

Tony shot upright then cringed and reached for his back like an old man. 

“Now, hang on. We never said anything about him coming over,” he warned Morgan, casting Peter an apologetic glance as he forced himself to catch up to his runaway child, giving her a stern look when he finally leaned against the counter. Morgan, unperturbed, looked at him like he was a simpleton. 

“How else is he gonna help us plant flowers? Duh, Daddy,” she huffed at him, before she looked back across at Peter. 

“I want pretty flowers like the ones you have. Daddy bought all the seeds and everything but it still looks plain and boring.”

He was almost offended on behalf of his garden. He had a very nice lawn, thank you very much, and the few flowers that had somehow survived with Pepper being there to care for them still came doggedly back every year. 

“Morgan. You know the rules about going to strange people’s houses and inviting strangers home,” he reminded her pointedly, mock flicking her between the eyes. 

“But Peter is our friend, and you said friends are allowed home as long as I ask and you make sure its safe!” Morgan protested, and Peter cooed. 

“Aw, I think you’d be a wonderful friend, Morgan, but your Daddy is right. But! How about I give you and your Daddy some tips to write down for getting a really nice garden, and maybe you can take pictures when it all blooms and come show me?” Peter’s looked up at Tony when he said it, and Tony found he couldn’t do anything except - somehow - smile. 

God, Pepper would have loved this kid. 

It took Peter offering Morgan a freshly bloomed pink lily for her to fully accept the fact that she couldn’t bring her new ‘friend’ home, but eventually she came around to the idea, and Tony found himself in a surprisingly spacious back area of the store, surrounded by various floristry supplies and flower off-cuts and Peter tapped around on a slightly beaten up laptop, showing them different plants that were generally ‘safe bets’ to have in a garden, fertiliser types and the most common downfalls many a hopeful gardener faced when starting out. 

As Morgan leafed intently through one of the many flower-based magazines laying around, Tony forced himself to speak. 

“Sorry. She gets ahead of herself.” He didn’t need to elaborate on what he was referring to, but Peter just cast him a broad, warm smile, and nudged their shoulders together lightly. 

“Don’t apologise. She’s a delight. I almost wish I was her age again. I don’t mind when you guys come here. It makes the day a little bit brighter. Who knows, maybe one day I might even get to see you smile.”

And Peter more or less embodied the smiley face emoticon at the end of the sentence, grinning sunnily at Tony before Morgan thrust a magazine page in his face and demanded to know what flower was being shown in the picture. 

They left with a stack of print-outs and magazines, and as Morgan sat in the car on the way home she looked across at him thoughtfully. 

“Peter is very pretty.” She probably meant it as a question, but it came out so firmly it sounded like a statement. He let the car roll to a stop and side-eyed her warily. 

Was this her first crush? No, it couldn’t be. She was six. Tony hadn’t had his first crush until... Okay, yeah, no. It could very well be her first crush. 

“Do you think so?” he asked after a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. She looked at him like he’d just asked her what 1+1 was, and rolled her eyes before she looked forwards again, apparently not dignifying him with a response. 

The next morning she woke him up right at the strike of six, and not even an hour later he found himself on his knees in the dirt of the garden, diligently rooting around in the dirt to pluck out weeds, rocks and to replace no less than half of the dirt with fertiliser from a big, stinky bag while Morgan dutifully moved each and every critter they came across to safety. 

It took him four hours, but eventually every border of the garden had been re-dug, replanted and soaked through with the garden hose. Tony schlepped off to the shower with a groan, almost regretting the outcome of raw dogging his wife, no matter how good it had felt at the time. 

He lathered himself up thoroughly and felt somewhat more alive by the time he made his way downstairs for another well earned cup of coffee. 

To his both his joy and his dismay, gardening with Morgan became A Thing. Twice a week if it didn’t rain they dragged the hose out of the garage and watered all the grass and tiny little green shoots and once every two weeks they both found themselves kneeling in the dirt to painstakingly weed the soil and make sure their little ‘baby flowers’ as Morgan called them were growing unhindered and healthy. 

Perhaps worst of all, he found himself thinking about Peter each time he tended to the garden or watched Morgan chat excitedly to her teachers and friends about all her new flowers and the pretty flower boy who taught her and her Daddy how to have a nice garden. 

He thought of that sunny smile and those bright eyes, the curls that permanently looked like the kid had just woken up and the random assortment of clothing he seemed to just roll out of bed and throw on. 

He’d had one or two hook ups since Pepper had died. Had briefly tried dating before he’d found he hated the differences too much, hated the lingering cloud of Pepper over each potential relationship, hated the way other kisses tasted like betrayal. Yet here he was, thinking about the lips on a kid he’d met three times.��

Almost three months had passed, and Morgan had dragged him back to the gardening store to see if they had any pretty ornaments they could put in the garden. He turned to ask her if she wanted to bunny or the fox when he realised with a jolt of cold panic that she was no longer at his side. He tried to calm himself and glanced up and down the aisle, but she wasn’t in sight either. 

Alright. Calm. She was probably the next aisle over. She knew not to wander off without telling him, but maybe she’d been distracted or he just hadn’t heard her. He set the ornaments down and jogged to the end of the aisle, stepping around the other one. No Morgan. No Morgan in the one on the opposite end, either. 

“Fuck!” he huffed, spinning on his heel. The checkout desks? Maybe she’d tried to find a toilet-

“Tony!”

He spun on his heels and stared as he spotted Peter trotting towards him, hand in hand with one Morgan Stark, who looked happy but a little meek, especially once she met his eye. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark. I’m so sorry, I was here buying seeds and I turned around and she was right there. She said she was here with you and she saw me walking and wanted to say hello. We came straight back to you, didn’t we, Miss. Stark?” Peter asked, looking down at where Morgan hung off his arm like a guilty koala. 

“Uh huh. Because walking off from Daddy without saying isn’t good and makes him sad.” She evidently repeated from something Peter had said, looking up at the florist before she let go of his hand and bounded across to Tony, clinging to him when he lifted her up. 

“Sorry Daddy. I didn’t want to make you said. I just wanted to see Pretty Peter,” she mumbled into his shoulder. 

Peter’s cheeks were pink when Tony looked across at him again, and there was soil under his pink fingernails and dusted on his shoulders. 

He took in a breath. 

“Well... Maybe I can give Pretty Peter my number. Just so next time you run off because he’s better looking than me, he can call me so I don’t get sad, huh, bug?” he ran a soothing hand down her back when she pulled away to grin and him, and Peter’s cheeks looked like hot coals by the time Tony hesitantly glanced up at him. 

“I’d like that,” the florist beamed at him, shuffling sweetly on the spot. “And, for the record... I think you’re plenty good looking.”