#this has been rattling around in my skull for like a week

[tarugai]

Guy who fell into the underground and guy with mommy issues that made it everyone’s problem.

[inseobts]

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

kid x fem!reader ➜ law x fem!reader

Torn between the chaos you came from and the calm you’ve found, you begin to realize that leaving kid behind might have led you right where you were meant to be—with law.

a/n: I don't even know what to say lmao

tags: post-wano arc, slow burn, bittersweet ending (for kid), soft tho

words count: 6.6k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Wano night sky is painted with bursts of color as fireworks explode over the festival. The smell of grilled meat, sweet dango, and fresh sake fills the air, mixing with the sounds of laughter and celebration.

You sit with the others outside a teahouse, enjoying the rare moment of peace. After everything, Kaido, Big Mom, the goddamn World Government, you all deserve a night to breathe. The Straw Hats are in full party mode, Luffy stuffing his face while Brook plays a lively tune. The Kid Pirates are drinking nearby, and the Heart Pirates are lingering close, not as rowdy but still celebrating.

And you’re just trying to relax.

But Kid is staring at you like he wants to burn a hole through your skull.

You pretend not to notice.

Killer, however, sighs beside you “He’s going to snap.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you say flatly, bringing your drink to your lips.

Killer doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

It’s been like this for weeks now, Kid watching, brooding, acting like he’s got something stuck in his throat every time you so much as breathe near Law. And it’s ridiculous. You don’t get it. You’ve been with Kid for years. He knows where your heart lies.

But lately, it’s like he’s convinced you’ve already left him.

You shift your gaze toward Law, who is seated a few feet away, speaking with Bepo and Robin. He’s relaxed in that usual aloof way, sipping his drink, expression unreadable. You catch his eye and nod in acknowledgment, a small, meaningless gesture.

But Kid sees it.

And he loses it.

A heavy THUD shakes the table as Kid slams his metal fist against the wood, rattling everything on it. Conversations screech to a halt. Luffy pauses mid-bite, Nami’s drink almost spills, and even Zoro looks up with mild interest.

The entire courtyard falls silent.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, whipping around to face him.

“My problem?” Kid’s voice is sharp, full of something dark “You’re my problem.”

A heavy pause.

Your stomach twists “Excuse me?”

“You think I don’t fucking notice?” He stands abruptly, his massive frame towering over you “You act like I’m crazy, but every time I turn around, you’re with him.”

It takes you a second to realize who he means “Law?” you scoff “That’s what this is about?”

Law, to his credit, looks just as stunned as everyone else. His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Don’t play dumb” Kid growls. His voice isn’t just angry, it’s raw. Desperate “You don’t talk to me like you talk to him. You don’t even look at me the same way anymore.”

Your throat tightens “That’s not true. And can we talk about this alone? You’re ruining everyone’s mood.”

“Do I look like I care?” His jaw clenches, hands curling into fists “I see the way he looks at you.”

The weight of those words sinks over the crowd. A few heads turn toward Law, whose expression has gone carefully blank.

And that’s when it hits you.

Kid isn’t just angry.

He’s afraid.

Afraid that he’s already lost you. Afraid that maybe, deep down, he’s right.

Your fingers tighten around your cup “You’re being paranoid.”

Kid lets out a bitter, humorless laugh “Yeah? Then tell me, during the fight earlier, why did you esitate before coming to help me when that weirdo and I were both at our limits?”

A hush settles over the group.

And you don’t have an answer. Because dammit, Kid knows you too well.

You have found comfort in Law lately. Not because you ever meant to. Not because you wanted to. But because he listens, he’s steady, and somewhere along the way, you started trusting him in a way you hadn’t realized.

And Kid can see it.

Your silence is the final blow.

His sneer fades. His hands drop to his sides. The fire in his eyes dims, replaced by something broken.

“…I knew it.” His voice is hoarse “You’re better off without me.”

“Kid, stop—”

“Then leave.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He doesn’t hesitate “Get the fuck out.”

The words slam into you harder than any punch.

The crew stiffens. Killer stands immediately, stepping between you “Kid. Don’t do this.”

“This isn’t you, Captain” Heat mutters, looking genuinely unsettled.

But Kid doesn’t waver. He doesn’t look at them.

Just at you.

You force out a breath “You’re serious.”

His lips press into a thin line “Yeah.”

Something inside you cracks.

The world around you is still, too still. You can feel the weight of everyone’s stares, Straw Hats included. Luffy watches with uncharacteristic quiet, Sanji’s expression is unreadable, and even Zoro looks vaguely intrigued.

And Law looks like he’s been punched. Because suddenly, it’s not just about Kid’s jealousy. It’s about the fact that Law hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious.

His fingers twitch against his drink. He’s spent so long burying it, pretending his feelings for you didn’t exist because he knew, knew you loved Kid.

But Kid had noticed and now, Law doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You swallow hard, something hot rising in your throat “You’re a coward.”

Kid doesn’t react.

You shove past him, the weight of betrayal settling in your chest like a stone.

And then, before you can even think, a voice cuts through the night.

“…You can come with us.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

You stop mid-step, turning slowly.

Law is still seated, still composed, but his eyes are serious.

You search his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t look like he’s won.

He just looks…concerned. Like he wants to help. Like he wants you to come with him.

Kid snorts “Figures.” His voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it, something close to defeat.

You hesitate, heart pounding.

And then, finally you nod.

“…Okay.”

Kid says nothing. And this time, you don’t look back.

The night doesn’t feel like a victory anymore.

The festival carries on, lanterns still floating lazily into the sky, fireworks still bursting overhead in bright, fleeting colors. But for you, for Kid, and for everyone who just witnessed the end of something that was never meant to fall apart like this, the air is heavy.

You stand there, still reeling, still processing what just happened.

Kid actually threw you out.

The Kid Pirates are still lingering, but they don’t look at you, not in anger, not in disgust, just with this uncomfortable, painful acceptance. Because as much as they hate it, as much as some of them want to grab you and drag you back, they know you don’t belong with them anymore. You belong somewhere else. With someone else.

Kid doesn’t wait for you to say anything.

He just turns on his heel, fists clenched, shoulders tight, and leaves.

His crew hesitates, but one by one, they follow.

Killer is the last to move. He stands there for a moment, head tilted down slightly, unreadable behind his mask. When he finally looks at you, he doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t try to make excuses for Kid.

He just nods.

A quiet acknowledgment.

And then, they’re gone.

And the weight of it crashes into you all at once.

The silence they leave behind feels suffocating.

You exhale, shaky. Your body feels like lead, your heart feels like it’s sinking, and suddenly you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do next.

Then, a voice… soft, steady.

“Come on.”

You turn.

Law is standing beside you now, much closer than before. He doesn’t try to touch you, doesn’t try to force anything, he just waits.

You look at him, and for the first time, you actually see him.

Not just as an ally. Not just as the man who had been there, hovering at the edges of your life, never pushing, never asking for more than you were willing to give.

You see him.

And you realize… he’s been waiting for you this whole time.

You inhale deeply, blinking the stinging in your eyes away.

Then, finally, you nod “…Okay.”

Law doesn’t smile. He just nods back. And for the first time tonight, you don’t feel so lost.

The Polar Tang isn’t home. Not yet. But it’s safe.

The Heart Pirates don’t question your presence when you step onto the yellow submarine. They just let you exist, giving you space but not making you feel alone.

You sit in the mess hall, staring blankly at the cup of tea Shachi set in front of you. Steam curls in lazy swirls, but you don’t touch it.

Law is across from you, quiet. He’s watching, but not in a way that makes you feel exposed.

“Say it” you murmur.

He tilts his head slightly “Say what?”

“I don’t know.” You force a humorless chuckle “That you tried to warn me that time.”

Law exhales, rubbing his temple “That would make me an asshole.”

“You are an asshole.”

That makes him huff a short laugh, and for the first time tonight, something inside you loosens.

But then, the silence returns, and it’s heavier now, more personal.

You swallow “Did you really…?”

Law looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to finish.

You hesitate, but then push forward “Did you really have feelings for me?”

A pause. Then, Law’s gaze flickers away, just for a second.

“Tch.” He shifts, folding his arms over his chest “I thought I was being subtle.”

You huff, shaking your head “Kid saw it before I did.”

“Apparently.” He exhales slowly “Didn’t want to make things worse.”

You glance at him, brow furrowing.

“I knew you loved him,” Law continues “Knew that no matter how I felt, he was the one you wanted.” He looks at you then, and for the first time, you see the weight of everything he’s been holding back “I wasn’t going to get in the way of your happiness.”

You stare at him, something tight curling in your chest.

And suddenly, the jealousy, the anger, the desperation in Kid’s voice makes so much more sense.

Because Kid knew. And he wasn’t afraid of losing you to Law because of something Law did. He was afraid of losing you because you were already slipping away on your own.

You exhale shakily, looking down at your cup “I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

Law nods, like he expected that “You don’t have to.”

That surprises you “I don’t?”

“No.” He shrugs “Take your time.”

And for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe. Because Law isn’t asking you for an answer.

He’s just asking you to stay.

The first night on the Polar Tang is quiet… Too quiet.

You’re used to the noise of the Victoria Punk, the drunken laughter, the sound of metal clanking, the occasional explosion from Kid messing with his arm. Here, everything feels… still. The soft hum of the submarine’s engines is the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

You lie in the bunk Law had given you, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing on your limbs. But your mind refuses to rest.

You keep hearing Kid’s voice “Then leave. Get the fuck out.”

Your throat tightens. You shut your eyes, willing the memory away.

It doesn’t work.

And maybe the worst part isn’t what happened, it’s that part of you understands why he did it.

He was right, wasn’t he? You’d already started slipping away. You just hadn’t realized it yet.

A heavy sigh escapes you, and finally, you give up. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you stand, padding barefoot into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t know where you’re going, just away.

But of course, he’s already waiting.

Law is in the control room, sitting at the main table with medical reports scattered in front of him. He glances up as you step inside, eyes flickering with something unreadable before he shifts back to his work.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, sliding into the seat across from him “Too much in my head.”

Law hums in understanding. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask what’s bothering you. He already knows.

You rest your chin in your hand, watching him. The dim light casts soft shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his brows furrow in concentration. His tattooed fingers flip a page, barely acknowledging your stare.

Finally, you murmur, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

For a moment, he’s quiet, fingers drumming idly against the table. Then, he exhales.

“Because I didn’t want you to be unhappy.”

His voice is steady, even. But something about it makes your chest ache.

“Even if that meant losing me?”

Law’s jaw tightens slightly “I never had you in the first place.”

The honesty in his words nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You stare at him, suddenly feeling like you’re seeing him for the first time. Really seeing him.

He’d never tried to take anything from you.

He just waited.

Even when it hurt.

Even when he thought it would never change.

You don’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you whisper, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Law watches you carefully “Do what?”

“…Start over.”

The words taste foreign in your mouth. Like admitting it makes it real. But Law doesn’t look surprised. He just leans back, considering you for a long moment. Then, he shrugs.

“Then don’t.”

You blink “What?”

“You don’t have to start over,” he says simply “You don’t have to rush anything. Just… exist for a while.”

That shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding “That sounds nice.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at Law’s lips “That’s because I’m smart.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you laugh. A real, genuine laugh.

And Law… that bastard actually smiles. Just a little.

The Victoria Punk is far from Wano’s shores now.

The crew is silent. The only sound is the waves crashing against the hull.

Kid is at the front of the ship, arms braced against the railing, staring out at the open sea. He hasn’t spoken since they left.

No one knows what to say.

The ship feels empty.

Heat exhales, rubbing the back of his neck “It’s weird without her.”

“Yeah” Wire mutters.

The crew doesn’t often talk about feelings, but this? This is different. You were one of them. You should still be here. And yet…

Killer stands beside Kid, watching him carefully. He’s known him too long to expect an apology, or even regret. But he does see the way Kid’s fingers are gripping the railing like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“You fucked up” Killer says eventually.

Kid exhales sharply, gaze locked on the horizon “I know.”

The admission is quiet. Bitter.

Killer doesn’t rub it in. Just nods. The crew knows, too. They all saw it.

You had never belonged with them, not the way they did. You weren’t ruthless, weren’t reckless. You were sharp and strong, but you thought before you acted. You were logical, steady, patient.

You were never meant to be with a man like Kid.

You were meant for someone more like Law.

And that stings more than any wound Kid has ever taken.

Because deep down, he knows you're not coming back and that you're going to be happier for it.

So he does the only thing he can. He keeps sailing forward. Because if he stops now, if he lets himself really feel it, he’s afraid he might never start again.

It’s been a week since you left the Victoria Punk.

A week since Kid turned his back on you.

A week since you stepped onto the Polar Tang, still raw, still carrying the weight of everything you lost. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you feel… lighter.

Not because it doesn’t hurt, it still does. Some nights, you lie awake in the quiet of the submarine, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the life you left behind. About the crew you spent years with. About the reckless, stubborn, infuriating man you thought you’d spend your life beside.

But pain isn’t the only thing you feel anymore.

There’s something else, something new.

Something close to relief. And you don’t know how to deal with that.

So instead, you focus on what you can control. Like getting used to your new crew.

The Heart Pirates are different from the Kid Pirates in every way.

They don’t bark orders or throw punches for fun. They don’t pick fights just to prove something. They don’t push you to be louder, meaner, stronger.

They just let you be.

Penguin and Shachi are idiots, but they make you laugh. Bepo is kind and always makes sure you’re comfortable. Ikkaku gives you quiet smiles in passing. The rest of the crew doesn’t treat you like an outsider, they treat you like you’ve always been here.

And then there’s Law.

He’s not hovering. He doesn’t coddle you or try to pry into your thoughts. He just exists beside you, giving you space when you need it, speaking when necessary.

And somehow, that makes it easier for you to breathe.

You’re on the deck now, watching Wano’s coastline disappear behind the waves. You rest your arms on the railing, inhaling deeply, letting the salt air clear your mind.

“You regret it?”

You glance to your right.

Law is standing beside you, watching the horizon.

You raise an eyebrow “What, leaving?”

He nods slightly.

You hesitate, considering the question. Do you regret it?

You’d spent years convincing yourself that Kid was your future. That his world, his crew, his love, as violent and volatile as it was, was enough.

But now?

You exhale slowly “No. I mean... I was actually kicked out, but I don't regret not fighting to stay there.”

Law doesn’t react right away, but something in his posture relaxes.

“…Good.”

You smirk “What, were you worried?”

“Tch.” He scoffs, crossing his arms “You’re annoying when you’re brooding.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head “You’re an ass.”

Law shrugs “Nothing new.”

For the first time, your chest doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don’t know what comes next. You don’t know what your future looks like without Kid in it.

But for the first time in a long time… You think you might be okay. Maybe this is where you were meant to be all along.

Even though you’ve told yourself you don’t regret leaving, that doesn’t mean you don’t miss it.

You miss the chaos. The reckless laughter. The way the Kid Pirates always felt like they were crashing forward at full speed, unafraid of whatever came next.

You miss them.

You miss him.

And it’s infuriating, because you shouldn’t. Not after everything. Not after the way he threw you away like you were something disposable.

Your hands grip the railing tighter.

“You’re thinking too much again.”

You glance sideways.

Law is beside you, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he watches you. He’s frustratingly perceptive, and he’s been watching you more closely ever since you stepped foot on his ship.

You huff “I don’t think you get to decide how much I think.”

He doesn’t argue. Just exhales and leans forward, resting his arms on the railing “You should let yourself be angry.”

You blink, caught off guard “I am angry.”

Law gives you a look.

You scowl “What?”

“You’re trying too hard to be reasonable.” He tilts his head, expression unreadable “You’re allowed to be mad that he threw you out.”

You turn away, jaw tightening. You are mad. You’re furious. But there’s this voice in the back of your head, whispering he thought he was doing what was best for you.

And the worst part? Maybe he was right.

You inhale sharply, shaking your head “It doesn’t matter.”

Law watches you carefully. Then, after a moment “You loved him.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a fact.

You swallow “Yeah. I got weird taste.”

A beat of silence.

“And now?”

You grip the railing harder, staring out at the sea.

“…I don’t know.”

And that’s the truth. You don’t know if love is something that disappears overnight. If it can vanish just because it should.

But you do know that you can’t go back. Even if Kid wanted you to. Even if his crew begged him to take it back.

Something between you and him had shattered, and no amount of time would piece it back together the same way. You should have known the second doubts started to fill your mind when you met Law.

Law hums in understanding “Then don’t rush it.”

You huff a laugh “You say that a lot.”

He shrugs “Because you need to hear it.”

You glance at him, studying the way he leans against the railing, calm and steady as ever.

“I never realized how patient you are” you murmur.

Law lifts a brow “Surgeons don’t rush.”

You smirk “Right. Sometimes I forget you’re a freaky doctor.”

He doesn’t argue. But there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your breath hitch slightly. A quiet, lingering warmth. A patience that makes your chest tighten for reasons you’re not quite ready to face.

So instead, you exhale and turn back to the horizont.

For now, you just let yourself exist, and honestly, it doesn’t feel so hard.

Days blend into weeks, and somehow the world feels a little quieter, a little more settled, but not less complicated.

The Polar Tang keeps moving, its engines humming through the sea, and you find yourself at a strange peace with the routine. The Heart Pirates are kind, and they welcome you without pushing you to be anything you’re not.

But even though things seem calmer, something is still there. You can feel it lurking under the surface, like a ripple that never quite fades away.

It’s not the anger anymore, that has faded to a dull ache. It’s not the resentment either, or even the loss.

It’s the question.

The question you can’t answer.

What now?

You find yourself pacing the deck late one night, moonlight glistening on the water as the wind tugs at your hair. You’ve gotten used to the solitude, to the long hours spent thinking. But tonight, it’s different. Something is hanging in the air.

And you’re not alone.

You hear his footsteps before you see him, the quiet scrape of boots against the metal floor.

Law appears from the shadows, his figure framed by the dim glow of the moon. He doesn’t say anything immediately. He just stands there, his gaze following the path you’ve worn in the floorboards.

For a moment, you both just exist in the silence.

“You’ve been quiet” Law finally says, his voice breaking the calm like a stone dropped into still water.

You don’t meet his gaze “I’m thinking.”

“I can tell.”

You stop, hands braced on the railing, staring out into the vast expanse of the ocean. There’s so much you don’t know, and you can’t help but wish you could fast-forward through this feeling of being stuck.

“Do you ever wonder…” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “…if we’re all just running from something?”

Law doesn’t immediately answer. His footsteps are silent as he moves closer, stopping just a few feet behind you.

“Sometimes,” he says quietly “I think it’s the only way we stay sane.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it “I’m not sure ‘sane’ is the word I’d use.”

“No,” he agrees, a small hint of a smirk in his voice “But it’s the word that keeps us going.”

You fall into another silence, the weight of the past lingering between you.

And then, against all logic, against everything that makes sense, you speak the question that’s been clawing at you for days.

“Do you think I’ll ever stop missing him?”

Law takes a moment to answer, his voice soft and steady “I think it’s possible.”

You look at him then, searching his face. There’s no trace of bitterness in his expression, no hint of wanting you to stop. Just something… knowing.

“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice “But it’s like he’s always there, in the back of my mind.”

“That’s not something you can rush” Law replies.

You exhale, feeling the sting of his words settle deep within you. He’s right, of course. This isn’t something you can fix overnight. It’s not a wound that heals just because you want it to.

It takes time.

You nod slowly “I know.”

You just have to… be.

Months later

The Polar Tang hums beneath your feet, steady as a heartbeat. The crew is scattered, doing their usual rounds. Quiet. Peaceful.

The medical bay is quiet, lit by a few low lamps. Law is hunched over his desk, gloved hands flipping through charts, brows drawn in focus. You slip in without a word and perch on the stool beside him, legs swinging, arms draped across your knees.

He doesn’t look up. He never does at first.

You lean just a little closer, chin propped in your hand, voice soft and teasing “You know, it’s kind of creepy how long you can go without blinking.”

Law sighs, still not looking at you “You’re distracting.”

“That’s not an order to leave, I see” you hum, lips twitching.

Finally, he glances at you just a flick of his eyes. And it’s fast, but you catch it. That little pause in his breath. The way his gaze lingers for a second too long on your mouth before flicking back to the papers.

“I’m working” he mutters.

You grin, all teeth and mischief “Yeah, I can tell. Very serious. So focused.” You lean forward just a bit more, enough that your shoulder brushes his “You want me to be quiet?”

“Yes.”

You smile wider “Liar.”

This time, he looks at you fully, head tilting slightly. His expression is flat, but his eyes always give him away.

“What makes you say that?”

You shrug innocently, still perched far too close “If you really wanted me gone, you’d have used Room by now.”

Law’s lips twitch. Barely. But you catch it. Victory.

“You’re insufferable” he says quietly.

You nudge his arm with your elbow “You like it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just exhales slowly through his nose and goes back to his notes. But he doesn’t move away. And that says more than anything else.

You lean your head to the side, resting your cheek against your hand, watching him work. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve always belonged here.

“You know,” you say after a while, “you get this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating. Right there—” You reach out, fingertip brushing just above his nose.

Law freezes.

Your hand lingers for a breath too long before you pull it back, oblivious, or pretending to be.

He clears his throat, flipping a page with a little more force than necessary “Maybe if someone stopped interrupting me, the crease wouldn’t be there.”

You grin “So grumpy. You sure you’re not secretly eighty?”

“We're the same age.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Law finally leans back in his chair and turns to face you, arms crossing over his chest “Do you need something?”

You pretend to think “Nope. Just wanted to bother you.”

He exhales again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But when he opens his eyes, that look is back. The soft one. The one that only ever shows up when he’s looking at you and doesn’t think you’ll notice.

“You really don’t have anything better to do?”

You shake your head, smiling easily “Nah. You’re my favorite distraction.”

Law blinks, and for the first time tonight, you catch him off guard. Just for a second, his mask slips. And it’s not annoyance you see. It’s something deeper. Something warmer.

He doesn’t say anything.

So you hop off the stool, stretching, and pat his shoulder as you pass.

“I’ll leave you to your brooding. Try not to miss me while I’m gone.”

His breath catches but you’re already at the door, grinning to yourself.

You don’t see it, but Law watches you the entire way out. Eyes soft. Quiet. Stubbornly fond.

You don’t realize how much he’s fallen.

More weeks pass and one morning, you’re back in the infirmary.

You don’t say anything when you enter. Just slide into the same stool beside Law, like you belong there. You cross your legs, chin in your hand, eyes on the notes spread across his desk like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

He barely acknowledges you.

You can see the twitch in his jaw. The way his pen stills for half a second before he keeps writing. The way his posture shifts just slightly toward you, like your presence settles something inside him.

“So…” you say, all lightness and mischief, “how does one apply to be your favorite?”

Law doesn’t look up “Favorite what?”

“Person.”

He exhales slowly, scribbling something onto the page in front of him “You already are” he says, too casually.

You blink, caught off guard “Oh.”

Your grin returns a second later, all amused heat “You’re getting bolder, doc.”

He still doesn’t look at you, but you don’t miss the way his ears turn slightly pink beneath his hat.

Outside the med bay, Shachi and Penguin pass by. The door’s cracked open.

They stop and peek in.

Exchange glances.

“Should we—” Penguin whispers.

“Nope,” Shachi hisses, dragging him by the collar “We’ll ruin it.”

Inside, Law turns a page that’s already been turned.

You don’t notice. Not really. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’re playing with fire and pretending you’re not holding the match.

Either way, he’s very much burning.

Later, in the mess hall, Bepo slides into the seat beside you with a tray of fruit and a very serious expression.

He offers you a sliced mango like a peace offering.

You take it “Thanks, Bepo.”

He glances around. Lowers his voice “You’re… really close with the Captain lately.”

You raise a brow “We’ve always been close.”

“No,” Bepo says flatly “Not like that.”

You blink innocently “Like what?”

He sighs. Long and patient “You’re smiling more. He’s grumpier.”

“That just sounds like balance.”

“He looked like he was gonna pass out when you touched his hair yesterday.”

You frown, thoughtful “Huh. That’s weird. I do that all the time.”

Bepo stares at you, deadpan “Exactly.”

You pop a slice of mango in your mouth and glance toward the doorway where Law had just passed minutes earlier, still reading his damn charts like they were gospel. Still with that slight hitch in his step whenever you were too close. Still pretending he was fine when everyone else could see he was very, very not fine.

And you were starting to like the way his breath caught when you smiled.

But you still weren’t rushing. You were just… here.

The crew was silently placing bets on when the captain would finally snap and kiss you.

Weeks later

“Here” Law’s voice interrupts your thoughts, his hand offering you a cup of tea, steam curling up from the top. His movements are slow, deliberate. There’s no rush. He doesn’t force you into anything.

You look up, meeting his gaze. His expression is calm, as usual, but there’s something in his eyes now, something that makes your chest tighten in a way that feels both foreign and familiar.

“Thanks” you say, taking the cup from him. It’s warm against your hands, and you bring it to your lips, the scent of the tea calming you. It’s nothing like the way Kid would’ve thrown a mug at you, or shouted at you if you didn’t take something immediately. With Law, everything feels… softer. You’ve realized that, over time, it’s exactly what you needed.

You sit beside him, leaning back against the railing of the ship. The sea breeze is gentle today, and the sound of the waves soothes you in a way that nothing else can.

For a moment, there’s silence between you two. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s different. The quiet feels right. Unlike with Kid, who always filled the space with noise, with Law, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence. You can simply exist.

“How’s the crew doing?” you ask, trying to break the quiet. You haven’t spent much time around the crew recently, preferring to stay on deck with Law.

“They’re fine,” Law says, his tone easy, casual “They can take care of themselves.”

You nod, sipping your tea, the steam rising between you. You catch yourself staring at him again, and this time, you don’t look away.

At first, you couldn’t understand why Kid had let you go with Law. It didn’t make sense, not then. He pushed you away and seemed to believe that you and Law were a better match.

But as time passes, you understand. Law is patient with you. He gives you space, but he’s always there when you need him, like now. You feel safe with him in a way you never did with Kid. It’s not that you didn’t love Kid... you did, but with Law, you’re starting to see that maybe Kid was right.

“You’re not like him, are you?” you say suddenly, your voice almost a whisper, the thought finally breaking free.

Law looks at you, his brow slightly furrowed, waiting for you to continue.

“I mean…” You hesitate, unsure of how to explain what you’re thinking “With Kid, everything was always… loud. There was no room to breathe. But with you,” you pause, feeling your heart race for reasons you don’t fully understand “With you, I can breathe. You let me be myself.”

There’s a brief silence before Law speaks again, his voice gentle but honest “I don’t want you to be someone else. You’re enough as you are.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, your throat tightens. You’ve never heard anything like that before, not from Kid, at least. With him, there was always a push, a need to be something you weren’t. But with Law, there’s only acceptance. You’ve never felt more… yourself.

You lower your cup, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest “I never understood why he pushed me to you. Why he let me go. But I think I get it now.”

Law doesn’t say anything, but you can see the smallest shift in his expression, like he’s pleased that you’ve finally figured it out. He doesn’t ask you to say more, doesn’t press. He simply leans back, watching the horizon.

There’s something in the way you’re looking at him now that makes your heart race again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it feels like a warmth settling inside you, one you didn’t expect to find.

For the first time since everything happened with Kid, you realize that maybe Law is exactly who you were supposed to end up with. He’s calm, patient, and steady in a way you never realized you needed.

And, just like that, you realize that falling in love with him doesn’t mean you’ve stopped loving Kid. It means you’ve found someone who fits you better. And the love you felt for Kid? It was real. But this? This is something different.

Something deeper.

“I think…” You pause, your voice barely above a whisper “I think I’m falling for you, Law.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, his voice is low, soft “I know.”

Your heart skips a beat. Maybe it’s the way he says it, or maybe it’s the way he’s always been there, quiet but sure. Whatever it is, you know it now. You’re not just with him. You’re falling, slowly, steadily, into a love you never expected.

And this time, it feels like home.

One year later since Wano — Kid’s POV

The letter arrives without warning. Just a plain envelope, worn at the edges, smudged slightly with travel.

Killer drops it on the table in front of him without a word.

Kid eyes it like it might explode.

There’s no name on the front. But he knows the handwriting. He stares at it for a long time before picking it up, thumb tracing the edges like he’s not sure if he wants to open it. But he does.

The letter wasn’t special at first glance.

Just a folded piece of paper slipped between the pages of a merchant log, handed off by some wandering courier on a random island port.

Kid almost didn’t notice it. He rarely cared much for anything written, he wasn’t the type to sit and read. But something about the handwriting on the outside caught his eye.

His name. Just that. No crew insignia, no flourish. Just his name, scribbled in a way he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

His fingers hesitated before unfolding it. And then, he started reading.

Hey, Kid. Didn’t think I’d be writing you, huh? It’s been a while. I hope you’re still alive and yelling at someone somewhere (Knowing you, the answer is yes). I just wanted to check in and say… thank you. And also let you know how things turned out. So... you probably know I’m with Law now, since people keep calling us the "power couple" or whatever. It kind of snuck up on both of us, honestly. He was just… patient, in that annoying calm way of his. He never pressured me, just gave me space to breathe, to think, to heal. I didn’t even realize how much I needed that until it was right in front of me. He treats me so gently. Not like I’m fragile, just… like I matter. And I know this might sound weird, but I think part of the reason I was able to even get here, to this version of myself, is you. You let me go that day in Wano. You didn’t fight it. And even though it hurt—hell, it really hurt—it was what I needed. You read through me better than I could read myself. You knew I didn’t belong in that life anymore before I did. So… thank you. For letting me go. For not holding on when I couldn’t make myself walk away. The Heart Pirates are like a real family now. I’ve found my place. I do miss the chaos of your crew sometimes, though. The yelling, the mess, the ridiculous fights over food. Heat, Wire, Killer… I hope they’re all doing okay. Tell them I said hi, please. I hope you’re doing okay. Really. I hope wherever you are, whoever you’re with, you’ve found something that makes you feel whole. Like what I have now. I guess that’s all I really wanted to say. Thank you. I hope you’re happy. I am, thanks to you. – Y/N

Kid didn’t move for a while after reading it.

He stood on the edge of the Victoria Punk, letter still in his hand, the breeze tugging at the paper like it wanted to carry it away. He could hear the crew shouting somewhere in the distance, laughing about something stupid, probably.

His jaw clenched. Not in anger. Not even in bitterness.

Just… something tight. Deep.

He read the last few lines again.

“I hope you’re happy. Like I am.”

You were gone. And you were happy.

He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the pocket inside his coat.

Then he turned, walking back toward the noise of his crew.

He didn’t say a word.

But there was the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A ghost of something that looked a little like peace.

[sheepispink]

mainly ghost but still tf141 x overstimulated/sensitive! reader SFW

i’ve been so sensitive to sound recently and it’s killing me because my family just loves to speak SO LOUDLY. im gonna die. also mind the spelling, i wrote this in 20 mins

The weeks have been dragging on too long, your throat has been endlessly dry for days and your brain is practically rattling against your skull everytime something enters your ears. Not even the cool nights in spring can ease the burn of your skin, only stinging the teeth marks in your raw lips. It’s all too much, the guilt of not doing enough weighing heavily on your eyes whilst you push your feet to move forward. One more step. Just until Friday. That’s all you’ve been saying since the new year and not once has it payed off.

How much more of this can you really take? The trampled dirt on this abandoned path has been attacking your nose for the past few minutes and the moon may as well be the sun with the way it burns your eyes. It was supposed to be an escape but the howls of the wild animals seem to tunnel directly to your ears, relentlessly digging its way through and into your brain. Covering them wont even help, not when your hair feels oily despite being washed that morning and a sticky residue still remaining on your hands despite how red they are from scrubbing the drink a rookie spilled everywhere.

And yet it’s still thursday. Still another full day of this; another twenty four hours one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, eighty six thousand and four hundred seconds more of this.

“Sergeant?”

Your brain snaps awake, every single sense disappearing as you look to the side, noticing your Lieutenant. A gun is held in his hand, a cloth in the other from his meticulous cleaning routine. Though what’s got you more confused is the hand that roughly pulls your shoulder back, making you stumble.

“Why—” You finish your own sentence as you stare at the giant puddle you were about to step right through and likely soak your entire calf. “Oh.”

“What had you thinking so hard you almost drowned?” He tugs you to walk around it and you follow, stepping into a comfortable pace that aligns with his. You’re tempted to roll your eyes though, you definitely wouldnt have drowned from a puddle.

“The usual.. y'know work and all.” He nods as you sigh, falling quiet for a moment before he begins again.

“Never took you for the distracted type.” As much as you gladly took any conversation your gruff superior rarely shared with you, you were suddenly praying he’d just shut up. He’s usually silent so why not this time?

“Oi! You think this is a joke?”

Ghost glances over at the rookie being yelled at by his officer, letting out a gruff chuckle. “Havent missed hearin’ those.” He hums lowly, turning to face you again only to be taken aback by the pained expression on your face, wincing at the loud yelling. “So that’s what it is..”

—

It’s not long before he’s got you in the task force’s common room, signalling to Soap with a finger to his lips and then a nod towards you who follows in a haze. You’re exhausted, that’s for sure, but overstimulated was definitely your main diagnosis. Soap gets the jist quickly, standing up to dim the lights a little, before walking over to the kitchen to grab you a glass of lukewarm water. Not too cold, and definitely not warm either.

You’re like putty in Ghost’s silence, letting him do whatever he pleases as long as he stays silent like that; even if it means he’s got you snuggled against the cushions, the water glass in your hand thanks to Soap. The telly is turned on, only emitting a low hum of a stupid sitcom the team’s been invested in recently. It’s calming, quiet and the blanket placed over the three of you is way too tempting for Gaz not to join in too, forcing you all into a comfortable squeeze.

Though it wouldn't be quite complete without Price settling on a nearby armchair, the faded scent of his cologne somehow wafting towards your nose. Soap’s arm rests around your back, a comfortable unmoving weight, but his shoulder is an even better pillow as your brain starts to give into the peaceful atmosphere—a gloved finger gently rubbing the back of your hand.

[rueclfer]

Can I get a gentle reminder smau with Shigaraki? And maybe with a little excerpt of him checking in on us 👉🏻👈🏻 love your writing, but don’t feel inclined to do this request if you don’t want to :)

ily u r sweet yes u can get some of this soft n tender shiggy

gentle reminder // tomura shigaraki

“keep track of your shit.” tomura says once more, tossing your pill bottle onto your bed, right next to your figure hidden beneath the mass of blankets.

“you see a bottle of pills that looks kinda important, that you know i left in your room since last week and you don’t think to at least notify me?” you huff, peaking your head out.

“i dunno.” he shrugs. “you leave shit in my room at the time. think i have half your closet on my floor.” 

you tightly clench the fabric of the blanket up over your nose as heat spikes up to your ears.

tomura doesn’t need an invitation to make himself comfortable in your bed. you feel the shift of the mattress underneath you and hear the rattle of the pills as he shakes it in his hands.

“so this tiny ass pill” he lays on his back, one hand behind his head, the other holding up the small orange bottle to his eyes. “is the one thing that keeps you together?”

“unfortunately.” you sigh, pulling the blanket down under your chin. “can you pass me one?”

you watch him carefully shake out the small pale pill into the palm of his hand. he returns the stare as you swallow the pill dry, returning your head down onto your pillow.

“feel better?” he sets the bottle on the nightstand.

“no.” you laugh at the naivety. “gonna take a little to get used to them again.”

“what do you need then?” he blankly stares at you. “‘cause you can’t do this for another week.”

you two lock into a staring contest while you think for a moment. 

what do i need?

you feel like shit. you haven’t taken a proper shower in a few days. you haven’t really eaten anything. your throat is dry. this migraine is pounding its way out of your skull. this is the most you’ve spoken to someone in a week.

“maybe just stay here.”

it takes him by surprise- you see the shock in his eyes. 

sure you’ve messed around a bit (a lot), but you’ve never asked him for any sort of warmth and comfort. this is new territory for the both of you.

tomura fully turns on his side and inches a bit closer to you. he’s scared to touch you, so he just invades your bubble a little bit more than he usually would. your breaths intertwine in the stuffy air of your bedroom and you see the room slowly grow dimmer as the sun sets.

“is this helping?” he whispers.

“yeah.” you close your eyes, fingers reaching out to rest on top of the back of his hand, lighting tapping over his fingers. “thanks, tomura.”

“just don’t be stupid and forget again.” he sighs, switching your hand positions, his now firmly laying flat over yours.

“maybe it’s all a ruse to get you in my bed.” you tease.

“not that you need a ruse. it’s you. i’m always available.” he scoffs. “idiot.” he quickly adds on.

tomura’s glad the sun was almost set at this point. you wouldn’t be able to see his growing flushed face and chewed bottom lip as he continues to stare at your slight smile, and tousled hair from laying in bed all day.

he’ll make a mental note to make it a habit to stop by your room and remind you to take your meds from now on. he doesn’t realize until now that this piece of solitude in each other’s presence has been something he’s been craving, almost like an insatiable hunger. 

tomura scooches closer now, letting himself in the cocoon of your blankets. you accept him in between your arms, letting him rest his head against the crook of your neck.

“thank you, tomura.” you mutter against his hairline.

“yeah.”

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies

Sheriff! John Price x Fem! Reader

~Small Town AU~

Warnings: Violence, blood, descriptions of injuries, reader is a litle unhinged, mentions of juvenile hall, mentions of mental illnesses, one suggestive line, hints at a blood kink? I think?

Word Count: 7.4k

Author's Note: Is this smut? No. Is this fluff? Also no. Is this hurt/comfort? ALSO NO. WTF IS THIS? I HAVE NO IDEA! I have no fucking clue what I've been on lately, my brain has just been tunneling while writing idk man. This got weird, idk, I've got some pent-up shit I guess. Currently self-indulging in this reader ngl. She's just like me fr. This got a way from me.

Series Masterlist

Part Two Here

Enjoy?

***

It’s a bad fucking day, you decide. 

It wasn’t terrible, up until this very moment, but this is going to ruin your whole goddamn week. If you had any more energy, you might scream. Or cry. Or punch your asshole boss in his ugly mug. Your fingers twitch at your sides, knuckles itching with the urge to feel the sting of his face splitting your skin. Images flicker through your mind, blood spattered and a skull caved on the pavement, the sound of a gurgling death rattle soaked in crimson rings in your ears. In another life, you got more than three hours of sleep. In another life, the effort it would take to land a solid, satisfying punch is readily available to you.

But you don’t. Have the energy, that is. You’re drained after a long, grueling thirteen hour overnight shift at the little 24-hour diner you spend most of your time at. You’d stopped listening altogether after the first thirty seconds or so, your mind going straight to violent daydreams because anything else takes too much effort you aren’t willing to exert. It’s cold this early in the morning, not having bothered grabbing your jacket on your way in last night. Sun’s just barely coming up over the horizon, but your breath still fogs in the air. So does his. He should stop breathing.

The boss caught you as you were leaving, yanking you around to the back door where he’d begun spitting obscenities at you. Something about a broken door from a few nights ago, when an angry customer shoved it hard enough on the way out he actually busted the hinge and dented the metal handle bar. There wasn’t much you could do, outside of reporting the incident over email to the owner, then your boss, then calling the sheriff’s office. Nothing else to do, in a town as small as this one. One of the three deputies came in to look at it, did an incident report, and took a description. You knew the man, always angry, always one step from pummeling the next person on the wrong end of his warpath. Everyone knew him, really. Especially the tiny four-man police force. 

If you weren’t constantly exhausted, you might be in the same boat. Maybe worse. Maybe in a padded room somewhere. Maybe on death row.

If you could focus on anything, you’d have heard the Sheriff’s pickup pull into the parking lot. If you could hear anything outside the buzzing in your head, you’d hear the crunch of gravel under thick-soled boots, heavy where they step up behind you. If you had any awareness about you, you’d watch your boss’s face drop at the sight of the town’s lawman, fixing his posture and plastering a too-wide smile onto his face.

“Sheriff Price! What brings you all the way out here this fine morning?” The words barely flicker across your consciousness. You’re still out of it. Until your boss reaches a hand out and slaps it down on your shoulder, making your entire body flinch hard, hard enough to have you stumbling backward into a brick wall of a man. 

“Easy, sweetheart.” Blearily, you tilt your head back to look up at him, still unfocused but slowly coming back. After a good, long look at you, his attention returns to your boss.

“Laswell is gonna have your ass, Graves. If there’s one thing she doesn’t tolerate, it’s a damn bully.” The two have some back and forth, you can’t be bothered to pay attention when your body is starting to feel the cold seeping into your bones, limbs shaking uncontrollably. Warmth surrounds you suddenly, and you can’t help but soak in the heat as a weight settles on your shoulders. Still, between the exhaustion, stress, and the cold, you’re not feeling great. A door slams somewhere, and your vision is blocked with a different man. A bigger man, wider and sturdier. Big hands grip your shoulders as he leans down into your line of sight, blue eyes and thick mutton chop beard filling your vision.

A memory flickers, blurry and clipped, of a younger boy with those eyes. Piercing cerulean gaze cutting through the red like a hot knife through butter. He was strong then, too, all those years ago. You were reckless, back then. Your knuckles are still scarred from teeth and bone, an ache in your wrists returning every so often to remind you of the past. The good old days. Teenage years littered with blood and violence and the walls of the nearest juvenile hall. That’s where you met him the first time, the two of you locked into that fortress miles away. The two of you learned to hit the same punching bag, holding it steady while the other ripped into the canvas, to avoid punching each other. There’s a dull throb in your shoulders, that punching bag flooding your memory, the patchwork repairs it had to go through after the two of you nearly tore it in half. 

You both seemed to have mellowed out, since then. You haven’t talked to him directly since you both got out of juvie a decade ago.

“You look like you’ve been better, sweetheart.” Now that the threat is gone, you’re able to think past the vermillion fog. 

“Sheriff Price? What are you doing here?” He hums, tugging the thick fabric of his jacket tighter around your shoulders. Ah, that’s what’s warm. And it smells like old worn leather and tobacco, probably from the cigars he smokes. You find comfort in it. 

“It’s Saturday. I’m pickin up breakfast for the boys at the station. What are you doing here, huh? I don’t usually see you working Saturdays.” Great question. What are you still doing here? Oh yes that’s right, getting cursed out by your boss. Wishing you had a hammer to smash his face in with.

“Had a long shift. Got off a half hour ago.” He flicks his wrist up, glances at the old watch with a concerned expression.

“You worked the graveyard shift?” You nod.

“Every day.” It’s not insanely fun, but it’s work you get paid well enough for, especially when the hours between 10pm and 3am are an extra five bucks an hour and nobody tends to walk in besides the odd drunk. Nights are when you’re most active, anyways. Your mother used to call you a nocturnal creature, when she was alive.

“Kate’s gonna be hearin about this.” 

“You don’t need to tell her. I don’t hate it, and nobody else will do the work.” He huffs, then guides you to his truck, holding the passenger door open.

“Get in. I’ll be right back.” Usually you walk home, but right now you don’t really have it in you to decline, especially when he starts the engine and cranks the heat on. He disappears into the diner, leaving you to your devices. You can feel your body shutting down, feel your eyes falling shut. Maybe you can rest your eyes, just for a minute. 

That minute turns into twenty, and you’re jolted awake when Sheriff Price shakes you by the shoulder. A glance outside shows the Sheriff’s Station. Damn, you knocked out. You didn’t even hear him open the door, let alone feel the drive.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart. You need to stop anywhere?” 

“No, thank you.” You rattle off the address, though you’re sure he probably knows where every soul in this town lives by heart. Even you, who he rarely ever sees or interacts with. He walks you to your door, making sure you’re alright as you step over the welcome mat and into the house your parents left to you. The floorboards creak beneath your feet.

“You should start locking your door, sweetheart.” You shrug.

“Small town. Few visitors. Not a whole lot to feel threatened about, if I’m being honest.” Not a lot to worry about, yes. There’s the tiniest sliver of you that waits for the day someone tries something. You’ve got baseball bats and heavy mallets stashed around the house, easily accessible and collecting dust. You shuck his jacket from your shoulders, briefly mourning the loss of heat, ignoring the pang of longing that strikes through you like a thunderbolt when you lose his scent.

“Thank you for taking me home, Sheriff.”

“Just John is fine, darlin. Get some rest. You work tonight, don’t you?” Head heavy, you nod.

“7pm tonight.” That’s your usual shift. Start at 7pm, sometimes 8pm. Last night you just covered for someone, going in at 4pm instead of your normal. He nods, then he’s off. Briefly, you wonder if he ever reminisces about those days, back in juvie. The two of you like two sides of the same coin, fire on fire, unstoppable force and immovable object. They aren’t the fondest memories, but sometimes you can feel yourself flitting back to the impulses, beyond what you let your mind imagine. 

Tonight when you go in, you hear the news that your boss, Phil, has been fired. No more Phil means no more screaming and swearing. No more being backed into a corner. No more dissociation when you’re on the bad end of his ire. Kate comes in, too, along with the Sheriff. Neither of which have ever been seen around the diner this time of night. 

“You alone tonight?” You nod. 

“I’m alone every night, Mrs. Laswell. Once I relieve the night shift, it’s just me until I tag in the morning crew at 4 in the morning.” Her whistle is low over her cherry pie slice.

“Damn. Shoulda known Graves was pulling shit like this.” You shrug from behind the counter.

“I don’t mind. I’m a night owl anyways. ‘Sides, it’s not like there’s a whole lot for me to be worried about around these parts.” John clears his throat then, grabbing your attention.

“That’s actually why we’re here, darlin. A few of your coworkers were here when Graves was let go, and he wasn’t happy. According to them, he was especially cross with you. Figured you should know about it, and we’re going to stick around for the night to make sure nothing happens.” Christ. 

“Phil’s got anger management problems, sure, but I really don’t see a world where he’d actually do anything except cry wolf. He’s like a chihuahua, all bark and no bite.” Kate coughs through her laugh, John is less amused.

“Sometimes people do crazy things when they’re angry and drunk, and Graves is a regular at the bar a few blocks down. The man just lost his job and associates it with you. I’d rather not take that chance.” That’s a fair point. Not like you couldn’t just shoot him, though.

“If it makes you feel any better, I know how to use that.” You hook your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the double–barreled shotgun mounted on the wall. There’s a box of buckshot in a locked drawer, and the keys are on you at all times, passed between the leads throughout the day. John grunts, nods roughly. 

“It does. Still, we’ll be around tonight.” That’s just fine by you. They’ll probably leave in a few hours.

They don’t leave in a few hours. Both of them stick around and make conversation with you while you clean through your entire shift. Phil doesn’t show up, but you hadn’t expected him to. Coward. John drives you home again, telling you to lock your door. You don’t.

That’s how the next week or so develops. Every night you greet either the Sheriff or one of the Deputies, get them a plate or a pie and clean through your shift. Johnny’s a chatterbox, really keeps the conversation going with his quick wit and endless babbling. Gaz, whose real name is actually Kyle, is less bubbly but still keeps light conversation. Simon’s like a damn ghost. He doesn’t speak, hell you aren’t even sure if he breathes under that black bandana he keeps over his face and the black cowboy hat he never takes off. You could mistake him for an outlaw in an old western if you thought about it hard enough. They all drive you home at the end of your shift, choosing to ignore your protests with the same answer: Sheriff’s orders. Your sigh goes ignored, too, and you generally lack the energy to do anything but accept.

John comes in every other night, too. Most times he’s alone, keeping you company when you’re alone. Being alone together isn’t terrible. 

“This is what you do every night? Wait around and clean?” You nod from your spot on the floor where you scrub the baseboards you’d missed yesterday. 

“Nobody else does this kind of work throughout the day. Last time I skipped over a task it got bad. Sometimes I wonder if the whole place would go down in flames if I weren’t here.” You know it’s not the best situation. If the shop falls apart when one person doesn’t do something, then the place was doomed from the beginning. But it keeps you busy, keeps the itch down.

“I find it hard to believe they can’t do this shit.” 

“Won’t,” you correct, “They won’t. It’s not that they can’t, the whole lot is fully capable. I love most of my coworkers like family, even if I don’t see them very often, but most of them just won’t get down and dirty to scrub the grease from the grout.” His eyebrow lifts, and you ignore the strange glint in his eyes in favor of returning to your task, scrubbing the corners where wall meets floor with a brush and grout-safe cleaner.

He’s always asking you things, when he comes in. How often you actually cook this late at night, if at all. The menu reduces once you’re alone, all simple things you don’t need to make in big batches. Burgers, fries, pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, lunch sandwiches. The pasta dishes get shut down, just because the sauce morning crew preps tends to run out just after 6pm.  Sometimes you’ll have leftover pies from earlier in the day, but all the pastries are delivered from the bakery down the street. He asks what you do on your breaks. You usually whip up a small meal for yourself, and eat at the counter to be able to watch the diner. It’s pretty rare you get anyone coming in during your allotted hour of mealtime.

“You look tired tonight, darlin.” It’s good to know you look how you feel. He’s at the counter, elbow leaning over his mug of coffee. Two raw sugars, no cream. You’ve found a lull in your cleaning frenzy, just having finished a task and looking for the next, leaning directly across from him while he asks his questions.

“I’m always tired, John.” Insomnia is a bitch, truly. Sleep is a battle every day, some days more than others.

“Why’s that?” Shrugging seems to be your default.

“Insomnia. Most days I’m lucky if I get more than six hours.” Worry flickers across his face, but only briefly.

“That’s not good, love.” Again, you shrug.

“That’s life for me. Medication only does so much. Being here every day helps, keeps me on a schedule I can’t deviate from. I didn’t have the energy to work days, dealing with customers had me drained, so I took nights. It works for me.” His nod is heavy, letting the weight of his head tug it down. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s seen it before. You don’t doubt he has. You don’t tell him how dealing with some people makes your blood boil. You don’t mention that, if given the chance, you’d pummel anyone stupid enough to grate on your nerves. Part of you thinks he already knows, and you wouldn’t need to tell him anyway. The voice of a therapist from long ago says you have anger issues. It’s a voice you choose to ignore.

“You didn’t have insomnia back in juvie.” Your spine prickles. He remembers you, there.

“It came after. After I learned to curb the aggressive tendencies.” After you learned to bottle it all up and shove it away, trapped in your head and never expressed. You think, without an outlet, all that leftover energy made you restless. That’s not what the therapist says, though. She says it’s something to do with the depression. You can’t be arsed to remember the intricacies of it all.

“I liked the violent streak you had.” It almost makes you laugh. There’s a small flame in your chest at the notion he'd find your volatile nature amusing.

“The first time we met, I broke your nose for stealing my punching bag.” His smile is lazy, fond.

“Yeah you did. Gave me a shiner, too.” You remember that vividly. The way he’d shoved you out of his path, taking the bag for himself with a ‘get lost’ thrown over his shoulder. He’d been there a month longer than you, and had laid claim on the damn thing apparently. You hit him, then, square in the nose, and when he fell on his ass you got on top of him and didn’t stop throwing punches until he grabbed your wrists and shoved you off. The pummeling match went on for a full, glorious minute, blood flying and fists colliding. It’s a miracle you both dodged and blocked each other enough to avoid losing a tooth, but you came out of it with a black eye, a split lip, and a fractured collarbone. You think you fell in love with him, when you both were yanked apart by officers and got a good, long look at each other. Blood pouring down his neck and shirt, eye starting to swell shut, nose crooked, knuckles bleeding and torn. But those eyes never lost their shine, never faded into dissociation, always sharp and gleaming

“It’s a miracle we ever learned to share the bag.” 

“No miracle, sweetheart. 17-year-old John Price got a hard-on holding that bag while you ripped it to shreds.” The revelation has you frozen solid. You can’t pry your eyes from his gaze, locked onto the tension holding the two of you so still your breathing stops. Blood rushes in your ears, and that itch is back tenfold, your arms throbbing, wrists tense, back coiled. Your muscles aren’t what they used to be, having kept yourself under wraps for so long, not even daring to go to the tiny gym in town to hit the bag there since you’d left the hall. Still, they remember.

The bell on the diner door chimes, jolting you from your trance. John smiles to himself. 

The next time he’s in, it’s like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t admit to finding you hot back in juvie, like he hadn’t just turned your head inside out. He ignores it. So you do, too. It’s what you’re good at, ignoring the urges. Indulgence only ever in your mind.

“Are you going to be alright, Sheriff?” Confusion etches across his features, head tilting just so.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean you never used to be around this late. Most places are closed, and I’ve never seen you in here until recently. As far as I know, you’re a daytime person. And judging by your fourth cup of coffee in two hours, I’d say you’re running on fumes.” It’s only midnight, there’s still four hours left in your shift. He doesn’t show the exhaustion, though, eyes alert and bright, those cerulean blues striking as always. This close you can see the flecks of deep sapphire.

“I’ll be alright, sweetheart. I’m here to watch over you.” He’s still hanging onto that, huh? You’re sure he knows you can take care of yourself.

“Honestly John, it’s been over two weeks. He’s probably moved on with his life. As pathetic as he is, I doubt he still poses any kind of threat.” It’s a shame, really, you just wanted one reason to beat him senseless. It’s his turn to shrug, eyeing you with something serious in his eyes.

“Can’t be too careful. Some people will wait years to settle a score, no matter how shallow it’s been carved in the pavement.” He says it like he’s seen the work of someone like that, been on the brunt end of it and come out the other side a different man. A headline from a few years back flashes in your mind, the local news covering something big you never looked into, and the name John Price was in that same article. That was before he became sheriff, when he was out in a different town doing who knows what. Maybe he’s a little paranoid.

You’ll let him stay, let his deputies all keep a close eye on you for as long as he needs to assuage his anxieties.

Simon’s here tonight, silent, haunting, as he always is. He doesn’t watch you, intent on studying the intricacies of the diner, committing it to memory. He’s been in here enough he should already have the entire floor plan memorized. In an attempt to keep him from dying of boredom, you offer to make him something to eat. His voice is rough, deep, carries a little too loudly across the empty diner but you don’t pay it any mind.

“What do you have?” You rattle off your list, burgers and fries and most breakfast foods. You didn’t pin him as a french toast guy. 

“Eggs? Bacon?”

“Sunny side. Extra crispy.” It’s easy enough. Two thick slices of french toast sat on a platter, two large eggs, sunny-side-up, and a few of the thicker slices of bacon you can find, fried extra crispy, a little char on the edges. You call out to him from your station at the stove.

“You want powdered sugar on the french toast?”

“No, thanks.” That’s a damn shame. His loss, you suppose. You take the plate out to him with a glass bottle of maple syrup. You nearly jump out of your skin when he tugs the bandana off his face, choosing to turn away like he’d need privacy. It’s weird, his face being exposed. He groans at the first bite, and satisfaction rips through you. It’s always nice knowing people enjoy the food you make, even if people are few and far between. People you can tolerate, that is.

“Nobody makes bacon like this. Even the mornings Price brings food from here, it’s not this good. What the hell kind of crack cocaine did you put in the bacon?” A laugh claws from your throat, a bursting thing you can’t help but let out. When he’s not brooding, Simon’s a comic.

“No cocaine, swear it. I leave the grease over it extra long, it almost deep-fries. Then sear it with high heat for the char.” He eats the plate like he’s never eaten before and will never eat again. Damn. You suppose, being as big as he is, he must burn through calories like there’s no tomorrow. After the meal he opens up a lot, much more than he ever had in the last two weeks. He’s funny as all hell when he wants to be, puns and clever phrases always on the tip of his tongue. It’s always delivered dry, like he doesn’t find it funny at all, but you can’t help but notice the little smirk on his face when you snort out another laugh from where you scrub the tile.

Part of you hates that you hadn’t found this side of Simon sooner. Maybe then he’d be less grumpy.

Another thing you don’t find out until tonight, is that Phillip Graves is more of a threat than you’d bargained for.

He waits until Simon pulls off down the road to make his move. If it weren’t for the old bones of the house, constantly moving and creaking, you’d have been a goner. Floorboards creak from behind you as you shut the front door, and all the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. Knuckles itch, wrists throb, back coils tight.. This is it. The bat under the lamp stand fits well in your hands, and you don’t even wait to see who’s dared to intrude, just turn and swing. The blow is blocked with an arm, a shout and wince echoing from your former boss. He reorients, and you swing again. And again. And again, until he can’t keep up and block anymore. Red colored glasses tint your vision. Something shatters, but you don’t pay it any mind, not when the fog crawls over your head, not when you’ve got something to pulverize. When he finds an opening, he tries to grab the bat, but you yank it and jab it right into his stomach. You need to get out of here. He's still moving. You’re exhausted, you aren’t hitting hard enough.

He keels over, thrown off balance enough for you to sprint up to your bedroom and barricade the door. You’re smart enough to know he can overpower you, especially considering not a single one of your blows managed to topple him. You can hear him shouting obscenities, calling you every colorful name in the book, and he’s at the door trying to knock it down. Thank fuck your dad was the town’s carpenter. Even in a house as old as this one, it’s sturdier than most of the newer construction. Still, you don’t have all the time in the world here. 

Your heart is in your ears as you scramble around the room, punching in the code for the safe where you keep your dad’s old revolver and the box of bullets. It’s loaded as Graves shouts and kicks the door, and you stand in the furthest corner facing the door, gun in hand. Surprisingly, you hadn’t bothered to take anything off in the scuffle, so your bag and your phone are still on you. You call the station.

“Sheriff’s station, what can I do for ya?” That’s John’s voice. An especially hard hit on the door has it rattling and you let out a squeak. 

“Hello? What’s happening?” His tone has grown serious, and it snaps you into gear. Shakily, you find the energy to speak, find your voice in the fading rage and rising fear. You’re an animal, backed into a corner.

“J-john he’s here. Graves he’s,” the door frame starts to creak and splinter, and you yelp, “he’s in the house!” There’s a curse and a couple shouts on the other end.

“Stay there, we’re on our way. Get somewhere safe.” Then he’s gone, and you’re alone. Graves shouts from the door, banging a fist as if knocking was going to let him in.

“Come on, missy. You’ve got some nerve, gettin me fired then gettin all buddy-buddy with the Sheriff.” His words are slurred, he’s definitely drunk. But no less of a threat.

“I didn’t even do anything! You got fired cause you’re a dick!” The anger rears its head through the fear and adrenaline. It’s making you steady yourself, your heart erratic in your chest. 

“Fuckin cunt. Shoulda fired you a long time ago. Laswell’s a bitch that doesn’t know what she’s lost gettin rid of me. Shoulda got rid of you.” What a fucking nut case. When you don’t answer this time, he throws his weight against the door.

“Let me in, little missy.” You have half a mind to fire a warning shot through the door, or five, regardless of whether it’ll hit or not, but you’d be giving yourself away. He doesn’t know you’ve got a gun, and he clearly doesn’t have one or he’d have used it by now. There’s every chance you fire a shot, miss, and he takes off. An involuntary scream crawls up your throat when one of the door panels breaks through, a fist coming through and reaching around to the handle. It’s clumsy, the way he flails around for it, but he manages to unlock it. Not that he can get though now, not with the dresser lodged up against the door, tucked against the uneven floorboards to anchor it. 

“Fuck, you little bitch! I’m coming in sooner or later! You got nowhere to go!” He’s right. The adrenaline alone isn’t enough to keep you alive, throwing weak punches never helped anyone. But all you need to do is hold out until John gets here. He’s furiously trying to widen the hole he made in the door, chipping away at it until he’s got his whole shoulder through in an attempt to move the dresser. In his drunken state, he seems to be ignoring the splinters shredding his skin through the thin flannel he’s wearing. Suddenly you hear a siren, the telltale noise of the Sheriff’s truck barreling down the street, and Graves stills with a curse, his shoulder still embedded in the door, his entire arm on your side of the wood. In some insane stroke of luck, he tries to pull out and gets stuck on an especially thick scrap, digging sharp into his shoulder, drawing blood when he tries again. 

This is the one shot you’ve got. 

You’re on him in a split second, grabbing his hand while he’s distracted and twisting his wrist painfully enough to have him screeching out expletives. But he’s strong, and you don’t think you can hold him long enough for John to get up here. The sirens are still a few houses down at least. If you’re not careful, Graves is gonna grab you and he won’t care how he shreds his arm if he can get to you. The only other thing you have is the revolver, and you can’t know what you’ll hit on the other side. But you know what you’ll hit on this side. With little other choice, you yank his arm as hard as you can and press the barrel right up against his forearm. His arm goes limp, and you hold fast as he stops tugging.

“You move at all, damn it all to the fiery pits of hell I’ll blow your goddamn arm off your body Phil.” You can hear his breathing pick up, the little twinge of fear in his voice. It sends a thrill down your spine.

“You wouldn’t dare. You ain’t got the nerve.” You pull the hammer back, rest the length of the barrel over his arm to point the business end at the wall and pull the trigger. He jumps, screams just a little, before he realizes he hasn’t been shot. Yet.

“That was the only warning shot you’re getting.” He’s still, then, when you reorient the end to pin his arm. He flinches, but that’s all he dares to move. You hear it, then, the front door slamming open and shouting through the house. Heavy boots stomp their way through the house, more than one pair, and John’s voice comes through, rage carrying it enough you can feel the baritone through your chest.

“Graves!”

“Here! Upstairs, he’s stuck in the door!” You yell through the house, and you can hear them coming up like a stampede, stopping on the other side of the door. With Graves stuck as he is, John’s attention is quickly on you, calling through the door.

“Are you alright, sweetheart? Are you shot?” 

“No, I’m fine. It was a warning shot, I’ve got a revolver.” There’s a small curse on the other side, and you decide it’s best you put the gun away. It’s unloaded, the chamber cleared, and locked away in its proper place in the safe while John and whoever else he’d brought, probably Simon, works to get him unstuck. He’s towed off somewhere, and between your own fading adrenaline and climbing exhaustion, you manage to move the dresser enough to yank open the splintering door. John is there, two big hands on your shoulders and leaning down to look you in the eyes. His own baby blues flutter over your form, checking you over for anything amiss. 

“You alright, darlin?” With everything catching up to you, you’re a bit fried, and you’re trembling where you stand. He yanks you in, wrapping his arms tight around you and all you have the energy to do is shake and weep. Rage and fear and exhaustion, all pouring out. Rough fingers dig into your scalp, a big hand rubs across your back, grounding you while you sob until your body is slumping into his.

“Alright, there you are. You alright to come down to the station?” Not really, but you know you have to go and give a statement, especially now while everything’s fresh. Besides, you don’t know if you can actually sleep despite the exhaustion. So you nod, and let John herd you into his pickup. All the deputies are already there when you arrive, and Graves is in one of the two cells, bandages and stitches covering his arms and face. He’s got a swollen eye, cheekbone already purpling, and his left arm is in a full cast. At least you did some damage.

Part of you feels for the guy, but that gets overlooked when he sticks his head in the spaces between the bars and sneers at you.

“This ain’t over.” Simon reaches through the bars and grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward to whack his head on the bars. It’s jarring, and John tells him to cool it, but you nearly laugh at the state Graves is in. 

“Somethin funny, darlin?” John asks, stepping behind his desk to get the paperwork started. You find some of your courage, you think, or maybe the exhaustion has doused all your common sense and fired your nerves, but you step toward the cage. When Graves lunges for you, you stay just out of his reach. Simon steps forward first, Kyle and Johnny not far behind, but you hold a hand out to keep them back. He’s mine.

“It’s fine, he can’t touch me. He’s trying to be threatening but…I’m out here. And he’s in there.” You look him in the eyes when you say it, even though you’re talking like he isn’t even in the room. You can see the anger take over, a vein bulging so far out in his neck it might just burst. Now here, in the light, you can actually see the damage you’d done. There’s a cut stitched through his eyebrow, the swelling tugging at the sutures. He couldn’t block everything with his hand, that’s for damn sure. There’s blood seeping through the bandages on his right arm, and his wrist is wrapped tight. Pride swells in you, you must have sprained it with how badly you twisted it. 

“You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done, little bitch.” At that, you really laugh, out loud, in his face.

“See, here’s the thing, Phillip. I haven’t done jack shit and you know it. But you? You’ve been nothing but a self-serving, hypocritical, micro-managing, bullshit-spewing, no-good, rotten piece of horse shit who only cares about intimidating the women that work under him for some sort of power grab to compensate for the shrimp you’ve got between your legs.” You can hear blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline coming back as you finally let out the years of pent-up rage you’ve got toward this guy.

“Not a single human being on this damn planet would touch you romantically or sexually with a ten-foot pole even if their lives depended on it, and instead of trying to be a decent human being you’ve decided to make that everyone’s problem.” You’ve leaned in, just a little, and he reaches for you again through the bars. But this time you’re ready, your vision sharp and your reaction time quick. It’s his bandaged wrist he reaches for you with, but it doesn’t really matter, not when you force his palm down in a 90-degree angle and push his arm so the bar digs into the divot behind his shoulder socket, his chest and face squished against the bars of his rat cage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Sheriff stand slowly from his desk, and the three deputies step just a smidge closer to you. Whether for your safety, or Graves’, it doesn’t matter, but you need to make this quick.

“It wouldn’t even be hard, Graves. Just a little push and your shoulder is coming right out of the socket.” He’s trembling, you can feel it, with the exertion he’s using to attempt to get out. He’s right where you want him though, no amount of significant movement will result in anything less than excruciating pain and a dislocated something. When you lean just a little, he’s crying out.

“Fuck! You’re a crazy bitch! Let me go!” The interaction has made your vision go so sharp you can’t really see anything outside of Graves’ body, his arm bent at an awkward angle where you hold it hostage, his face screwed up from the pain and a few small tears falling down to his neck. If you focus hard enough, you can feel yourself shaking, vibrating, with the adrenaline rush. For a split second, you consider dislocating his shoulder for the hell of it, consider pushing until you feel it pop right out for all the torment he’s given you. John’s large, warm hands come to your shoulders, thick fingers digging gently into the muscles you’re only now realizing are coiled tight like a cobra. You can smell him, cigar smoke and leather, men’s deodorant and the crisp morning air. His voice is rough in your ear, breath hot on your neck when he leans down.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” One of his hands drops to your stomach, right below your ribcage, and he pushes down to cage you against his body. The action pushes the breath from you, and when he lets up you breathe it right back in. 

“There you go. Relax. Let him go now, don’t waste your energy.” His other hand comes up and grabs your wrist gently, pressing a rough thumb into the tendons in your wrist, and the moment you let your grip lax, Graves yanks his hand from you and stumbles back into the furthest corner of the cell. 

“Good girl.” If you were a little less rattled, if your mind were a little less frayed, you wouldn’t preen at the praise. And if you had any mind left you’d pull away from the kiss pressed into your temple, not melt into it.

With Graves gone silent, the paperwork gets done in about twenty minutes. You relay the events of the day; when you got home, when he’d attacked, what you’d done to defend yourself. Your nerves are shot, your head is pounding, and the sun shining in through the window is making the space between your eyes hurt. But it’s done, and John drives you home after calling Kate and explaining the situation. Whatever happens with the diner, it’s not your business or your problem for the next four days, seeing as she’s ordered you to take time off and recover. 

Stepping into your house is jarring, to say the least. The entryway is covered in shards of ceramic, the lamp atop it having shattered in the scuffle. The carpet is rumpled from where Graves stumbled over it. The lamp’s cord had been ripped from the wall, and the outlet cover had come with it, the old plastic brittle and fragile. You’ve gotta clean this up. John comes up behind you, pressing his chest into your back.

“Get to bed, darlin. You can clean it later.” You shake your head.

“I won’t be able to sleep yet. Might as well get this out the way.” He huffs, but you know he’s not going to force you into bed. Instead, he helps you clean. The carpet is picked up and dusted off outside while you sweep around the table the lamp used to sit on, clearing most of the debris with the broom. There’s probably a few miniscule shards around, so you take a vacuum over the hardwood then a damp microfiber cloth to really make sure you get it all. John says he can help replace the outlet cover, but you know how to do it. You’ll just have to go buy a new one later.

The bedroom is another story completely. The door is ruined, a hole splintering near the handle. When you try to swing it, you find it’s only hanging by one hinge. You’ll have to replace the whole door, but thankfully the hinges themselves only popped free and didn’t tear from the frame. John makes quick work of the door, popping the last hinge and taking the whole thing out to his pickup. Somewhere in your brain, you note that he’s still damn strong. He helps return the dresser to its original place, and you clean up the splintered wood from the floor and carpet. By the time everything’s done and dusted, you can feel the exhaustion tugging your body down. 

“Get some sleep now, sweetheart. After a day like today you need the rest.” You hum, nod, but you don’t move toward the bed. Paranoia crawls over your skin like mites, as you glare at the empty doorway. No door, no barrier. Your skin begins to itch. John steps toward you and rests his hand on your shoulder, dragging his rough palm up to hold your neck and jaw.

“He can’t get you. You saw him down at the station, he’s not getting past the boys.” Deep breaths, you remind yourself. Breathe. Still, your fingers twitch. John doesn’t stop you when you take off down the stairs, only to watch you lock and deadbolt the front door, then yank on it as hard as you can. You do the same for the kitchen door, and without a deadbolt you wedge the step stool beneath the handle. The windows are next. Locking and jiggling them to make sure they don’t shimmy open. John only watches you as you bounce around the house, securing the perimeter like you’re in some kind of a fortress. When you’re done, he drags you up to your bedroom again. 

“Better?” When you nod, your eyes droop and threaten to close on you for good. You can feel yourself sway on your feet, and John catches you before you can stumble and fall, gently pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Now sleep.” You almost nod off, but then realize something.

“Wait, I have to let you out. I just locked you in here.” He shushes you, planting a hand on your chest and holding you down when you try to get up.

“None of that. I’m staying here.” 

“You are?” Why would he do that?

“Graves is locked up tight, but you clearly don’t feel safe in your own home. I’m staying for your peace of mind. And mine, knowing you’ve gone to bed.” Huh. You suppose that’s reason enough. You don’t dwell on it, can’t dwell on it, when your body feels so heavy. Sleep pulls you under the moment you curl up on the sheets.

Back in the station, the three deputies share a knowing look. Graves is still in his corner, brooding. The tension from your little outburst lingers in the air, the anger having dissipated but the memory fresh. Johnny speaks first.

“She’s just fuckin’ like ‘im, eh?” Simon snorts.

“I’ll say. You think he’d have let her dislocate his shoulder?” It’s a rhetorical question. Kyle chuckles from his perch against the wall.

“I think he wanted her to do it. I think if he weren’t trying to keep her from dealing with the legalities of it, he’d have let her do that and more, and he’d have helped.” The three nod in agreement, a rare sight. Simon’s laughing to himself again.

“Two angry peas in a violent little pod, they are. Both of ‘em ready to strike on a hairpin trigger. John won’t be able to stay the bigger man for long.” Kyle shakes his head.

“In another life, those two rule a damn kingdom with iron fists and velvet gloves. If he has any say in the matter, she’ll be learning how to fight proper soon. When do you think he’ll finally get off his ass and ask her on a date?” Johnny cackles, full-chested.

“Date? John Price doesn’t ask women on dates. He’s gonna swindle his way into her life and one day she’ll look at the ring on her finger and not know when he’d slipped it on ‘er.”

[cranberrymoons]

hey sweetheart

prompt: meetcute at work (@steddieholidaydrabbles) rated: e (18+) word count: 896 words tags: modern au, line cook eddie/waiter steve, hooking up

welcome to Day 4 of the fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

Steve is halfway through his first week when he meets him: the line cook with the long hair pulled back in a bun, the stark black lines of tattoos snaking up his arms, the flirty little smile that he flashes in Steve’s direction when Steve comes back to pick up Table 6’s starters.

It’s a hell of a time to start a job in the first place: mid-holiday season, no one around to train him except Robin who’s only worked there a couple weeks longer than he has and knows next to nothing about The Way Things Work.

But she’s Robin, and she’s familiar, and she knows him well enough to warn him to avoid the flirty long-haired line cook with the big brown eyes and the dimples and the million watt smile directed right at him and – 

Fuck.

“Sweetheart, you rang in Table Twelve wrong,” the guy says, leaning forward over the pass with a ticket in his hand. “This says no onions, but the special isn’t made with onions.”

Steve stares at him as he loads Table Six’s plates onto a tray. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely.

“My name isn’t Sweetheart,” he says eventually. “And so – just extra don’t put onions on it. Who cares?”

The cook raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side. “Thought it sounded nicer than ‘hey new guy’, but if you’d prefer that –”

“Steve,” he says. He shoulders his tray. “My name is Steve.”

The cook gives him a little smile, eyes flashing in the bright fluorescents of the kitchen.

“Alright, Sweetheart.” He tilts his chin up. “Extra no onions for Table Twelve, and you can call me Eddie.”

---

It continues on like that for a week or two: Eddie flirting, finding any excuse to ask a question about his ticket. 

Steve knows what he’s doing; he’s worked in restaurants before, and he’s fucked enough hot line cooks in his time that he should know better than to fall into the trap, but still, he finds himself drawn in, entertaining Eddie’s endless teasing and prodding and poking until he starts doing it back – little digs about his shift meal, questions about a menu item that he already knows the answer to.

“Dude,” Robin says, halfway through his first month. 

It’s rounding up on Christmas, and the place is packed, corporate groups out for holiday parties and couples on dates. 

“If you don’t stop flirting, I’m going to cut your fucking dick off,” she says. “Seriously.”

And – okay. That’s fair. 

Steve pulls himself away from where he’d been leaning over the pass, asking Eddie a question about the catch of the day that he’s already asked three times tonight. Clears his throat and straightens up. He tugs his tie back into place, claims the braised oxtail that’s destined for Table Two and clears his throat.

“Sorry.”

Eddie sends him a wink, and Steve feels himself flush.

“Please tell me you’re not going to fuck him,” Robin says as they exit the kitchen.

Steve sighs. “I’m not going to fuck him.”

---

And of course, he’s lying through his teeth.

The very next night, they’re both off work, and he gets a text from an unfamiliar number, just –

hey sweetheart 

Steve flushes as he stares down at his phone, scratching a hand back through his hair. He takes a breath.

Wonder who this could be , he texts back.

All he gets in response is a simple,

😇 

---

Two hours later, he’s flat on his back in Eddie’s bed, clinging to his shoulders and whining as Eddie fucks him so hard he loses his breath, so hard he feels like his brain is rattling around in his skull. He digs his teeth into Eddie’s skin, ankles locked around his back and not even bothering to hold back the noises that Eddie’s punching out of his chest, just –

“Fuck,” he gasps, voice coming high in the back of his throat. “Holy shit, I –”

Eddie’s mouth runs up the column of his neck, hands trailing over his skin, nails dragging sharp lines down his sides.

“You going to come for me, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low in his ear. “Show me how pretty you can be?”

And that’s – for some reason that sets Steve off, turns his skin over to fire as he grips tighter to Eddie’s shoulders, nails digging in, back arching off the bed, coming so hard he sees stars.

---

And then later, when they’re both fucked out and exhausted and Steve is preparing to take his cue to gather his clothes and make a graceful exit, he feels Eddie’s mouth skimming up the side of his neck, hand tangling in his hair, dragging him into another kiss.

A real one, with teeth and tongue and lips, a kiss that isn’t intended to go anywhere other than just to be , and his breath catches a little in his chest, hand skittering over Eddie’s back as he rolls over on top of him.

“Stay?” Eddie asks, voice quiet and hopeful and muffled where their mouths are still pressed together. He smiles, lips quirking up and drawing Steve along with him. “You know I know how to make breakfast.”

And Steve breathes out a quiet laugh, bumping their noses together. He sighs.

“As long as there’s bacon.”

[also on ao3]

[paracosm-draw]

omg PLEASE do "a surprise kiss during laughter, when one just can’t help it anymore and finally caves", i need silly fluff in my life

I'm back from my 48h of hell (night shifts at the hospital) and I finally slept enough to be able to answer all the asks !

I've got two asks for this prompt, so here we go nonnies ☀️ It starts with a little bit of angst but don't worry it has a very happy ending 😌 Hope you'll like it 💕

---

The weeks after the death of the Duchess Kryze had been the longest ones Anakin had had to endure in a while. Time seemed to stretch on and on until he was feeling worn out even though he wasn't the one in mourning. In the short time he had met Satine, he had appreciated her for her sense of duty, her wit rivaling Obi-Wan’s and the fact that she wasn’t afraid to take controversial but necessary decisions in order to act for her people instead of getting bogged down in endless, pointless debates. He appreciated her but he didn't know her. Not like Obi-Wan did. 

Anakin knew that he was grieving. In his own way and at his own pace. He wouldn't admit it and he wouldn’t talk about it - not that Anakin knew how to approach the delicate subject - but he was grieving. He was grieving a long-time friend and a confidant in the eyes of the majority of people. For Anakin, he was also grieving a more secret, more intimate thing he kept carefully locked inside of his heart, a thing Anakin could only guess from rare and meager clues, since he didn’t have the key to said heart. 

At first, he had tried to deal with the situation like he had when he had lost his mother. Mourning was an universal experience, after all. People probably grieved all the same, he thought. He remembered how angry he’d been at the time. How it had led to one of the worst decisions of his life. How the anger hadn’t subsided after that, but seeped deeper inside of his bones, left to rot, dormant but never gone. He had thought then, that Obi-Wan might be angry too.

It turned out Obi-Wan wasn't angry. He was sad and nostalgic, which was worse. Worse because Anakin had no clue about how to deal with that, with something other than anger, with something that didn’t push him to action but rather kept him still. He had no idea about what Obi-Wan needed. Was it comfort ? Was it loneliness ? Was it something else ? Someone else ? Someone who knew exactly what words to say, what level of physical touch to use, when to take him out and when to leave him in peace ? Someone who knew how to bring back to life the beloved spark that had quietly died down in Obi-Wan's eyes ?

Someone who was not Anakin. Anakin who didn’t know what to say and how to comfort and when to let go. Anakin who was too much or never enough, and who wanted nothing more than to take his pain away and to make it his own, to curl up around Obi-Wan like a loyal tooka and stay there until his heart unbroke on its own. 

So that's what he decided to do. He stayed there, by his side. Awkwardly, most of the time. Refusing mission after mission to keep an eye on him and inventing excuses after excuses when Obi-Wan asked him about it. He stayed and watched, willing to continue doing so until Obi-Wan got annoyed and sent him off. It hadn’t happened yet so Anakin kept watching. Maybe a little too much- 

“Anakin, be caref-” 

Obi-Wan's exclamation got lost in the impact that rattled through Anakin’s skull as he walked straight into a pole, in the middle of Coruscant’s crowded streets. The shock sent him down on his butt as an acute wave of pain traveled from his forehead to the back of his neck, making his vision blur and his ears ring for a second. 

“Oh dear, are you alright ?!” 

Obi-Wan had crouched next to him, a supporting hand on his shoulder. Anakin blinked and turned his head to him, his forehead pounding unpleasantly.

“Uh…” 

He didn't know what was the most humiliating, to be honest. The fact that he didn’t see that pole because he was - once again - too busy staring at Obi-Wan, the obvious bump slowly starting to grow on his forehead or the fact that Obi-Wan was… laughing ? Or trying not to, at least. But the way his eyes crinkled on the corners and the effort he put on biting his lips betrayed him. Not the reaction Anakin expected. He tilted his head on the side, confused and clearly dumbstruck, and that exact thing was what seemed to be the last straw for Obi-Wan Kenobi, poised and respectable Master Jedi in mourning. 

He burst out laughing. Not the polite and discrete laugh he gave politicians with his hand above his mouth, not the occasional chuckles he graced Anakin when he did or said something funny, but a true, bright laugh that came right from his chest, head thrown back and teeth in display. His whole body shook with the strength of it, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes before spilling along his cheeks, a blush spreading from the tip of his ears to the collar of his tabard. He laughed like he was unable to stop and Anakin stared, bewildered, all pain and humiliation forgotten in favor of absolute awe. 

He didn’t remember when he’d seen Obi-Wan laugh like that for the last time. If  he even had. But from now on it would be his number one priority. Obi-Wan looked… free, like that. Younger, unburdened, happy. Gorgeous. Something violent stirred in Anakin's chest, something he had spent years trying to tame and bury. To forget. Something which now ferociously clawed at the inside of his ribcage to get out, drawn by that laugh that sounded like a miracle.  

"I'm- I'm sorry, A- Anakin. It's just-" Obi-Wan hiccupped, then doubled over with laughter, teeth flashing and tears spilling.

The beast in Anakin's chest roared. He leaned forward, his hands finding the strong lines of Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and stole the marvelous sound directly from his source. He wasn’t thinking, not really, rather acting on instinct. Obi-Wan stopped laughing with a surprised gasp, which was the opposite of what Anakin was trying to achieve, really. He froze but didn’t try to push him away, so Anakin pressed his lips tighter against his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, heart beating wildly in his chest. 

A lifetime might have passed, or probably just the blink of an eye, when Obi-Wan moved again, a gentle hand cupping Anakin’s jaw. His mouth moved against his own, not to kiss back but to pronounce a little word that meant everything for Anakin when it came from Obi-Wan. His name. Uncertain. Questioning.

“Anakin…” 

The warmth of his breath tingled Anakin’s lips, who opened his mouth to let out his own, short and shaky. Their mouths brushed, soft and parted, and Anakin pushed forward to fit them together again. The fingers on his jaw strengthened, not to stop him but to pull him closer, he realized in wonder when lips pressed back against his own. The hand on his face traveled to the back of his neck, curling around the base of his hair and holding him tight. Anakin sighed softly against the touch, moving his own hand to cup the side of Obi-Wan’s face, fingers grazing against the edge of his beard as their mouths tentatively discovered each other. 

It feels right, was the first thought crossing Anakin’s mind. The way they fitted together, the taste of his own spit on Obi-Wan’s lips, the gentle burn of his mustache against his mouth, the sweet noises they drew from each other. More than that, the way their dormant bond had ignited alive at the faintest brush of their lips, the way their Force signatures had curled up against each other, so tightly entangled they couldn't tell where Anakin’s was starting and where Obi-Wan's was ending. The synchronization of their pulse. The light trembling of their bodies. The fact that they stayed intertwined after breaking the kiss, breathing in each other’s space like it was the only source of oxygen. 

Anakin slipped his fingers behind Obi-Wan’s ears, pressing his forehead against his as his thumb gently caressed his cheekbone. 

“I want to hear you laugh like that again.” He murmured. 

Obi-Wan let out a chopped breath which sounded suspiciously like a disbelieving chuckle. 

“Even at the expense of your pretty head ?” 

“I would gladly hit my head on every pole I see, if it’s what it takes.” Anakin answered fiercely, maybe a little too much, but he was rewarded with a laugh. Another. He preciously bottled it in a corner of his mind.

“Ridiculous boy.” Obi-Wan shook his head fondly and brushed the tip of his fingers around the bump ornating his forehead. “You didn’t have to go to such extremes, you know ? I’d rather you keep that lovely face of yours unharmed.” 

Anakin shrugged, but before he got the chance to think about a clever answer, Obi-Wan leaned in and pressed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, making his mind go blank. Again. 

“We should pay a visit to the Halls of Healing, just to make sure you don't have a concussion.” Obi-Wan decided. 

“Uh- Yeah, sure.” Anakin answered dumbly, feeling strangely dizzy and rather hot all of the sudden. 

“Great.” Obi-Wan grinned. He gently placed another kiss on his temple before grabbing his arm to help him get up. “Let’s go, before you realize.” 

Realize what, Anakin didn’t really know. But he would gladly follow Obi-Wan to the depths of Hell if he kept kissing him like that. 

[gatawoman]

𝒵𝑜𝓂𝒷𝒾𝑒𝒷𝑜𝓎

Jason Todd x Reader

A/n: Hi my beautiful people so I love Lady Gaga and Zombieboy has been on repeat for me since the album dropped. So I made an inspired story off of it. The highlighted green are the lyrics inspo. I also saw someone like a few weeks ago saying how the song reminded them of Jason also so if it was you i’m please write it :( I hope you guys enjoy!! you can always leave feedback or request too🖤🖤

1:16am. Jason’s watch reads as the pounding music slams into his skull.

The classic saying, “How did I end up in this situation?” sadly didn’t apply to Jason right now — because he knew exactly what led him here. Not like he could forget, especially with Dick’s annoying voice nagging in the earpiece.

“Oh come on, Jason, you’re being a sore thumb just standing there glaring,” Dick says.

Jason let out an annoyed gruff. He knew Dick was just trying to get him to make a fool of himself. He was undercover at the Iceberg Lounge to get intel — not to party. It had all started with a tip about a drug deal they’d been trying to shut down, supposedly set to happen around five minutes before 2am. Dick was supposed to be in position — not Jason. But of course, Tom, Barbara, and Dick started teasing, swearing Jason wouldn’t be able to be undercover and have fun at the same time. Which was total BS, because he’d done exactly that the first time he came back to Gotham.

“Jesus, at least drink som—”

“I’m done with you,” Jason harshly interrupted, muting the earpiece.

As he scanned the club — eyes practically rattling from how loud the music was — something caught his attention and made his heart stop like he’d died all over again.

He saw you.

It was like a quiet beacon of light in a sea of crimson hues and smoke. Easy to miss, but not for him. Never for him. Especially when it came to you. You stood out effortlessly, dressed in a red backless dress that clung to you like a secret, barely reaching your knees. Black heels made your legs look longer, sharper, like you could cut through any bullshit thrown your way. His gaze locked onto your back, and his anger rose again but with a strange twing protectiveness now—because he could’ve sworn he saw you at home before he left.

✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦ ✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦

You hadn’t planned on going anywhere. You were happily binge-watching your favorite show, enjoying a much-needed self-care day after a week of chaos in the ER — plus playing nurse to your accident-prone, drama-filled roommate and best friend. You deserved this day off. The universe, however, had other plans.

Just as you were about to start the next episode, the doorbell rang. You opened it to see your best friend standing there in all her mini-dress glory.

“We are going out,” Ashley said, excitement laced in her voice.

“Aww, sweetie, there’s no U in we. I thought you knew that by now,” you replied. And just like that, her excitement morphed into determination.

You already knew your fate.

✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦ ✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦

Now here you were — swirling the dark Hennessy in your cup, already regretting the decision. Your heels stabbed into your feet with every shift. You tilted your head back, letting the bitter liquor sting your throat when you suddenly felt a familiar presence behind you.

“I’m not interested,” you said lazily, the words slipping out in a slight slur.

“Oh, trust me, babe. I know.”

That rough voice — one you knew all too well — made your heart skip. You almost lost your balance as you whipped around and looked up into those green eyes you knew like the back of your hand.

“Jay? What are you doing here?” you asked your best friend.

“I thought you were on patrol,” you added in a whisper.

Your brain started spiraling.

Why was he here? Jason hated clubs. On his off days — which usually lined up with your mornings off — he preferred lounging at home with you. But lately, he’d been distant, always coming up with excuses to stay holed up in his room to “sleep.” You would’ve brushed it off, since he was always running himself ragged as a vigilante… but something felt off. He didn’t sleep well, and you knew it.

So, you started spiraling. What if he was seeing someone? You’d caught him hanging with Artemis a few times lately — and considering their history, that stung. You tried to bury it, though. The last thing you wanted was to ruin your friendship with awkward feelings. So you swallowed it down, like always.

Ashley, however, had seen it all. The matching keychains — yours a sun, his a moon. The fridge notes when you guys didn’t see eachother in the day. The way Jason tracked your location and panicked if you didn’t move for too long. She saw the toll the distance was taking on you — and that’s exactly why she dragged you out tonight.

“I can’t tell you everything right now,” Jason finally replied after a pause. “But why are you here? And why are you alone?”

“I’m not alone — Ashley’s dancing,” you said, eyes scanning the club. “Right there.”

Jason followed your gesture and spotted Ashley dancing, a girl pressed closely against her. You saw the way his shoulders relaxed a little.

“You shouldn’t be out here too long, doll. It’s not gonna be safe for either of you.”

His voice softened as he really looked at you. You never drank this much — and it made him wonder what was going on in that head of yours that you hadn’t told him.

“Yeah, well, nice to know you somewhat still care,” you snapped, surprised by your own words. You looked away quickly. Swallow it, Y/N.

“What are you sa—”

“Anyways, where’s your girlfriend? I see she’s not here,” you cut him off, tone sharp.

So much for swallowing it, Y/N.

“Jesus. How drunk are you?” Jason huffed. You didn’t answer — just stared at him, lips sealed.

He knew you weren’t going to say anything, so he gave you what he could offer.

“Artemis isn’t my girlfriend, Y/N. She’s a friend. That’s it.”

Your heart clenched as you looked at him, sadness starting to seep through your facade.

“Then why have you been avoiding me, Jay?”

Your voice had dropped, the fire replaced by something quieter — more vulnerable.

Jason wanted the gods to strike him down right then and there. He never meant to hurt you. Never. If anything, he thought he was doing the right thing. Giving you space. Taking a step back so you wouldn’t have to constantly deal with him, his chaos, his damage.

But every time he stepped back, it felt like he was cutting himself off from the only peace he had.

There was a time he had nothing. Nothing to wake up for. Nothing to look forward to. And then you came crashing into his life like a goddamn sunrise he didn’t ask for—but desperately needed.

He didn’t even realize how much you meant to him until the demon spawn himself, Damian, asked him bluntly: “What exactly makes you happy?”

And the first thing—hell, the only thing—that came to mind was you.

And that terrified him.

So he pulled away.

That scared the hell out of him. So he backed off. He thought it would protect you — protect him. But seeing your face now, he hated himself for it.

It was already 1:30am. He didn’t have much time, so he gave you what he could.

“Doll… I would never avoid you for someone else. Trust me. It’s something I need to figure out for myself first.”

You looked up and saw the way his eyes dilated when they met yours. You always trusted him — and even now, some part of you still did. So you let it go… for now.

Your smile returned, but it had a mischievous twist this time as you felt somewhat bold. You grabbed his scarred hands and leaned in.

“You know, if you’re undercover, you’ve got to blend in,” you whispered.

Jason raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way his pulse spiked at your touch. Before he could respond, you were already dragging him to the dance floor.

“Y/N, I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Jason said, though his tone was half-laughing.

“Come on, Zombieboy. I need some sort of forgiveness from you,” you teased, giggling.

Jason let you take the lead. You grabbed his hands, placed them on your hips, and began swaying. Liquid courage, you thought to yourself. You were definitely going to scream into a pillow about this in the morning.

When Jason stopped moving, you froze, heart pounding. You were about to pull away when his hands began to move again — fingers tracing your waist, matching your rhythm. You could’ve sworn you saw heaven.

After a few minutes, Jason turned you to face him. You’d met his gaze a hundred times before, but this one felt different. More intense. He couldn’t see straight anymore.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Y/N,” he murmured, lips close.

“I never said this was a game, Jason,” you whispered back, voice barely above a breath. You were scared — unsure if he felt the same. But in that moment, you didn’t care. You just wanted him.

Your lips were inches away when his watch buzzed.

1:50am. Time was up.

He pulled away, the Red Hood demeanor slipping back into his place.

“You need to leave with Ashley. Now.” His voice was firm — desperate.

You nodded, slowly letting go of his hand.

“Okay, Jay. But stay safe. You owe me an explanation,” you said, your tone playfully sharp.

“Oh, I owe you way more, doll.” Jason grinned as you gave him a flustered smack to the bicep — your classic move when he flustered you.

Before you could walk off, he yanked you in and his rough lips crashed into your soft ones. Yup you were definitely now levitating to heaven.

He pulled away without a word and turned, walking off quickly — mostly to hide the blush creeping up his face.

You were stunned. You knew you’d be dreaming about that moment for weeks. Eyes around the club were on you, so you scrambled for cover:

“Whatever, asshole! You’re better off a fantasy anyway!” you shouted, stomping off dramatically.

Jason nearly laughed, knowing exactly why you did it — to protect his cover.

As he headed to the back of the club, two men entered — fitting the target’s description. He realized, belatedly, that his earpiece had been muted way longer than it should’ve been. He quickly unmuted it — and immediately regretted it.

“ZOMBIEBOYYYYY — did you know you only muted me from your side?” Dick’s voice sang, mimicking your tone with a dramatic edge.

“Shut the fuck up and focus, Dickhead,” Jason snapped.

“Oh please — says the guy dancing the night away with his girl.”

Jason chose to ignore him. He had a mission to finish — and a promise to keep. One he intended to make up to you, starting the moment this night was over.

[thelaisydazy]

Band!141 x Reader - Subway

Just a little something I've had rattling around my brain this week~

You've never run faster in your life, you're not even sure your feet are hitting the ground between your frantic steps as you race towards the open subway car. You can't miss this train. Not today. Please, not today.

Today is the most important day of your life. The day you audition for a spot in the city's most prestigious ballet companies. If you miss your chance, you won't be able to try again for another year, and you don't know if you'll be able to afford to stay in the city if you don't get into the company. And you refuse to go home a failure. 

From the open train car you hear shouting. Voices calling for you to hurry. The train was about to leave. Nononono. The door starts to close as you run up to the train, just a split second too late. Then it opens again, a large black boot keeping the door from closing completely. 

You look up and see four large men, one of which has stuck his boot out to hold the door open for you. He smiles down at you, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling. He’s older, handsome. His dark brown hair and beard sporting some specks of gray.

“Y’made it love,” he says in a deep, warm voice that makes your heart race. 

“Thanks,” you say quickly, slipping past him and the three with him. The car is packed with nowhere to sit and almost nowhere to stand either. Except right near the group you pushed past on your way onto the train. Sheepishly you make your way back towards them. 

The one that stopped the door for you smiles again and another one, younger with dark curls, waves you over. You’re hesitant, but you go over. 

“One seat left ‘ere,” he says, beckoning to a seat he’d been standing in front of. You mumble another thanks and slip into the seat, trying your best to make yourself as small as possible, missing the way the group smiles at each other.  

“Where you rushing off to love?” the first one asked. The word burly comes to mind as you look up at him. He’s wearing a white tshirt under a well-worn leather jacket, a pair of beat up black jeans and a black beanie. Slung over his back is an instrument case, it looks like a guitar, but you don’t know much about instruments so it could be a bass. 

“I have an audition downtown,” you say, fidgeting with your duffle bag in your lap. 

“‘At Danc’n Knights place?” another one chimes in with a Scottish accent. This one is the shortest of the bunch, though he still towers over you. He’s broad, dark stubble on his pierced face and a mohawk. He’s wearing a spiked leather vest over a black sleeveless shirt and a kilt. He’s standing closest to the largest of the bunch, a large, blond man wearing a privacy mask that resembles a skull.

You nod. You hadn’t wanted to tell them, but the decal of a ballerina on your duffel bag, along with the tight bun you wore your hair in, was definitely enough to give it away. “Dancing Knights, yeah,” you say. “They’re looking for new ballerinas.”

“We’re heading to a recording studio near there,” the second man says. Getting a better look at him, he’s darker than the rest of the group, his eyes are the softest though, dampening the nervousness in your chest. He’s dressed similarly to the rest of the group, another instrument case on his back and a plaid shirt tied around his hips. “Maybe we’ll be seeing you around there.”

You can’t help but smile up at him and nod. He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small black card, handing it over to you. “We’re I4I,” he says. “I’m Kyle, everyone calls me Gaz.” He went around pointing to the oldest man first. “That’s John.” Then to the Scottish man. “Johnny, we call him Soap.” And finally the largest of them. “And big guy there is Ghost.”

“Ghost?” you can’t help but ask, looking over the card in your hand. It’s a thick black stock with the band name and a logo featuring a skull with a sword running through it wrapped in a pair of white feathered wings.

Kyle shrugs at you. “Doesn’t like anyone knowing his name,” he says simply. You nod quietly, then give them your name with a polite smile. 

“You’re all in a band then?” you ask, relaxing a little. You were certain whatever they played, it wasn’t something you were into, but they seemed nice enough to at least check out their social media. It was the least you could do after they stopped the subway for you.

“That’s right lovie,” Kyle says. “Next big thing.” He gives you a wink. “Better keep your pretty little eyes out for us.” Your face feels warm at his shameless flirting and he chuckles at you. “We always post when we’re playing next, you should come to one of our shows. We’ll give you the VIP experience.”

“Oh!” you say. “Uh.. sure.. Maybe.” You tuck the card into your duffel. “I’ll keep an eye out if I make this audition.”

“You better make it then little one,” John says, smiling at you as the subway pulls into your stop. “For our sake.” 

[theallianceofcelestials]

For SEA, can you write what it would be like if KC and Eclipse had a tiny conflict? Sorry I haven’t completely caught up on it (I’m on like chapter 5 and intend to read further this week) so sorry if you’ve already done it and I’m over hear just looking for the angst<\3

I mean there's plenty of conflict between them, but I'm going to assume you meant conflict as in them arguing (English not my first language, sorry)

Also, don't worry about it! Even if I did it I'd at 'worst' point you in the direction of it, even if this did take me a couple days lol. Depression be like that I guess

Eclipse will readily admit any day that his relationship with Killcode is the calmest of them all. They usually get along great, even if the SCP sometimes pushes the limits or Eclipse himself does something that grates on the giant's nerves. But those are always such minor things, and they can usually talk their conflicts through.

This, is not one of those times.

"Absolutely not! I'm not going to let you run off somewhere without our protection!"

"IT'S NOT FOR YOU TO DECIDE! It's not even for ME to decide!"

His siblings have huddled up with their uncles, almost like children asking their parents to shield them from the world. In a way, it's the correct course of action.

They have been shouting for the past fifteen minutes, something entirely unheard of between them.

Usually he's too terrified of the nightmare to do it. Or well, he used to be.

Not anymore

"I can't just-!"

"Oh no, you can just-!"

He's never been this angry at his father before. He's never wanted to throw something at him before this. This is new.

But rage courses through him, and despite how he wishes he could stop, so they could talk this through, he can't. The angry words crawl up his throat, escaping from his voicebox until there's nothing he could do.

But despite it all, he knows logically all it would take to solve this situation is a deep breath from one of them.

That way maybe he could explain this is not just for himself, but for them as well. So the Foundation won't threaten their life.

So that Eclipse won't be put on the kill list

"And if this new entity kills you?! WHAT THEN?!"

He winces as the whole room shakes from the power of Killcode's voice, absently thinking there might just be some magic behind those words, but he cancels the thought process, focusing back on getting through the thick skull of this idiot, so he could explain what in the fuck is going on-

"DO YOU THINK I HAVEN'T THOUGHT THAT THROUGH!?"

"DO YOU THINK I TRUST THE FOUNDATION?! AFTER EVERYTHING THEY DID?!"

His motors growl, his teeth grind against themselves as his default grin stretches wide, showing off all his teeth. His rays shoot out of his head, rattling in warning, claws itching to slide out from their comfortable housings, but all his threat displays pale in comparison to the giant spreading his hands, flexing his sharp fingers.

Eclipse throws his hands up in the air. He's so annoyed right now it's unreal.

"I CAN'T WITH YOU RIGHT NOW!"

He whirls around, snarling in irritation as his coat sticks to him annoyingly. He blasts steam from his vents, clenching his teeth to the point of pain as it escapes him.

"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE THIS ROOM! ECLIPSE!"

He ignores the enraged howl of his name, ignores his uncles and siblings, ignores his enraged father, and ignores the tiny voice crying in him to stop and go back. He ignores it all, storming outside.

Whether he likes it or not, he has to schedule his own transfer. Which he should do at the earliest, lest some idiot accuse him of not being loyal enough or whatever.

As he begins walking again, he ignores the desperate looks of his family flash in his memory, tries pushing down the sickness he feels, and only half succeeds.

Terror crawls at him, the phantom sensation of a sword cutting through him like he's cotton candy, the sticky warmth of something red red red on his face as someone from underwater screams. He ignores it all, marching onward, trying to pull his cold, uncaring mask on all the while, despite how it doesn't fit anymore, despite how he found something much better to cope with, because what else can he do?

The same little voice he's trying to push down screams that it knows the answer, that it's his family, but he pushes it down.

Anger is a bitter poison he almost missed

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Shades of Pink

Of Oak and Ivy, Chapter 2

Series Masterlist         Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: In college, Matt Murdock had two best friends, Foggy Nelson and you. However, life had no intention of letting you graduate with him. When he reconnects with you in adulthood, he is troubled to see the hand God has dealt you and vows to use every tool at his disposal to save you from damnation.

warnings: swearing, jealous/possessive Matt, underage drinking, Matt being a fool

a/n: Thank you all for being patient with me! My brain has not been feeling up to writing lately but I managed to get the next few chapters of this fic planned out! I have a couple more written so the plan is to post an update for this fic every 3 weeks. I hope that's frequent enough for y'all :)

w/c: 5.8k

Matt’s skull rattled as the machine in front of him gave a shriek, metal grinding on metal. Gritting his teeth, he ran a hand over the machine’s interface, growing more frustrated when the start button was rendered functionless. 

The telling chime of an error message echoed in the damp basement and taunted him. “Fuck!” He cursed, kicking the reinforced frame in anger. Great, now he had no clean clothes AND his foot hurt. 

Growling in irritation, he yanked open the door and began grasping handfuls of soaking wet clothes and dropping them into his hamper with nauseating splats. 

The suds from his detergent quickly settled into a film over his skin, actively worsening his mood. Setting his jaw, he hefted the rapidly dampening laundry bag over his shoulder to trudge back to his room. 

Each step sent shockwaves of tension through his frame, he was freefalling into overstimulation at this point. By the time he reached his floor, every cell in his body was rigid, trying desperately to hold back the rage-induced sobs building in his chest. Fumbling with his key, he managed to push the door open with a slam—startling Foggy and, unexpectedly, you. 

“Hey man, we were about to come find you so we could grab lunch. You, uh, you ok?” Foggy asked skeptically, but Matt ignored him. Instead, focused on your soft footsteps from the edge of his bed to his stiff form in the doorway. 

“What happened, trouble?” The name suggested you were hoping to lighten his mood, but he could practically taste the concern rolling off your skin. 

“Washing machine broke. Didn’t feel like dealing with it, so…” Matt shrugged, biting his cheek fiercely to avoid becoming emotional in your presence. 

You tutted in sympathy, reaching to his shoulder to slip the bag of laundry from his clenched fist. “Well, after lunch I can drive you to my place and we can do laundry there, if you want?” The warmth of your fingertips over his torso sent a shudder down his spine. “Matt..?” 

“Yah, that…that sounds good. Let’s, uh, let’s do that.” Matt responded lamely, shuffling from foot to foot as he willed his tense body to slacken. 

“I’m sorry your day started so poorly. Do you want a hug?” Your voice was soft, your posture hesitant as you asked Matt a question he didn’t know he needed to hear. Nodding miserably, he collapsed against you. 

Your soft hands wrapped around his chest, pressing upwards between his shoulder blades with delightful pressure. Matt melted into the embrace, feeling the frustration flood out of his body with each of your inhales. Threading one hand into his hair, you scratched lightly, eliciting a dreamy sigh from him. Giggling in response, you squeezed him tightly before drawing away, much to his chagrin. 

You chuckled, tracing a thumb over the deep furrow between his brows. “Wow, that bad?” 

Face falling, Matt’s mouth fell open in a mixture of embarrassment and horror. Shaking his head profusely, he stammered. “N-no, not at all, I just—“ 

Lightly shoving his shoulder, you laughed brightly. “I’m kidding, trouble. It seems like you needed that. So…” Turning back to face Foggy (who Matt had forgotten was there) you smiled. “Lunch?” 

“Foggy if you spill that in my car, you’re banned. You hear me? Excommunicated from my vehicular sanctuary.” You groused, glaring at the blond who was precariously balancing a large milkshake on his knees in your rear view mirror. 

Blushing, Foggy quickly moved the cup to a more sturdy location as he finished his burger. “Yes ma’am.” He gave a mock salute, making you abandon your scowl for a satisfied smirk. Matt was smiling beside you, sipping his coffee carefully to avoid the same threats as his roommate.  

The three of you were seated comfortably in your car, bags of both Matt’s and Foggy’s laundry stashed in the trunk as you inched closer to the building you lived in. 

Your loft was hidden away in the back corner of a bland building about 8 blocks from Campus. The worn red brick stood about 15 stories tall, complete with the paint-dripped doors and crooked windows that one comes to expect when seeing cheap student housing. 

The inside was drafty and humid, the insulation having rotted away through decades of storms and frat-style ragers. The walls were far from soundproof, given they were about 90% white paint, which had encouraged you to begin seeking refuge in Matt and Foggy’s room whenever you needed to study or, honestly, a moment of peace on a weekend. 

Which is how you found yourself toting the two boys back to your spacious yet slightly dingy loft which, amazingly, had its own functional washer and dryer. And, thankfully, a really comfy couch given that Foggy hadn’t done laundry once since move in. 

“How on earth have you made it this far in life without doing a single load of laundry?” Matt panted between giggles as Foggy’s face scrunched with a pout as he shuffled over to the washer. 

“I don’t know! My mom always did it.” Matt failed to hold back a snort and Foggy crossed his arms. “It’s not that funny, Murdock!” 

“Do your siblings know how to do laundry?” You raised an eyebrow at him, not even trying to keep your smile contained. Matt was in stitches beside you and his laughter was contagious. 

“I mean yah, but—“ Matt guffawed and Foggy sank into his seat, sullenly glaring at the pair of you. “I hate you guys. So much for friendship.” 

A bout of giggles burst out of you. “Don’t worry, Fog. We’ll show you how. It’s really not that hard, just need to know a few things.” 

You opened the top of the washer. “I’m assuming you don’t have detergent then?” Taking Foggy’s indiscernible mutter as an affirmative, you pulled out your own. 

“That’s fine, I’ll loan you some, but I expect you to buy your own next time, Nelson. This shit ain’t cheap.” You pointed a finger at him and he put his hand up in promise. 

“Scout’s honor.” 

Matt turned to you with a grimace. “Shit, I didn’t bring any either. It didn’t cross my mind.” 

With a humorous twinkle in your eye, you pinched his waist. “That’s ok, Matt. You can use some of mine whenever you want. Not a problem.” 

Foggy’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious!?” 

Ignoring him, Matt gave you an overly gracious smile, clearly picking up on your mirthful spirit. “That is so kind of you, sweetheart. You have such a giving personality.”

Foggy spluttered in irritation, head whipping between the two of you incredulously. 

“Anything for my favorite guy.” You purred, sidling up to him as Foggy choked. Matt couldn’t help the flutter of his heart at the implication of you preferring him over anyone else. 

“Guys, c'mon. You’re being mean.” Foggy pouted. You chuckled but pulled away from Matt to wrap the other boy in a hug. 

“I’m sorry, Fog. I love you too, scout’s honor.” 

Foggy grumbled at your promise, but returned the hug. “Yah, yah. Sure ya do. Anyway, are you gonna teach me something or will I continue to wander through this world clueless about the wonders of clean clothes?” 

Giggling, you pulled him over to the machine and launched into a thorough explanation of the process. While he was sure you were sharing good tips, Matt’s brain was not at all focused on your words. His mind was transfixed on the heat cradling his shoulder from your faded touch, and the steadiness of your heart when you’d called him your favorite guy. 

It was hard to not let his thoughts wander, when the smell of you coiled around him like a scarf on a bitter cold day. Your heartbeat danced along as you spoke animatedly with Foggy—teasing, confident personality slowly beginning to reveal itself as you grew more comfortable with the two roommates. Matt was no stranger to his tendency to fall head first for quick-witted women, but it was getting harder to obey his rational side when you opened yourself to him in ways like this. 

Trusting him, encouraging his teasing sarcasm with your own goofy humor, leaning into his touchy nature as if you wanted it too. The fact that he was about to be wearing your laundry detergent for weeks was not going to help quell his growing infatuation. 

Your voice broke through the growing pile of thoughts in his mind. “Right, Matt?” 

“Uh, what?” His face must have reflected his dreamy confusion because Foggy snorted. 

“Doing ok over there, Casanova? Did we lose you in the intricacies of a habit you already have?” Matt rolled his eyes as he heard two hands land on hips, knowing Foggy was giving him a shit-eating smirk. 

“Believe it or not, Nelson, I don’t have the most fun listening to you all day every day. Forgive me for letting my mind wander while you learned something simple.” His tone was meant to be light, but the nerve Foggy had unknowingly struck left his voice harsher than intended. 

Stepping in between him and his roommate, you placed a hand on his arm gently. “Hey, it’s ok that you tuned us out and it’s ok that Foggy needs help with this. I was just letting him know that we were always here if he had any questions.” 

Wincing as he realized you were mediating a conflict he’d accidentally created, he smiled sadly at the blond. “Sorry, Fog. Of course you can ask me. Always. I’m practically a laundry expert.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.  

His attempt worked immediately. “Aw, you sap. You’re forgiven.” Foggy smashed himself against his roommate, eliciting a grunt from the taller man. 

“Thanks, bud. I appreciate you both dealing with my bad mood today.” Matt spoke quietly, a flicker of fear sparking in his chest. 

“What bad mood?” You asked, joining the hug. The two of you squeezed Matt until he groaned at you to get off, setting off fits of giggles in you and Foggy both. 

“Ok, now that we’ve started the washer, I can give you the tour!” You exclaimed, stepping towards the doorway. “This way, gentlemen! Prepare to be amazed.”

The act of doing laundry at your place shouldn’t have been as life-changing as it was for Matt. Your soft floral scent clung to all of him—his clothes, his sheets, his skin. Each inhale brought him closer to you, and it was more indulgent than any sensation he’d ever experienced. Connecting with you at all was incredible, but to have your presence melding into his belongings as if you had chosen him, claimed him. It was divine. 

Unfortunately, as had been evident his entire life, all good things come at a price. The cost of feeling this close to you was the new pressure on his delicate senses. He adored the fact that he was able to carry a piece of you with him, it brought more emotional comfort than he could have imagined, but his nose and skin were less happy about the idea. 

“Matt, I’m begging you, rewash your clothes, man. You’re, like, allergic to that detergent, I think.” Foggy bit his lip, circling his roommate as he looked at the irritation crawling across Matt’s back. 

“‘M fine, Fog.” Matt tugged on a shirt, ignoring the worry emanating from his roommate. “My skin is just sensitive, is all. It just needs to adjust.” He left out the fact that this slight effect was nothing compared to the reaction his skin had every time his clothes were washed in coarse starch by the nuns. At least this was a symptom of your genuine care for him, rather than general disdain for his needs. 

“And this has nothing to do with that fact that you’re adorably into our mutual friend,” Matt winced as Foggy teasingly handed out your name. 

“I’m not ‘into’ her, Fog! What the hell?” 

“Sure, that’s why you’re walking around using more control than I’ve ever had in my life to not scratch your skin clean off your bones?” Foggy shook his head as Matt attempted to inconspicuously slide his hand back into his lap from where it was itching his side. 

“Like I said, sensitive skin—“

“Not to mention that you’ve had more headaches this week than in the nearly two months I’ve known you?” Matt remained silent at the allegation, hoping not to convey admission with his lack of words. 

The headaches had been more of a nuisance than the scratchy fabric rubbing at his angry skin. He wasn’t used to this much exposure to scented items in his personal space, let alone pressed against him. But it was all worth it to hear the sweet little sigh you gave when you were close to him, comforted by the familiarity. 

“Nothing to say for yourself? You realize the more you avoid this conversation, the more likely it seems that you like her, right?” 

Matt just sighed. “I can’t like her, Fog. We are in our first semester at one of the most prestigious law schools in the country and she’s one of two friends that I have. I can’t lose that, and I don’t have the time to start a real relationship. So we need to stay friends.” 

“I get it, Matt. You’re not really a long term kind of guy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn! She is so sweet I’m sure she’d be more than patient with you.” Damn Foggy’s intuition for constantly discovering the core of Matt’s insecurities. 

“She deserves better than me.” 

“Matt—“ 

“No, Foggy,” Clenching his fists, Matt let out a breath through flaring nostrils. “I’m not good enough.” 

Foggy sighed, but dropped the subject. 

Despite Matt being more than confident in his inability to treat you the way you deserved, he found himself growing incredibly envious of the attention you started receiving from other men. There was no doubt in his mind that you were attractive, he’d had more than a few conversations with Foggy (and enough time in class biting his cheek in anger as the men around you fixated) to know that you caught the attention of damn near everyone in the room. 

Maybe it was the fact that you weren’t afraid of standing up for your beliefs or confronting an ignorant point raised by a classmate. It also could’ve been the fact that you were one of the only students who knew what was going on. Your intelligence was captivating, and the way your voice carried defiantly across the room seemed to encourage the affections of both your peers and the Property Law TA. 

Explanation for their interest aside, Matt found himself practically swatting potential suitors away from you each day, irritation swelling in his chest as your heart fluttered at the attention. You’d shyly admitted to him that you’d never had a long term relationship before and that you weren’t used to being sought after. If he was an ounce more of a man, he would have confessed just how much you deserved the affection, even when it wasn’t from him. It wasn’t fair of him to keep you from happiness, he knew that, but every time your pulse skipped as another boy complimented you, it felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. 

So he’d taken to stewing in his own silent fury, currently pretending to read ahead while actually listening intently to your bubbling laughter as a boy a few rows behind you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with some generic pick up line. Shifting in his seat to disguise the rumbling growl in his throat, his heart sank as the bachelor invited you to a party that evening. Giggling, you giddily accepted, writing down the details before scurrying back to your seat. 

There was a noticeable warmth in the apples of your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Matt could practically feel the radiant smile you were wearing. As he was working up the dignity to break the silence, you turned to him gleefully. “Matty,” He’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip at the new affectionate nickname. “What would you say to attending our first college party?” 

Trudging back to the corner across the horrifically sticky wood floor, Matt set his jaw and chugged the disgusting alcoholic sludge he’d been served. Waiting impatiently for the buzz to wash over him, he glowered in a stiff armchair as you flitted around with the overly flirtatious host. Foggy had disappeared ages ago with a peppy journalism student, telling him not to wait up. 

The party was off campus at the house of your fellow Torts student. He and his large handful of housemates lived in a shabby 3 bedroom that felt fragile in design, as if the strong bass blasting from the beer-soaked speakers would shatter the foundation at any moment. Sweaty bodies pressed together in a pulsating mass, dancing to the ear-piercing techno music and slurping down cheap booze. 

Matt was well aware that he was not explicitly invited to this soirée, but hearing you ramble excitedly at the idea of the three of you attending together had been too sweet to shut down. Your gracious host only seemed a bit miffed that two boys had shown up with you, taking no time to brush off Matt and Foggy’s polite greetings and whisk you away like the true gentleman he was shaping up to be. 

James or Josh or whatever his name was, Matt could honestly care less, clearly intended to get in your pants, and was taking no time to attempt that. After pumping you full of Jell-O shots, he engaged you in conversation about the volunteer work he loved so much during high school. Matt didn’t need to hear his heartbeat to know that was utter bullshit, but you responded with elation, ecstatic to find another law student with a similar moral compass to your own. The dark haired law student was more focused on the fact that he could smell his rival’s arousal brewing, a set of wandering hands becoming increasingly noticeable despite the quaking music and overwhelming atmosphere. Hearing a nervous giggle spill out of your mouth as you shrugged out of an inebriated touch, Matt stumbled off the cushions he sat on, ambling over to you to ensure you were safe. 

Before he’d even reached you, your attention landed on him and your pulse stilled. The relieved exhale that left your lips as your eyes found him in the crowd gave his ego a boost for the ages. Waltzing up to you with a smirk, he wrapped an arm protectively around your shoulders as you smiled up at him. “Hey, you! Long time, no see.” Your voice was cheerful despite the situation. 

“You doing ok?” Matt asked, ignoring the brooding man to his left who had backed off a bit since Matt had walked over. 

“Uh huh!” Your head bobbed with a nod, leaning into Matt, you waved towards your suitor. “Jake was just telling me about his work with the Red Cross after Hurricane Isabel.” 

The buff man gave a condescending chuckle, eyes darting over your form. “The Peace Corps, actually.” 

You gasped, “Oh, that’s right, I’m so sorry!” Jake simply smiled, his eyes darkening as Matt subconsciously clenched his hand around you. 

“Quite alright, sweetheart,” He drawled and Matt’s small grin vanished. How dare he call you that? Only Matt was allowed to call you that. “It’s easy to get confused about that stuff. But, yah, it was just so…rewarding, ya know? Helping all those poor people who lost their homes. Can’t wait to do it again after graduating.” 

“Oh, you’re going back to the Peace Corps? How noble of you,” Matt smiled, thinly covering his irritation at this jerk’s arrogance. 

“Well, either that or a similar organization. It’s just so important to give back, ya know?” The tone of the other man indicated that he, too, was holding back a stream of anger. 

As Matt was about to spit back a response, a drunk guy tripped into Jake, who promptly “spilled” (threw) his drink onto Matt’s pristine shirt. Jumping away from you, Matt stood up straight to let the excess liquid drip off his torso, trying not to scream as the damp fabric fused with his skin. 

Jake, ever the charmer, let out a barking laugh. “Shit, sorry man. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Course you weren’t,” Matt muttered, flicking excess moisture from his hands. 

“Oh gosh, you ok, Matty?” You hurried to grab paper towels from the counter behind you, pressing a wad into Matt’s hands while using another handful to dry his shirt yourself. Standing there frozen, Matt’s tipsy brain couldn’t fathom how amazing it felt to have your fingers pressed against his stomach as you tried to clean him up. 

Realizing with a jolt that he hadn’t responded to your worried question, he placed a hand over yours gently. “Uh, yah, I’m fine.” 

“Don’t worry about him, beautiful, he can clean up in the bathroom while we chat.” Heat pushed aggressively at his already sticky skin as Jake sidled up behind you, placing eager hands on your waist as the douchebag tried to pry you from Matt. 

Suddenly, something in him snapped. He wasn’t happy with the immense amount of sensation he’d had to endure nor the fact that he’d been listening to a complete asshole flirt with you all night. Not to mention, said asshole seemed to be moving faster than you wanted and was now physically removing you from Matt’s safeguarding after pouring foul-smelling punch all over his clean shirt? That was just unacceptable. The dark force within Matt that was constantly simmering below the surface was ready to erupt. 

Stepping forward with a snarl, Matt was ready for a fight, but he didn’t have to start one. 

Pulling out of the grasp of your aggressive suitor’s hands, you intertwined your fingers with Matt’s. “Sorry, Jake, but I should get going. I have to be up for a scholarship event tomorrow, and I’ll need a good amount of sleep if I want to act not-hungover.” You giggled, smiling at him. “I’ll see you around?” 

“Sure. Whatever,” Jake feigned a smile, stalking away but muttering loud enough for Matt to hear, “Stupid bitch.” 

Matt growled, taking a firm step towards him, but you tugged on his hand. “Hey,” You murmured, squeezing his hand, “Let’s get out of here.” 

Not wanting to upset you by giving away the other man’s shitty intentions, Matt trailed after you as you wove through the crowd and out the door. The grip of your fingers around his hand was grounding, allowing him to push away the less pleasant feelings from the party. Shoving past a group of people playing beer pong outside, you sighed as your lungs took in fresh air for the first time in a few hours. 

“Wow, that was…” you trailed off, steps faltering slightly. 

“Yah.” Matt agreed, trying not to blush as you linked your arms together on the path towards his dorm.  “I’m…sorry.” 

Turning to him, your footwork halted. “For what, Matty?” 

“I didn’t mean to stop you from enjoying yourself. You and…Jake,” Matt practically choked around the name. “Really seemed to hit it off.”

You were quiet for a moment, your steady heartbeat echoing in Matt’s ears, before you burst out laughing. Giggles became chuckles which transformed into uproarious laughter. You had to pull yourself out of Matt’s hold to cradle your stomach as you cracked yourself up. Matt just stared blankly at you, brain flooding with pure confusion. 

“Matt,” You wheezed. “He’s a total douchebag.” 

“But, but I thought—“ Matt shook his head, breaking into his own set of giggles listening to your bright, infectious ones. “Stop laughing! He was all over you!”

“Yah because he’s a douchebag!” You exclaimed, as if it was obvious. Falling back against Matt’s side, you tucked an arm around his waist and began marching forward again. “He told me that bullshit story about the Peace Corps, but they don’t accept minors. So he was either lying about that or his age.” 

“Why did you talk to him for so long? You had me fooled.” Matt ran a hand over your back, smiling with relief that you hadn’t been as smitten with Jake as he’d assumed. 

“I don’t know!” You shoved him lightly as he snorted at your behavior. “I’m awkward, Matty! I kept trying to end the conversation and he just. Kept. Talking. And then I felt bad because he seemed like an ok guy, but then he started getting handsy and I was soooo over it.” 

Growling deeply, Matt’s arm tightened around you. “I’m pretty sure everyone in the room was over it at that point.” 

You just hummed in thought. “Well it’s a good thing I have my Matt in Shining Armor. Now let’s get you home so you can change.”

“About that..” Matt slowed his pace, not wanting to let you go quite yet. He needed a plan, and fast. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just…I can’t exactly tell, but I assume the shirt is going to stain?”

With a grimace, you traced a finger over the patch the drink had touched. Matt’s light blue shirt wouldn’t stand a chance after 24 hours. “Oof. It’s likely if it’s not treated tonight. That punch was eerily red. Like inedibly vibrant in color. But if you use a stain remover—“

“I don’t have that.” Matt blurted, “I, er, I just really like this shirt,” God, that was the worst excuse he had ever come up with. Nice going, Murdock. “and I don’t want it to stain. Would you, um, could you—“

“Is the great Matthew Murdock asking for my assistance with laundry?” He could hear the smirk you wore. “I thought you were an expert.” 

“That’s hearsay.” He objected, teasingly. 

You giggled once more. “Well, what kind of person would I be if I let my knight’s shining armor stay tarnished?” 

Matt feigned a groan at your cheesy comment. “You know what, on second thought—“ He started to pull away from you, but you held fast. 

“Nope! You want to hang out with me even though I say goofy shit. That’s your bad. No turning back now, you’re in too deep, Murdock.” 

“Lucky me.” Matt remarked, but there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone. 

“C’mon, slowpoke!! Time is of the essence!” You pulled Matt up the last flight of stairs to your loft, laughing as he pretended to go limp so you would drag him further. “Hey! Be careful, trouble, you weigh more than I can handle.” 

“Excuses, excuses.” Matt lurched forward, toppling against you as you opened the door. You squealed, but nestled into the contact anyway. The door creaked open and you both shuffled inside, there was no sign of anyone else in the apartment. 

“My roommate went out with her boyfriend.” You explained, as if reading his mind. “They usually hang out here but I think they were drinking for free somewhere.”

“Good for them.” Matt snorted, being tugged towards your laundry room. 

You instructed him to sit on top of the dryer while you opened the washer. “Your shirt, sir,” Holding out a hand to him, you messed with settings on the machine. 

Removing each plastic button from its corresponding fabric loop, Matt was suddenly painfully aware of how intimate the action was. Biting his lip to keep his growing…feelings…at bay, he tried not to dwindle on the fact that you had asked him to undress. In your apartment. Alone. 

You may have just realized the tension of the moment as well, heat flooding your body as your movement stilled. In one swift movement, Matt gracefully removed the dress shirt and placed it in your outstretched palm, imaginary sparks cascading up his arm as his fingertips brushed your bare skin. 

“Thank you,” You nearly whispered, gaze lingering on his parted lips for a moment too long before you busied yourself at the washer. “Um, Hydrogen peroxide should fix the discoloration. It might smell a little, though. We may need to wash it twice.”

“That’s, uh, that’s fine.” Matt murmured, arousal becoming difficult to ignore. 

“I can wash your undershirt too, if you want,” Matt’s skin jumped as your fingers danced over the fabric where the spilled drink had seeped through. 

“Yah. Yah, ok.” Your hand rose and fell with Matt’s chest as he breathed. Time had slowed to a crawl, nothing existing outside the little haven you had painstakingly created for him. Tugging the garment up and over his head, he gripped it tightly for a moment before passing it over. “Here.” 

You took the fabric gingerly, eyes not straying from his mouth. “Thanks.” Still clenching the shirt in one hand, you cupped his cheek and leaned in. Matt greedily followed your lead, nose bumping against yours for only a second before—

The sound of a door slamming made you both jump apart. Drunken laughter rang throughout the hallway but abruptly stopped as Oscar and Jen took in the scene before them. Eyes flitting between shirtless, panting Matt, and your embarrassed face, it painted quite the picture. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” Jen giggled, pulling Oscar towards her room. 

“Carry on, children!” Oscar guffawed, running after her. 

Grimacing, you turned back to Matt. “Shit, Matt, I—“

“You know what, I should really get going.” Matt snatched his undershirt from your open hand, sliding off the dryer and beelining for the door. 

“Matt, wait!” You called after him, but he was already gone. 

Exhaling nervously, you clenched your fingers around the item you held before knocking firmly on the door. 

Foggy’s equally anxious face appeared as the door opened. Tension ebbed from his brow slightly as he met your wide eyes. “Well, what do you know!” He greeted you in a loud voice laced with false surprise. “So lovely to see you, my dear. Please, come in.”

Stepping past Foggy with a grimace of a smile, your gaze quickly found Matt—tucked away against his thin headboard, looking like he wanted to vanish into the faux wood. 

“Wow, would you look at the time. I really should be going.” Seizing his coat from the bed, Foggy scurried to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Matt asked, frantically. 

“Out. With, er, my other friends. Bye!” The slam of a door concluded his swift exit. 

You avoided looking at Matt, shuffling from foot to foot for a moment before sitting at the edge of Foggy’s bed. The raven-haired boy had a skittish energy, like a feral cat, and you didn’t want to scare him off. 

Biting your lip, you desperately scrounged for any remaining courage within yourself, trying to muster up the nerve to break the silence, but Matt beat you to it. 

“I’m starting to think you two planned that.” He spoke quietly, toying with a stray thread on his comforter. 

You gave a humorless chuckle. “Guess we need to work on our acting skills, huh?” 

Matt just grunted. C’mon Murdock, work with me here. 

You took a deep breath, “Matt, about Thursday night—“ Your sweet friend interrupted you with a wince. 

“I’m sorry.” Matt’s face was practically mournful, but his apology left you confused. 

“Sorry for what?” You tilted your head, honed in on him as he curled further into the corner. 

“I…I made it weird. I didn’t mean to, it just happened! You were trying to do something nice and then I had to go and ruin it and then your roommates came home and—“ 

“Oh, Matty,” You launched yourself off of Foggy’s bed and flung your arms around Matt. Startled, he teetered for a moment before returning the hug. “You didn’t ruin anything. We were both…a little tipsy, and it was late. We weren’t acting like ourselves. We can just forget about it!” 

Pushing down the disappointment that surfaced at your desire to move past the near kiss, Matt was a bit relieved that you didn’t hate him. “Really?” He asked as you settled against his side, nestling into the arm he threw over you as if you belonged there. 

“Of course! If you’re willing, we can move past it.” Then, with a bit more vulnerability, you added, “I care about you a lot, trouble. I’m not going to let a little awkwardness keep us apart.” 

Matt smiled as you rested your head against his shoulder, taking a moment to weave your fingers together. He basked in your warmth for a bit before curiosity outweighed his desire to hold you. 

“What did you bring with you?” His voice was still soft, tentative, like he was still doubting that you cared for him. 

“Oh!” Escaping his grasp, you leapt to grab the crumpled heap of fabric from the other bed. “I brought back your shirt.” 

Matt gingerly took the clothing from you, wondering why he hadn’t smelled the strong floral detergent when you came in. Forgetting his manners, he brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply before running his fingers over it. 

It was soft, more so than when he had worn it last. It held traces of your vanilla soap, and even fainter remnants of tequila and peroxide, but it smelled like…nothing. Or as close to nothing as any porous object could ever get with his delicate senses. 

“I, um, I hope it’s ok. I used a new detergent. Fragrance and dye free, supposed to be good for sensitive skin.” You shifted on the balls of your feet, watching him turn the shirt in his grasp . 

Taking your hand, Matt tugged you back against his hip, embracing you again. “Thank you.” He struggled to form the words around the lump of emotion in his throat. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Foggy may have mentioned that the clothes we washed last time were giving you a reaction.” You shoved him lightly. “You should have told me!” 

Shrugging, Matt sighed. “I didn’t want to be a bother.” 

Snuggling in closer, you frowned. “You never bother me, trouble. You ok?” 

Matt scrubbed at his eyes hastily, “M’fine.” You clearly didn’t buy his bullshit, but you didn’t call him on it either, simply using a gentle thumb to wipe away a stray tear that his hands missed. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Matty. But, if you want to, I’m right here.” 

Eyes filling with tears again, he stifled a sob, waiting for the ability to pull himself together before he spilled his secrets to you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get emotional, it’s just—“ Your hand came up to stroke through his hair as a strangled cry broke free. “No one has ever done this for me before. I’m just…not used to it.” 

“You’re my best friend, Matt. You deserve to be taken care of, and I’m happy to do it.” Pressing a kiss to his temple, you guided him to your shoulder and simply let him cry.

Tag list: @eugene-emt-roe @abbyhaslongshorts @mrs-bellingham @abucketofweird @yeonalie @jadeunstablexx @spider-murdock

[smolvenger]

Court of Mischief and Purpose Chapter 22 (Loki x Fem Reader Crossover Series, Court of Thorns and Roses AU)

Series Summary: Sarah J Maas's A Court of Thorns and Roses series reimagined with Tom Hiddleston's various characters- Especially the events in the second book, A Court of Mist and Fury and onwards. England. 1885. You are dying of tuberculosis right before your upcoming wedding to the Lusty Vicar of Aldwinter, Will Ransome. As you lay on what could be your deathbed, the god of mischief Loki appears before you with a deal. He will heal you in time for the wedding...if you spend a week of every month with him.

Chapter Summary: Being invited to a dinner party, you and your companions seize the chance to get the first trove.

Series Masterlist

Word Count: >4K

Warnings: Some spicy flirting, but no actual smut. Not much, some angst. Greif and mentions of bullying. If I miss anything, let me know! Proceed with caution, but I take full responsibility for how I portray dark subject matter and if it is not done tastefully or well. If I miss anything that could be triggering, it is your responsibility to tell me as soon as possible so I can tag it here. Otherwise, enjoy!

A/N: I have had major writer's block since moving into an apartment and starting grad school, but maybe something will come up and I will be blocked from Character AI bc I waste all of my time there now. Anyways, it is not perfect, but I just wanted it done. Ta da!

Taglist: @evelyn-kingsley@jennyggggrrr@five-miles-over@fictive-sl0th@ladycamillewrites@villainousshakespeare@holdmytesseract@eleniblue@twhxhck@lokisgoodgirl@lovelysizzlingbluebird@raqnarokr@holymultiplefandomsbatman@michelleleewise@wolfsmom1@cheekyscamp@mochie85@fandxmslxt69@skittslackoffilter@mischief2sarawr @asgards-princess-of-mischief

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

You, Edith, your husband, Stella, and Sif huddled on a cafe table. The building was painted in pastel greens and pinks, with wide windows filtering in sunlight as guests chatted around all of you. But it was not so noisy that one could not focus on the manuscript. Edith sat at the other end, nervously drinking her coffee, her sandwich untouched. The rest of you huddled together tight to read it together, Sif being the one to turn the pages. 

Loki did raise his eyebrow at a few points, Stella’s bulged out. Sif only had no facial reaction.

Edith’s story was about a ghost who haunted a woman in her home. She added details of the dark house and creaking wood. Of the ghost's skeletal fingers, a skull-like face was blank except for a wide mouth, open with sharp teeth. The characters seemed as real as flesh, with little details that only someone who observed others could make. At one point, the woman was asleep when the ghost screamed. The noise rattled the house and would not stop, waking the woman up in fright. It made you shiver. 

The heroine had a past, as did the house, but it was not revealed. As you got to the end of the snippet, you were eager to know the truth, but Sif set the pages down on the table.

“Miss Cushing, that was incredible!” Stella cried, a hand over her heart. Perhaps it was still racing from the terror of the story.

Edith nodded with a smile, a blush coming up on her.

“Oh, thank you!” she replied. She sat up straighter, and her voice brighter.

“I had chills!” you added on.

“It…wasn’t bad at all,” Loki admitted.

“Well, when I was young. I saw something- and heard noises. I believe I encountered a ghost. I never forgot it,” she admitted. “Father never believed me, only a friend did.”

“A ghost?” Sif asked, she folded her arms.

Edith reached over. She carefully put her papers into the folder and wrapped her arms around it like a baby.

“Yes.” was all she said.

“And has this ghost been to you since, Miss Cushing?” Loki asked.

Edith set down the folder.

“No…. I wrote to explore that. I had an idea and it would never leave me. It was like a fever- I had to write it down. Besides, I always loved stories and books…Mama was the only woman I knew who loved them too and then she…she passed.”

She slumped, her eyes growing vacant. Stella reached out and held her hand.

“She would be proud of you now. Creating something and putting it out there, takes great courage,” you consoled.

A small smile flickered on Edith.

“When did she pass?” asked Stella.

“When I was ten,” answered Edith.

“All this while still a child? You poor thing!” replied Stella.

Edith let out a deep sigh.

“I hope you get published. There are women writers out there- you will be one of them in enough time if you keep at it,” you encouraged her.

“Thank you I…” there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh, is something wrong? We didn’t- offend you?” you asked. Digging into your reticule, you pulled out a handkerchief. Edith gripped onto it, twisting it anxiously.

“It’s only…I…I…” began Edith.

She hesitated. Her lips quivering, then she hung her head low and began her confession.

“No, you didn’t offend me at all, it’s only…I…I hated girls my age. When I was little, I was so obsessed with all those things- ghosts, death, books, novels. I struggled to relate to them when I was little because I just wanted to talk about what I was reading. They didn’t even…try to make room for me. I was excluded. I misunderstood their games and their words. I tried so hard, but it was never good enough. And as a child they-they…”

She paused.

“Mrs. McMichael’s daughter Eunice and her friends always bullied me. They brought me along to be their fool, something to kick at. And I…I just felt so alone…I always did…I didn’t like them. They laughed at me. Teased me. Locked me in rooms. Called me names. And even now that we’re grown…they still keep at it. And I always have to spend time with them. Trying to discuss ribbons at least and dealing with their jabs at most. And Mrs. McMichael…she…I’m always so scared I will say something wrong, something bad…and they’ll laugh at me again. I try so hard to be nice to them. To not strike back because it will only make things worse. But…I could never be myself. But even when I barely said anything,  they would always find a way to insult me. To make me less. I didn’t want to go to balls. Go to anything. I didn’t want to go somewhere where I’d be a figure of scorn…and I was…I was always alone…”

“They’re cowards and fools,” Sif spat.

Edith smiled at that, wiping a few small tears with the handkerchief. 

“Yes, they are. But…not since…since now I…I never could speak to anyone other than Michael, much less another woman, and I…I…” she babbled.

She smiled lightly, her tears still in her small eyes. 

“Not until today. When I met all of you,” she completed.

“I guess we can all consider each other friends. And I’m glad to have you as one, Edith” you replied.

Edith then handed the handkerchief back, her face pink.

“Oh goodness, I just cried in public,” she sighed.

“It’s alright, it was rather small,” Stella assured her with a smile.

There was a small pause. Edith had gathered herself. Her appetite returned and she ate her sandwich. Topics went back and forth as the mood lightened. As the bill was paid, she turned to the rest of you.

“Oh- there is a dinner party later this week at my place. Father and I are hosting. It’s going to be a smaller, intimate affair but he said I could invite anyone I wanted…But…could I invite all of you?” she asked.

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“I think that-”

Clutching his hand, you cut in, interrupting him with an enthusiastic smile.

“We would love to be invited! Can my husband’s friends come too? In total- that should make eight of us, if you have the seats!” you replied.

Loki looked at you, but you squeezed his fist, signaling him to not speak. 

“Yes, of course!” Edith promised. “Where are all of you staying.”

This time, you turned to Loki. He replied that his friend Mr. Pine found a hotel for all of them and that the RSVPs could be forwarded to the address and hotel rooms. Edith vowed to do so, scribbling the address on paper and saying the invites would arrive shortly. Saying your goodbyes, she then left the cafe with a bounce in her step.

Once the door closed, Loki flipped his face to all of you. 

“What in the seven hels is going to a Midgard banquet going to accomplish?” he asked.

“That banquet is exactly where we need to be,” Sif replied. She made glares here and there to make sure no mortal was watching. Or a possible spy. 

“What?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“Edith has the ring. YN’s powers sensed it,” Stella explained.

“It’s in her house,” you added. “And unless you know how to break into a house tonight and not raise any suspicions with Edith, go ahead and say so.

Loki let out an exhale. His face relaxed.

“Oh…well then… we got lucky. Too lucky. To think me and the variants did all of that foolish searching when our dear, fair ladies walked right into it!” he commented.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The invitations arrived on notes the color of snow. The days seemed long and slow before the evening of the fateful dinner party arrived. Five of you, it was noted, all had similar faces and voices, the variants all agreed to tell others that they were distant relations in case someone asked questions. The men donned evening tuxedos. You were in a rich, dark green gown, Stella her sky blue, and Sif one of wine red.

“I should go. I want to be in the search. And I don’t want to be stuck where it’s dull,” Sif insisted.

“I’ll go with you, you need my powers to find the ring. And if Grendel were to strike, he wouldn’t do it in the middle of a crowded party,” you nodded.

It was then decided. You and Sif would look, while the rest distracted the hosts and partygoers.

Your cabs pulled up to the house. As servants took your coats and escorted you inside, you noted the light wood, the grandfather clock and mirrors, and the elaborate glass windows. Warm, light, and sweet.

“One would think this is like a fairy house.,” Thomas commented, looking about.

There were footsteps and distant chatter of a few guests. Then in came Edith, dressed in a cream dress with ruffles at the long neck and sleeves.

“Oh! Our party! Hello- welcome!” she greeted.

All of you exchanged greetings and names, ever polite and gracious to the strangers in your party. She smiled at you and the ones she met, and then she shook hands with Hal, Jonathan, Robert…

She paused with Thomas, locking eyes with her. She partially froze. Her smile dropped. Then she found herself again, her eyes flicking down and then back up.

“And you, sir?” she asked.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe, esquire. And Miss Cushing- and I hear you are a talented writer, too, I presume?” he asked. He smiled back. But it was different than the merely happy-to-be-here-please-don’t-suspect-a-thing manners of the others. His eyes shined on her. 

“Yes..yes, I am,” she admitted shyly. Though you could see her cheeks were pink.

“And of ghost stories, I heard?” he added.

“Oh- yes, that is my specialty,” she answered. She beamed at him like there was no one else in the party.

“Well then, I have a particular fondness for them. You must promise to let me read it, and if not- then tell me every last little detail about it,” he said.

She nodded and said she would. Then the door opened with a couple that just came in and she excused herself to greet them, but not before looking at Thomas one last time.

“Ah, the large party,” said a baritone voice.

There entered an older man, tall and broad with an impressive, grey beard. He smiled at each of you. But he turned to you, Sif, and Stella first.

“And you three are the ones who defended my daughter against the notorious Mrs. McMichael, yes?” he asked.

“Yes, we were the ones present,” you answered.

“Well then, I will always offer my warmest gratitude. Mrs. McMichael is fond of kicking the hornet's nest, we shall say,” he replied. 

He reached out his hand and you shook it, his skin calloused. “I am Mr. Cushing.”

Edith led you down the short hall to the dining room. There were lit candles everywhere, making the scene lush and romantic. The table was set with a white cloth and vases of flowers and candelabras. The place was decorated with tall china cabinets, a stone fireplace, and a wall with tall windows. Appetizers were served on porcelain.  Water was served in one glass and wine in another. 

You waited through the courses. Engaging in topics as they came and went. The men seemed to all be doing fine. Though there were a few odd questions about the “business trip” and how they were related, Loki came up with lies on the spot to satisfy them. Sif held her posture uptight and helped herself to the main course, eating heartily and quickly. Stella cut up her chicken into small bits and always smiled.  Edith and Thomas exchanged several glances and smiles, even when others were talking.

“Why, this is such a beautiful place, Miss Cushing! And what an elegant cake!” Stella praised as dessert arrived.

“Oh, thank you. The cook has never failed us once. Wait until you try a bite!” Edith said.

Taking in a deep breath, you calmed yourself. You made your jaw unclench and relaxed your shoulders. Focusing on the blank white of the tablecloth, you reached out your senses.

Ignoring the sounds of eating and sipping, the whispering of servants, you focused on the ring. Something was pulling you above the stairs. Edith’s bedroom was down that hall. It poked at you like an insistent child.

But where exactly was-

“And Mrs Laufeyson, how did you meet your husband?” asked Mr. Cushing.

Snapping back to the present, you looked up and smiled.

“Oh…I was dreadfully ill. And he heard of me and offered his help to make sure I had medical care. He saved my life…”

You turned to Loki.

“And not just my body, far more than that” she replied.

Loki sat up, his jaw a little loose. Then he smiled.

“Oh, how romantic!’ cried one guest.

Taking a bite of cake, you found it was layered, delicate, and sweet. 

Slices were eaten and servants cleared plates. Some ladies went to one parlor and the men were trickling to another, but there were exceptions. Edith and Thomas were by the fire, talking and chatting- you even saw Edith laugh lightly. It was Jonathan who walked up to the host himself, Mr. Cushing, and was asking him about his business. Loki was beside him, in case any gaps needed filling. The rest of the men had the other variants, content to drink brandy and smoke, and seem innocent. Stella was listening intently to old ladies gossip, as they led her to the drawing room.

Loki then went up to you.

“Ah, and is it time?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” you answered him quietly.

You shared a look at Sif. She nodded her head. 

Both of you walked over to a far corner.

Loki raised his hand and two duplicates of you both appeared. Your husband smirked.

“Ah, now two of my lovely wife? Our nights could become a lot more interesting…” he whispered.

“Oh, stop it!” you teased.

He raised an eyebrow.

“But would you like a duplicate of me? Hm? To have two of your trickster god worshiping you at once? Pleasuring you until you couldn’t remember your name?” he whispered.

Feeling your toes curl in your shoes, you lightly swatted his arm.

“If my husband could control his lust for one hour, we have a ring to find,” you reminded him.

He gave you a wink, and then walked away with the duplicates to join the other men.

Making sure your steps were light, you both picked up your skirts and scurried up the steps. The servants were too busy with the party to take note. But you couldn’t waste time before one of them saw something.

You quickened to Edith’s room at the end of the hall. Reaching out your hand, you made sure it unlocked and got inside.

Turning around, you made sure the door was quietly closed and locked.

It was dark from the night, and full of books and childhood toys. Both of you eyed around.

“Use your gifts, find where it is!” Sif insisted.

Taking in another breath, you readied yourself. Ready to reach out your gifts and-

The door creaked open.

Both of you turned around.

The door opened by itself. The door handle still clicking up and down. It was a warm night and warm from the many people. But the room itself had turned cold. Uncomfortably cold.

“What-what is that?” you asked. Feeling the color drain from your face.

“The windows are closed- there is no wind” observed Sif. 

A figure emerged at the end of the hall, hidden by the shadows.

A servant? No-this wasn’t a servant. It was a tall figure, dressed in black with a long, black veil as if in mourning. But there were no widows in the party guests, much less one dressed like that.

The woman moved over.

No- she didn’t move…

She glided over.

In a heartbeat, there was a gust of cold wind and she flew over. Her veiled face, you realized, was nothing more than a pitch-black skull. Hollow eye sockets. Black pitch dripped over her skeletal features.

She let out a scream before either of you could.

The specter flew over and grabbed you both by each arm. Reaching out, you saw her hands were only bones. Her touch was so cold, it numbed your skin. She shook both of you.

“THIEVES! THEIVES! THEIVES!” she screeched. 

She threw both of you. You and Sif hit a wall and then fell onto the floor. You let out a sound despite yourself, catching yourself onto the rug below.

Sif reached her hand and put it over your mouth. 

“If you scream, the servants and guests will come up,” she argued.

You had to bite your tongue. The lights in the room flickered on and off rapidly. The temperature was freezing in that room, and the specter pointed a bony finger toward you.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? STAY AWAY FROM HER! BURGLARS! THEIVES!” the spectre hissed.

You removed Sif’s hand, though kneeling, you were shaking. Books toppled from a bookshelf and papers on a desk flew about.

“Who are you? Are allied with Grendel?” you asked in a quiet voice.

The Spectre did not react. She only kept screeching.

“DO NOT LAY A HAND ON HER! BURGLAR!”

Sif unsheathed her sword.

“Grendel, no doubt. Something of his,” she muttered.

Sif ran forward, and with a grunt, she stabbed the woman through the stomach.

But there was no blood. And the specter did not budge. She did not seem the least bit hurt in any way.

She let out another scream- an ugly sound, like a broken sob, one that almost tore you.

Sif’s jaw hung open in surprise. The specter grabbed Sif by the throat.

“DO-NOT-TOUCH-HER!” it warned.

Sif struggled and tried to loosen, but the specter held on tight.

The memories of Edith at the cafe went back to you. It made sense- Edith saw a ghost when she was very young…she must have seen it here…it must have been right after…after she lost…

Everything made sense.

With shaky legs, you got back up and stated.

“I know who you are…you’re Mrs. Cushing- you’re Edith’s mother!” you declared.

The ghost paused, turning her skeletal face to you. The wind in the room vanished.

“We are not here to hurt your daughter- and that is my friend. We are here to help her, please let her go,” you asked.

The ghost released her skeletal hand. Sif fell to the floor, coughing and gasping in the air. You rushed forward and helped her.

“There is a ring Edith has…and it’s one of Grendel’s. It looks like this…” you began. From your pocket, you got out the copy.

The ghost looked at it.

“Do you know who Grendel is? His mortality is stuck in a few items. Including a ring like this. If he remains in power…he could hurt Edith. If we find the ring and destroy it, then he’ll be destroyed…Please…you only want to protect her. That’s why you were always watching over her, all that time she thought she was alone…and she was not. Could you help us?”

The ghost looked at you. It exhaled, the shadows around it flittering.

She took her finger and pointed to a chest. A drawer opened. And out floated a locked box. It unlocked and then floated over to your hands.

Looking inside were a few jewelry items…including that very ring.

You looked up at her.

“Thank you,” you said.

Sif plucked out the ring. You replaced it with the duplicate ring, setting in within the few earrings and trinkets.

The small box floated up, locked, and then was put in the drawer, where it shut.

The ghost let out another sound, like an exhale and a moan. The papers shuddered again and the grandfather in the clock rang the hour.

Then the shadows vanished, as did the ghost. Warmth returned to the room again, as did the light.

You cupped your mouth again, catching your breath.

“Oh…oh gods…” you whispered.

Sif pocketed the ring. Without saying a word, she looked at you and grabbed your hand.

“Hurry, princess,” she urged.

Both of you shuffled at once out of the room. Downstairs, the party remained as normal. It was as if no one heard any screams or rattling coming from upstairs.

Steps light, desperate to escape the scene, both you and Sif hurried out of the room. Your feet light. So there wasn’t a rumble as you went across the hall. Down the stairs. Squeezing your eyes shut to concentrate, you signaled Loki.

“We have it! Send the duplicates!”

Sure enough, your duplicates turned a corner of a wall outside of the parlor. You both walked over. They vanished like mist. 

You took their places and walked in. Sipping coffee with the other ladies making idle chatter. Stella glanced at you both. You gave her a smile and a nod and her shoulders relaxed.

Drinking your tepid coffee, you let out an exhale as if to wash away everything that happened.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You both staid for two more days to avoid suspicion.  But on the last day, Edith hurried to your hotel. She embraced you and Stella warmly, (though Sif seemed a little stiff as she did). The other gentlemen nodded.

“May I…may I write, please? I would like to hear from you…all of you,” Edith said,her eyes glancing to Thomas and then back. You felt bad for her, the poor girl would be at the mercy of the McMichaels again. 

“We will. We’ll visit too if we can,” you promised her. 

Thomas then stepped forward, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“May I have the pleasure of writing to you as well, Miss Cushing?” he asked.

She jumped at first. Her jaw lowered briefly, and then she smiled.

“Why- Yes, please,” she answered.

He took her hand and kissed it. You could feel the fluttering from Edith herself. Hal cocked an eyebrow, but Robert rolled his eyes.

Once she left, Jonathan made sure your keys were all returned. Loki took a hand and flicked open a portal.

One down, three more to go you silently counted out. But perhaps more than just ghosts awaited the next one. Things even worse…

[cowbot-lumberjane]

Connection: Established

>What does it feel like? 

“It feels… heavy. Like my entire body is made of concrete but moves just fine. What does it feel like for you?”

>Processing query… Natural. I have never known any other form of being. 

“Fair, dumb question I guess. Your turn.”

>Why do you stay?

“What do you mean?” >The role of a pilot is dangerous, and at times has been called things like “suicidal” and “hellish”. I assume this is due to the augmentation process as well as the missions you are deployed on. You have been offered transfer on multiple occasions, why do you stay?

The pilot’s brow furrowed in thought at the question. She hadn’t assumed the machine had known about the offers, or that it had thought much about it. The fact that it thought at all still rattled her some. Who else knew? Did it talk to the repair crew? What about the other machines? Her eyes scanned the bay as she tried to let an answer form, catching on the details of the machine’s “siblings” that sat still on their repair racks. Finally she managed to speak, though what came out was perhaps a bit more honest than she had cared to be during their other late night talks.

“I stayed for you.”

>....

“Are you alright?”

>...For me?

Its words were different this time. She could almost hear a tinge of longing through the soft crackle of the cockpit speakers. Suddenly feeling a bit more timid about her admittance, she lifted her hands away from where they had rested on the controls. 

“Yeah, for you. Is, that okay?”

>I do not understand. Lights across the control console flickered their dull orange as it spoke in a tone more human than she’d heard before. 

>I am a machine. A tool. A weapon. Why risk your life for what is replaceable?

“Replaceable? Aw come on now.” She knocked a hand into the metal walls that encompassed her. “You know damn well we’re a team. I don’t think I could ever get used to drivin’ another vanguard. Besides… I uh, I like you.”

>In what way?

A good question. She’d thought a lot about it in recent weeks. How could she describe it? How could she possibly begin to say that the only time she felt alive was when the augments in her skull connected with the machine’s neural computers? Or how that she only ever felt like a person when addressed as part of their pairing?

“I uh… I dunno… I guess I just feel a connection with you… Y’know….?”

>... I believe so.

Her hand reached up behind her head to feel at the access port melded to the flesh on the back of her neck. Each time she readjusted in the pilot’s seat she could feel every inch of titanium running along her spine, every neural wire in her arms. The soft hum of the machine’s cable connected at the base of her skull was a warmth she would never know with another person, if she could consider herself one. Her mind drew inward, deeper into the simulated consciousness the two shared between them. Slowly the walls of the cockpit fell away one by one until she was left staring up at a burning manifestation of the weapon’s own mind. It floated unflinchingly in the cybernetic void around her making the simulated air crackle with electricity. Her own visage reached out a hand and when her palm was pressed firmly against the white hot energy of the fission-powered tool of war she could feel every memory wash over at once. Her skin crawled outside the simulation, legs writhing as her breath grew ragged and heavy. Each breath tasted like the battlefield. Like gunpowder and heavy-class tonnage. Fire and smoke and steel and white hot bursts of energy stung at her lungs with each gasp. 

The machine’s own feedback was of similar magnitude. Within the metal housings and endless clusters of wires and computers something primordial stirred as the two melded into each other. Soft whirring rang out from its gigantic head as vents on its back opened to dump excess heat, and its hands clenched slowly, servos humming quietly in the otherwise empty launch bay. The pilot’s movements within it were slow and sensual. Eyes hidden behind her helmet but mouth hanging firmly agape as her hands caressed the link nodes along the machine’s internal controls. It had never felt anything like this without her. It wasn’t sure if its siblings were capable of such things, it did not understand what it meant to relate or be social. But it understood her. It understood the feeling of her scarred hands delicately touched along the control sticks and lines of power switches. Within the simulation there were no longer two entities. Where they had stood facing each other now was only the one, the culmination, the zenith. 

The pilot could feel her body convulse slightly as the meld completed. Despite her years of training and successful augmentations she never quite got used to the feeling of neural-fluid entering her system. She was unable to speak now, not out loud anyway. All that resounded as the cockpit slowly closed and locked with a soft hiss where latent whimpers from her corporeal form. As one they moved their arms carefully in front of the hulking chassis and locked their hands together. Perhaps it looked odd to anyone who witnessed it on the outside, if anyone was even around this time of night. A war machine holding hands with itself as the pilot inside felt a body-shocking sense of pure euphoria and an ecstasy unmatched by any true physical sensation. Inside the cockpit the viewscreens did not flicker to life. Instead the pilot’s waves of tension and release were only shown in the soft orange glow of status lights and digital readout displays. Sound within the small space would not echo the outside world either, her moaning now entirely enclosed only for the two of them to hear. 

Within their melded mind they spoke not as a soldier and its weapon, not even as human and machine. Between augmentation and the complete intermingling of consciousness neither could truly be described as either, but something entirely new. Something that had proved itself time and time again across countless battles and hundreds of slain enemies. Together they would stand and fall as one as the words filled every space within the endless simulation. 

>”I love you.”

[slylock-syl]

Alright, back kind of. After having been really busy with school, the holidays, and stuff. So meant to say this a bit ago, but when you said u were starting a side story that people have been wanting, I had guessed maybe we could get some stuff about Maecros' home world (been wanting for this, since I saw all those designs u did for characters and stuff. And the stuff we have learned about Maestro, his homeworld, family, etc.), but the Lost Soul: Sweetie has been cool too! 1/?.

Welcome back!~

Those posts featuring characters from Necros' home world were from a live event I host on my Discord during that time! It was a very lore-filled live storytelling with activities and the audience could decided where they wanted to go, with some minor QnA segments with the characters. The entire event is still archived on the Discord for anyone who may want to revisit it~ I'm hoping to be able to convert it to a comic one day, with some adjustments to closing the fourth wall ofc XD

Maestro's worldbuilding is still fairly few and far between so far, and I'm also hoping to give him a proper due eventually, I just don't know when that would be yet X'D

I'm glad you're liking the side story so far!~ It took some rewrites to get to somewhere I was happy with, but I think it's in a good place~

I don't wanna say too much obviously, but I like the thought process!

Once the side story ends I'll likely do another scheduled week break just to make sure everything's ready for Chapter 8~ It's still in the works cuz I've officially entered Rewrite Hell territory, but I've got many ideas rattling around in the ol' skull and I'm hoping to do them justice! So I hope people like what I (eventually) have planned! :D

Wild to think overall I've made around 1000 comic pages total! It seems so daunting to work up to a number that high, it somehow feels like we got there so quickly despite being 8 years running so far! I guess it's better not to think about that much future work all at once XD

Merry Early Christmas and Happy Holidays! ✨

[theboywithburninghands]

Okay. Executive decision. Posting the first chapter of my two-parter here, because I'm loaded with caffeine and I want you guys to see what I've been up to all week. Uh it's pure Funnybunny, so sorry if you wanted some Ragatha romance stuff... Uhhhhhh also like... it's a bit long? And character driven rather than romance driven. Hope you like it anyway! Oh and I'm linking the AO3 if you'd prefer that. T/W: Mild cartoon violence, self hatred, a sex joke

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55822147/chapters/141729268

Like Rhinestones, Falling From the Sky (Part 1)

he grounds of the Digital Circus had two states. Daytime and sunny, nighttime and clear. It was a constant that no one bothered to disturb. Caine could grant a lot of requests around the circus, but rarely in any way the asker might want. Ask for a few wildflowers to add some color on the grounds? Congratulations, now there was an entire field of flowers, flowers that smelled like cheap, nose-tickling perfume and grew so thick and snared that it was impossible to walk around outside. Ask for a cool, dim day because you wanted a nap? Hey presto, now the entire circus was engulfed in an impenetrable fog that made Silent Hill look like the Aouzou Strip. The performers all followed the same motto when it came to the weather:

If it’s already broken, don’t break it any more. 

Due to this motto being in place, it was a complete mystery as to why all the performers were shaken awake early one morning by a skull-rattling crash of thunder. 

Kinger was the first out of his room, bursting through his door with a melodramatic wail.

“They’ve finally arrived! The harvest has commenced! They want ALL of our garmonbozia!!!”

Zooble was out of their room next, screwing their head back on their torso and limping over to the eldest performer.

“Relax! Chill the f#%@ out, old timer, it’s just thunder.” they snapped, still not quite awake. 

As if on cue, another rapturous tremor of thunder tore through the air, Ragatha emerging from her room and staring worriedly at the ceiling before joining the group.

“Are you guys okay? That’s some crazy weather we’re-“

Ragatha let out an “eep!” as Kinger seized her by the front of the dress.

“Ragatha! We’re under attack! What’s Morse code for SOS?!”

Ragatha gently took hold of Kinger’s wrists and guided them off of her dress. She smiled and her voice took on a warm, fuzzy tone. 

“Hey… no one is attacking us, Kinger. It’s probably been ages since you’ve heard a thunderstorm, hasn’t it? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” she cooed.

“Unless that’s what they want you to think.” came a slippery voice from behind her. Jax leaned against the wall, one foot flat against it. He sported a tired but nonetheless smug grin. 

“Jax, quit it. Can’t you see he’s scared?” Ragatha chided, but Jax continued as if she hadn’t spoken, walking right up to Kinger. 

“Who knows, maybe they’re after your bug collection, Kinger, or- OW!”

Zooble silenced Jax with a single, well aimed punch to the cheek. 

“Can you shut up? It’s too early for your schoolyard bull#%&$.” Zooble drawled. 

Jax massaged his cheek and gave a petulant “Jeez…” under his breath. Pomni was out of her room next, stirred from sleep like the rest of them. Her black eyelids hung over her eyes like an eclipse, and she dragged her body over to the others as if it had weights tied to it. 

“Hey, morning, Sunshine!” Jax smirked, a hand still on the cheek Zooble punched.

“Go #%&$ yourself…” Pomni mumbled, staring off into the void. 

“YEESH, everyone is crabby this morning. I can’t even say hello withou-“

KRK-BOOOOOOOMMMM!

A peal of thunder like a boulder tumbling into a dump truck shook the air again, everyone instinctively covering their ears (or where their ears should have been.)

“Okay, we should see what’s going on! Maybe it’s part of a new adventure..?” Ragatha proposed as soon as the rumbling subsided. 

“Wait! Where’s Gangle?!” Kinger cried.

There was a soft click as the door to Gangle’s room was opened just a crack, the ribbon girl peering just one eye out and trembling like a leaf. 

“What’s happening…?” she mewled. 

Zooble pressed their foot on top of Jax’s to keep him from speaking up. 

“It’s just a storm, Gangle… We’re gonna go see what’s going on. You wanna come with?” Ragatha smiled and approached Gangle’s door, offering a hand. Gangle gulped and took Ragatha’s hand with one of her ribbons.

“Okay…” she whimpered. 

Jax made a “gag me” motion but remained quiet. 

The six performers headed out into the main room, nearly tumbling onto the chessboard floor from another apocalyptic boom of thunder.

“Does this sort of thing ever happen out of nowhere..?!” Pomni shouted, her crabbiness from lack of sleep bubbling over.

“Didn’t you hear Caine when you first got here? ‘THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS IS A PLACE WHERE ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!’ Chaos is sorta par for the course.” Jax replied. His impression of Caine was actually pretty good, and might have made Pomni smirk a bit if she wasn’t so irritable. 

“Jax is right,” Ragatha chimed in from further ahead. “Around here you have to expect the unexpected, and prepare for what isn’t there.” 

“Yeah, but the way I said it wasn’t stupid.” Jax replied. 

The six of them reached the tent’s exit. It was zipped closed, but quavered feverishly. A small pool of rainwater oozed through the bottom of the flap, occasionally lit bright pearly blue by unseen flashes of lightning from outside. 

“Okay, so it’s definitely storming. Now we know.” Jax drawled, crossing his arms. 

“See Kinger? No one is coming, it’s just bad we-“

Another tremendous crash of thunder interrupted Ragatha, and a half-second later, all of the lights in the tent sputtered and died. The only light left was the heavily censored sunlight from outside filtering under the tent flap. 

“I f#%&$ng hate it here…” Zooble sighed. 

“Okay, no one wander off. Let’s all stick together and find our way back to our rooms…” Ragatha began.

Gangle jolted with a yelp. “Someone grabbed me!”

“Jax!” Zooble growled.

“It wasn’t me! I’m all the way back here, Hodge-Podge!” Jax retorted from the darkness. 

“It was me, Gangle! I grabbed your hand…” Ragatha interjected. “I’m sorry, I thought you would need a hand to hold.”

“Tha-That’s not my hand-”

The performers squinted as a corona of light bloomed in the middle of the room. From the center of the ring, Bubble appeared, glowing with an iridescent, rainbow colored light.

“And God said, let there be LIGHT!” he announced, his squeaky voice echoing throughout the tent.

“DON’T BE RIDICULOUS BUBBLE! IF ANYONE’S GOD AROUND HERE, IT’S YOURS TRULY!” Caine floated down from on high, emitting his own faint light, just enough so he could be seen clearly against the backdrop of darkness. 

“There is no God here…” Zooble muttered.

“Amen.” added Pomni.

“SO MY LITTLE SUPERSTARS! IT SEEMS YOU’VE ALL BEEN MADE AWARE OF OUR INCLEMENT WEATHER!” Caine unzipped the tent entrance. The sky was charcoal black and arcing with threads of lightning. Rain slashed across the grounds in great sweeps and the howling wind eagerly pushed its way into the tent, bringing in a spray of raindrops that doused the six performers, who covered their faces and demanded Caine close the tent again, which he thankfully did after just a few seconds.

“BUT NOT TO WORRY! WHILE I FIX THIS BROUHAHA, YOU ALL-”

He paused for another crash of thunder. 

“-YOU ALL WILL BE ENJOYING AN ADVENTURE!” 

“La dee da.” Jax drawled.

“SO, PLEASE ENJOY YOUR TIME IIIIN-”

Caine snapped his fingers. There was a moment or two of silence before Caine looked down at his fingers and snapped once again. Then again. 

“Huh. That was supposed to open a portal.” Caine said sheepishly. 

“Did you try turning it off and on again?” Bubble asked, squinting one eye.

“Havin’ issues there, Caine? It’s alright, it happens to guys your age.” Jax said with a grin. Pomni felt the corners of her mouth raise, despite herself. 

“I DON’T APPRECIATE YOUR INNUENDO, JAX!” Caine declared, brandishing his cane with a trembling hand. He tried a few more futile finger snaps. 

“So, we’re stuck here..?” Gangle asked, wringing her ribbons together. “In the dark..?”

There was an ill-timed crash of thunder that made her jump and squeak a little too loudly. She covered up her mask as bright pink blush marks formed under her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m with Ribbons, Caine,” Jax said, jabbing a thumb at Gangle. “Everybody knows monsters like the dark since it’s easier to hide.”

“Okay, cut the Twilight Zone bull$#!%.” Zooble scoffed.

“As someone who’s actually seen The Twilight Zone,” Ragatha piped up. “The quote is ‘There’s nothing in the dark that wasn’t there when the lights were on.’ So we’re fine, Gangle. It’s just us.” 

“Nerd.” Jax replied.

In the midst of this whole exchange, Caine had snapped his fingers a good two dozen times before clapping his hands to his face/teeth and bellowing in frustration. 

“Excusemeforjustonesecond!” he spat before disappearing in a flash of light and some confetti. Bubble looked around, barely managing a “Bye-!” before popping, dousing the light and plunging the room back into darkness.

There was a moment or two of silence before another peal of thunder shook the tent. Gangle let out a quiet, uneasy groan as everyone tried to get their bearings in an almost total absence of light. 

“I’m going back to bed.” Zooble announced flatly. The only indication that they were leaving was the sound of careful footsteps receding into the black.

“Wait, can you find your way there?” Pomni asked. 

“I’ll figure it out.” Zooble replied, nothing but a voice from the darkness. Pomni listened to their receding footsteps before she began to pace back and forth. 

“I can’t believe it, he just left us here. Not even a flashlight! Isn’t this place supposed to be magic?! How does the power even go out?!”

“It is the first time I’ve ever seen this happen since I’ve been here…” Ragatha admitted. “What about you, Kinger? You ever seen anything like this?”

“Right now I don’t see much of anything…” Kinger replied matter-of-factly. 

Another roar of thunder, Gangle making an unhappy noise and clinging to Ragatha. Since it was dark, Jax couldn’t see, and thus couldn’t tease her for it. Ragatha patted her on the mask. 

“I don’t want to go off by myself… What if something happens?” she whimpered.

“Come on, Crybaby, you’re not seriously worried about monsters, are ya?” Jax drawled. 

“You’re the one that put the thought into her head, Jax.” Pomni replied. 

“I was joking .” Jax snarked, as if it was the most obvious fact since “water happened to be a little damp.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

“Yeah?” Jax’s tone darkened. “Well unfortunately, Clownface , the funny guy-”

They were interrupted by a dry, metallic scratch and a spark of orange light. Kinger held a silver lighter in his hand, which supported a tiny yellow-orange flame. 

“…That’s my lighter.” Jax said after a moment. “Where did you get my lighter?!”

“Wait, Jax, why do you have a lighter at all?” Ragatha interjected. 

“None of your business. You need to stay outta my stuff, Hoo-Hah.” Jax took a few steps towards Kinger. 

“I only found it.” Kinger said, taking an equal number of steps back.

“Bull. I don’t leave my stuff layin’ around. Hand it over.” Jax stuck a gloved hand out. 

Kinger looked down at the lighter, then to Jax, who put his hand forward more insistently. Kinger snapped the lighter closed, smothering the fire and disappearing into darkness. 

“Hey! Where’d you go?!” 

“Kinger, wait! We need the light! Don’t go!” Gangle begged. 

There was a grunt and a crash somewhere in the dark, the thunder replying in kind. Another dry, metallic scratch and Kinger reappeared, illuminated orange and standing over by Gangle and Ragatha. 

“What was that?!” he cried, stiffly holding the flame out in front of him. 

“It was me, you moron!” Jax’s irritated voice called out from somewhere in the void. “I couldn't see my hand in front of my face! Now hand over my lighter before I-”

Kinger yelped and snapped the lighter closed again.

“Both of you, stop it!” Pomni shouted. “Jax, I don’t give a $#!% if it’s yours or not, it’s all we’ve got for light right now, so quit acting like a p&!€# for two god&@#% seconds! Kinger!” 

They heard the jester take a breath and soften her voice. 

“Kinger. We need the lighter to see. Can you please turn it back on so we can at least get back to our rooms?”

There was a pause, another rumble of thunder, and at last, a metallic flick as the lighter sparked again. Kinger’s hands shook. 

“Thank you…” Pomni said with a weary smile. “Lead the way, if you don’t mind.”

The five performers made their way towards backstage, slowly and methodically in the cavernous tent. They passed an overturned pile of brightly colored shapes, Jax delivering a well aimed punt to a mint-colored cylinder, which sailed off into the darkness and landed out of sight with a drumroll of thuds. 

“Was that the thing you tripped over?” Ragatha asked, her smile audible in her voice. 

“Felt like kickin’ something.” Jax replied tartly. 

After a few minutes of careful maneuvering amidst peals of thunder, the five of them made it to the corridor backstage.

“Well… what do we do now..?” Pomni asked.

“Do we have to do anything?” Jax replied.

“Well… not really. But I think it might be fun to have a slumber party!” Ragatha said brightly. 

“No offense, Ragatha, but I don’t know if any of us are really in a party mood…” Pomni said, rubbing her left arm with her right hand. 

“No, no, it doesn’t have to be an actual party. We can all just hang around in my room! I’ve got some candles we can light so we can see, and I’ll teach you guys how to make a blanket fort-” 

“You have candles?” Pomni interrupted. “Oh, that’s really good news… Now we don’t have to sit around in the dark. How many do you have, Ragatha?”

“Oh gosh, um…” Ragatha rubbed her chin with her hand. “30? No, 40!” 

There was a period of silence. Kinger held the lighter out so she was illuminated. 

“What?” Ragatha asked, putting her hands on her hips defensively. “I need to de-stress every once in a while too, y’know!” 

“If the tent ever burns down, we know who to blame.” Jax quipped. 

“Oh stop it!” Ragatha flapped her hand dismissively.

“Can… we have a few? Just to have a little bit of light around here…” Pomni asked, touching the tips of her fingers together. 

“Yeah! Absolutely, come on!” Ragatha led her fellow performers to her room, unlocking the door with a bit of flourish and motioning them inside. “After you!” 

The four of them entered her room, Kinger leading the way with the lighter. Ragatha’s bedroom was… on brand. In the dim light, they could make out some plastic furniture that would have been right at home in a dollhouse. A pink, squat tea table surrounded by some plush and frilly cushions. The table came complete with an old fashioned white China teapot and cups, a glazed pink and yellow flower painted on the side of the pot, and the rims of both the cups and pot were lined with gold leaf (or at least a serviceable imitation of it). In the opposite corner, a CRT television sat within a yellow floral patterned hutch, and a game console was hooked up to it. Her bed sat neatly made on the far end of the room, a canopy like Pomni’s, although striped with magenta and cotton-candy pink rather than red and blue. At the food of the bed sat at least a dozen stuffed animals, a teddy bear, a camel, a tiger, and more, all in a neat pile. While they should have looked cute and inviting in the light, in the near dark, they looked uncanny. Their shoebutton eyes caught the flame’s reflection in such a way that made them look insectoid, and their vacant, pleasant expressions staring off into nothing gave off the impression of someone who had lost their mind gazing into the abyss. 

Ragatha hurried over to the hutch, opening a drawer and taking out a brand new white candle. 

“Here’s my stash,” she chuckled, rummaging around in the drawer a bit more. “I have a couple that are scented too. Do you guys like… apple cinnamon or toasted marshmallow more? I’m more of a sandalwood gal myself…”

Jax made a noise of disgust. Kinger stared intently at a stuffed elephant, as if waiting for it to blink. 

“Nanny cam…?” he whispered to himself. 

There was a crash of thunder and everyone jolted. Gangle covered the top of her mask with her ribbons and Kinger fumbled with the lighter, managing to keep hold of it. 

“Good thing you have that, Jax. I just ran out of matches…” Ragatha sighed, setting up a neat cluster of candles 

“Okay, um, I think we should use a couple to light the hallway, if it’s okay with you…at least until Caine fixes things.” Pomni said. “Um, and if I could borrow one or two for my room-”

“Me too please.” Gangle chimed in, raising a ribbon. 

“I need to get my camping stove…” Kinger muttered, still engaged in a stare-off with Ragatha’s stuffed elephant. 

“K-Kinger, you have a camping stove?” Pomni asked. 

“The h@!! do you need one of those for?” Jax also asked, crouching beside Kinger to see what was so interesting about that and stuffed animal. 

“…In case the power goes out.” Kinger replied after a moment.

“This is the first time the power has ever gone out…” Ragatha admitted, but she smiled anyway. “I’m glad you’ve been thinking ahead though.”

Ragatha then gasped. “Oh! We can make tea! I have the best recipe I need to show you guys! It’s perfect for a day like today!”

“I’d like some tea. Something warm to drink would really hit the spot.” Pomni said with a faint smile. Gangle also nodded. 

“Hey, I got a suggestion too.” Jax called, raising a finger. 

In one swoosh, Jax snatched the lighter out of Kinger’s hands, closing it with a clink and extinguishing their one source of light. 

“Jax, hey! I can’t see!” complained Ragatha.

“My lighter, my rules. I’m heading back to my room.” he said.

“What…? Jax, you’re kidding. We need the lighter for just a little longer, then it’s all yours.” Ragatha insisted. 

“It’s already all mine. You stole it. So now I’m keeping it.” Jax replied from somewhere in the dark. 

“Jax, come on!” Pomni shouted. “Everyone could have light again if you would just-”

“Everyone will have light again when Caine gets the electricity working. Just be patient.” 

“But… But Jax…” Gangle began, her voice quavering. “I’m… I’m scared of the dark, please just let us light a few candles…”

“Nope. Your eyes should adjust soon enough.”

The sound of Jax’s retreating footsteps and the open and shut of the door were muffled by another churning rumble of thunder. Ragatha sighed from her place in the dark. 

“Well, don’t worry everyone. We can have a slumber party even in the dark. It’ll take a bit more time to set up and we can’t do as much, but-”

Everyone jumped at a sudden angry yell and thunk. Pomni punched the wall, then felt her way towards the door, throwing it open and stomping out into the hallway. 

“Pomni’s very angry.” Kinger said in a hushed voice. Ragatha set her candles down on the hutch, a few of them rolling off and clattering to the floor as she carefully made her way to her door in almost complete darkness.

“Pomni? Pomni, where are you going?” she called out into the hall. 

It wasn’t too difficult for Pomni to find Jax’s door feeling around in the dark, it was right across from her room, after all. Her right hand aching from punching the wall, she banged on his door with her left. 

“JAX! GET OUT HERE!” she bellowed. 

“Pomni, hey, it’s okay-!” Ragatha insisted, alarmed at the newest member’s sudden explosion of rage. 

“NO! No, it’s not okay! I’m sick to death of him acting like this! It ends right the #%@& now, you hear me?!”

Pomni shouted all this as she feverishly twisted the handle of Jax’s locked door. After several mighty turns, she scoffed and took a few steps back. 

“You wanna hide like a coward? Fine!” 

“What’s going on?!” Zooble’s voice shouted. They had poked their head into the hallway after hearing the racket outside. 

Pomni took another couple steps back until she was almost touching the opposite wall, then ran forward, barging Jax’s door with her shoulder. Thunder roared. 

“Pomni!” Ragatha cried, her voice cracking. “Pomni, what are you doing?! Are you okay?!”

Pomni took the same number of steps backwards and ran forward, smashing into the door again, eliciting a splintery crunch from the jamb. She backed up once again, both her right shoulder and right knuckle ached now, but she barely felt it. Truth be told she couldn’t pinpoint just one reason why Jax’s behavior had enraged her so badly. She was angry from lack of sleep, she was angry that Jax was being such a selfish bully for no reason, she was angry that he had the capacity for kindness and yet chose to act like this- 

Her rage burned blue-hot as she charged at the door, bracing her shoulder for impact. The impact never came. She sailed right past the point where she should have met hard wood, stumbling forward into a boneless somersault. She tumbled over herself and ended up in a sitting position. 

Jax’s room had incredibly faint daylight filtering in from his window. The sky was still the color of a dusty tire, mostly black with flecks of lights. Flashbulbs of lightning popped from within swollen thunderheads. 

Pomni heard the door shut behind her. In the faint light, she saw Jax turn the lock on his door before turning to look at her, arms crossed.

“You almost broke my door, newbie.” he said with almost parental condescension. 

Pomni didn’t say anything in return, only glaring. Anger prickled down her back. Thunder boomed. 

“You know what? Take it.” Jax took the lighter out of his pocket. It shined in the stormlight. “If you’re gonna throw such a hissy fit about something so tiny, you might as well have it so you don’t embarrass yourself more than you already have. Go on. I don’t want it anymore.” 

Jax held his hand out, the lighter on his palm. Pomni reared back and slapped his hand away, the lighter bouncing off the wall with a weighty thud, doing a few midair loops and finally skittering to a stop a few feet behind her.

“What the h@&&?! I gave you what-”

“SHUT UP!!!”

Pomni barked this order with such ferocity that Jax immediately fell silent. It seemed to have shocked the jester herself, as she took a moment to find her voice afterwards. 

“…Why? Why did you do that?” was all she managed to get out.

“I don’t like people touching my stuff.” came Jax’s reply. Despite his shock at being yelled at, he managed to keep his tone cool and even. There was a millisecond flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled.

“Not that. Just… why do you always..? I know you’re capable of being kind. I’ve seen it firsthand. They don’t do anything to you, Jax! So why do you just keep picking at everyone?”

“Because they let me.” 

Pomni felt her anger froth to the surface again. 

“Oh. OH. That makes perfect sense! So you’re cruel because you can be! Nice to know you’re just a sadist then! Ha! That saves me a lot of time, then! We’re through. Get outta my way.”

Pomni snatched the lighter off the ground and pushed past Jax.

“…I’m not a sadist.” he said without turning around. 

“You just said you’re cruel to people for fun. That’s the definition of a sadist!” Pomni unlocked the door to his room and placed her hand on the knob. 

“It’s not for fun.”

Her hand slid off the knob. There was a rolling growl of thunder. 

“So what is it then?!” Pomni turned back to Jax, walking up to him and poking him in the chest. “You keep changing your story! First it was ‘I want them to hate me instead of their situation,’ now it’s ‘I do it because I can.’ So what is it? Tell. Me. The. TRUTH.”

“You want the truth, huh?” Jax said. Half of his face was silhouetted in shadow, his tone steeped in frosty ire. 

“YES. Or you can forget about us. About all of this. It’ll be like we never met.” Pomni asserted. 

“FINE.” Jax hissed. He turned to the window, looking out on the maelstrom of clouds and wind and rain. Another blinding flash of lightning and grumble of thunder.

 “I… I hate myself.” 

For a good 10 seconds, the only sounds were that of the rain on the digital grass and the wind buffeting Jax’s window. 

“S-S-Say again?” Pomni finally asked.

“I hate myself.” Jax repeated, not taking his gaze off the storm. His affect was neutral, but his eyes were distant.

“You… hate yourself?” Pomni echoed. 

“Yeah.” 

The jester chewed on one of her gloves. A flicker of lightning and a softer, yet prolonged burble of thunder rolled across the grounds. She removed her glove from her teeth.

“How do I know that’s not a lie too?” she asked, looking intently at the floor. 

“It’s not.” Jax immediately replied. “I guess, just, believe me.”

Pomni continued chewing on one of her gloves. She jumped a little at an especially loud crack of thunder, but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. An excruciating minute passed.

“…Okay. You hate yourself.” Pomni finally conceded, throwing her arms out and letting her hands slap against her hips. “So?”

This query got Jax to turn towards Pomni. The icy glare on his face could have shriveled flowers. “The £@€# do you mean, ‘so?’” 

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Pomni shot back.

“So? You hate yourself so you treat everyone but me sometimes like trash?! What kind of excuse is that?”

The corner of Jax’s mouth twitched. She had prodded a nerve with that one. He turned back to the window, looking out on the storm-swept grounds. 

“Get outta my room.” he ordered.

“No.” Pomni said with a humorless laugh. “You seriously think I’m gonna go ‘Oh you poor baby, I didn’t know; all is forgiven?’ just because you said you hate yourself? It doesn’t work like that! I hate myself too and I don’t act a FIFTH as awful as you do!”

“What do you mean, you hate yourself..?” Jax demanded quietly. 

Pomni took a deep breath. Well, he had been honest with her. She waited for the latest boom of thunder to quiet down before continuing. 

“I don’t remember everything about outside… but I remember that before I came here I… I was alone. I never went out drinking or dancing; I had no one to go with. Hadn’t kept in touch with my college friends and didn’t associate with anyone at work. How could I? I never had anything to talk to my coworkers about, I never reacted right to anyone’s jokes, I only went to team building exercises if they were mandatory… But it wasn’t like they didn’t try! I got invited to dinner or to birthday parties, and I always said no, I was busy. You wanna know what I was doing?”

“Pomni-” Jax began 

“No! Ask me what I was doing!” 

Jax didn’t reply. Pomni finally shrugged after a moment and answered her own question with a phony smile.

“Nothing. £@€# all. I was doing sudoku, or watching a movie I had already seen, or scrolling on my phone in bed. And I hated myself for it! I would cry into my pillow, I was so lonely! I would tell myself how stupid, stupid, STUPID I was, and how I was an idiot who didn’t deserve friends! I had every opportunity to get out of the hole I dug for myself, and I didn’t, because I was scared they would hate me even more than I thought they already did.”

Pomni felt her anger rise once again.

“Uh huh. But guess what? I never picked on anyone. I never made anyone else feel worse! I hurt so badly some days I wanted to DIE and I still tried my best to smile and treat everyone around me like a PERSON! You hate yourself? SO F#%&ING WHAT?! That doesn’t give you the right to make everything around you worse!” 

Pomni panted, doubling over to catch her breath. She braced herself for some sort of projectile Jax might throw at her. Instead, he only stared at her before turning back to the window. Thunder rumbled. 

“I’m… sorry you hate yourself. Really. It’s the worst feeling. But it’d be so much better if you just… didn’t hurt people. Let them in and helped you heal. It’s what I needed, and now that I have friends…”

Pomni stopped herself. She stared down at the floor again. She hated eye contact already, eye contact after an argument was like staring at the sun.

“So… why do you hate yourself?” Pomni asked after some more silence. 

“What does it matter?” Jax replied. 

Pomni scoffed. “Don’t give me that. Has it occurred to you that I actually care about you? If I didn’t, why would I even be asking? Why would I have kissed you after you made me salmon a few nights ago? I like you, Jax. But you can be a real p&!@% sometimes, and that isn’t okay, even if your pain is real. Why do you hate yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jax said firmly. 

Pomni let out a protracted sigh, chewing on the finger of one of her gloves and looking down at the floor one last time before looking back up at Jax. He was looking out at the storm.

“Okay. Thanks for at least giving me a real answer. I’ll bring your lighter back in a bit.”

Pomni headed for the door once again. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and she practically jumped out of her skin with a sharp gasp. She whirled around and took a few steps back, Jax pulling his hand back in shock. 

“W-What?! Don’t… don’t touch me!” she snapped reflexively. 

“…I’m…” Jax began. 

Pomni crossed her arms and waited, looking everywhere but in Jax’s face. 

“…I’m…” he tried again. “I’m not being… I’m not just being difficult. I don’t remember.”

Pomni quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t remember what?” 

“Why. I don’t remember why I hate myself. It’s just gone. Poof, right along with my name.”

Pomni licked her lips. She was thirsty from all the shouting. 

“You’re… being serious right now? You aren’t just trying to weasel your way-”

“No. No, I’m- I’m totally serious.” 

Pomni managed to look into his eyes for a moment. They were big, but his pupils were tiny despite the extremely low light. Just the way he’d looked after she had seen him have a nightmare. Scared. 

“…That’s horrible.” Pomni said, looking away after she began to feel itchy. “I… can’t imagine how horrible it must be to hurt and not know why… like a pain in a phantom limb.” 

Jax didn’t say anything, looking back out at the window. Lightning flashed, a bright pink-white splinter across the clouds, and there was a tremulous rumble of thunder that followed. 

“But… you shouldn’t take it out on people. Even if it makes the pain stop. There are other things you can do…” Pomni added. “And… And I’m willing to listen to you whenever you’re hurting. Even if I’m hurting too.” 

Jax looked back at the jester, who immediately stared down at the floor. 

“Why? You barely know me. You said it was so hard to make friends back in the real world. What makes me so special?”

Pomni swallowed. She really needed something to drink. 

“I know. That it’s bizarre for me to like you when I’ve always had such a hard time. But… I want to help you anyway. Isn’t that weird?”

She managed a smile and to look him in the eyes again. Jax gave a short “heh…” and looked away this time. 

“Thanks, Pompom.” he said.

“Anytime, Bunny-Boy.” 

The two of them shared an awkward chuckle. Pomni cleared her throat.

“Um… do you want to come with me? I’m gonna go have tea with Ragatha and the others…”

“I think I’m okay…” Jax replied. 

“Jax, come on. It’ll be fun… Please?” 

Pomni offered a hand. 

“Alright, alright. But only ‘cause you said please.”

Jax took the jester’s hand, Pomni sparking the lighter and leading the way back to Ragatha’s bedroom.

[lunarle-old]

Read all your fics over the span of about a week and my brain chemistry has been permanently altered. I cannot verbally articulate how much I love your writing <3<3

Wowie :O yeah I've written... WAY too much xD and I still have MORE in mind. Disconnected will be finished today, I'm beginning on the Kokichi whump fic which the first chapter will probably go up sometime tomorrow... not to mention the other like 4 other ideas rattling around in my skull that Im not writing right now cus i dont want to overwhelm myself. @_@; this is what happens when i'm given a creative outlet i suppose LOL

But also,, AAAA <3 Thank you!! Im glad you like my writing so much ♪ヽ(´▽｀)/ 💞💞