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beyondspaceandstars · 3 years

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Pastries & Memories

Relationship: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Innocent!Reader Warnings: manipulation, mentions of stalking, gaslighting, mentions of kidnap and harm Summary: The smell of pastries brings back triggers the unsettling memory of how you actually met Bucky. But when you confront him, there's no telling what's right anymore. A/N: i’ve been really into dark fics lately and naturally wanted to give it a shot! this certainly isn’t the wildest, darkest piece out there but this is me just dipping my toes in the water. i hope it’s still enjoyable!

Masterlist

He had taken you in. Comforted you. Welcomed you. Loved you. Saved you. Protected you.

At least — that was how your brain fuzzily pieced it together. How you actually ended up living in this apartment was a bit beyond your reach mentally. You could remember the outdoors, walking somewhere… then… then you were off. Bucky, you thought, told a different story.

But none of it actually mattered, really. In reality, you felt like you had always been with him. You two had finally connected one day and the rest had become history. He was all you needed. A lover, a protector, a rock.

You reeled in your wandering mind as you stood at the kitchen counter cutting up some strawberries. There was a little farmers market that had set up in the city last week and after a little persuasion, Bucky allowed you to check it out. He gave you some cash and you had chosen the most lovely looking strawberries. You felt a bit proud of yourself for venturing out of the apartment completely unaware that he was tailing you closely as you went, always on the lookout for his best girl.

When you had gotten back to the apartment that afternoon, he had pestered you about what you were going to make with the berries. You had giggled and pushed him away, commenting on how he hovered around like an anxious puppy. You hadn’t seen the stiff stance he took as darkness flashed in his eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t really decided what you were going to make with them at the time. Indecisive, you asked Bucky to look for some strawberry recipes online. Your internet access was greatly limited by your protective boyfriend but you didn’t really mind. Whatever was out there nowadays couldn’t have been more important than your love — well, except for strawberry treats, you realized.

Bucky obliged and hunted around for some baking blogs for you to browse. Eventually, you had settled on a fresh strawberry pie. The filling didn’t call for a jam like the others did, instead choosing to highlight the lusciousness of the fresh fruit. That sounded perfect for these lovely berries.

So, there you stood, dicing them carefully as you waited for the pie crust to get done with its par-bake. Bucky had collected the items for you from the store earlier that week but you wouldn’t give him a clue as to what you were baking. He had seemed pretty upset with that, almost threatening to not pick up the items, but then you explained you wanted to surprise him. He worked hard, you said, and he deserved to come home to some fresh baked goods.

Although, you maybe should’ve told him when you were going to make it.

As you were just finishing up with the strawberries, Bucky walked through the apartment door, giving a resounding "hello" to you. You greeted him back.

Bucky placed a large kiss on your cheek and proceeded to place a paper bag on the counter next to you. The outside of it had a logo for the bakery you thought you had read about just a few streets over. You frowned at the sight. Why…

"Oh, gosh," Bucky sighed as he looked around at the hectic kitchen. "I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t realize you were making your strawberry thing today. I wouldn’t have stopped at the bakery."

Your eyes shot from the bag to your boyfriend. "T-That’s fine, honey. I should’ve told you."

"Well, I guess you can never have too many sweets, right?" He asked with a light chuckle. You smiled in return, your mind still taking in that bakery bag. Bucky walked over to it now and opened it, letting the fresh smell of pastries hit your nose. You nearly jumped out of your skin.

You knew that smell — how did you know that smell? You gave an odd sniff, taking in the scent of baked dough and custardy filling. You knew that. A cheese danish. How did you know that?

Tears began forming in your eyes but you weren't exactly sure why — hell, you weren’t sure of anything right now. Where had this overwhelming sensation appeared from? The danish? Were you just hungry? Your hands were shaking. You saw the bakery flash in your mind. You had walked past it before — why would you have done that? Bucky never let you go that way citing the city safety. But you had once.

You were walking past the bakery, suddenly craving a pastry. But you didn’t stop for one. No — it was early morning and you were late. Late for what? You didn’t work. Except that maybe you had.

Bucky came into frame now. His smile was wide but his eyes were dead. He said some words — you couldn’t make them out — and you tried stepping around him. He didn’t like that. Of course not. Bucky was a stickler when it came to listening to him, to say the least. But you knew that was always for the best so why did you disobey him that time? He grabbed your arm in the memory. And then there was a pain in your neck. You were under now. Into the darkness.

You gasped as the memories suddenly dissolved. A hand was gripping your arm once more. But this time was very real and it was from a very, very concerned Bucky.

"Doll?" He asked, his eyes growing with worry and…anger? "What’s wrong?"

You couldn’t blink the tears away fast enough. What was that? Your mind was swimming as you tried finding some words to answer Bucky.

"N-Nothing."

"Nothing?" He frowned. "You’re crying."

A ding came from the oven. You mumbled a silent thank you and quickly went to tend to your pie crust. You pulled it out and placed it on the cooling rack before turning back to your strawberry filling. According to this recipe it needed a few more items…

"Sweetheart," Bucky’s voice boomed through the apartment. You jumped, nearly forgetting he was standing right over you. Your obliviousness far from an accident. "What’s going on?"

You eyed the bakery bag. Bucky had now taken the pastries out and placed them on a platter. Cheese danishes confirmed. You gulped.

"Could you… Could you tell me about the day we met, again?" You asked the question slowly, carefully, as that bakery logo flooded your mind. It was abruptly disrupted by Bucky plunging something into your neck. You shook your head and turned back to the filling, adding what was instructed.

Your question wasn’t really a weird one. You enjoyed hearing the story of how you two met as your memory was not really the best these days. You never did find out why…

"We met at a coffee shop," Bucky explained. You could tell he was suspicious but he amused you nonetheless. "I had seen you a few times in there before and, thankfully, one day I got the courage to speak to you. I asked you what book you were reading and you told me about it. We talked until closing time. I couldn’t get you out of my mind from that point on."

You nodded, letting the familiar story wash over you. This time, though, it felt so foreign. Like it was a fairytale. Too perfect. Too natural. You looked at the pastries, halting all progress on the pie.

"Well, then," you said, "I guess I just had the weirdest thoughts."

Bucky took a step closer to you. His front was nearly fully pressed into your back. "What kind of thoughts?"

You shook your head. "It’s silly-,"

His hand gripped your arm tightly. "Tell me."

You wanted to turn away. Wanted somehow to get out of this position. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. You were supposed to surprise him with a nice pie once he got home. He’d shower you with love and thank you’s before you turned your attention to dinner. While you made dinner, he’d watch some sports game on the television. You two would then eat like a nice couple and Bucky would compliment you profusely. That was how it all should’ve gone. That was how the good days went.

You wanted today to be a good day. But it was turning into a bad one real fast despite how much you really didn’t want to go down that path. Bad days were few and far between now but you remembered them in bits and pieces from the beginning of your relationship. They were just glimpses but, boy were they strong. You had forgotten things a lot or took long to understand something and Bucky had little patience for it back then. There was the pushing, the yelling, the degrading… No, no. You couldn’t turn down there but you couldn’t lie—

"I saw myself walking," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "It was a nice morning it seemed and I had walked past that bakery." You pointed to the bag. Bucky stiffened. "I thought I wanted a pastry but I was…late? I don’t remember the details and then you were suddenly there. You said something and eventually took me by the arm. Then there was a pain in my neck. It all went black."

There. The words were out. You explained it and now all you could do was pray and pray and pray that nothing bad came from this. You couldn’t stop your thoughts, really. Something happened there. That damn bakery, you guessed.

"Doll," Bucky tsked. He didn’t sound too angry just…dismissive. "Maybe you should go lay down. You’re not thinking right."

Your jaw went slack as you turned around. Bucky’s hand left your arm but you were now pressed against the counter, his body practically toppling over yours. Still, you looked up at him, in a bit of shock. He looked pretty calm — not at all mad, thankfully — as he stared down at you in worry.

"I— I think I know what I saw, Bucky," you insisted. He shook his head.

"You know your memory isn’t very good, honey," he said. "I think maybe you’ve been reading too many of those thriller novels. Might be mixing up fiction and reality." He motioned towards the bookshelf in the apartment holding your favorite books. Your brows furrowed at it. You owned maybe two thrillers and neither dealt with…anything like that.

"But it was me in the memory. I swore I was walking and there — there was that bakery!" You exclaimed, pointing at the bag. "You were there in front of me. Why were you there, Bucky? Did… Did something happen?"

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he looked over you. His eyes were a bit darker now, taking in your stubborn form. You tried holding your ground under his gaze but you were too intimidated by him. Besides, a bad day could be upon you. But you also felt your curiosity was justified and he hadn’t snapped right away. Was there really something to this?

But Bucky just shook his head again. "I really don’t know what you’re talking about," he sighed. "Why would you have even been over by that bakery? I tell you to stay away from there, don’t I? Unless you’ve been sneaking out."

Your jaw dropped fully this time. That was near to impossible it felt like not to mention it was absolutely something you’d never do. You’d never break Bucky’s trust like that. You knew the consequences that could come from it. They could even follow if he had just thought you did something. That was another part of the path you had to steer from.

"N-No!" You placed your hands on his chest, trying to reason. "I didn’t, Bucky, I swear. Y-You’re right. I’d never be over there, that’s such a silly thought to have. I must’ve read about it or something. The newspaper can be so graphic sometimes." You now prayed you were handling this right.

Bucky’s eyes searched you fiercely as you waited for his judgment to reign down upon you. He took your hands in his in an almost crushing hold. You tried to steady your breathing. Every word was pretty true. It must’ve just been something insane you had read. This could never happen to you. Not with someone like Bucky around. Your protector in many ways.

Eventually, Bucky nodded and said, "I’m canceling the paper subscription until you get better. I don’t want you getting scared like this, sweetheart." A beat. You let out a sigh of relief. "That means no more thriller novels either, okay? I need my sweet girl back. You’ve become so jittery." With that explanation, Bucky pulled you into a hug, his arms tight around you. You reciprocated, throwing your arms around his neck. You were glad he couldn’t see your confused expression. You hadn’t become jittery…had you? Maybe this outburst was a sign of something to come. Bucky was pretty smart when it came to stuff like that.

"I’m sorry to worry you," you mumbled.

Bucky pulled away. He forced you two eye-to-eye once more. His hand came to your cheek, caressing softly. "I just want to protect my girl, okay? That’s a lot of bad things out there."

You agreed and Bucky gave a small smile before placing a soft kiss on your lips. He eventually broke the hug and you watched as he took the bakery bag and its treats. Both were immediately dropped into the trash.

"What did you do that for?" You asked. You actually wouldn’t mind a cheese danish now.

Bucky shrugged, his smirk doing little to hide the concern for you. "Who needs that when my girl is making me a homemade pie?" Bucky took a strawberry from the bowl and popped it in his mouth. You gasped at his action, swatting his hands away while he laughed like a child.

The situation was now suddenly long forgotten. So fast, so swift. As he had wanted.

You turned back to the pie filling, completely oblivious to Bucky’s sudden change in expression. His dark eyes roamed over you like a hawk to prey.

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doughyinwonderland · 3 years

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Trey Clover SSR Dorm Uniform Personal Story: If you do as you please

Credits: JP PR by dolce; EN PR by Starly

▼ Translations under the cut

Chapter 1

Heartslabyul Dorm - Rose Maze

Ace: Isn't it kinda pointless to take care of the lawn? No matter how cleanly you pull out the weeds, they'll just grow back immediately!

Deuce: I get where you're coming from, Ace. At this rate, I feel like it's never gonna end.

Trey: Hey, come on now, don't slack off, and keep up the good work. A perfect lawn is needed for the "Unbirthday" party.

Cater: I can't take any nice pictures if the garden is unpresentable. Pruning awaits you after the weeding is done! ♪ Fight on!

Ace: Ugh~ Why is it only for us first years....

Trey: It just so happens that the first years are in charge of preparations for the croquet game. The second and third years already have other tasks arranged for them, after all. Everyone takes part in the preparation of the party. It has always been this way in accordance with the law stated by the Queen of Hearts. Don't you think it makes sense that working together during preparation increases our sense of unity?

Ace: I just think that people are working together because they're afraid of losing their heads to our dorm leader.

Deuce: Then, what are you seniors in charge of?

Cater: I'm in charge of preparing the party venue~ I'm going to create an exciting atmosphere for the party, so please look forward to it. ♪

Trey: I'll be making a cake. Cakes are a crucial part of "Unbirthday" parties, after all.

Ace: Heck yeah! Trey's really tasty homemade cakes! What kind of cake will it be this time?

Trey: What kind of cake? Hmm... It's hard to put into words.

Trey: The definition of "Unbirthday" is that it's "any day except one's birthday". All I can say is that it's going to be a cake fitting for it.

Ace: Doesn't this mean it's pretty much subjected to the maker's opinions and taste... Ah- But if you think about it, doesn't this means any type of cake goes? Come to think of it, isn't Mont Blanc no good?

Trey: Huh? Aah. The Queen of Hearts' law states that... "There must be candles placed on the cake," and that, "Mont Blancs are banned."

Ace: Hmm- Instead of going with the usual cake base, let's do a cherry pie base this time! The sweetness plus the sourness is going to be delicious, not to mention the crunchiness of the pie crust is perfect for filling the stomach too. ♪ And most importantly... It's my favourite.

Deuce: Ace, don't bother senior Clover with your selfishness. Besides, A chiffon cake made with lots of eggs is better than cherry pie. It's only slightly sweet and easier for everyone to eat.

Ace: Why- Aren't you also suggesting that because you want to eat that?!

Deuce: Well, that's- I was just thinking about everyone in the dorm...

Heartslabyul Student A: What's this? We can submit requests for the cake? I want a chocolate cake!

Heartslabyul Student B: A cheesecake is way better!

Heartslabyul Student C: Cakes don't have to be sweet, right? How about going for a quiche next time, senior Trey?

*chatter chatter*

Trey: Hey now, no one said anything about accepting requests. I've already prepared the ingredients in the first place. It's hard to make changes last minute.

Ace: Then please do something about it with your skills, senior Trey~

Cater: Although I understand the feelings of coaxing Trey the genius patisserie~ It's going to be troublesome if everyone is being selfish, you know?

Heartslabyul Student A: But no matter how delicious the cake is, we'll get tired of it if it's always the same.

Ace: Ah~ I know right. Changing the flavours is important or else we'll get bored of it. How I wish we could have something different every time~

Trey: ... I understand. If that's the case, how about you guys try to make the cake yourselves? Then you guys can eat whatever you want. After all, learning how to cook is encouraged, like how our school has "Masterchef" as an elective.

Deuce: "Masterchef" is a hands-on cooking class, right?

Trey: Yeah. It's a classic program that has long been created so that students could cook for themselves after they graduate. Not many students take it since it's not mandatory, but it's a great way to learn how to cook starting from the basics.

Heartslabyul Student A: Hmmm... I guess we'll give it a go. Looking at how senior Trey usually does it, cooking seems relatively simple.

Heartslabyul Student C: It could be much more fun and easier to do than this boring lawn maintenance!

Trey: It would be great if any of you ended up interested in culinary arts since we're always lacking manpower when making sweets. I'll hand over the cooking utensils later. As for the people in charge of the cake, follow me.

Deuce: … Ace... That was disrespectful of you for saying things like how you are tired of the same ol' cake senior made.

Ace: You got carried away too. Besides, senior Trey is an easy-going person so he definitely won't be offended with something like this.

Deuce: Hmmm... I guess so? It does seem like senior Clover is a very mature person. He is one of those rare students in this school that is kind and actually looks after others... If it was me, I would be so pissed off when people tells me that my job "looks easy" every single time.

Ace: Well, if he got mad over such a thing, he wouldn't be looking after our short-fused dorm leader.

Cater: Yeah, I guess so. Even I've never really seen Trey getting mad either~ Well... But if he ever does get upset, it's going to last pretty long...

Chapter 2

Heartslabyul Dorm

Riddle: I cannot believe this. How lazy do all of you have to be for this to happen? The lawn is not trimmed yet, plus the colors of the roses are mismatched. And the silverwares are not polished! We will not make it for tomorrow's "Unbirthday" party if this continues!

Trey: Calm down Riddle. Haven't you decided to end this party peacefully without beheading any of the dorm students?

Riddle: Ugh...

Trey: There's nobody who could do things perfectly for the first time. Why don't you go and teach the first years how to trim the lawn efficiently? If we go through this one by one, I think we can make it for the party. Right?

Riddle: Ok... I understand. Thank you Trey.

Trey: Alright, I'll go and check the remaining unpainted roses... But before that, maybe I should go and check the situation in the kitchen.

Heartslabyul Dorm - Kitchen Heartslabyul Student A: If we're going to make a chocolate cake, we'll have to melt the chocolate first. Let's put all the chocolate bar into the oven!

Heartslabyul Student B: Wait, we're making a cheesecake rigtht? I want to be fancy and make the cheese from scratch, so let's try fermenting milk with magic to make it.

Heartslabyul Student C: Didn't we say it's going to be a quiche? Anyway, does anyone know how to process a fish...?

Trey: It's quite lively here. Good, looks like everyone is working hard.

Cater: Ah, Trey. Are you here to look over the first years putting an effort into making cakes?

Trey: That's right. Have you guys finished setting up the venue that you were in charge of? Cater: Ugh. I'm working super~ hard on it right now... Maybe it's because the "Unbirthday" party's coming up that Riddle's been in a bad mood nowadays from the tension. And he'll probably blow up if he finds even a single mistake.

Trey: But he hasn't blown up yet, right? Isn't that a huge improvement? He's also putting a lot of effort into this. Cater: Ah, there is it. Trey is spoiling him again~! Is this because you've always been around him since you guys were young? I've never had a childhood friend before so I'm unfamiliar with this. But isn't this kinda tiring? Trey: Not really, he wasn't an irritable child back then. Maybe it's because he feels responsible now that he became a dorm leader.

Cater: Didn't he turn out like this because of his education-obsessed mother? Trey: Just so you know, Riddle's mother isn't like that at all. When they found out that I took Riddle out to play a long time ago... She came to our house and lectured my whole family for five hours with ten times the intensity of Riddle's. Cater: Scary... And you still can laugh at it huh, Trey!

Trey: Now that I think about it, isn't it kinda funny? She got so mad just from some child's play. But of course, I was very scared at that time. I didn't understand why I got in trouble at all... I was very worried back then that I might have done something really terrible. I tried to ask Che'nya about it and he replied, "I don't know~", so I didn't have anyone I could consult about this and rely on. Plus, when I thought about how Riddle must have been scolded more than I did, I felt very guilty.

Cater: Huh.. Ever since you were little, you're were pretty serious huh, or maybe you're a worry-wart?

Trey: When you experience a mother like Riddle's, anyone would become like this. She's someone who is unstoppable once she's angry. That's why when you think about it, I'm really grateful that Riddle can be calmed with sweets

Cater: That's it! Riddle's mood would always get better in front of Trey's tarts. I'm really grateful for Trey's cakes. I can't tell how many times we've been saved in the past year...

Trey: You won't be getting anything even if you praise me. Besides, I can't do anything this time since I got pushed out of cake duty.

Cater: Ahaha... Yeah... This situation is going to be more troublesome that I thought.

Trey: Did you say something?

Cater: Nothing~

Heartslabyul Dorm - Tea Garden

[The next day]

Ace: I-I somehow managed to catch all of the escaped hedgehogs before the party...

Deuce: I have the flamingos perfectly on standby. The party can finally start without a hitch. Trey: Good job, both of you. It seems that you guys had a hard time prepping.

Riddle: I was wondering what would happen at one point, but looks like we will be able to start the "Unbirthday" party without a hitch.

Cater: Doesn't seem like there's gonna be any beheading this time. ♪

Riddle: Hmm? I can't seem to find the cake anywhere. Where exactly did they place the cake?

Heartslabyul Student A: Uhhhh, about that....

Riddle: The "Unbirthday" party cannot begin without the cake. Hurry up and bring it out! Heartslabyul Student B: U-understood. Ace: Hm? Don't you think the faces of the guys who made the cake look kinda pale?

Trey: ...

Chapter 3

Heartslabyul Dorm - Tea Garden

Riddle: The "Unbirthday" party cannot start without the cake. Hurry up and bring it out!

Heartslabyul Student B: Here it is...

Heartslabyul Student A: This is a cake that us first years specially made with all of our hard work... !?!?!?

Deuce: *Cough cough* What is that smell?! It's sweet, smoky and fishy, and... the sourness and spiciness are hurting my eye!

Cater: Topped with green syrup and blue cream, not to mention the shocking (hot) pink decorations... This looks more like an art piece than a proper cake. I would tag this as #destructionandcreation if I upload this to Magicam.

Ace: Hey, didn't that cake just move? It definitely moved just now, right? Are you sure it's edible?!

Trey: Look what we have here. That's a really intense cake you have there. How did you guys manage to create something like this? Heartslabyul Student A: I-it's not me. It's all his fault!

Heartslabyul Student B: N-no it wasn't me! You're the one... Wait a second. If you think about it, isn't this all Ace's fault because he was the one who said, "I want to eat a different cake this time"?

Ace: I might be the one who said that, but you guys were the one who made it! I have nothing to do with it! Heartslabyul Student C: Then it's Deuce's fault for saying, "It would be great if was a chiffon cake."

Deuce: D-don't try to pull me into this! Make up for your own mistakes!

*chatter chatter*

Riddle: ....

Cater: Err... Riddle? Let's settle this peacefully, ok?

Riddle: You lot!!!!!

Eek

Cater: T-this is bad. Riddle's anger is going to explode even though we've worked so hard to get this far...!

Riddle: To have such a messy cake being made for the dignified "Unbirthday" party... I hope you all are ready to face the consequences, right?!

Ace: Uwah! Why are we included?! Deuce: If you want an apology, we'll include ourselves in too. So please calm down, dorm leader Rosehearts...!

Riddle: No excuses!! Off with your...!

???: Stop!

Deuce: Huh, this voice...

Trey: Calm down, Riddle.

Ace: S-senior Trey!

Riddle: What is it, Trey?! Let go of my arm. I'm going to give the first years who messed up this "Unbirthday" party a piece of my mind!

Trey: Indeed... This cake doesn't look edible. Not only does it not look appetizing, it's also giving off a foul smell. How amusing. However... It is a cake fitting for Heartslabyul as it was made from the collective ideas from the first years. All and all, don't you think it's nice in its own way?

Riddle: NOT EVEN A BIT!!!!

Cater: Same.

Riddle: There are no candles on this cake to begin with. They have already broken the Queen of Hearts' law! Why is Trey not in charge of making the cake as usual? This wouldn't have happened if you had done what you normally would...

Trey: Don't be so upset on a precious time like the "Unbirthday" party. Don't worry. I have properly prepared a cake I normally made for the "Unbirthday" party on the side.

Huh?!

Trey: The "Unbirthday" party is an important day of the Heartslabyul dorm. How could I sit back and do nothing?

Riddle: ... You could have brought this up earlier... I almost beheaded the dorm students without a second thought. As long as the "Unbirthday" party goes on without a hitch, there is no problem. You lots better be grateful towards Trey.

Heartslabyul Students: W-we're saved...! Cater: As expected of Trey! All right, everything is ready. Let's begin the "Unbirthday" party!!!!

Trey: Yeah, let's do that. Happy..."Unbirthday"!

Happy "Unbirthday"...!!!!!

Ace: S-senior Trey... No, our lord and savior Trey! Thank you for the help!

Deuce: I honestly thought we were going to be beheaded. Thank you so much for convincing the dorm head!

Cater: As expected, Trey! When did you have the time to make a substitute cake?

Trey: I had a bad feeling about it. So I snuck out last night after you guys went to bed and made the cake, just in case.

Ace: The cake senior Trey makes looks delicious just as I thought~ Just looking at it makes my stomach growl.

Deuce: Yeah, I wish I could have some right now.

Trey: But you guys couldn't be satisfied with the cake, right?

Deuce/Ace: Huh?

Trey: It seems that you guys got tired over the same old cake. So don't worry, Riddle and I will eat this cake instead.

Cater: It seems like you did get upset over the first yearsies who said they were fed up with your cake. Ace: S-senior Trey~ Don't be so mean. That was just a figure of speech...

Deuce: That's right! I think senior Clover's cakes are the best! R-right, guys?

Heartslabyul Students: Yeah! I want to eat senior Trey's cake!

Trey: You guys now understand that making confectionery isn't something that can be made on a whim, right? You must consider all the risks, take proactive measures and respond flexibly according to the situation. That's how you can have "the usual". It isn't easy to keep making things perfect all the time.

Ace: Uh... I just wanna make sure that you're talking about confectionery, right? It seems like you were talking about the dorm head instead..

Trey: Anyway, can you finally understand the pain I go through?

Deuce/Ace: Yes...

Trey: Good, honesty is a virtue.

Deuce: We've learned a lot today. Then... I will humbly accept senior Trey's cake.

Heartslabyul Students: Thank you for the food~...

Trey: Wait.

Deuce/Ace: Huh?

Trey: What are you going to do with the cake you guys made? Don't waste your food. Don't think about eating the "Unbirthday cake" I made unless you finish your cake.

Deuce: Y-you mean we have to eat this unpleasant cake?! We're not reflecting enough with just saying sorry, huh...

Ace: Where on earth do you see the "kind and mature person" in senior Trey...

Cater: The more mild-mannered a person usually is, the scarier it gets when they're upset ♪ That's the best lesson learnt today!

Extras:

Trey Clover SSR Dorm Uniform card quotes:

Coffin summon quote: “I was in the middle of painting the roses but... If it’s a request from you, I guess I can’t turn it down.”

Card reveal quote: “The preparations for the parties must always be perfect. But don't worry about it, just leave it up to me.”

Groovy quote: “It's troublesome having so many difficult people around, make sure that you behave, ok?”

#kztls #trey clover #trey personal story #dorm uniform #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland translations

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

Text

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow.

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax.

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone.

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning.

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.”

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts.

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same.

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that.

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything.

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right?

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start.

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting.

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name.

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door.

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon.

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful.

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth.

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life.

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room.

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him.

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about.

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago.

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind.

“I get it,” Jody finally says.

Dean glances sharply at her.

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told...

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee.

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long.

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up.

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders).

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood.

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed.

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against.

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood.

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities.

Probably.

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this.

The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas.

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off.

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly.

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.”

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?”

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger.

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?”

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar.

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—”

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods.

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water.

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air.

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair.

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected.

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth.

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—”

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on.

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead.

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it.

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?”

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own.

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him.

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough.

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair.

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really.

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago.

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again.

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him.

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this.

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat.

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is.

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step.

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas.

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both.

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists.

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize.

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars.

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza.

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room.

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up.

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much.

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want.

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face.

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

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sixth-light · 4 years

Text

The Taste of Home (Nile + team, gen, 1.2k)

A fic for the Nile Freeman week prompt “Nile + comfort”, liberally interpreted, and inspired by my post about Nile and the team doing Thanksgiving last week. In canon I fully expect that Booker and Quỳnh will be with them this far into the future, but I felt like doing a end-of-movie-team-only story, so...there we go. No major warnings, aside from a brief mention of canon-typical violence.

Nile crossed the Canadian-US border into the country of her birth for the first time in six years, late one November – not nearly as cold as it should have been in New England this time of year, thanks, climate change – and realised that two days from now was going to be Thanksgiving.

Andy said “What’s that?” and Nicky said “I think it’s a feast day” and Joe said “Yes, the one with the turkey!” and Nile said “Have none of you spent any time in the US before?”

“Oh, plenty,” said Joe, shifting uncomfortably; they’d crossed the border in a rental car on a back road, relying on Copley’s instructions to avoid the drones and patrols, and there clearly wasn’t quite enough room in the back for his long legs. Andy was driving, of course, and the boys had graciously ceded Nile the front seat. She was tired, and hadn’t argued. “We were first here in – 1582?”

“That was Mexico, it’s not quite the same,” said Nicky. “More than a hundred years after that, for Nile’s lands.”

The three older immortals started bickering about what counted as the United States of America, exactly, before Nile said “Okay, okay. My point is – have none of you ever had Thanksgiving?”

She knew they weren’t picky about holidays, just not consistent; in her years with them they’d celebrated May Day and Eid al-Fitr and Saturnalia. It depended where they were, and what they were doing, and the moods that struck them. Nicky had come to church with her for three Christmases in a row, three different churches in three different countries, and then last year said simply “No, not this time, thank you.”

“I think we lifted some extra rations off an American army unit in Vietnam, one November,” said Andy. “Apart from that? No.”

“Where’s Copley got us this time?” Nile asked.

“A house,” said Nicky. “Rented. We are being tourists again, until we get our local identities organized.”

“There’s a few missions we could do. We’ll talk about it later,” said Andy. “I figured we’d take a week off first. Nothing’s on fire…that we can help with.”

“Most of California’s on fire, right now, but okay,” said Nile. “Okay.”

“You wanna do Thanksgiving, huh?” Andy glanced over at her, with a sharp smile that made Nile feel known, but not exposed.

“Can we help?” Joe asked from the back seat.

“Uh,” said Nile. “Let’s see.”

Nile had never done anything like a full Thanksgiving meal before, partly because until she’d been deployed her job had mostly been to wash dishes and keep some of her younger cousins from getting overexcited, and partly because there had been a strict family hierarchy of who got to cook what, and she hadn’t yet been invited to join it before – before.

She decided to keep it simple, the real classics; after all, there were only four of them. Turkey, definitely. Green bean casserole. Mac’n’cheese. Yams. Pumpkin pie. She was fully prepared to buy the pie crust, too – she knew her limits – but Nicky put his foot down on that, having had to endure the purchase of ready-made cranberry sauce and canned pumpkin, so she let him take care of it.

Nicky was far and away the best cook of the other three, followed closely by Joe. Andy wouldn’t burn anything, but she just didn’t care enough to get creative. Nile had eaten a lot of re-heated soup when Andy was on cooking duty. Andy, Nile decided on the way back from the Big Y, was getting assigned to chop vegetables.

The holiday cabin Copley had found for them was much more comfortable than where they’d been sleeping for the last three weeks – Nile was getting a bedroom to herself, a rare luxury – but the kitchen was tiny, clearly intended for vacationers who weren’t the home-cooking type, and preparations spilled out onto the dining table. Nile had been half-hoping someone else would take over, unused to taking center stage for this, but they all looked to her for instructions and she did her best to rise to the occasion. She felt absurdly trusted.

The biggest problem would have been that both of the kitchen knives provided were absolutely terrible – Joe threw them aside, saying “No, and no” – except, what was she thinking, her family traveled armed to the teeth at all times. Andy chopped yams with a knife Nile was ninety percent sure she’d seen her gut someone with. She forcibly decided not to think about it.

“Don’t worry, this one’s new,” said Andy. “I have standards.”

“Uh-huh,” said Nile. She could hear Nicky chuckling behind her as he worked on the pie crust.

“I do!”

“Do you think these are halal?” Joe asked, holding up the bag of marshmallows.

“Wait, probably not,” said Nile. “Never mind, we can leave them out.”

“I didn’t want to criticize,” said Nicky, “but I didn’t think they were going to go very well with the pie.”

“They’re for the yams,” said Nile.

“The yams are for the sweet course as well?”

“No, they’re part of the main.”

“Put them in, I just won’t eat the yams,” said Joe, tossing the bag at her. “This is your holiday.”

“You eat marshmallows with the turkey?” Nicky said, his voice noticeably rising. “That is – that is very interesting.”

“My holiday, my rules,” Nile retorted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said, and winked.

By the time everything was prepped, they were all ready to lie down on the couch for a bit; unfortunately, the couch wasn’t that big, so Nicky took one end, Joe stretched out with his head in Nicky’s lap, Nile compromised by wedging herself under Joe’s feet, and Andy just spread-eagled herself on the floor with a cushion from the armchair under her head.

“You could take the armchair,” said Joe, clearly enjoying his overlordship of the largest piece of furniture.

“No,” said Andy, who Nile had learned was mildly allergic to furniture. “This is better.”

“Someone give me the remote,” Nile said. “It’s football time.”

Joe perked up noticeably at that, and noticeably sagged when Nile found ESPN. “Oh. American football.” Nicky poked him in the shoulder. “Ow.”

“So,” Nicky said. “We eat all the food, and then…?”

“Then we watch some more football,” said Nile. “And before we eat, we say what we’re thankful for.”

“Huh,” said Nicky. “Okay. That’s easy.”

“Now?” Andy asked. “Or right before we eat?”

“Right before,” said Nile, which didn’t stop Andy saying “Because you know what I’m grateful for right now? Carpet.”

“That’s terrible.” Nile threw the other cushion at her. “You have about an hour to come up with something better.”

Joe was obviously composing a speech in his head already, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Nile decided not to interrupt him.

“And that’s it?” Nicky persisted. “There’s nothing else you need, for this to be Thanksgiving?”

Nile had half-expected, when they’d been in the supermarket, that this was going to turn out to be a terrible idea, make her homesick all over again, like the Christmas three years ago when she’d come home from church with Nicky – they’d been in Germany at the time – and cried into Nicky’s shoulder for an hour, soggy and miserable, while Joe brought her mulled wine and Andy dropped a box of tissues in her lap.

But it wasn’t like that at all. There was a good meal cooking; she was warm and safe and content; this wasn’t the family she’d grown up with, the one she would always miss, but they’d spent today telling her they loved her with every chopped vegetable and half-serious complaint.

“Nah,” Nile said. “I got everything I need. Thanks for asking.”

#the old guard #nileweek2020 #nile freeman #tumblr fic #my fanfic #don't worry Andy's telling the truth about the knife #they are in Western MA because I said so

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bluebellwriting · 4 years

Text

Love Me Tender - Part 2

“He’s so in love with ya,” Angel smirks, lying on your bed in your hotel room, surrounded by your folded laundry and knocking over said piles of laundry. You roll your eyes and continue hanging up your newly cleaned dresses and blouses.

“What are you going on about?”

“The fact that Strawberry Pimp has been following ya around like a love-sick puppy for the last year.”

You throw a sock at Angel and shoot him a glare. Although, your mind can’t help but wander to the last year following Alastor’s insertion into your lives. He has been spending quite a bit of time with you... which is completely understandable! You both enjoy the same type of music, although he was quite affronted when he learned that you don’t really dance and insisted that he teach you. Now he pulls you into a dance whenever there is a good song playing.

And he loves to cook just like you, even though you are partial to baking. He often joins you in the kitchen around meal times to assist in prep or even to make a dish when you’re overwhelmed. On slow days, you find yourself thinking about the time Charlie had you all celebrate Thanksgiving. Charlie had insisted you all celebrate the holiday in even though nobody, save you and Alastor, could cook to save their lives. You were honestly dreading all the sides and desserts and proteins you would have to prepare for everyone, and Charlie had only added to the stress when she came prancing into the kitchen and revealed that her mother had agreed to eat with you all. Somehow sensing your stress, Alastor was there in an instant and allowed you to put him to work. He was a dream in the kitchen, so helpful and chivalrous, and he even made a curated playlist of all your favorite songs to put you in better spirits. It was one of your fonder moments in the normally stressful work environment, particularly when you had cut yourself chopping sweet potatoes and Alastor had rushed to tend to you. Really, it was just a little nick. It didn’t even draw blood but it did sting a bit causing you to hiss quietly. Alastor heard that sound as if it were as loud as a siren and was by your side, bending down to analyze your hand, behaving as though you had just chopped off your entire hand.

“You really must be more careful, dearest,” he murmured and frowned at the cut, willing it to disappear.

You think about Thanksgiving and the way he held your injured finger more than you’re proud to admit.

---

You shake yourself out of your reverie. No. No, no, no. Nope! You were not about to indulge in some small school-girl crush. That would only cause it to fester into something bigger in your heart, something dangerous. And you were certainly not about to buy into your brother’s teasing and tendency to romanticize things. Angel was smart, observant, but was also incredibly naive when it came to affection, or rather, sinisterness disguised by affection. And you were no stranger when it came to love and its effects on perception. You made that mistake once and it got you down here, you were not about to let that happen again...

Even if it was at the hands of that darling deer.

“Come on.” You hang up your last blouse and motion for Angel to follow you to the lobby. You both were late for your weekly family dinner and your father would not be pleased.

“I’m just saying, when was the last time ya got laid?” Angel asks as you make your way down the hall towards the lobby.

“Angel!”

“What? Please tell me you’ve at least gotten some since--”

You’re too short to smack his head, so you resort to kicking him in the shin.

“If you say his name in front of me I will maim you,” you scold.

“Got it, got it. Okay but in all seriousness, are ya ever gonna move on?”

“Nope, and even if I did, he’d have to be very special and very serious. I’m not going to waste my time pining.” You cross your arms, quieting your voice as you draw nearer to the warm glow of the lobby.

“But Alastor seems more than eager.”

“Of course he does,” you say sarcastically.

“Sis, I’m serious! He follows ya--”

“--Around like a lovesick puppy, yes so you keep saying.” You stop suddenly and shift your arms so that they’re wrapped around your torso. You avoid Angel’s confused and worried eyes, finding the carpet far easier to face than your brother’s concern. You are supposed to take care of him, you don’t need his pity. You don’t need anyone.

“Angel,” you sigh. “He’s like that with everyone. I’m not special to him, he just likes me because we enjoy some of the same things and I fit his idea of ‘polite company.’ But I’m not special. And... And even if I did feel that way about him it wouldn’t matter because I’m not anything to him. He’s made it perfectly clear that he has no use for close friends. So why would I be an exception?”

You turn and start taking brisk steps towards the door before you allow Angel to hear your sniffs and see your red-rimmed eyes. You bid a quick goodbye to Husk even though he’s passed out at his desk and make your way to your car. You don’t see Alastor, who was leaning against the wall near the mouth of the hallway where you had just pored your heart out to your brother. You don’t see the way his smile falters just a little or the way his eyes widen in alarm. You don’t see the plate of cookies in his hands, ones he had made just for you as a surprise.

But Angel does.

“Ya okay there, smiles?” Angel reaches for one of the double chocolate chip cookies but his hand is smacked away by Alastor.

“These are not for you,” he snaps but his voice lacks conviction and his eyes continue to stare off longingly at the door you’ve just walked through. Angel takes in the Radio Demon’s furrowed brows and follows his gaze.

“They’re for (Y/N),” Angel smirks and elbows Alastor’s arm teasingly.

“I knew ya had the hots for her! Jeez, could ya have been any more obvious?” Angel cackles.

“Apparently not obvious enough,” Alastor mutters.

“You heard some of that, huh?”

“All of it, actually.” Alastor looks down dejectedly at the plate of cookies. “I... I thought I was--”

“Oh, believe me, if you were being any more obvious with anyone else, you would’ve had your answer months ago. But (Y/N) she’s... she’s not everyone else. She’s very closed off, honestly you’re lucky she even sees you as a friend.”

Alastor barely nods his head in acknowledgement because all his mental energies are directed towards you. You and your bouncy, beautiful hair. You and your enchanting curves and the smooth sound of your voice when you think he isn’t around to hear you. You and your tenderness towards the very few who have earned it, and your willingness to utterly destroy anyone who tries to hurt those few. You and the time he came home with a few scratches after an altercation with Vox and you fussed over him in the genuine way his mother once did. You and your gentle hands that kneed pie crusts and crack eggs, hands that he delights in holding and finds any reason to do so.

He really never believed he could feel this way about anyone. This captivated, this dedicated, this entranced and enchanted. But here you are, captivating and enchanting him beyond all reason. At first it was infuriating, the nights he would lie awake thinking of whatever adorable thing you had done that day. Or the way his body wanted, needed to be near you even when his mind screamed at him that you were a weakness. Someone he couldn’t afford to love lest it make him vulnerable, puny, at risk of losing everything that he had built in Hell.

Until about four months into knowing each other. Some brute had come to stay in the hotel. He didn’t really bother to remember the creature’s name, just that he was rude and inconsiderate and didn’t know how to respect a lady. Alastor had wandered into the kitchen to help you with lunch, per the subconscious ritual he had fallen into, when he heard a loud smack. He opened the door to see said brute trying to force himself upon you and... the next thing he knew the entire kitchen, himself, and you were drenched in the blood of this horrid man. The kind of carnage Alastor only found himself achieving when in an intense fit of rage. You had stood there, frozen, and Alastor was briefly afraid that he had terrified you beyond the point of repair. But after you had gotten over the shock of the man’s attempted assault, you had sprinted to him and buried yourself into his chest before you could remind yourself about his aversion to touch. But he had always seemed to make an exception for you. And he always would.

After that day Alastor realized two things: that you were not a weakness, rather a new source of strength for him, and that he would literally do anything to get you to run into his arms like that again. Alastor didn’t need anymore convincing of the love he had for you. But apparently, you were in an entirely different boat.

“So what do I do?”

“What?” Angel asks, pulling away a hand that was trying again to steal another cookie.

“You’re incredibly close. She tells you everything. What more can I do to show her I’m serious?” Alastor hates how desperate he sounds but that’s what he is. Desperate for you.

“Well that depends, how serious are ya?”

“Deathly.”

Angel’s eyes glance down and back up at the cookies. Alastor relents and tosses him a cookie so he can continue.

“She’s... she’s so incredibly dear to me. She drives me mad and yet I can’t bring myself to stay away. I need her, I feel like there’s a deep, gaping chasm when I’m without her. I--”

“God, okay, you’ve convinced me. I give ya my blessing, sheesh.” Angel finishes the cookie.

“Angel,” you call, marching back into the lobby. Alastor almost drops the plate at your sudden appearance.

“Angel we’re going to be late!”

“Good evening, dearest,” Alastor lurches from the wall, smile wide and beaming, trying to convey all the love he holds for you. He tries to lower his tone on the word ‘dearest,’ tries to make it apparent that you are his dearest everything.

“Good evening, Alastor.” You grace him with a sweet smile but your eyes are sad, probably from what he overheard earlier. “Who are those for, Al?”

“Oh, for you, dearie!” He thrusts the plate in front of you, shoulders hunched in an effort to seem more humble, less intimidating for you. You really are quite small and so precious.

“F-For me?” Your face flushes the prettiest shade of red.

“You mentioned double-chocolate chip is your favorite, yes?”

“It is. T-Thank you, Al, that really is so sweet.” You take one cookie off the plate and indulge yourself in the dark chocolate. Oh, he really outdid himself.

Alastor revels in the joy in your eyes and the fact that he put it there.

“It was my absolute pleasure, darling. I was more than happy to do it. You’ve just been working so hard lately, I thought you deserved something sweet.”

Your smile widens, bathing him in warmth until it falters at the sight of Angel.

“Angel, we have to go or dad and Niss are going to have a fit.”

“Oh,” Alastor interjects. “Where are you both off to?”

You smooth down your fancier-than-normal (f/c) skirt.

“Just family dinner, but it’s important apparently. Dad has an announcement. We would have had more time to chat if Angel didn’t distract me this evening,” you say pointedly at your brother.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be out in a minute. I just have to go bother Husky for a moment.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine. Alastor,” you turn back to him. Alastor perks up immediately at your attention. “Thank you so much for this. You really didn’t--”

“I won’t hear it, love. Now go enjoy your dinner, I’ll make sure these are waiting when you get back.” He gives you a genuine grin, something reserved only for you. “And might I add that you look ravishing in that skirt, dear. Is it new?”

“Oh,” your blush increases and glows. “Thank you, Alastor. Um... have a pleasant evening.”

Once you’re out of the lobby, Angel turns to Alastor, noticing the way he deflates in your absence.

“Look, I gotta go. Now I can talk more when we get back but this,” he points at the plate of cookies. “Is a great start! Personal, sweet, something you wouldn’t do for anyone else. She needs to know that you think she’s special, that you make exceptions for her, that you want to spend time with her outside of “coincidentally” being in the kitchen with her. And for Pete’s sake, ya gotta ask her out soon cause God knows she ain’t gonna take the chance and ask you.”

Angel strolls out of the lobby, leaving Alastor to brainstorm the many ways he’ll make just that happen.

#alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel #they say write the stories you want to see #alastor x chubby!reader #x chubby!reader #x chubby reader

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whitewolfmoving · 4 years

Text

Shot To Hell Mini Series Part One

Summary: Kissing Y/N began as a way to calm her nerves. Sebastian found himself thinking of it days after, found himself longing for her always. He’d do anything for her, including giving her up if she asked him to. Thankfully, she never did.

Kissing Y/N began as a way to calm her nerves, yet all he could think about was wanting to do it again and again and again...

Warnings: this is a steaming pile of my Nana should spray me with holy water... that’s it, that’s the warning

Word Count: 1730

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader

A/N: Part one of the 5-part mini series I am writing based off of this original post.

(Thank you Kansas for the GIF)

It had started out as a way to calm her nerves… Kiss her, and she wasn’t freaking out about having to speak in front of people. Kiss her, and she was only thinking about the feeling of his lips on hers. Kiss her, and she was left drowning in the endless sea of him.

How Sebastian felt about Y/N wasn’t a secret to anyone, except her. He didn’t want to risk what they had—an amazing friendship that he couldn’t find anywhere else, that he wouldn’t go looking for anywhere else. But the truth was that he loved her, and he wanted more than just quick and steamy makeout sessions whenever she needed to give a speech or propose a project. He needed her, he needed her, he needed her.

Finally, Sebastian had decided that enough was enough. He was done dancing around the issue, he was done kissing her only when she needed it, he was done letting her walk out the door without knowing how he felt. Luckily, she was meeting him for lunch again that afternoon, and he planned on laying all of his cards out on the table.

He paced the length of his living room, checked and rechecked the time on his watch, and heaved a deep sigh. His patience had worn thin hours ago.

At noon on the dot, Sebastian listened as Y/N slid her key into the lock on the front door. He’d never been nervous around her before, but suddenly his hands felt clammy. Everything he knew and loved rested on his ability to not fuck things up with Y/N.

He took a deep breath as the door opened slowly to reveal a bright-eyed Y/N. “Long time, no see, Y/N/N.”

She smiled, hanging her coat on the rack by the door. “Very funny, Seb. Two weeks isn’t that long.”

“Mm, long enough without seeing my best friend,” he said. He pulled her into a hug as she approached, her small frame fit perfectly against him. His heart hammered against his rib cage at their proximity; he could smell the faint scent of her lavender and lemon shampoo. Sebastian found himself wanting nothing more than to tangle his hands in the loose strands of her hair, to wrap his arms around her waist and—

“Seb?” Her soft voice lured him from his thoughts. She was looking up at him as if he held the moon in the palm of his hands… His hands. God, how he wanted nothing more than to feel every inch of her body underneath his hands.

Sebastian cleared his throat and let her go. “I was thinking we could do something different for lunch today.”

“Oh, yeah, like what?”

“I’m not too hungry just yet. How about we bake a cake or pie or something if you’re up for it, and later we can do something easy as a late lunch?”

“Ya know, that’s not a bad idea. I’ve been messing around with that apple pie recipe of my mom’s that you love so much. I think I’ve finally perfected it.”

He watched as she made herself comfortable in his home, going straight to the kitchen and pantry and gathering the ingredients for the pie. Truth be told, her mother’s apple pie was great, but he loved it so much because Y/N loved making it. Sebastian had resigned himself to the fact that he could watch her putter around his apartment all day, when she paused her fluttering and turned to him with her hands on her hips. Another look of hers he’d come to know so well.

He was teasing her, she knew. They always cooked together, but he was taking his own sweet time. Y/N waited for no one when it came to baking; if you weren’t in the kitchen when she got started, you’d just have to miss out. Sebastian knew this, of course, and decided making her squirm was his mission for the day.

“Seb, are you helping out or what?” She asked impatiently. It was working.

He pushed himself off of the wall and approached her slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a warm glint in his eye. “Where do you want me?”

“Core and slice the apples?” Her eyes lit up as she made her request known. She always asked, and his answer was always the same.

“As you wish, dragă.” Sebastian moved behind her, stopping for a moment to press a quick kiss to her hair. He busied himself with coring and peeling the apples over the sink, then set them on the counter next to where she’d set out a bowl filled with lemon juice. Once he’d peeled the last apple, he pushed the sleeves of his dark blue sweater up his arms and retrieved a knife from the block by the stove. While Y/N worked on making the pie crust, Sebastian picked a few apples and cut them in half.

He leaned over, close enough to whisper in her ear and dropped his voice a few octaves. His warm breath fanned over the shell of her ear as he spoke, “Thick or thin?”

She swallowed, but made no other indication that he was gaining a rise out of her. “Thin,” she said simply. “Can you grab the cinnamon from the spice rack?”

“As you wish, dragă,” he replied, slowly reaching around her for the spice rack. He knew without looking where the jar of cinnamon stood, pulled it down effortlessly, and removed the cap. He lifted the jar up to his nose and breathed it in slowly next to her ear, she shivered.

She reached over her shoulder and took the jar from him. “Slice the apples, Seb. I’m almost ready to finish the filling.”

“I’ll get to it,” he breathed in her ear. He slowly moved her hair back, exposing her skin to him. She’d worn a burnt orange off-the-shoulder sweater, his favorite on her. He dropped his head to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, ghosted his lips ever so slightly over the side of her neck, moved his hands down to rest on her hips.

“Seb?” She asked, a small breathy moan followed his name. Y/N’s head fell back against his chest, her eyes fluttered shut.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. Sebastian was nothing short of respectful; he wanted it, he wanted her… God, how he wanted her. He wanted it, but only if she did.

Y/N finished the crust, mixed the apples, and put it together in the tin, all the while he stood behind her just close enough for her to smell his cologne but not close enough to touch her. She placed the pie in the oven and took a deep breath; Sebastian moved back behind her, his hands found her hips again.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop if you want me to,” he said again, nosing into her hair. She leaned back into his chest and hummed, then turned around to face him.

“No, don’t,” she answered. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. The look she was giving him, told Sebastian everything he needed to know about the situation.

His eyes shifted down from hers to her lips and back. He leaned down slowly, brushed his lips gingerly against hers, his hands squeezed her hips. He kissed her fervently, with mighty need. His fingers dug into the skin of her hips, thumbs kneaded the flesh there before he slid them down around her ass, and patted her thighs. She jumped without much guidance, he lifted her onto the counter and stepped between her legs.

Y/N’s hands twisted into his hair, slipped the strands between her fingers, and closed a handful in each fist. She tugged lightly at first, then harder, eliciting a growl from Sebastian. She smiled against his lips, he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Her hands found his sweater, she pulled it up, working quickly to remove it. Then grabbed the t-shirt he wore underneath and pulled it from his jeans; he stepped back long enough to slip the garment over his head, then took her face in his hands again.

Sebastian ran the pads of his thumbs over Y/N’s lips, red and kiss swollen. He drew his own bottom lip between his teeth, and slowly removed her sweater. His eyes traveled slowly down her body—he loved her body, he worshiped her body.

“Seb, what—” she asked, studying his face.

“Shut up,” he said, breathlessly. He grabbed her face again and pulled her forward, their lips met softly. He licked his way into her mouth, and she accepted him willingly. He slid his hands down her shoulders, resting them on her hips once again. He dragged her to the edge of the counter, undid the button and zipper on her jeans. She hopped down long enough to slide them down her legs, then Sebastian was hauling her up and walking from the kitchen. He backed her against the living room wall, tucked his face in her neck, sucked hickey against the column of her throat, and soothed the new bruise with the tip of his tongue.

Sebastian carried her to the couch and laid her down. He leaned over her, staring at her bra-and-panty clad form, relishing at the sight of his best friend laying there with him. He leaned down and kissed her lips, kissed a trail down her jaw, her neck, her chest. He sucked hickeys over the top of her breasts, unhooked the claps of her bra, slipped the straps from her shoulders, and tossed it to the floor. He closed his mouth over her right nipple, swirled his hot tongue around it, and blew a steady stream of cold air against the bud. He continued kissing a path from her chest, and down her torso to the top of her pelvic bone. She squirmed beneath him, panting in quiet anticipation.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He licked a stripe from the top of her panties, to her navel and back again. He kissed her, nipped her, licked her over the delicate fabric, breath warming her center.

“Don’t.”

That one word answer was all he needed to lose himself in everything she was.

—————

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated and encouraged. Remember to leave a like, comment, and reblog if you loved it!

-Auri <3

Till The End of All Things (Main Taglist): @arrowsandmixtapes @pinknerdpanda

STH: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

#queue the hell is bucky?#let’s talk about sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan imagines #sebastian stan smut

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soyforramen · 4 years

Text

Blame @sullypants for this one since weird dreams are a common theme lately:

“Hey, Jug.”

Shaken by some unknown force, Jughead groaned and nestled further into his arms.

“C’mon, wake up,” Archie said, his voice coming from a universe away.

Sleep was a dense fog that settled in behind Jughead’s eyelids and he couldn’t muster the energy to push it away. He’d fallen asleep in school again, that much he could discern from the hard table beneath him. But at least the desk was a lot more comfortable than the janitor’s closet had been.

“Dude, let’s go,” Reggie said.

With a hard tug, Jughead was snapped awake. With a wide yawn he stretched out, his back giving a satisfyingly loud crack.

“What’s up?”

“School’s over, Rip Van Jones,” Reggie said. With a roll of his eyes, he ran a hand through his already slicked back hair. “The girls are waiting for us at Pop’s. Apparently we have to have a set list for Sunday and they wanted to go over it after school. Or at least we were supposed to before this knucklehead got us detention from Grundy again.”

Jughead blinked, convinced he’d heard Reggie wrong. Grundy was dead, murdered by the Black Hood. Even if she had come back to life, what was she doing around high schoolers?

“How was I supposed to know she meant a rhyme scheme from Donna Sweet and not Saweetie,” Archie muttered. “Besides, if we leave right now we still might make it before they ditch us.”

Wait, sweater vest. Why was Archie wearing a sweater vest? And was was Reggie acting so cordial?

Certain that this was another weird dream, Jughead reached for his Serpent’s jacket and found that the back of his chair was empty. Serpent’s jacket?

“I still think that we should ditch Jingle Jangle,” Reggie said as he headed out the door.

“What? It’s my best work,” Archie said as he followed him out.

With another yawn, Jughead picked up his books and followed them out into the cool autumn air. With a start, he realized that it was just a dream, a really weird dream to be exact. There was no biker gang that gave out jackets to kids like candy. He and Archie and Reggie had always been a strange sort of friends; and Grundy was never anything more than a septuagenarian determined to drive herself into an early grade by teaching high brow literature to idiot high schoolers.

On the way to Pop’s, Jughead ignored Archie and Reggie’s argument over some girl the next town over and worked to piece together the dream. It had all been so real that it wasn’t a wonder he’d been confused. Everything in Riverdale had been the same as it was now, except it was all off just enough to cast a dark shadow across their sleepy little town.

Hiram Lodge, a well known philanthropist and entrepreneur who tolerated his daughter’s friends was not a corrupt Wall-Street con-man looking to rule the world. The Coopers, an All American family, was not rife with dark secrets that would eventually tear them apart. The Blossom’s, while certainly devious and conniving in their own ways, were not ripped from the pages of a gothic horror novel.

And the Jones…

Jughead shuddered at the thought. Sure, they weren’t the perfect family. But they loved each other, took care of each other, and were as normal as they could be. That image of his family brought up a wave of guilt about how his subconscious had portrayed his parents.

(He couldn’t help but grin, however, at the idea that baby Jellybean could not only hold her own, but was a fan of Led Zeppelin. It was a nice touch. Maybe he’d roundup his mother’s old records tonight and he’d teach her to appreciate the finer things in life.)

But it wasn’t until they’d walked into Pop’s to find the girls seated at their regular booth that the realization that this Betty - sweet, caring, lovely Betty - wasn’t his that he felt a pang of longing for his dream world. Despite how horrific that dream had been, Betty was the golden lining in that dark world, a comfort meant only for him.

The feeling passed quickly when Betty’s eyes locked on Archie. Jughead couldn’t help but wonder, though, what if things had been different?

For the rest of the afternoon, the members of The Archie’s debated and argued over the set list, while Jughead did what he did best. While Archie was arguing for the merits of Sugar, Sugar, Jughead polished off three baskets of fries and a milkshake. When Veronica demanded to sing Bang-Shang-A-Lang solo, Jughead ate two and a half cheeseburgers and drank half a pot of coffee. As Reggie was arguing for… well, whatever it was he wanted, Jughead nursed a chocolate milkshake and a basket of fries (extra chili cheese, heavy on the onions and cheese, add bacon).

Occasionally he inserted his own opinion - no he would not let Reggie ruin another drum set just so he could show off to Ginger Lopez, nor was it feasible for Veronica to burst out, and ruin, his kick drum at the start of the show. But even as he played at normalcy, his mind kept coming back to that dream. Detention with Grundy could never be long enough to contain an entirely parallel universe, and yet it was the most realistic dream he’d ever had.

“Earth to Juggie,” Betty said as she waved her hand in front of his face. He blinked, his gaze centering on her, and she giggled. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He glanced around and found that despite his attempts to stay present, he and Betty were the only two left.

“Veronica roped Archie into installing shelves for her,” Betty explained with an over exaggerated pout. She then pointed over to where Reggie was chatting a short, dark haired teen. “And Midge came in without Moose, so you know Reggie’s not going to miss that opportunity.”

Midge.

The world around Jughead spun and he felt lightheaded when he stood. He walked over to where the pair stood at the counter, and when Midge turned to him Jughead wrapped her in a tight hug, tears threatening to pour from his eyes.

“You alright there, needle nose?” Reggie asked, his eyes filled with concern.

Apparently Jughead hadn’t been able to play as normal as he’d thought.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, loosening his hold. He stared at Midge, still trying to comprehend why he felt so relieved that it was all just a dream. “I’m just… happy to see you is all.”

“I’m always happy to see you, Jughead,” Midge said. She placed the back of her hand across his forehead, the corners of her lips pinched. “But maybe you should let Betty take you home?”

Jughead nodded as the surreal threatened to overwhelm him. When he turned, he found Betty behind him, her arms full of their schoolbooks. She set a hand on his arm and gave an encouraging, if worried, smile. It was easy enough to let her lead him out of the diner. That way he could remind himself that the world where Midge had been slaughtered wasn’t real.

“Penny for your thoughts? Or maybe I should offer a nickel?” Betty asked. When he didn’t respond, she bumped her hip into his.

The contact, friendly, playing, concerned, burned his side. It brought up just how touchy they were in his dream world, along with false memories of things he’d never paid any attention to before (especially not about her). He shivered and quickened his step. Betty, ever the Teflon personality, matched his stride and slipped her arm through his.

“Just a strange dream,” he muttered, far too distracted by how much heat she gave out to come up with a good lie.

“Sounds like a pretty intense dream if you’re still thinking about it this much.”

And with that simple statement, the entire thing tumbled out of him. Nothing was left out, though Jughead did edit some of the more intimate moments they’d spent together in his dream. He was so wrapped up in making sure to include all the details - the corruption, the ever-burning ember of hope, the rocket - that he almost missed the fact that Betty had guided them through the town square three times as he divulged the dirty laundry about the underground boxing rings and Maple Club.

By the time they’d reached his house it was twilight and he was telling her about the prep school murders and fake FBI stings. His mother (his real mother, thankfully, and not the drug running mom that had run out on him) brought them out dinner just as he got to his own faked death.

And for the first time in his life, Jughead’s entire focus wasn’t on getting seconds (and thirds).

When he was finally done with his tale, Betty let out a long whistle. She pushed around the remaining bits of pie on her plate, lost in thought. Now that his head was empty of that bizarre dream, Jughead’s appetite came back with a vengeance. He leaned over and snatched the rest of her pie crust and popped it into his mouth.

“Well?” he prompted, curious to get her take on his dream.

“Do you think the fish Ms. Beezley served today was off?”

He rolled his eyes and grinned at her ability to lighten the mood. Jughead leaned back and set his elbows against the porch step behind him to look up at the sky. Betty set her plate down and sat down next to him, primly smoothing out her skirt before she spoke.

“Do you really think we …” she paused. “My mother? And your dad?”

Jughead groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I’d hate to think what Freud would say.”

“Well, he’d definitely agree it wasn’t a pipe,” she snickered. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something?”

“Convince Archie that Jingle-Jangle is a terrible song to play to middle schoolers?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

As the world turned around them, they sat in companionable silence. As curious as Jughead was to know what Betty really thought, it was these quiet moments with her that he felt truly at peace. Perhaps that’s what the dream had signified. With all the clamor and turmoil over senior year and applying for colleges, maybe his brain was trying to tell him to slow down and enjoy these little moments more.

Or maybe it was just a sign he shouldn’t shotgun a whole liter of soda before Grundy’s lecture on Dashiell Hammet.

“Walk me home?” Betty asked suddenly.

Without waiting for an answer, she hopped up and pulled Jughead to his feet, the same as they’d done a million times before. Only this time Betty tugged a little too hard and Jughead stumbled into her. He was about to apologize when he noticed the twinkle of mischief in her eyes. To hide his smile, he bent over and tucked his shoulder into her stomach. Betty shrieked as he lifted her up over her shoulder, precariously balancing the two of them as he picked up her books.

“Put me down Jones,” she said through her laughter, “or I’m telling Ethyl that you’d love to play D&D with her.”

“Dirty pool, Cooper,” he shot back as he casually sauntered down the block to her house. He ignored the faint whisper of the peaches and cream lotion she used on her skin and the breathless lilt of her voice. Because no matter how right it felt in the dream, they were only friends here. “And it’s G&G, remember?”

Once back on solid ground, Betty slipped her arm through his and they strolled along under the streetlights. Just another night in the neighborhood without a care in the world.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad,” she said almost absentmindedly. When she didn’t elaborate, Jughead’s heart gave a heavy, painful thump. “I could always use more help with the B&G.”

He snorted and reached up to scratch his forehead to ignore the sudden disappointment. “Toni does have some strong opinions about the gym’s new paint job.”

Betty stuck her tongue out at him, her face scrunched. Jughead almost tripped trying not to kiss the tip of her nose.

His mood darkened when they reached her house. Archie was on the front porch, napping, and the small seed of possibility withered into dust. But instead of running towards Archie, Betty paused next to him. Her teeth worked across her lip and she stared, unfocused at him. Her hand on Jughead’s arm tightened and she shifted almost imperceptibly towards him.

With a small nod, Betty stood up on her toes and kissed Jughead on the cheek. He flushed as the sun exploded in his chest.

“Meet me at Pop’s tomorrow after school. There’s a new French movie at the Bijou, and I’d hate it if Veronica saw it before me.”

He knew the smile on his face was just as goofy as the one’s he made fun of Archie for, but Jughead couldn’t help but wonder at this strange new turn. For once, he was excited to spend time alone with a girl. (He was always excited to spend time with Betty Cooper, but this time she wasn’t just Betty.)

His smile lasted all the way home and continued until he settled into bed. Just as he was falling asleep, his phone rang with a text from Betty.

‘Some of your dream sounded nice enough to try out in real life, don’t you think?’

To say that Jughead had trouble falling asleep for the first time was an understatement.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead appreciation week #thank you sully for letting me know we're all having weird dreams lately #and boom #this #trope 1: it was all just a dream #also i'm without anything but the most basic internet so i'll be a ghost in the machine again #but also i didn't want to do my art homework (which has nothing to do with art but ya know)#so #also thank you anon ;.; got me crying over here #i will answer you just when i have functioning internet

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phoenix-downer · 4 years

Text

White Day Surprise

2026 words. Contains spoilers for Melody of Memory. SoKai. Romance, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Mutual Pining, White Day, Pi Day, Baking, and most importantly, Pie.

Successor to this story I wrote for Christmas and this story I wrote for Valentine’s Day.

Sora wanted to do something special for Kairi for White Day. She’d gone out of her way to make Valentine’s Day special, so it was only right he returned the favor. Back home, that meant giving her a gift that was, uh twice? three times? the value of the original. But her letter was priceless, and those chocolates were special too, so he was at a loss as to what to do.

He paced back and forth in this place that looked like the Final World. He couldn’t give her a gift right now. Couldn’t tell her how he felt yet (not with words anyway) because she wanted him to wait till they met again. So what was he supposed to do?

Something that involved taking control of her body was all he had. His face flushed. No, not like that. Putting this whole body-sharing thing into words always made it sound worse than it actually was. He always waited till he had permission and immediately ceded control the moment she asked him to.

He plopped onto the watery ground that somehow didn’t ever get him wet and scoured his brain for ideas. What would he do if this was a normal White Day, if he was fully back in the Realm of Light with his own body at his disposal?

“Take her on a date. Maybe to the Bistro. Or I could cook or bake her something myself using the stuff Little Chef taught me.” He perked up. “That’s it! I’ll make something for her. I’ll just need to write down the ingredients so she can get them and then ask her for control when it’s time to actually make the stuff.”

He made a mental list about what he’d need for the recipe and then patiently waited. Something told him Kairi would be reaching out to him soon.

Sure enough, he eventually heard her voice.

“Sora? Want to take over for a bit?”

He followed her voice, chased it, pursued it till he was in her body. She was in her room on the Land of Departure, lying on her bed, and sunlight was streaming through the window. Must be morning, and she probably just woke up.

Hey, Kairi, he signed. Happy White Day.

“Happy White Day to you too.”

Desk, he gestured.

“You want to write something?”

He nodded.

“Okay. You can take control.”

He gently got her up out of bed and walked her body to the desk. She had a little diary for the two of them to write to each other now, and he opened it and grabbed a pen.

Ingredients List

Butter

Sugar

Whipped Cream

Coconut Chips or Shavings

Coconut Milk

He was about to write another ingredient when she interrupted.

“You want to bake me something for White Day, don’t you? You’re the sweetest.”

He smiled and continued, listing off the rest of the ingredients. When everything looked good, he added, Can you get these for me?

“Of course. We should have most of the stuff around the castle except for the coconut-related things. But I can buy them for you, okay? Or bop back to Destiny Islands real quickly if need be.”

Please do. I know it’s not much, but I wanted to thank you for your Valentine’s gift.

“Leave it to you to figure out a way to make it work. I assume you’ll want to do the baking yourself too, right?”

Yeah. I’d do it in my own body if I could. Make you a five course meal. When I get back, okay? This’ll have to do for now.

“This is more than enough.”

Talk to you soon.

He had to let go of the connection for now because he sensed danger. Curse the stupid monsters in Quadratum who kept pulling him back to their (un)reality. If he missed making Kairi’s gift for her on the appropriate day, these monsters were gonna regret they ever crossed him.

“Riku, where are you?” he grumbled as he fought them off. He knew Riku was somewhere in this reality, they just kept missing each other. It didn’t help that Sora’s heart was jumping all over the place, getting pulled more and more towards Kairi, while his body was stuck here. Glued to this place because abusing the Power of Waking meant it had been banished from the Realm of Light and couldn’t return.

As the last monster disappeared in a puff of smoke, he sighed and wiped his forehead. He was more convinced than ever that his heart’s connection to Kairi was growing stronger by the day. What would it take to get his body out of here too?

“Stupid body,” he said as he scowled at it. “Keeping me trapped here.” He let his Keyblade disappear and slunk towards a private alley. “Kairi won’t want a boyfriend without a body forever.” He sat on a box of crates and cast a barrier around himself to buy some time. “And I don’t wanna be without a body either. I don’t want my options to be body-less in the Realm of Light or trapped here forever.”

Sighing, he closed his eyes, imagining himself back in the Final World-esque place. Thankfully, he was able to will his heart back to Kairi pretty quickly. She was in the castle’s kitchen now, and all of the ingredients he’d asked for were dutifully set out.

Sorry I kept you waiting, he scrawled on the diary she’d left out. Had some monsters show up.

“Monsters? Sora, is it safe for you to be here?”

It is now. Trust me, if my body’s in danger, it lets me know.

“If you’re sure,” she finally said, and he could hear the worry in her voice. “I’ve put you in enough danger before as it is.”

Don’t I get to be the judge of that?

“Sorry, considering your current predicament and how you got there… No. You’re reckless when it comes to your own life if it means keeping me safe.”

Maybe, but I was the one who put myself in danger. Not you. And can you blame me? I wasn’t about to abandon you, with your heart in pieces and at Xehanort’s mercy. You would’ve done the same for me. You did, in fact. You refused to let me die like I was supposed to at the Keyblade Graveyard.

“That was different,” she said tersely. “I didn’t have to die to keep you alive.”

I didn’t either. I’m not dead. My body’s just—

“Cut off from the Realm of Light. How is that all that different from being dead?”

Sora felt like sighing. Kairi… We’re wasting what precious little time we have together fighting. I would gladly fight with you all day if I could, but I’d like to make you the gift I promised.

She hung her head, shoulders slumping. “Sorry, I’m making this about me and my guilt again, and when you’re in such a precarious situation, too.”

It’s okay. Sometimes I think you got the harder end of the bargain, watching me disappear, feeling all alone and abandoned.

“You didn’t abandon me. You came to my aid when I needed you most. And you’re the one who’s cut off from me, from everyone. You have it worse by far.”

Sora was about to write something when Kairi continued. “But today you’re gonna literally walk me through this recipe and we’re gonna have fun, okay? You need this, you need to relax and unwind and have some fun.”

Yeah. And there’s no person I’d rather spend time with than you.

She giggled, and his heart felt warm, hearing her giggle.

“Okay, Master Chef, teach me your ways,” she said, and with that she let him take over. He led her through mixing and chopping and cutting and stirring, and she was ever the attentive student. It had been so long since he’d gotten to bake anything. Since he’d gotten to unwind and have fun like this.

“So we’re making a pie, huh?” she said as he prepared the crust. “Don’t tell me… Coconut cream pie? That’s one of my favorites. And it’s the perfect dessert for White Day. Pi Day, too.”

The pie took a long time to make, but spending that time with Kairi was worth it. He’d spend every moment with her if he could. When at last the pie was chilling in the fridge, she sat at the table so he could write notes to her. His signing was still a work in progress.

Pie should be ready now, he wrote presently.

“Do you want me to eat it while you’re still here? It feels a little rude when you can’t.”

He didn’t like the twinge of melancholy in her voice.

I don’t mind. In fact I kinda want to know what you think.

“Okay,” she said and went to the fridge to grab the pie. It looked amazing with its crispy crust, its creamy filling coated with whipped cream shaped into perfect swirls, and its coconut shavings artfully sprinkled on top. He’d really outdone himself, and he couldn’t wait for her to taste it.

You’ll have to tell me how it is, he scribbled when she was seated at the table once more. She nodded and lifted a forkful of pie to her mouth.

Oh, yum. This pie was creamy and delicious and brought back memories of all the times he’d eaten his mom’s coconut cream pie back home—

Hold on. Hold on. He could taste the pie? How was that even possible?!

“Oh this is amazing,” Kairi cooed as she brought another forkful to her mouth. “Creamy and coconut-y and—”

“Sora?”

Ven was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his mouth hanging open.

“You can see him?” Kairi squeaked, dropping the fork. “That’s never happened before!”

Sora froze. Ven could see him? How?

“Yeah,” Ven said, taking long strides towards them. “It’s like he’s kind of translucent, and I can still see you through him, but yeah, I can see him.”

Ven? Sora tried to say, but no sound came out.

“Do you think—Is his connection to the Realm of Light getting stronger?” Kairi asked, her voice so full of hope Sora could practically feel her heart soaring.

“Yeah, I think it must be,” Ven said. “Hang on, lemme get Terra and Aqua.” He paused for a moment to squeeze Kairi’s hand, and Sora’s felt a little warmer. “Be back in a second.”

The taste of the pie, the warmth of Ven’s hand… He wasn’t imagining this stuff, was he?

Kairi, diary, he signed, and she let him take control so he could write.

I could taste the pie. I felt Ven’s hand when he squeezed yours.

“That’s great, Sora! I think your body is trying to follow your heart back to the Realm of Light.”

Was it possible? He wanted it to be possible. He wanted to come home.

“Here, let me eat more of that pie, you must be starving.”

Please, he signed.

Kairi lifted the fork to her lips again when he felt a strong tugging on his heart.

“No,” she cried in frustration. “You can’t leave yet!”

Be back soon, he signed sadly. His heart was getting pulled back with a vengeance now, which meant he needed to protect his body. Happy White Day, Kairi.

“Happy White Day, Sora,” she said, and with that, he was back in Quadratum. Oh, great, more monsters had found him, and it was raining now too. He groaned and summoned his Keyblade. He’d much rather be eating coconut cream pie with Kairi in the Land of Departure’s warm and bright castle kitchen.

He was so close to finding a way home. Right on the edge. If he’d just had a little more time, he could’ve done it. Still, he was grateful for the moments he and Kairi had shared today. Making the pie and then tasting it together. He was more determined than ever to make it home to her. If he succeeded, then he and Kairi could spend as much time together as they wanted.

For that, he’d keep on fighting, however long it took.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: This fic is dedicated to the lovely @angel-with-a-pipette for coming up with the idea of Sora baking something for Kairi when I was trying to think of a follow-up to the Valentine's fic I wrote. Thank you again for all your help and input!

And Happy White Day and Happy Pi Day to you all! Thank you for reading!

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skullrock · 4 years

Text

the first christmas

12 days of Christmas fics, day 7 - the first christmas

pairing: Joyce x Hopper

summary: It’s Eleven’s first Christmas, and Joyce and Hopper make it everything she ever wanted it to be, while kindling their own romance.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: none!

a/n: I think I am rly bad at writing jopper but I did my best <3 hope u enjoy!

“Do you know what Christmas is?”

El shakes her head timidly, and Hopper lets out a deep sigh. Of course they never let her celebrate Christmas.

“What… is… Christmas?”

Hopper doesn’t know what to say. He tries to think back to what he had told Sarah when she was growing up, but nothing really comes to mind. He’s pretty sure Sarah just understood it since she’d grown up with it. “Uh… it’s a celebration that we have every December to celebrate the birth….” Does El really need to know who Jesus Christ is? Does Hopper even know? “Of some guy that a lot of people… care about.”

“Like a birthday?”

“Yeah, except a lot of people celebrate.”

El nods. “What do we do?”

Hopper thinks the best way to show her is to have her watch some Christmas movies, hence why they were set up by the TV. “Here, you’ll get the hang of it.”

He almost showed her It’s a Wonderful Life, but Joyce vehemently protested, insisting on showing El Miracle on 34th Street first. Joyce said it was the best way to show El the meaning of Christmas, even if Hopper didn’t necessarily want El to believe in Santa. Hop trusted Joyce with his life, so he agreed, but he’s pretty sure it was the wrong call.

“Who is that?”

“That’s Santa.”

A long pause. “What does he do?”

Shit. “He’s the… person- he’s the image of Christmas. He brings gifts and makes sure everyone is being nice to each other.” He shakes his head at himself, but El seems to get it. She gets the present thing and the spirit of Christmas pretty well, but the legal proceedings weren’t helpful.

“Why don’t they think he’s real?” she asks quietly.

“Well, the guy is real, but people don’t think Santa is.”

“Is he?”

Jesus Christ. “Santa is a frame of mind. He might not be a real… person, but the message is there.”

El looks at him with furrowed brows, so he tries to elaborate.

“Santa… is Santa. He’s…. He brings people joy. So… if he’s not real, joy is still a thing.”

“Joyce?”

“No, not Joyce,” he laughs. “Joy. Happiness.”

“Oh.” She looks back to the TV. “Why isn’t it colored?”

“Old movies were in black and white.”

“Why?”

Sometimes Hopper hated being a dad, but only because he could not explain things very well. Not as well as Joyce could, anyway. He wishes she were here right now - not just to answer El’s questions, but because, quite frankly, he missed her. “They just were. I don’t know.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The movie finishes with El pretty much bouncing on the couch. She doesn’t verbally state her excitement, but it’s evident on her face.

“Fun, right? Makes you feel good?”

El nods. “Do we celebrate?”

“We will, if you want to.”

To be honest, Hop didn’t really know where he was going with this, hence why he didn’t think of a better explanation for Santa. He just remembers how much Sarah loved it, and he wants to make El that happy. He enlisted Joyce’s help with Christmas stuff, like finding presents and wrapping. Joyce loved El as much as Will and Jonathan, so she agreed easily.

El nods. “Yes.”

“Okay, well, get excited,” Hop says, pushing out of his chair. “It’s in twenty five days.”

El does the math in her head - 25 days was nothing after waiting forever for Mike. “Really?”

“Really,” Hop says. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

===

The Byers went all out for El’s first Christmas.

Joyce, Will, and Jonathan came to help set up the house on the fifth. Jonathan had made snowflake cutouts, which Will had covered, to hang around the house. Joyce brought Christmas books for El to read, peppermint cookies, and hot chocolate. They’d brought some ornaments that wouldn’t fit on their tree, as well as lights, for the tiny pine that Hop had cut down in the woods. El really liked the smell of pine, fresh and uplifting. Her smile didn’t falter for a second as everyone moved around the small cabin, hanging things and cleaning. Jonathan gave El an old Santa hat, but she put it on Hopper and pouted until he reluctantly wore it.

“Looks good on you,” Joyce said in passing, which made Hop stop trying to prop up the tree.

“You mean that?”

Joyce didn’t answer, but Hopper’s smile was as big as El’s.

Probably the first thing El picked up on when she moved in with Hopper was that he loved Joyce. She knew it way before him, and wanted them to be together more than he did. El liked Joyce and always felt close to her, but she wanted Hopper to be happy, too. Once she learned about mistletoe from a Christmas movie Hopper showed her, there was no stopping her. She was going to get them to kiss, just like the couples in the movies.

Will had found an old bundle up in their attic and brought it for El, confused with why she wanted it. He figured she just wanted to touch it, or wanted the whole experience, or something. El really just wanted to make it float above the two at the perfect time. Which was, admittedly, not tonight - but soon.

===

“Snow!”

Hopper nodded at the stove. “Yep, just in time for your first Christmas.”

El made Hopper blast Christmas records the entire morning of Christmas Eve, and she made him wear the Santa hat. Hopper would have been irritated if it was anyone else, but El’s goofy smile convinced him to keep the hat on. He made her Christmas themed Eggos, complete with crushed candy canes and white chocolate, for breakfast. As they sat to eat, Hopper noticed a mischievous smile on El’s face.

“What?” he asked, mouth full.

El looked up at him and smiled more, but didn’t say anything.

“Alright,” he said, staring at her carefully. “Better behave. Joyce and the boys are coming soon.”

El’s smile grew, and Hopper didn’t understand why. But he felt close to smiling, too.

===

“Jesus, Joyce,” Hopper groaned, helping her and the kids carry in presents. He didn’t even know where she got all of this, or how she could afford it, but every last parcel went under the tiny tree in the living room. El’s face hurt from smiling, but she tried not to be too excited.

“What?” Joyce asked, throwing her free arm out. Quietly, she adds, “I wanted her first Christmas to be memorable.”

“It will be,” he promises. “Thanks to you guys.”

Joyce places the present she was holding under the tree and hits Hopper’s chest lightly. “You did good, too, Hop.” She looks up at the Santa hat and smiles as she adjusts the brim. “It - It’s crooked.” Her tongue sticks slightly out of the side of her mouth as she stands on her tiptoes, and she lowers herself slowly, continuing to stare up at him. El watches closely, almost about to make the mistletoe hover above them, but Joyce finally breaks from her stare and brushes herself off. “Who wants to make cookies?”

The day went by quickly, spent baking and taking breaks to watch movies. Jonathan rolled his eyes nearly the entire time, but stayed patient for El - and for Will, too, who was enjoying it. Will explained things for El - like who the Grinch was, and how animated movies work. El would nod and listen, but her mind kept wandering to Hopper and Joyce, who were prepping things in the kitchen.

“You don’t have to bake a pie,” Joyce said, fiddling with the pie crust. “Just because you’re eating at our house doesn’t mean you owe us.”

“I owe you for more than that.” He leans against the counter and sips on his coffee. “You made her so happy.”

Joyce shrugs. “Every kid deserves a good Christmas. Especially her. And Will.”

Hopper nods and stops himself from thinking too hard about the last two years. The only good things about it was adopting El and reconnecting with Joyce.

“Remember that snowball fight in the schoolyard?”

Joyce smiles and nods. “The one you started?”

“It wasn’t me!” he promises, laughing. “It was another Jim.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Joyce beams. “The only person who would hit me in the head with a snowball is you.”

“That’s not true.”

Joyce scoffs and turns to him. “Do you think everyone should hit me in the head?”

“I’m not saying that,” he says slowly. “But you did get hit, like, ten times -”

Joyce reaches for some leftover cookie icing and swipes it onto Hopper’s nose. He’s taken aback, but Joyce smiles wide, wiping her hands on her pants.

“You did not just do that.”

Joyce feigns a frown. “Mmm. Looks like I did.”

Hopper reaches for the icing, but Joyce grabs his arm, laughing. “No, Hop - don’t -”

His finger swipes across her cheek and she gasps, not quite shocked but a little surprised, and grabs more for herself. “You ass -”

“Language,” he says, dodging her lunge. “Jeez, Joyce, you haven’t been this feisty since -”

“Since when?” she asks, lunging for him again, and Hop grabs her wrists to stop her. She takes a step towards him and their chests touch, both smiling. But Hopper’s smile falters, because Joyce is so beautiful, and this is the first time he’s seen her smile in a long, long time. He never wants the moment to end. Joyce suddenly bristles, and she gently slides out from his grip.

“Since high school,” Hop says smoothly, resting on the counter again.

“Yeah, well,” Joyce mumbles, once again playing with the pie crust. Her face falls, and then she looks over to him. “Do you even know how to make a pie?”

“You could teach me.”

She smiles again. “Well, I guess I have to.”

===

The kids managed to doze off, apparently too bored with the movies that were playing. Joyce and Hopper sat at the kitchen table, sharing cigarettes and a bottle of wine.

“What was the worst Christmas you’ve ever had?” Hopper asks, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray.

“Oh,” Joyce says, like she was waiting for the question. “First Christmas with Lonnie. He spent all of our money to get himself a - a - a gun. Didn’t even get me anything.”

Hopper swallows down his anger, never one to like Lonnie, especially after what he’d done to Joyce. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” She takes a drag. “Said his gift to me was to teach me how to use it.”

“Never took him up on it, huh?”

“No way,” she says, flicking her own ash. “What was yours?”

Hopper’s stomach drops and he diverts his eyes from hers, choosing to stare at the smoke rising from the glass tray. “First Christmas after Sarah.”

Joyce exhales slowly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have -”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t think about it much anymore.”

Joyce frowns and reaches for his hand, resting hers on top of it. “You’re doing a really good job.”

Hopper chuckles. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

There’s a moment of silence before Joyce retracts her hand and asks, “What was your best Christmas?”

Hopper smiles gently, takes a drag, and flicks the ash. “This one.” His eyes wander over the El, curled up on his chair, the boys sleeping on the couch. “It’s nice… being around people again. I guess….” He looks at his hands. “I guess I missed it.”

Joyce bites her lip. “It’s my best Christmas, too.”

Hopper looks up, brows furrowed. “Really?”

“Really,” she whispers. “Because I have Will, and he’s safe. And Jonathan’s safe. And El is safe and happy.”

“Yeah.” Hopper takes a slow drag. “You know why else it’s my favorite Christmas?”

“Why?”

He pauses. “Because I could spend time with you.”

He thinks he’s imagining Joyce’s blush, but she moves a hand up to her face to hide it, confirming its existence. “It’s been a long time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s nice to….” He swallows. “To have you back.”

Joyce looks like she’s holding back, but she finally whispers, “It’s nice to have you back, too.”

And Hopper doesn’t know how, but there’s suddenly mistletoe hanging above them. He swears it wasn’t there before, that it just appeared in his line of vision. Joyce also seems shocked. “Wh - I don’t remember hanging that up.”

“Me neither.” Hopper puts his cigarette out and stands at the same time Joyce does to examine it.

“It looks like something from my house,” Joyce says, brows furrowed. “How - How’d it get - here?”

“What the hell is it hanging off of?” Hopper mutters, and then he realizes it’s floating - El.

His head snaps to the chair. El’s still curled up with her eyes closed, but she’s smiling slightly. Hopper smiles too, then looks back at Joyce, who’s still eyeing the mistletoe.

“How did it -?”

“Joyce.”

“Maybe one of the kids brought it -”

“Joyce.”

“What the heck is it hanging on?”

“Joyce!”

She finally looks at him. “What?”

Hopper was expecting her to get the hint. “Uh. Do you know what mistletoe is for?”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles timidly. “Eh - uh, Joyce.”

She shakes her head, lifts her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

He leans forward and kisses her, fast, so fast that she hardly even registers it. She looks shocked when he pulls back, and his cheeks flush. Joyce stares at him with wide eyes still, trying to process it.

“I’m so- shit, I’m sorry,” he says, but Joyce leans forward and kisses him, quick, before pulling back.

They both stare at each other, and then the mistletoe falls, shocking them both out of it. Will and Jonathan wake up at the sound, and El wipes her nose as she sits up and stretches. Hopper grabs the mistletoe and holds it while Joyce runs a hand through her hair, biting her lip to stop the smile. “Boys, we sh… we should probably go. It’s late.”

Hopper smiles as he watches them pack up, Joyce tripping over herself.

“Are you okay, mom?” Jonathan asks, holding onto her arm.

“Fine,” she says, waving him off, pointedly avoiding Hopper’s gaze. “Must - must’ve drank too much.”

“I’ll drive, don’t worry about it,” Jonathan says, helping her into her coat.

“You guys drive safe, okay?” Hopper says, an amused smile on his face, and Joyce’s cheeks flush.

“We will. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Everyone says their goodbyes - Joyce and Hop’s gaze lingering a little too long - and when the door shuts, Hopper turns on his heels, looking right at El. He smiles wide. “Didn’t know you were a little trickster.”

She beams and shrugs. “Merry Christmas.”

Hopper steps forward and hugs her, pulling her in close. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

===

tags: @pterawaters @mpmarypoppins @kurtsbuckethat

#jopper #joyce byers #jim hopper #jopper fic #stranger things fic #my fics

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

Note

Oh boy!!! Polynya I have a sudden ferocious hankering for Byakuya and Aizen being viciously passive aggressive to each other. Most of the time you write B he is in the company of his family or his loved ones. So clearly the ultimate way to bring out the knives is an AU in which all the captains are in the same Homeowner's Association. I have no preference for ships; I crave only drama, the pettier the better.

Alopex. Alopex. Why. Why u do this 2 me. You’re my favorite, tho, I cannot refuse you. I hope this is petty enough. I almost made this whole thing an epistolary fanfic that took place over NextDoor, the worst “social media”, but I think it worked better with everyone in person.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🏠 🏠 🏠

“Gosh darnit, the only K-cups left are apple cider and pumpkin spice!”

“Oh, that can’t be right, I know I filled up the carousel just before the meeting! Retsu! Retsu, honey, we’re out of K-cups, and I bought a whole carton at Costco and I just don’t understand--”

Kuchiki Byakuya glanced up from the presentation materials he was reviewing for the six hundredth time. For starters, Byakuya wasn’t really sure anyone should be letting Hitsugaya Toushirou have coffee in the first place. It was 8p.m., and the child couldn’t be more than twelve. Byakuya had never been very clear on a) why the Seireitei Estates Homeowners’ Association let the child attend the meetings in lieu of his father (or possibly step-father?), a doctor who worked late hours, and b) why a young child would want to attend a Homeowners’ Association meeting anyway, but he had more sense than most of the other board members, so Byakuya didn’t ask questions.

Byakuya also wasn’t sure why they had to have “refreshment breaks.” Breaks were for quitters, in Byakuya’s opinion. Granted, the meeting was being held at Unohana’s house this month, which meant that the baked goods were impeccable, but Unohana’s high-strung wife tended to radiate so much nervous energy that Byakuya worried the woman was going to spontaneously combust.

“Oh, sunflower, I’m sure they just got pushed behind the croquembouche,” Unohana purred reassuringly. “I’ll help you look-- oh, excuse me, Mr. Ichimaru.”

As Unohana pushed past that weaselly shyster Ichimaru Gin, she swung her hips, knocking into him. Approximately thirty K-cups tumbled out of the pockets of Gin’s couture tracksuit.

“Oh, there they are!” Unohana sang innocently.

“How did those get in there?” Gin gasped, as though he were genuinely puzzled.

Byakuya shuddered. Ichimaru worked for the second biggest law firm in town, after, of course, Kuchiki and Sons. Byakuya dreaded the day he might find himself across a negotiation table from the man. Not that harbored any doubts about annihilating that idiot in a contest of the law, he just didn’t like being in the same room with him.

“Here you go, dear,” Unohana said, popping a K-cup into the machine and patting little Toushirou on the head. Toushirou was too busy glaring at Gin to notice.

“That looks like some presentation you’re givin' after the break, eh, Kuchiki?” Ichimaru drawled, selecting a bearclaw from the pastry tray. “Or didja bring home the paperwork from the Tsunayashiro merger?”

Byakuya sniffed and shuffled his papers back into their portfolio. “I approach all areas of my life with the same diligence as I do my professional work.”

“What a coinky-dink! I do, too-- I don’t work hard at anything.”

Byakuya had no interest in frittering away his preparation time to small talk with a moron. “I am going to set up,” he said coolly.

“Good luck!” Ichimaru trilled, giving a saucy little finger wave.

Byakuya returned to Unohana’s sitting room, where he had left his easel and poster board near the hideous faux fireplace with its tacky LED candles.

Aizen was sitting at the cardtable he’d set up at the front of the room, fiddling with his chintzy little gavel. “You look very prepared,” he said, in a tone of voice that was almost as insipid as the oatmeal-marl turtleneck sweater he wore. “Do try not to run too long, though. I’m only the substitute president, you know! I want to run a tight ship, ha ha!”

Byakuya narrowed his eyes. He was still slightly salty that President Yamamoto had felt the need to take a last minute trip on a “Single Seniors Cruise.” Something something about a flash sale and when you’re old you have to take advantage of the time you have left, etcetera, etcetera, but if there were anyone that Byakuya could count on take his side in the matter, it was that antediluvian rule-enforcer. For that matter, Byakuya wasn’t actually sure whether Yamamoto even cared about clipped hedges and shoveled sidewalks or if he just liked yelling at people and slapping them with fines.

Aizen was also a bit of a stickler for the finer points of home maintenance, but the man had no substance to him, with his floppy hair and his chunky knitwear and his horn-rimmed glasses.

“All right, everyone!” Aizen called in his stupid simpering voice. Byakuya had no idea what the man actually did, but Byakuya figured he was a preschool teacher or an art therapist or something equally touchy-feely. “Please take your seats! The next item on our agenda is a presentation on, uh, ‘A Secret But Important Topic, from our neighbor over at number six, let’s give a big hand for...Byakuya!”

“Hold the applause,” Byakuya said sternly, holding up a hand. “I come to you today to call for-- nay, demand the expulsion of one Zaraki Kenpachi from the Board of this Homeowners Association, and possibly also the entire neighborhood, if that’s possible.”

“We can’t kick people out of the neighborhood,” Aizen stage-whispered to him.

“Is he actually a member of the HOA Board?” Kyouraku asked, scratching his shaggy mane. “I’ve never seen him at one of these meetings.”

Byakuya turned to Tousen, the Board treasurer, who had taken his seat at the front table with Aizen and Ichimaru. “Mr. Tousen, did you happen to look into the dues records, as I requested?”

“I did, yes,” Tousen replied. “It turns out that Mr. Zaraki is excused from paying dues. There was a post-it note in President Yamamoto’s handwriting that said,” Tousen made finger quotes, “‘Zaraki fixed my car, excused from dues.’”

Byakuya scowled. “That doesn’t seem… sufficient… it is of no matter.” He grabbed the bed sheet covering his posterboard, and dramatically swept it away. It would have been more dramatic if the bedsheet weren’t covered in Chappy rabbits, but there was no way he was bringing one of his own 800-thread counts into a house that contained cats.

“I have been closely watching Mr. Zaraki’s residence for the last few months, as his rear yard backs to mine, and I believe he may be operating a fight club in his garden on weekends. They do move into the garage if the weather is unpleasant.”

A hush fell over the room, except for Isane and Ukitake Juushirou, who were discussing the merits of blind-baking pie crusts.

“Er, sorry, did I miss something?” Juushirou asked apologetically, after realizing he was the only person talking.

“Kenpachi seems to be running some sort of fight club,” his scruffy husband supplied, looking deeply confused, as usual.

“Goodness!” Juushirou exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

Byakuya cleared his throat. “Allow me to present the evidence I have gathered.” He picked up two large binders, and handed one to Soi Fon in the front row, and the other to Aizen, who immediately passed his, unopened, to Ichimaru. “There are about two dozen disreputable personages who are frequently found loitering about the premises. The first page of the binder indexes each of them by a descriptive nickname, including times I have seen them. Photographic evidence follows.”

“They seem to be washing cars in most of these photos,” Soi Fon pointed out, flipping a page back and forth. Or are they fixing the cars? I can’t tell.”

Komamura craned his head over, curiously. “Wow, is that a ‘73 Stingray? Nice.”

“Yes, they also like to get together to maintain and detail their vehicles,” Byakuya snapped. “Usually at ungodly hours of the morning. I am almost positive that many of those cars do not employ catalytic converters. In any case, it is easier to take pictures of them during the day.”

“Looks like they like to spray each other with hoses, too,” Gin noted, waggling his eyebrows. “Why are there so many pictures of this one guy with the red hair and tattoos? He sure doesn’t like to wear a shirt, does he?” Aizen appeared to be leaning to the side, trying to look at the book out of the corner of his eye.

“My dutiful sister did the photographic surveillance! She is very thorough, and I appreciated the help!” All these questions were knocking Byakuya off his game. He smacked his pointer against the poster. “May I direct your attention to Figure A, a bar chart of traffic on his street vs. hours of the day.”

“Tell us more about the fight club,” Soi Fon interrupted, shoving her binder over to Komamura. “Are there weapons involved, blunted or otherwise? How many people usually show up? Is it held regularly, or do you suspect there’s, say, an email list or something?”

“I think it’s some sort of mixed martial arts,” Byakuya said, rubbing his forehead. “There are often up to a dozen of them, but sometimes it’s as few as three or four.”

“You know, I’m looking through the bylaws,” Aizen said, turning pages in the bylaw binder without actually looking at them, “and I’m not exactly clear on whether fight clubs are actually… you know, forbidden.”

“They’re illegal,” Byakuya bit off.

“Per-haaaps,” Aizen drew out. “But what really constitutes… a ‘fight club,’ am I right? I mean, Dr. Unohana teaches kickboxing classes in her basement studio, is that a fight club?”

“No,” Byakuya replied.

“Exactly, and we wouldn’t want her to be painted with the same brush for just trying to teach other women the arts of self-defense, now would we?”

“It’s not for self-defense,” Unohana clarified.

“Or what about having a bunch of friends over and hitting each other with foam swords while you pretend to be werewolves?” Ichimaru broke in cheerfully. “That’s just our rights as citizens, to pretend to be werewolves in our basements with our friends.”

“It’s a tabletop RPG,” Komamura growled. “I am not a LARPer. There are no weapons. Also, you really do not need to bring it up every single board meeting. It is a perfectly normal adult hobby that I do to spend quality time with my friends.”

“Speaking of which,” Gin turned his binder of pictures around, “isn’t this guy in your group? With the sunglasses?”

“Hmm?” Komamura flipped a few pages. “Oh, huh, yeah, that’s Iba.”

“Surely a good friend of yours wouldn’t have anything to do with an illegal fight club, eh, Mr. Komamura?” Aizen suggested.

Komamura made a non-commital grumble. “I mean, I could ask him if it’s a fight club, if you want me to.”

“I have yet to hear any evidence that supports the existence of this so-called ‘fight club,” Tousen broke in.

“That’s because I keep getting interrupted, I have an audio recording and also some several emergency room admission records--”

“Mr. Zaraki is an upstanding citizen of our town and a devoted father,” Tousen continued. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Zaraki is not a responsible parent?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Byakuya mused.

“Juushirou, you and Shunsui babysit for little Yachiru all the time, don’t you?” Aizen asked sweetly. “Have you ever seen any evidence that she isn’t the sweetest little girl in the entire world?”

Toushirou raised his hand. “Excuse me? She is a menace, actually?”

“Oh, no, Yachiru is always a ray of sunshine!” Juushirou beamed. “Very active child.”

“Eats a lot,” Kyouraku added.

The edges of Byakuya’s vision were beginning to bleed into red. “We are not talking about the Zaraki child--who, by the way, buried an entire ham in my prize tulip bed--”

“It sounds like you have a grudge against the entire family, Kuchiki,” Aizen replied mildly. “These board meetings are not a venue for airing your petty grievances.”

“You are not even listening! If you would just turn to page--”

“I think you’ve wasted enough of everyone’s time.” Aizen turned his doe eyes to the audience. “Is there anyone here who wants to invest any more energy listening to Byakuya’s vitriol?”

Byakuya looked out over his audience, looking for an ally. Komamura shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The Kyouraku-Ukitakes refused to make eye contact. Unohana was reading a magazine about decorative wreaths. Toushirou raised his hand again with a helpful smile, but no one actually ever cared what he thought.

“Soi Fon, you’re an actual police officer!” he begged.

“It’s just a fight club,” Soi Fon shrugged.

Byakuya was desperate. “Dr. Kurotsuchi?”

Kurotsuchi looked up from his phone. “Eh?”

“Have you been paying attention to any of this?”

“Of course not, I only come for the snacks.”

Byakuya gritted his teeth. “Zaraki is running a fight club and these fools wish us to turn our heads and look the other way.”

“Well, it’s not a very good fight club,” Kurotsuchi agreed. “I’ve been. They don’t allow poisoned weapons and the beverage selection is quotidian at best.”

“You see! You see, right there, Kurotsuchi has even attended! That’s proof that a) it exists and b) it defames the character of the neighborhood!”

“I’m declaring this issue closed,” Aizen replied breezily. “And Kuchiki, I really think you should try to get along better with Kenpachi. You are neighbors, after all.” He brightened. “Oh, I know! We’ve got the community yard sale coming up in June. Why don’t you go ask him if he wants to join the planning committee?”

“Byakuya… will...ask....Zaraki...to chair…the yard sale planning committee,” Gin read aloud as he wrote it into the minutes.

“I agreed to no such thing!” Byakuya howled.

“Onto the next topic!” Aizen chirped. “Trash pickup happens every Friday at 7am and a few of our neighbors have been leaving their bins out as late as noon.”

Later, after the meeting, as Byakuya was packing up his binders and his posterboard, Aizen walked up to him, munching on a rhubarb scone. “Really nice presentation, Byakuya. Good fonts, well cited, you obviously put a ton of work into it. Also, that Zaraki is a blight on the neighborhood. Ideally, he would be thrown in prison.”

Byakuya stared at Vice-Presiden Aizen, mouth agape. “Then why did you and your cronies ruin my presentation and shut me down at every turn?”

Aizen’s eyes narrowed. His mouth curved into a cold smile. Light glinted off his glasses. “You dared to usurp my rightful place as the winner of the Spring Spirit Most Beautiful Yard competition.”

Byakuya blinked at him blankly. “You cared about that? A man’s lawn is his pride. I keep my yard beautiful as a matter of principle, not for some silly competition.”

“You pay for a lawn service. You shouldn’t have even been eligible.”

Byakuya didn’t even recall entering, he’d just received a letter that he’d won, and a festive yard sign appeared next to his front walk, which he had immediately removed and thrown in the garbage. “The prize was a gift certificate to a miserable chain restaurant. I would give it to you, except that I already gave it to my sister to go out with her hooligan friends. They are perpetually short on funds. I could get you another one, I suppose. The amount was paltry enough, although I was given to understand that the place offers ‘unlimited breadsticks’.”

“It’s too late for that,” Aizen declared. “You have made a powerful enemy. You will feel my revenge in a thousand cuts.”

Byakuya wondered how much of a hassle it would be to just move. He’d heard there were some nice houses over in Karakura Acres.

~end

Shinigami’s Cup: GOLDEN!

“Do you think it would help if I infiltrated the fight club?”

“I appreciate your zeal, Sister, but, no, I do not think it would help.”

“Because I think I might have an in. I feel like I would be really good at going undercover. I could wear a body mic.”

“Rukia, you know I have the utmost faith in you, but are not even five feet tall. I do not, in any way, see how you could realistically ingratiate yourself to an organization populated by large, lumpy men whose raison d’etre is to clobber each other in the face.”

“I have cat-like reflexes! I am really good at dodging and weaving!”

“Rukia.”

“And I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube videos about muscle cars. Go on, ask me something about Dodge Chargers!”

“Rukia.”

“I even ripped the sleeves of an old t-shirt, I look super tough in it. Please, Byakuya, please can I?”

“All right, fine. But do not drink any alcoholic beverages that have ‘light’ or ‘ice’ in the title. It is against our pride as Kuchiki.”

“Thank you Brother, you’re the best!!”

#my writing #wacky au requests #is this...the first time i have written aizen?#wait i wrote some aizen in a flashback scene of a little in love #i do not write very much aizen #it was...kinda fun #the man is petty as hell and i am here for it

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annzybwrites · 4 years

Text

Rainy Days

Anonymous: u asked for fluffy snufmin prompts and I’m here to deliver!:) it’s cold and rainy and gross out so moomin convinces snufkin to stay in at moominhouse. snufkin tries to teach moomin how to play an instrument and moomin tries to teach him how to bake smth. they’re both bad at the thing which the other finds adorable <3

Annzy: I am so sorry this took so long, but I hope there’s enough fluff <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Snufkin, can you put aside your pride for one second?” Moomin wasn’t sure if he was scolding or pleading with his boyfriend at this point. All he knew was that it had been raining for the past two days, and Snufkin had to keep moving his tent to higher and higher ground to avoid the mud, and really things would be so much simpler if he would just come stay in Moominhouse until the rain cleared up.

“This is the last rainy day,” Snufkin argued, rolling up his tent while Moomin held an umbrella over them. “I can feel it.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Just come inside!” Moomin pulled at the skin underneath one of his eyes. “If today really is the last rainy day, then staying in a nice, warm, dry house until it clears up would be best. And then we can go worm hunting as soon as the rain stops!”

Snufkin hummed, fixing his tent to the top of his pack before looking at Moomin with a small smile on his lips. “Trying to butter me up?”

“More like trying to resist throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you to Moominhouse.”

Snufkin laughed at that, swinging his backpack on with a small sigh. “All right, you’ve won me over.”

“Finally!” Moomin groaned, snatching Snufkin’s hand and starting to lead him off before he could change his mind.

~~~

Moominmamma wasn’t usually too strict when it came to messes and dirt. But at the sight of Snufkin with dried mud in his hair, on his legs, and stuck on the ends of his tunic, she insisted he take a warm bath while she washed out his clothes for him. Thankfully they had a worn-in outfit that Snufkin considered acceptable to wear for brief periods; a plain, mustard yellow, cotton frock.

“It’s so weird to see you in anything other than green,” Moomin commented when Snufkin entered his room. He’d spent the time idly doodling some flowers, but he was happy to put it away for awhile.

“Is it?” Snufkin brushed out the fabric, chuckling a little. “How would I look in red?”

“I can’t even imagine,” Moomin shook his head, happily padding over with a smile. “Well, what should we do for our rainy day adventure? Play a board game? Act out scenes from a book? Oh! Let’s bake something!”

“Bake?” Snufkin was already looking forward to whatever sweets Moomin was in the mood for. He’d become quite a fantastic baker over the years.

“Yes!” Moomin was already walking out of his room and down the stairs. “I can show you how to make a rhubarb pie!”

“Oh…” Snufkin hesitantly followed him down the stairs. “Aren’t pies rather hard to make?”

“Maybe at first,” Moomin admitted. “But I’d say they just take more time. Especially if you want the lattice covering on top, but it just looks cuter, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.” Snufkin tried not to feel too nervous. If it was a rhubarb pie, he could just help prepare the filling and let Moomin worry about the rest. He absolutely hated working with pastry dough; it always turned out lumpy and stuck to his hands or his utensils whenever he tried.

At first his plan worked out well; Snufkin washed and cut the rhubarb while Moomin started mixing the flour, sugar, and butter together into a nice, large ball of dough. But once Snufkin was done preparing the rhubarb, Moomin called him over to the table, insisting, “Rolling out the dough into a big circle is the best part.”

“Oh, is it?” Snufkin kept a smile on his face despite his heart leaping into his throat.

“Oh yes!” Moomin separated the ball into two, smaller spheres, handing one to Snufkin. “I’ll let you use the rolling pin; a little easier than using your hands.”

“I’m sure.” Snufkin nodded, acting like he knew what he was doing as Moomin handed him the rolling pin. He stared down at his ball of dough, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Moomin was already making good progress with flattening out his own ball with his hands. With a deep breath, he pressed the pin into the center and started rolling, hoping it would work out and that he wouldn’t look like a goon.

He should have known that was too much to hope for.

With each new roll, more and more of the dough started sticking to the pin, and Snufkin was quickly becoming frustrated with just how often he had to peel it off and lay it back down on the table. “A little easier than using your hands” indeed. He was so absorbed with his struggle that he didn’t realize Moomin had already finished flattening and rounding his ball of dough.

“Snufkin.” Moomin was clearly amused, and when Snufkin turned to look he saw a playful gleam in those baby blue eyes. “Need some help?”

“Oh, no.” Snufkin shook his head, trying to roll out the dough fast, hoping it wouldn’t stick. No such luck; if anything that made it worse. “I have it all under control, thank you.”

“Ah, I see.” Moomin nodded, obviously stifling a large grin. “Then I’ll start mixing the filling together while you finish… that.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate it.”

Moomin nodded, chuckling a little as he began gathering spices from the cabinets. Snufkin watched him for a moment to make sure he wasn’t looking before returning to the menacing pastry. The dough looked more like a lumpy, cracked plate rather than a nice circle, so he began rolling it into a ball again before starting over. He put the rolling pin aside before digging in with his hands, since that had seemed to work for Moomintroll just fine. Except, just like before, all that ended up happening was the dough sticking to his hands rather than the rolling pin.

“How’s it going?”

Snufkin felt the fur on his back stand on end as he turned to look at his grinning boyfriend. “It’s going.”

Moomin chuckled, tactfully sliding the flour to him. “A little of this should take care of that stickiness you’re struggling with.”

“Right, of course.” Snufkin tried to smile nonchalantly, hoping his cheeks weren’t red as he reached for the flour. A little sprinkle later, and the dough was finally behaving properly. Now all he had to deal with was the fact that he was apparently incapable of flattening it evenly; some parts were thin as paper while others were little, thick pockets.

Snufkin bristled when he heard Moomin start to laugh, and he quickly turned to glare softly. “You’re enjoying my suffering?”

“Sorry!” Moomin covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with his laughter. “It’s just such a rare sight to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Moomin paused, trying to think of the best way to word this. “Like someone who doesn’t know everything?”

“I never claimed to know everything��”

“But you do act like it sometimes,” Moomin pointed out, grinning wider. “With all your grand stories and wise words. I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you failing at something.”

Snufkin pouted at him, certain his cheeks were at least pink as Moomin continued laughing at him. “What use is dough-making for a tramp?”

Moomin shrugged, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Snufkin’s cheek as he pushed his hands away from the dough. “Just let me take care of this, all right? You can be adorable somewhere else.”

Snufkin tensed up from the casual way Moomin said that, a warm shiver running down his spine. “What, you—my struggling is adorable?”

“Very much so, actually.” Moomin was thoroughly enjoying himself as he rounded the dough for the third time that afternoon, picking up the rolling pin and humming away as he easily levelled it into a perfect, little circle. “And there we go.” Moomin grinned at him again, pointing towards the counter. “Can you get me a knife so I can cut out the lattice?”

Snufkin huffed quietly, stepping over to fetch him his knife while embarrassment sat heavy in his stomach. He really didn’t like looking like a fool, but at least it was only Moomintroll who saw. And to be called adorable on top of it all! How completely undignified.

“Thank you, Snufkin.” Moomin beamed as he took the knife from him. “And just so you know, you look even more adorable with that pout on your lips.”

Snufkin was sure his entire face was red as he covered his mouth with his hand. “I am not pouting.”

“Oh, you’re not?”

“Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in the living room.” Mamma could use some company as she knitted, anyway.

~~~

The pie turned out beautifully, and the whole family came to the kitchen to enjoy it. Pappa complimented them on their perfect, flaky crust, and Moomin couldn’t help but laugh a little until Snufkin gave him a look. He didn’t say anything, of course; he didn’t want to embarrass Snufkin. No, he’d rather keep the image of Snufkin glaring down at the dough with flushed cheeks and a frustrated pout all to himself. Maybe he’d try and sketch it out later in his journal, just for posterity’s sake.

It was still raining after they finished their rhubarb snack, so Moomin and Snufkin went up to his room to stare out across the cloudy skies and damp valley.

“What should we do now?” Moomin asked.

“Hm.” Snufkin tapped his fingers twice against the windowsill before pushing himself towards his pack. “Let’s make some music. Rainy weather is perfect to compose to.”

Moomin brightened, happily going to sit on his bed. “I do love your songs.” And it would be so exciting to hear him compose something in real time!

“I’m glad.” Snufkin pulled out his trusty harmonica before going to sit next to him on the bed. He blew through it once, as if to check to make sure it still worked, and then he began to play. Short, brisk notes, as if to imitate the pitter-patter of the rain, but sudden and loud enough to make Moomin’s ears twitch occasionally. He stopped after a few moments, turning to Moomintroll with a small grin of his own. “Actually, would you like to learn how to play?”

“Me?” Moomin’s eyes widened as he pointed to himself. “Oh, I don’t know how good I’d be.”

“Give it a try.” Snufkin handed the instrument over. “Can’t be any worse than me with pie dough.”

Moomin couldn’t help but laugh at that, covering his mouth again as he did. He was glad that Snufkin wasn’t too sore about earlier; he’d wondered if he’d gone a bit far with his teasing. “You have a point.” He took the harmonica, simply staring at it for a few moments before blowing into it experimentally. It was surprising how loud it was, but he supposed it was bound to sound louder to the one playing it.

Snufkin began trying to explain two different ways to isolate one note on the harmonica. One involved puckering your lips into a small oval shape, while the other involved using your tongue to block some of the other holes.

“You put your tongue on this thing?” Moomin interrupted.

“Sometimes.” Snufkin shrugged. “To get a certain sound. It makes it easier to add in or take away chords, too.”

“And you’re sure you want me to play this?”

“You’re clean enough, aren’t you?”

“That’s not really the point.”

“I don’t mind, Moomintroll.” Snufkin shook his head, a fond smile on his face. “Go on, try and play something. Just search until you find the note you want.”

“All right.” Moomin swallowed nervously, staring into the daunting holes of the harmonica before holding it up to his puckered lips and giving a cautious blow. It did take a bit of practice to play just one note, and whenever he tried to find a new one he found all sorts of unpleasant sounds coming out of the instrument before he got to where he wanted. After only a few minutes, his mouth was already starting to hurt and he stopped to rub at his lips.

“How do you play this for hours?”

Snufkin laughed, taking the harmonica back as he explained, “Well, for one thing, you were moving your mouth too much. You should move the instrument with your hands, not your lips.”

“Oooh.” Moomin groaned. “That makes sense.”

Snufkin chuckled for a bit longer, wiping the instrument down once with his sleeve. “I know what you meant earlier now,” he spoke up, eyes twinkling with mischief as he teased, “You also look adorable when you’re struggling.”

Moomin felt his fur stand on end as heat travelled down his body. “Oh, hush.” Moomin gently pushed at his shoulder, smiling a little at the joyful laugh that came out of Snufkin’s mouth. “Let’s just agree that we’re both adorable, all right?”

Snufkin paused for a moment, thinking that over. “Only if you agree that you’re the most adorable, being so large and fluffy.”

Moomin snorted, leaning in to nuzzle Snufkin’s forehead. “Deal.”

#springdove #snufmin #snufkin #moomin #moominvalley #sorry there's more emphasis on Snufkin being bad at the thing #but Moomin is always struggling with new things so it seemed only fair #also I had to look up how a person actually plays the harmonica for this XD #annzy writes

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 4 years

Text

Whiskey and Roses

Pairings: Arthur Shelby x Reader

Request: “ Whiskey Pecan Pie was so sweet!! Could you make a second part where they go on a date and confess?:)” - Anon

Warnings: Brief mention of drug use

Word Count: 2154

__________________________

The business Tommy had called a meeting for hadn’t been nearly as important as the way Finn had made it seem. Damn him, pulling Arthur away from you, his only refuge from the darkness that seemed to consume his life. But whatever, he’d be going back to see you tomorrow anyways.

Everyone had been mulling around the Shelby Company Ltd. after the meeting, Tommy not having given directions for anything but rather just filled everyone in on his newest diabolical plan. Arthur retired back to his office, away from the average blokes who filled the room, wasting their money on rigged races in the main room.

He set the tart that had remained untouched so far on the wood of his desk and looked down at it, the warm feeling that his younger brother had stolen from him slowly returning at the thought of you.

“You like her don’t you?” Finn’s voice asked from the doorway, a boyish knowing smile on his face while he leaned against the frame of the door.

Arthur looked up from his pie and straightened his jacket out, trying to bluff his feelings away, “I don’t know what you mean. Like who?”

Finn pushed himself off the wooden frame and walked into the room, “The girl from the bakery. The one who made you that.” He pointed to the tart, “What even is it?”

Arthur sighed, knowing that he’d been caught. Around Tommy or John, perhaps he would have tried to conceal his feelings but Finn had this innocence and desire to be trusted by his older brothers that made him a perfect confidant for little schoolyard things like crushes. “I think she said it was a whiskey pecan pie? Or tart? I don’t fucking know.”

“Well, is it any good?” Finn was doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that he wanted to try it as well because it did look undeniably delicious.

Arthur shrugged, “Haven’t tried it yet.” He picked it up and broke a piece off the end before handing the plate over to his youngest brother for him to try. Neither of them needed to comment on the taste. It was amazing. It was salty but sweet and there was just the right amount of whiskey. The crust was buttery and flaky. It was one of the best desserts either Shelby boy had ever had.

“Wow-” Finn said eventually, “You should marry this girl.” He added with a laugh.

The thought of marrying you made his heart warm, “Yeah, maybe I should.”

“Who are we marrying now?” Tommy asked, walking into Arthur’s office like he owned the place. Well… he kinda did.

“The girl who works at the bakery that Arthur’s in love with.” Finn ratted him out and Arthur sent him a look of annoyance.

Tommy stopped and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, gesturing to Arthur with them, “You fuck her yet?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “That’s not all all girls are good for, Tommy.”

The other two Shelbys looked at Arthur in surprise. That wasn’t a phrase they ever expected to hear from… well, any of them except for maybe Finn. “Is she a nice girl?” Tommy questioned.

Arthur nodded, lovestruck “Pro’lly the nicest one I ever met.”

“Then don’t marry her.”

Finn’s face scrunched up, “What? Why?”

“You know how we live, what our lives are like. It’s no place for a nice girl.” Almost seamlessly, Tommy threw down a file onto Arthur’s desk, “These are some of our records from the books. I need you to sign them and make sure they’re all in order before I have Lizzy file them.” Without another word, Tommy left the room, leaving Arthur and Finn in there.

There was a heavy silence as the weight of what Tommy said hung over the room, “Maybe he’s right. I shouldn’t bring her into all this.” Arthur allowed his emotions to be silenced by his younger brother’s interjections once again.

Finn shook his head, “No, Arthur. Tommy always gets what he wants, whether it’s a lay or a wife. Why shouldn’t you get to be happy too?”

Arthur had never figured himself to be one for picking favorite siblings but he was pretty sure that if he did, Finn would be pretty high up on the list right now. “You’re right. I’m gonna ask her out on a date tonight.”

Later that evening, Arthur stood just around the corner from the bakery, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He felt ridiculous. His hair was actually slicked back for once, something he never really put too much thought into since it almost always got messed up in fights anyways. Two pink roses tied together with twine were twirling in his hands, flowers that he actually paid for instead of demanding them or picking them from someone’s garden without asking.

“You can do this.” He muttered to himself under his breath, finally working up the courage to take the next step or two towards the door before stopping himself. No, you can’t! You probably look like a fucking idiot! The self-depricating part of his mind screamed at him and he backstepped. “Dammit!” He groaned as he warred with himself. This shouldn’t be this hard.

Little did he know, you were just leaving the bakery to head home for the evening. You walked out the front door, locking it behind you and sliding the key into your coat pocket before turning down the street to walk home. Arthur stood there - was he talking to himself? “Arthur Shelby, is that you?” You asked, surprised to see him over here this late.

Arthur looked up at you like a deer in headlights. Shit, you probably saw him talking to himself. “Oh, erm, hello there Y/N.” He greeted awkwardly, trying to pretend like he totally wasn’t arguing with himself a moment ago.

You walked up to him, the faint click of your heels carrying you to stand before him, “What’re you doing over here?” You asked curiously.

Arthur ripped his hat from his head as quickly as he could without slicing his hands and rang the material with his fingers, “Um, well, I- um, I actually came over here to see you and tell you that I think you’re really kind and beautiful and wanted to see if you maybe wanted to grab a drink with me tonight?” How did you possess the power to turn this commanding man into a babbling mess of word soup?!

Your face turned red and your eyes widened in surprise at the proposition, “Oh-”

“Oh! And these are for you!” Arthur suddenly remembered, holding out the two little pale pink roses to you.

You carefully took the roses from him, noticing that he actually took the time to pick off all the thorns so you wouldn’t prick yourself on them. Nobody had ever made a gesture like this for you. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. And I’d love to get drinks with you tonight. Can I just run home and change? I probably look and smell like a mess.” You chuckled, suddenly self-conscious about the flour that had managed to stick to your shirt despite the apron’s best effort to protect your clothes.

“I think you look great.” Arthur looked at you as if you held all the stars in your eyes. Sure, a few little tendrils of hair had fallen from your updo from the day’s work and there were a few faint little streaks of white flour on your blue blouse but you smelled of sugar and fruit after the long hours of work. He didn’t mind the tiny imperfections one bit. If anything, he thought they only made you look more perfect. They were a reminder that you weren’t some celestial hallucination from doing too much cocaine or alcohol but that you were real and tangible and beautiful.

“So where are we going off to drink then?” You initiated, taking a few steps forward until Arthur fell into stride beside you.

“I was thinking the Garrison, if that’s alright with you.” He scolded himself right when the words left his lips. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that a nice lady, as Tommy put it, probably wouldn’t want to be somewhere like the Garrison. It wasn’t exactly known as a high class establishment… or an establishment where anyone of any sort of class went. Fights amongst drunkards weren’t uncommon there and that was when-

“Sounds good to me.” You chirped next to him. Arthur looked down to see you smiling shyly, not a hint of apprehension about the location he’d picked on your face.

Arthur stammered, “You know the Garrison?” Did you even know what you were agreeing to?

You nodded, “Yeah, I mean, I’ve never been in but I walk past it on my way to and from the bakery every day.”

“Oh- oh, okay, then.”

How the hell had he managed to do nothing but screw up so far and still have you smiling by his side? Were you just being kind or were you blissfully unaware?

The walk was short and filled with small talk that had flowed surprisingly well, just as all your conversations had since you met. When the pair of you walked through the doors of the pub, a lot of people chose not to regard Arthur’s presence until they saw the fact that he actually looked like he did his hair and bothered to take off his hat and hold the door open for you. And did he brush his mustache?! One sharp look from the eldest Shelby, though, sent all the curious, snickering eyes away.

“What would you like?” He asked when you walked past the bar, his gruff voice sweet and soft.

You thought for a moment, “Can I have a pint please?”

“‘Nd I’ll have the usual.” Arthur told the bartender before leading you to a small booth in the back of the house, far enough away where the scent of whiskey and piss wasn’t reeking off the drunks.

“I must say, I had you pegged for more of a gin drinker.” Arthur commented and you shrugged.

“It’s nice sometimes but I guess I felt more like a beer right now. And what about you? ‘The usual?’” You echoed, “Come here often?” You already knew the answer. Like you said, you came past here every night. You were more than aware of the fact that the Shelbys owned it.

Arthur froze up, “Oh, well, um- we…”

“I’m only teasing, Arthur. I know you guys practically run this place.” You slid into the booth against the wall and Arthur took the seat across the table.

“You do?” This was it. The moment the entire illusion he’d tried to create about him being a good man was about to come crashing around him. You’d call him a liar and a no good dirty scoundrel or so much worse.

But none of that happened. Instead, you only nodded, “Mhm.” The bartender dropped your drinks off and you sipped the beer, noticing from over the brim of the glass the panic in Arthur’s eyes, “I do live here in Small Heath, Arthur. I know who you are. I know what you guys do.” Your voice wasn’t judgemental though, more matter-of-fact. Like you couldn’t believe he actually thought you were oblivious to the fact that he was one of the leaders of the Peaky Blinders.

“And-and you still came out with me tonight?” He was in shock, not only that you knew who he was but that he’d been caught in his lie. But he wasn’t really lying about who he was, was he?

“Of course, I did. I’ve known who you are since long before you ever came into the bakery. But you’ve always been so kind to me. And I can’t really deny my feelings for you.” You sipped your beer again before setting it down and leaning on the table.

Arthur was trying to calculate what in the actual fuck was going on. You knew the truth and you didn’t hate him? “Haven’t you heard any stories?”

“I’ve heard some.” You responded matter-of-factly, “But, in all honesty, gossip about a Shelby brother is always hard to come by with people fearing for their wellbeing and all.”

“And you still want to be with me?” Arthur eyed you, unsure if you were crazy or naive.

You leaned forward onto your elbows, hands almost touching his again, “Against all logic telling me that this probably isn’t a good idea, I can’t deny my feelings for you. Maybe it’s dumb, but I trust you. And until you prove to me otherwise, I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I know I’m not a perfect man. Probably far from even a decent one. But you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met and you make me want to be a better man.” Arthur paused, “‘M sorry. I’ve never been good with words.”

You shook your head and grasped his hands gently, “I think you’re already better than you think you are.”

#Arthur Shelby #arthur shelby oneshot #arthur shelby imagine #arthur shelby x reader #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder headcanon

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some-dr-writings · 4 years

Text

Teruteru, Ryoma and Gundham cooking with their S/O

Teruteru Hanamura:

· Ah, Teruteru, without a doubt the most famous chef in Japan, who hadn’t heard of him? His face was practically plastered on the front of every cooking magazine. And his cooking was incomparable, anyone would pay top dollar, hell even sell most of their belonging for even a chance to taste his delectable creations!

· And you, his partner, wanted to cook for him. Sure, he had taught you some things, but oftentimes those lessons would dissolve into Teru pampering you and slipping you into a hot bubble bath while he cooked for you.

· Not this time though! You see, Teru was out working so there was no way for him to take over the cooking! For all the times he had cooked and pampered you, you wanted to return the favor! Just at least once.

· Teru always took such great joy in treating you like royalty, like you were the center of the universe! As nice as it was, a part of you felt some guilt, you wanted to show him just how much you love him too, not just the other way around. So, you were determined to have a nice hot meal ready for Teru when he arrived back home!

· You had thought of this for a long time so, the moment Teru had left for work, you already knew what you would make, a chicken, broccoli and rice casserole!

· Knowing it only took about an hour to make, you simply set up the ingredients so they’d be ready to go when it was closer to the time Teru would return.

· As the time had arrived and you were whisking a handful of cheddar cheese into the simmering sauce, you heard the last thing you wanted too in that crucial moment. “Oh, Honey Dumplin’~ Guess who’s home early today!”

· “Oh? What’s this now?” A sly smile crept on those lips as he mischievously eyed your frozen form surrounded by the ingredients. “Uhhh, this is not what it looks like?” In the moment it was the best excuse your mind could sputter out. “Not what it looks like, now is it?” “Y-yes. I’m… uh… making a witch’s brew! That’ll curse you to become a frog if you dare come into the kitchen, so shoo!” Your mind didn’t even have enough stability in the moment to even comprehend exactly the jumble of words you spit out as you raced to block Teru from the kitchen. “Hmm? A witch’s brew? Well, I must say the ingredients for this ‘witch’s brew’ look almost as ravishing as you, so much so, I don’t know if I can keep myself away!”

· With his smaller stature Teru managed to slip past you and already took a quick taste of the sauce. “Ah~ Absolutely scrumptious!” “Really?” “Of course! I can taste the passion you’ve poured into this!” With a smile you quickly began to explain the techniques you were using.

· Very soon Teru stood beside you acting as your assistant. At times he started to take over, but you suddenly came up with a plan. Taking several hairbands, you cuffed one of your hands to Teru’s making sure he couldn’t wander off and start cooking on his own.

· When the meal was finished, standing side by side, you and Teru ate the casserole on a kitchen counter too excited to try it to bother taking it to the kitchen table. Both of you hummed an awed at every bite.

· “Sweet pie, we should make this a tradition.” “Cooking together?” Teru lightly shook his head, then held up your still clasped hands that held one another. “No, cooking like this.” Suddenly jerking his hand back, you were suddenly pulled closer. “Cooking like this is so enticingly intimate, don’t you think?”

Ryoma Hoshi:

· Cooking had always been your go to thing when you were stressed. Something about the smells, and the delightful crunching sounds when chopping, and in the end having something to share with others had this way of placing your heart at ease like no other… The type of ease you wished you could give Ryoma.

· You and Ryoma had been best friends for years before becoming a couple. Honestly becoming a couple just… sort of happened? It was just so natural over time neither of you noticed ‘till one day you both realized that you had both referred to the other as your partner for years. In that time, you got to learn about each other too the point at times it seemed you knew Ryoma better than he did himself or Ryoma knew you better than you did yourself.

· So when Ryoma was having an especially bad day, the kind of day where everything that could go wrong did go wrong - the kind of day where his past seemed all consuming, clinging to his every thought with a death grip, sinking him deeper and deeper into that bleak madness - he didn’t question you when you asked him to cook with you.

· You wanted to help him, but in your time together you knew that when Ryoma got like this there wasn’t much you could do other than tell him you were there for him. But maybe this time could be different? You cooked for him before, but never with him. Maybe at the very least this could distract him, even just a little.

· “Say, Ryry, want to make… Oh, how about a meat pie! We can use up the left-over meat from the tacos last night!” “… sure.” From that hollow tone alone you could tell he wasn’t with you, he was back in that awful time.

· “Ryry, here. Use this to mash the potatoes, would you?” “Yeah.” You made sure to not have Ryoma do any chopping in his zombie like state, fearing he’d accidently cut himself and not even realize it.

· “Ryry, see the spices I placed on that counter?” “Yeah.” “Would you measure 1/8 teaspoon of each?” “Alright.” As Ryoma was measuring out the spices you found yourself getting lost in the sizzling sound of the ground beef and pork in the saucepan. The crisp pops and the gentle scrape of the spoon against the pan bottom was just so incredibly lovely.

· “S/O?” Yes?” “Where do you want the spice to go?” “Right in this pan here.” “… Just toss it in?” “Just toss it right in!” Each time Ryoma tossed a spice into the pan you noticed how he’d linger longer and longer by your side. “Ryoma?” “… It smells good.” “I know, right!? Oh, hey! Why don’t you mix this with the mash potatoes while I set up the pie crust!” Your heart melted seeing a smile twitch onto his lips as he just looked at you for a moment. “Sounds good to me.”

· It was plain to see the sheer joy radiating from you. You actually got him to engage in this! Even if it wasn’t much, it was SOMETHING! You actually helped him even on one of his worst days!

· When the pie was done you ate, happily humming to yourself. “Hey, S/O.” “Yeah Ryry?” “Thank you… Mind having me as an assistant when you cook next?” “… Ryoma!” You launched at him, tackling the man into a hug almost knocking both of you onto the ground in the process.

· From that day forward you always made sure to cook with Ryoma at least once a week. Quickly Ryoma even tried cooking on his own, and presented each of his dishes to you, asking for critique or advice on techniques. And each time you gave him advice or cooked with him, Ryoma always thanked you, for everything you had done for him.

Gundham Tanaka:

· “My Dark Emperor, I should have expected that one of your mighty caliber had the required unholy abilities to concoct the nourishment the Twelve Zodiac Generals so crave! My Emperor, I must make a humbling request as your soul’s mate, unlock the sleeping spells within myself to achieve such a feat!” A light laughter bubbled up from you seeing how Gundham was so excitedly feeding his generals the treats you had baked for them. This wasn’t the first time you had done a little cooking for Gundham’s beasts let alone for the Dark Devas and their offspring, but you seemed to finally get just the right combination of ingredients the hamsters just couldn’t get enough of.

· Truthful you hadn’t been cooking for too long. You actually took it up because you had a crush on your now boyfriend and wanted to get his attention by making treats for his beloved companions. Eventually you began to cook food for yourself and for him. But now you finally achieved your goal of making something the Zodiac Generals loved! And seeing that sparkle in Gundham’s eye as he asked to cook with you made the moment even sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

· After gathering the ingredients, you and Gundham practically raced to your kitchen. “Okay, first let’s wash our hands, that’s the first step to cooking anything!” As you took your own advice you noticed Gundham kind of just… stayed back? It was then from the corner of your eye, you saw he was unwrapping the bandage around his hand and arm. For a moment you froze. This was the first time you’d see him without it wrapped around his arm and hand. It wasn’t that big of a deal really, but… as odd as it may sound, it was strange realizing it wasn’t just a part of him. It was just always there…

· Then seeing what was underneath. Absolutely riddled with scars new and old, each one seemed to be from a different creature. Except for the hamster bites, those were the only ones that seemed to repeat. “Taken interest in my battle scars I see.” “Oh, I was staring, wasn’t I? Sorry!” “There is no need to apologize, it’s… it’s only natural for one to examine their partner’s past injuries, they tell many a tale only the bearer would know.”

· As you did some set up for the next step you asked Gundham to do some mixing. “Uh, Gundham, you need to fold over, here, just let me show you.” Momentarily taking the bowl and spoon you showed your Dark Lord the proper technique. Then you passed the bowl and spoon back. “… You’re still doing it wrong.” Just as you were reaching your hand out to take his own to help him through the motions you stopped yourself. Even after you had gotten together you only ever held Gundham’s bandaged hand… which was now not bandaged. Maybe an oven mitt would do? “… Perhaps… despite us being trapped within in the confines of these mortal coils, just as I am poisonous to the touch, as my eternal partner you… resist it… even without the protective cloth with it’s magical properties… you won’t get hurt.” Your heart pounded in your chest hearing those words and seeing that florescent blush burst on his cheeks. All you could do was nod. “… Are you sure? I can get a mitt if you’d be more comfortable.” “I’m sure, and should your body have an adverse reaction, the Twelve Zodiac Generals shall counteract the poison long enough for me to prepare a cure.” As gently as you could, you placed your hand atop his, and showed him how to properly fold over the mixture. Though both of you were distracted by the thudding of your own hearts, wondering if with how close you were, if the other could feel that racing beat.

· When you had finally finished the Generals ran up to you and they tried getting to the small bag of treats. It was so fun seeing them race around in excitement and feel them rip the treat from your fingers. As you reached in to get another treat something flinched inside. Gundham had reached in his still unbandaged hand at the same time as you. “My Emperor, I-” “Hey, it’s okay. You took a big step today, and I’m proud of you. We don’t need to push you farther than you are comfortable with.” You then leaned your head onto his shoulder. “… I thank you for always being so understanding.”

· It became a regular thing to bake treats for the Zodiac Generals and the other creatures under Gundham’s care. Once a week Gundham would visit you at your place to make more treats, much to the Devas’ and their children’s protest if it wasn’t for them. And each time, it seemed Gundham would mess up on something and need your hands-on assistance to get it right. And each time without fail you always found your heart racing in time with his.

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