peri ✮

"But I can't dance, don't ask me!" currently in my first semester of college!! i post like once every 3 months

[peridawks]

Peridawks Masterlist ✮

"I've got Kitty Pryde...and Nightcrawler too. Waiting there for me, yeah I do!" ✮

Current Fandoms: Marvel, DC, AHS, TWD

Request-able fandoms: Marvel, DC, AHS, Stranger Things, House M.D., (most) Evan Peters characters, TWD

Will NOT write: any AI bots, heavy kink topics, large age gaps, anything between family members, step-mom/dad/sis/bro stuff. Just nothing gross. Be respectful.

Marvel:

Bob Reynolds:

- Yearning Differently 🩷

John F. Walker:

- Stadium Lights

Peter Maximoff [Fox]:

- Headcanons

- Fawning 🪾

- Affinity Points 🕹️

- The Doghouse 🛋️

- New Kicks? ✮

- Too Late For Love

Pietro Maximoff [MCU]:

- Good Morning, my Love

DC:

Adrian Chase:

- Evergreen State College 🌱

American Horror Story:

Jimmy Darling:

- Headcanons

The Walking Dead:

Carl Grimes:

- Shane's Daughter! Reader, pt. 2

Shane Walsh:

- Reader getting mad over Shane's shaved hair

Blue Lock:

Meguru Bachira:

- Puppies and Bumblebees

Miscellaneous:

Cooper Day:

- Finding You In Your Work

Russell Hayes:

- Boo-Boos

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[peridawks]

A quick pt. 2 to the Shane's Daughter!Reader × Carl Grimes graduation fic!

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Graduation was a scary event. Anything could go wrong, you could mess up on the stage, they could mispronounce your name, Shane could loudly cheer when you received your diploma. Luckily only one of those happened, but that was expected of your father - the man wasn't quiet.

But after the confetti fell and the caps briefly floated in the air, your first target for affection was Carl - who was now, technically, your high school sweetheart.

His feet pushed against the grass, turning to find you in the group of your fellow classmates. He was in the earlier rows, while you were in the last row due to your respective last names. His arms found their natural place around your waist and his nose nuzzled into the side of your neck, breathing a sigh of relief as you squeeze him back.

"You looked so pretty up there." He murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

"Me? How about you?" You tease back, cap sliding off as you nuzzle into his hair in return.

If Carl could stay here forever, he would. Warm, safe, content. All with the sweet girl he'd never deny a moment with. His heart was entirely yours, as yours was his.

The next hour of daylight is spent begrudgingly taking photos with almost every person you knew in King's County. Of course your dad and Rick wanted a ton of pictures, and Lori made you and Carl have a 15 minute photo shoot, and you couldn't leave without pictures with all your favorite teachers.

But after the excitement wore down and you were finally able to leave, Carl slipped his hand into yours.

"Hey, dove, before you go home, I've got something to show you."

You smile and nod, following the brunette boy all the way across the school buildings. You two walk for a while, and you begin to notice how much his hand that's still holding yours is sweating. It's not hot out, and graduation is over with.

The worst fears come to your mind. Is he leaving you? Did graduation make him decide he's outgrown your relationship?

"You remember this?" His voice snaps you out of your head, but his is wavering.

Carl drops your hand, moving to fit his button-up shirt. You had both left your cap and gowns with your parents, thankfully.

"It's the playground where you fell feet-first into me on the slide. In like, what, third grade?"

Carl knows it was fourth grade, but he's just hoping to hear back from you. You haven't spoken for a solid few minutes, and it's only adding onto his nervousness.

"Fourth grade. And it was your fault, Carl."

He stifles an awkward laugh. He then leads you to the swing set attached to the brightly colored playground structure, his hand slipping from yours once again as he sits down.

His palms are sweaty, in fact, he thinks his whole body is sweating. If it wasn't for Rick telling him to wear a black button up rather than a white one, you'd be able to tell.

Shane's voice rings through his head.

"So, let me get this straight. You're going into the fire academy, you don't have a house and your car is a piece of junk, and you're asking to marry my daughter? My daughter?"

Carl cringed, Shane furrowed his brow. The brunette spoke up.

"Basically. But I've got a job and I'll get my diploma in a few weeks. And my car sucks but I never speed and I've never gotten a ticket ever. I've never gotten anything more than lunch detention."

The rings in his pocket were burning a hole into his jeans.

"But I've loved her since before I understood how love worked, and I've stayed with her through the thick and the thin. She's been there for me in return, I wouldn't have gotten through Mom and Dad's divorce without her." His eye shifts from the floor to Shane. Look at him, show him you're serious. "I love your daughter, and I want to marry her. I want to let her drag me to every stupid cake tasting and venue tour and dress fitting she wants. I want to cry at the alter and let her rub cake on my face and watch her with both our families. And then I want to live with her, and grow with her, and have children with her. I know my parents got married too early, but I swear to you, sir, we won't end up like that. I'll never raise my voice or my hand, I'll never lie or cheat or make her feel bad. I'll spend my whole life turning off the lights she turns on and listen to her lecture me over mistakes and I'll enjoy each moment. Because I love her, and I will marry her."

"if you'll let me, of course."

You clear your throat. Your feet push you gently on the swing, gaining a small amount of momentum.

Carl snaps back into reality, soft blue eye landing on yours.

"So, we're adults now. Grown, y'know."

You nod, and he takes that as strike one. Rick had spent days helping the boy psych himself up, but the moment he glanced in your direction, his confidence seemed to melt into a puddle. Even Ron had figured out about Carl's plan, and he had given Carl advice. Ron!

"Things get...serious from here. College, the fire academy, work, all that. Feels weird to be serious."

"Yeah, I guess."

Do it now, idiot, or you'll never do it.

"You know I love you more than anything, right?You're my favorite person, aside from maybe Judith, depending on the day."

The joke doesn't land. Is he actually leaving you?

He continues, oblivious to the way your hand grips on the side of the swing tighter.

"I just love you more than I could ever tell you."

Neither of you speak next. He's too nervous, you're too scared. In his own nervousness, he hasn't picked up on the fact that you're 10 seconds away from busting out in tears.

"I don't want you to be my girlfriend anymore."

Carl's eyes remain on the pebble ground on the playground, not noticing the way tears start slipping from your eyes immediately. There it was, he dropped that on you. All your lives together, and it's over.

A broken sound escapes your throat, and Carl looks up to meet your eyes for possibly the first time in the past hour. His eyebrows furrow in that way that's just so Carl, before the lightbulb in his head lights up.

"Wait, wait, no, no, no, not like that-"

He backpedals, jumping up from the swing and kneeling in front of you, trying to pry your hands from your face as gently as possible.

"I'm just saying I want us to be together, just not like before-!"

That only worsens your crying, and he backpedals further.

"No, no, that's worse, I promise this is a good thing!"

"A good thing?!" You sob, hands slamming down on the sides of your lap.

"Honey, baby, no, listen to me, let me finish-"

"We just graduated, and you're leaving me?! You couldn't even wait a week?!"

Carl's eyes are saucers at this point. It would be comedic if you both weren't freaking out.

"Damnit, honey, breathe, I'm not leaving you-"

"You're breaking up with me!" Your bawling is in fact, not helping his case. And you're back to sobbing into your hands, which means you can't see him.

He pats down his pockets, almost dropping the rings as he fishes them out.

"Baby, honey, look at me, I'm not leaving you, I swear! I want you to marry me, that's what I'm asking. I want you to be my wife, not my girlfriend!"

The words conveniently make their way out of his mouth without hesitation. Under normal circumstances, he'd be fumbling them.

You peak out from behind your hands, crying subsiding for a second. He stays silent, and you sniffle for a few minutes.

"...can we maybe try that again?"

He answers before you get a breath after the question.

"Yeah, good idea, yeah, I'll give you a minute."

Like the dork he is, Carl defaults to standing awkwardly behind a tree next to the playground as you compose yourself. The most painstaking 5 minutes of his life pass until you finally call him over and say you're ready. He sits back down on the swing next to you, letting his hand rest on your thigh.

"Okay, going again." He clears his throat. "I love you more than anything in this world. You're everything to me, and I want you to know that."

You nod, and he gets up. Many, many weeks of planning went into this moment. You wouldn't be able to tell, based on how nervous he looks. His face is shiny from sweat, but you can't judge because yours is wet from tears. He kneels in front of you, resting on one knee in the uncomfortable pebble ground of King's County Elementary's Playground.

"I saw you for the first time in kindergarten, and drooling baby Carl probably didn't have a clue how much he'd grow to love you. We spent primary school and elementary school and middle school and now high school together, and there's no one in this world I'd rather have been with. You've always been with me, been it for me. When we almost lost mom when she gave birth to Judith, you were there for me. I cried so much, and I'm pretty sure I threw up, but you still held me through it. You held me together. You held me together when my parents divorced, when I lost my eye in that accident, when we both lost Sophia in middle school. You've always held me together."

He fishes the rings back out.

"I'm no academic weapon, and I'm not super jacked or charismatic or rich or anything. I drive a beat-up Jeep and I work at a comic book shop. I'm not some undeniable asset, but I promise I will love you with all I have. I would and will do anything for you, and I'll love you through every stage in life, just as you love me. I promise I'll spend every quaking second keeping you warm and happy. I'll buy us a fixer house and let you pick out whatever you want, I'll install heated floors and soft lights and whatever else makes you happy, whatever makes my girl happy. We'll have a home, and a family, if you want. I won't promise you perfection or a flawless life, but I'll swear to you to try my best. Please, for the love of all holy things in this world, including my sanity and ego, will you marry me? Please?"

Oh, and of course your answer is yes. Everyone knew it would be. Ron, Enid, Rick, Lori, Judith, even Shane when he gave Carl his blessing. There wasn't a single world where you would say no. And Carl might be more elated than you.

Bonus:

You and Carl both giggle, his arms lifting you up and spinning you around as he gets you out of the passenger seat of his car.

"Cmon, grab the flowers. You guys have a vase for them, right?"

A large bouquet of your favorite flowers sit on the dashboard, and you grab them.

"Yeah, we've probably got one somewhere. We can just use an old beer glass if not." You laugh.

Carl carries you up to the door of your house, awkwardly maneuvering his key into the lock and opening it. Immediately you can hear the sound of your dad and Rick playing dominoes in the kitchen. They both jerk their heads over at the sound of the door opening, but when you both announce yourselves, they calm.

When you two enter the kitchen, both men notice the smiles on your faces, the way Carl is holding you, and the way your mascara has run down your face.

"She said yes!"

Save for when Carl survived losing his eye, Rick has never been so proud. His boy graduated and now he's getting married. As soon as Carl puts you down, Rick wraps him in a hug. Shane picks you up and spins you around.

"That's my girl!"

From the moment you started dating Carl, Shane knew you were in good hands. He was a dork, in Shane's opinion, but he was a good man. Rick had always trusted both you and his son, as did Shane.

Rick lets Carl go and turns to you, squeezing your shoulders.

"I'm so happy to have you as a daughter-in-law. You mean so much to Carl, so much to our family."

Shane finds his moment to snake over to Carl, placing his hand between his shoulder blades. He leans down to whisper.

"Good man, she's happy. But if I find out that my baby girl is unhappy with you, if I find out you've made her sad or tired or you've made her cry - I've got buddies in 5 districts in each direction who won't bat an eye."

Carl tenses.

"Understood."

Shane smiles as he goes back to standing at full height.

"Well, it seems we're in for a celebration. You think Pizza Hut is still open at this hour?"

[peridawks]

Imagine being Shane's GF who is VERY not happy about his shaving off his pretty boy hair so you put him on a sex ban...

TW: Smutty but they don't actually fully get there, Shane being Shane (aka some misogyny), lots of teasing, pet names, mentions of previous sex - MDNI!!

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"Sweet girl, look at me." Shane grumbles, grabbing your jaw and making you look at him. He's always been a bit rough with you, in and out of the bedroom. He doesn't care that you're crying, mostly because it's over something he considers stupid.

"Why'd you cut it?" You whine, salty tears rolling down your face. It's not that serious, but it's important to you. "It was so perfect!"

"Jesus, baby, I told you. I was jus' tired of maintainin' it."

"I could have washed it for you! You don't even use styling products, it was that perfect!"

"Doll." He scolds. You're quite familiar with the tone, he uses it every time you step out of line.

"It's just hair, it'll grow back."

His finger rests against your quivering lips.

"'sides, it's me getting revenge for you lettin' Lori cut your pretty hair shorter. I miss the long hair you'd put up in all those pretty styles. You looked like such a little housewife. I can't even tug it as well now."

"Don't you start with the bedroom-freak stuff now!" You turn your head away.

"Aww, why, pumpkin? You let me put you on leashes and put you in costumes but you draw the line at me cutting my hair? Pup can't handle a little teasing from her man?" He teases, hands running down your side. He stops when you push him off.

"No sex until it grows back!" You declair, standing up. He pauses.

"Ex-fucking-cuse me?"

"You heard me! No sex, no making out, no blowjobs, nothing. In fact, you're not even allowed to watch me change anymore!"

Shane watches in utter despair as you storm out, slamming the door of the bathroom behind you.

"You know what, fine! Go throw your little temper tantrum, girl! You'll come crawling back in a day!"

Okay, so, Shane might be fucked.

Based on the amount of sex you guys had pre apocalypse and at the Atlanta camp, Shane assumed you'd cave first. He remembers the good days when he'd come home to dinner on the table or you on the couch in just a shirt and underwear - both enjoyable sights. It was usually 50-50 on who would initiate.

The first few days were fine, but you were getting on his nerves. You wouldn't sleep facing him or let him hold you while you slept, you weren't always following him around like normal, and you wouldn't even kiss him. But he was a man, he could deal with it. There's other stuff to be done. Runs to do, walkers to kill, fences to fix, animals to hunt.

But then a few days turned into a week, and Shane Walsh had come to the realization that you're very, very serious and he's in dire need of a quick fuck. It's still slightly warm out, so you're wearing those jeans shorts he loves with one of your stupid sweaters - an outfit combo he would make fun of you for if you were on good terms. Are you cold or hot? Make up your fucking mind.

It's been almost a week and a half now. People are starting to notice your distance from Shane and his temper getting worse. Rick was the first one to notice, as to be expected. He'd seen many of these days when they were back in the police force - Shane wasn't a happy man when denied pleasure.

After another successful day of you ignoring him in favor of hanging out and running about with the others, Shane cornered you in the tent you two shared.

"Babydoll, I'm sorry for making you mad. I didn't know it would bother you that much. You can bitch and yell at me, just look at me, I'm right here."

He's a grown man, an officer of the law. He's killed walkers and humans and he's never hesitated. But right now, he's melting into you and pleading for forgiveness.

"Please baby, I can make you feel so good and you won't be mad at me anymore." His arms tighten around your waist and his lips brush your shoulder.

"I'll be so gentle with you, you'll forget all about the stupid curls."

You huff. The huffing that normally would drive him crazy, make him fuck you further into the sheets.

"They weren't stupid! They were gorgeous and soft and silky! They made you so handsome!"

Shane tilts his head, dragging his lips from your shoulder to your neck.

"Does my baby not think I'm handsome anymore? Is my girl not attracted to her man anymore?"

You roll your eyes.

"Shane, you know that's not true. I just wished you would have told me before you did. You've had this hair since forever. You used to love your hair!"

Your complaining makes his snicker as he grazes his teeth against the skin of your throat.

"So how about you show me how much you love me? Show me just how much you adore me, even with my stupid hair shaved off."

You give a slight nod, and at your consent he moves to unbutton your shorts.

"Don't even worry, babydoll. I'll shove that smart mouth of yours straight into the pillow, you won't even need to to look at me. That sound good, sweet girl?"

"...yeah."

"There she is. There's my girl. All done bitchin' about my stupid hair, coming back to her man."

[peridawks]

(No Apocalypse AU!) Thinking about being Shane's Daughter who's been dating Carl since you guys were kids, and now you're both graduating and suddenly marriage is being talked about :P (PT. 2 here)

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Shane Walsh and Rick Grimes. Best friends since school, partners in the force, and fathers' whose kids happened to be dating. You couldn't find the two apart for more than a few days at most, partly because someone was always picking their kid up or dropping them off to and from the other one's house.

As most Mondays are spent for the two, they're in Rick's police car, eating lunch and waiting for something to happen. It's King's County, there's not too much crime going on day-to-day.

"If I tell you somethin', you gonna promise not to tell your girl?"

At Rick's words, Shane laughs, talking despite a mouth full of burger.

"Rick, if I woulda told her everything we've talked about, she woulda given me a feminism lecture years ago."

Rick shifts in his seat. An awkward silence stretches between the two officers.

"It's about Carl."

You've been dating Carl Grimes since before either of you knew what love was. Carl argues you began dating when he shared his The Amazing Spider-Man Omnibus with you in 3rd grade. You argue you guys began dating when you two accidentally kissed in fourth grade when he was attempting to climb up a slide and you were going down it, and you knocked him off and you two accidentally kissed.

Carl was great, you'd tell anyone that. He was kind, sweet, fun, doting. He had his temper, but he'd gotten the life scolded out of him by both his father and Shane the first time he ever made you cry. That hasn't happened since, to no one's shock.

Carl loves you just as much as you love him. He tells everyone about you, about your awesome job in the mall, about how you're saving for college, about how smart and sweet and loving you are. His coworkers at the comic shop in the aforementioned mall knew everything about you before you even came in one day to pick up some comics for Carl.

You had been a constant in Carl's life. Through his parent's divorce, him losing an eye in a hunting accident, and more minute things like him almost failing AP English Lit.

And as graduation came up so fast, talks of the future began. You were off to college, Carl had known that was your plan since you were 10. Carl is still deciding between the Police Academy and the Fire Academy - much to both of your fathers' annoyance. But then someone brought up marriage. It was just a passing comment Patrick had made about how Carl doesn't have much "fun time" left before he's got to get serious about you. As if he hasn't always been serious.

Then it was like the concept was haunting him. Every time he turned the TV on, there was some wedding reality show or RomCom. He was getting ring commercials with almost every YouTube video he watched. And every single time he turned the damn radio on in his car, it was some song about marriage! Where Is My Husband! By RAYE, White Wedding by Billy Idol, I Wanna Marry You by Bruce Springsteen.

And suddenly the boy was warming up to the idea. You were it for him, he knew that. And on a whim after having a good shift at the comic shop, he swung by the jewelry store right next door.

The ring wasn't anything too nice, he knows you wouldn't like anything pricey. You were weird like that. They're just two matching black bands, something you can wear without having to worry about losing it or scuffing it.

Shane's brows furrowed.

"Kid ain't messing around on her, right? I know he's your boy, but let me tell you something, man. I'll kick his ass into next Tuesday if I find out he's messing around on her."

Rick rubbed his temple.

"He ain't cheatin', Shane. He loves her too much for that. He's...he's, uh, he's talking about asking for your blessing. He's talking about proposing after they graduate."

Shane paused.

"Sorry, let me take a moment to comprehend that. Carl's talking about proposing to my girl? My daughter? My flesh and blood?"

Rick nods.

"Well, shit."

"You gonna let him?"

Shane rubs his head, something he does a lot - and that you love to make fun of.

"Once he decides on which academy, maybe."

Rick laughs.

"You gonna tell my boy no if he goes into the fire academy?"

Shane grins.

"Maybe. No hard feelings, yeah?"

"Yeah."

A silence stretches again.

"They're gonna elope if you say no, by the way. Heaven and Earth couldn't keep those two apart."

Shane laughed.

"Yeah, I know, I know. Remember when he got grounded and I practically had to come by every night to pick her up after she snuck in?"

Rick nodded. "Yep. He was only grounded for a week and they acted like he was going off to fight in the Marines."

"Honestly, man, I'll take them sticking like glue over her being like me in High School." Shane shrugs, a moment of odd sincerity. "I made way too many mistakes with women I didn't care for. I'm glad she's got Carl."

"You boy has a good head on his shoulders, you know that, Rick?"

A small smile graces his face. "I know. Me and Lori raised him right, even divorced."

"I'll give him my blessing, no matter what academy he picks."

Rick's smile switches to a full blown grin.

"Then I guess we have a wedding we gotta pay for."

Shane mirrors his grin.

"We? No, I'm pretty sure the groom's family pays. Enjoy kissing your bonus goodbye."

[peridawks]

Stadium Lights - HS!Au

Jock!John Walker × Fem!Nerdy!User

𓃓 ⭐•°🏈 𐚁 🇺🇸 ✮⋆˙ × ⋆. ⌬ 🪴 ˚ ⚛🐛 ° 🧪 𒉭 ⋆

3.7k - Highschool AU! - Rivals-to-lovers

[The school's greenhouse was annoyingly right next to the football field, and roughhousing with his friends left John on cleanup and assistant duty to you, the biological club's captain. You're a nerd, one he finds himself growing fond of.]

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Custer's Grove High didn't have the best budgeting in the world, to no one's surprise. Georgia was nothing but fields, peaches, and Coca-Cola - at least to you. Boring, basic, bland, and some other related synonyms. If the town was a color, it would be the slightly yellowish tone of a musty old doctor's office with medically incorrect diet magazines laying on the waiting room chairs. There wasn't much excitement, other than the occasional prom and minor drug scandal. It wasn't shocking to anyone to know that most of the schools extra funding went to none other than the football team. Go Bears!

Yeah, right. The Bears. You, like many others were not too fond of the football team. Any other sports team only got new equipment every few years, the drama club got just enough funding for waters and chips, the art club had to fundraise just for new paintbrushes. The school newspaper club still used a crappy old camera from 1980-something. And then there was the biology club. Your biology club. You received almost nothing in funding. The school had the same unstable greenhouse from when your parents were in high school. You were lucky enough to scrap together enough from plant sales and fundraising to afford decent equipment, but that was hard on your own. There were other members, yes, but they were the kind of people who just joined to have another experience to list on their college apps. You ran everything solo, and you didn't mind it. It meant you didn't have a treasurer to answer to when you spent a bit of the budget on a candy bar to reward your hard work.

What you did mind, though, was football season. The greenhouse was only a few feet away from the bleachers of the school's football field - stuck right in the middle of the parking lot where the football boys parked their exhaust-spewing trucks. You hated it, it was awkward. On top of that, the serene nature of your plants and small fish aquarium was shattered as you heard the loud banging of rock and country music, laughing, yelling, and tackling. It was awful. No amount of decent music could cover it up. How big were their speakers? How did the school even afford them??

But, they didn't mess with you too much. Maybe a weird look and a small scoff, but nothing too bad. They never went out of their way to bother you or destroy anything. It could be a lot worse.

And then it got worse.

Johnathan Walker was normally nothing but an annoyance. Blonde, blue eyes, football captain, decently smart, headed for the military - the all American dream. (More like a nightmare.) Girls crushed on him, guys wanted to be friends with him, coaches and teachers went easy on him, and he seemed to soak up the attention. The great, star-spangled boy. He wasn't much too bad, really. Every now and then he would make a comment that would make you scoff, but nothing too bad. You've heard, much, much worse from white guys in Georgia.

Tuesday.

Getting all hyped up with the other players was his problem, and John knew it. Bon Jovi blasted through the stadium speakers, and the cheers of his teammates had him feeling like the good Lord was shining down on him and him alone. The ending scoreboard read 43-17. The game MVP, as always, was Walker. A shock to no one, of course. Football was his life.

By now, the audience had left and all that was left was the team on cleanup duty. One of the worst parts of playing, or so you've overheard.

"Walker, my man! You killed it out there! You're superhuman, I swear!" Lemar laughed, slapping the blonde on the back. Walker laughed with him, the two cheering over the sound of Wanted Dead Or Alive. The blonde's head is buzzing. This is the life. Friends, a game where he wiped the damn floor with the other team, his face sticky from Gatorade, and the numbers of a few cute girls from the other school written on his arm - half blurred out from sweat and the aforementioned Gatorade. Him and Lemar are just there, leaning against the fence that separated the track and the field and it's getting dark, so the stadium's lights are the only illumination nearby.

One of the other boys in the team yelled from the other side of the stadium - the side closest to the parking lot where your greenhouse was. "Hey, man, toss me that ball! Some of us got people to get home to!"

Walker looked down, noticing the ball still in his hand. He laughed, taking position and tossing the thing far.

Too far.

Much too far.

Oh shit!

His teammate is tall, yeah, but the ball barely grazes his hands. It's too far up, too fast. And like all good things, it comes crashing down. It crashes down right into glass, right into your beloved project, and right into John's conscience. Oh shit. He just broke school property. And possibly hit a chick with a football.

Strike one. He's so fucked.

Wednesday.

And fucked, he was! He's sitting here in the principal's office at 7:50am sharp. The incident from the night before is being passionately explained by you to the principal who you just know isn't going to do much. It's Walker. No one does anything.

"Mr. Brown, you don't understand! The biology club can't afford these repairs. The spring plant sale isn't for two weeks, and we're practically bankrupt! We can't afford to fix the window or the aquaponics setup, and it's the structure of our sale. You need to make him pay us back!"

You explain, pointing enthusiastically at John as he rolls his eyes.

"Principal Brown, I don't think she understands that it's unfair to bill my family for what was simply a mistake! Maybe if someone would have alerted us not to be around there, the accident - and it WAS an accident - wouldn't have happened!"

You scoff, spinning around to face him. "Bull-crap! Even if it was an accident, you should have been smart enough to not hurl a ball at a glass building! Especially while someone is present! You could have hurt way more than just the fish!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, we hurt your fishies? Grow up! It's just some fish and a window! Put a tarp over it!" John groans.

"A tarp? Do you not understand how a greenhouse works?!"

Principal Brown sighs, standing up.

"Kids, kids, calm down. We know it was an accident, Walker, you're not in trouble."

You turn back. "But-"

"But. That was school property. It cost us money. I'm sorry to say this, Johnathan, but you're going to be on athletic probation for two weeks. And I'd like you to assist with the affairs in the greenhouse. You've taken a carpentry class, you should be able to help."

A mutual look of disgust is shared between you and Walker.

"Sir, we have a game in that period! That's not fair!"

"And knowing him, he'll screw up our sale on purpose! He couldn't tell a thanksgiving cactus from a boston fern!"

"It's set in stone. I'm sorry, Walker, but you and your team's roughhousing has to be punished in some way. Now get to class, you two. Your first block is about to start and we do not tolerate lateness."

Oh, for God's sake.

School had ended a solid two hours ago, and you still hadn't seen Walker. You weren't complaining, no, but you were told to log the amount of time he spent there with you. For disciplinary records, according to the principal. You had already watered everything, and you were on to feeding and checking on the Yellow Perch of your aquaponics system. You'd been lucky enough to be able to get and set up a tank in just 2 days, so the fish were only a tad shaken up from being bucket-bound during that time. You start to grab your pruners to start working on one of your prized ferns, but you turn around at the sound of the door opening. It's Walker. He's in a pair of athletic shorts and a gray tank top that's very, very sweaty. You scoff.

"I thought you were on athletic probation?"

The blonde laughs, taking in the greenhouse. "I am. Doesn't stop me from still working out. Gotta stay in shape."

You roll your eyes, scribbling down the time on the disciplinary sheet. "Just...don't touch anything. I don't care what you do, just sit there. Don't touch anything."

"So I'm supposed to sit here? Until you leave? When do you leave?"

"Seven."

"Seven?? How am I supposed to survive in this stuffy place for two more hours?!"

"You'll live, Johnathan."

You turn back to your fern, taking a seat on a stool and starting to snip carefully at the dead ends and stalks of the fern. You two sit in silence for a minute before you hear the sound of a finger tapping glass.

"What kind of fish are these?" Walker asks, glancing back at you before returning to the fish. "I haven't seen them in the lake when I fish."

With a gesture that screams 'leave them alone', you turn to the blonde. "They're Yellow Perch. They were gifted to the school from a wildlife refuge."

"So they're endangered?"

"No, dipshit! They're just hard to find. And they're a gift, so leave them alone. You already tried to kill them once."

Walker scoffed and crossed his arms, leaning against one of the plant tables in the same manner he leaned against the fence that night. "That was an accident, fish girl. And if I was trying to kill them, I would have cooked them. Are they edible?"

"I'm pretty sure most fish are edible." You scoff back, mimicking his movements.

"I'd grill them, then! I wouldn't just let them dry out in the ground. I'm assuming all these plants probably season them too."

What the fuck? You just stare at him, dumbfounded.

"How the fuck would that work? The plants are above them, idiot."

"Well then maybe the plants taste like fish!"

"I assure you they do not, Walker. I assure you."

"Whether, fish girl. Just give me something to do." He leans against a table.

"You can...not call me fish girl."

"That's not a real thing!" He groans, kicking an empty bucket.

"Oh my lord, just stack pots or something! Do you know how to organize?"

"God, thank you. Was it that hard?" He mocks.

You both roll your eyes, returning to your tasks. You slip on the headphones on your walkman, slipping a cassette in and getting back to your fern. You get through one, silent, blissful song before-

"You still use cassettes? Who still uses cassettes?"

Lord, can this guy shut up? He's always talking. Talking to himself during games, girls during class changes, his friends during classes. With how much he talks, you guess he has some type of condition physically keeping him from silence. That's a joke. Mostly.

"A ton of people still use cassettes."

Walker waltzes over, plucking the Sony Walkman from your waistband. "No they don't! Everyone uses CDs now. What are you even listening to? Something good? Bon Jovi?"

God, not Bon Jovi. The same band you heard every time there was practice. Lord, he was obsessed.

"Johnathan!" You gasp, pulling it out of his grasp. He immediately pulled it back, popping it open and looking at the cassette.

"A Day At The Races? Didn't take you for a sap." He laughs, flipping the cassette around and carelessly pushing it back into your walkman. You attempt to pull it out of his grasp again, inciting an odd game of tug of war that ended with your walkman crashing into the rocky ground beneath you two and cracking. You promptly tore into him, pushing him back until he stumbled out of the greenhouse.

Strike two. He's somehow even more fucked!

Thursday.

The next morning starts the same as last. You two in the principal's office, you yelling about the previous night's events at 7:50am sharp.

"He did nothing but cause problems! And he broke my Walkman! And showed up two hours late!"

"Ma'am, calm down-"

"No, I'm not calming down! I want him out of the greenhouse and I want him to replace my Walkman!"

Walker stands up. "Oh my God, you can find a walkman in like any thrift store. It's not a big deal! Tell her to stop being sensitive!"

"Mr. Walker! Calm down as well! You both are being extremely childish. You're both seniors, we expect you to act like it!"

After even more bickering, not in the slightest bit politely, you get one of your wishes. John has to replace your Walkman. But, he's still stuck as your apprentice until next Wednesday. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Walker's hands fiddle with the lock on his locker. "I don't understand, Lemar. She's such a bitch. Crying about a fucking Walkman. Who the hell cares? It's not even one of the good ones, it's one of the shitty cassette ones. Who the fuck uses cassettes?"

Lemar sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not everyone has money, man. You better replace that thing or she's gonna hate you."

"I don't care if she hates me. She's screwing up the team by throwing fits and getting me on athletic probation!" Walker's books land unceremoniously in his locker.

"Dude, you broke her window."

"On accident!"

"Still! She probably already hates you. Now she like...triple hates you."

"Why does she matter to you? I never even knew who she was before this shit. I wish it stayed that way."

"You're the one thinking about her too much. Think about it, man." Lemar teases, closing his locker and leaving the blonde there to ponder.

He...was thinking about you a lot. Too much.

That afternoon, he came a lot earlier - AKA basically on time. Almost minutes after you get there, he's there. The blonde fixes his hair, pulling a new walkman out of his bag. "I know it's not the silver one you had, but this is my old one. It's in pretty good condition, I never really used it."

You grab it, pulling a cassette from your bag and slipping it in. The headphones work, and your cassette comes out fine. You slip all three into your bag.

"Thanks, I guess."

An awkward silence stretches out. Walker's hands are in his pockets and yours are on the straps of your bag.

"So, uh, anything I can do, I guess? Still staying til' seven?" He asks.

"You can organize those pots again. Or I can show you how to feed the fish." You mutter, grabbing the jar of fish feed. Walker nods.

"Right, yeah, fish. I'll..watch you do that."

Measured amounts of pellets find themselves floating in the tank waters. John's reflection behind you can be seen in the tank's glass. He watches, listening to the amounts you tell him should be used. He starts zoning out when you start explaining the nutritional information of the feed. Your voice is soothing when you're not yelling at him.

He's being oddly nice to you. Too nice, at least for Walker. He knows it's only because his father laid into him about treating and speaking to a woman in that way - but part of him thinks it might be what Lemar said. "You're the one thinking about her too much." During your time in the greenhouse today, Walker was oddly productive. He learned to feed the fish and use the sprinkler system. He organized the mountain of plastic pots you were too afraid of lurking spiders to touch and brought the trash to the dumpster to you. You two didn't talk much, just the occasional question about your taste in music and things around the greenhouse. You're not too open to speaking to Walker, you still don't trust him. But he's being compliant, which is nice. You actually end the night not arguing, just awkwardly waving bye as you went to walk home and he walked to his truck.

Friday.

It's nice to have a morning that doesn't start in the principal's office. You're actually able to go to your first block without being late. A first for this week. Despite this, the day is exhausting. Everything drags on, it's pouring rain, and even your favorite courses seem to be slow. You try to sleep during lunch, but nope. Guess what group of guys are being rowdy? Ding-ding, it's the football boys. Who could have guessed?

You're much too tired to stay after school, so you decide to only water the plants and feed the fish today. Plus, you had to meet with the newspaper club girls later to do a story on your greenhouse. The school has been getting onto them lately for basically just publishing pages and pages of gossip. Everything else can wait, your sleep can't. Your sleep schedule has been horrible. Your dreams are plagued by those damned blue eyes and that subtle stubble that makes you want to smother him in affection. Why him? Why Walker? He was the same guy who you'd kick in the teeth if given the pass to. What changed?

Walker finds himself standing outside of the greenhouse. You have the only key, so he's stuck in the pouring rain until you show up. You almost giggle at the sight, really. He looks so sad, soaking wet and cold. He looks like a golden retriever that snuck out during a downpour. April showers were no joke. You twirl the key around your finger before opening the door, stepping into the much dryer and warmer greenhouse. John follows suit. You immediately begin to fall back into your rhythm of work.

"Do you have anything for me to do?" John asks.

"Not really. I'm just going to water everything and feed the fish and then I'm going home."

"Oh."

You turn back to look at him. This six-foot-something guy who was very obviously a football player looked like a kicked puppy dog.

"Why are you being so nice? You're usually a prick, no offense."

He's silent for a moment, blue eyed just looking at you. They're slightly bewildered, the rest is something you aren't sure of.

"I didn't...know your family had money issues. I just thought you were mad at me about breaking your Walkman on the principle of it. I didn't know you couldn't afford one."

You pause, setting your watering can down.

"My family isn't poor, John." You defend weakly.

"I wasn't saying they were! I just know you aren't well off. Most kids our age who are usually have cars by now."

"Not everyone has your family's money, Walker! Most folks 'round here can't afford a nice new truck and expensive football equipment!"

John cringes. He's very, very aware he needs to check his privilege.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't consider it was a hassle for you to replace it."

"200$ is a lot of money."

"Gosh, I know that, woman. Listen, my family is well off, I know that. I'm an asshole for not considering the money aspect of everything, but I have my own problems."

There's another pause. This one somehow more awkward than that last, mostly because of the way your shoulders tighten.

"Problems? What kind of problems do you have, John?" You raise your voice.

He raises his in return. "My life isn't perfect, woman! I have problems just like you!"

You scoff. "You're an athletic, rich, white, straight, Christian, blonde-haired and blue-eyed football player in fucking Georgia! What problems could you possibly have?!"

John doesn't back down at your yelling. He's been yelled at before, he can handle it. It's nowhere near as terrifying as when his father screams at him.

"Well thanks to you I'm on athletic probation!"

You take a minute to just stare. There were people in the world dying, and his biggest problem was athletic probation??

"You have got to be kidding me."

"What's so funny about that? Not all of us dedicate all our time to being a loser and studying. An athletic scholarship to a military college is the only thing I want, and thanks to you pitching a fit over a damn window, I might not get it!"

"Oh, cry me a river! You'll live! And it's not like your family won't pay for your entire future!"

"Bet you wouldn't know what that's like!"

He regrets the words as they come out.

You're stunned into silence.

Without thinking, you grab the closest thing you can hit him with. And with thinking, you realize that the object you grabbed is the water hose. You quickly flick it from mist to jet, pointing it right at his face and pressing down on the trigger.

"What the hell?!" He yelps, holding his hands out and trying to keep the blast away. You don't stop.

You come to regret that.

John comes at you, tackling you down to grab the thing. At times, he forgets he shouldn't football tackle a woman. You gasp, the hose falling from your hand as you look up at him. His right hand is holding both of your wrists, and his other hand goes for the hose. His fingers luckily - for you - flick it to a lower setting and he blasts it back into your face.

"See how you like it!"

You squirm, eventually being able to toss it across the greenhouse. You both pant, soaking wet and pissed off.

But, damn, he looks good this close. His eyebrows are furrowed, his hair is stuck to his face, and cologne can be softly smelt. He's thinking something similar. Your shirt is wet, clinging to your body, and you seem equally as mad. Your jaw is tight and your teeth are gritting.

And his hands slowly find their way to the sides of your face. You two stay in a standstill, just observing the annoyance and the contradiction on each other's faces.

And then he slams his lips on to yours, and you don't protest. You would deny it if anyone asks, but you do reciprocate. Your hands cover his and they lace together gently.

And you're both so lost in each other, to the point you don't hear a soft gasp and pattering footprints.

Or the sound of the school newspaper club's camera.

Click.

𓃓 ⭐•°🏈 𐚁 🇺🇸 ✮⋆˙

This was sooo long but soooo much fun and I very much need to make a part two 😭 yippee I lob John Walker anyways here's a song for this fic 👇👇

[k1tzzzie]

OH MY GOD ARE WE SEEING THIS?!

[peridawks]

it's like seeing my husband and an old high school sweetheart in the same picture. I'm dying

[peridawks]

Puppies and Bumblebees

Meguru Bachira × Ego's Daughter!Reader

🐝˚💨༘⚽ೀ⋆⭐｡˚. × ｡⋆🐾 ๋⭒𓍊📋•⚽⋆˚꩜｡°✶

1.3k words - love at first sight - yearning

[Being the child of Ego was always a wild ride, but when he brings you into Blue Lock to help assist Teieri, a leash malfunction leads to your dog being quite the matchmaker with you and one of the soccer boys.]

Context: Takes place around early season one before the 3v3 matches.

-------------‧₊˚🍋‍🟩✩ ₊˚🌿⊹♡--------------

Your father's unnerving voice rings out from one of the many, many giant screens in the Blue Lock building. "Soccer is in your blood, you rascal. I can assure you that you'll enjoy this if you're not a brat about it. Blue Lock is my life's work, aside from you, of course."

Much to your father's annoyance and the world's shock - you had no care for soccer. Ego did his best to push when you were young. Soccer camps, junior games, training regimes and endless viewings of professional games. But you fought him and he got bored enough - plus, he'd do better training boys anyways. He feels less morally questionable working them to death. And as much as he tries to hide it, he does love you to death. You're his one and only kid - and yeah, your mom is a random chick he hooked up with, but that doesn't matter.

When you mentioned needing experience in a working environment for college applicants at dinner one night, Ego jumped at the chance to have a new employee that he didn't have to pay. You fought that for a bit, too, but you found that no other volunteering position would take you. He totally had nothing to do with that.

"And what if I don't wanna do this? You know I don't care about soccer." You scoff, pulling Rivers - your golden doodle puppy - closer to you. "And I brought the dog, by the way."

"You will learn to-" Ego pauses, for once. "YOU BROUGHT THE MUTT?"

"He's not a mutt! He's a purebred golden doodle!"

"There's nothing pure about that demon! Your mother only bought it for you because she wanted to punish me!"

You gasp. "Take that back! Rivers is a blessing!"

Ego groans. "If he shits on my field, he's staying at your mother's house permanently. Now go assist Teieri, you're on the clock."

You groan in response, but listen anyways.

"You don't know how much of a blessing it is to have you here, I've been trying to get an assistant for a while now but we don't have much room in the budget. Have you ever worked in an assistant position before?" Teieri asks, handing you a clipboard and a comedically large packet.

"No, but it can't be too hard. What do you want me to do?"

Teieri seems slightly disheartened, but it's nothing too serious. Inexperienced help is better than no help.

"How about you go see if the training area is all set up and ready for the players. Section Z, specifically. That's the only one I haven't checked yet."

You nod.

"It may take you a while to find the place, but you'll figure things out soon enough!" She smiles. You nod again before heading off, Rivers following in tow. His curly tail wags from side to side.

The training area is ...very much not set up. Luckily there's not much to do, so you set the place up by following the instructions from the packet that Teieri printed off for you earlier.

All things seem to go to plan - and surprisingly, this place is peaceful. The artificial grass has its own unique, pleasant smell and the brutal rain from outside can be heard patterning against the walls of the enormous building. You're the only one on the field, as seemingly the players are still eating breakfast. You take a second to appreciate this place. Maybe it's like your father said, maybe you will come around to-

"Rivers?! Where are you going?!" You yelp, racing after the golden doodle who suddenly darted off the pseudo field and into one of the connecting corridors. The sound of paws and footsteps hitting the ground reverberate through the halls of section Z, and eventually you chase Rivers all the way to the cafeteria. Fitting.

You hear a voice. It's slightly unsettling, but not in the way your father's is. This new voice is sweet but unsettling, like misty fog in the morning. It's actually pleasing to listen to, in a way.

"Well hello there, buddy! I don't think you want my leek, it's not too yummy. You could steal some chicken from Raichi." The voice cooes. Another voice protests, you guessed it belongs to "Raichi".

As you turn the corner, a pair of bright yellow eyes look up at you through unfairly long lashes. The eyes belong to this boy who seems to be your age. He's wearing a blue Blue Lock jersey. He has dark brown hair with some yellow peaking under. You sigh in relief, and the boy's breath hitches.

It might be the lack of seeing girls for weeks now, but wow, he's shell-shocked. A pink twinge appears in the player's cheeks as he stands up, wiping his hands on his shorts.

"You must be this pup's mama, huh? What're you doing in Blue Lock?" He asks, tilting his head in a similar manner to Rivers. You awkwardly laugh.

"Yeah, he's my pup. Sorry, he must have smelled food."

Bachira giggles. "Can't say there's too much good food here, but I'm sure he'll scarf down anything. I'm the same way! Me and him could be twins."

You awkwardly pick the dog up, finding Bachira's eyes still on you. Does...does he know he's kinda unsettling?

He hums curiously. "You didn't answer my other question. Watcha doin' in Blue Lock?"

Your shoulders drop. "Ah. I'm Ego's daughter. I'm basically gonna be his assistant's assistant basically."

A silence spreads through the whole cafeteria. Some guy(?) with long red hair speaks up before the others can pick their jaws up off the floor.

"Ego has a daughter? I didn't think he was legally allowed to reproduce."

You smile.

"Yeah, big shocker, I know."

Bachira grins. "So you must be good at soccer! What position do you play?!"

You grimace. "I'm not really a soccer person. No offense, of course, it's just not my thing. My dad wants it to be."

Bachira sighs.

"Aww, I wanted to play with you. That's like the closest I could get to playing Ego himself."

Rivers barks.

"I'm not that much like him, I swear. Do...do I act like him?" You question, suddenly feeling self conscious. No offense to your father, but when someone points out any resemblance, it's not exactly a compliment.

"I wouldn't have even guessed you and Ego were related if you didn't tell me. You're much nicer than Ego."

You laugh - more out of requirement than interest. This guy is cute, but you didn't expect to meet any players today. And you're not dressed up or anything. "Seems like I'll see you guys around. I hope practice goes well."

You bolt because...awkward.

"Oh! Well come by and see me- us play-!" He blurts, watching you and the doodle disappear.

Time passes as Bachira just stands there, watching you go. Oh. Oh wow.

Isagi notices, looking up from his natto.

"You okay, Bachira?

"Uh...yuh-huh."

Internally, the monster is intrigued. Someone new to play with. Someone cute.

Externally, Bachira looks like a mess. His cheeks are as red as Chigiri's hair and his eyes are wide as can be. Is this what crushes are like? Girls never talked to him in school, so he's never had a crush on one. Why is his heart fluttering and his head spinning?! Is he allergic to you?!

Before Bachira can sputter out anything else embarrassing, Ego's face illuminates the large TV screen of the cafeteria.

"Team Z please make your way to the training area for warmups."

His tone darkens.

"And if I find out any of you are even double glancing at my precious daughter, you're locked off permanently."

Oh boy.

🐝˚💨༘⚽ೀ⋆⭐｡˚.

WAHHH IK THIS IS SHORT BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE SOME BACHIRA BC I WANT TO BRANCH OUT A LITTLE GAHHHH here's a song for this fic 👇 also I just started Haikyuu!! It's soo good!!!

[peridawks]

Boo-Boos

Russell Hayes × Nerdy!Girlfriend!Reader

🛹๋࣭ ⭑꩜°📸.⚡︎✮🧽•` × ｡⋆🩺 ๋࣭✮𓍊 •🩹⋆.📚°✶

0.9k - established relationship - fluff

[Being a skater gets Russell in a lot of accidents. Good thing he's dating a future nurse who will always deal with his hijinks!]

Context: Reader and Russell are both Juniors in High School in this fic, so both are 17. [Evan's age when he played Russell] This fic will be completely SFW. Don't be weird. ALSO THIS WILL INCLUDE 2000s LINGO.

-------------‧₊˚🍋‍🟩✩ ₊˚🌿⊹♡--------------

"You are a lucky, lucky man, Russell."

Russell grins, a bit dopey from the very minor concussion he just contracted. His hands toy with one of the plushies on your bed, tossing it lightly.

"M' always lucky with you, babes."

Russell Hayes was, in fact, a very, very lucky man. After the wild night at the end of 8th grade, he grew into those sweet features he used to have, and he grew out of the lisp he used to get made fun of for. He barely gets called SpongeBob now! He's still the same reckless, skirt-chasing dork as he's always been, but less...middle schooler. Part of that growth can be attributed to you.

You transferred to Hanover High School [I forgot the name of the school] in your freshman year and promptly fell straight into Russell. Literally. After tripping on his skateboard that he carelessly left on the ground. After a few months of friendship and calling, you took a chance on the dork and you two began dating. It was singlehandedly the best choice either of you have made. You keep him grounded, he keeps life fun. He's your lashing LED lights in a sea of college prep and HOSA competitions. Preparing to go to nursing school was no joke.

Dating Russell was like having a best friend, a golden retriever, a boyfriend, a fanboy, and a reckless hamster all in one. He loved fiercely, with compliments and gushing around every corner. He's got stickers on his skateboard of things you like and your Health Science note cards scattered across his bedroom - his bedroom that definitely improved when you started coming home with him after school. You're a driving force in each other's lives. He's always there to cheer you on when you place in State HOSA competitions, and he's always there to hold you while you cry over friend drama. He's a total scamp, and a complete dork - but he loves you with his whole existence, and he never plans on stopping. And you love him in return, motivating him to do more with his life than just skateboarding and listening to music on his Ipod. He actually snagged a job as a cashier at the mall's skate shop because you went over interview questions and helped him with his resume. He's a ball of energy, you're a steady helping hand. And even when he messes up, you know he loved you - and that always brings the two of you back to one-another.

At his sappy words, you scoff. "I'm serious, Rus! You could have split your head open! What were you thinking?!"

Russell giggles at first, but he stops when he sees you pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from under your vanity.

"Oh c'mon, sweet cheeks! That stuff stings!" He whines.

"Maybe you shouldn't try and do stupid tricks on the guardrails of the stairs! We have dinner with my family in like 10 minutes, I don't need you looking like you just lost a fight to a concrete slab." You gently wipe his knees with the rubbing alcohol before pulling out a roll of gauze. "You're lucky my parents like you."

He hisses through the pain, but grins in that classic Russell fashion.

"I'm lucky with a lot of things, babe. I'm lucky that a total hottie like you is here to patch me up like my own personal nurse." The brunette winks. He's always been one to butter you up, but you both know that he actually means it. He's obsessed with you. A man of his word.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

He laces his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you closer. He was a fan of all the love languages, but physical touch was his favorite.

"If it wasn't the flattery, then what made you so interested in me? My charming wits or my rad dance moves?" He teases. "Or maybe my 'totes adorbs' fashion style?"

You roll your eyes, pushing off of him lightly to focus back on his scraped knees.

"Are you ever gonna drop the...totes adorbs thing? I said that one time."

"Chillax, babe. I'm just teasin' ya a little. It was cute."

His knees get adequately patched, and you put away your supplies. They'll probably be brought out again in a matter of days. You toss him your hairbrush.

"Whatevs. Brush your hair out, my parents should be calling us down any minute now and I don't want you looking a mess."

He brings the brush up to his nose, sniffing.

"Smells like shampoo and...girl smells."

You roll your eyes. "You're so gross."

He grins, standing up. His hands chasing your hips. They give them a small squeeze.

"Only for you, Shakira."

"Honey! You and Russell better come down and get your dinner before it gets cold! We're having barbecue chicken and rolls!" Your mother calls, her voice ringing out throughout the house.

Russell sighs, rubbing his head against your shoulder. His curls tickle your throat.

"Cuddle time is busted, yet again. Ready to kick it?"

You sigh, placing a kiss on his cheek which you had patched up earlier. A pink band-aid now covered the mark.

"Yeah."

He notices your expression: worried. Not a rare sight. His grin slips.

"Hey, what's the problem? You okay?"

You sigh. "I just don't want you hurt. You're so reckless, and I love you so, so much."

He smiles, lips pressing to the crown of your head.

"I love you more. Thanks for always putting up with me. You're a saint. I'll pay you back somehow. You want me to pick you up some new CDs?"

"Mmm, yeah."

🛹๋࣭ ⭑꩜°📸.⚡︎✮🧽•`

Sadly a very short one, but there wasn't much to go on 😔 plus I'm mad unmotivated right now because I have my Spanish 102 final project due in a week GAHHH anyways I have SIXTEEN drafts rn SOMEONE MAKE ME WORK PLEASEEEEE GAH also Sleepover was sooo cute and here's a song I was thinking of for this little tiny fic 👇 GAH I LOVE WEEZER

[peridawks]

hey ya!! firstly i really like ur fics

maybe u know the movie called "sleepover", where Evan plays cute loser boy (russell hayes). i’d really like to request a sweet fluff w him, if u don’t mind to write it :3

I shall watch this movie as I study for my Spanish 102 final...😈

[cinnamonmusk]

my not-so guilty guilty pleasure is rivers cuomo in drag

[aquaticmercy]

Bubbles

Summary : Dex is starting to learn that his sweet girl is much more capable of taking care of herself than he realized.

Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x mutant! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Reader is a florist, and a mutant immune to all toxins. Dex is a stalker as per usual, sexual themes, nudity, obsessive love, morally grey characters, violence, poisoning, medical trauma, experimentation, injury and blood, implied murder, food, anxious attachment!Dex, reader has a pet octopus (I swear this is important to the story.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 16.1k

Requested by : Anon

Notes : This took so long for me to write, but I love writing a pathetically in love Dex. Enjoy!

Dex almost walked right past you the first time he met you. That happened earlier this year, on Valentine’s Day.

Which was ironic, because this holiday, to Dex, was nothing short of predictable and over-rehearsed choreography, hollow at its core. He thought love wasn’t something people felt; it was something they performed, especially today, draped in red and pink like a uniform they were told to wear. He saw it in the stiff way hands intertwined, in the calculated timing of laughter, in the flowers bought not because they meant anything, but because not buying them would be bad press. It was obligation disguised as affection, routine mistaken for devotion. A transaction, really, nothing more than attention in exchange for reassurance. And underneath it all, none of it would last. 

But whatever. He’d already tuned most of it out. He was halfway through scanning exits and timing foot traffic when you stepped just slightly into his path, holding out a flower like you’d been waiting for him all your life.

“Hey,” you said, bright but not pushy. “You look like you could use one of these.”

Dex stopped. He blinked at you once, recalibrating. 

Oh?

The first thing he noticed was that he thought you were pretty. For a second, he didn’t process anything beyond that. 

Then the details followed: the faint dirt on your hands, the natural way you handled the stems, the open shop behind you breathing out the scent of fresh blooms. You had a bucket of red roses with you, probably giving it to everyone who would stop to listen. You were a florist, obviously. That was your shop, most likely. 

“Do I?” He managed to say. 

“I think so,” you admitted, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’ve got the whole ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ thing going on.”

Most people didn’t say things like that to him. Not casually. Not with that little hint of amusement in their voice, like you weren’t intimidated at all.

“I don’t celebrate this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around you.

“Mm,” you hummed, like that was fair. Then you lifted the flower a little higher, wiggling it slightly between your fingers. “Good news, you don’t have to participate. This one’s free.”

He didn’t take it.

“Why give them away?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re losing money.”

You smiled, wider this time, like you liked the question. “Maybe I am.” Then you continued a little more playful, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to cute strangers without it being weird.”

You thought he was cute? 

Dex almost laughed, but then decided that would probably be perceived as mean, regardless of his intentions. “That’s your strategy?”

“Hey, it’s working,” you said easily, nudging the flower a little closer to him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

His eyes flicked from the flower back to your face, trying to find the catch, maybe some sign you didn’t mean it, some crack in the tone, but there wasn’t one. You just looked… sincere. 

“Do you say that to everyone?” he asked.

You shrugged, shoulders lifting just slightly. 

For whatever reason, he finally took the flower.

Your fingers brushed his, and you didn’t pull away quickly like most people would. You just let it happen, then eased back to take the next flower for the next person.

“See?” you said, satisfied, like you’d won a county fair grand prize. “Now you’ve got proof today wasn’t a total waste.”

Dex looked down at the flower in his hand, then back at you. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

You laughed, and he thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “Take care of it,” you said, “Or don’t. It’s yours now.”

He didn’t react. He just awkwardly stood there for a couple of seconds, spinning the rose in his hand. 

“Dex,” he said instead, gesturing to himself like offering his name made sense here, like it belonged in this conversation.

Your expression brightened just a touch at that. “Dex,” you repeated, like you were testing it. “I’m guessing you don’t usually stop for random girls handing out flowers.”

“No.”

“Mm.” You smiled, just a little smug about it now. “Guess I got lucky, then.”

He stared at you for a second too long, because it didn’t feel like luck.

It felt deliberate. Like the world was pointing at you saying this one! This one is yours!

“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Something like that.”

“Alright, Dex,” you said, stepping back slightly to let someone pass between you. “Try not to look so miserable, yeah? You’ve got a flower now. That’s a personality upgrade.”

He huffed a small smile.

And when he walked away this time, he didn’t throw the flower out. He held onto it, tighter than he needed to.

See, he’d been empty for a long time. Nothing ever held his attention for more than a passing second anymore. Everything just got reduced to patterns, targets, and white noise. So when his focus caught on you and didn’t immediately let go, it felt wrong, like his world slipped off-pattern.

Behind him, you were already smiling at someone else, giving someone another rose. But that didn’t make it feel less personal. 

It just made him want your attention back.

—

A week later, Dex stepped into your shop like he’d already memorized it, as if he’d been there a hundred times instead of zero. The bell chimed softly overhead, and you glanced up from trimming stems, fingers faintly dusted with green.

“Hi! What can I do for you today?” you asked, like he was any other customer.

For a second, he just looked at you.

“You don’t recognize me?” he said, and it came out more earnest than he intended. He sounded… disappointed.

You blinked, then leaned forward slightly, studying him. There was a moment where he could see your mind working, trying to place him, and then your eyes widened, recognition clicking into place.

“Oh! Dex, right?” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “From Valentine’s Day.”

The panic that had clawed in his chest eased immediately.

You glanced down then, noticing what he was holding in his calloused hands: A small glass vase. Inside it, the rose.

The rose you gave him. 

“How’s it doing?” you asked, going around the counter and stepping closer.

“I put it in water,” he said, watching you instead of the flower. “I did all I could.”

You leaned in slightly, examining it, your fingers hovering just short of touching the petals. “Mm,” you hummed, but you didn’t sound surprised. “It’s wilting.”

“It is,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that wasn’t the point.

You looked up at him then, a little apologetic. “Roses don’t last forever.”

He knew that. You knew he knew that, you weren’t stupid. But he wasn’t the first customer who was upset that a flower had the audacity to die. Living art has a way of turning sentimental to people, beyond logic or reason.

Dex’s grip on the vase tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against the glass. “Can I keep it alive?” he asked.

The question wasn’t naive. Instead it was focused, as if he was asking, what else can we do? Are we exhausting all our options? 

“I mean… not really,” you admitted, “It’s just its time.”

He held your eyes, unwavering.

“I want it to last,” he said, and there was an absolution in the way he said it: stubborn, but not childish. He said it like it mattered more than it should because it was from you.

You, who he’d followed home for the past seven days without a second thought. You, who stopped at the corner supermarket to get your favourite blend of tea, who took the subway just to get coffee just because you liked how it was roasted better. You, who kept a herb garden on your kitchen windowsill meticulous and alive, and hung a suncatcher in your bedroom window so the light would break into colors across your room in the morning. You, who slept with the windows open because you like waking up to natural light. You, who slept in the cutest silk slips that barely leave anything to Dex’s imagination. And you, who had a rooftop garden hidden above your apartment, where you spent hours tending to things that grew because you cared. 

Oh, the garden.

Dex liked it most of all, because he found a high enough perch on a neighboring building to watch you without interruption, to stay still for hours at a time while you knelt among the plants and didn’t once look up, never once realizing your being followed, that your life was being studied by a very, very dangerous man. 

Your eyes flicked between him and the rose again, and then you let out a sigh, shifting closer to the counter. “Okay,” you said, thoughtful now. “I’ve got an idea.”

You reached for the vase and slid the wilting rose free. You handled it carefully, even in its fading state.

Then you turned, plucking a fresh rose from a nearby bundle, and held it out toward him with an encouraging smile. “You can take a new one,” you offered. “If you change the water every other day, it’ll stick around for longer.”

Dex didn’t even glance at it. His attention stayed on the original, now resting lightly in your hand.

“I don’t want a different one,” he said, smaller now, but no less firm.

You hesitated. “You… don’t?”

“I want that one.”

Your brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through. “The dying one?”

“…Yeah.”

There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that made you pause. Was he… attached?

You looked down at the rose again, then back at him. The lines in your face lowered like you were starting to understand, at least a little.

“Okay,” you murmured, thinking it through. Then, when you got an idea, you said, a bit brighter, “I could press it for you.”

Dex’s eyes shifted back to you.

“It’ll at least preserve it,” you added, gesturing lightly with the stem. “Flatten it, dry it properly. I know it’s exactly the same, but…” you smiled faintly, “it’ll last.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“You could come back to pick it up at a later date,” you continued. “I was already planning to press some gerberas anyway, so it’s not a big deal to add one more.”

Dex was silent for a moment, weighing not the practicality, but also its implication. Then he nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

You smiled and turned to set the rose aside carefully.

Dex stayed exactly where he was, watching you move, already certain he’d be back long before the wait was over.

—

Twelve days later, Dex stood across the street from your shop for eight full minutes before going in.

He wasn’t pacing, not even fidgeting. He was just standing there, coffee in hand, watching the door like it might open on its own and solve the problem for him.

He had already timed how long you usually stayed behind the counter in the morning, how often you stepped out to rearrange the display, the pattern of customers drifting in and out, and when you disappeared into the back room for exactly three minutes and twenty seconds at a time.

Still, he stood there a second too long, staring through the glass at the familiar arrangement of flowers, the counter, at you.  

The coffee in his hand was still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold either. He’d made sure of that.

Finally, he crossed the street.

The bell chimed when he pushed the door open.

You looked up and smiled. This time, you recognised him immediately. “Hi, Dex.”

And just like that, you made his day. Maybe his week. 

He stepped closer, more confident than he did before.

“Hi,” he said back. There was a second where he just stood there, looking at you like he’d forgotten why he came in at all.

Then, remembering, he held the coffee out. “This is for you.”

You blinked, surprised, but reached out to take it. “For me?” you echoed, turning the cup slightly in your hand. “You didn’t have to—”

You stopped to turn the cup slightly, reading the label, then glanced back up at him with a small tilt of your head.

“Oh my god,” you said, half-laughing already. “No way.”

Dex’s stomach dropped briefly before your smile widened.

“This is my coffee place,” you said, amused. “Like, my favourite cafe.”

He blinked, just feigning enough surprise to feel real. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you laughed, lifting the cup like evidence before you took a sip. “Dex...”

His shoulders tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”

“You got my order right.” There was a long second before you broke into a grin, bright and delighted. “That’s crazy.”

He let out a small, relieved breath through his nose. “I just guessed.”

“Insane guess,” you corrected, shaking your head as you took another sip, like you were still processing it. “You just nailed my entire personality in a cup.”

“I got lucky,” he said, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

You glanced back up at him, still smiling as you sat the cup down to clean up the leaves from the counter, leftover from conditioning your antirrhinums for an event in a few days. “Well,” you said, “your luck just made my morning significantly better, so...”

“That was the idea.” It slipped out before he could filter it.

Your face shifted from amused to warm, just a touch more focused on him. “Yeah?” 

Dex nodded once, like that was obvious.

A bout of silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It stretched comfortably as you leaned a little against the counter, still holding the coffee between your hands.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Dex answered, “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You shifted closer to the counter, resting your elbows there, facing him more fully now. “Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Or am I just benefiting from a very specific moment of generosity?”

“Not a lot,” he admitted.

“Well,” you said, lifting the cup slightly toward him in appreciation. “I’m not complaining.”

Okay. Dex thought. This was the lull in the conversation he had been waiting for. It was a gap, a narrow, fleeting window, and he could feel it closing even as it formed. If he didn’t do it now, it would slip, reset, become another loop of almost. Ask her out. Now. 

His heartbeat had gotten loud in his ears, his focus narrowing down to you and the space between you, to the way your fingers rested around the coffee he’d brought, to the way your mouth had just barely parted.

If he didn’t ask you out on a date, then he would just be the creep, right? If nothing came of these small visits, then you would just be a florist and he would just be a customer, right?

He had the words in the back of his tongue, he had practiced in the mirror all fucking morning. It was there, just waiting for him to catch up and say it out loud—

“You’re different today,” you said, interrupting his train of thoughts before it derailed.

“I…” he struggled, but then decided to play along. “How?”

“Less intimidating,” you said, smiling. “Last time you had this whole… intense thing going on.”

“I wasn’t trying to be intimidating.”

“But you kind of were anyway.”

He considered that, then nodded once, like he’d accept it.

You watched him for a second, then laughed softly to yourself.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You glanced at him, smile tilting.

“I thought you’d be the type to take the flower and disappear forever,” you admitted. “Not appear with coffee and—” you gestured lightly toward him, “—actual conversation.”

Dex’s mouth shifted slightly at that.

“That’s a good thing, right?” he asked, almost proud of the achievement you pointed out. 

“It is,” you said. “Because I was hoping that wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

“It’s not,” he said instantly. 

You studied him for a second, then nodded, like you believed him. “Okay,” you said. “Then we should probably keep talking somewhere that isn’t my shop while I’m technically working.”

Oh. Were you asking him out on a date?

Dex’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yeah,” he said.

You smiled, a little more playful again now that the words were out there. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You picked up your coffee again, almost absently.

“Dinner?” you suggested, like it was the most natural next step. “That feels like a reasonable escalation from coffee.”

“It does.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You drank the coffee again, a little ahh when you finished your sip.

“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’m working a wedding, but I’m free after seven.”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, too excitedly. “I’ll pick you up if you… uh, text me your address.” 

As if he didn’t already know. 

Your smile widened just slightly, already scribbling your number on the back of a receipt. 

“Saturday it is,” you said, giving the paper to him. 

And just like that, a plan settled into place.

Dex stayed where he was for a second longer, amazed at how everything had worked out in his favour. 

He had planned this differently.

He thought it would take more. He thought he’d have to push it there himself.

But you… you had met him halfway without even making it feel like effort.

—

Saturday arrived quicker than you had expected. 

You just got back from the wedding cocktail hour, and you barely had time to change from your blazer to a flowier dress before the doorbell rang. You checked your reflection one last time before heading downstairs, adjusting your bag just to keep your hands busy. 

It was seven. Exactly seven. 

Not early enough to seem overeager. Definitely not late enough to feel careless. It just felt… precise.

When you opened the door, he was already standing there with his shoulders squared, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes finding you immediately. 

“Hi,” you smiled, closing the door behind you.

“Hi,” he replied. “You look…” he started, then hesitated.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He exhaled faintly through his nose, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You look good,” he settled on, like it was the safest word he had to a much stronger reaction.

You laughed lightly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. 

“I was thinking we could walk,” he said. “The place I had in mind is just a couple blocks over.”

“Walking’s perfect,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”

He stepped into pace beside you easily, adjusting without thinking so you stayed in sync. Your arms brushed once, then again, and neither of you rushed to create distance.

It was comfortable. 

You pointed out a bakery you liked; he asked a few questions, just enough to keep you talking.

Then you turned the corner… and you froze in your steps. “Oh my god, wait.”

Dex halted immediately, “What?”

You looked up at the small restaurant in front of you, disbelief turning into a smile. “Dex,” you said, half-laughing, “this is my favourite Italian place.”

It was tiny. It had barely ten seats, warm light glowing through the windows. It was the kind of place you only found if someone told you about it or you got lucky wandering.

You looked back at him, still smiling. “How do you even know about this?”

“I’ve heard it’s good,” he simply lied.

He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near your back as you stepped inside.

The cozy warmth hit you immediately, along with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. 

“Hey! Back again?” the owner called out.

“Of course,” you smiled, glancing back at Dex. “Couldn’t stay away.”

You slid into one of the tiny tables, knees brushing his under the narrow space. He didn’t pull away.

“This is such a good choice,” you said, leaning forward slightly.

Dex watched you for a moment before answering, “I’m glad you like it.”

You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt like a very happy coincidence.

—

The date went… really well.

Like, unexpectedly well.

You stayed longer than either of you planned, the tiny restaurant slowly emptying around you until it felt like the two of you had the place to yourselves. 

And still, neither of you moved to leave.

You talked in that wandering way that only happens when you’re comfortable, jumping from one thing to another, doubling back, interrupting each other without apology. It didn’t feel like a “first date” anymore. It just felt like time spent together.

All that time, he couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t too obvious, but everything kept circling back to the way your mouth moved when you talked about needing to check on bubbles when you got home or something (whatever that meant), the way your hands followed your thoughts like they couldn’t keep up, the way you leaned in like the space between you didn’t matter.

Dex had spent years studying people, reducing them to patterns, weaknesses, outcomes. You didn’t fit cleanly into any of it. You felt… brighter than that. So whatever you were, he already decided, it was something he wasn’t going to lose.

“Today was insane, by the way,” you said at one point. “The wedding I told you I was working today? Completely unhinged.”

“What was it?” Dex’s attention didn’t waver. “Bad planning?”

“Bad everything,” you huffed a laugh. “The bridesmaid was losing it over nothing, the timeline kept slipping, and the groom—” you paused, rolling your eyes slightly “—the groom was… a lot.”

Dex didn’t care about the groom, not really. He cared about the way your nose scrunched slightly when you said it, the faint irritation in your voice. Even when annoyed, you were still… perfect. It didn’t make sense to him, how consistent it was. Still, he would listen to you simply because it was you. So he tilted his head just slightly, as if telling you to go on.

You hesitated, not like you didn’t want to answer, but like you were deciding how honest to be.

“He was…,” you said finally. “Like, weirdly controlling. Not just with the schedule, but with her.”

“The bride?” he asked, picking up his glass of red, taking another sip. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, your mouth tightening just a fraction. “Everything had to be his way. The food, the layout, even the order people walked in. And if something wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, he’d just…” you made a small, snapping gesture with your hand “… shut it down in front of everyone. His mom was almost worse. She’s just enabling him all the way.”

Dex’s eyes narrowed, though his expression stayed neutral. Then, just as quickly, you shifted the topic.

“But the flowers looked amazing,” you added lightly, leaning back again. “So, you know. At least something went right.”

Dex nodded once, like he understood that more than you meant.

Then, your phone lit up again.

You glanced at it again, for the first time that night. Dex noticed.

“You expecting something?” he asked, casual enough.

You looked up, like you hadn’t realized he’d caught that. “Hm?”

“You’ve checked your phone a couple times.”

You shrugged easily. “I’m looking out for follow-up stuff from the wedding. People always need something after.”

“Even after it’s done?”

You shook you head. “Especially after it’s done.”

He didn’t question you. If anything, his instinct leaned the other way entirely. You had your reasons, you always would. Whatever you did, whatever you said, he trusted without needing to understand. 

A few minutes later, you stood up. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You said, then you added playfully, “don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” he said. As if he would run out on the love of his life. 

He waited until you were out of sight, before absentmindedly reaching for his phone. He didn’t have much going on, just a police scanner app to track task force, a text thread with Mrs. Smithers in case her cat needed babysitting, and… you. 

So yeah, it was mostly out of habit. He was going to lock it and put it back in his pocket before you came back, but the news app gave him a notification he could ignore: 

Groom Dead at Wedding at The Plaza — Two Hospitalised.

His eyes moved over the words once. Then again, slower.

He looked at the name, the timing, the location. Everything aligned too… cleanly.

His thumb hovered for half a second before locking the screen.

When you came back, you slid into your seat like nothing had shifted.

“Okay,” you said, settling in. “What did I miss?”

Dex didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen this?”

You leaned in slightly, your shoulder almost brushing the table as your eyes moved over the screen.

He expected you to be horrified. To gasp, to be shaken. But you didn’t react the way most people would.

You just leaned back, eyebrows furrowed.

For a while, Dex couldn’t get a read on you— and that was terrifying. Were you grieving? Were you in shock? There was nothing in your usually animated eyes that gave anything away. 

“Oh,” you said.

Dex watched you closely. “That’s the wedding you worked, right?”

Your fingers found your glass again. You rotated it once, before answering. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look away.

You glanced up at him, then back down, your voice lowering just slightly. 

“He did get sick during cocktail hour,” you said, as if it was a realisation. Your tone didn’t change, though. 

“Food poisoning?” Dex speculated, his mind running through all the possibilities. Somewhere along the lines, he was also relieved that even though you told him you ate the canapés at the wedding, you weren’t taken ill at all.

You shrugged lightly. “That’s what they’ll say.”

Oh. Interesting. 

Not that’s what it is. You said, That’s what they’ll say.

“And you don’t think that’s what it was?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks. 

You looked at him then, properly. There was no panic in your expression, fear of saying the wrong thing. 

“I think,” you said, dragging out the words, “that sometimes people end up exactly where they were always heading.”

You picked up your glass again, taking a small sip before continuing, almost as an afterthought. “I mean… She wanted to call it off.”

It was clear that you were talking about the Bride. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you now with a different kind of focus.

“She wasn’t going to get out on her own,” you continued, “and now…” you gave him the faintest shrug, “…she doesn’t have to.”

—

You saw him again a week later, when he came by the shop.

The bell chimed, and you glanced up out of habit, shears still in hand, a stem caught mid-trim between your fingers.

You didn’t expect it to be him.

But the second realised, your eyes lit up. “Hi, Dex.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Hi.”

As he stepped further inside, his eyes moved over the shop. He studied the in the buckets lined along the walls, the arrangements you’d spent hours shaping, the little details most people skipped over entirely.

He was cataloguing it, learning it. Or, at the very least, he was pretending to.

You leaned lightly against the counter, watching him with a gentle smile. “Looking for something specific?”

“Maybe,” he said.

It wasn’t the most helpful thing a customer would say, but you chuckled anyway.

He moved toward a small arrangement near the front, a small spring bouquet you’d put together that morning, filled with yellow and whites and eucalyptus foliage. It wasn’t flashy, but it was balanced. It was thoughtful. 

Dex picked it up, turning it slightly in his hand, ever so carefully, as if it required inspection.

You tilted your head. “That one?”

“It’ll do,” he said.

It’ll do.

You let out a huff of laughter at that, setting your shears down with a clink before stepping around the counter. “Wow. Glowing review. I should put that on a sign.”

He glanced at you, as if to say I didn’t mean it that way. “I need more decorations.”

You didn’t push as you reached for the wrapping paper and cellophane. You didn’t ask why a man who didn’t even know what to do with a rose suddenly cared about daisies and carnations and violet-tinted gypsophilas.

You just nodded and got to work, wrapping the stems neatly, your fingers moving with practiced precision.

He watched the way you tucked the stems in, the way your thumb pressed the fold flat. The tiny, unconscious movements that made everything you did feel trained and deliberate.

You had a feeling he didn’t really get flowers, it was pretty evident after your first date. He didn't seem to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to care about arrangements or meaning or seasonal choices.

But he kept coming back.

And if flowers were the excuse he used just to see you, then you weren’t complaining. 

The rustle of paper filled the room, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the back. When you finished tying it off, you lifted the bouquet and held it out toward him, a flicker of playfulness returning to your voice.

“So,” you said, “is this one going to need preserving too?”

His eyes dropped to the flowers, then back to you.

“Maybe,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a joke. And if it was, he didn’t deliver it like one.

Your smile softened anyway. “Good to know. I’ll start preparing.”

He took the bouquet from you and paid, sliding the money across without looking away for long, then gathered the bouquet carefully, holding it like it mattered more than he’d ever admit out loud.

But he didn’t leave right away.

Before you could say anything, he shifted the bouquet slightly in his hand, and then, almost absently, plucked a single daisy from it.

Your brows lifted, a quiet “hey” forming before you could stop it, maybe to playfully remind him that you worked hard on that arrangement, but you didn’t actually protest.

He stepped closer.

His hand came up to reach over the counter. Gently, he brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear.

He did it so carefully, as if you were made of a million little crystals and might break at the wrong frequency.

Your breath hitched, only slightly.

Then he tucked the daisy there. His thumb lingered, rubbing a single slow circle under your ear. His hand dropped a little, only to rise again, this time under your chin.

He tilted your face up, just enough to catch the light properly.

His thumb rested lightly against your jaw, his pointer finger locking his hold. His gaze was fixed entirely on you now— on the flower, on your face, on the way both fit together like you’d been sculpted by the gods for his enjoyment, and that alone. 

Then he smiled, lips pulling at the edges of his mouth just enough to draw toward the scar on his cheek. “Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.

You weren’t sure if he meant you. Or the flower. Or both. You weren’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud, or if he meant for you to hear it.

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest anyway.

“…thanks,” you said softly, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at you.

His hand dropped, but not abruptly. He looked… satisfied. 

“We’ll start planning a second date, yeah?” The way he said it wasn’t really a question. It was more like a conclusion he’d already reached, a decision you were simply being informed of.

You should’ve pushed back. Maybe teased him for it, made him work a little harder to get you.

But instead, you just smiled.

Because you didn’t feel the need to argue with it. Not even a little.

—

The second date came on a Friday, and it felt nothing like the first.

There was no careful planning, or buildup inside a restaurant, no structured beginning or end. It just happened.

It started late, later than most people would bother going out, when the city had already begun to be less crowded, less performative. 

You met him with the same familiarity that had been settling between you.

You ended up just walking with no destination in mind; though he did steer you to a less crowded route. Before you knew it, you found yourself by the Hudson River, the air cooler there, touched with that faint edge of water and wind. The city lights stretched across the surface in long, shimmering lines, breaking and reforming with every ripple.

You walked side by side, close enough that you were always aware of him, his pace adjusting subtly to yours.

The conversation came without effort, drifting between small observations and half-finished thoughts, the kind of talking that didn’t need to impress or prove anything. You even talked about your personal life— mostly your flower pressing. You did mention, again, what he now assumed was a pet: “I need to feed Bubbles as soon as I get home!” Which was weird, because he was yet to see any signs of animal life in the apartment. 

Before he could ask, you darted to a different topic. 

But whatever. How could he focus on something so trivial when his girl was right in front of him? 

At some point during the night, he stopped at a street vendor.

You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he came back to you with a sweet and sugary smelling food. 

“Wait, what is this?” you laughed, peeking into the paper tray.

“Churros,” he said simply, then also pointed at the chocolate pot, like an offering. 

You looked up at him, smiling. There was no point really, in telling him you loved churros. He seemed to always know what you were craving and what you wanted, that he was always somehow one step ahead of you. It’s as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “You’re just making executive decisions now?”

“You didn’t object.”

Of course you didn’t.

You took a bite instead, the crisp sugar coating your mouth. You immediately let out a small, pleased sound before you could stop yourself.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very,” you admitted, already going in for another bite of your favourite dessert. “You’ve set a very high standard for future dates, just so you know.”

“I can keep up,” he said again, like that was the easiest promise in the world.

You walked and ate and talked, and you can’t help but feel like you’d skipped awkward and landed straight into comfortable.

You were out for hours, and it flew by as if it was just minutes. 

By the time you circled back toward your place, the city had lulled even more. There were fewer people, quieter sounds. The only significant noise was the distant hum of traffic and the echo of your footsteps on the pavement.

You slowed as your building came into view.

Dex stopped just short of the door again, like last time, like there was an invisible line he was still choosing not to cross without permission.

You turned toward him, still holding the half-empty paper tray in one hand.

You looked at him, at the way his attention was always so focused when it landed on you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. 

Then your eyes dropped, just slightly, to his lips. “You’ve got something there,” you said, you pointed out.

He tilted his head. “Where?”

You stepped closer before he could overthink it.

“Here.” Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, guiding his face just enough. Then, before you could think any better of it, you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing his skin just enough to take pry sweet liquid off.

Dex went completely still.

You pulled away just quickly, thumb swiping the little wet patch you’d accidentally left behind, and Dex leaned into your touch without a second thought. 

You smiled a little too casually for what you’d just done.

“Chocolate sauce,” you explained, tapping your own lip like that was the only reason. “Couldn’t just leave it there.”

“I…,” he said finally, almost stumbling over his words. “…right.”

You smiled wider, like you knew he had a soft spot for you, like you knew you would get away with it if you committed hard enough.

“Goodnight, Dex.”

And just like last time, you slipped inside before he could stop you.

—

He stood there for a while, longer than necessary.

His hand lifted briefly, brushing the corner of his mouth where yours had been, like he could still feel it there.

After a few seconds, he forced himself to snap out of it. He had somewhere to be, of course. 

Not home, but it was somewhere he had grown to like more than home.

See, there was only ever one place he could go after a night like this.

He walked across the street, then around the corner, then up the stairwell he already knew too well. His body moved through it like routine, but his mind stayed exactly where you’d left it—

At your door, your lips. At that fleeting kiss that had lasted barely a second and somehow rewired the rest of his night.

See, he knew what you did on Fridays. You would go up to the rooftop and tend to your plants. You would check on them, do some maintenance, and sometimes, you’d even harvest them and put them in a mortar and pestle, crushing and storing them in a little bottle. Herbal remedies, Dex had assumed. It was adorable, how much care you put into your cute little garden.

When you were done with your plants, he would watch you through your naively opened bedroom window as you got ready for bed. 

After your last date, he had even watched you lay there as you ever so slowly reached your fingers under your cotton panties. It wasn’t long before he realised you were touching yourself while mouthing his name. 

If he was lucky, he’d get to witness that again today.  

—

Dex had been watching from his perch for fifteen minutes.

You had changed into a comfortable black hoodie that swallowed your frame— he saw that much through the glow of your bedroom window. 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the cold concrete.

You always went up to the rooftop after you changed. It was a pretty reliable pattern.

So when you didn’t appear on there, when five minutes stretched past where you should’ve been stepping into the open air, his chest tightened.

Dex didn’t move, but his focus heightened instantly, attention narrowing as he recalibrated. His eyes flicked once more to your window… and then the front door of your building opened.

You stepped out.

The hood was down, your hands tucked briefly into the pocket before you pulled one free, adjusting your sleeve as you moved.

Dex’s head tilted just slightly.

That… wasn’t part of your routine.

You wouldn’t go out at this hour alone. Especially not after a night like this.

“What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath, more observation than question.

He pushed off the ledge, already deciding he would follow. 

After all, he had to keep his girl safe. 

—

Distance was easy to maintain when you understood movement, when you could predict the rhythm of someone’s steps before they took them.

He stayed behind you, offset just enough to disappear into reflections, into shadows, into the gaps people never noticed. Your figure stayed in his line of sight the entire time, framed between streetlights and reflected storefront glass.

You didn’t look back.

You turned down a smaller street, then another, the noise of the city thinning out until it became distant. Your footsteps echoed here.

You were more exposed.

Dex adjusted accordingly, his own steps falling soundlessly into place.

Then you turned into an alley. He slowed down immediately, slipping to the edge before you disappeared fully from view.

When he shifted just enough to see, he realised… you weren’t alone.

A man stood waiting in the shadows, wearing a dark grey jacket. What was more interesting, though, was that he was wearing thick black rubber gloves. 

Dex’s eyes narrowed as you walked straight to this stranger without hesitation.

What the hell?

You reached into your pocket and pulled an envelope out. The man handed you a small and unmarked box in return.

Dex’s mind ran through possibilities fast, each one worse than the last. A deal. This was a deal. A drug deal?

His grip tightened slightly against the brick beside him.

No. No, that didn’t fit. Not you. You weren’t…were you? His girl didn’t deal in things like this.

Did she?

The thought sat wrong in his chest, and he was starting to get irritated. 

You took the box without a word, and left. Dex didn’t follow you this time.

The man was still there, and Dex had questions.

So he watched him from the shadows, counted the seconds, and waited for an opening. 

Stupidly, the man decided to check the cash right then and there.  That was when Dex reached down to a bit of rusted metal (probably fallen off someone’s fire escape).

He prepared for a precise throw… 

And it drove straight into the man’s leg.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t a full scream at first, more like a strangled choke. It was horrifically cut off as his body folded, collapsing hard against the wall. His hands scrambled, one reaching instinctively for the bar buried in his thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the ground.

“What the…fuck—!”

Dex was already on him, closing the distance before panic could turn into a fight or flight response. He crouched just enough to bring himself into view.

“Don’t,” Dex said quietly, nodding once toward the bar when the man’s fingers twitched again. “You’ll make it worse.”

The man froze. “Who the hell are you—” he started, breath hitching.

Dex grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, bones cracking within seconds.

This time, the scream came out full.

It echoed off the brick walls, cut short only when Dex tightened his grip just enough to keep him grounded in it.

“You’re going to tell me about the deal you just made,” Dex said.

The man’s breathing turned ragged, eyes wide, darting like he was trying to find a way out that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

Dex tilted his head slightly, then pressed down, just enough on the broken arm.

The man choked on the next sound, panic flooding in properly now. “Okay, okay! Fuck—okay!” he gasped. “I’ll talk, j-just stop—”

Dex eased the pressure. Not out of mercy, but out of efficiency.

“Talk,” he repeated.

“I’m just a courier,” the man rushed, words tripping over each other. “That’s it, I don’t make the deals, I don’t ask questions, I just move shit from point A to point B—”

“A courier,” Dex echoed, unimpressed. His grip didn’t loosen. “For what?”

“I don’t know everything, I-I swear!” The man’s voice cracked, eyes glassy now, pain bleeding into fear. “I just get told where to go, what to hand over—what to pick up—”

Dex didn’t blink as he listened to the man breaking under pressure.

“I think it’s plants, okay?” he blurted. “Restricted ones—imported shit, hard to get, I d-don’t… know! That’s all I know, I don’t grow it, I don’t sell it, I just carry it—please—”

Dex studied him, weighing the truth the way he always did, not through words, but through the way they came out. 

Then, he let go.

The man dropped fully to the ground this time, clutching at his arm, his leg, his whole body curling in on itself like it might hold him together.

Dex stood and looked down at him, unmoved. Whether he bled out or crawled his way to help didn’t matter.

He’d already given Dex what he needed.

—

Even nearly two weeks after that, he had been thinking about the alley more than he cared to admit.

About the man. The deal. The box. But mostly about you.

He had turned it over in his head enough times to sand down the edges. Right, so it was restricted plants, rare imports, probably something you just liked. That tracked. You liked things that grew, things that needed care. It was… harmless. Endearing, even, that you would inconvenience yourself to a fault to satisfy a hobby. 

Cute, That’s what he settled on. Your apparent hobby of collecting rare plants was cute. 

So when your text came—come by the shop after closing?— thoughts shifted immediately, like a switch being flipped.

How could he say no to his girl?

By the time he stepped inside, the lights were already dimmed. It smelled stronger at night, but still faintly distinctly sweet underneath.

You were already there, waiting behind the counter.

“Hi,” you said, softer than usual, like the hour demanded it.

“Hi,” he echoed.

The second thing Dex noticed after you, were the chocolates. 

It was a heart-shaped velvet red box, and it was open, ribbon pushed aside, a couple already missing. 

It was a gift chocolate, not one you would buy for yourself. That alone was enough to get his chest hot with anger or jealousy, maybe both. It didn’t help that you were casually picking one up, inspecting it like it deserved your full attention.

You followed his line of sight, then smiled knowingly. “Oh.” You picked one up, turning it between your fingers. “These?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” you hummed, popping it into your mouth without breaking eye contact. “They’re actually really good.”

It felt as if a rope had been pulled around his heart.

You chewed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Hazelnut, I think.”

Dex stepped closer, slower this time. “Who is it from?”

“From Daniel Harper,” you said, reaching for another one. “He’s the crypto guy who got flowers for Mother’s Day once and wouldn’t stop asking me out. But I think…” you tilted your head carefully, “I think he got the point now.”

“You’re eating them,” he pointed out, the entire world blurring into a haze. All he could think was that another man brought you gifts. Another man wanted you. Another man had the audacity to fucking try.

“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate,” you said, like it was obvious. Then you tilted your head, studying him as you unwrapped another. “Fuck, you’re so obvious right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you smiled, like you were enjoying it. “You hate this.”

“I don’t hate it.” What a fucking lie. 

“You do, a little,” you said, stepping around the counter, closing the distance between you. “Which is funny, because—” you held the chocolate up between your fingers “—you’re the one I invited here.”

Dex’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand then back to you. 

“C’mon,” you said, voice turning playful again, nudging it closer to his mouth. “Spoils of war.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “War?” He echoed. Still, as much as he hated all of this, he couldn’t help but find your attempt to feed him endearing.

“Harper is a man who tried and failed to get me,” you grinned. “You’re benefiting from his loss. You’re welcome.”

He didn’t take it, mostly because he was stubborn— but so were you. You nudged it closer. “C’mon Dex,” you pouted, remembering how much he liked the chocolate sauce on the churros. “I know you like it. Don’t be difficult.”

Dex leaned in slightly, and instead of just taking the chocolate, his mouth closed around your fingers.

Your breath hitched.

His tongue brushed against your skin as he pulled away, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then he took the chocolate between his teeth, like nothing had happened.

You stared at him.

“I…,” you said after a beat, a little breathless now despite yourself. “That was—”

He didn’t respond. He watched you, an arrogant grin now playing on his face. If his sweet girl wanted to tease and taunt, he had to show you two can play at that game. 

Your composure came back quickly, but your smile had changed. It was less teasing, more charged.

“Right,” you cleared your throat lightly. “Actually—” You turned, gathering your thoughts and reached under the counter. “I didn’t ask you here just to steal Harper’s dignity,” you added, glancing back at him. “I have something for you.”

You waited until he was close, closer than necessary, before you said, “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” you shot back immediately, “don’t be so suspicious. It’s a flower shop, not a crime scene.”

His mouth twitched. “Is it?

“Dex.”

He sighed, quiet, but obedient, and let his eyes fall shut.

He heard you move closer, the shuffle of your steps, the faint clink of something being set down. There was a pause, like you were checking and adjusting your secret prize.

Then, you said, “Okay. Open.”

He did.

Oh.

It was the rose.

Maybe he had expected just a dried, pressed flower, but definitely not… this. 

It was preserved and framed in a gold-planted wood, intricately carved. The petals were darker now, fragile-looking but perfectly intact, held in place.

Your smile wavered just slightly. “Okay, that silence is… concerning. Say something.”

He blinked once, like he was catching up to the moment.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“Well,” you huffed a small laugh, folding your arms loosely. “That was kind of the whole point of you leaving it with me.”

“No,” he shook his head once, stepping closer. “You… you didn’t have to do all this for me.”

Your eyes softened at that. He said it as if he truly believed he didn’t deserve it. 

“I wanted to,” you reassured. 

He reached for it slowly, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, then traced it.

“It’s better,” he said simple.

“Better than a fresh one?” you teased, tilting your head.

“Yes.”

“That’s bold.” You raised an eyebrow. “Florists everywhere just felt personally attacked.”

“I don’t care about them.”

You laughed a little, and his chest tightened in a familiar way. It wasn’t entirely jealousy anymore.

“I’m glad,” you said. “Would be awkward if you were secretly seeing other florists behind my back.”

His eyes flicked to yours, as if the implications were laughable. “I’m not.”

“I know,” you grinned. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The ‘casually shops around’ type,” you said, gesturing vaguely between him and the shop. “But… you actually like it, right?” you asked at the frame, smaller this time, just to be sure. As if you were anxious that you put so much effort in something he wouldn’t care about.

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Your smile came back, like that answer meant more than you were letting on.

You were still standing so close.

Dex noticed that neither of you had stepped back from the frame, like the space between you had just… disappeared.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“I know.”

That should’ve made you pull away.

Instead, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the frame still on the table. “If you break that," you teased. “I’m not making you another one.”

“I won’t break it.”

“You say that,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes, “but you’ve got kind of a… destructive vibe.”

He frowned. “You think that about me?”

“I think,” you stepped just a fraction closer, “that you get intense about things you like.”

His eyes locked onto yours. And you could tell that hit a lot closer to home than he intended. 

“And you like this,” you added, tapping the frame once more.

“Yes.”

“And you like… flowers?” you pushed, clearly enjoying yourself.

“No.”

You chuckled, almost a sweet giggle. “So it’s just me, then?”

He didn’t answer. That was your answer.

“Good,” you said under your breath.

Your hand slid off the frame, brushing against his fingers on the way down. Your eyes dropped, just briefly, to his mouth.

Dex noticed.

His grip on the frame loosened, setting it aside without looking, his attention already back on you like it had nowhere else to go.

“You’re still staring,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

Your breath hitched, slightly. Then, before you could think twice, you issued a challenge, “Do something about it, then.”

That was all it took for all pleasantries and manners to fall apart. Not that it ever had any leg to stand on.

Dex closed the distance immediately, his hand finding your waist as his mouth met yours, like he’d already done this a hundred times before.

You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. 

Your hands were on him, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as hard, just as certain. You were quick to match his intensity, biting a bit of his lip just to drag him back to the real world. You could tell he was spiraling, that he had been all consumed by the gesture. 

When you broke for air, it barely lasted a second. “Dex—”

He kissed you again. 

And this time, it deepened, slower but heavier, like he was learning you in real time and refusing to let go. Like if he could, he would fuse his bones into you. 

You laughed softly into it, breathless. “Okay… okay—”

But you didn’t stop him. Whatever you were about to say got lost when his hands tightened at your waist and he lifted you like it was nothing, setting you back onto the workbench behind you.

The tools rattled softly, a pack of floral tape rolling off to the side, but neither of you cared.

Your legs shifted instinctively, pulling him closer by hooking it around his hips, and the kiss didn’t slow. It only got more insistent, like neither of you had any interest in stopping now that you’d started.

“Still think I’m intense?” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled against his lips. “A little.”

He kissed you again like that was the wrong answer, and you let him.

When your fingers tangled in his hair, he let a sweet moan against your mouth. Interesting, you thought, as his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, like there wasn’t enough distance in the world to satisfy him.

It was messy and overwhelming in the way neither of you tried to control.

His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing skin…

….and you snapped out of it.

“Dex—”

He hummed, trailing a kiss down your cheek, latching on your neck….

But then you pulled away softly, slow enough to not be abrupt, but out of place enough that he felt… confused.

What had he done wrong? 

Your breath was uneven when breathed out. Gently, you pushed his hand from under your shirt. You were met with no resistance as his big palms splayed on your lap, kneading anxiously, as if he was itching to touch you again, to kiss you, to take you. 

Then, you gently pressed your forehead to his. “I… we shouldn’t.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. 

“Oh,” he said quietly. His thoughts were spiralling, you could tell. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, playing over and over again in his head. 

“No, hey, hey,” you rushed, hands coming up to his face, cupping his jaw. “Not like that. Not… not because I don’t want to.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“I do want to,” you said, more certain. “I just… I’ve got to work a baby shower early tomorrow, and I still need to finish a couple arrangements tonight, and if we—” you huffed a small, breathless laugh, “—if we keep going, I’m not getting anything done.”

Dex stared at you, processing.

“I…” he started but could not finish, as if he needed to say something, anything, to stop himself from falling off the deep end. 

“I’m sorry,” you smiled sadly, a little apologetic. 

He exhaled slowly, trying to recover, trying to place where you were in his mind.

“I like you, I really do.” Your thumb brushed lightly along his lower lip, where a string of moisture had collected. Dex’s eyes darted away, simply because like was not what he felt for you. What he felt was obsession, devotion, perhaps love that grew in such a short time. Still you reassured him. “I like you. I want you. Just… not right now, not here.”

Dex looked at your lips, almost still in a daze. 

Then you added, a little more playful again, “Come over tomorrow? We can… continue this. Properly.”

And just like that, his brain rearranging itself, making space for a schedule. 

It's okay. It’s okay. It's not the end of the world. She wants you, she still wants you… 

Then, to quiet the storm in his mind, he leaned in again, kissing you once, shorter this time, but just as certain.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled against him.

“Yeah,” he said, breathless, discreetly wiping a tear from his eyes. “Yeah.”

—

That night, Dex didn’t go straight home. He found himself outside Daniel Harper’s building, hoping he could finish the job for you. 

It wasn’t hard. The door wasn’t even locked. 

Inside, Daniel sprawled on the couch, body slack, mouth parted with a thin line of foam dried at the corner, eyes glassy and gone. 

He was already dead. He had been for a while, by the looks of it. 

Dex stood there for a moment, taking it in: the stillness, the lack of struggle, the timing of it all, and tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful. 

“Huh,” he murmured to no one, cataloguing what mattered and what didn’t. 

How weird.

—

Dex couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He spent the night thinking about you, and then the morning, and then the entire day in that same tight loop of fixation, until even the idea of distance felt like a grenade swallowed and exploding from the inside. 

It wasn’t just want. It was compulsion, an itch under the skin he couldn’t stop scratching at no matter how much it bled. 

So he did the only thing that still made sense: he went hunting for Task Force from the break of dawn, anything to keep his mind from turning fully toward you. Because when it did, he was just turned into a pathetic little puddle of emotions.

When it came down to going to your apartment, his nerves were practically buzzing off the roof. 

The second you opened the door, he was already moving, one hand bracing the frame as he stepped in, the other finding your waist and then he kissed you, like the space between seeing you and touching you had been unbearable.

You laughed into it, surprised but not resisting, your hands catching on his jacket. “Dex—”

“I missed you,” he said against your mouth, already walking you backward as he nudged the door shut with his foot, his grip tightening just slightly at your side.

“You saw me last night,” you teased, breath catching as his lips found yours again.

“Hmm,” he dismissed, picking you up slightly at your feet.

“Careful—careful!” you suddenly laughed, twisting slightly in his hold.

Dex stopped instantly, setting you down like you’d burned him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Watch out for Bubbles.” You were still smiling, a little breathless, pointing past him. “Don't wanna wreck her enclosure.”

“Bubbles?” He’s heard you say that name once or twice before. A pet, he assumed. A cat, maybe a small dog? Though he never saw anything through the window, so in the back of his mind, he had chalked it off to being a carnivorous plant.

But when he turned… he saw a small tank he didn’t recognise. After all, he had never been able see this part of your apartment from his perch. 

Dex stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

An… octopus. 

It was small, beige and yellow, though the second it clocked him, it flashed aggressive blue rings. Its limbs curled slowly against the glass. It had a maze in its enclosure, an enrichment of some kind, perhaps? 

“Oh,” he said. That was the last thing he ever expected. 

“She’s cute, right?” you beamed, coming up beside him like this was completely normal. 

Dex watched it for a second longer than necessary. “…yeah.”

It blinked, beady eyes looking straight into his eyes. He blinked back.

“Okay. Come on,” you grabbed his hand, tugging him away with a grin. “I don’t want Bubbles to watch.”

He let himself be pulled, though his eyes flicked once more over his shoulder before following you down the short hall.

You passed a door, and heknew where it must go: the rooftop. Your rooftop— idle and calming. In all its domesticity, you were your happiest there. “Where does this go?” He feigned innocence. 

You didn’t miss a beat. “Junk closet.”

He looked at you, and you smiled too quickly. “…right,” he said.

Why would you lie?

The thought barely had time to settle before you pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs like it was second nature.

That distracted him immediately. He didn’t even have the time to take in the bedroom he had spent so long looking through. 

Your hands found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it off without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind you like it didn’t matter.

Dex’s attention snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Whatever question he had dissolved under his tunnel vision, his focus now on you. 

“You think too much,” you murmured, leaning down, your hands braced on either side of him.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you smiled, your nose brushing his. “Good thing I know how to fix that.”

His hands came back to your waist like they’d never left.

And this time, neither of you stopped.

—

Dex had been overwhelmed in the best way possible way

Not just by the way you’d pulled him apart piece by piece, with your hands, mouth, all of it; but by how easily you’d met him there. 

How easily you matched him, pushed back. There had been nothing hesitant about you, nothing uncertain; every touch had felt intentional, every sinful sound felt like it belonged to him. The touch of your tongue lingered even now, under his skin. His body still felt too warm, too aware, even as the room cooled down.

He could still feel the faint press of your nails at his shoulders, how you had traced the scar on his back and not even question where it came from. He could still feel the heat of your breath against his throat, where it dragged down to his chest, then his stomach, then between his legs. You’d pulled him closer like you didn’t want even an inch of distance between you. 

When he helped you chase each others’ bliss, it didn't feel casual, or even just physical. It had felt all-consuming, addicting, euphoric. And he would change a thing. 

The shower hadn’t helped the nerves, though.

If anything, it had made it worse. It was your idea to clean up together, your hands sliding over him beneath the water, slower this time, exploratory, like you were learning him just as much as he was memorizing you. The steam had wrapped around both of you, turning everything hazy. Even now, lying beside you, he could still feel it, the imprint of your palm on his bare skin and his on yours. 

Now, you were asleep.

You were curled into him, your leg draped over his like you’d claimed him without thinking. Your breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the way he was looking at you.

Dex didn’t even try to drift off. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

His hand hovered just above your waist, then settled there lightly. His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing if you were real, making sure you weren’t a fragment of his broken mind it made as a coping mechanism. 

You shifted closer in your sleep.

Mine.

The thought came into his mind uninvited, but he didn’t push it away.

But still… like a weed going through cracks, he couldn’t help but think about the door. 

Junk closet, you said. 

His teeth clenched. No. That wasn’t right.

He knew the building— found the layout and structure long before he ever stepped foot in it. He knew exactly how space worked, how things connected. There wasn’t room for a “junk closet” there. 

Which meant… you lied.  Why would you lie to him?

The thought didn’t sit right. It didn’t settle, didn’t smooth over the way everything else about you seemed to.

You didn’t lie. Not really. Not about things that mattered. So why this?

His back tightened slightly, his thumb pausing where it rested against your waist. His eyes darted, involuntarily, toward the direction of the door again. Junk closet.

No.

His mind ran it again, as if to double and triple check. He could see it clearly, like a blueprint burned into the back of his skull. There was no space for that.

You had lied. You must’ve.

Why? To keep him out? To hide something? From him?

His chest tightened at that, a bitterness threading through his mind previously touched by your warmth.

Check it.

The thought popped up in his mind, clear as day.

Check it.

His eyes dropped back to you immediately. You, still curled into him, your breathing even, your face relaxed. You trusted him enough to sleep like that.

His hand shifted slightly against you, fingers pressing just a fraction deeper, like he could fuse himself to you.

Stay.

That was his next thought. After all, it felt stupid to leave you alone, in bed, defenseless, in favour of a theoretically imaginary junk closet.

Don’t move.

You looked… safe. Happy. Like having him here was enough to solve all his problems.

Check it.

Fuck, that thought came back unannounced, and it came back louder.

Check it. Check it.

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, like he could shut it out.

You lied. Why would you lie? Check it.

His fingers flexed once against your side, restless now.

Check it.

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. He opened his eyes again, staring down at you like the answer might be written somewhere in the shape of your face. Still, he found nothing.

Check it.

His head tilted slightly, the thought settling in deeper this time: He needed to know.

A quiet sigh left him as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek. 

You stirred faintly, an adorable little snore slipping from you, but you didn’t wake.

Dex slid out from under you carefully, easing your leg back onto the mattress, making sure you stayed comfortable before he stood. He paused for a second, just watching you again, like it physically hurt to look away.

Then he turned, moving through the apartment soundlessly. As he wandered into the living room, he caught a bit of movement. 

His head snapped toward the motion, and then relaxed when he realised it was just Bubbles, moving in her tank.

The small octopus had shifted the second she saw him, her body tightening, skin rippling. Suddenly, blue rings flashed brightly on her skin again.

Dex could’ve sworn, that for a second, they stared at each other. 

There was something unnerving about the way her eyes locked onto his, unblinking, aware in a way that didn’t feel like an animal should be. Like she knew he was dangerous. Like she perceived him as a threat. 

His head tilted slightly, studying her right back. “Hi, Bubbles,” he murmured under his breath.

Her color pulsed again, blue agitation flickering through her small body. For a second, he saw himself in her. For a second, he wondered if her blue rings were a sign of anger.

Dex’s mouth twitched, almost amused and a little irritated that he let an octopus the size of a golf ball get to him. “Relax,” he said quietly.

She didn’t, but he decided to look away anyway.

He reached for the door, hand resting on the handle. For a second, he didn’t move.

Then…

He opened it.

Part of him hoped he was wrong, that he had simply been mistaken somehow, that you had told him the truth.

But… all he saw was stairs.

Of course.

“Don’t judge me,” he muttered to Bubbles, letting obsessive certainty take over as he moved upward, each step soundless.

The door at the top gave way with barely a push. As he suspected, it was your rooftop.

It was… beautiful.

Bright moonlight spilled across the space, reflected on leaves and petals and glass, turning everything silver-edged and almost ethereal. Rows of plants, carefully arranged, meticulously kept, thrived under your attention. Vines curled where they were meant to. Blooms opened toward the sky. 

Dex stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning, taking it all in with a kind of reverence he didn’t usually allow himself.

You spent time here. You cared about this.

So why?

Why wouldn’t you show him this? Why wouldn’t you tell him? Didn’t you trust him?

He would’ve listened. He would’ve understood— well no, maybe not understood, but he would’ve learned. For you.

You didn’t have to hide things from him. You didn’t have to keep parts of yourself away.

His eyes landed on the workbench to see a box, the same unmarked one he’d seen exchanged in that alley.

So it was that.

Next to it was a small juvenile plant, carefully potted. You had even given a handwritten label to it: Rosary pea.

Dex frowned slightly. He didn’t recognize the name. It sounded… almost gentle. Like everything else here.

Just a plant, right? Just you, collecting things that grew, things that needed care.

That’s all. That’s all it had to be.

He let out a sigh, tension still sitting tight on his shoulders. His eyes drifted again, unfocused now, thoughts spiraling faster.

Why didn’t you trust him? What did he do wrong?

He tried. He did everything right. He showed up. He listened. He gave you what you wanted, what you liked…  Didn’t he?

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was tight.

His attention snagged on something else nearby, this time it was a spire of flowers. The plant was tall and slender, violet bells hanging delicately from thin stems, catching the moonlight like they were almost glowing.

Dex stepped closer without thinking.

His fingers reached out, brushing one of the petals. It was pretty, like you. 

His chest tightened, and nothing could push his thoughts away:Why didn’t you tell him?

It looped, faster now, louder.

Why did you lie?

“Huh…?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely there now, strained.

His fingers lingered against the flower, tracing it absently. But something felt… off. First, he felt as if his fingers, the ones that touched the petals, were going numb.

Then, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He frowned slightly as his heart stuttered once, hard enough to make his breath catch.

Dex went still. “…what—”

The word barely formed before his vision shifted. The edges blurred, the rooftop tilting just slightly out of place.

Dex blinked hard, trying to steady it, but it didn’t stop. His breathing hitched, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench.

His heart skipped a beat again.

No. No, no—

His knees weakened without warning, his body suddenly too heavy, too slow to respond.

The world tilted harder this time.

The last thing he saw was your garden, blurring into streaks of green and violet under the moonlight.

—

Dex woke up slowly, like he was being pulled up from the darkest depths of his mind, his body reluctant to follow. The first thing he registered wasn’t the room, or the fading light of dusk bleeding through your windows. Instead, it was you.

Even half-conscious, disoriented, his senses found you first.

Then his eyes opened fully.

Where was he?

He was no longer in your garden. Instead, he saw your coffee table, a TV, and a couple of harmless houseplants. Oh. He was in your living room, on your couch. 

As he got a better look at you, he realised you were slumped in the armchair across from him, unconscious, your head tilted slightly to the side, your arm stretched toward him.

You looked smaller like this, folded in on yourself. It didn’t match the version of you he remembered in his head— the one that laughed behind the counter, that handled petals like they might bruise under the wrong touch. 

That’s when he saw an IV tube connected to a needle in his arm. He followed it… to you. It was a makeshift transfusion.

For a second, he just stared, his brain lagging behind the image, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of why you were connected to him like that, why your blood was in him, why you looked so… still.

His stomach dropped. This was desperate. This was you cutting into yourself, giving a part of yourself away just to keep him breathing.

Why were you so still? 

It felt wrong. His body recognized it before his mind could catch up. Still meant a part of you had gone. And his chest tightened, rejecting the possibility before it could fully form.

“Hey—” his voice came out rough, barely formed.

You stirred awake. 

Your lashes fluttered, eyes opening slowly, and the second they landed on his face, on the fact that he was awake, relief flooded your eyes.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”

Dex moved too fast as adrenaline slammed into him, panic overriding everything else as he ripped the needle from his arm with no hesitation. Blood followed immediately, a thin line down his skin, but he barely noticed. 

After all, he wasn’t thinking. Thinking was slower than fear, and fear had already taken over. All he knew was that something had been done to you—or because of him—and that was unacceptable.

You jolted upright. “Whoa, hey! Relax, relax—”

He was already pushing himself up, unsteady but determined. He needed to make sure you were real, that you were okay.

“What happened?” he demanded, breath uneven, voice tight

You blinked at him once, then twice, grounding yourself before answering. “You went into my rooftop,” you said, almost resigned, save for the hint of affection in your time. “Full of poisonous plants.”

Rooftop.

His jaw twitched at the confirmation that you had hidden it. 

Dex frowned, trying to latch onto the memory. “What—”

“You touched my wolfsbane.”

He blinked, piecing memories together: The garden. The flowers. The dizziness.

You leaned back slightly, already reaching to remove the needle from your own arm, wincing faintly as you pulled it free, wiping the blood away like it didn’t matter.

“I’ve been selectively breeding them for five years,” you continued, almost absently. “That one’s about seven times more lethal than standard wolfsbane. Contact alone is enough.”

Dex stared at you.

“Most of the plants up there can kill you, actually,” you added, gentler this time. “That’s why I told you it was a junk closet.”

You said it so easily, like it hadn’t mattered, like it had just been a small, harmless deflection. But it wasn’t harmless. At least not to him.

“You lied,” he said, but it didn’t come out accusing. It came out… hurt and confused. Like he couldn’t reconcile it with everything else he knew about you.

You didn’t flinch, ambient interrupt. 

“But I’ve seen you,” he pushed, stepping closer without realizing it, drawn in like he always was. “You touch them without gloves. I—I don’t—”

You laughed, but it wasn’t dismissive.

“I should’ve known you were watching me,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes.

And there it was again—that pleasure in your voice. This time it had reason for concern. You weren’t afraid, or disgusted at this newfound knowledge. If anything, you looked… flattered. It was as if you had suspected it, and just like the garden, you had lied through your teeth. 

Dex’s chest tightened.

“If I almost died from touching one,” he said, rubbing his trail of blood away with tissues on your coffee table, “then you—” he choked at the words, as if he couldn’t physically say it. He tried again. “Then you should—“

“I should be dead?” you finished for him, noticing his struggle. 

He swallowed hard. How could you even say it, when he couldn’t even let the idea sit in his mouth?

The image formed in his mind anyway, uninvited: You, collapsed the way he had been. You, unmoving in that chair, permanently gone. His mind rejected it so violently it made his lungs feel like it was collapsing.

Your eyes softened. “I’m… immune.”

“What?”

It didn’t quite make sense to him. It felt disconnected from everything he understood about you. About the girl who laughed behind a counter, who fed him chocolates, who pressed flowers into frames simply because she wanted to.

You shifted in your seat, like this part of you was just… a fact. 

“My dad was a cocaine dealer,” you started, almost casually. “When I was five, I got into his stash. I ingested enough to kill little ol’ me twelve times over.”

Dex’s stomach dropped.

“But I was…,” you continued, “unaffected.”

Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over the velvet fabric of your chair.

“Doctors said I’ve got some kind of mutant gene. Means nothing really sticks in my system. I can’t get drunk. I can’t get high. Toxins don’t work the way they should.”

Dex didn’t look away from you once.

“When I was a teenager, I broke my arm,” you added an example, a faint grimace crossing your face. “They had to put pins in while I was awake. Anesthesia doesn’t work either.” You managed a sarcastic laugh. “That wasn’t fun.”

You said it lightly, like it was nothing, But he could see it anyway a younger you pinned down, awake, forced to feel everything. 

You were different. A mutant, that’s the term you used. You were… oh, fuck.

You were more capable than he ever deemed you to be. 

And that realization didn’t push him away the way it should have. It rooted him deeper. Because if you had always been this untouchable, then what he felt wasn’t built on fragility. You wouldn’t disappear under pressure. And he couldn’t seem to step away from you, no matter how much sense it would make to try.

Dex stepped closer again without thinking, like gravity pulled him there. Even confused, overwhelmed, heart still not fully steady, he needed to be near you.

“I… I didn’t know,” he said, as if he felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. There was even a shame in admitting it. In his mind, he had placed you in a gilded cage, easier to understand, easier to protect. But you had never belonged there at all.

You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

Across the room, Bubbles shifted in her tank, the faint glow of her skin calm now, her earlier agitation gone now that you were here. Her limbs curled slowly, as if the fact that you were awake meant that there was nothing to worry about.

Dex barely spared her a glance. The room, the hum of life continuing outside these walls all flattened into background noise. His mind had already narrowed its focus down to one fixed point, and it was you. It had been you for longer than he wanted to admit.

“How did I live?” Dex asked, but it didn’t come out demanding. It came out raspy and rough. 

His hand found your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over the place where the needle had been, where a faint smear of blood still lingered. He wiped it away, almost reverently, like it mattered more than his own safety that you weren’t hurt. 

He didn’t think about it. His hands just… adjusted in a way they never did anywhere else, like he understood, on a level deeper than thought, that you should not be handled carelessly, no matter how strong you turned out to be.

“You have a Cogmium steel spine,” you said, like you were reminding him of the obvious.

His brow furrowed slightly, confusion threading through the lines on his face. “How do you know that?”

Slowly, you smiled, almost shy. 

“Oh, please,” you murmured, leaning back just enough to look at him properly, though your fingers came up to loosely curl in the hem of his shirt like you hadn’t quite decided to let him go either. “I knew who you were since after the second date, Benjamin Poindexter.”

That was… new information. At least to him. 

“My rare plant dealer complained that his courier turned up dead,” you continued, almost idly. “I got curious and looked into it. It wasn’t long till I put two and two together.”

Dex exhaled faintly, a small ah leaving past his lips. It was not quite relief, but acceptance. Because of course you had figured it out. Of course you had seen through him, the way only you could.

And you were still here, as if nothing had changed. You were still looking at him like he hung the moon for you, regardless of how many people he had killed, how many mistakes he had made.

People usually changed the second they understood. He had seen it happen too many times, the mind recalibrating upon the realisation of how dangerous he was. But you… you were still looking at him like nothing in him needed to be feared. Like nothing in him needed to be fixed.

Your hand lifted then, resting lightly against his chest, right over his sternum, where his heart was still finding its rhythm again. “Your spine, I—” you went on, your voice dipping more intimately. “It bonds to you.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word mattered simply because it came from you. He didn’t follow every word—not the science, not the mechanics—but he followed you. You spoke about him like he was worth understanding.

“Blood cells are made in the bone marrow,” you said, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his shirt, “That’s your immune system, your oxygen transport, everything. The aconitine would’ve disrupted the entire process.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was one of your raw poisonous plants. “But yours isn’t normal anymore.”

His hand came up to your wrist again, grounding himself in you as you spoke.

“The steel fused with your spine,” you continued, almost fond in the way you explained it. “So the blood you produce now is… stronger.”

Dex’s eyes didn’t waver as he rubbed absentminded circles on your skin. 

“When you touched the wolfsbane, the toxin should’ve shut everything down almost instantly,” you said. “But it didn’t. Your modified cells slowed it down,” you said. “And while you’re not immune, it bought you time.”

Your thumb brushed lightly against his chest, like you were feeling the heart, measuring it.

“I didn’t have an antidote,” you admitted. “So I used what I had.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your arm again, to the faint mark. You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his.

“I hooked us together,” you said, quieter now. “Your blood was slowing down, so I had to pump mine manually for the first couple of hours to keep the flow going.”

Dex’s hand slid from your wrist to your arm, fingers curling there. It was as if he needed to hold onto you to fully understand what you were saying.

“My blood doesn’t process things the way it should,” you continued. “It breaks them down and neutralises them. So once it got into your system…” You gave a small, almost playful shrug. “It did the rest.”

You smiled at him then, pride lighting your face.

“Ta-da,” you said lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth just to make sure his lips had warmed back up, “You’re alive.”

Dex didn’t pull away from you even when he was still processing everything. If anything, he leaned closer. His hands slid upward, as if he needed to map you again now that he understood what you were capable of. What you had done. What you had survived.

And suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place— why death seemed to follow you, why you always seemed in control when you looked like you had so little power. 

“The groom?” he asked, not accusing. He was just trying to understand. 

When you nodded, his shoulders softened. That was the strange, almost painful thing about Dex. Every revelation, no matter how dark, only seemed to pull him deeper under your gravity.

“Foxglove tea,” you explained, your voice clinical. “His mother and brother getting sick were… collateral. But the bride came to me the night before, crying. She….” You paused. “She had marks.”

Dex brushed his absently over your skin, like he was grounding himself in your heart. Coming to terms that you were untouchable in ways he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Harper?” he asked next.

You nodded again, and there was the faintest flicker of irritation in your expression. “Oleander cake. He… tried to touch me.”

That set him off. Dex’s brows furrowed in anger, but still wounded and earnest and almost unbearably tender, over the fact that you didn’t go to him for answers. His hands moved to your face then, clumsy and urgent, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His thumbs hovered at your cheeks before pressing in gently, as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you there.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and an almost boyish hurt threaded through. 

You didn’t flinch under his touch. You leaned into it, your fingers gently circling around his back. “Because I can take care of it,” you said simply. “I did take care of it.”

That answer hurt him more than anything else you’d confessed.

“I know you can,” he said, and there was no doubt in it. His forehead dipped to yours. “But you don’t have to," he added, barely above a whisper.

You could feel the way he held on to control, as if the word letting go didn’t exist for him when it came to you. It was in the way his fingers lingered at your jawline, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his entire body seemed angled toward you like you were the only point of gravity in the room.

You, who needed no one. And him who needed you, so openly it almost hurt to look at.

His eyes searched yours then, and he wasn’t searching for danger anymore. That part of him had already settled. What he was looking for now was some indication that he still had a place here, that he wasn’t just… incidental to you.

His voice dropped, fragile in a way he never was anywhere else. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

You sighed, pulling away completely until his fingertips were bare and cold where your skin used to be. 

His chest tightened, a familiar spiral already coiling. Silence had never meant anything good in his life. Silence meant distance. And distance was always the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, everyone would slip just far enough out of reach that he couldn’t pull it back, no matter how tightly he held on.

But you didn’t leave him. You just stood up.

He watched you walk across the room as you approached the tank. The glow of it lit your face in shifting blue, and for a Dex stood up, caught between following you and giving you space.

You reached into the water without hesitation, lifting Bubbles from the tank, water slipping through your fingers as easily as breath.

You turned back to him, and Bubbles curled in your palm, deceptively cute and delicate, until she noticed him.

The second she saw him, the same electric blue rings from last pulsed across her body. 

Dex tilted his head. The warning was immediate, and honest in a way people never were. He wondered, briefly, if that was what he looked like to the rest of the world.

“She feels… threatened by you,” you chuckled, like it was amusing, your lips curving up. “She thinks you’re going to take me away from her.”

Dex stared at the tiny creature, at the warning written so clearly across her skin. And yet, she stayed in your hand. She didn’t flee, nor did she strike.

“But you two are more alike than you think,” you continued, softer now.

You held Bubbles closer, and she curled into you. Dex knew that feeling— the feeling of needing you, the feeling of wanting to be close to you because you felt safe.

“She’s a blue-ringed octopus. One of the most dangerous creatures alive. Their venom has no antidote.” Your fingers shifted slightly, letting the little creature settle against your skin. “I rescued her from a lab. She was… experimented on. They wanted to use her, to extract her as a biochemical weapon. As a result, her venom’s thirty times more potent now. She can thrive out of water for hours. Her species’ average lifespan is 6 months, but she...” you gently rubbed a finger over one of her tentacles as naturally as you would rub the belly of a puppy. That's when he noticed that one tentacle was marked— almost as if acid was poured over it in the quest of making her a living weapon. The poor thing had a scar, one not unlike his own, “…is turning two years old soon.”

Dex swallowed. Everything you said felt too familiar.

“I’m the only handler she didn’t kill. I’m the only handler she has never stung,” you added, almost absently. “Not just because she can’t. But because she trusts me.”

Dex had a feeling you meant more than just her. 

“Just because I can use her venom to kill for me,” you went on, your voice lowering, as you ran your hand through her squishy body, “just because she’s more dangerous than anything I grow upstairs… doesn’t mean I want to use her that way.” You exhaled. “She’s suffered enough.”

Dex watched intently as you leaned forward and returned Bubbles to the tank. She drifted for a moment, then settled against a rock, her colors fading, her body going docile again, simply because you were here.

Dex saw it then: the kinship, the invisible bond, the mirror that he had when he looked at the little creature that you cared so much about. 

Like Bubbles, he was already dangerous before. But now, he could fall off buildings. He could take a hit. He could survive beyond the constraints of his species. 

And like Bubbles, for the better part of the last decade, he had been manipulated, taken advantage of, and used as a weapon for agendas of more powerful men, a solution, a last resort. People didn’t want him. They wanted what he could do, what he could survive, what he could destroy.

You had never asked that of him. You hadn’t handed him your problems like weapons to solve. You had handled them yourself.

That feeling was… foreign and disorienting in all its kindness. It didn’t slot neatly into what he understood. There was no place to file it, no rule to attach it to. It left him… exposed.

Dex stepped towards you before he fully thought about it. He was close again, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His hands found you desperately, one at your waist, the other sliding up your arm like he needed to make sure you were still here.

“You didn’t…” His voice caught. “You didn’t want to use me.”

It wasn’t really a question.

His forehead dipped toward yours again, his breath uneven. Dex had never known what it meant to be wanted without purpose. And it terrified him a little, because if there was no function or role, then there was nothing to hide behind. There was nothing to blame when it inevitably went wrong. He concluded, then, that you didn’t even think this could go wrong. It was the only plausible explanation.

His voice dropped, “you just wanted me.”

Dex stayed close. After all, distance had become unnatural to him where you were concerned. His grip on your waist had changed. It was less desperate now, more certain, like he was learning how to hang on instead of bracing for loss.

He looked at you like he was still catching up. Like every piece of you he uncovered only made him want to understand more, not recoil.

“You still could,” he said, eyes glistening in awe. His thumb moved in slow circles against your side, like he needed repetition. “I still would.”

You knew that. You knew he would burn the world down for you if you just asked. 

You reached for his hand, not to steady it, but to hold. 

Your fingers laced through his, almost disarmingly. His hand tightened around yours in a reflex.

“I don’t want to,” you said.

Dex’s breath stuttered out of him. Of all the things he’d expected, all the ways this could have gone… this was the one thing he didn’t know how to defend against: Care, without cost.

He shifted closer again, until there was no space left between you, your joined hands pressed lightly between your bodies. His forehead found your shoulder this time. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t even breaking. He was just resting, letting himself exist in your orbit, without needing to prove anything.

It was almost shy.

“I don’t… know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice muffled against you, smaller than you’d ever heard it. 

Your free hand came up, and settled at the back of his head. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair, answering a question he didn’t know how to ask, “You don’t have to do anything.”

But how? 

He had always been something done with. A weapon pointed, used, unleashed. An arrow for a stronger master to wield, and more recently, a servant to his own broken mind, searching for purpose in the world. 

He didn’t know how to simply exist without rules or confines or borders or expectations of how he was supposed to be. 

You, on the other hand, made it look easy. Effortless, even. It's as if that after spending a lifetime being a mutant, you had decided that being violent and gentle were not opposites, but two sides of the same coin.

Dex didn’t know how to do that yet, but he knew, that he wanted to learn.

He turned his head slightly then, not pulling away, just enough that his temple rested against you instead. His fingers shifted in yours, tracing lightly over your knuckles.

“I think I like this better,” he murmured, almost to himself.

And for once, there was no tension in him. No trigger to pull, no violent tendency waiting to be called on.

Maybe you had always been drawn to dangerous things because you could handle them. Or maybe, it was because you were one of them.

Both Dex and Bubbles, in all their blue-ringed, lethal glory, were remade weapons too strange, too deadly for anyone else to hold. But not for you.

They didn’t have to make themselves smaller in your hands. They didn’t have to be hidden or used.

They could just… be.

In Dex’s mind, it couldn’t simply be luck. You were a mutant, you had explained, your body had never had to adapt or learn anything— you were born already ahead of them. You were built to survive them. You were made by the powers that be to endure what should have killed anyone else.

And Dex latched onto that divine intervention with frightening certainty. You were a design, not a coincidence. It was different from the way Bubbles had been remade, different from the way he had been reshaped and reinforced. You hadn’t been altered. In Dex’s mind, you had been made perfect because you were born different.

It was as if the universe had accounted for him and then, carefully, built you around that problem. You were made to love him. It was written in the stars, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that the sky was blue.

It might not be the healthiest way to think, but at least it was his own.

And as if she understood his thoughts unfolding, Bubbles moved closer to the glass, seeing Dex in a new light now. She raised her marred tentacle like a wave, then drifted once more, almost languid now, like a reluctant concession:

You’re fine, I guess.

—end.

[peridawks]

They will be freed and wreak havoc on the world...once I paint them...

[peridawks]

Too Late For Love

Peter Maximoff × Fem!Plant-Mutant!Reader

🏁⋆💨𐙚₊˚⊹🏃♡.👟⌛ × ｡⋆ ๋࣭ 𓍊 🐛ꕤ🌱 ⋆. 𖦹🪲°

2.6k - one-sided - angst - hero-to-villain

[is it morally correct to villainize a man for accidentally dragging you along for years? And is it less morally correct to blame him for your villainy?]

Warning: excessive swearing, semi-graphic language, and lots of yelling and screaming. Also needles.

-------------‧₊˚🍋‍🟩✩ ₊˚🌿⊹♡--------------

Fighting was never really your strong suit.

Neither was it Peter's.

Your mutant abilities harmed you, not to an extreme level but something similar to Logan's. The subtle pain was a reminder of your difference, or your strangeness. You didn't enjoy the fight, it stressed you. You were already on stress medication from just being a mutant, add on fighting world-level threats? Not your favorite, but you fought anyways. For mutant kind, you were told. For your people.

Peter's abilities ran within him like blood. His speed wrapped around his soul like a coil, something tethering him to himself. He wouldn't be Peter without his speed. The only side effect was his constant boredom and the need to buy better shoes. Peter didn't dislike the fight because it harmed him, Peter disliked the fight because it was the fight. It was something, something so complex and relentless that it weighed on his mind during bad hours of the night. But he fought, partly out of boredom and partly out of justice. He was a mutant, but he didn't just fight for mutants. He fought for everyone just because no one deserved to be harmed.

Loving was never your strong suit either.

Neither was it Peter's.

You'd never expected to fall for someone so...him. You were silent, still as a bug on a rock or a tree planted in the ground. You were the tree in comparison to Peter's light. He was energy incarnate, a mess of frizzy silver strands and rock vinyls. Your branches slowly and painfully reached out to merely bathe in as much of him as you could. His soul was agate, yours was granite. He was a window during golden hour, you were sandpaper in someone's desolate garage. Two things that weren't exactly opposites, but weren't alike. Just odd.

He'd share his headphones, proclaiming that you just had to listen to one of his favorite songs - one so faintly a confession that it dragged on your hopeless crush for another few months. He just liked the bass, you found yourself watching old interviews of the artist - hoping to understand what each syllable could tell you about Peter's feelings towards you.

You weren't too hard to love, but you were so different from him. You'd sink right into him and drown and he wouldn't even notice the ripple, too caught up in chasing the sun. Speedy and stagnant, a mix that wouldn't work on paper.

It was pathetic.

You were pathetic.

This parasocial yearning you felt for Peter was tainted with pure misery. It came in waves, bursts of emotional need so strong you doubled over in pain some nights. There were weeks, months at some periods where you could get over him. Consider his flaws, consider the downsides. But no matter how long you stayed with someone else or you fell for movie stars, you always reverted back into loving Peter. You were weak, like a dog always going back to a neglectful owner in the hope that something would change.

In the beginning, loving Peter is soft and sweet. But after a certain amount of months, it's a rollercoaster that jerks you around as if it's trying to get you to throw up. It manifests in the tighter outfits you would wear to functions he attended, the odd and sudden interest in the bands he liked, the way your breath shuddered when his hands brushed your skin, etc.

The jerky, relentless torment of loving Peter was one of your breaking points.

The X-men were a group that was supposed to stand together. But even within the tightest of groups, people have their people. And no matter how much you changed, how much you silenced yourself, and how much you tried to stay convenient for everyone - you never felt as important as the others. Never included, never admired, never wanted like the others. Scott had Jean, Raven had Hank, Kurt and Peter and Ororo were a group within themselves, and Logan was a loner by choice. And you were always there, always taking up too much space, taking up too much time.

Around the time you accepted defeat in your infatuation with Peter was also the same time that you accepted defeat with everybody else. You had been falling at Peter's feet for almost 3 years by then. If they didn't want you, if he didn't want you, then they didn't need you - they couldn't have you. More power to you, if they wanted to waste time with pointless mingling, then you could continue to work on your powers instead.

Your hands used to crack and bleed from dryness from all the torn up dirt your hands would grace, your powers reaching down and dancing within long forgotten roots to form towering trees and barbed vines. Your brain would rattle with spilting headaches from the amount of stress on your body, and you'd passed out over and over again. It was a large stretch from the flowers and bushes you were making when you first joined Xavier's. Beauty is pain, but so is power.

And slowly, as it always will, isolation turned to resentment. A snide comment would commonly slip from your lips when around the others, conveniently never towards Peter unless it was a particularly grueling day. Jobs were cut down to just jobs, hang out were unheard of, and on the occasion one of the members would text you, you wouldn't eagerly respond like before. It was always you texting first before, you who would initiate, but never again. Hatred began to fill in your body and seep out like a new layer of skin, a defense mechanism but also a clouding factor when it came to feeling.

William Stryker had entered your life on one of those aforementioned grueling days. Everyone else was laughing, excited for a hangout that you had told them you were too busy to attend - a lie, but they didn't push, they never did. There was a minor villain attack, nothing too big. But the notion in general, leaving your life to accompany a team that didn't care much for you. You were barely scraped up.

A training session followed as usual. You had chosen a small area in the woods, working on copying a poisonous plant from some book that Xavier gave you. It was then you were scouted by William, after a brief duel between you two. Xavier had once told you that you thought with your fists when you were angry - and he wasn't wrong.

Stryker offered you things that the others didn't. A community of others, others who would include you. You began to find a place - a place you could take your anger out. Your powers were so well suited for his mission, and you and Pyro worked in tangent. A terrible two, poisons and flames.

Your absence was immediately panicked over by the X-Men. Your assessment of their dislike for you was greatly exaggerated. You had always been insecure about your position, which led to your distance - and they didn't push you much. It had gotten to the point that they weren't shocked to not hear from you for a few days at the beginning, but after you wouldn't answer even Peter's calls, they knew something was wrong.

It took 14 months for them to actually find you. You always had this strong sense of justice, this belief that all people deserve a life without harm. Working alongside Stryker was a laughably hypocritical act. They didn't want to believe it was you in the news footage.

But it was, and they knew it. No one else had those powers, that fury and those eyes.

At first, it was rationalized. You had to have been kidnapped or brainwashed or something - you wouldn't go willingly. But something in Hank told him you went by choice. He saw the way you behaved weeks before you went "missing". And that notion slowly spread to all the others like a plague in winter - ending with Peter finally accepting it too.

The X-Men planned an attack on one of Stryker's bases, one they believed he would be at. And they were, as expected, correct. Pyro, Lady Deathstrike, Jason Stryker, and some of the other group members were able to handle the majority of the group.

And that left you and Peter. Oh, your sweet, sweet Peter.

You'd lie and say you haven't thought of him, but that would be exactly that - a lie. Those sweet brown eyes and blonde tufts of hair weren't something you could forget easily.

There had been this brief, accidental moment of hesitation from you both when you saw each other again. A quiet whisper had fallen from his mouth.

"Oh, Sprout, what happened to you...?"

Sprout. You hated the name now. It wasn't your hero name, it was a nickname Peter had reserved for himself and himself only. It had occasionally been accompanied with sweet decorum - "my favorite spout", or simply "my spout" - both of which used to send your heart flying.

Hands against hands, legs kicking and bashing and running. From both parties, unsurprisingly. Your hands had grasped his hair, his shoe had sent you flying, your plants grappled his frame and his speed kept your head turning so hard it might have snapped if not for the adrenaline. Your teeth dug into his hand during an attempt to restrain you. All he needed was you to calm down, fuck, just calm down and come home with him and the others. He could bring you back to normal, he knew he could. You had stayed alongside him for so long. A part of you still stayed seated next to Peter like a loyal dog - as much as you'd like to disagree. He could absentmindedly push you down a cliff and you'd wear your hands down to stumps from climbing up to join him once again. The memento of his hand pushing you off would be enough contact to look forward to again. Anything for a morsel of attention. You were no better than a mouse in a kitchen, feasting on the fallen crumbs of a sandwich.

"I don't understand why you're doing this, sprout! This isn't like you, what did Stryker do to you?!"

You twist around, tossing the blonde off you. As his back hits the ground, he coughs up a small bit of blood. You stand, best you can. You knew why you came to fight him. You're here to kill him. So why is every faint skin-to-skin contact still making your heart and brain flutter? You two were fighting. It's nothing like the soft brushes of his hand in the hallways of Xavier's. So why does it make lovesick nostalgia flood your veins like a tsunami on a beach?

"Stryker didn't do anything to me! You all did! Don't think I didn't fucking worship you, Peter, I did! Everyone fucking knew it! Every guy I tried dating saw it, their friends saw it, your friends saw it, my friends saw it, Xavier fucking saw it! Every goddamn part of my body and brain and soul and whatever else was left was taken with you for no good reason! You're lazy and selfish and sloppy and careless! You never actually saw me, you just saw someone you could hang out with! I was never anything more to you!" You curse, teeth slamming against each other as your jaw springs open and clamps shut with each syllable. Spit and blood and sweat were slinging, similarly to the manner of a rabid dog.

He's not too far from you, but you're screaming like he's still miles away.

"Maybe you're still that lovesick little schoolgirl you once were." Stryker's voice rings in your head. "Pathetic. What a shame. I've trained you to be better."

The speedster wipes his mouth, jerking up and tackling you once again. "I promise I never meant to ignore you! I-i- can't help that! I couldn't just magically realize you had feelings! I'm not Xavier or Jean, I can't read your mind! I had no way of knowing! You were one of my best friends, you knew that, at least!"

You thrash around again, slamming your elbows into the ground and your legs anywhere they can reach. Smart move for him to secure your arms. "There were so many signs! Every goddamn day I spent at your heels, chasing you! Chasing any chance I had of impressing you." You scream, spit landing all in his eyes. Normally that's a problem, but there's no real disgust on a battlefield. "I would have taken anything! Just a quick glance, a compliment on my clothes, maybe some sign you thought I was anything more to you! Anything more than Kurt or Scott or whoever else was in your life! I puked my guts out the first time I saw you talk to Dazzler because she was so, so much prettier than me and I knew I didn't stand a chance if she wanted you! I would have ripped my own kidney out and eaten if it meant you'd have glanced at me, Peter!"

The blonde doesn't get a chance to retort as your vines rip him off of you. You're running on fumes here, the last of your powers at your fingertips. You two have been going for almost half an hour now, no breaks.

"You ripped my goddamn heart out of my for no reason but to do it! I don't care if you say it wasn't on purpose, I know it was! I know you knew! You're a man, you lie like you breathe! You're lucky you're breathing now! I could kill you, I should kill you, it's in my orders to kill you." Your hands tense further, matching the rest of your body. Your muscles are moving before your brain or exhaustion can catch up. There was once a time you would have fought with your life alongside the boy, the boy you were now set on killing. Nothing will stop you from killing Peter Maximoff, nothing will keep you from ripping open his chest with your bare hands. Your mission will end. The remaining sparks in your brain will die alongside the speedster, so young and so naive, the two of them.

"I will kill you. I'm going to kill you, Pietro Maximoff. I'm going to fucking end you like I should have years ago!"

Vines are sent out and promptly ripped.

There's a stab in a neck.

A small, minute bit of blood trickles from the attack point.

Peter is on the ground, knees buried into the pulled-up dirt.

But it's your blood on his hands and your body that collapses into his arms.

It's your neck that's got the diazepam in it.

It's your eyes that are shutting.

"No you won't."

You always had wanted to fall asleep in his arms. Held by his sweet hands, resting on his chest and coddled into his lap. His face so close to yours, his hair mingling with your locks. Two cats in a box, two birds in a nest, two mutants on a bloody battlefield, one still pumped on adrenaline and one nearing loss of consciousness. Your silence is much appreciated at the moment. Nothing can be heard, aside from the faint whistles of wind through leaves and possibly a squirrel racing around in an attempt to find a new home.

"Damn", he thinks to himself, brushing his thumb across the spot where he dosed you, "I really should learn how to correctly shoot a syringe. I don't think you're supposed to bleed this much. Or at all. Better get you home fast, sprout."

🏁⋆💨𐙚₊˚⊹🏃♡.👟⌛

OH THIS ONE WAS ROUGH 😭 also I have a LENGTHY Julian Dillinger fic in the works eheh...also here's the song that kinda inspired this 👇

[peridawks]

"Aaron Taylor Johnson's Quicksilver is for straight people!!" this, "Evan Peter's Quicksilver is for queer people!!" that. Have you failed to consider I play for both teams...

[peridawks]

Finding You in Your Work

Cooper Day × Fem!Artist!Reader

˚.🦴♬⋆.˚🦇⛧°.📰 ᵎᵎ🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ × ｡⋆ ๋࣭ 𓍊 ✏️ꕤ•🎨 ⋆. 🖌️°

2.0k words - rivals-to-lovers - minor angst

[Cooper is a writer, you're an artist. You're both dedicated to your craft - but he's self-proclaimed himself as your artistic arch-nemesis. There can only be one award winning creative in this school, and it's him!]

A/N: This is intended to be a series, but I'm doing my best to make each part so it can be read by itself.

-------------‧₊˚🍋‍🟩✩ ₊˚🌿⊹♡--------------

It was obvious to anyone that could see that it hadn't really started with the sound of Weezer blasting through the art room. Rivers Cuomo's voice blasted past cups of unwashed brushes and tables with artistic remnants left on them. You'd set up a CD player on the teacher's now empty desk and put in your Pinkerton CD in, letting the sound bounce off the white brick walls of your high school's visual art classroom. If you're going to be alone in this classroom for the next few hours, then you'll need some music to keep you company.

For that very specific day, it actually started with Cooper Day, doing what Cooper Day does when he isn't writing a new short story or listening to music. He got into trouble. He fought a random jock.

It was some blonde guy with frosted tips - yuck. He had made some joke about his sister, one comment that took the previously running jokes too far. Cooper had reacted without thinking, a common occurrence. Maybe it was the new Linkin Park CD he had bought rutting through his veins, but he wasn't going to let that joke go unpunished. Did he end up with a massive black eye? Yes. Did he also give the guy a decent amount of bruises in return? Also yes. He recently got a punching bag for his 17th birthday, a regrettable decision on his parents' part.

He was struck with two hours of detention that night. Staying in school until 5pm, scribbling down math equations rather than enjoying the night writing, as usual. But his ruthless suffering came to an immediate end when the clock hit 5:00pm. He swiftly grabbed his bag from his desk and snatched his iPod and headphones from the teacher's desk, scoffing at the loss of battery. Cooper really should charge it more often. He stuffed the iPod in his pocket and slipped the headphones around his neck to rest.

You had stayed the night at school by choice. Nothing was out of the ordinary at home, but the school art show was in three months and you had bitten off more than you could chew. You planned to do 4 good projects to put in the show, but to your dismay, your art professor had told encouraged you to do the largest piece you ever have. Having being pestered for multiple days, you naturally caved in. After which, you were presented with a canvas possibly bigger than you.

Well, fuck.

This was the second day this week you had stayed late to work further. Your father got off of work at 5:30, so he'd be here anytime to get you. For now, the artistic stage is yours to take up. Your music can blast, your creative flow can, well, flow, and your space can be yours.

And then the CD that was being played stops, right in the middle of Pink Triangle. No good track goes uninterrupted, huh? You whip your head around, only to be stunned by the sight of the CD being taken out, put back in its case, and replaced with Around The Fur by Deftones - all by a very familiar writer's hands. The opening track starts to play, and a voice shouts above it. Fuck, that's loud. The voice belongs to the body with the hands that replaced your beloved CD.

"Weezer is for kids who still get their mom to monogram their boxers and 30 year olds who are still virgins."

No need to keep looking - you know who it is. Smug ass Cooper Day. The school's prodigy writer and resident weirdo.

That's where it had actually started. With his smug face.

You - and by extension, Cooper, had both entered your junior year a few months ago. He still had the reputation as the genius, edgy student writer who just kept winning awards. He applied for about every competition he could, cashing out with prize money or new writing tools almost every time. At this particular time of year, he had just sent a thick stack of pages containing a horror story for a competition - a state competition.

And then it had happened. Cooper's aforementioned competition entry had been judged, and the winners were to be announced that day.

"and we are proud to shine a light on one of our aspiring creative juniors for their placement in a state competition!" !The announcements blared out, a grim stretching on Cooper's face. "Congrats to [Y/N] [L/N] for her first place finish in the Students of Philadelphia Oil Painting Contest! Give a round of applause for her!"

And that had started it all. Since the day you had the audacity to show Cooper up in the extremely broad spectrum that is being creative. You were the reason he got his hopes up so high! That competition money could have gotten him a shitload of CDs and shirts! He knows he shouldn't be too mad, you're not even a writer! It's not like you won over him. But apparently, showing him up was enough reason for you two to be at war.

Snap out of it, back to the present.

"Hey, dickwad, put my CD back! And turn that shit off!" You shout, pointing a paintbrush in his direction. His grimy hands are treating your beloved 1996 album with no love!

He sticks his hands up, as if being arrested. "No can do! Some people have this thing called music taste - I'm sure you can't relate.. And you're hurting those people, mainly me."

You scoff. Cooper takes a stride towards you, looking over your shoulder at your painting. It's an oil paint that you've been regrettably stalling on. The underpainting is done and the figures are beginning to truly take shape - but the background remains generally untouched.

"Eww, why are they naked?" Cooper sticks out his tongue. If he wasn't taller than you, you could assume he was a child.

"It's called art, idiot! And they're naked because it's a metaphor! A ton of classic artists do that!"

"A metaphor for what, not having clothes?!"

You groan, putting your brush down and turning to him. "For capitalism! That's why their privates are covered with receipts! It's a metaphor for how consumerism and capitalism strips us of our decency! Aren't you supposed to be a writer, why can't you figure that out?!"

"Maybe I can't figure it out cause it's a stupid metaphor!" He retorts.

"Just go home, Cooper!" You both roll your eyes at each other. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Whatever, better than staying here with you and your stupid capitalism metaphors and virgin music!" He tuts, turning around. "And you've got paint in your hair, by the way."

You aren't sure what it was, but something about his comment really struck a nerve. It's probably more about the continuous annoyance he's been in your life, like a mosquito that won't die. Every time you try and make a move to do anything, he's there. He's held your sketchbook hostage more times than you can count. Without a thought, you grab your cup of paint water and toss it at the brunette, aiming to mess up those naturally gorgeous curls of his.

Why did someone so goddamn cute have to be so infuriating?!

Splash!

Cooper gasps, tossing his headphones off and shaking them - making sure they don't get wet. He takes a breath of relief when he realizes they were untouched. He doesn't even care to check his curls.

"You jerk! What was that for?!" He growls, turning around to face you. You did, in fact, wet his curls, but it wasn't enough to flatten them. He does have a patch that's faintly purple now - like a child that got too messy when finger painting.

"For everything, Cooper! All you do all day is annoy me and make comments about how my art is shit! I've never done anything to you I can think of, you asshole! What did I do to you for you to act like this?!"

"What did you do?" He scoffs, tightening his fists. "You know what you did! People used to consider me the artsy one in our class, and then you swoop in out of nowhere and take that from me! I've been writing since I was 7, I've been trying so hard and it's so easy for you!"

Before that faithful day with the announcement, he hadn't even known you liked art. He had noticed you in the hallway - it was a small school, how couldn't he notice another alt-dressed student?

But you had stolen the spotlight that his work gave him. He wasn't popular, he wasn't cool, and he wasn't a real big hit with girls - so the writing prodigy thing was all he really had.

"Easy for me?! I'm just like you, Day! I've been drawing and painting and learning and sketching as long as I can remember! I've been working my ass off for years!" You shout, still trying to make your voice carry over the music. "I don't know what made you think that my art is somehow challenging your writing, but it's not! I've read your works, they're incredible!"

"You like my writing...?"

His eyes are soft, regretful. His eyes have always drawn you to him, they're sweet and deep and so full of passion for the world. If he wasn't such an ass, you would have painted them by now.

"Of course I do! You're a prodigy for a reason, damnit!" You scoff, throwing your hands up.

He likes your hands. They're not excessively manicured like the girls his sister hangs out with, but they're more honest. Your nails are bitten and the cuticles are a total mess. And there's paint on your fingertips and graphite on your palms. He adores it, maybe those hands would have graced his computer if you weren't such an ass.

"Whatever. You still stole my reputation from me."

"Just get out, Cooper!"

He kicks his shoes off at the entrance of the house, dirty converse flopping down pathetically on the wooden floor. Natalie stifles a laugh from the table.*

"Did you get into a fight with a soccer player or a bunch of finger painting toddlers?" She grins. Cooper just stares at the floor.

"I need...girl help."

Natalie's eyebrows raise.

"You need help from a girl or with a girl?" She asks.

"Both."

The boy runs his hand through his hair, pulling out a chair and sitting in it.

With a glance up from her homework, Natalie speaks. "What's the problem? Cheerleader reject you?"

"No. I, uh, I realized I was like a total ass to a chick who's like...super hot. And like...totally my type. How do I get her to not hate me?" Cooper mumbles, his head slumping against the table.

"Jesus, Cooper, what'd you do this time?"

"I was just an ass to her. And I kept shitting on her art - metaphorically, if that wasn't obvious."

Natalie immediately jerks her head up to look at him. She's been watching this weird one-sided beef he's been having with that one weird art chick.

"Oh my God, is this about [Y/N]? I hate to tell you, but she's not gonna forgive you."

Cooper groans, thudding his head against the wooden table. Great.

"Just give me ideas! What do girls like?! Flowers?!"

"Not all girls are the same, numbskull! Think of something she'll like."

That next morning, your locker immediately feels wrong the moment you touch it. There are two explanations for the door being slightly ajar - you didn't fully close the locker last night, or someone else opened it. As you open it, your question is answered. A mixtape and a bag of dove chocolates [that totally weren't stolen from his sister] sit in the middle, attached to a note that simply says:

"Your metaphor was actually really good. And I'm sorry for saying Weezer was virgin music even though it is.-CD"

And if you were to turn your head to state down the hallway, you'd see a familiar pair of deep, soft eyes staring at you - gaging your reaction.

"Please like me-" he pleads silently "for the love of God, please like me."

And yes, the CD has both Weezer and Deftones.

˚.🦴♬⋆.˚🦇⛧°.📰 ᵎᵎ🕸️๋࣭

GAHHH I started on The Days and I LOVE ITTT. I'm only 3 episodes in 😔 so this fic might be a little inaccurate. Cooper is such a sweetie I love him sm. Also this fic is very loosely based on this song 👇 (can you tell I like Weezer?)

[peridawks]

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling Headcanons ☆

Jimmy Darling × Fem!Reader

🧤°•𖤐🎡⊹₊🚲🎪⋆.

SFW and NSFW (NSFW separated) - MDNI!!

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is a complete and total tease. Not just in the "flex his arm while you're trying not to stare" way, but also in the" tickling you until you admit you're his" way. He lives to see you blush and stumble on your words.

"C'mon, say it!" "I'm not gonna say it!" "I won't stop until ya' do~! Cmon, who's my Mrs Darling?" "I am, I am, gosh, just quit!"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is a SUCKER for women who can cook. Freakshow and diner food is usually greasy and quick, so don't be surprised if he gulps down half of the stew you've spent all morning on. He doesn't expect you to cook, but it's an added bonus if you can.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who would need to date someone who's at minimum odd. He can have flings with city girls and waitresses all he wants, but a long term commitment needs a good base. You both need to be able to relate in some way. It doesn't have to be big, you don't have to be a "freak" as well. Weird obsession with bugs? You know what, fuck yeah. Contortionist, tightrope walker, corde lisse specialist, impressionist? Hell yeah! Even just some girl obsessed with odd things who sells snacks at the show will work. His person also needs to be touring with the show. Again, they don't have to be a "freak", but it's hard for him to get long term with someone he can only send letters and calls to.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who drags you into his trailer after each show. It's a lucky day for you if you don't end up with all his weight piled on top of you, cuddling you to death. It gets to a point that you two just share the trailer.

"Jimmy! You're crushing me!" "I don't weigh that much! You'll live. I'm exhausted." "Jimmy!"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who can and will brag about you at any point. To guests, to his mom, to the other acts, to anyone. He's a lover boy.

"And if you'd like some refreshments, folks, go see my favorite charming girl who's running our drink stand tonight!"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who will find you when he wants you. You could be talking with one of the other acts and - poof, you're being picked up by a pair of familiar sun-kissed hands. You might even get spun a few times.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who still very much gets stage fright, and very much practices on you. It gets to the point that it's annoying. Usually, Jimmy can't annoy you, but hearing the same short routine makes you huff out a: "yes, Jimmy, that was great. Like the last four times."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who, inversely, helps you with your stage fright. If you're an act or maybe just some type of announcer, he's still there to help. He'll even hype you up if you're shy and doing something like selling popcorn.

"You'll do great, toots, customers are gonna love you just as much as I do! You'll charm them to no end, I might have to tussle with a few of 'em."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who isn't much into the idea of traditional proposing, just because it never really comes up. Once you two have been together for long enough, he just starts referring to you as his wife. No need for papers or a big wedding - much to Elsa's dissatisfaction.

"Oh, her? Oh, yeah, she's a catch, but she's off the market. Yep, that's my girl right there - Mrs. Darling."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who, once while you two explored a mall near where they had a show, bought you a lobster plush. It was really cheap and kinda ugly, but it started this trend of him trying to find something lobster themed in every new town you guys visit. Your trailer is overrun with lobster things, especially plushies.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who spends as much time as possible exploring new towns with you. He loves taking you to shops and diners and movies, with his gloves on, of course. Without fail he'll plan some type of date, even if it's just walking about the show grounds.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's not a ladies man in the traditional sense. He messes around a lot, but it's not just for sex. He falls fast and he falls hard and he falls easily. He's more of a hopeless romantic than anything. He doesn't like saying goodbyes and having short relationships, he wants something strong that lasts.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is very, very easy to distract. A single kiss on the cheek, a small wave when you walk by, a blown kiss from across the stage, and a little note you slip into his pocket can all lead to him wandering to you - ready to spoil you to no end.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who loves seeing you in his clothes. His T-shirts are his favorite to give you, especially when you pair them with a pair of his boxers or a pair of your underwear. He also loves to put you in his leather jacket, just because it's so his.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who'd never yell at you. Part because he respects you, part because he saw the way you bit your finger when he yelled at Elsa and he'd prefer to finish an argument rather than get into...that.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who has, and will continue, to sing for you. He knows you like his voice, and he'll use that to get some brownie points. Even when he runs out of songs, he'll start making up stuff.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's a stubborn bastard. You need a saint's patience to deal with this boy, but it's worth it. Jimmy needs someone who won't pull the "I told you so" card on him.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who doesn't let his dad near you.

"Dell, don't you even fucking look at her. That girl is my goddamn world and if you even look in her direction for more than a second I'll haul your ass three states away and leave you in a river, you fucking hear me?"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who you've come to learn is a cryer. He cries when he's scared, he cries when he's angry, he cries when he's really happy, he cries a ton when he's drunk, he cries when he thinks about the future - both good and bad, and he cries when he thinks about you [happy tears, I swear.]

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who lets you patch up his clothes and gloves if needed. Even if your patchwork isn't the greatest, he loves it. It's a reminder of you everywhere he goes.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling whose nicknames for you are the usual ones: doll, dollface, toots, sugar, sweetness, pretty girl, honey, darlin'. Occasionally he'll call you his minx or his Mrs. Darling, but he also sticks to your name pretty often. He tends to get more nickname-y when you guys are being sappy or flirty. Also he's definitely called you sugar tits before and you hated it.

"Can you hand me that wrench, sugar tits?" "Yeah, I- wait, ew, what the hell did you just call me??" "Sugar tits, I heard it in a bar." "Eww! Never do that again! How would you like it if I called you sweet nuts or something? It's weird!" "Yeah I can't argue with that."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who teaches you how to hunt. He's not great at much, but he's good at hunting and he'd like to share that with you.

"Hey, sweetness, no, no, don't cry, it's just a rabbit. It's just a rabbit!" "I killed a bunny!" "No- well, yeah, you did, but that's just the circle of life, sweetness."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who babbles when he's drunk. Jimmy is a lover though and through, and it comes out more when he's drunk. He's also insecure when he's drunk.

"Mmm, I love you. You're so pretty and fun and I love you..." "I love you too, Jimmy, but how much did you drink?" "I don't know, I didn't count. I missed you...why weren't you there?" "I was there, sweetie, I was just talking to a friend." "..." "Jimmy?" "Are you gonna leave me cause I'm a freak? I'm a freak and people hate freaks and you're gonna leave me..." "Jimmy! Where's this coming from?" "I love you..."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who sees you all dolled-up for the first time and lets his jaw go slack. There was some event Elsa had sent you two on where you had to dress classier. Jimmy wore some old plain suit, but Elsa had made you get your hair and makeup done. Your makeup is nice, not gaudy like stage makeup, and your hair is all nice and styled. And that dress is going to kill him.

"My God, toots, you're gonna knock me dead." "Shucks, Jimmy, you look amazing." "I look stupid." "Well I feel stupid, to be fair." "You're making me stupid, toots, how about after this we get real stupid and-" "Will you two shut up!?"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who makes sure to turn up the radio on your favorite songs. He's a lover through and through. This man makes sure to memorize you like a book - all in the name of love. When breakfast is going and you're cooking or eating, he's always beside you, playing with the radio until he finds the station that makes you smile the most. Some nights he stays up next to a radio, hurriedly writing down the lyrics to your favorite songs so he can perform them later.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who hates seeing you cry. There's a lot of things to be down about in this world, but he'll try and help you see the best. If the usual rubbing your back and reassuring you doesn't work, then he'll grab some of his props and do an impromptu comedy act for you. Most of the time you both end up laughing until you can't remember why you were crying in the first place.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's sickeningly sweet, and the whole troop knows it. You two are always touching or talking or just existing next to each other. You run to each other first if you're separated. As the murders ramp up, he makes sure to have you at his side at all times. His mom was extremely familiar with you - and yes, she liked you. You're good for Jimmy. Elsa likes you too, not just because you're an employee but also because Jimmy is a bit less argumentative when you're around. Jimmy Darling is a man shaped by emotion - and by extension, love. He loves with his whole body, and everyone can see that. He's got his faults and he knows it, but he'll do his best - that's all he can do.

-------------------- NSFW: MDNI! --------------------

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who treats you so much differently than the ladies at the Tupperware parties. He still goes, just to have the money, but he doesn't enjoy it much anymore - not when he has you. With them, everything he does is flavored with a sense of transactionalism. With you, it's more soft. More intimate. He's actually hesitant to use his hands during sex with you.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who, again, is nothing if not a tease. He loves dumb-talking you, making you melt into his sheets and whine all night. He's ruthless, but he'd never hurt you.

"That's my girl, all stupid when I'm in you. Are you liking that? Your face is all red. You're enjoying this, huh, stupid girl?"

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's a perfect mix of praise and degradation. He loves calling you pretty, he loves calling you his, but he'll also sneak in a small remark here and there.

"There she is, that's my pretty girl. That's it, look in that mirror and see how good of a slut you are."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's a dom most of the time, usually on the softer side. But he won't mind letting you take the reigns, especially if he's tired or drunk.

"Someone's feisty tonight. Think you can handle being on top? I'll let you try, dollface, but don't tire yourself out."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is never not dirty talking or chuckling or something along that line. The only time he's quiet is if you two are having a quickie and you need to be quiet.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's all praise if you're having a bad day. He knows when something is crossing a line, and again, he'd never do anything to hurt you.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who has, many a time, found himself setting up for apology sex. Maybe he let a customer flirt with him for too long or he made a comment a little too old fashioned, but you had gotten upset at him. So he does what he knows best. Apology sex may include anything cheesy, such as: rose petals, dumb music, him singing, candles, chocolate, some sad looking plush, and a very, very pouty Jimmy.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is an avid panty thief. When you two are getting down and dirty, it's not a shock to have him stuff your underwear in his back pocket for later.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is a total cuddler after. The moment you both hit your release, he's crumpling on top of you and taking a nap.

"Jimmy, Jimmy, I gotta go piss. Wake up!" "Mm, fine but hurry."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who can and will use his size and strength to his advantage. Circus work keeps him in great shape, and he'll make sure you get the perks too.

"You like that? Oh, I know you do. Gets ya' sopping when I hold you against the wall like this."

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who's not risking any pregnancies. If he doesn't have condoms, then he's pulling out as fast as possible. He's not risking having a baby in the freak show.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who has an extremely rampant sex drive. Man's got nothing to do but perform and do chores, so he'll take his free time to please his girl.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who gives and takes equally. If you blow him, he'll eat it until you're begging him to stop. And he would like the same vise-versa.

☆ BF! Jimmy Darling who is a sucker for lap dances. And pole dancing. Anything showy will get him on you like a dog.

"Woah, girl, someone's excited. Yeah, keep moving for me, just like that. Show me exactly how much you want me."

🧤°•𖤐🎡⊹₊🚲🎪⋆.

GAHHH I CANT BELIEVE THIS IS MY FIRST JIMMY DARLING POST 😭 I have only 4 episodes left of Freakshow I'm gonna cry it's such a fun ride. It's my first AHS season so idk which one I'll do next, either hotel or asylum. Also I have another jimmy post planned 😈 Anyway ☝️☝️ here's a song I thought fit Jimmy in the romantic 😈 sense 👇

[peridawks]

☆ BF!Peter Maximoff Headcanons ☆

Peter Maximoff × Fem!Reader

🏁⋆💨𐙚₊˚⊹🏃♡.👟⌛

SFW and NSFW (NSFW separated) - MDNI!!

☆ BF! Peter who loves playing pranks. He was a rage-baiter way before it was popular. There's so many photos on your phone that he took with your camera. Him making funny faces, him taking candids of you while he's speeding through seconds, etc. If you're shorter than him, he likes hiding your things on higher shelves. If you're taller, he likes tackling you onto beds and couches by going for your legs. Best believe he uses his super-speed to prank you like no other.

☆ BF! Peter who tries his best to mature when your relationship gets serious. He puts more effort into his work at Xavier's, starts saving for his own place, begins to limit his shoplifting, and tries to be "more serious" on dates. The last one doesn't last long, but you don't mind.

☆ BF! Peter whose favorite chores are dishes and dusting. They're easy, quick, and simple. He HATES doing laundry because it takes so long. The apartment/house you two share is always pretty tidy, surprisingly, because he gets bored on the weekends if you aren't home.

☆ BF! Peter who started wanting kids when he saw how gentle you were with the other mutants. Cooing and chatting with one of the littles who didn't have many friends led to him wondering if you'd agree on "Kurt" as a boy's name - both for his blue best friend and Cobain. Daughter wise, he'd name her Wanda if that was okay with his twin. [ A/N: yes I know they aren't twins in the Fox movies but they are EVERYWHERE else so yuh.] He wouldn't care about the gender, but I imagine him more as a boy dad than a girl dad. Not that he'd neglect his daughter, no, he'd love her more than anything, but he's had sisters and he wants something new. Twins run in the family, so he would be over the moon if you ended up with two twin boys like Wanda's.

☆ BF! Peter whose idea of a good date is something fun. He's not big on picnics or beach walks or fancy dinners - but he'll try everything once. He likes taking you shopping, going skateboarding, exploring, tree-climbing, going to arcades, and anything else fun that he can do. The boy will do anything that allows him to get his energy out - from following you as you spend much too long in an F.Y.E to taking you into an indoor rock-climbing.

☆ BF! Peter who eats a LOT. He burns insane amounts of calories, and as a part of his mutation- his digestion is sped-up. If you like to cook or bake, he'll love you even more. He's shown to love sugar in the films, but I don't doubt him changing to a more protein-rich diet later in life. Your first "date" was a group celebratory meal paid for by Hank - who immediately regretted it when Peter ordered a huge steak, a bunch of shrimp Alfredo, and a chicken salad without any hesitation. And yes, he ate on the appetizers and your meal without a second thought - the boy's gotta eat! Your shared grocery bill is pretty hefty, but it's worth it for the muscle he's putting on.

☆ BF! Peter who's type is anyone he can have fun with, and is "fun' in style. He isn't into the real soft, coquette types or the real serious/academic types. I can see him more into the 1980/1990s grudge/skater type, but he's not too picky. Any type of fun hair or makeup? He's in love. Paint or dirt on your skirt or pants? Count him in. Similar tastes in preferred dates and music? Hell yeah. He doesn't really care about physical appearance, so personality and style are more important. Why date someone if you can't play Laser tag and share clothes with them?

☆ BF! Peter who burns CDs with songs you both like and lets you borrow his band shirts and CDs. One of his number one requirements is that you share music taste or you're open to listening to his music.

☆ BF! Peter who is a total "wife guy". If he wants to get out of plans, it's a "sorry, gotta get home to the wife." Favorite person? "My wife, obviously." His wallpaper, emergency contact, best friend, roommate, lover, and #1 clothes thief? "Well, that'd have to be my kick-ass wife, obviously." Even before marriage, he called you his all the time. If you kick ass in a fight, he's swooning to Kurt about how cool his girlfriend is. If one of the kids asks why he's so happy one morning, he'll talk about how great his girlfriend is. The moment he proposed, he went straight to giving you the wife title. And he doesn't ever stop.

☆ BF! Peter acts like a man-child at times, but he's a well-behaved one. Yes, he gets sent to the doghouse at times, and yes, he's had to retreat to Wanda and Vision's house once or twice when he's really, really fucked up, but he means well. He's a guy raised in the 70s, do you expect him to be completely house-trained? He does try, though. He loves you more than anything, he just fucks up at times. And maybe, yeah, he leaves towels on the floor and soda stains on the couch and he accidentally mixes the laundry at times - but he'll try and be better.

☆ BF! Peter who HATES girl's night. Not that he minds your clubbing clothes, he loves them, but he's so bored without you. He doesn't understand why he can't come bowling with you guys, or out to dinner, or out drinking, or shopping. He likes those things! He trusts you and the others, they're his friends too, but he's admittedly a tad jealous. In an attempt to squash this, you nudged him into starting a boy's night. Gaming, laser tag, arcades, cards, whatever he could find fun with Hank, Scott, and Kurt. But Hank eventually went back to the lab and Scott didn't have the same idea of fun, so most of the time it was just Kurt and Peter. And that devolved into Peter whining about your absence over a game of Monopoly. Wife guy.

☆ BF! Peter who adores you. The moment he saw you at Xavier's or your job or wherever met you, his heart started ramping up like it did when he was a teen and saw Princess Leia for the first time. He loses all sense of cool around you. In the beginning, he's just a meek, stuttering mess.

☆ BF! Peter who slowly, but surely gets more used to the fuzzy feeling you give him as you guys start dating. He still adores you and gets all red-faced when you do just about anything cute, but he's more confident now.

☆ BF! Peter who actually buys your birthday presents. No stealing, he wants you to know he cares. He's the type to buy you what you've told him you wanted, because to him, that's the standard. "Your ex bought you a camera? But you told me you had a Polaroid one since you were a teen. He bought you one when you already had one? Are you kidding me? And you didn't even ask for it? Prick."

☆ BF! Peter who's your ex's number one hater. "So he spent all day texting one girl, started working with her and started taking classes with her...but got mad you talked comics with one of your guy friends? Fucking insane." "She left you for THAT guy? With the fucking hair? Good lord."

☆ BF! Peter who's bisexual with a fem preference. He's the type of guy who can ogle both the female and male leads of a movie.

☆ BF! Peter who burns you CDs whenever he feels like it. He's not an artist, but he can find a way to make you things if he puts his mind to it.

☆ BF! Peter who has, at least once, done the cliche "standing outside your window with a boom box" thing to apologize. Definitely more than once.

☆ BF! Peter who despite being 20-30, acts like a teenager in love. 100% left you love notes from "your secret admirer" before you two started dating. It was so, so cheesy, but so cute.

☆ BF! Peter who most of his love knowledge comes from movies. Wanda and Vision started dating after Wanda moved out, so Peter didn't see them interact much. Peter's dad was out of the picture, and he didn't have too many friends growing up, and most of them were nerds like him who didn't get girlfriends. So, his perception of flirting and love is mostly from the movies he grew up with.

☆ BF! Peter who, when asked about how you dress, says "my girl can wear what she wants because I get to go home to that every night and you don't."

☆ BF! Peter who only dates someone if he loves them with his whole being. And with him, that's you and only you.

-------------------- NSFW: MDNI! --------------------

☆ BF! Peter who is a switch. He doesn't really care about a preference for being dominant or submissive, he just goes with the flow. He'd sub easily, but could also be a gentle dom. It really depends on you and his mood.

☆ BF! Peter who does love costumes though. Any of those slutty 2000s-esk Halloween costumes? Oh lord, he's done for. Suddenly he's a helpless patient if he can get you in a nurse outfit. He's a little criminal when you're in a sexy cop outfit, and he's awe-struck if you're anything nerdy related. The slave Leia costume? His nose is bleeding on sight. OG poison ivy bodysuit? Call that boy vegetarian the way he's in that foliage. [A/N: THAT WAS AWFUL, IM SO SORRY BAHAHEHA]

☆ BF! Peter who, once he learns you're completely fine with it, is a total perv with you. He loves that form of teasing. Wearing a skirt? Panty shots. You're being difficult? He's zipping around and suddenly you're back into one of those aforementioned costumes. That's one of his favorite things, changing your clothes in private. You gasp and blush, scolding him but he just smirks. He's definitely stolen your panties at least once, definitely jacked off when you're not looking, and definitely smacked your ass more times than you can count. He loves you, he does, and he doesn't do anything to objectify you. The guy just really fucking loves his girlfriend. And fucking his girlfriend. But mainly the first part. He also gets a lot of nosebleeds. It doesn't take him much to get worked up, just seeing your thighs, cleavage, face, arms, calves, hands, shoulder, stomach, and basically anything else. He's a dog, but only for his girl when she's okay with it.

☆ BF! Peter who doesn't enjoy blowjobs that much. He'd rather just have a quickie if you guys are in a rush. If he's desperate, he won't mind it, but he'd rather have you and him together, rather than you do the work.

☆ BF! Peter who's super-speed means super-drive. He's not supersonic in bed, but he pops a lot more boners than any of your exes. And he. Is. Whiny. The man loves his girl, and naturally he thinks that he should be able to worship her as much as possible! What's so wrong with that?

☆ BF! Peter who goes nuclear when you guys start trying for kids. He's a man on a mission. "Gonna...fuckin' put my baby batter in you. Fill you up so good, babe." "Peter, what the fuck?" He wants his babies. He wants his perfect little twins. He wants to be a dad, he can't help that!

☆ BF! Peter who, if you convince him to sub, could absolutely be put in a skirt. Put him in a little blue miniskirt and he's a begging mess. "Mommy, please, no, I'll be a boy, I'll be your best boy, don't make me wear it in front of our friends, please mommy-" [you'd never make him. You never even brought it up, he did. He's subtly hinting.]

☆ BF! Peter who accidentally let out a little moan when you put your boot on his chest during sparring. "Do you wanna explore that when we get home?" "Yes please.."

🏁⋆💨𐙚₊˚⊹🏃♡.👟⌛

A/N: YAYYY okay it's done ehehe. I might make a male version of this or a second one, but idk ☝️☝️ IM SORRY THAG IVE DONE LIKE NO NEW CONTENT, COLLEGE IS KICKING MY AHHH

Here's the song that kinda sums up how Peter loves IMO 👇