#( celebrating the return of the one and only!! )

[felixcloud6288]

Five years after Laios became king, a woman who looks like a slightly older Marcille appears in Laios's court. 15 seconds later, another woman who looks like the first one also appears.

The first woman claims to be Marcille from 250 years in the future. The second claims to be Marcille from 250 years and 6 months in the future.

Marcille takes these women to another room to talk in private. Seven minutes later, they return but now they are accompanied by another woman who looks like a very old Marcille and claims to be from 930 years in the future. Marcille tells the court that these women are all telling the truth but refuses to explain how she was able to confirm that.

Future Marcille 1 as she comes to be called explains that she just figured out time travel and decided to visit her dear friends to celebrate. Future Marcille 2 traveled back in time because Falin was about to head out on a journey that she will invite Future Marcille 1 to join but Future Marcille 1 didn't bring all the things she needed to pack. Future Marcille 3 traveled back in time because she's retired and wanted to spend her last few years with her friends.

Initially, there is some concern about the time-space continuum, but the future Marcilles assure everyone that everything is a stable time-loop. They've all experienced the same things their past selves are experiencing. But they refuse to explain how to create time travel because their future selves didn't tell them how to do it.

Over the next 13 years, Future Marcille 1 serves as an additional member of Laios's court. She helps Laios with all his kingly duties, accompanies him during foreign diplomatic journeys, and refuses to leave his side. Similarly, Future Marcille 2 travels with Falin on her journeys around the world and refuses to leave Falin's side. Future Marcille 3 is not nearly as clingy. She mostly wonders around the castle, stares at the various knick-knacks lying around, and asks everyone to share stories during meal times.

Strangely, Future Marcille 1 and Future Marcille 2 age at roughly the same rate that a Tall-man would age. It turns out the actual Future Marcille 1 and Future Marcille 2 returned to their timelines a week later but also decided to make two annual return trips and would continue where the Future Marcille they're replacing left.

Future Marcille also periodically visits Chilchuck, Senshi, and Izutsumi but they've said they'd prefer if she only visit every so often rather than stay with them all the time like she does with Laios and Falin.

There is also one bizarre incident where Senshi and a different Future Marcille led an expedition to slay a dragon and managed to bring its carcass to the kingdom for a feast. Shortly after, 43 future Marcilles from various points in her life arrived to join the feast. All of them explained that Senshi's dragon dishes are the best things they'd ever eaten and this was the only time in history they'd ever get to enjoy them.

[ghstyles]

Safe | His Angel

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Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 3.4k

Summary: Your turn to get drunk and make confessions that only the alcohol can pull out

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

It's been two weeks since Harry's uncharacteristic drunken confessions, and true to Y/N's prediction, he remembered almost nothing the next morning beyond the fact that he'd called her and she'd come over. She's kept his vulnerable admissions to herself, treasuring them privately while watching him return to his usual controlled demeanor as if nothing had happened.

Tonight, however, the roles are reversed. Y/N has been out celebrating the end of finals with her college friends, the relief of completing her semester meriting more drinks than she typically allows herself. By midnight, when her friends suggest moving to another bar, Y/N decides she's had enough and opts to head home instead.

But once in the taxi, sitting alone with her thoughts swimming pleasantly through a haze of tequila shots and fruity cocktails, she finds herself giving the driver Harry's address instead of her own. It's late, nearly 1 AM, but the pull to see him is stronger than her better judgment.

In the elevator up to Harry's penthouse, Y/N checks her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her hair is slightly tousled, her eyes bright with intoxication, a flush spreading across her cheeks. She's wearing a form-fitting black dress that hits mid-thigh, with a neckline just low enough to be enticing without being overtly revealing. It’s a balance she's learned to strike since dating someone who gets territorial when other men look at her too long.

Using her key, Y/N lets herself into Harry's penthouse quietly, not sure if he's still awake. The main living area is dimly lit, but she can see the familiar sight of light spilling from his office. Harry rarely sleeps before 2 or 3 AM, always working, always planning, always one step ahead of potential threats.

She makes her way toward the office, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floors. At the door, she pauses, suddenly struck by an uncharacteristic wave of self-consciousness. What if he's busy? What if he's annoyed by her dropping by unannounced? What if—

Before she can finish the thought, the door swings open, revealing Harry standing there in black slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, his forearms marked with the intricate tattoos she's come to know by heart. His expression shifts from alertness to surprise, then to something warmer as he takes in the sight of her.

"Angel," he says, his voice that familiar low rumble that never fails to send a shiver down her spine. "This is unexpected."

Y/N sways slightly on her feet, steadying herself against the doorframe with a smile that's a little looser, a little more uninhibited than usual.

"Hi," she says, then giggles—actually giggles—at how inadequate the greeting sounds. "Surprise."

Harry's eyes narrow slightly as he studies her, immediately assessing her state. "You're drunk," he observes, no judgment in his tone, just that characteristic directness.

"Mmhmm," Y/N confirms, nodding perhaps a bit too emphatically. "Finals are over. We were celebrating. I wanted to see you."

Without further comment, Harry steps back, making space for her to enter his office. It's a familiar room to her now with its the massive desk of dark wood, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and the leather furniture that manages to be both imposing and comfortable. There are papers spread across the desk, alongside a laptop and a single glass containing what looks like whiskey.

"Working late?" Y/N asks, moving past him into the room, trailing her fingers along the edge of his desk as she passes.

"Always," Harry replies simply, closing the door behind her. He leans against it, arms crossed, watching her with that intense focus that makes her feel like she's the only person in the world. "Did you need something?"

Y/N turns to face him, her inhibitions lowered enough that she doesn't second-guess herself as she saunters toward him, a playful smile on her lips.

"Do I have to need something?" she asks, stopping just in front of him, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "What if I wanted to call to hear your sexy voice?"

A slight smirk tugs at the corner of Harry's mouth, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You didn't call. You showed up at my door at one in the morning, drunk and looking like that."

"Like what?" Y/N challenges, placing her hands on his crossed arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Harry uncrosses his arms, placing his hands on her waist instead, his touch firm but gentle as he steadies her slight swaying.

"Like trouble," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "The kind of trouble I'm particularly fond of."

Y/N laughs, the sound light and uninhibited as she leans into him, resting her forehead against his chest.

"I missed you," she admits, the alcohol making her more forthcoming with her feelings than usual. "We've both been so busy lately. You with your... business things, me with finals. I just wanted to see your face."

Harry's hand comes up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair in that possessive yet tender way that's become so familiar.

"You could have called," he points out reasonably. "I would have sent a car."

Y/N tilts her head back to look up at him, her lips quirking into a mischievous smile. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, I'm a strong, independent woman. I can get myself to my boyfriend's place without assistance."

"Strong, independent, and drunk off her ass," Harry adds dryly, but there's affection in his tone.

"Only a little drunk," Y/N protests, then immediately undermines her argument by losing her balance slightly as she steps back, saved from stumbling only by Harry's quick reflexes, his hands tightening on her waist.

"A little," he agrees sarcastically, guiding her toward the leather couch against the wall. "Sit before you fall, angel."

Y/N allows herself to be led to the couch, sinking into the soft leather with a contented sigh. "You're so bossy," she complains without heat, kicking off her heels and tucking her feet up beside her.

"Someone has to be the responsible one tonight," Harry replies, moving to his desk and closing his laptop, then picking up his whiskey glass. "Clearly it's not going to be you."

He returns to the couch, sitting beside her close enough that their thighs touch, and offers her the glass. "Water would be smarter, but if you're already drunk, one sip won't hurt. And this is better than whatever cheap shots you were doing with your friends."

Y/N accepts the glass, taking a small sip and wincing slightly at the burn. "Tequila, mostly," she admits. "And something blue in a fishbowl glass that tasted like candy but was definitely stronger than it seemed."

Harry shakes his head, a rare genuine smile softening his features. "Amateur move, falling for the sweet drinks. Those will fuck you up faster than anything."

"Well, I'm not a professional drinker like some people," Y/N teases, nudging him with her elbow before taking another small sip of his whiskey and handing the glass back.

Harry accepts it, setting it on the side table before turning his attention fully to her. "So, finals are over," he says, his hand coming to rest on her bare knee, thumb tracing small circles on her skin. "How did they go?"

The simple question, the genuine interest in her academic life, makes Y/N's heart swell with affection. This is the side of Harry that few people get to see. The attentive listener, the man who remembers details about her courses and professors despite his own chaotic and dangerous world.

"Good, I think," she says, leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "The literature analysis was challenging, but I felt prepared. The photography portfolio review went really well. My professor said my urban decay series was 'evocative and haunting.'"

"It is," Harry agrees, his arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her closer against his side. "You have an eye for finding beauty in broken things."

The casual compliment, delivered in that matter-of-fact tone he uses when stating what he considers obvious truths, warms Y/N more than the alcohol in her system.

"Is that why you like me?" she asks, the question slipping out before she can censor it, the tequila loosening her tongue. "Because I find beauty in broken things?"

Harry goes still beside her for a moment, then shifts to look down at her face, his expression suddenly serious.

"Is that what you think? That you're with me because I'm broken and you're trying to find something beautiful in it?"

Y/N blinks up at him, realizing belatedly how her question might have sounded. "No, that's not what I meant," she says quickly, reaching up to touch his face, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "You're not broken, Harry. Complex, yes. Dangerous, definitely. But not broken."

His expression remains guarded, those eyes that miss nothing studying her intently. "Then what did you mean?"

Y/N sighs, struggling to articulate her thoughts through the pleasant haze of alcohol. "I just meant... you're scary sometimes, you know that?"

Something flickers in Harry's eyes. Was it surprise, perhaps, or concern?. "How?" he asks, the single word carrying weight, a demand for honesty.

Y/N shifts, sitting up straighter to look at him directly, her hand still resting against his face.

"Not in the way you think," she clarifies. "Not because of what you do, or who you are to other people. You're scary because... because of how you make me feel. How much I care about you. How much it would hurt if—" She cuts herself off, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable.

Harry's hand comes up to cover hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his cheek. "If what, angel?" he prompts, his voice gentler now, coaxing.

Y/N feels unexpected tears spring to her eyes, the alcohol amplifying her emotions, breaking down the careful walls she usually maintains around her deepest insecurities.

"If you left," she whispers, the tears spilling over despite her attempt to blink them back. "I'm just scared that one day you'll realize I'm too boring for you and then you'll leave. Please don't leave."

The naked vulnerability in her voice, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks, transforms Harry's expression completely. The guardedness vanishes, replaced by a fierce tenderness that few people have ever witnessed.

"Come here," he says roughly, pulling her into his lap in one fluid motion, cradling her against his chest as if she's something infinitely precious. "Look at me, Y/N."

She raises her tear-streaked face to his, sniffling slightly, feeling both foolish and relieved to have voiced the fear that's been lurking in the back of her mind for months.

"First of all," Harry says, his voice low and intense as he wipes her tears away with his thumbs, "you are many things, but boring has never been and will never be one of them. You challenge me, surprise me, fascinate me every fucking day."

He presses a kiss to her forehead, then continues:

"Second, I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand? What we have isn't temporary for me. It's not a phase or a passing interest or a convenient arrangement. It's everything."

The conviction in his voice, the rare directness about his feelings, makes fresh tears well in Y/N's eyes.

"You're just saying that because I'm crying," she mumbles, burying her face against his neck. "You hate when I cry."

Harry's chest rumbles with a low chuckle. "I do hate when you cry," he agrees, his hand stroking soothingly up and down her back. "But I'm not just saying it. I'm telling you the truth. You think I give keys to my place to just anyone? You think I let just anyone see me like this, no guards, no pretenses?"

Y/N shakes her head against his neck, her tears dampening the collar of his shirt.

"I have never let anyone as close as I've let you," Harry continues, his voice taking on that edge of intensity that indicates absolute seriousness. "Not in business, not in my personal life. Never. You're not something temporary to me, Y/N. You're it."

She pulls back slightly to look at him, her eyes still shining with tears but a small, hopeful smile beginning to form on her lips.

"I am?" she asks, sounding so young, so vulnerable that Harry feels something in his chest constrict painfully.

"You are," he confirms, cupping her face in his hands. "And I'm not leaving. If anything, I'm the one who should be worried about you coming to your senses and realizing you could do better than a man like me."

Y/N's expression shifts to one of indignation, the alcohol making her emotions swing rapidly.

"Better than you? There's no one better than you," she insists with drunken conviction, poking him in the chest for emphasis. "You're perfect."

Harry can't help the laugh that escapes him. Its a genuine, unguarded sound rarely heard by anyone outside this room.

"I'm many things, angel, but perfect is definitely not one of them," he says, catching her finger before she can poke him again. "I'm possessive, controlling, dangerous, and involved in things that would terrify you if you knew the full extent."

"I know exactly who you are," Y/N counters, echoing the words she spoke to him during his own drunken vulnerability two weeks ago, though she doesn't realize the parallel. "And I love who you are. All of it."

The declaration, spoken so plainly, so without calculation, makes Harry go still again, his eyes searching hers. 

"Even the parts that scare you?" he asks quietly.

Y/N nods, reaching up to push a strand of hair back from his forehead in a tender gesture.

"Especially those parts," she confirms. "Because they're what make you, you. The man who would do anything to protect what's his. The man who never backs down, never shows weakness to anyone but me."

Harry studies her face for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail, before leaning in to kiss her. It's a gentle kiss, almost reverent, lacking the usual hunger and possession that characterize most of their physical interactions.

When he pulls back, there's something in his eyes Y/N can't quite name. A vulnerability that mirrors her own, perhaps, or a decision being made.

"Stay tonight," he says, not a question but not quite a command either.

"I was planning to," Y/N admits with a small smile, her tears forgotten now. "I didn't bring a change of clothes, though."

"You won't need clothes," Harry replies, that familiar smirk returning to his lips as his hands tighten possessively on her waist.

Y/N laughs, the sound light and happy, her earlier insecurities soothed by his reassurances and the physical comfort of being in his arms.

"So confident," she teases, shifting in his lap to straddle him, her dress riding up her thighs.

"With good reason," Harry counters, his hands sliding up her bare thighs to the edge of her dress, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. "But first, water. And food, if you've haven't eaten. I'm not taking advantage of you while you're drunk off your ass."

Y/N pouts playfully, draping her arms around his neck. "It's not taking advantage if I'm begging for it."

"Even so," Harry says firmly, though his eyes darken at her words. "Water first. Then we'll see about the begging."

With surprising gentleness, he lifts her off his lap and stands, extending a hand to help her up.

"Fine," Y/N concedes with an exaggerated sigh, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. "Water, food, then you can have your wicked way with me."

"My wicked way," Harry repeats, amusement coloring his tone as he leads her toward the door. "You've been reading those romance novels again, haven't you?"

"Maybe," Y/N admits with a grin, leaning into him as they walk, his arm secure around her waist. "They give me ideas."

Harry glances down at her, his expression a mixture of amusement and heat. "We don't need books for ideas, angel. I have plenty of my own."

As they make their way to the kitchen, Y/N feels a profound sense of contentment settle over her. The insecurities that had bubbled to the surface with the alcohol haven't disappeared completely, they rarely do, but they've been soothed by Harry's reassurances, by the steady strength of his presence beside her.

In the kitchen, Harry fills a glass with water and hands it to her, watching with satisfaction as she drinks it all. Then he moves to the refrigerator, pulling out cold pasta from a restaurant they'd ordered from the night before.

"Eat," he instructs, setting the container in front of her with a fork. "You'll thank me in the morning when you're not praying for death."

Y/N takes a bite obediently, suddenly realizing she is hungry after all. "So bossy," she says again, but her tone is affectionate.

"You like when I'm bossy," Harry points out, leaning against the counter across from her, arms crossed as he watches her eat.

"I like everything about you," Y/N admits, the alcohol still making her more forthcoming than usual. "Even when you're being a controlling asshole."

"Especially then," Harry corrects her with a knowing smirk.

Y/N blushes but doesn't deny it, focusing on her pasta instead. After a few more bites, she looks up at him, her expression turning serious again.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"For the pasta?" Harry asks, though his eyes indicate he knows that's not what she means.

"For making me feel safe," Y/N clarifies. "For letting me be vulnerable without making me feel weak for it."

Something flickers in Harry's eyes, a rare glimpse of that same vulnerability he allows no one else to see.

"You're the strongest person I know," he says simply. "Nothing could make you weak in my eyes."

The statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact conviction, warms Y/N from the inside out. She sets down her fork, suddenly no longer interested in food.

"I think I've had enough water and pasta," she says, pushing the container away and standing, moving around the counter to where Harry stands. "Take me to bed now."

Harry's eyes darken as she approaches, but he remains still, letting her come to him.

"Bossy," he says, echoing her earlier accusation, but there's heat in his voice now.

"You like when I'm bossy," Y/N counters, using his own words against him as she reaches him, pressing her body against his.

Harry's hands come to her waist automatically, holding her against him as he looks down at her with that intensity that never fails to make her breath catch.

"I like everything about you," he admits, his voice low and rough. "Even when you show up at my door drunk in the middle of the night, crying about fears that have no basis in reality."

Y/N smiles up at him, her earlier insecurities feeling distant now in the face of his steady presence.

"Good," she says simply, rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to his jaw. "Because I'm not going anywhere either."

Without warning, Harry bends and scoops her up into his arms, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Y/N lets out a surprised laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carries her toward the bedroom.

"I can walk, you know," she points out, though she makes no move to get down.

"I know," Harry says, pushing open the bedroom door with his shoulder. "But this way is faster. And I've waited long enough."

As he lays her gently on the bed, looking down at her with a mixture of possessiveness and something deeper, more profound, Y/N feels the last of her drunken insecurities fade away. In their place is only certainty that this man, with all his complexities and dangers and fierce protectiveness, is exactly where she belongs.

And as Harry joins her on the bed, his movements deliberate and focused entirely on her, Y/N knows with absolute clarity that her earlier fears were unfounded. Harry Styles isn't going anywhere. And neither is she.

Taglist:@silastylesswiftb@babegoalsn@harryssunflower17n@puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @mads3502 @harrydeary @valuunit @myfavfanficsever @lunaharrygurl @prettygurl-2009

[pukefactory]

Ok one last one unless my brain comes up with any more questions.(I promise you it most likely will adhd tends to do that to me for some resson) What do you think dating ENA as someone who is both Legally Blind(They would most likely still have a cane even if they can see a bit) and has ADHD would be like? Think is another thingy I think about Especially when I started reading your stuff. Also hell yeah protective polygon(that would be a adorable nickname for her honestly lol) Anyways I hope you have a good day - 💖🍫🦯

Dating Dream BBQ ENA while being legally blind with ADHD is less like entering a relationship and more like joining an abstract symphony she composes in real time—one where your needs, differences, and limits aren’t just noticed, but celebrated like strange little miracles. She doesn’t just accommodate you—she adores you with that odd, theatrical grandeur only she can pull off, like narrating everything she sees in elaborate metaphors (“The clouds are doing synchronized swimming again!”) or guiding you by the hand while insisting she is your “delightful seeing-eye jester.”

She’s the kind of partner who will label things around the house with texture and sound—bell on the tea kettle, fuzzy stickers on door frames—not out of pity, but because she finds the world too flat without your kind of depth. She doesn’t see your blindness as a shortcoming, just a different canvas. In fact, she thinks your way of experiencing the world is far more interesting than hers. She’ll excitedly describe things not just by how they look, but how they feel, how they sound. “The color red? It’s like when a trumpet gets embarrassed! Like a strawberry having a tantrum!”

As for your ADHD, ENA meets it not with frustration, but matching momentum. She talks fast, jumps from topic to topic like a frog in a rainstorm, and thinks you’re brilliant for following her at all. If your attention strays, she doesn’t guilt you—she just swerves with you, delighted. She’s not bothered when you stim or fidget. In fact, she’ll join in, making her own rhythmic noises or tapping out little percussive games with her fingers, treating your patterns like sacred music. Her moods may be mercurial, but her affection? Consistent in its chaos.

Sometimes, her surrealism makes her hard to pin down. She might disappear mid-thought, get swept up in her own emotions, or forget what day it is. But she’ll always return with arms open and something for you—a weird snack, a heartfelt apology, a stick she swears looks like a dog. Her love language is a mixed-media collage of voice, texture, movement, and mischief. You never have to mask around her; your focus, or lack of it, isn’t judged. It’s seen. Really, truly seen.

In ENA’s world, you’re not broken—you’re the point. You’re her favorite constellation in a sky she doesn’t always understand. And she’ll spend every day orbiting you with love that’s messy, loud, and impossibly kind.

[bingbongsupremacy]

Music That Moves

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: None that I can think of

Summary: You've liked Bucky for a while. One day, during a party, he asks you to dance. Is he just being nice, or could there possibly be something more?

No details of the reader's appearance, race, weight, etc.

*Not Proof Read* (Really short)

You can feel the warm buzz from the alcohol swirling through your veins, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in your chest as the music swells in the background. The Avengers had just wrapped up a long, grueling mission, and the team was celebrating in the compound's living room. Everyone was laughing, chatting, and dancing, but for some reason, your attention kept drifting to Bucky.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know he was there-he was always there, lurking in the background with that unreadable expression, eyes flickering between the floor and the people around him. But tonight, something felt different. There was a quiet intensity to the way he moved, like he was a little out of sync with the rest of the world. His usual guardedness seemed to fade, but the uncertainty never quite left his face.

You stand against the wall, half-laughing with Clint about something that had happened earlier in the day, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you blink up at Bucky, who’s standing there, his posture tense but his hand extended toward you.

“Wanna dance?” His voice is low, unsure, and the way he’s fidgeting with his fingers only makes your heart race.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? We’re both drunk, Buck. This is gonna be a mess.”

He lets out a soft, nervous chuckle, but his hand doesn’t move. He’s still waiting for you to take it.

You can’t help but feel a little suspicious. “You don’t have to do this out of politeness, you know,” you tease, but the words come out with more of an edge than you intend.

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his steel-blue eyes searching yours for something. He swallows hard, then takes a deep breath like he’s working up the courage for something.

When you finally reach out and let your hand fall into his, he exhales in relief. His hand wraps around your waist, pulling you a little closer than you expected, his other resting on the small of your back. For a moment, neither of you moves, and all you can hear is the soft hum of the music filling the space between you. The room feels hazy, the edges of everything soft and distant, and it’s just the two of you in this strange bubble of stillness.

Then, Bucky leans in, his forehead gently resting against yours. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and before you can say anything, he whispers, barely above the music, “Been wantin’ to do this for a long time, doll.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and the words don’t quite register at first. You blink at him, trying to get a grip on your racing thoughts, but his gaze is so steady, so serious. His warmth seems to seep into you, and suddenly, all that uncertainty you thought he had fades away, replaced by something deeper, something vulnerable.

For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like the soldier. He just looks like… Bucky. Your Bucky.

You swallow, trying to find your voice, but all you can do is lean into him just a little more. A small, shy smile tugs at your lips, and you can’t help but return the quiet moment, letting the music guide you as you both sway. For once, you let yourself stop worrying about what comes next. "Me too." You whisper back.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside slipping away with every passing second. But when the song finally ends, and you pull away just enough to look at him, you see it-the softness in his eyes, the warmth in his smile. And just like that, you know. It’s not politeness. It’s never been politeness.

It’s real. And it’s been real for a long time.

The same complex feelings of admiration and wanting for the man, he's also felt for you.

[wordsofwhimsy]

【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Twenty - The Finale

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, wholesome af

Word Count: 2,294

Chapter Synopsis: It’s been a few years and now it’s college graduation – we get to see a glimpse into the start of their forever

a/n: ughhhh this series was the longest i’ve ever done. definitely lost a LOT of readers along the way lmao but oh well, to the few of you who stuck it out to the end you a real one and ily.

Part Nineteen

The air was warm as the ceremony came to a close. You’d just walked across the stage, the weight of your diploma in your hand feeling like a light feather compared to the rush of emotions flooding through you. Graduating with a degree in child psychology had been the culmination of years of hard work, sleepless nights, and a fair share of challenges. But standing here, in the midst of friends, people who had become like family, and all the noise of celebration, all you could think about was one thing—Mark.

You scanned the crowd for him and spotted him standing off to the side, his usual dark leather jacket and the signature cocky smirk playing on his lips. He looked almost out of place amongst the sea of caps and gowns, but to you, he was exactly where he belonged.

Mark had been by your side through every late-night study session, every doubt, and every victory. He’d been there for it all—his quiet support and fierce loyalty pushing you to be the best version of yourself. He’d changed you in ways you hadn’t even fully realized yet, and you were proud to call him yours.

The second you spotted him, your heart leapt, and you practically ran to him, excitement bubbling over. You didn’t even think about it—your feet moved on their own as you flung yourself into his arms.

He caught you easily, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off the ground as though you were weightless.

For a moment, you were suspended in his embrace, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you—this perfect moment.

Mark’s laugh rumbled in his chest as he held you there, but his voice softened when he spoke. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice thick with pride and admiration. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You kissed him quickly, barely pulling away before diving back in for another, longer kiss. His lips met yours with the same intensity, his kiss deep and full of emotion. It was the kind of kiss that made the world around you feel distant, as if nothing else mattered except the person in your arms.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you rested your forehead against his. “I love you,” you said quietly, almost reverently, as if the words themselves were a sacred thing.

“I love you, too,” he murmured in return, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He brushed a strand of hair out of your face and cupped your cheek in his hand. “I’m so proud of you,” he repeated, his voice thick with pride.

Your heart swelled at his words, the warmth of them settling deep inside you. You never thought you’d be here—graduating, surrounded by people who loved you, with a future ahead of you. And with him. Mark. Your constant, your love.

Before you could say anything else, Mark’s expression shifted, and he pulled away slightly. There was something mysterious in his eyes, a glimmer of mischief that made you tilt your head in curiosity.

“I have something I want to show you,” he said, his tone suddenly low and playful.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the familiar buzz of anticipation stirring in your stomach. “What is it?” you asked, unable to hide the excitement in your voice.

He grinned, but there was something else in that smirk now—something a little more devil-may-care. “It’s a surprise. You ready?”

You narrowed your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I think so.”

Mark glanced around briefly, then said, “Hold on.” He wrapped his arms around you again, but this time, you could feel the faintest tremor in his hands, as if he was getting ready to do something big. “I need you to trust me, okay?”

“Always,” you said without hesitation. You’d trust him with your life.

“Good,” he murmured. Then, without another word, he gently slipped a blindfold over your eyes, tying it in place with the same steady hands that always knew exactly how to take care of you.

“Mark?” you said, your voice tinged with confusion.

“Shh,” he whispered softly, brushing his lips against your ear. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Before you could ask any more questions, you felt him lift you into his arms effortlessly, his strong hands securing you against him.

You gasped in surprise, your heart leaping in your chest. “Wait, what are you—”

“I’ve got it under control,” he reassured you with that familiar, mischievous tone.

Then, just as you felt the familiar rush of wind against your skin, you realized—he wasn’t just walking. He was flying.

The world shifted around you as he soared into the sky, the gentle breeze lifting your hair, the hum of the air rushing by your ears. The ground was nowhere to be found. You clung to him instinctively, your heart racing with a mixture of thrill and excitement.

“Mark!” you gasped, but your voice was muffled by the speed.

He chuckled softly. “Hold tight, baby. We’re almost there.”

It didn’t take long before the steady rise in the air started to level off, and you could feel him slowing down. Eventually, you felt the sensation of landing—gently, softly—before he set you down on your feet.

“You can take the blindfold off now,” he said, his voice low and warm, the smile in his words evident even without you seeing it.

You hesitated for a second, still buzzing from the flight, before your fingers found the knot and pulled the blindfold away.

Your eyes blinked in the daylight, adjusting to the view before you. The scene before you left you speechless.

You stood in front of a house—a large, beautiful house, complete with a sprawling front yard and a porch that seemed to stretch for miles. It looked like something straight out of a dream, the kind of place you never imagined you’d be able to call home. And yet here it was. Waiting for you. For both of you.

You turned to Mark, your mouth slightly open, still processing what you were seeing. “Mark…” you whispered, unable to form a full sentence.

He was watching you closely, his eyes soft and vulnerable, something rare and open in the way he looked at you. He stepped closer, his voice a little hesitant as he spoke. “You said after you graduated, we could get a place together...”

Your eyes widened, the memory flooding back in an instant. That conversation, so lighthearted and full of possibility. The future you’d talked about before it all seemed so real.

You gasped, your voice filled with excitement and disbelief. “Wait—is there a dog in there too?!”

Mark laughed, a low, amused sound that was pure warmth. “Okay, okay, no dog yet. But we can definitely work on that.”

You smiled so wide, your heart full, and for the first time, you realized just how seriously Mark had taken that throwaway dream you once shared. How long he’d been waiting for this moment, for you to be ready. And now, here it was, everything you’d talked about coming to life before your eyes.

You blinked, the shock and awe still settling over you. “You… you bought this?”

Mark shrugged nonchalantly, but you could see the uncertainty in his eyes. “Well, not exactly. I persuaded the GDA to give it up, but that’s basically the same thing, right?” He grinned, though it was tinged with a bit of hesitation. “I mean, I could live here alone, but I figured it would be a hell of a lot cooler if you were here too.”

For a moment, you stood there in stunned silence, taking in the enormity of what he was offering. And then, without thinking, you launched yourself at him once more, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him—hard and full of joy.

“Yes!” you breathed when you pulled away, your voice filled with excitement. “Yes, I want this. I want it with you!”

Mark’s face broke into a relieved, joyful grin, and for a moment, he held you like he might never let you go. His lips brushed your forehead, his arms tightening around you in a fierce embrace. “God damn I got so lucky with you,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back, still catching your breath, and held his gaze. “Let’s do it, Mark. Let’s make this our home.”

And as he leaned down to kiss you again, you both knew—this was just the beginning.

—

The next few days were a whirlwind, a blur of boxes, laughter, and the occasional how the hell did he get this moment. Mark was on a mission to make the house a fortress of luxury, bringing in everything from marble countertops to high-end furniture that was clearly too extravagant to have been bought through any normal means. There were custom-made leather chairs that looked like they belonged in a billionaire’s private lounge and a gigantic flat-screen TV that could’ve doubled as a movie theater screen.

You just raised an eyebrow every time something new appeared, shaking your head in amusement. “You didn’t get this legally, did you?” you’d ask, half-teasing, half-serious. Mark would just give you that half-smirk, shoulders shrugging in the way only he could pull off. “What can I say? It’s a talent.”

You’d try not to laugh, but it was hard. The way he handled it all so effortlessly, as though nothing was too much, only made it feel more like home.

Meanwhile, you were focused on the little things. The personal touches. The trinkets. You weren’t buying marble or fancy tech. Instead, you were pulling out things that felt important—a ceramic mug collection you’d picked up from random trips, a framed photograph of the two of you on that beach day that Mark insisted was “the best photo ever,” and a vintage record player with a stack of old vinyls.

Every little piece was a puzzle, filling in the empty spaces, making it feel alive, not just a place to live, but somewhere you could belong.

One afternoon, Mark came through the back French doors carrying a literal grand piano, one that would’ve required an entire moving crew and not just a single Viltrumite. The way he set it down, effortlessly, his powerful hands guiding the weight of it like it was nothing, made you stop in your tracks.

You turned to see what the fuss was about, and there he was—standing next to the piano like it was his new throne. His dark strip of hair was tousled from carrying it, his eyes gleaming with that trademark look of mischievous pride.

But what stopped you wasn’t the piano, though it was breathtaking. It was the moment when Mark glanced over at you, his gaze softening instantly when he saw you perched on the ladder, adjusting a silly little trinket—a bright red porcelain cat you’d picked up from a thrift store years ago. It wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t even pretty to most people. But to you, it was perfect.

You looked at him, smiling sheepishly as if to say, this is my contribution to your grand home.

Mark’s breath caught. He just stood there, transfixed, watching you with a tenderness that made his heart beat a little faster. He didn’t even register how the weight of the piano in his hands had shifted—it didn’t matter. You were his priority now.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured under his breath, voice low and sincere. There was a depth to it, a rawness that made your heart skip. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

You glanced up from your little trinket, your eyes soft as they locked with his. There was a quiet understanding between you—this house, this life, wasn’t just about the big things. It was about everything you’d made together. All the moments, the small and the big, each piece you added.

The house was no longer just a space with extravagant furniture or priceless items. It was a reflection of you—your hopes, your dreams, your little quirks and shared moments. It was a home. And it was yours.

Mark stepped closer, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the piano, but his attention was on you now. Without even fully realizing it he found himself lifting off the ground and slowly drifting up towards you. There was no rush in his movement. It was slow, deliberate, as if every inch closer to you mattered.

You blinked, eyes wide, a soft laugh escaping you as he floated effortlessly to your level.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, already knowing the answer.

He just gave you that same small, smoldering smile, his eyes flickering with warmth and something else—a deep, unspoken emotion. His arms were reaching out and as soon as he could touch you,  his hands were cupping your face, bringing you in for a kiss.

Slowly, he cupped your face in his hands, drawing you in for a kiss. Something that was full of love, of promises for everything that lay ahead, of how much he cherished this life you were building.

And when he pulled away, he whispered, “This... this is what I want. This is all I need.”

You smiled, your heart full as you leaned into him, feeling the weight of everything—the love, the memories, and the beautiful future you had ahead. Together.

———————

Taglist! @maddyb-rapps | @sweet-3-whispers | @moradogreen | @rayaaa4444 | @luvvcharxo | @byteme05 | @rivalriotrenegade | @1abi | @onlybatsyy | @heiankyonoeiyuukun | @dillybuggg | @am-3-thyst | @mikevi | @sadest-bookshelf | @rayaaaaalt1 | @topshotdivaa | @frankee4foure

[kasagia]

I alone can see your light

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/Darkling x fem!sun summoner!princess! reader Summary: The Sun Summoner turns out to be you - the princess of Ravka, who wants nothing to do with her powers or being a Saint. General Kirigan intends to change your mind about yourself and wipe out all your doubts. Requested by: anonymous ; I hope you will like it!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤 Warning(s): uncertainty, shyness, self-doubt on 1000 level, suspecting manipulation Taglist for Darkling: @aoi-targaryen @chelseyyouraverageluigi @watersquirtpewpewboomm @summersummoner-pat @meadowshelby Aleksander Morozova's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist

The first time you see General Kirigan is at your 20th birthday ball.

Or rather this is the first time you actually talk to him, rather than seeing him walk through the Grand Palace like one of his shadows or sneaking back to the Little Palace after returning from one of his campaigns.

"Moya tsarevna." He greets you. His tone of voice is… like you remember when he gave many speeches. Dark, silky, pleasant to listen to, you're sure many have fallen for him just because of the way he spoke to them. "Happy Birthday. May the saints watch over you."

He bows to you when it is his turn to approach your throne. Or rather, the small dais with the chair that your father so generously offered you for your birthday.

In any case, this gives you the perfect opportunity to take a good look at him. You find exactly what most people who have encountered him have described to you.

Self-possessed and mysterious, with eyes so dark and unreadable that they could be an extension of the fold his ancestor had created. Well-built, with sharp features, the embodiment of control and power. Even without his black kefta, you would know who was standing before you.

Sure, you'd had some impressions of him before. You had eyes like most people in the capital, and you'd seen how handsome he was. But he was also dangerously powerful.

The kind of man you ran from. The kind you should have run from.

But you don't.

"Thank you, General." You say as he steps closer to hand you his gift.

You smile politely, offering him your hand, on which he places a kiss. And in the moment when his lips meet your skin something changes.

A shiver runs down your palm, down your spine, and into your core. Something strange comes to life beneath your skin, some burning energy you've never felt before. You frown, quickly hiding your emotions behind a polite smile, not noticing the general's calm, collected facade momentarily break.

Your heart beats like crazy and your breath catches for a moment as the intense gaze of his eyes falls on you. And you see curiosity in them. Interest. In you.

"You would do us a great pleasure if you honoured us with your presence at the next Winter Fete." He adds, prolonging your conversation a bit.

Your heart immediately speeds up at the thought of participating in another farce for your father – the Tsar. You give him a polite smile, noticing from the corner of your eye the Kerch ambassador heading your way with his own wishes.

"I can't promise anything. I'm often away from the palace during this time, as you're well aware, General." You answer, referring to the numerous social activities your parents sent you to at that time.

"Anyway, I hope you will enjoy your gift and birthday. Once again, best wishes, moya tsarevna."

His watchful gaze leaves you only when another guest comes to wish you well. And even many hours later, when the ball is in full swing, you can't shake the feeling of being watched…

Little did you know that this little meeting between you would change your future by 180 degrees.

You lean against the wall, sipping champagne in celebration of your father's birthday. You hated all these formal gatherings. You planned to run away from here as fast as you could, to retreat back to your chambers or your private library; you weren't sure yet.

At least you had that intention until he walked up to you.

"Moya tsarevna." General Kirigan's voice echoes behind you as you eat the sweet treats the waiter brings. You quickly swallow the chocolate, momentarily lamenting the fact that you can't savour it properly, and turn to face the Black General. "Welcome back."

“General.” You nod and offer him your hand with a soft smile. He takes his time, placing a kiss on your knuckles—always gallant and considerate of you and your family. "I trust the Little Palace is in even better condition than when I left. I believe you have recently expanded the west wing for the little Grisha?"

You see the slight quiver of his eyebrows as he tries to keep his neutral face. But you could notice through this small gesture that he was shocked that you remembered something like that.

Most of your family, all of the royals, in fact, didn't put much stock in social matters, and certainly not in anything that concerned Grisha. As a princess with two brothers, you knew what it was like to feel excluded, less important. That's why you were sure to show support and attention to all those your father had come to despise and neglect.

"Indeed, Princess. It's kind of you to remember that. And to dedicate some of your resources to this cause. I can't express my gratitude enough."

"It's a pleasure to help a little for a great cause." You answer shyly, barely able to stand the intense gaze of his dark eyes.

You weren't intimidated by him; of course he was a dangerous, strong man, and you knew his capabilities perfectly well, but... you noticed more how breathtakingly handsome he was. Which was definitely not befitting a princess like you.

"Probably almost as much of a pleasure as seeing you here." You're glad you let Genya put a little more powder on you than usual. Maybe it at least covered your little blush. "We missed you at the Winter Fete. I was secretly hoping you'd come…"

"As charming as always." You comment nonchalantly, pretending his words didn’t make the slightest impression on you. “The orphans in Karemzin were waiting for my visit… or rather, for the gifts and money I was supposed to bring. I couldn’t let them down, General Kirigan, could I?”

"Of course not. But I strongly believe the Grisha here would enjoy your presence as well... maybe a little more than the orphans of Karemzin." He says and leans towards you.

You hold your breath as he gently wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb – probably wiping away a remnant of the chocolate dessert you had eaten earlier. You don't know if it's from the suddenness of his action, the surprise, or the outrage at his audacity, but you stand there, frozen in place as he licks the chocolate off his finger, looking you straight in the eye. You clear your throat and turn your gaze away from him to the dancing couples in front of you, but he doesn't give up.

“I assure you, princess, there are only a few people in this court to whom I am so… charming so willingly.” He whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

Before you or the General can say anything more, one of your mother's ladies-in-waiting approaches you to take you back to the Queen, to fulfill her duty as a princess and stand beside her family as they toast another successful year of your father's rule.

Standing with a glass of champagne a comfortable distance from your parents' throne, your gaze wanders over the crowd. And you almost blush as you catch the eye of a certain general.

If you had known that your absence of several weeks, due to visiting orphanages and doing charity work, would make the Shadow Summoner so interested in you, you would have left sooner.

You're not entirely sure when his strange fascination with you began.

Not that you weren't flattered by that or not interested in him. It was obvious that he was undeniably handsome, that all the ladies-in-waiting were whispering about how attractive and magnetic the Second Army general was. But it wasn't his looks that attracted you to him, or at least you want to believe that.

No, it was something about the way he spoke, the way he made sure his Grisha were well cared for, the way he looked after each of his men no matter how useful they were to his army. He was gallant, charming, and cunning.

He knew the language of diplomacy as well as force and brutality, and while he was certainly much older than you (you couldn't quite remember when exactly he had succeeded his father in that position), you felt something for him that went beyond mild admiration. Something that was far from decent.

It made you wonder what had caused such a sudden change in him. What had caused him to go from indifference and ignorance towards you – something that so many did, considering you were just a princess – to actively seeking you out at parties, even asking for your presence at events he attended?

And that wasn't all. There were letters, too. At first, just informing you of certain actions of the Second Army, or your escort to certain parts of Ravka. Later, they turned into questions about your opinions on matters that concerned the court and Grisha, and later... less formal... the kind you wouldn't dare show your most trusted maids.

Not to mention the gifts. One moment you were missing your coat; the next day Genya brought you one specially made for you from the material that was used to make Grisha keftas. Did you lose your earrings? An hour later David – one of Kirigan's Grisha – gave you an entire collection of jewels that you adored and which were not necessarily Lantsov dynasty. Or the fact that ever since your birthday gala, it seemed like everywhere you went, you saw someone from his Oprichniki or the Grisha. It was, to say the least, odd.

In your thoughts about the general, you completely miss the moment when the suspicious man pushes through the crowd of people, reaches your father, and puts a dagger to his throat, especially since the man behind you turns out to be not a guard at all but an assassin. In an instant, you land with the trigger of the gun at your neck. Your eyes wander to your parents. Grisha and the soldiers of the Second Army push through the fleeing and screaming nobility, but all you can hear is the movement of the hand of the man holding you as he pulls the trigger.

You close your eyes, waiting for the bullet to pierce your throat, but all you feel is someone pulling on your arm. You open your eyes, meeting the dark, anger- and fear-clouded irises of the general, when suddenly, a beam of bright white light explodes around you, blinding everyone, including yourself.

The last thing you remember before you passed out from exhaustion were the dark eyes of General Kirigan, who had caught you at the last moment. And the screams of the people.

Sun Summoner.

You knelt by the fireplace in your chamber, your hands trembling in your lap. The events of the last hour flashed through your mind again.

Sun Summoner.

That's what Genya called you after you woke up. You shudder as you remember the look she gave you. Like you were their saviour. Like you were suddenly going to magically fix Ravka and unite the Grisha with its inhabitants. Bring peace to the world.

You dismissed the redhead under some pretext and locked yourself in your room, not wanting to see anyone. You knew you should be planning, immediately thinking of what to do next or plan your escape, but for a moment... for a moment you had to be alone with your thoughts.

You shift your gaze from the fire to your hands. Hands that killed Fjerda's soldiers, hands that were likely meant to bring even more suffering. Panicking, you notice they are beginning to glow again. You hold them tightly to your chest and repeat the mantra that has allowed you to suppress your abilities all these years.

Feel nothing. You can't fear. Fear will kill you. Fear will destroy you. They will cast you out. Once they know what a threat you are to them, how easily you let your control slip, they throw you out. You will be a Heretic, not a Saint. A threat. A plague. A bane.

A knock on the door tears you from your thoughts.

"Moya tsarevna?" You take a few deep breaths as General Kirigan's voice stops you from shaking. You bite your fist and let out a shaky breath to calm yourself down. Or at least pretend like nothing's wrong with you.

"I want to be alone." You respond, gathering all the strength you have to keep your voice from shaking.

The silence after your words allows you to believe for a moment that you have managed to drive him away for a while. Unfortunately, General Kirigan is anything but compliant.

"I'm back from meeting with your father - the Tsar. I have... some updates I need to give you, Princess." You bite your lip, weighing your options. You know he won't leave until he gives you the message. And you just want to be alone. "Please. It won't take long."

You wrap yourself in a blanket, trying to maintain the last remnants of decency and composure. You wipe the tears from your cheeks, take a quick look at yourself in the mirror and fix your hair before you open the door to your room.

It always shocked you how the general managed to maintain his... flawless, intimidating appearance. Even today's attack hadn't ruffled the material of his kefta, and his hair was still in absurdly intact, perfect condition. He looked like he had just returned from Genya's magical appearance-enhancing services, not after a long, stressful day of searching for the remaining Fjerdans and dealing with your... predicament.

"Therefore, the Tsar and I have concluded that it would be best for you to spend some time in the Little Palace under my care." You catch the last sentence and almost blush when you realize you've been staring at him instead of listening. Your heart pounds as the meaning of his words sinks in. "Moya tsarevna?"

"I... I'm good here." You respond quickly, inwardly scolding yourself for your stupidity when he raises an eyebrow at you. "Besides, I don't need a training. I... I am not the Saint you are all waiting for. I mean... it was't me. It's not what you all think. If I really was... Then we would have known sooner. It must have been some kind of Fjerda trick. I... I can't be a Sun Summoner." You mumble in a desperate attempt to get out of this situation.

You couldn't be their saint and hero that you read about so many times in your books. It just wasn't you. You couldn't be.

You were a mere princess, a point in history that everyone would forget, supposed to fade safely into the memory of Ravka's history as another in a long list of female names that really meant nothing. And you were fine with that. You were fine within the safety of your chambers and library. You couldn't be…

"May I?" You shiver as he suddenly takes a step towards you and enters your room.

The General takes your hand with incredible gentleness. He gently strokes your hand with the pad of his finger, as if trying to calm your furiously beating heart. You feel nervous, both at his closeness and at the thought that somehow he can assure himself that you are... the one he and his men have been searching for all these years.

But then, his dark eyes meet yours. And for a mere moment you let yourself get bogged down in his gaze, your worries and concerns fading into the background as a warm sense of safety suddenly washes over you.

The longer his skin touches yours, the more you feel confidence, peace, and power flowing into you, which in some strange, indefinable way wants to break through your skin, to sing a melody that will answer his call.

You sigh softly as he pierces your skin with his sharp ring. You try with all your might to keep your power from flowing out, but it proves to be an impossible task. Your powers scream in relief at his proximity. They pull you toward him, causing your room to illuminate with a strong, bright, golden streak of light that flows from you at his call.

You dare to look at him just once before closing your eyes. And when you do, a small, winning smile spreads across his face. In his dark as shadows eyes you see a glimmer of an emotion you don't recognize.

"Looks like you are much more than you claim to be, moya tsarevna."

You're incredibly scared by all of this. Because you know that the moment he finds out you have absolutely no control over your powers, he'll cast you out. Just like your parents did an hour ago when they found out you were a Grisha.

And then, you will be completely alone.

"I've suspected it since your 20th birthday, but now I'm absolutely certain. You're one of us. You're Grisha." You shake your head at his words, pulling your hand from his grip. He frowns as if your reaction was anything but what he expected from you.

"No, I… I don't… you don't understand… this isn't… I'm not who you want me to be. You want a hero. I'm not one, I… I'm just a princess. Nothing you could use…"

"Heroes aren't born. They are made. Every bird needs a little training before it can spread its wings and fly properly. And with a power like yours… with a gift and a blessing like yours, you can't be anything less than great."

He interrupts you, his eyes betraying great agitation, and you shudder at the thought of how he'll want to use your powers…after all, that's what got him interested in you, right? The possibilities that opened up for him with you by his side, the things he could do. You knew that was what he had been after from the start.

That's why it hurt even more. Again, it wasn't about you.

"And die in a great battle or be known for a glorious death like our saints? No. Thank you, General. I am fine here alone, I… I do not want these powers." You say, pulling away from him and keeping your hands close to your chest, as if you were able to hide what he already found out, what everyone in the Palace already found out.

"You are not alone. Never again. You are one of us. You may not want it now, but it is what it is. And that's how it will be." You nod, losing this fight for now.

You no longer had the strength to argue. He would have done what he thought was right anyway. All that was left for you to do was prove how wrong he was.

Besides, your foolish heart had to process the fact that the man before you had no interest in you at all. He only desired your powers in you. And nothing more.

It would be wise if your heart came to the same conclusion as your mind. But perhaps the look of compassion, admiration, and fascination that the Shadow General was giving you now drowned out everything else.

For the past weeks, you couldn't find your place. The Little Palace was... surprisingly more pleasant than the Grand Palace you grew up in, but the feeling of alienation and not belonging to this new community made you spend most of your time in a distant corner of the library, nose deep in a book, hoping that Ivan - the heartrender who was supposed to watch over you on the general's orders - wouldn't find you too soon.

Honestly, the man in the red kefta irritated you more than your family. Which was a huge accomplishment in your opinion.

Today was supposed to be no different than any other day. You were hiding in a corner of the library, wrapped in a blanket with your legs bunched up to make yourself as small as possible on a comfortable couch.

Only this time someone else came to find you.

"Shouldn't you be training with Baghra, moya tsarevna?" You shiver as the general's voice echoes behind you. You put the book you were reading on the table and shift your gaze to him.

For a moment, you felt like a child again when, instead of listening to your governesses about etiquette and the rules of the court, you preferred to run away from Nikolai and hide in the gardens or other corners of the palace. You remember that once you were brave enough to hide in the Black General's chambers. You wonder if Kirigan's father was the same as him.

"She... canceled our class." You respond timidly, coming up with a weak lie on the spot. The role of the liar usually fell to Nikolai…

"Did she now?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. You bow your head and look down at your hands, trying to hide your embarrassed blush. You shiver as he suddenly sits down on the couch next to you, but you don't have the courage to face the deep blackness of his eyes again. "Do you like your kefta?"

You glance at the black material of your new kefta, absentmindedly smoothing out the embroidered gold patterns representing the sun and its rays as you take your time to answer him.

"I... it's beautiful. Although, I haven't seen anyone else wear black, General. Well... besides you of course." You reply, playing with the black material. You catch his gaze for a moment, then you grab a book from the coffee table and stand up to put it back on one of many bookshelves.

"Yes... it's a colour reserved only for shadow summoners due to our... uniqueness. Just like you are. I thought it would match perfectly for you. Like calls to like, isn't that right?" He adds jokingly and also stands up to take a few steps towards you.

"I... unfortunately, I'm afraid I'm not who you want me to be. I definitely don't deserve such… special treatment." You voice your concerns with your back turned to him as you thoughtfully trace the leather spine of the book you've put aside with your fingertip.

You know very well how little time you have left here. Baghra will soon discover that you have absolutely no control over your powers and, when the general finds out... there will soon be no room for you in the Little Palace. Maybe it would be better this way. Maybe you should run away before you expose yourself to the burning pain of their disappointment. And especially his disappointment.

You sigh when he unexpectedly places his hand on yours, gaining your attention almost immediately. And holy Saints above, it was so easy to just lose yourself in his attentive, warm, non-judgmental gaze.

You stand by the bookshelf, not daring to move an inch from your spot. When his skin touches yours again, you feel that familiar feeling of warmth spreading through you.

"I have been waiting a long time for you, moya tsarevna. All of us did. But believe me, I doubt you will be able to disappoint me. Unless you perpetually avoid your lessons with Baghra." You bite your lip, not wanting to ruin the moment between you with your snort of amusement.

"She's... specific."

“I guess that’s a more gentle way to call her.” He laughs at your careful choice of words. For a moment he traces patterns on your palm, thinking hard about something. “You will practice with me. Once a week, in the evenings in my office. I will personally see to it that you… do not miss these lessons.”

"No. This isn't necessary. I'm sure you have more important things than this." You respond quickly, panicking internally. You alone with him in his chambers… your poor heart can't take it.

"Nothing is more important than you." His response is as quick as yours, decisive - definitively killing any attempts you make to gently reject his proposal. And for a moment, for one brief moment, you allow yourself to believe your foolish heart that it's because he cares about you more than he cares about your powers. "Right now you are the most important thing for me... and for Ravka and for all of us. You should start to get used to it, moya tsarevna."

He mumbles and pulls your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your skin. Another thing that set him apart from the rest. Everyone else kissed the Lantsov ring on your finger. He avoided it like the plague, instead caressing your skin.

But it was just a game, right? So why did you feel like a heroine from one of those romance novels you shamefully read? Why did your heart beat faster every time he appeared next to you, to guide you through all the Grisha customs you didn't know yet? Why did it feel so real when it was supposed to be fake and a game from the start?

You knew the court games, the toying with women's hearts by meaner men, and even the dirty tricks ladies used to win the hearts of their chosen partners. But never... never had anyone shown you such ardent, deceptive, genuine interest and respect as he had for you.

So how much of this was a game, an attempt to keep you in line, and how much of it was the general's true heart revealed only for your eyes? How much of his gentleness was genuine, and how much was a show to inspire in you the trust he needed?

How much of this was the dirty play allowed in love, and how much was a disgusting deception to benefit himself?

"See you for dinner?"

The way he looks at you, with all the hope he has in you and a kind of adoration that you don't quite know the reason for, makes you able only to nod politely and agree to his plans.

Sure. A dining room full of Grisha. A wonderful time to spend an evening. A dining room where he will also be by your side.

The lump in your throat grows as you realize that now you're more afraid of letting him down than of a sudden outburst of power that you won't be able to control.

You freeze as he leans down to press his soft, plump lips to your forehead. You stand there in a daze, all you can do is stare at him as he bids you goodnight and walks away - presumably to his war room so he can continue planning how to use your powers to finally tame the fold.

You had no idea what kind of spells he cast on you, but it was working. Slowly, you began to fall for the Black General. And you found it both very terrifying and exciting. So much so that for a moment you forget that you are a ticking bomb that no one knows about yet.

A few weeks later, you are on your way to your chambers late at night after a lesson with Baghra. Or rather, torture, judging by the blood dripping from your hands onto the floor of the Little Palace.

You try with what little dignity you have left to hold back the tears as you practically run for the safe walls of your chambers, your mind replaying all the insults the old hag had hurled at you.

A loser. A weakling. A whiner. A failure. A brainless, lazy princess who can't do anything except keep her nose in her books and her mouth shut. Delusional little girl who is able only to live in her fantasy world and would die if she was left alone to face the real world.

You press your bloody hand to your mouth, desperately holding back a sob as you run forward to get to your chambers. And then of course you have to run into someone.

With your luck you don't even have to open your eyes to know who you've collided with. Besides, over the weeks you had learned to recognize his presence just by his scent. (Pathetic and unfortunately true.)

But you look up nonetheless and meet the dark irises of General Kirigan.

And then the dam breaks.

You break down into a full-blown sob, letting him pull you into his arms as he notices the emotional mess you’re in. You cry into the soft material of his dark kefta, holding on tightly as he rocks you in his arms and strokes your hair, ignoring the fact that you’re staining his kefta with both blood and your tears.

After a while of sobbing into the general's chest, you manage to calm down enough to be able to register something around you again, more than the warmth of his arms and the murmur of incomprehensible whispers he spoke to calm you down.

You didn't have to understand his words thogh. The rumbling of his deep voice alone brought you incredible solace - one that was both your salvation and the harbinger of your doom, releasing in you feelings that you shouldn't have for the much more powerful Grisha.

When you calm down enough to realize where you are, you discover that the general has taken you to his private chambers. You pull away from him gently, wiping the tears from your eyes with your hands and feeling even more helpless and smaller than before you cried into him.

How humiliating it must have looked. Princess of Ravka, Summoner of the Sun, crying in the arms of the Black General like a little child.

"I'm not suited for this." You tell him, looking at your hands instead of at him. Your royal signet ring with your family's crest burns your skin like never before. "I'm not a warrior, not a Grisha, not even a leader, I... take this from me. Please. Just take it away from me." You say and raise your watery eyes to him.

"I... you have to understand, princess... we all have our bad days. Don't just give up this... gift. You don't know how many of us would like to wield such power."

You saw the hunger in his eyes, the exact same hunger that was always there alongside the delight whenever he watched the light come from you. You were perfectly aware that he wanted your power. And you were more than willing to give it to him. You were desperate to give it to someone else. Before you hurt anyone with it.

"I know that perfectly well! As well as that I am not the one who should have it. I am not... I will not be your saint." His gaze hardens slightly at your firm statement.

"I have no idea what Baghra told you. I can only promise you that she will pay dearly for it and that everything that came out of her lying mouth was nothing but a poisonous lie. This old woman had long ago forgotten how to be a decent human being. Or at least a human being."

"It doesn't matter, I… she told the truth. Everything everyone in this fucking palace thinks, but doesn't have the courage to tell me to my face. I'm not cut out for this, I can't fight, I'm not one of your soldiers, and I'll be of no use to Ravk or the Durga Army or your Grisha. I'm a princess. The only thing of value is my lineage, the dynasty I belong to, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool."

Kirigan lets go of your hands and stands up from the couch, and from the way shadows began to circle the room and the wrinkles in his forehead, you know that whatever plans he had for you, none of them involved you bucking him. Or the sheer belief in your uselessness.

"Princess..."

"Exactly!" You interrupt him, gathering all your courage and standing up from the couch as well as you glare at him with a stern, cold stare—the same one you’ve seen on him, your parents, and other people so many times. "I am your princess and you are subject to me and my family. You must follow my orders and if I say you must take these... powers from me then that is what you must do, General."

The atmosphere in the room is thick. You know that by playing the princess card, you have most likely destroyed the tentatively building... bond between you. However, you come to the conclusion that you would rather have him hold a grudge and dislike for you than die because one day your power will slip beyond the little control that you had over it.

And though your heart aches with every second he gives you that cold, even hurt look, you know you're doing what's best for yourself, Ravka, Grisha, and even him.

"As you wish, moya tsarevna." An unpleasant shiver runs down your spine as he pronounces the title in a completely different way from the sweet one you were used to. Cold, forced, with a hidden mockery. Just like he addressed your mother, brothers and father. "However, you must know that I must discuss this with the Tsar before... we think of any way to solve your problem."

You can't tell what offended him more - the fact that you took advantage of your higher rank and title, or the fact that you reject this gift of summoning the sun, which he considers sacred.

But what did he expect from you? You didn't belong here. You never did.

When he mockingly bows to you and walks away, you want to call after him and take back your words. But you don't.

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, tears streaming down your heated cheeks as you sink to your knees. You put a hand to your mouth and sob quietly, turning the room into a small beacon as your power once again spirals out of control.

Your eyes hurt from the amount of light you're emitting, but you don't even try to shield them with your hand. You take your pain as some kind of penance for what you're about to do.

You know that your father has no intention of letting you give up your power. Because as much as he despised Grisha, he feared them. He would rather have that power stay with you than fall into "their" hands. That's why there was only one thing you could do.

You run.

After carefully analyzing your situation, you come to the conclusion that running away may not have been as great a solution as you thought.

It's true that you managed to cross the palace walls and even the capital's gates, but now, as you walked alone along the forest path, your courage and morale dropped significantly.

You shiver, holding your coat tighter as the cold air makes your bones feel unpleasantly hot. You should definitely bring the kefta though. It was warmer, with fur, and the material was so nice... You shake your head, tightening your grip on the handle of the oil lamp - the only thing besides the coat you'd stolen from the general's chambers. Your thoughts briefly wander to him as you smell his scent still lingering on the material.

Stupid, naive idiot, you think, walking forward. You have no idea why you cared so much about what he thought. In the past weeks, he could have been your only support in this difficult situation, but you knew that all he cared about was how to use your powers for himself...

The only thing that you couldn't understand was why he was so angry and hurt when you demanded from him to take these powers away from you.

This was the perfect solution for him. He would have all this light that was buzzing under your skin completely for himself. As both the Summoner of Shadows and the Sun he could have done a great things - maybe even taking over all of the Ravka for himself, if not the whole world.

He wouldn't have to deal with your sudden, hysterical emotional outbursts, your lack of any fighting skills, or any of the shit you've been putting him and yourself through these few months.

You were an intellectual, a strategist, not a soldier or a saint. You were a princess—the most useless person in the kingdom. And that was how it was supposed to stay, until he... until he saw you as something more. Someone you weren't at all.

Unless… unless he really cared about you. Not just your powers.

You sigh, shaking your head and walking forward, completely ignoring in your intense thinking that someone was following you. And they weren't soldiers of the First or Second Army at all.

You want to say it came suddenly, that you couldn't possibly have predicted Drüskele's attack, but the truth is you felt something coming. Maybe you simply didn't care about your fate anymore to even try to fight.

The ease with which they capture you is downright embarrassing. Sitting tied up against a tree trunk with a few Fjerda soldiers guarding you, you only reinforce your belief that you shouldn't be the Sun Summoner.

You only regret that you couldn't pass on your power to a general or some other, more capable Grisha.

Because of you, they will have to wait another century for someone who could be able to harness such great power.

As you prepare to die, you don't even consider the possibility that someone will save you. And certainly not that your saviour might be the Black General himself.

Everything around you is happening too fast for you to process it properly. One second your wrists are tied up; the next you feel someone tugging on your ropes as the forest around you is darkened by familiar shadows.

Your survival instincts kick in, and you start to struggle in the arms of someone pulling you away from the shadows you are immersed in. Panicked, you feel your heart pounding in your chest as you desperately try to reach for your light, but all that comes out of you is a tiny ray.

"Don't move, you stupid girl. We haven't chased you for half a month just to have you accidentally die from one of his cuts." Ivan growls dryly in your ear.

You feel him using his powers on you to slow your heart rate, to force you to cooperate and follow him. And while it seemed logical to you to go with him, all you wanted was to get as far away from here as possible – feeling free and in control of your fate for even a short moment.

And then something inside you shifts, like it's falling into place. You scream as pure, unstoppable light bursts out of you. Ivan's grip on you falls away completely, and all you can feel is the warmth washing over you again as your power comes to the surface, as you release everything you've suppressed for so many years.

As if through a wall, the screams of the Fjerdans reach you as you burn them to ash with your light, but you can't stop it. Finally, you lose control, as if to spite them; you want to show them all how dangerous and unstable you are, how they should all stay away from you.

But they aren't. At least not him.

You wonder when exactly you learnt to recognise the General's touch on your skin. You can't seem to remember. But it doesn't matter, not when he gently cups your cheek in his hand, forcing you to open your eyes that you had so tightly squeezed shut and look into his dark irises, so different from the bright light that emanates from you.

He sees you. He hasn't turned away. He doesn't run away. He doesn't look at you like you're a monster or a dangerous weapon that may turn against him.

For the first time, you feel like you have control over your powers, not them over you. When you are sure that no one will attack you again, you retreat. You hide your power, pulling on the beams of light as if they were ordinary string, and coil them deep inside you.

You did it. You controlled it.

"Ivan, see what's left of them and gather those who can still be questioned. We're going home." The general wastes no time in pushing you towards his black horse.

You resist for a moment but eventually allow him to put you on it. You were too exhausted from running and using your powers to ride alone anyway.

His arms wrap around you as he settles behind you and takes the reins in his hands. You shiver as his kefta wraps around you like a blanket, trapping you even tighter in his arms. And strangely, you don’t feel like you’ve lost any of your freedom.

"Cross the walls of the Little Palace without my knowledge once again, and I will order David to bind you to me for eternity." He growls in your ear, tightening his grip on the horse’s reins and pulling you closer into the cage of his arms.

You rest your head on his shoulder, getting used to the feeling of his toned chest against your back. The fabric of his black kefta brushes against your shoulders. It flutters in the wind around you two as he leads the horse into a gallop.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" You whisper, your voice barely higher than the sound of the wind around you. You are surprised that he is able to hear it at all without expecting an answer from him.

"Both."

There's a moment of silence between you, broken only by the pounding of his horse and your breathing. You get the feeling that if you concentrate hard enough, you'll be able to hear the quiet thump of his heart behind you.

One of his hands drops the reins to rest gently on your hip, seemingly steadying you in the saddle as he pulls you closer to him, leaning fully against his body. You swallow and place your hand on his, your finger tracing the edges of the ring he wore on his thumb.

"Do you want me or my powers?" You gather all your courage and ask, taking his hand in yours and placing two fingers on his wrist to feel his pulse.

"If I wanted your powers, would I go through the trouble of teaching you to control them?" He replies after a few seconds of silence. A mocking smile involuntarily spreads across your lips.

"That's not really the answer."

"And you won't get one. For your escape, downright treason, I should personally use the cut on you."

And though his threat should make you tremble in his arms or stimulate your survival instinct to run as far away from him as possible, it doesn't. You know they are just empty words and that he would never do such a thing to you. You were too precious for him, both as his ally and something more...

"That's not how you should address your princess."

"Moya tsarevna… there are many ways I would like to address you… and believe me, most of them do not even border on appropriate."

He grabs your hand and lifts it to press a kiss to your knuckles. Little streaks of light shine through your fingertips at the gesture.

"I'm still not the soldier you want."

"I see that. It was painfully obvious they were following you, only an idiot would not notice. But I have another use for you."

"As your weapon that you can direct and use at your will?" You question him, turning in your saddle so you can take a look at him, hoping to read something from the depth of his dark eyes. And the longer you looked into them, the longer it seemed you were falling down a rabbit hole of adoration for him.

His answer, however, exceeds your wildest expectations.

"As moya tsaritsa."

"But..." You shake your head at his words, not even noticing when he stops his horse.

He cupped your cheeks gently in his rough hands. The cool metal of his ring digging into your delicate skin is reminding you of all the differences between you.

He was rough and hard, chiselled by years of fighting not only your father but also Fjerda and Shu Han – all who would dare to hurt his Grisha. You, on the other hand, were a delicate rose hidden behind the bell jar of the Grand Palace, put on display only to wither in the depths of your cage.

But not anymore. Not since he had spotted you and snatched you away.

"I alone can see your light. I alone know your mind. I saw all of you and I have never turned my back on you. Not like your family or your subjects will when they find out what you are truly capable of. But your power is not all that you are. I was the first to see it. Maybe even the only one. You won't find anyone better than me."

He speaks in a matter-of-fact tone, laying out all the advantages of marrying him, of agreeing to his plan, as if he were discussing military strategy with you. But there’s something in his eyes, a spark that you’ve never seen when he was speaking to his men or negotiating military business with your father.

"Is this your proposal?"

"Is this your consent?"

"You'll have to do a little more than feed me sweet words and gifts to get me to agree to this."

"It's good that we have eternity, my little saint." He mumbles, leaning towards you, giving you a few seconds to push him away from you before he captures your lips in a kiss.

It's gentle at first, testing the waters, caressing your lips with the utmost reverence, as if he were truly touching something sacred. But soon enough he's gripping your waist, pulling you as close to him as he can. He places a hand on the back of your neck and tilts your head so he has better access to your mouth as his tongue delicately tastes you for the first time.

You don't care anymore if this is his plan, if this is his way of making sure you stay on his side. Your heart is pounding as you bask in the glow of attention, of being seen and appreciated, and if you're sinning, then you don't want to be his little saint. You want to be his tsaritsa.

The feeling of his lips against yours, the whisper of your name on his lips between kisses, and the gasps of pleasure as you respond with equal attention and tangle your hands in his hair erase all your doubts.

All you want to feel is his touch on you, his gaze on you, his adulation, devotion, and affection – all the things you've been denied for years. And maybe you're naive; maybe it's not real, but if it isn't... then you don't want to know the truth. What he gives you is enough for you.

That he sees you is enough for you.

[amoromniaodium]

Animal Kingdom

Andrew Pope Cody

Thank you all for reading the preview! I didn’t expect such a positive reaction to my writing. Your likes and comments have truly inspired me — I already have two more parts planned. Feel free to share your thoughts, whether good or bad. I always appreciate honest feedback.

We’ll be seeing more of the Cody family soon, but I wanted to give you some background on Pope and my character first.

Chapter 1

The Revival

—

When she was five, she witnessed something she’d only later come to recognize as bipolar disorder in her mother.

Her mother didn’t believe in medication. Said it made her too foggy, too far from herself. So she replaced prescriptions with “the good drugs.” And from then on, her daughter saw things no child should ever see — things done to her mother, things done by her mother.

By the age of ten, she was the unofficial head of the household. She cleaned, cooked, kept the apartment running. She stole — not because she liked it, but because it was the only way to survive. She lifted money from the men her mother brought home. Took soap, toothpaste, and pads from school. Stole lunches from bigger kids. She was a pro.

She loved her mother. Deeply. Enough to make sure she ate, drank water, showered. Enough to keep watch when her mother’s “friends” were over. She loved her even when she didn’t understand her — especially then. That’s where her obsession with psychology began.

She had seen people overdose. Seen how depression and addiction twisted people until they became unrecognizable. She didn’t judge. She watched. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. Needed to understand.

Her schoolwork improved. She started talking to the men who didn’t make her stomach twist. She made them feel seen. Safe. And in return, they opened up. She never gave advice. She just listened. By sixteen, she had done more emotional labor than most people do in a lifetime.

She read psych books from the library and used the tools they taught. Guided conversations, helped others find their own answers. She helped build relationships, and quietly helped end toxic ones, too.

They cried in front of her. Sat with her in silence. Let their rage unravel in the safety of her presence. And when her mother spiraled — manic or depressed — they were there. They helped her study. Helped her apply to university. Helped her celebrate when she got into med school on a partial scholarship.

And they were there when her mother overdosed.

In the quietest, darkest part of her chest, she was relieved.

She left. She studied. She was great at it — not just because she was smart, but because she understood. She could see pain before it was spoken. And she was determined to help fix both mind and body. That’s what led to her final rotation, at Folsom State Prison — and to the man who would change her completely.

⸻

Her first day at Folsom, she knew: this was not where she wanted to be.

Her attending was kind — as kind as one can be after decades in a place like this. He laid out the rules, the code, the expectations. Who to trust. What not to wear. How to walk, how to speak. He gave her a list of patients, diagnoses, medication routines.

That’s when she saw his name.

Andrew David Cody.

A massive dose of Thorazine. Enough to sedate rage. She didn’t meet the inmates until two weeks in.

And the moment she saw his eyes — dark, empty, emotionless — she should have known it wouldn’t end well.

⸻

There’s something to be said about leaving employment to return to school.

After her residency, she realized she didn’t want to be a prison psychiatrist. Not because she couldn’t handle it — but because she had no real power to help. She thought of a pair of eyes — dark, sad, and unblinking — and knew that wasn’t enough.

So she returned. Started a certificate in criminology, hoping to understand them better. But maybe it was something simpler than that: maybe she just didn’t want to grow up. Not yet.

Maybe she should work at a hospital in California. Maybe she should leave the country. Or maybe… maybe she should go back to her mother’s apartment. Let herself rot quietly, the way her mother had.

But then, walking out of class one evening, she saw him.

Not saw — felt.

A presence.

Straight-backed. Arms at his sides. Short sleeved shirt buttoned to the top like a priest.

And eyes — hawk-like, locked on her.

Andrew Cody.

But this time, for the first time since he’d been released, there was something new in his gaze.

A flicker of light in all that darkness.

⸻

There was something to say about the first time she saw him in months —it wasn’t fear that struck her. It was relief. A twisted kind of happiness.

Not about how he found her. Not how he knew where to look.

But because he was out. He had made parole.

Her first instinct, naive as it was, hoped he hadn’t gone back.

Not to that house. Not to her.

That maybe he’d gotten his own place, finally freed himself from the grip of that obsessive, broken mother — and the suffocating loyalty to his family.

But no.

She knew better.

Of course he hadn’t. They were the only thing he had ever known.

Letting go of them would be like letting go of oxygen.

She understood.

The only reason she ever left was because her mother was six feet under. These thoughts flickered and died the moment she saw him — standing there awkwardly, stiff as ever, eyes locked on her like always.

She moved toward him, not quite running, but not walking either.

Stopped just short of touching distance.

“Andrew!” she breathed. “You… you did it. Oh my God, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared. But she saw it — the barest twitch of his mouth, a subtle lift of his brow.

He was happy to see her.

“How are you feeling? Have you seen your brothers?” she asked gently.

He replied, voice low. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask about his mother. She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to open that door. Not yet.

So she reached for the first thing that surfaced — something safer.

“The fountain… did Baz ever finish it?” Her voice came out too light, too casual — even she could hear it.

But it was the only thing she could grab. He had once told her Baz promised to finish it while he was gone.

A flicker again — this time annoyance. A tilt of the head, the slightest grimace.

“No. I’m making it.”

So he was back there.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Well… I’m not really surprised. From what you told me about Baz…”

(From what your eyes told me. From what your silences said.)

“But it’s good, right? Keeps you busy. Keeps your mind quiet.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared.

“Right. Sorry… are you hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”

“I thought you were done with school,” he said.

“Yeah. I was. I don’t know —” she gave a nervous laugh, tugged at her sleeve, “—I guess I’m just not ready for the real world yet.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

“I know you do, Andrew,” she said gently. “Let’s go. There’s this Mexican place nearby — it’s amazing.”

She reached out instinctively, about to touch his arm — but paused.

He was watching her hand. Not with fear. Not quite with hope. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness. Like he wanted it more than anything but wouldn’t let himself show it.

There was something in his eyes — not pleading, but almost… waiting. The kind of stillness a child holds when something precious is near, afraid to move and scare it off.

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly.

She knew how vulnerable he was in that moment. Knew what it meant — what it would mean — to touch him here, like this. There was desire under it, yes, but not sexual. Not yet. It felt more like comforting a child after a nightmare.

So she moved slowly.

When she finally took his hand, his fingers didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten. Just rested there — solid, warm, resigned.

But he didn’t pull away.

And that was everything.

She led him forward, her grip light, his steps heavier — like he was trying not to fall into her.

[tuituipupu]

... KÄÄRIJÄVISHUN 2025 RETURNS FOR ITS 2ND ANNUAL CONTEST: THE CONTEST WHERE ONLY KÄÄRIJÄ CAN WIN.

after great success last year to fill a pop music shaped hole while a bitterly disappointing eurov1s1on runs itself into the ground surrounded by controversy, stress and a seemingly hostile environment, käärijävishun returns as a safe space for käärijä fans to celebrate music (read: käärijä's music,) and find his best song.

READ MORE FOR ALL THE NEED-TO-KNOW INFO:

This year we will be streaming Kesärauha Festival from 2023, with some extra fun collab songs to boot in the running order ;))

... we plan on ranking each song from the festival with a 3 category downloadable scoresheet (link coming soon). Once all songs have competed, we will request everyone's scorecards.

during a short interval, our mathematicians will work hard to tally up the result!

with a bit of luck, by the end of the night we will find the best käärijä song and THE WINNER OF KÄÄRIJÄVISHUN 2025 !! 🤩🥳💚🎉🎊

i wonder who will win ... 🤔🤭

WHEN IS IT? : Saturday 17 May 2025. around 9pm CET 🇪🇺 / 8pm BST 🇬🇧 / 10pm EET 🇫🇮 / 12pm (noon) PST 🇺🇸 / 3pm EST 🇺🇸 - Stay tuned for further updates.

HOW DO I JOIN? : Interested? Comment in the replies to signal your interest and on May 1, I will message you with an invite to join the Käärijävishun 2025 discord server. PLEASE NOTE: if you don't receive an invite dead-on May 1, this is likely due to my external commitments, I will get round to you! I am one person :)

DO I HAVE TO FILL IN A SCORECARD OR CAN I JUST JOIN THE WATCH PARTY? : You don't have to join in with ranking the songs! You can just come and vibe with other Käärijä fans during these difficult times. We just thought it would be a fun twist since it's a tradition that many would participate in when ranking euro-songs!

TERMS: By joining Käärijävishun 2025, you agree to not mention past or present eurov1s1on content in chat. This is a boycott event to provide a fun, safe space away from the drama and negativity that the contest has recently brought. This also means no mentioning of Tommy and Erika's involvement (I am a fan of both, but they have both chosen to participate in the contest, so no mention of them in chat on the final night).

Boycott events such as these aim to demonstrate the simplicity and goodness of boycotting. To me, eurov1s1on used to represent peace. and i was extremely naïve to think this. music can unite us, and out of pain and struggle we can comfort each other and create something bigger and more beautiful. there is no obligation to join this event, but if you're not boycotting eurov1s1on at this point i really don't know what to tell you. please educate yourself:

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 3: Vivification

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black Female OC x Joe.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________________________________

Joe is tired of cuming into his hand. 

Utterly sick of the feeling of his own palm. But he knows he can’t risk it with Marlowe, can’t cross that boundary even remotely as it currently stands. He hadn’t even had the gall to ask her if she was dating someone, let alone to think to ask if was interested in him. Even if he’s acting like a horny teenager now, Joe’s not one. So he knows when he needs to take things slow. And this thing with Marlowe, is a thing he needs to take slow. Needs to ease his way into that territory. Even if that leaves him most nights to a cold shower and his fist. 

Marlowe and Joe have only managed mostly text conversations. But even with that limited format, Joe can hear her replies in her slightly rough voice now. He waits for those replies now, hungry to hear anything from her. He likes hearing about her day, as simple as it sounds. He really likes Marlowe. But even if Joe is sick of cold showers and rubbing one out damn near nightly to the thought of Marlowe’s shy grin and perfectly pouty lips, he can admit that his text to Paige is phrased so poorly for what it really needs to convey. 

“Thinking with your dick right now is going to get you into trouble,” Joe mutters aloud. His house is quiet, even with the TV on the volume is muted. 

And Joe’s a fucking idiot for texting, I need to see you, to Paige. He knew it was a bad idea the second he tapped onto her thread. Paige is easy, willing. But she’s not the one Joe wants and even if Joe is terrified of fucking it up with Marlowe, that does not mean he should go diving dick first into Paige just because he’s sick of rubbing his aching cock raw his damn self. 

“So fucking stupid,” Joe growls at himself, tapping the corner of his pone to his forehead. 

But Paige’s reply has already been sent--damn near instantly to confirm if he was home or not. Which he is. Joe does want to have the conversion about ending their dynamic in private, to give her and him both privacy for the moment because Joe knows it’s only going to go south. But I need to see you is not the way to convey, I’m about to end this fling. 

The frustrated shout rips over his throat and leaps off his teeth and tongue. He’s already done it though. He’s already probably gotten Paige’s hopes up, has probably already made all the wrong turns and now there’s nothing to do but to face the consequences. 

It makes him a fucking asshole--the biggest kind. But there’s nothing to do now but to face the music. His phone chimes again--off the silent buzzing that it’s usually on. He turns the device too fast and loses his grip on it. The screen lands smack dab onto the bridge of his nose. But Joe’s quick to get the phone back into his hand. 

But it’s only the text from Paige, the one he hasn’t actually opened, only read the preview. On my way, Joey. 

Joe wants Marlowe to text him back. And he’d gotten Paige. 

Marlowe warned him last week that she was already gearing up to leave town again but needed to focus on Korey, her niece, until her parents returned from their mini vacation to celebrate their anniversary. Marlowe was taking over as primary caregiver. Joe wondered where the kid’s father was, or where Marlowe’s sister is. But he hadn’t asked. Something in his gut kept pulling the word back. Joe had drafted a couple texts with the questions. And each time he did, his bones would go a little cold. So he never pressed send. 

Even in the limited replies he’s gotten from Marlowe, when he’d learned that the little girl on her hip was not in fact her kid, there was relief— immediately relaxing him off the edge. The information came a couple days after her birthday, when she expressed her gratitude again to Joe for the dessert and he’d instantly replied that he was more than happy to do it and that he hoped that she’d celebrated the occasion the way she wanted. It took Marlowe a couple days to come back with, Can’t say birthdays are my favorite. But my sweetest (and only) niece handmade me a card, so I’ll be sobbing over this for the next two weeks.

Joe figured that in the interim, her replies might be slow. Though, it’s more like all her replies are a little slow. But they always come. Even if it takes her a couple days to get back, she’d have something, some sort of question or quip to carry on the conversation though, to keep it interesting. Her most recent update, aside from her parent’s safe travel and her gearing up for a flight to Atlanta, had been about longing for a local sunflower festival, not due until October, but she’d been going through photos and videos recently to post and came across the photograph of her and Korey in the fields, surrounded on all sides from last year’s run. A photograph Joe would kill to see. Yet, the photograph taken of Marlowe, resting on a bench with a bouquet of them in hand, had been a welcome addition. 

Joe’s text about hoping Marlowe had a safe flight for her work out in Atlanta—a hair showcase she agreed to do the makeup for a stylist she’d befriended—is the one still unanswered. Joe replied a couple hours after Marlowe told him she was headed to the airport. And instead of waiting to worry about Paige, who’d been on his radar to text, until after he got word from Marlowe, Joe decided to text Paige near immediately in all his infinite fucking cock induced wisdom just after he’d been damn near drooling over the picture of Marlowe with the sunflowers he saved. 

He wants the crush not to crush him. Though he knows he’s too far gone for someone he’s hardly had conversations with, it does feel easy with Marlowe. She makes it easy, thoughtful in her replies. Thorough and considerate when she knows that she might be away from her phone for longer than she usually is. She’s busy in more ways than Joe thinks he could ever truly understand. Yet, right now, it still feels like he matters. That even in the chaos Marlowe’s still carving out time for him.

The knock on the door raises the hair on the back of his neck. Joe turns to the sound and can see in the shadow of Paige. She’s shorter than Marlowe. “Fuck,” Joe mutters to himself. 

But there’s no turning back now. So he stands and crosses the foyer to the door, easing it open slowly. Praying all the while that he can find some way not to be an asshole. But Paige, with all her thin strands, long over her shoulder, and a shimmery professional dye job blonde with a shadowy dark brown root, pushes in through the inches of the opened door and loops her arms around his neck. 

Joe rears back, holds his neck stiff as she stretches up for him. 

The seconds are thick and long. He could give in. Paige is right there. But even the thought makes his chest ache and his stomach queasy. It’s not Marlowe and he can’t do it. So he eases the door close behind Paige and leaves his hands hovering at his sides. “I, uh,” he starts. 

“Oh, uh, your text sounded like this was different.” Paige scrambles away from him. 

“I need to talk to you,” Joe starts, like he should’ve fucking did from the start. 

“Yeah, okay.”

“You thirsty?” Joe offers, leading the charge to his kitchen. Kitchens are a good place to have this conversation, right? Except for the knives. But he’s pretty capable. 

“Uh, is everything okay, Joey? You seemed distant there lately. Distracted, maybe?” The nickname grates at his teeth from her lips. Paige’s voice is too sweet, too thin, and runny in a way that gets under Joe’s fingernails. 

“Just…a lot on my mind lately.” A thin answer, barely holds back the truth as he cracks open his fridge and pulls out the glass bottle of water for Paige. 

It’s all Marlowe on his mind, and some about football given the return nearing. But always Marlowe. Like right now, the ringer is still on Joe’s phone. And though he puts it face down on the counter, he keeps it close to him just in case Marlowe texts back that she’s made it safely. 

“A lot,” Paige repeats back. Her nails are short, painted with a clear base and white tips. Unlike the long rounded tips Marlowe wears. 

“Yeah, I-it’s important,” Joe settles on, tucking himself even further into the corner, up against the dishwasher. 

Paige nods. “Well, I’m all ears.”

He clears his throat, unsure of how to start this. Should he rip the bandage off? Should he ease her down slowly? The thing though is that Joe needs to put it all out on the table. So he starts with clarity. “I know it’s been a few months. And I have to ask just so we can get on the same page. Are you looking for something more? I know when this first started we agreed to keep things casual--”

“Yes, yes, I am,” Paige rushes out. 

Joe wonders if he can bring that guillotine to life. If it would hurt less than the way her face drops. Joe can feel the pinch in his brows, minute as it is, folding the skin of his forehead. Paige started around the corner of the kitchen island but has stopped and Joe knows it’s because of his face, his reaction. The way he’s folded his arms over his chest, eased back just a fraction even more into the corner. 

“Oh, wait, I thought—,” 

“We agreed on casual. That hasn’t changed for me, but I had a feeling it changed for you. And I just wanted confirmation.”

“Then what the fuck was your text, Joe? I need to see you, that’s what you said.” Paige’s voice raises, doesn’t hit the ceilings but it’s high and hurt. 

“Admittedly I wasn’t thinking with the right head when drafting that text.”

“You don’t fucking say so, Joe. Eight months. Eight fucking months with you and what? You’re going to throw it away.”

There--that’s what it is. The thing that’s been crawling under Joe’s skin, that’s been whispering at the base of brain but he couldn’t get his fucking finger on it. “We were never together, Paige.”

The words seemingly sting, cut because Paige takes a step back. “So it really was just sex. And what? Now you want to be a saint or something? It can still just be sex, Joey.”

“No, Paige. It was never just sex for you, was it?” Her chin wobbles and she can’t met his gaze. The answer lies silently between them.  “You can admit that here. To me now. I want the truth. But I can’t continue to see you knowing you want that level of commitment. I don’t want that level of commitment with you.” 

Joe won’t pull the it’s not you it’s me line. Because it’s both of them. It’s Joe wanting Marlowe and it’s Paige being desperate for him. And that’s messy, messier than it needs to be for anyone involved if Joe’s attempts to keep the facade up with Paige. 

“So that’s it?” Paige questions. “Just like that.”

“I don’t want to keep seeing you like that, no.”

“Like that?”

Joe tilts his head, unsure of where Paige is going, but clearly she sees something, hears it because she stares at him, eyes darting over his face down to his phone and then back to his face again. 

“Who else did you meet? Who is it?” Paige whispers. Like if she gives it too much volume it’ll shatter her chest. 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Because he won’t. Joe won’t give her the satisfaction or the ammunition. If Paiged obsessed over Joe this much, he hates to think what she could do if she learned about Marlowe. 

“Spare me the good guy act,” Paige spits. “I deserve the truth. Who the fuck is it?”

“I’m not answering that.” He can see the swirling, the hurt and the anger brimming in the shaking of her hands. 

“Fucking asshole. I gave you everything! Everything you wanted. A fuck? I did that. A shoulder to cry on? I had that to give.”

Paige and Joe don’t talk--that’s why it worked. They could, at least in theory, get what they wanted without commitment. That’s what it was supposed to be, but clearly not to Paige. It had always been more for Paige. Probably from the inception. Maybe she hoped that Joe would eventually come around. 

“I didn’t ask for anything more than sex,” Joe returns. Even if Paige interpreted his actions that way, even if she hoped, Joe hadn’t done or said anything more than sex. That part is he sure of. At least, he thinks so.

“But letting me spend all the nights over here, that meant nothing? The way we’d wake up sometimes cuddling? The texts, the calls about how good I looked, how you couldn’t wait to see me again, that’s all what? Just you asking for sex?”

“I wanted to treat you like a human being. I did treat you like a human being. Was that wrong of me?” Joe implores, ears still waiting for the chime of his phone. Brows still knitting in the middle of his face at Paige’s indignation. “It’d be 1,2 am by the time we’d finish. So yeah, I’d offer to let you spend the night so you could get home safely the next morning. Yeah I text you about the night before or that I did want to see you again. What would you have preferred? That I treat you like a machine? Kick you out at 2 am? Text you, ‘Hey, I need my dick sucked. When are you free?’ Is that what I should’ve been doing? I’ve never asked you about anything more.”

“You’d ask me about my day!” Paige defends. 

“I was being polite.” It’s small talk. The kind of stuff people do all the time. And even if it kills Joe just a little to do it, he knows how to play the game. He wants to cringe at the realization, wants to say he’s leagues better. But, maybe, in the entire process Joe knew better than he suspected. That he knew better than he’d let himself settle in with. He was, in ways, trying to appease Paige just enough to keep her strung along.

“Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you and the high horse you think you’re on!”

It’s all Paige says before she turns. Her steps are stomps. They echo throughout the first floor, just like the slamming of his front door. The few decor pieces rattle, tapping against the walls at the force. He waits, though. Joe listens to see if the shattering of glass will come next. The seconds fall slowly. He follows the time with the thumping of his heart. Perhaps Joe was playing them both--stringing both him and Paige along on a ride that should’ve ended weeks if not months ago. 

His phone chimes.

Joe hurries to pick it up from the counter. Please let it be Marlowe, he chants to himself, please. 

He sighs at the sight of Marlowe’s name on his phone. Arrived with all limbs intact. We shall see if I leave here with all my digits and my wrist in working order though. Received the final run down the faces I’m working on tomorrow evening and it is a marathon. The text is paired with a string of crying emojis, the pale yellow face on screen a mixture of the tears and exhaustion. 

Lucky for you, I have wrist rehab exercises that I can pass along. 

Please do, if you still have them. I have a wrist brace but sometimes it’s not always enough if I’m working on a large volume of people. 

Of course. Let me find some videos and I’ll send them over to you. 

After Joe sends the last video, he creeps back to the front of the house. The little rack he installed next to the door for keys is a little crooked. But thankfully not much looks out of place or broken. The glass panes are all intact, which is a relief. His phone chimes again from inside his short pocket. 

You’re a lifesaver, Joe! 

Joe knows he’s not a saint. He couldn’t ever really be one either. But god, for Marlowe, he wants to be. 

__________________

Airports simultaneously bore and terrify Joe most of the time.

They’re monotonous, crowded, and tense on good days--a battle of dodging the rolling wheels, skirting around backpacks and duffle bags, listening for delays and cancellations. There’s an endless waiting at airports, the drag of carrying his bags on his shoulder. There’s an exhaustion from how late or how early it is that makes time feel unreal, moving at a snail’s pace inside and yet outside it’s moving all too fast. The seats on the plane and in the gates are uncomfortable to sit in for too long. They’re good for people watching, but an agony for a man like Joe who’s used to going, and going, and going. Throw in the obvious second glances, the photos he gets stopped and for Joe airports can feel a little bit like a rated PG-13 nightmare--boring but still jumpscare inducing at the right times. 

Yet, Joe’s not bored or terrified. The mid morning arrival coupled with a shockingly long TSA Precheck line should’ve grated at Joe’s patience, should’ve made his eye twitch because the one time he doesn’t boot for more lavish and private travel accommodations and he’s getting the shittiest luck. But, on this particular trip, with his suitcase at his heels, Joe’s more than happy to wait, to have to watch the line in front of him move inch by measly inch. Because just on the other side, just beyond the black ropes, is his gate. And just beyond his gate is the airplane and just beyond the airplane is her. 

The likelihood that he and Marlowe could get together while they were both in California looks rather iffy. She’s out there for her own work. He has his own work to attend to out on the west coast. At the very least though, they’ll be back in the same time zone. There’s hope simmering under his skin that Joe is desperate to keep in check. Her promise still echoes in his ears, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

Joe plans to use California to his advantage. Though Marlowe seemingly only had a few days between her return from Atlanta before leaving for California, they’d managed a quick call. Her in the midst of laundry and sitting with Korey while Korey colored and Joe in the midsts of, well, not much. His weekend was pretty wide open. He’d been preparing for his own travel, but still had a few more days than Marlowe before he started the mad dash of packing, triple checking his flight information and travel accommodations. He was still in the bit of the zen before travel. And their conversation lasted a little over an hour. He asked her how the hair show went, she asked him about what he had planned in California. That simple question opened up the door even wider for Joe. 

And Marlowe agreed, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

He could and would use California to his advantage. If the universe allows. God, does Joe hope the universe allows. The three days Joe lingered in Ohio after Marlowe left for California were filled with ache. She was three hours behind him and at every shake of his phone, Joe prayed it was Marlowe, hoped it was her sending even the simplest Hope you have a good day text. He wanted to know about her day, wanted to see how it was going, wanted to know that he floated on the edges of her days and awareness like she did for him. Joe will take anything at this point. 

At his gate, hat pulled down to cover his eyes, Joe watches the ticking minutes--knows Marlowe is probably still asleep while he’s contemplating how much caffeine he can safely consume, with the smell of it wafting from the nearby coffee shop storefront. He’d managed to make a cup before leaving the house, but it doesn’t feel like it’s kicked in. Even though Joe’s buzzing, he’s still under sleep’s spell. 

Joe stares down at the last few text threads--Marlowe’s is at the top. Just under it was the family group chat. Third and forth were the individual threads with Ja’Marr and Tee. And under that sits Paige. His last text-- I’m sorry again for how I handled ending things and things in general between us. I understand I didn’t handle it perfectly and I apologize for hurting you.-- it sits in green even though all the ones previous are in blue. Joe’s not sure Paige will ever forgive him. Yet, there’s still a sting knowing that even if he was attempting to take accountability it seemed to be falling flat. 

Joe had done the right thing and ended it, even if it was imperfect. Even if part of him does wish he’d handled it better, it was done. Joe swipes on the thread and selects to delete the entirety of it. It’s done, dead, like he said. There’s no use in dwelling on a past that wouldn’t serve him in his future. 

The muffled voice ever heads calls for his flight and his boarding group. Joe finds Marlowe’s text thread. Her hearted reaction to Joe’s text about promising he was hitting the bed early before his flight being the last notification he has. Save a little sunshine for me, Joe fires off—hitting send without so much of a second thought before shuffling to slipping his carry on onto his shoulder. 

The blossoming California morning sun is bright when Joe lands. When he finally peels himself out of the airport and into the sun, it warms his skin. His phone shakes—which feels like all it’s been doing since Joe landed, forgoing in flight WiFi and nestling in for a rather laborious task of using inflight entertainment from First Class. It’s not a habit Joe does often, but with the flight he wanted to catch just a couple extra hours of sleep given timezone hop and didn’t want the shaking of his phone to disturb him. Suspended up thousands of miles in the air should come with just a little bit of peace, if anyone asked Joe—space to be disconnected even if just for a few messily hours. Amongst the littered notifications is one, about an hour ago, from Marlowe.

How does that song go again? I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine. Attached to the text message is a video. With his Bose earbuds nestled into his ear still, Joe taps on the gray play icon. The wind whips through as the camera focuses in the open pocket of a dark golden yellow skirt or maybe it’s a dress; Joe can’t tell. He just knows it’s Marlowe’s wrist, her fingers--nails painted a soft pale blue this time--reflecting back into the camera with the gold rings and bracelets. Just faintly in the background, he catches her voice, a soft hum to the melody she texted. Then her giggle cuts close to the microphone now, “Does this count, Joe? You caught me unprepared. Hope you had a safe flight.” 

It definitely counts, Joe replies. 

It sure as hell counts if just the sound of her recorded voice saying his name makes his heart race like this. Joe plays the video again, glancing every so often to the top bar, to see if he’s got another alert about the car on its way to pick him up. Joe holds his breath when Marlowe’s giggle echoes again. Does this count, Joe? 

Joe drags the bar backwards. Does this count, Joe?

Does this count, Joe? Like it would ever really be a question. Like his name could ever sound better in his entire life either. Like Joe really shouldn’t be contemplating when Marlowe got her nails done to change up the color, and he shouldn’t find himself liking both colors against her dark skin equally. But he thinks the red might edge out the soft blue just a hair. And he wonders how Marlowe picks those colors, if she rotates based on seasons, and if somehow Joe could get the glory of choosing a color, a style of nail that could turn his skin red if she pressed hard enough. 

Like he’s a horny fucking teenager. Get it together, Joe reprimands himself. Yet, the giant smile on his face remains even as the car eases to a stop in front of him. 

It’s not until evening, deep after dinner for Joe, that his phone shakes. How well do you do with slashers?

Joe spies Marlowe’s name as the sender. His body is tired, eyes already blinking with exhaustion from the time zone change--his body keeps telling him it’s 11, but the clocks only reflect back a measly 8PM. But where exhaustion had set up camp, it disappears as the words burn back into Joe’s retinas. He sits up in bed, the pillows against his back expanding with the release of his weight. This could not be what he thought it was--no way, no fucking way. He’d considered reaching out to make solid plans with Marlowe while he ate dinner, but it’d seemed way too soon. He’d just gotten into town and she’d been, from what Joe could tell, pulling some long days. 

I can protect you, if that’s what you’re asking. Not an actual answer, but casual enough. Yeah, casual enough--or at least that’s what Joe tells himself. 

Funny, she quips back. The addition of the eye roll emoji makes her sarcasm clear. But, there’s a rooftop cinema in town. They’re playing Scream tomorrow night. We could catch up. Get dinner first and then head over to watch? 

With a flurry, Joe heads over to his email. He remembers the wrap time being in the evening, but not excessively late. With a double, and then triple check as another text from Marlowe comes in, Joe swears his chest might combust. Marlowe was asking him. And it’s not a date--Joe would never allow himself an ounce of delusion to call it that. But it still makes him giddy. She was initiating. 

Movie’s at 10:45, so dinner at 8?

Though it would hurt just a little, Joe thinks he could sacrifice the extra hours of sleep just for her. Sounds good to me. 

Shoot me an address to pick you up at. And it shouldn’t make him blush, dear God, it shouldn’t. Yet it does. As Joe sends the address of the house rental he’s in, he can feel the burn creeping up on his chest and cheeks. 

It’s decidedly not a date, neither one of them had called it that. It wouldn’t be a date either. Yet, after Joe’s showered, towel still tied around his waist he finds himself hating everything he’d packed for his trip. He’d planned for casual ventures out, the shooting days, days where he’d venture through the city with no real agenda but time to kill. Joe had even considered how he’d make it work clothing wise should the opportunity to meet up with Marlowe arise and now that it’s here, he hates every single piece of clothing he’s packed. 

His phone chimes from the nightstand and Joe turns from the closet to look at the device. Should take me about half an hour to get to you. Leaving from here in 10. Forty minutes. Joe has forty minutes to make something happen and this will not be a last quarter grinder, that’s for sure. 

Marlowe’s punctual--the kind of punctual that feels too punctual to be happenstance. But at 7:45 PM on the dot, the agreed upon time she’d get him to make their dinner just a few minutes from his room, there’s a knock on the front door. Joe pauses his pacing, glances down to his phone and notes just how on the dot she is. But there’s no going back now. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Joe double checks he has everything to get back inside the house. He double checks his bag for his wallet, phone, mints, and hand lotion, before he slips the sunglasses on top of his head. All items accounted for, Joe then cracks open the door. 

There Marlowe stands, a shy smile pulling at her lips. The jersey is big on her, the opening of the arms, triple the size they need to be for her. The 56 in white across her chest, her father’s number. Joe would know it blind damn near. And now, looking at how she’s dressed in the jersey and jeans, Joe’s glad he went for an elevated but still casual look in his black wash jeans and black sweatshirt sweater hybrid. He’d nearly worn a boxy casual button down but decided--at the least minute--to swap. 

“Hi, Joe.”

God, his name has never sounded better. “Hey, Marlowe.”

“You ready? Or do you need a minute?”

Joe could take as many minutes, as many seconds as he could be given, but he’s really not sure he’d be ready for the eagle eyed glance. Even if it is soft, even if she is smiling, hands shoved into her back pockets, Marlowe’s look feels all knowing, all seeing. Like she could see into the marrow of his bones if she looked long enough.

“Yeah,” Joe nods. “I’m ready.”

“Cool.” She hazards a step down and Joe flicks off the lights before ensuring that as the door closes, it locks. 

Marlowe’s agile down the steps, Dominic blasted across her back in white against the navy blue jersey. The headlights on the SUV blink as they approach. “I didn’t take you as someone to drive in LA. Traffic is horrendous,” Joe quips. 

“I like driving.” A simple return--easy, a factoid. One that Joe saves away, files it for all the things he’s learning about Marlowe. Things like, how Marlowe goes nowhere without jewelry--even in the baggier fitting jeans and her father’s jersey, her wrist and fingers are still dripping with bands and rings. Like the fact that she likes driving. Like the fact that her lips roll together into a flat line that make her nostrils flare when she’s embarrassed and though the blush isn’t evident against her skin, the face she makes says it all. 

“It’s cute,” Joe starts as she pulls away from the curb. “That you wear your dad’s jersey.”

“I like to keep a little piece of home with me, wherever I go. That and so they can identify my body. Dual purposes.”

Joe chokes on his inhale, a bit thrown off by the dark humor pouring from her lips. Not how he had her pegged, but he doesn’t hate it. Marlowe snorts, “Sorry. It’s a little dark up there.” She taps the side of her head, right at her temple to emphasize her point. Her collection of bracelets jangle at the action. 

“Preparedness is a useful trait. So, I can’t say I’m mad at it.”

The lights of the road make the one hand she has on the steering wheel—high at the top as Marlowe reclines back in her seat—dance. the bracelets and gems blink with every passing row of lights. The cabin of the car falls almost silent. The soft echo of the radio keeps them company.

“How’d the first day go for you?” Her question nearly gets lost in the echoing of the singing--an R&B station by the sounds of it. Songs that Joe can’t place immediately, but likes how they sound. This just feels right, feels like the music that Marlowe would listen to; music that just makes sense for her.  

“Pretty good. It’s, uh, hard to have a bad day when people are just sort of filming you doing stuff you’d normally do.”

“That’s good to hear. You sounded a little nervous, maybe? About coming out to LA.”

It’s not that Joe gets nervous about coming to California. It’s what California means for him--how much he is famous. Fame feels fleeting in Ohio. It’s tangible in all the ways Joe can’t go about his normal life, but California means he’s confronted full force with it. It’s how for a couple weeks in his life he’s more aware of every head that turns his way more so than he usually is. Not helped by his own habit of people watching, of scanning the crowd. Joe’s not nervous about the state or the city, he’s just trying to find the right way to breathe in his life, how much of an inhale he should take and how much of an exhale he needs. 

“It’s still all new to me. Trying to get comfortable.”

“What’s still new to you?”

Joe exhales, staring back out the front windshield. The city lights are dazzling, bright neon that are just starting to reflect off the asphalt in the setting sun. The horizon’s growing dark around them, sunset hitting about twenty minutes before Marlowe arrived. Marlowe wouldn’t think it’s silly. Or maybe she would, maybe she’d hear Joe’s reply and tell him to grow up, relax. It’s not that Joe doesn’t want to tell her, it’s that he’s not sure how to say, how to convey that sometimes when he wakes up, on bad days in particular, he wishes at times that the random order of the universe had chosen someone else. 

“Fame. I’m just a kid from Ohio, you know. I dreamed big but at times, it feels like I dreamed too big.”

“You’re where you’re supposed to be. If not, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Joe agrees. It’s what he tells himself when it feels too big, too heavy to carry. There’s some kid looking at him, who sees that he did it and believes they can do it. But sometimes Joe’s not strong all the time. “Sometimes, though, I do miss just being anonymous.” Sometimes Joe has to put it down; he can’t carry it all the time.  

“I understand that. I don’t think humans were built for fame, like mentally we’re not built for it as a species. I think it’s easy to forget just how fragile humanity is. The glitz and the glamour are alluring.”

“Sounds like you like fame?” 

“Fame only likes the parts of me I give it.”

Joe turns back to her. Marlowe’s pushed forward just a hair in the driver seat as she peers for the right turn she’s signaling for. When she looks back in Joe’s direction, her gaze briefly sweeps over his face and there’s an eerie seriousness to her words that reflects back in the down pull of her pouty lips--glossy and bright even in the blooming dark. 

“So who has all of you?” The question feels too heavy the second it’s done leaping from his lips. But even with her gaze not directly on him, Joe can’t help it. There’s an earnesty, something magnetic about her face that makes Joe want to ask, that compels him with little regard for any consequences. It’s her, it’s Marlowe that makes Joe just want more. Intoxicated isn’t even a strong enough word for it. It’s compulsory. Like there’s no way for him to pull out of her orbit. A gravitational pull he’s too weak to resist. 

“Alive or dead?”

Joe thinks back to the video--the one that started and almost ended his late night spiral--her grandmother who cackled with her, asked to be beat for the gods. Joe recalls the never seen Malia--his suspicion about being too close to the bear rises again. Would this make Marlowe run? Yet now, face to face, Joe can’t stop himself. He can’t fight against it. Like an infant who’s not yet learned that dancing next to the fire could get him burned. 

“Both,” he answers, breathless like he is after a gruesome run of suicides. 

“Family. Both alive and dead.”

Family. Such a final word, a damn near ear ringing answer as realization dawns over Joe. The question burns at Joe’s tongue, even as Marlowe pulls into the parking space, even as they’re seated. Joe shouldn’t, even as he’s studying the menu in front of him, he can’t shake Marlowe’s answer. 

I hope she and Malia get to catch up in heaven. I want in on the gossip, girls, when we’re reunited again.

“Is Malia your sister?” He almost thinks maybe ‘was’ is the better tense, but can’t bring himself to use it. Wouldn’t reduce her family to a past tense, when Joe knows that death wouldn’t end the bond for him or his brothers. 

Marlowe exhales long and hard, menu dropping to the table at the action. “How’d you find out about her?”

Joe ducks his head. That’s one way to put his foot in his mouth. Her discomfort is clear in his words, shaky as she asks the question. All his chances are probably ruined so he looks back up to at last face his sure destruction head on. When he takes her in again, Joe sees Marlowe staring him down, a tight gaze, lips pursed together. “I watched a couple of your videos on Instagram. You mentioned her in the post about your grandmother. I’m sorry though, about your loss, and for making you uncomfortable. You just-when you answered that family had all of you alive and dead, I was curious. You talk about Korey all the time.”

“Malia’s my sister,” Marlowe answers, seemingly able to unthaw just a little at the mention of her niece. But it’s all she says. All she gives Joe. She’s looking in Joe’s direction, but not seemingly at him anymore. The tight and stinging gaze now lost and unfocused. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. How is Korey?” Divert, divert, divert. That’s what Joe needs to do. 

But even though he’s desperate to change the subject, Marlowe seems less interested in that. Her gaze still not quite seeing Joe, still far away. “And Malia’s dead now. Like my grandmother.”

The confirmation Joe didn’t need to get this way. The thing he’d suspected. The very thing that got him into this mess. “We don’t have to talk about them.” He offers it softly, a way for her to change the subject entirely if she wants too. 

Marlowe blinks, eyes moving up just a little and when his chest feels tight again, Joe knows she’s seeing him again. “It’s hard to talk about them.”

“No worries; I get that.” Joe stretches, reaching across the table--half of him hesitating as the tips of his fingers brush over hers, a touch so light that Joe’s not sure it was real. Until she curls fingers up and around his briefly, and his whole right arm feels like it’s been shocked, a shot of warmth crawling up his nerves and tendons. 

Then Marlowe releases his fingers, just as fast as she embraces them. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault. You can bring them up next time, whenever you’re ready.”

“You-you asked about Korey, right?”

Joe nods, but doesn’t pull his hand back, not until she starts to retreat. “Yeah,” Joe answers, voice still soft as he can tell Marlowe’s coming back to the surroundings. “I did.”

“Her birthday is next week,” Marlowe laughs just a little, like remembering something that Joe can’t see. But her twinkle is back, the light on her face shining again. “I can’t believe she’s going to be three. The irony is that I’m surrounded by fire signs.”

“Three? Before you know it, she’ll be running off to college.”

“Don’t say that, Joe. Oh.” Marlowe falls back into her seat, a hand pressed to her chest. “I can’t. No, I can’t. She’s gotta stay little forever, my little stinkabutt. It was just yesterday I was taking the night shift with Dad to help get Korey to sleep through the night.”

Joe tries not to picture Trey with a tiny baby on his hip, or posed half asleep with baby Korey nestled into his arms. But Joe fails, and finds himself engrossed in how tightly knit the family sounds. “Was Korey a terror to get sleep trained?”

“Worse than me, according to Dad. But we all banded together to do what we could. You know? You do just about damn near any and everything for family. Or--at least the way we grew up.”

“I respect that. Family is important. So what is Korey into? Third birthday is pretty big news.”

“Bluey. So much Bluey. Gracie’s Corner. And sunflowers.”

Sunflowers are an interesting addition, the kind of thing that kids could love, but only if taught, only if they’ve seen someone they love liking them. “Did she pick up sunflowers from anyone in particular?”

Marlowe raises the menu. Her chin disappears, then her lips. Her nose slips behind the red leather covered menu. But her eyes are bright and the skin around them crinkles, giving away the smile tucked away. She shakes her head. “What would give you that idea?”

Joe can’t help his laughter, the sound bubbling from his chest. He shakes his head. “No, nothing would ever give me that idea.”

Besides the fact that Joe thinks Marlowe was built to love sunflowers and maybe, he’d even go so far as to say sunflowers were built for Marlowe. A bright and tall presence, once seen cannot be unseen. He is glad, now, that their drinks are ordered and the conversation around them is lighter to see Marlowe laugh. He can’t imagine how it must feel to lose people so close to him. Can’t begin to fathom how Marlowe’s getting through each day when it feels like everything that’s ever mattered is gone. 

But Joe notices, as they continue to talk, that Marlowe in the videos is vibrant and loud and Marlowe in person is much softer spoken. Still magnetic, just a tad shier than she appears in her videos. Fame only likes the parts of me I give it. The bubbly, upbeat parts. The parts of her that she lets fame get, and the rest is striped back, or maybe left bare. But even if she’s quieter than he’d originally guessed, she’s no less witty, effortlessly funny. 

Their plates are slow to be consumed--a conversation so easy to settle into now Joe can almost forget his earlier blunder. He’s sure he’ll always remember distant and foggy look in her eyes when talking about her sister and grandmother. 

“If you say Star Wars, I’m going to leave,” Marlowe warns after asking about his favorite movies as a kid. They still have an hour before the movie starts and as the conversation meanders, the intrigue about more personal details crept up higher and higher. 

“What’s wrong with Star Wars?” The offense is thick, but Joe can only laugh at the exasperation painting Marlowe’s face. 

“My father, that’s what’s wrong with Star Wars. That man has a marathon of it every fucking year. Right around fall, he plays the entire series, in order of film release and in chronological order. Jabba the Hutt terrified me as a kid. Scared Korey too, unlike her mom. I can’t handle Star Wars anymore.”

Joe knows that his childhood bedroom still holds a few posters up on the wall for the franchise. And he shouldn’t, Joe absolutely shouldn’t file away that information for the next time he does get to speak with Trey to bring up the franchise. Joe hisses, “So, you’ve got this whole thing, right? Because I won’t stand for Star Wars slander.”

“Actually, I think you should pay, to cover emotional damages,” Marlowe mutters. 

“Emotional damages, you say? You’re the one hating.” 

“An insignificant detail,” Marlowe huffs, grinning as she speaks. 

“Insignificant?” Joe replies with faux indignation. “You certainly know how to kick a man when he’s down. What about you? What were you watching?”

“You don’t look down to me.”

Joe couldn’t be down, not with Marlowe around. “I’m pretty tough. But seriously, what about you?”

“The Little Rascals. Before I fell in love with horror. We’ll see how tough you really are later tonight.”

She offers it so easily, like she’s not even trying and when the server comes back around and Marlowe asks for the check, Joe’s still sitting with his mouth gaping--a hole for a bird to nest in. But he’s so shocked by her. Enamored like seeing a constellation in the sky. “Horror?” Joe parrots back, like somehow he still can’t believe the answer. 

“Horror,” another singular word response. Like there’s nothing else to explain. Maybe there isn’t. But Joe wants more, wants to find out what drew her into the genre. What is it about horror that she likes so much? But she beats him to the punch, “So what is it about Star Wars that you like?”

The server returns with the check and Marlowe smiles up with a soft thank you before she’s reaching into her pocket. Joe’s stretching before he realizes, fingers just caching the lips of the black folder but Marlowe’s shockingly quick to pull it just out of his grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?” she laughs. 

“Paying?”

“No, I suggested dinner and the movie, so I’m paying. For everything. Keep those fingers off your wallet. Anything you want, I’ll get it tonight.”

It’s right there, dancing on his lips to question how much she means that, if anything really means anything. But Joe refrains, more taken aback by Marlowe’s assuredness. As if she would never dare make Joe pay for a thing when it was her idea to come out, though it’d been Joe’s desperation when he suggested getting together for an evening. 

“Now, Star Wars, talk to me about it,” Marlowe urges.

Joe doesn’t miss the way she slips her card inside and holds the check to her stomach, ensuring Joe won’t reach for it. But he might. Joe thinks he would fight for it more if this were a date. And maybe not even then. Maybe he’s hoping to just touch her again, feel the radiating warmth one more time. 

“Well, I guess, it made me feel like I could be the hero too. That and space is pretty neat too.”

Marlowe’s lips peel back into a grin, some of the gloss has worn off thanks to eating, but her lips still look soft and so plump. And Joe shouldn’t be doing this. He lifts his gaze back to her eyes as she speaks. “So, you like space.”

Joe nods. “It’s pretty cool, I think. Unlike boats.”

“I like the stars,” Marlowe offers in return. “Boats are okay for short periods of time.”

And Joe’s done for, he is utterly done for. Enough so that when the check is collected, he can’t help but blush at Marlowe’s pause to make sure there’s nothing else he wanted off the menu first. “No, I’m good,” he whispers, voice softly reaching through the chatter of the restaurant.

“Good.” She hands the check over and the one word melts Joe’s innards. There’s so much earnesty in the answer, like Marlowe wouldn’t want anything less. It makes him wonder what would happen if he did want something else, what she’d do if he wasn’t satisfied. 

Joe fills the small gap with a soft question, “What was it about The Little Rascals? I can’t say I’ve seen it myself though.”

“It was silly, charming, and romantic in the way best suited for kids. And it made me fall in love with pickles.”

“Pickles?” Joe questions, his sip of water interrupted by his laughter. “What do pickles have to do with a movie?”

“Watch it. Then you’ll see.” Not quite a command, and not a demand. A quiet offering. Like the film will speak for itself and she need not interject over it. 

“I’ll keep you updated.” He wants it to sound promising but not desperate. Though he’s already mentally mapping which streaming platform to try first tomorrow after his shoots. 

“Just make sure it’s the film.”

“I will. But we have like forty minutes until the movie now, and I hate being late.”

Marlowe only smiles, but nods. The server returns with the receipt and her card and she’s swift to add the tip and sign all the receipts. “Let’s not keep you waiting any longer.”

It’s more intimate than Joe accounted for, or assumed a rooftop movie could be. But the heater is clicked on with just a few twists, the singular blanket is handed over by the employee who leads them to their seat. There’s rows and scattered bodies of other singular seaters. But Joe stands in front of the singular lounge chair built to fit two people and two people only with limited space between them. “There were limited tickets,” Marlowe explains. 

They are a little early to the movie. Plenty of others could be on their way or could’ve had a last minute change of plans. So who’s to say what was left when she grabbed the tickets. And who’s to say that maybe Marlowe’s not trying to keep fate, but she looks at him a tad apologetic. So Joe takes it as the truth. 

The thing is that Joe’s not opposed to the intimate setting. In fact, the longer they stand next to each other, the more Joe is sure it’s not the fire heating his skin anymore. But he is still trying to find the lines, isn’t sure what this means to Marlowe or what she wants it to mean and he doesn’t want to send the wrong signals. Doesn’t want to go too hard on showing his interest in her if it’s not what she wants and doesn’t want to seem too aloof if she is interested. 

Admittedly, Joe could probably just ask. It was the easiest thing to do. But this is just catching up. That’s what Marlowe called it after weeks of texting, a couple of phone calls. They were catching up but catching up didn’t come with a manual, so Joe’s left here, watching as Marlowe slips into one corner of the chair. She peels back a corner of the blanket, still fluffing at her side of it. 

“Or are you too scared?”

It’s a challenge, playful, but still a challenge. Joe’s never going to back down from one. So he’s mindful, slipping the pouch to the front of his chest so he can recline fully back into the seat and takes the offered up end of the blanket and settles it across his lap, though the night’s not that chilly to really need it. 

“So you and horror?” Joe questions, unsure of where to put his arms. They’re not squished in the seat, but there’s inches, and probably not even enough to be considered inches anymore, between them. Marlowe eases into the corner of her section and Joe feels stiff as if he makes one wrong move the whole evening will fall apart a second time. 

“Yeah, me and horror.”

“What about it? Do you like being scared?”

“Relax, Joe. I don’t bite.”

Joe watches the shy tuft of laughter escape her, as it shakes her shoulders. The tease bashes at his teeth, Would you if I asked? He’s not going to fuck this up. Joe’s not going to cross that line. He swallows it back down, and instead comes back with, “That sounds like the very thing someone who does bite would say to create a false sense of security. You took me out to see a horror film. I have to remain vigilant.” 

“I like horror because I feel like if I pay close enough attention the thing meant to scare you is evident all along.” 

“So you don’t like being scared,” he tuts. More information to log away.

“Being scared means I haven’t paid close enough attention.” 

The words are heavy though. Joe watches as she picks at the corner of the blanket, her nails a soft click, click, click, as they meet with her worried fretting. Joe’s not sure if Marlowe is older or younger than Malia. But he can already see behind her eyes, the way she probably wishes she’d seen more before her sister’s death. A responsibility she’s not supposed to be carrying. Death comes for them all and when it wants someone, it will take. 

Marlowe would ever be a singular force strong enough to stop it. But clearly, as she sits here, she still wishes she could. That she berates herself for not being able to do such an asinine thing like influence the universe. Without hesitation, Joe reaches for her hand, the one picking and covers it with his. His thumb stroking over the joint of her thumb. The last click is soft.  

“You’re sharp though. A deadly eye,” Joe encourages softly. 

“Thanks.” 

The night hardly stands a chance against the soft yellow of the projector, the roaring fires that echo around them. As the film starts, Joe starts to pull his hand back, his chest radiating the warmth of her skin. But Marlowe flips her hand, making them palm to palm. Her fingers cup the space between his thumb and forefinger in a light hold. Grounding but light. 

“In case you get scared,” she whispers, leaning in just a hair to Joe so he can hear it.  And Joe is scared. But not about the film. He’s scared she’s going to feel the erratic thundering of his heart just in his palm. He’s terrified just how quickly Marlowe’s able to disarm him. Everything he’d normally do, all the rules he had—abstaining from touches like this in public, abstaining from the public in general unless it’s to build his brand—don’t matter in the presence of Marlowe.

[talesofanarchy]

Sweet Emotion

Anonymous requested: Could I have some smut with Happy maybe some rough smut 😆

Author's note: Sure thing, little anon! Happy drabbles are my favorite. What can I say? I am biased.

WARNINGS: 18+ EXPLICIT CONTENT! Read at your discretion!

The clubhouse was at full capacity, music loudly playing as people meandered with one another. She could feel the bass pulsate throughout her body, nearly making her want to start dancing. However, she wasn't that buzzed, and she wasn't about to make a fool of herself when she would remember it the next day.

A hand was loosely coiled around a glass of whiskey, her gaze fleeting between the crowds of people before finding her husband. He stood across the room near the pool table with his back to her. One of his hands was tucked into a front pocket, while the other held a cue stick. Tig stood on the other side, a large smile etched on his face as he began to line up a shot.

She took the last sip of her drink, licking the remnants of alcohol off her lips before setting the glass down. It was a night of celebration, one that honored Opie and Lyla's marriage. Y/N was ecstatic that Opie could find someone else to love after Donna's death. She didn't know if he would ever move on; she wouldn't blame him if he didn't. Hell, she knew she wouldn't have ever gotten over Happy if the roles were reversed.

A hand unexpectedly landed on her shoulder from behind, gently squeezing it. Quickly, she turned around, only to find Lyla standing in her wedding gown and a glorious grin worn proudly on her face.

"Thank you so much for helping with all the planning," Lyla spoke, nearly having to shout over the music.

Y/N couldn't help but return the smile before leaning and hugging Lyla. "Of course, I am so happy for you and Ope. You both deserve the best." She said.

Lyla pressed a gentle kiss into her friend's cheek. "You're still the greatest. I'll catch up with you later, though."

Y/N watched the newest old lady saunter off to her newly branded husband, making her yearn for her own husband's attention.

Yet when she turned to try to locate Happy, she saw a croweater had found her place beside him at the pool table. Lips were pursed with agitation; this one was new; Y/N hadn't seen her around Charming before. Most likely, she came from another charter, likely going through all the men there first.

Happy's face was devoid of emotion, never allowing his thoughts to be easily readable. Nonetheless, Y/N knew how temptation worked with these croweaters. They were like the latest drug, alluring, intoxicating, addicting. Once they sunk their claws in, it was like the men lost all common sense.

She watched as the woman batted her eyes and cozied up to Happy's side. The once feel-good buzz was gone. Instead, it was replaced with numerous emotions: jealousy, anger, hurt, and betrayal. Y/N wasn't just some booty call; she was Happy's wife, and the fact that he allowed this display only angered her more.

With little to no control over her emotions, she made a beeline for the croweater.

She shouldered past the unknown woman, causing her to stumble forward.

"What the fuck?!" She spat angrily.

As the croweater stood up straight, Y/N cracked an innocent smile. "So sorry I didn't see you there."

The croweater scoffed before stepping closer, her voice coming out in a sharp whisper. "If I were you, I'd back off. This one's mine." She pointed towards Happy.

A short, noncomical laugh came from Y/N as she stared at the unknown woman. "Yours? Really? Our marriage license would prove otherwise." She closed the distance between them, rage nearly boiling over.

"Enough, little girl." Happy gruffly said from behind her.

The croweater cackled, her head shaking side to side. "You think a marriage license is going to stop him from being in my bed at the end of the night?"

That was enough for Y/N to see red. Her hand immediately shot out, palm thrusting upwards into the bimbo's nose, causing a sickening snap.

She could feel the cartilage crumble beneath the force of her blow, her instincts to fight going into overdrive. The croweater let out a loud wail of pain, her hands going to her face, attempting to tend to her shattered nose. Blood oozed out, only proving the severity of the attack.

"You bitch!" The unnamed woman screamed, causing a mob of people to encircle them.

Just as Y/N was about to finish the job, she was hoisted over a pair of strong, sturdy shoulders. She struggled in her husband's grip, desperately wanting to rearrange the face of the bitch who thought she could so easily fuck her old man.

"Let me go! She needs to learn her fucking place." She spat loudly, the crowd parting as Happy lugged her outside.

The next day

After being forcibly removed from the clubhouse the night before, Happy had taken Y/N home. He didn't speak to her, didn't even look at her. Despite his silence, she knew he was pissed off. But what for? She hadn't done anything but put a croweater in their place. He was off limits; they were married.

Eyes slowly pried open as she stared at the empty spot beside her in bed. It was untouched. Happy hadn't even slept in the same bed as her last night.

Groggily rubbing at her eyes, she would push the blankets down before rising out of bed. The dull ache in her head urged her to get some Tylenol from the kitchen. Quietly, she trekked down the hallway before rounding the corner to the kitchen.

Happy sat on the stool at the island directly in the middle of the room. His kutte was hung over the chair beside him, his bare back presented to her. Y/N stood there briefly, pondering how to approach the situation. Exhaling softly, she would walk over to the coffee maker and press the brew button.

"You didn't come to bed last night." She stated.

"Didn't want to be around you." Happy retorted.

A pang of hurt echoed in her chest, feeling like she was the issue last night. When she only did what Happy would have done if some guy had tried to make a move on her.

"That's a little unfair, Hap. You just stood there, letting some random bitch hit on you. Were you going to sleep with her once I left?" She asked.

Happy leaned back in the stool, his brown gaze landing on his wife. A flash of irritation crashed over his face before he resumed drinking his coffee.

"So, what, you'll give me the silent treatment?" She asked.

His eyes locked with hers, his shoulders tense. He knew just how possessive she was; it was one of many things he loved about her. But there was a time and place for everything, and her little temper tantrum was poorly executed, especially in front of his brothers and everyone else. It was a night of celebration, and she caused a scene.

"We've had this conversation before; you're an old lady. Start actin' like one." Happy spoke sternly.

Y/N clenched the coffee mug tightly; what he said had rubbed her the wrong way. Yes, she was his old lady, but she was also his wife. The fact that Happy was trying to blame her for last night pissed her off.

"I am also your wife. Or does that not matter? Should I just let any bitch throw themselves at you and fuck you? Should I not care anymore?" She growled.

Happy pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Her flair for the dramatics annoyed the shit out of him. It wasn't like he was going to sleep with the bitch last night. Sometimes, he just liked to entertain the thought.

"Cut the shit, little girl." He warned, growing tired of the conversation.

Y/N slammed the mug on the counter, the liquid sloshing out and landing on the granite.

"Fuck you, Hap; if roles were reversed, you'd kill any man who even looked at me wrong, let alone touched me." Was all she said before storming out.

It had been a few hours since Y/N left, putting Happy on edge more. He didn't like that she left when they were fighting, and he didn't like that she hadn't even tried to phone him to check in.

Grumbling uncomfortably, he would run a hand over his face. Where the fuck was she?

He reached for his phone on the table nearest the couch, flipping it open to find Juice's name. Dialing his number, he brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring.

A few moments later, Juice picked up. "Hello?"

"I need you to check Y/N's tracker and tell me where she is." Happy said blandly.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the receiver before Juice cleared his throat. "Everything okay, Hap?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me where she's at." Happy responded.

He could hear distinct shuffling in the background as he waited for the word from Juice. Who the hell did she think she was, just up and leaving without even letting him know where she was going? That wasn't how their relationship worked. She knew better.

The tracker was placed in Y/N's car when they started messing around long before their marriage. There was just something about her that he couldn't let go of, and he wasn't about to let a guy swoop in and try to claim her. Not when he had already laid claim. Not when he already viewed her as his property.

"Looks like she's at the grocery store in town." Juice uttered, clicking away on his computer.

A breath of relief was silently exhaled before Happy spoke up. "Aight, thanks." He clicked his phone shut before rising to his looming stature.

He strode to the kitchen, where he easily slid his kutte on. Reaching for his keys, he'd shake his head with a growing aggravation.

He had a few choice words for his wife, especially with her knowing there was shit going on with the club. He understood her desire for independence and the need for air after their fight. But it had been ingrained into her not to leave anywhere without telling him.

Did he have to fuck it into her for her to grasp the demand?

The Dyna roared as he drove into the parking lot that belonged to the grocery store. Pulling near the curb, he would balance himself with both feet planted firmly into the ground. The bike idled as he removed his helmet, his brown gaze fixated on the store entrance.

Cutting the engine off, he would resume his normal, overwhelming stature. He silently assessed the cars in the parking lot, quickly finding Y/N's car.

Good, she was still here.

As he walked into the store, he began frantically scanning the aisles as he passed them. The metal chain that hung from his pocket rattled audibly as he took vast, predatory strides.

Happy wasn't a patient man, and he didn't play around regarding his wife's safety. Just as he was about to call Y/N's phone, he caught sight of her conversing with a man he didn't know. He immediately slowed his movements, inching closer to hear what was being said.

"Yeah, I am new to town. How long have you been living here?" Said the man who clearly didn't know that SAMCRO ran Charming.

Y/N fidgeted uncomfortably, taking a step back to create some distance between her and the man who had been hounding her for the last five minutes.

"A little over 5 years. My husband and I are originally from Tacoma." She enunciated husband, trying to drive the point of her being taken into the unknown man's head.

However, this didn't seem to phase the man; he cracked a ridiculous grin before running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

"Wow, Washington, that sounds amazing. Could I maybe have your number? Maybe you could show me around town?" He piped.

Happy's overwhelming need to stake his claim began to rear its horned head. The balls on this guy, didn't he hear that she was married? Or did he not care?

"Little girl." The Tacoma killer rumbled loudly from behind her.

Y/N quickly turned and faced him, a flash of relief washing over her face. Despite their earlier argument, she couldn't have been happier to see him at that particular moment.

The unnamed man glanced between them before shooting a questionable glare at Happy.

"Who is this?" He asked.

It didn't take more than a second for Happy to swarm in, his right shoulder cocking back before he unloaded his fist into the guy's face. The man fell against the shelves, canned goods falling in a loud clatter around him.

"Her husband." Happy growled possessively.

"Happy! What the hell?" She exclaimed, looking distressed.

But he didn't respond. Instead, he snatched her delicate wrist in his calloused hand, dragging her behind him as he stormed away from the scene.

Y/N struggled to keep up with him, finding herself tripping over her feet. "Baby, please slow down." She whimpered.

It didn't take long before Happy found the restroom and locked them in it. He stared down at her, his dark eyes swirling with a multitude of emotions. The need to dominate her echoed violently within. He needed her to know that she belonged to him. He needed everyone to know that no one could have her, not while he was living.

"What the hell was that Happy? That was completely unnecessary." She rambled on.

"Was it? That piece of shit wanted to screw you." He roared, causing her to flinch backward.

She scoffed softly, eyes rolling. Did he finally understand what she had to deal with when it came to random women trying to pick up on him?

"Oh, you mean like how the croweater tried to get you in her bed last night?" Y/N snapped.

Happy narrowed his gaze before stalking towards her. "You're mine."

Before she could respond, he was holding her head between his hands and violently claiming her lips with his. He didn't wait for her approval; his tongue had found its way into her mouth, tightly coiling around hers.

She briefly fought his advances, hands forcibly shoving into his chest. But then the anger and confusion melted away when she inhaled his scent. When his tongue seductively rolled around with hers. There had been built-up tension between them, and she was tired of fighting over the same thing.

They both needed this right now. They both needed to know that they belonged to one another.

One of his hands slowly trailed down her side, eliciting goosebumps in response. Fingertips moved across her abdomen before slipping underneath her t-shirt. It roamed further up to meet her unrestricted breasts. A murmur of approval rumbled in the depths of his throat.

His thumb teasingly rolled her nipple around, causing the nub to pucker underneath the pressure of his actions. Their mouths continued to move together in sync while her hands began to explore his taut stomach.

"Mine." He proclaimed once more.

Nails found the small of his back, digging ever so lightly into the skin. Her tongue roamed on the outskirts of his lips, teasing him. Slowly, she took his bottom lip into her mouth, teeth hovering over the vulnerable tissue. Y/N could taste this man forever if time allowed it. The way he overwhelmed her senses was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

As his hands trailed down her sides, she bit down on his lower lip, causing him to inhale a shaky breath. No one could unravel him the way she did. She knew how to touch him, how to please him. There would never be another her, never.

Her hands moved from his back to the front of his jeans, locating the belt. Fingers quickly undid the belt before moving to unbutton his jeans. Lips, finding his neck and leaving feathery pecks down to his collarbone.

In moments like these, everything ceased to exist. It was only the two of them, wrapped up in their own little world. Their bodies were in tune with what the other needed, as if it were embedded deep within the cells of their beings to please the other.

Happy's overwhelming need to bury himself deeply within her began to grow. But the need to prove that she was his took control. A hand swiftly found its place around her throat, where he applied a firm amount of pressure. The sweet sound of her greedy inhale of oxygen made him smirk.

He forcefully moved her towards the bathroom counter, his intentions becoming abundantly clear. She remained captured by his hand, her gaze swooping over his body in one clean movement. Their sex life had never been vanilla; normalcy wasn't in the books for them. Missionary was far between and usually reserved for the moments of lovemaking. Yet, this wasn't an occasion for lovemaking. This was pure carnal, unfiltered need.

"Who do you belong to?" He questioned, his hand slowly tightening around her throat.

Y/N swallowed dryly, nerve endings buzzing to life as her senses rose to their full magnitude. While Happy loved to dominate, she loved to submit. But submission never came easily; she liked to make a game of it. With a wicked grin, she would speak teasingly. "Tig, or possibly Chibs."

Happy found no amusement in her bratty retort. The idea of her being fucked by one of his brothers made him want to commit murder. With an unexpected movement, the palm of his hand collided harshly with her cheek.

A yelp of surprise echoed within the restroom, the sting of his assault making her eyes water. As the pain began to fizzle away, excitement started to unfurl in the deepest parts of her belly. She looked up at him with wide, doe eyes, trying to guess his next move. But that was the thing with Happy Lowman; everything he did was always unexpected.

The outlaw reacted purely instinctually, his body moving on its own accord. His large hands found her hips, digging into the meat that lay there. He didn't linger there long; soon, he flipped her around so her back was nestled into his front. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of her hair, reminding him of honeysuckles. His dick twitched to life in his boxers, excited for the impending satisfaction he would surely feel.

His dark eyes traveled up the length of her backside, mesmerized by the sight of her plump ass in some floral, mid-length skirt. A hand was quick to smother an ass-cheek with a gratifying swat. Y/N couldn't help but lean forward, a moan tumbling past her lips.

Happy shoved her upper torso down along the countertop, and one of his hands tightened around the back of her neck, effectively keeping her pinned in place.

"Good girl." He praised, his other hand roaming up the backs of her legs.

She shivered with anticipation, instinctively pressing her thighs together. She needed some friction between her legs; Happy had the tendency to draw things out in hopes that it taught her a lesson. Bunching up Y/N's skirt, he would let out a low whistle as he found her to have no panties on underneath. Smirking, he'd adjust his boxers so his cock was able to spring free.

Y/N squirmed underneath Happy, her hips teetering side to side, hoping this would entice him to hurry. All movements ceased when she felt his cock slide in between her folds, a feral excitement pumping through her veins. "Baby." She cooed needily.

Everything that happened after those words was done hastily. Happy allowed his saliva to coat his cock, his hands pumping up and down his shaft a few times before he aligned himself at the entrance of her pussy.. He didn't give her the time to brace. Instead, he slammed his hips forward, causing his dick to tear through any resistance.

The moment he was inside of her warm, slick walls, he groaned. Nothing compared to the way pussy felt. Not drugs, alcohol, or even murder. Happy allowed her to adjust to his massive size, his cock pulsating in the familiarity of his wife's womb.

"H-Happy." She stuttered, reveling in how it felt to be stretched out to the point that it hurt so deliciously.

He didn't respond. Instead, he tauntingly pulled out his dick so that it was at her entrance. His fingers flexed into the back of her neck, solidifying his hold. When he saw her incessant wriggling, he slammed his hips forward, guiding his cock back inside of her. Y/N flexed her pelvic wall, causing her pussy to tighten around his shaft. Happy nearly crumbled at this move; it was the one thing that almost always made him cum.

His available hand pushed up her shirt, searching for his mark. His thrusting picked up in intensity and speed when he found his crow etched into her upper left shoulder. His balls slammed against the base of her ass as he edged further and further inside of her tight little cunt.

Unified moans of pleasure hummed throughout the restroom, signaling to any passing bystanders just what was going on. Y/N was pinned down and a victim to whatever her old man wanted to do to her. Not that she minded, she would always submit to him.

Happy let his fingers roam from her neck to the center of her skull, fisting her hair roughly. He tugged her head back, causing her back to arch inward. His hips snapped forward repetitively as he was set on filling her up with every bit of cum he had.

Both of them began to pant, their chests rising and falling as they tried to gain their breath. While she was positioned closer to him, he would lean forward and sink his teeth into her shoulder, right next to his crow. An animalistic growl rumbled in his chest as his dick slid in and out of her, savoring the overstimulation it offered.

Soothing the bite mark with his tongue, he half-assedly laid his stomach across her back. His arms wound themselves around her waist, supporting her and his weight.

"Tell me who you belong to." He demanded.

Y/N moaned loudly, her climax nearing closer and closer as he continued his brutalization.

"Yours, Hap." She replied breathlessly.

He gingerly kissed the sweet spot between her shoulder and neck, their bodies moving together perfectly.

"Cum for me, little girl." He ordered.

It was like a switch that opened the dam. Every single muscle of hers began to spasm, her walls tightening once more around his dick as he ushered those magic words.

Y/N's head fell forward, and every sense of hers heightened tenfold. Her eyes were clenched shut as her orgasm rid her like a bucking bronco. She could feel her pussy coil tighter around him, attempting to milk him for everything he had.

Happy's finale was quick to follow, only ever cumming after she did. He jerked forward a few times, allowing his sticky, white load to coat her womb. "Fuck." He exhaled. His hips continued to roll forward but at a much slower pace as he emptied his balls into her.

The two were a heap of sweat and nauseating euphoria.

Y/N could already feel stiffness and pain in her overworked body. It would be a welcomed reminder of her husband and his rough affection. The counter was uncomfortable and pressing into her ribs, but she didn't want to disturb Happy.

Slowly, he pulled out of her and stuffed himself back into his boxers. After buckling his belt, he admired Y/N's bare ass. The skin was red and welted from the erratic thrusting. Gently, he smoothed his hands over her ass cheeks, murmuring.

"Probably gonna be sore." He said.

"It's alright, babe." She replied.

Allowing her skirt to fall back into place, he would help her stand up straight. His fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. They stared into each other's eyes momentarily before Happy pressed a small kiss to the center of her forehead.

"Never forget that you're mine, little girl." He whispered against her skin.

"Never." She vowed before kissing his lips.

[vodika-vibes]

hey vodika, i saw in one of your posts you say your were like a request-hoarding dragon, and that got me thinking about clones and dragons and down a rabbit hole i went.

sooo I was wondering if you could do a dragon au with the delta squad featuring reader? dealer's choice on if the reader is the dragon or if its one (or all) of delta squad. thankssss so much!

Happy Accidents

Summary: Spending your life as the most important treasure of a Dragon was not how you expected your life to go, but honestly? You have no complaints.

Pairing: Clone Commando Boss x F!Reader, background Delta Squad x F!Reader

Word Count: 1477

Warnings: The reader was kidnapped, some suggestive hints at the very end

A/N: Sorry if this isn't the greatest, I slept so poorly last night that I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. But I hope you like it anyway.

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

Nearly a year ago, you were stolen from the royal palace by a massive dragon. He carried you far from the city you called home, and stashed you away in an even larger palace. Locking you away in a room until the tribute, that the King and Queen elected to not pay, was delivered.

Upon which time, he promised, you would be returned to your people, alive and unharmed.

There was just one, tiny, problem with this plan.

You’re not the Princess.

Hell, you’re not even nobility.

You’re a maid at the royal palace. A rather low ranking maid at that, due to your age and your parents social status.

You’re the daughter of a pair of farmers. The youngest daughter, even, and not even entitled to a single cow as your inheritance. You might receive a cat, when your parents pass on. But even that isn’t guaranteed.

When you admitted that to Boss, the dragon, he didn’t believe you. After all, the uniform you wear is made of nice material—so as to not embarrass Her Highness—so, naturally, you must be lying.

Only, as time goes on, and the tribute continues to not get paid, he starts to accept that, perhaps, he made a mistake when he grabbed you.

In truth, you don’t mind it.

Boss, and his brothers, live in a massive palace. Sure, it’s hidden deep in the mountains, and there aren’t many people to talk to, but it’s probably the nicest building you’ve ever been in.

Plus, you get to poke through the treasure room whenever you want. Though, mostly, you just organize the treasure by size, style, and cost.

You’re well fed, and well taken care of. Granted three meals a day, as many snacks as you want—so long as you cook it—and a whole bedroom all to yourself. You even have clean, well-fitting clothing.

And you don’t have to worry about being stepped on, because the brothers all polymorph themselves into humans to both fit in the palace and to not be a threat to you.

Honestly, they’re kinder to you than your own brothers are.

Today is the official anniversary of the day that Boss kidnapped you, and a part of you thinks that you should do something to celebrate the day. But another part points out, logically, that celebrating the day you were kidnapped it kind of weird.

So, instead, you’re sitting on a massive cushion in the treasure room, entertaining yourself by sorting a pile of uncut gems. Some of them are massive, and would make amazing centerpieces if they were cleaned and polished a little.

You’re so engrossed in your self-imposed task, that you don’t hear the door opening or hear the man approaching, until he places his hand on top of your head.

“I figured I’d find you in here,”

You tilt your head back and grin up at Boss, “I like it in here. There’s so much to do.”

He huffs out an amused laugh, “Are you sure that you’re not a dragon yourself?”

“Mm, pretty sure.” You shift to the side and pat the cushion next to you, “There’s nothing special about me, really.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Boss folds his legs and sits next to you, “What are you working on?”

You hold up the uncut gem that you’ve been admiring. It’s large enough that you need both hands to carry it, “I was thinking, if this was polished and cut, it would make a nice centerpiece for the dining room table.”

“If you want a new centerpiece for the dining room, I’ll go and get you a new one. You don’t have to make something out of this junk.” Boss replies as he takes the stone from your hands and lightly sets it with the rest of the uncut gems.

“Oh, but that’s so wasteful!”

He laughs and reaches out to cup your face with both of his hands, “You do remember that we’re rich, right?”

“That’s your money.” You scrunch up your nose as he squishes your cheeks together. “Boss!”

“You know as well as I do that this place is as much, if not more, yours than mine.” He points out.

“Well, someday you might kick me out.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes at your comment, “Like I’m going to kick you out. Please.”

You pout at him, or try to, “Why were you looking for me, anyway?”

“Hm? Oh, there’s a meteor shower starting in a few hours. Come sit with me.”

“But, it’s still daylight?”

He won’t be discouraged, though, as he effortlessly lifts you into his arms and carries you out of the treasure room and up six flights of stairs, until he gets to his person chambers. And he still doesn’t put you down until he’s settled on a cushion on his massive balcony.

But even then, he only releases you for as long as it takes for him to get comfortable, and then he tugs you onto his lap.

“I’m going to get cold,” You warn him, as you eye the snowy landscape around you. He doesn’t say anything, but you do feel his body heat behind you as he uses his innate magic to warm you.

“Better?”

“Yeah, much.” You shift on his lap and lay your back on his shoulder. “Where are the others?”

“Out.” You feel Boss press his nose against your neck and you shiver slightly, “Sev is buying you some new dressed. Scorch is getting you new jewelry. And Fixer is buying you a library.”

“I don’t need any of that stuff,” You point out as you absently trace his fingers where they’re resting on your lower stomach. And you really don’t. You already have so many dresses that you could wear a new one every day, and you won’t have repeated a single one.

“We’re trying to make this place comfortable for you.” Boss finally says, as his arms tighten around you.

“I mean, it is pretty comfortable already. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in such a nice place before.”

He laughs quietly, his breath warm against your skin, “You misunderstand.” Gently, he turns your head so you’re looking at him, “We want you to stay when we give you the chance to return home.”

“I...really?”

“I know Scorch hasn’t be subtle when it comes to his affection towards you.” Boss says dryly, “Neither has Sev.”

Your face heats slightly, “Well, no. They haven’t. But I didn’t know you and Fixer felt the same way.”

Boss stares at you, “I put you on my lap as often as I can get away with. And Fixer is almost always holding your hand and getting you to read to him. None of us have been subtle.”

“Well, I thought that maybe your people are just affectionate by nature,” You admit.

“We’re affectionate with you.” Boss corrects, “And, after the winter thaw, we’re going to give you the chance to return home, if you want.”

“You are?”

“Clearly they’re not going to pay the tribute, so we have to do something else.” Boss grumbles, “Besides, you deserve to pick.”

Slowly you shake your head, “But you don’t want me to leave.”

“Course not.”

“You could just keep me here. It’s not like I can walk home.” You point out.

Boss lightly bumps his forehead against yours, “We want you to pick us. Not to stay because you have no other choice.”

“Oh.” You’re quiet for a moment, and then you reach up and press your hands against his cheeks, “Well, that’s silly. I don’t want to leave either. This place has become my home.” You pause again, “Well, less this place and more you. And Scorch, Sev, and Fixer. I’ll go where you go. So long as you don’t mind having a human hanging around.”

He stares at you, seemingly stunned, for long enough that you start to get uncomfortable. But before you can say anything, he crashes his lips against yours. It’s your turn to be surprised, but you quickly lean into him and the kiss.

“They’re going to be thrilled,” Boss mumbles against your lips, barely audible even with you sitting on him.

You try to pull back, to catch your breath and to get him to repeat himself, but he doesn’t let you. Instead he flips you so you’re sprawled out on the cushion spread across the balcony and settles himself over you, his lips heavy against yours.

And, as you feel the heavy material of your skirt sliding up your legs as Boss’ hand’s wander across your body, you can’t help but think that this is what you were made for. For loving him and his brothers.

And you can’t help but wonder how angry the others are going to be when they learn that Boss got to have you first.

@heidnspeak

@justiceandwar98

@etod

@kiss-anon

@lonewolflupe

@silly-starfish

@msmeredithrose

@cdblake1565

@badbatch-bitch

@continous-mistakes

@falconfeather23435

@tiredbi-peach

@kimiheartblade

@clones-cyare

@cc--2224

@0revna0

@mira-loves-star-wars

@trixie2023

@rebell-ious

@padawancat97

@sweater-sloot

@bb8-99

@maniacalbooper

@wax-birds

@adriennelenoir

@omegaprime18

@bad4amficideas

@dukeoftheblackstar

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@liz-stat

@arctech-fox

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@sailorflora

@jetiimasterbekah

@six-1mpossiblethings

@clonetrooperjournals

@ct7567329

@thatforlornfeeling

[alice-after-dark]

A pet peeve of mine in fics and other fanworks is Vox being too much of a silly loser/pathetic mess in scenes where he's in public or surrounded by others. I feel like his behavior in Stayed Gone was a moment of weakness that wont be repeated and only happened in the first place cause 1) Alastor is back after 7 years 2) He's working with Lucifer's daughter and 3) despite having cameras everywhere Val found out first. A control freak like him wont lose composure (again) and would keep up the act of a charming, suave actor/tv host especially since everyone knows the mainstream media/pop culture loves an attractive/charming male celebrity.

Anyways, ever since Vox changed into those cute little outfits in stayed gone I've been getting barbie vibes from him...hopefully he reaches full it girl mode in s2 😫 I wanna see the public adore him and eat out of the palm of his hand!

Also I'm not sure if anyone's considered this but if Vox has been in Hell since the 50's that means theres probably generations of hellborn imps/hellhounds/etc that grew up watching his content...I wouldnt be surprised if the hellborn population loved him (might be wrong but I swear I've seen a screenshot of some imp wearing a Voxtek t-shirt in S1 EP8 of Helluva Boss)

Oof, I totally get where you’re coming from. It is such a frustration when people go way too hard on Vox being pathetic, especially when he’s in public. It’s literally made clear to us in his introduction that public opinion is very important to him and he will do whatever he needs to protect it. Stayed Gone was Vox losing his shit. He was essentially caught off guard by Alastor returning PLUS the knowledge that Val has apparently known he was back and didn’t tell him! I don’t think he’s going to lose his shit so easily again. 

I actually do have a theory about why Valentino knew first. In their scene before Stayed Gone, whose room are they in? Whose TV are they turning on that instantly goes to the hotel feed? It’s not Vox’s room or even Vox who turns on the TV. It’s Valentino’s. I think that the cameras around the hotel weren’t for Vox at all, but for Valentino to spy on Angel. That’s why Vox didn’t know. He wasn’t paying attention to them. He wasn’t watching them. He possibly even forgot about them because he just didn’t care about the hotel at all.

I would love to see Vox go full It Girl. I think he prides himself on being exactly what the public wants at all times (which can also make for some delicious angst of Alastor having been the only person to care about the real him but apparently Alastor never really cared at all so maybe the real him is just shit and should be buried no one likes that loser…this may need to be its own post)

I would genuinely love to see Vox interact with the public more and see how they view him. I think that would be so cool. Probably for many Hellborn, he is their access to what human media is like.

[hayaku14]

you know how in jp news articles they sometimes use one single headshot for every new article about celebrities/public figures?

hc that when shinichi returns to public post-bo, he slowly goes back to solving cases but has become less welcoming to the paparazzi so the news outlets have no choice but to use the last popular headshot of shinichi he willingly let them take for all their future articles

they haven't been able to get a decent headshot of shinichi in years cause although he doesn't ask for his name to not be reported whenever he gets involved in a case anymore, he is still averse to dealing with the paparazzi. division 1 sort of adopted him as one of their own even though he's a private detective so they happily speak in his stead as per his request.

kaito collects these newspaper clippings and then eventually prints out web article screenshots too to collect all the articles about shinichi with the same headshot cos he thinks it's cute and hilarious lmao

kaito, hattori, and hakuba sort of have a bet for how long til the paparazzi gets a new headshot (kaito cheats sometimes when he can, sabotaging and destroying data when they actually manage to take a picture lol)

also usually with marriage announcement news, jp news outlets put separate headshots of the couple beside each other. now imagine if kaishin gets married in their 30s and the media still only has the same 16 yr old shinichi photo. it would be a side by side photo of this hot af dolled up professionally shot headshot of the world renowned magician kuroba kaito and this old ass picture of famous private detective kudou shinichi lmaoooo. kaito's stans fighting for their life under the comments like:

>>NOT TODAY FBI THAT'S AN OLD PHOTO OF A GROWN ASS MAN [insert candid photo of older shinichi]

>>>i think the fbi would let anything slide for kudou ngl

>>now why would they use that shinichi photo he looks like a baby there 💀💀💀

>>y'all rly setting up kaito with this one 😭

alternatively, i think the media gets desperate and just puts a candid photo of older shinichi or grabs a photo from sonoko's ig (one of the few public social media accounts you can see photos of shinichi). bonus points if it's a photo of shinichi with a cropped kaito. the comments would be like:

>>why'd y'all crop out kaito they're literally getting married LMFAOOO 😭😭😭😭

>>just use the whole damn photo for them both 💀

>>someone in staff really loves this one kaito headshot cos he's literally on the photo with shinichi but they still cropped him just to put this one instead lol i respect it

i don't think shinichi feels strongly about this one way or the other. as long as his privacy is protected then he's all good. perhaps eventually he'll warm up to the idea of facing the paparazzi again even if not wholly the same as how he did back when he was 16 but the thought of kaito's amused giggling over his silly shinichi article collection puts a smile on shinichi's face so maybe he puts a little effort into not getting caught into taking a new headshot.

and also, shinichi wants to control who gets to win that bet between kaito, hattori, and hakuba LOL

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

nope, still annoyed at the fact that Andor gave itself the neatest, most poignant way out of both the question "why is Bix not around in Rogue One" and "at what point does Cassian start doing things that he actively resents doing" (because so far he doesn't seem to feel a large amount of guilt - yes, he says the faces haunt him, but he seems very convinced he can live with it), plus being able to make an actual point about sacrifice while doing it - and then they used it instead for a cheap "badass" moment to end the arc on, even though it once again makes Bix all about her trauma with very little agency and opportunity to show off her skills or qualities, opens a bunch of plot holes and is still just setting her up to die for Cassian's manpain soon.

Because bringing Gorst back into the narrative is actually brilliant. They clearly can't figure out anything else that Bix has going on (not gonna rant about that here. again.), so it only makes sense. But it also actually presents a perfect moral dilemma:

Lonni is running the expansion of Gorst's heinous torture programme

he has likely passed this information on to Luthen, who in turn knows what happened to Bix

Bix cannot move past what happened to her, and clearly has violent fantasies about killing him, suggesting she would jump at the opportunity to kill that guy

killing Gorst would also sabotage or possibly end the torture programme

BUT any attack on Gorst, whose existence and programme is very hush-hush, will also immediately tell the ISB they have a mole very high up

now, you hand Cassian all these cards, and then you give him some kind of mission where he runs across Gorst, and recognises him. You put them in some office alone together, the doctor's back is turned, Cassian has a hand on his blaster - and, understanding that revenge is not worth blowing up their eyes and ears at the top of the ISB because almost nothing would be... he drops his hand, and politely excuses himself, and lets Gorst live.

Then, you have him either confess this to Bix or let it slip on accident. She cannot forgive him, and he cannot agree with her - because it is the greatest possible betrayal of her, but that doesn't make it the wrong choice. Then you have them split over this, and have Bix cut ties with Luthen and all the other rebel contacts too. This could be a more peaceful endpoint for her (she is, at least, free from Cassian and this Rebellion she has no agency in), or, if that is too defeatist, make her last appearances ones where she starts stalking this guy on her own. This way, she actually gets her revenge without needing an assist from the Cool Rebel Guys. So she kills Gorst independently of the Rebels, and depending on how bleak you want this ending to be, she either gets away with it and finally gets to leave Coruscant, or she gets arrested. If she gets arrested, her getting framed as a rebel terrorist for it and it serving to whitewash Gorst's actions to the public, actually boosting the programme, could be very terrible and poignant. But maybe we end on her arriving in some prison camp where she is celebrated as a hero by the other inmates, and hey, we could end it at an ambiguous shot of a rebel ship overhead, suggesting that maybe they're going to be liberated. You know, bring that hope theme from Rogue One back just a little bit.

Anyway, this accomplishes several things that the ending of the Gorst storyline we got does not:

Gorst's return actually serving some narrative purpose over "needs to come back so his death can allow Bix her Moment"

allowing Bix some actual agency and competence that doesn't smack of plot contrivance (instead of a half-minute sequence of her swanning in and out of an ISB building with no explanation or consequences)

moral conflict instead of an oddly unambiguous "you go girl!!" moment that the show has so far always avoided

pushing Cassian further to where he needs to be if they plan on lining him up with his R1-personality even slightly, and putting him more on Luthen's side instead of pitting him against him

allowing them to keep their mole without this becoming a plot hole

give Cassian something to feel genuinely guilty about without that compromising his belief in the cause or needing to fridge yet another woman to do it

[kathlare]

jealousy, jealousy

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie joins Lando and a few familiar faces for a dinner that starts off light and full of laughter but slowly unravels into something more complicated.

Wordcount: 2.7 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

September 1st, 2020 - Milan, Italy

The table was loud—messy, full of drinks clinking and laughter that spilled out into the warm Milan night through the open terrace doors. George was halfway through a dramatic retelling of a karting accident when Amelie finally let herself relax into the cushion of the restaurant booth. The boys—Lando, Charles, Alex, and George—had been in town for media stuff, and she had flown in a day early for fittings, so Lando had convinced her to come out for dinner.

Well. Convinced was generous. He’d sent one of those stupid photos of his pouty face and a caption that said, “If you don’t come, I’ll cry in front of everyone and blame you.”

Classic Norris emotional terrorism.

So now here she was, tucked between Charles and Lando, sipping on a Negroni that was way too strong and trying not to look like she’d been specifically placed beside him.

They were just friends. Friends. No matter how warm her skin felt when their knees touched. No matter how her heart hiccupped when he casually leaned in to whisper something only she would hear.

—...and then George, the dumbass, decides to celebrate the crash,— Alex was saying, over a round of cackles. —Takes off his helmet like he’s just won Monaco, not flipped into a tire wall.—

George raised his glass in mock salute. —Still my most iconic moment.—

—I literally had secondhand whiplash from watching it,— Amelie laughed, then turned to Lando. —Did you see that video of it edited to Taylor Swift?—

—I sent it to him,— Charles grinned.

—Of course you did,— Lando muttered, but he was smiling too.

The waitress came back then. Slim, blonde, very Italian—and apparently very interested in Lando.

—Would you like another drink?— she asked, eyes laser-focused on him like no one else at the table existed.

Amelie watched as Lando glanced up, polite as ever. —Uh... yeah, I’ll take another Coke, please.—

She leaned closer. Unnecessarily close. —You sure you don’t want something a little… stronger?—

His smile faltered, but only slightly. —No, I’m good. Thanks.—

The waitress turned with a wink and walked away, but not before her hand brushed his shoulder. Lingering.

Amelie blinked.

Charles snorted into his glass.

Alex leaned in, stage-whispering, —Well, someone wants to ride in the McLaren.—

Lando looked mortified. —Oh my God, shut up.—

Amelie didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

Her jaw had tightened, but her expression stayed neutral. Calm. Only Lando could feel the slight shift in energy beside him, the way her fingers stopped playing with her napkin, the tension rolling off her like a quiet storm.

George glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. —You good?—

—Peachy,— Amelie said, smiling too brightly. —Why wouldn’t I be?—

Lando glanced sideways at her. He knew that smile. That wasn’t a real smile. That was a fuck you smile wrapped in lip gloss and fury.

And he knew exactly why.

The waitress returned with the Coke, setting it down in front of Lando like she was offering up a holy grail.

—If you need anything else… anything at all…— she purred.

Amelie didn’t even look at her. Just said, dryly, —Think he’s good, thanks.—

There was a tone there. Everyone at the table heard it.

The waitress didn’t.

Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Either way, she gave Lando another wink before disappearing.

—Damn,— Charles said under his breath. —She’s bold.—

—She’s annoying,— Amelie muttered.

It slipped out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t take it back. She just took another sip of her drink, this time not even pretending to enjoy it.

Alex blinked, clearly amused. —Someone woke up and chose violence tonight.—

George stifled a laugh behind his hand. Charles looked like he was watching the best episode of a reality show.

Lando, on the other hand, was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t sweating.

—Ames,— he said carefully, nudging her leg under the table. —Are you actually mad?—

—Why would I be mad?— she replied sweetly, eyes still on her glass, voice like honey-covered razor blades. —You’re single. And apparently very popular.—

He blinked. —I’m not popular. She was just being… nice.—

—That wasn’t nice,— she snapped, finally looking at him. —That was desperate. There’s a difference.—

The boys let out a collective "oooh," like middle schoolers watching a classroom roast unfold.

George leaned over to Alex, grinning. —I thought they were just friends.—

—So did I,— Alex whispered back, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Amelie heard them. She didn’t care.

Because the truth was she was pissed. And she didn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it was the way the waitress kept ignoring her like she was invisible. Maybe it was the way Lando laughed, soft and polite, like he didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Or maybe it was the fact that no matter how many times she told herself they were just friends, no matter how many boundaries she pretended to put in place, she still wanted to grab that girl by the apron and tell her to back the fuck off.

And she couldn’t.

Because officially? She had no right.

So instead she turned back to the table, resting her chin on her hand and forcing herself to smile. —Anyway. Anyone want to bet on how long before she “accidentally” spills a drink on him? My guess is dessert.—

—You’re scary,— Charles muttered, looking vaguely impressed.

Lando was quiet. Too quiet.

Amelie didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t.

The food arrived a few minutes later, and the table shifted back into laughter and conversation, but something between her and Lando had frayed. Subtle. Tangled.

By the time dessert actually came, Amelie had barely touched her pasta. She poked at it for a while, forced down a few bites when Lando nudged her thigh under the table, but the appetite that had started fragile had vanished completely. Just like the little peace she’d had before Miss Ciao Bella sauntered in with her flirty smiles and wandering hands.

Lando didn’t talk to the waitress again.

Not really.

But he also didn’t say anything to her. Not after the little flare-up at the table. Not when she said she wasn’t mad, even though it was obvious she was. Not even when he caught her arms crossed during dessert, absently flicking her straw in her untouched drink like it had personally offended her.

He didn’t know what to say. And honestly? Neither did she.

So the dinner passed.

The group eventually wrapped up, paid, and made their way out onto the street. The night was cooler now, the kind of crisp September air that carried laughter and city sounds on the breeze. Lights glittered along the cobblestone alleyway outside the restaurant, the boys still chatting about whatever Charles had started yelling about inside—some bad sim race or something.

They all came in separate cars. George and Alex had both rented theirs from the airport, Charles took his own, and Lando had picked up Amelie at the hotel in his McLaren.

It should’ve been an easy ride home.

But as the valet started calling out names and keys were exchanged, Amelie quietly stepped back from the group.

George’s car was brought around first, and he waved a lazy goodbye before climbing in. Alex followed soon after, ducking into his black rental with a sleepy yawn and a —Text me when you get back, I don’t trust any of you idiots not to crash.—

Charles was still waiting with them when Lando’s car pulled up—the orange McLaren gleaming beneath the streetlights like it was built to be stared at.

Lando took a step forward to meet the valet, but paused when he noticed something. Or, more specifically, someone wasn’t beside him.

He turned back. —You coming?—

Amelie was still standing a few feet away, her arms crossed again, expression unreadable under her mask. Her eyes darted toward Charles, then back to Lando.

—Actually... I’m gonna go with Charles,— she said casually. Too casually. —He offered earlier. It’s on the way, so... yeah.—

Charles looked surprised. A little confused. But he didn’t contradict her.

Lando blinked. —You what?—

—Going with Charles,— she repeated, tugging her oversized blazer tighter around her. —You don’t have to wait.—

He stared at her. Hard.

Something about the way she said it. The coolness in her voice. The wall that had come up between them so fast it made his head spin.

Lando scoffed, shaking his head once, short and bitter. —Whatever.—

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Just turned without another word and climbed into the McLaren, slamming the door behind him a little harder than necessary.

The car peeled off into the night, tires humming against the stone street.

And Amelie stood there, heart thudding and throat tight.

Charles glanced sideways at her, hands in his pockets. —You lied. I didn’t offer.—

She exhaled through her nose. —I know.—

He paused. —You want to talk about it?—

—Nope.—

—Alright. But if you change your mind, I’m excellent at fake therapy. And I have snacks in the glovebox.—

She managed a smile, small and brief, before following him to his car.

But when she got back to the hotel—after Charles dropped her off with a kind squeeze to her shoulder and a “don’t let your overthinking win”—she didn’t go straight upstairs.

Instead, she sat in the hotel lobby for twenty minutes, scrolling aimlessly on her phone, biting the edge of her thumbnail and wondering how the hell she’d managed to sabotage herself again.

Because Lando wasn’t hers. Because she’d made it clear. Because she didn’t want to cross that line—right?

But somehow, watching that waitress practically salivate over him had flipped a switch. And she hated how easily jealousy made her unravel.

When she finally walked into her room, Björn hissed at her from the couch, then promptly knocked a glass off the table.

—Yeah, yeah, I know,— she muttered, tossing her shoes aside. —I’m a disaster. Thanks for the reminder.—

Her phone buzzed just as she was brushing her teeth.

Lan: Enjoy the ride with Charles?

She stared at the message for a full minute before typing back.

Ames: Thanks for dinner. Good night.

She didn’t press send.

She deleted it.

Typed something else.

Deleted that too.

In the end, she turned off her phone without replying and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head like it might block out the guilt brewing in her chest.

Because she could pretend all she wanted.

But lying to him about that ride?

That was the first time she realized she didn’t just want to be friends.

Not anymore.

And maybe she never did.

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

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f1teaofficial: 👀 SPOTTED: Amelie Dayman leaving dinner with Charles Leclerc in Milan last night… just friends or something more? 👁️🍝 The pair looked cozy as they exited the restaurant together — and let’s just say, the internet is spiraling.

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lanlanfan69: i know lando just threw his phone across the room → mclarenfangirlies: @lanlanfan69 he’s 100% rage playing call of duty rn

f1wifelife: charles pls stop collecting brunettes with god complexes → softboilan: @f1wifelife he has a type and it’s terrifying → gridgirlenergy: @f1wifelife this man’s roster could win a BAFTA

daymanhoe: not charles entering the ring for the "friend" olympics too → quadgossipqueen: @daymanhoe it’s giving “who’s really her soulmate” energy → drunkonlando: @daymanhoe LANDO U BETTER WAKE UP BRO

pastaandpetty: they went out for dinner but now i’m the one who’s fed 😭 → lesleyformclaren: @pastaandpetty i’ve eaten nothing but their crumbs for YEARS

screaminginferrarired: charmelie? lecrayman? idk but i’m scared → bbyleclerk: @screaminginferrarired it’s the “maybe they kissed” delulu hours → landozbraincell: @screaminginferrarired this is just like when my sims start flirting out of nowhere

f1fangirldiaries: if i see them holding hands it’s over for me → pitlaneclown: @pitlaneclown catch me setting my phone on fire out of loyalty to lanmelie → heartbrokeninsector3: @pitlaneclown who do i even root for now 😭

formulaflirts: nah if i were lando i’d be SICK rn → landosexuals: @formulaflirts bro’s pacing in a hotel room somewhere whispering “charles? really?” → drsfordayman: @formulaflirts someone check if he unfollowed charles again 😭

wagscentral: i just KNOW lando opened this post and threw his phone

softieforamelie: she’s collecting drivers like infinity stones and i support her → f1girliesunite: @softieforamelie slay queen, break the grid → girlofgrid: @softieforamelie she’s literally the final boss of the paddock

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

The room was too quiet.

Too still.

Amelie lay in bed, staring at the hotel ceiling, heart pounding like it had something to say and no one to say it to. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of a shallow haze, haunted by the image of his face as she’d walked away. The click of the car door. The way his eyes hardened when she told him she’d go with Charles instead.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

And the more she replayed it—the sharpness in her voice, the way she couldn’t even look at him—the worse she felt.

She’d fucked up.

No, she was fucking up.

Silently, she kicked off the duvet, toes hitting cold floor as she crept across the hotel room. Björn let out an indignant meow from the couch, but she ignored him, grabbing the hoodie Lando had left in her suitcase weeks ago and slipping it over her tank top.

The hallway was dim and quiet, her bare feet silent against the carpet. Each step toward his room felt heavier than the last, her chest tight with the kind of panic she couldn’t rationalize away.

What if he didn’t open the door? What if he was still mad? What if she’d pushed too far this time—crossed a line they couldn’t un-cross?

But her knuckles rapped against the wood before she could talk herself out of it.

A pause. Then footsteps.

The door creaked open, and there he was—barefoot, hoodie slung over a t-shirt, hair a tousled mess like he’d been pulled straight out of sleep. His eyes were sleepy at first… then sharp as soon as he registered her.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stepped back and opened the door wider.

She slipped in silently.

The door shut behind her.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t look at her. Just crossed his arms, jaw tight.

—You come to ignore me some more?—

Amelie stayed quiet. She could tell he wasn’t finished.

—Because if that’s the plan, let’s just skip it. Really saves us both time.—

Still, she didn’t speak.

He let out a dry laugh, but it didn’t sound amused. —You couldn’t even look at me tonight. Lied to me in front of everyone. And for what? Because some girl with fake lashes and a tray smiled at me? Seriously, Amelie?—

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

—You know what the worst part is?— he continued, voice rising just enough to sting. —I didn’t even do anything wrong. And you still looked at me like I betrayed you.—

Silence.

Her fingers twitched.

His voice softened—not kindly, but exhausted. —Say something. Come on. Say anything.—

She didn’t.

Instead, she took one step forward. Then another.

Lando’s expression didn’t change, not at first—still cold, still hurt.

Until she surged forward and kissed him.

Hard.

All of her frustration, guilt, jealousy—everything she couldn’t say with words poured out in that kiss.

He staggered back slightly, stunned. But his arms were already around her before he could think, lifting her up like it was instinct. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he kissed her back just as fiercely, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night—hell, maybe all year.

They stumbled back toward the bed, mouths still locked, only breaking the kiss to breathe as they collapsed onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and apology.

Lando's chest rose and fell beneath her, his fingers brushing her cheek.

She whispered, voice small: —I’m sorry.—

He looked up at her, breathless but teasing now. —Not gonna forgive you until you admit you were jealous.—

She groaned, rolling off him just enough to glare. —Oh my God, fuck you.—

He grinned, triumphant. —There she is.—

She buried her face in his hoodie, muttering, —You’re such a little shit.—

But she didn’t move away.

And he didn’t let her go.

They lay like that for a while—tangled up, quiet, no longer pretending.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was care. And fear. And wanting him so badly it scared her.

And maybe tomorrow would be complicated. Maybe the world outside this room would press in again.

But right now?

She was his.

And he was hers.

Even if neither of them had said it out loud yet.

[captain-hughes]

Two : The move

Summary : Yn Y/L/N has just arrived in the United States. For her, it's a new life that begins with her brother. She will join the University of Michigan. She doesn't want to get bored but it's without counting on her friends who hopes she meets someone. It is at a game that she will meet this player who attracts her attention.

Quinn Hughes is on the University of Michigan hockey team. He focuses on hockey and his studies to be able to become a professional player. When he meets Talia in one of his games he will not be able to help but be intrigued.

Each of them is intrigued by the other but what will happen when they talk to each other?

An : There is a part 2. I hope you'll enjoy this one. Do not hesitate to leave a comment to tell me what you like or what has disturbed you. XOXO

Masterlist

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Pov Yn :

Assembling furniture is a real hassle, especially when you don't understand a word of the instructions your brother is giving you. Benjamin isn't very handy either. We put together our beds and the wardrobes. It took us the entire afternoon. 

I decide to go grocery shopping. We have nothing to eat for tonight or the rest of the week. 

I put on my shoes and my earphones. I start my favorite playlist and head out. I walk for a good half-hour before reaching the supermarket. I begin shopping. The amount of choice is crazy. I stroll through the aisles, looking for what I need. I have to buy enough for the whole week. I stop by the drinks aisle and grab some Coca-Cola and Sprite-we have to celebrate our arrival, after all. I notice the alcohol bottles but can't buy any since I'm not of legal age in the U.S. I move to the next aisle. 

I've been searching for food for a while now. I'm so focused that I don't even hear my music anymore. As I lean forward to grab a bag of Cheetos, I suddenly feel something bump into me. I fall. Finally, I look at what crashed into me and see a young girl, about my age, on the floor as well. 

She has tanned skin and gorgeous, curly brown hair that falls to her shoulders. Her eyes are such a deep black that it's impossible to distinguish her pupils. She's wearing a khaki-green ruffled skirt and a simple white tank top, paired with white sneakers. 

"Sorry. I didn't see you. Are you okay?" 

She offers me her hand to help me up, and I gladly accept. Once I'm on my feet, I respond, "Yeah, don't worry. Thanks." 

I smile at her, unsure of what to do next. A smile forms on her face as well. 

"Nice to meet you. I'm Avery. I hadn't seen you around before." 

"Nice to meet you. Yn. I just moved here. Have you lived here long?" 

"Yeah, I grew up here." 

She laughs. I didn't expect talking to someone to feel this good. I thought I'd spend the rest of the summer unpacking and only start making an effort to socialize once school started. Apparently, fate has other plans. 

A voice calls her name from a distance. She turns around and smiles at me. 

"I have to go. It was really nice meeting you. I hope we see each other again." 

"Thanks, it was a pleasure meeting you too. I hope so as well." 

I smile back. I watch her walk away before returning to my shopping, Hermit the Frog by Marina playing in my ears. I finish grabbing everything I need and head to checkout. 

While the cashier scans my items, I spot Avery in the distance with another girl-absolutely stunning. I hurry to pay and leave. 

The door echoes through the living room as I close it behind me. Benjamin finished assembling the last pieces of furniture while I was gone. 

"Can you help me put them in the right place?" 

I nod. "Let me put the groceries away first." 

He nods back. I watch him move our couch so that it faces away from the windows. I focus on my task, placing the groceries in the fridge and cupboards. Then, I quickly go help my brother. 

"I got us pasta for dinner and stuff to make tomato sauce. I'll cook tonight." 

"Thanks. I really need that." 

We move all the furniture into the right rooms. Next step: unpacking. The only thing left is decorating. I can't wait to make this new place feel like home.

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YnY/L/N

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YnY/L/N : New home !

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clara_humer : I’m so happy for you

> YnY/L/N : Thanks 🫶🏻

benj.y/l/n : Our home !!!

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Once I've posted the photos, I start making my bed and unpacking my things. 

It's getting late, so I head to the kitchen to prepare the pasta with tomato sauce I had planned. Since Benjamin is watching TV, I put on my earphones while I cook. 

Once I'm done, I bring the dish and place it on the table in front of the couch. Benjamin is watching a basketball game. We eat while watching the match. My brother makes me laugh with his reactions-whether it's frustration when the team misses a shot or excitement when they score.