#casually sprouts AU

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part nineteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The cool paste feels tingly on your skin as you rub it against your bruised stomach, wincing. Christ. Maybe Ghost was right to think he might break you. Beneath the mottled patchwork, another kind of pain stirs— your muscles are growing. Firm and tight. The only soft parts of you left are your breasts and your ass. Gently applying the paste to a nasty purple one on your left cheek, you curiously pinch the sore flesh between your fingers. Scratch that. Even your ass is firming up. 

Arnica has healing properties. Yesterday, you found a patch of it with Blue and created a salve with some water. You already applied some last night before bed. Whether or not it’s helping probably doesn't mean much when new ones are about to be added; still, the placebo effect brings some comfort.

You're still massaging your backside when the bathroom door groans beneath a heavy fist. 

"Hurry up. Grab your bow."

“Shit.” You startle, almost dropping the salve. "Uh, coming.”

Chucking on a clean shirt and your old pair of jeans, you pad out of the bathroom, ignoring the cry of your joints. Ghost is outside waiting for you. Wait— bow? Confusion delivers an uptick to your pulse; you never bring your bow to train.

“What’s going on?”

"The air," he replies in a flat tone.

The stale smell offers enough explanation. You cringe. "Should we split up?"

He shakes his head and nods towards the direction the gentle breeze is rolling in. "No need. It's coming from this way."

In the violet wash of morning, you trail beside him over tall grasses and scattered groundhog burrows as the air leads the way, luring you opposite the clearing where you train. There haven't been any Greys since the one you burned together. For the past few weeks, you'd almost forgotten about their existence— a pleasant naivety for once. 

Neither of you bothers with much small talk. He asks if you're sore, probably noticing how stiff you are, and you answer honestly. That's it.

You keep your attention strictly on the wood bow molded into your palm and the slight rustling of leaves all around you, scanning for signs of anything astray. You don't look at Ghost, even when you feel his eyes flicker to the side of your head. Staring at him for even a second longer than necessary rouses something in your gut that was once easy to label as fear; now you don't know what to call it.

He is wearing thicker clothes today, the intimidating vest stocked with ammo glued to his chest. You'd gotten used to his more casual wardrobe of gym shorts and hoodies. They make him look... softer, almost. A little less like a death omen. Though, you sincerely doubt there are any soft parts of Ghost left under all that gear, given the rigid planes you felt beneath your hands when you—

"There."

You snap your gaze in the direction Ghost is pointing at.

At first, you don't see anything.

Then, squinting, you make out a red color far too metallic to naturally sprout among the conifers. 

An arrow is urgently slotted on the bowstring as the two of you head towards it, your brows tightly knitted. You've been this way a few times and never saw a— is that a red car?— before. Closing in, your suspicions are confirmed when a stroke of sunlight bounces off the metal bumper. The patchy sedan is tucked within a bush, tail-end sticking out, with half-flat tires resting on corroded rims. Shadows of movement dance behind the tinted windows, too disjointed to be natural.

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath, boots scuffing over a long-faded gravel pathway that is now shrouded in weeds. The car must've been following it before winding up in the bush— the occupants no longer human enough to drive.

"They... they must have just turned while they were driving," you think aloud. "When did this even get here?"

"Maybe during the night," Ghost mutters.

He paces forward and swings open the passenger door. A string of moans is released as a Grey lurches within the confinements of the seatbelt, but he quickly silences it with a bullet to the forehead, causing it to flop sideways out of the car. Maybe just a day ago, it was a young man. His hair is fully intact and he's wearing a blue shirt with the Chelsea Football Club logo on the back.

"I wonder why they were driving this way to begin with," you say quietly, stomach rolling.

In the driver's seat is the slumped-over corpse of an older man, having died from so many bite wounds before the infection could take hold. The early stages of decomposition smell almost worse than the infection and you have to breathe through your mouth as you head for the back door. 

"There's another here I think."

You're ready to shoot and put whoever it once was out of their misery when you pry open the door, but the sight of a small body wriggling around makes you freeze. Curled up against the faded leather is an infected boy, no older than eight or nine. His eyes are all white except for the outer rim where a few vessels are still filled with red blood. Your fingertips dig fiercely into the frame of the door as you stare down at him; his soft brown hair, his small hands, his Minecraft shirt. He whimpers and tries to claw at you, mouth hung open in mindless hunger.

The feeling that washes over you is hot and cold at the same time. It's not the first or last time you've seen an infected child, so you don't know why the sight traps you for a few heartbeats.

A voice emerges beside you. "It's not a kid anymore."

You almost forgot Ghost was there. Your teeth clench. "Yeah, I know."

You feel his eyes burning into you. Your fingers tighten and untighten around the arrow's stem as you aim. 

"Hone it, Twix— the anger."

The tension in your jaw releases at the same time as your arrow snaps forward, cutting through the boy's skull and driving his limp body down to the car floor.

“You good?”

You forcefully swallow and look away, giving Ghost a short nod. "Guess that's all of them."

He slowly nods in agreement, studying you, but all he says is, "For now."

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Seen stranger things over the years,” he says. “It seems like they were headed somewhere, maybe needed a new place to settle, and one of them got bit. Infected the others.”

You nod, thinking it over. “What about the car?"

"No fuel left, so it's pretty useless." Rifle still in his grip, he moves around to the hood and props it open. "Might have some parts I can use, though."

While he scavenges for gears that aren't rusted beyond functionality, you take a look at their belongings. There is an empty bottle of whiskey in the cupholder. In the boy's lap is a stuffed tiger that you assume was once white, but now it's a worn of grey. You carefully shift his corpse and take it.

"I have a friend who might be able to care of this for you."

In the trunk, at least, you find some tripwire. 

Dragging the two adult bodies back to the trench for burning is your 'strength' training for the day. Since they haven't decomposed much yet, they're heavy; you go back and forth, taking one at a time. Ghost carries the small one over his shoulder. After the flames snuff out the smell of rot, he relieves you, claiming he has other shit to take care of—more traps to set with the newfound tripwire.

"Hey. Would you like this?" you ask Blue when she's up, handing her the tiger. 

"I'm kinda too old for dolls, Twix." She must see the expression on your face because she shakes her head and disappears into her room for a minute before coming out with a teddy bear. "My mom gave me this one when I was a baby and it just sits on my bed by itself, but now it can have a friend."

You smile and nod. "Yeah, okay."

The day is spent playing board games with her. When she notices how sore you are, she offers an exclusive massage from Grim, who hops over your back and legs as you relax face-down on the couch. However, even with the honorary treatment, the aching lingers. 

"Auntie, I'm over here!"

In a violet-tinted field, you search for the voice.

It's barren and hazy, with no hard edges or places for a little boy to hide; so why is it so hard to find him? You call his name. You wander around, aimless, until you catch a familiar whiff of baked cinnamon and fresh laundry. This way. He's this way. You start running fervently. When a small hand tugs at yours, you whip around and try to grab him, but the soft touch dissolves through your fingers like ash. 

When you wake up, there's a hand on your back and blood on your tongue, evidence that you'd bitten through it during your sleep. The taste is quickly replaced with bile as you launch up, grabbing the sleeve of someone's shirt.

"Oh no, you don't."

The hand moves to your hair, wrapping it around in a fistful before forcing your head to tilt down. A bucket is tucked beneath your chin. You vomit into it, the cool metal rim hissing against your fingertips. Again and again. When it's all out, your throat feels like sandpaper. 

"Done?"

The dark room surrounds you; the perfect place to hide what you know must be a ghastly look on your face. Awareness creeps in, and you're not thrilled by the fact that you've thrown up in front of him twice now. Without looking up at the white skull you know is there, you nod.

Wordlessly, he takes out a cigarette and lighter. You hear a deep inhale. See the dull glow of the flame. Then, he passes it to you and leaves.

"You look like shit today."

You can't even be offended, fully aware of the purple painted beneath your eyes. One look at you quirks his brow up in that annoying mannerism of his.

You offer a tight-lipped simper, mumbling. "At least I can always count on you for brutal honesty."

"Good trait to look for in an ally." He throws the gauze at you and you begin wrapping up. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact you nearly ruined another shirt of mine last night."

You tie off the gauze and glance up. "Look, I'm s—" you stop yourself, "I mean, I'm not sorry, because you wanted my box open so now it's open. You already knew the potential consequences."

"Try opening it without emptying your stomach next time."

You flash him a look. "I think I miss when you pretended I didn't exist."

"And I miss getting a full night of sleep."

"Can we just get started? I'm ready."

Ghost keeps his eyes on you as he motions a fisted hand. "As you wish."

When the familiar dance begins, and adrenaline ripples up your spine, you realize that you missed this yesterday. The rest felt good, but this— the thrill of seeing Ghost start to get as worked up as you, the sweat stains on his shirt matching your own... it is something you itch for these days. 

You get a few hits in that have your ego swelling. But then— the rough night catches up with you after half an hour of wordless sparring. Your breathing grows labored, while his is barely winded.

"Tired yet?" he asks.

"No," you say, but he calls you out immediately.

"You're a terrible liar," he reminds you. A few more swings have your lungs burning as you dodge until one finally catches up with you, and whatever healing your homemade salve has done is erased by a fresh layer of pain. 

As you clutch your side, he changes the subject. "Are you going to tell me what it was about then?"

"What what was about?"

"Whatever was making you whimper in your sleep."

Your face twists. "I wasn't 'whimpering'."

"Fine, then. Crying," he corrects plainly.

You sigh through your nose, averting your gaze only for a moment, then focusing back on him before he can strike you again. His words hang in the air, ignored, as you jab an elbow toward his ribs. He grabs you by the knob of it and pulls you unnecessarily close to his chest. When you try to wriggle free by placing a hand on his chest, he fists your hair, which has slipped out of a bun into a haphazard ponytail, and tugs hard enough to force your eyes up to his.

His gaze is demanding but his voice is light— a mere breath over your forehead. "Tell me why someone who has seen plenty of infected kids by now seemed so bothered by the one she saw yesterday. He reminded you of someone, didn't he?"

The mention of it makes you snap. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to act like you know anything about me."

"I know enough. You are easy to read."

So that feeling you get when he looks at you isn't just in your head; he truly can see through. Your nails dig into your palm. "There's no need to read me. We're not friends. We're just... allies, or whatever."

"Or whatever," he repeats thoughtfully, tasting the words. "You talk like a teenager."

"Compared to you I might as well be," you retort.

"Jesus." He chuffs out an exhale, eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up to yours, narrowing. "Let's not change the subject here." 

"Fine. Take this stupid Halloween mask off," you lift the hand on his chest up to the hem of his balaclava, feeling how weighted the fabric is with sweat. "And I will tell you all about it."

His jaw flexes before he gently guides your hand away. "Tempting offer, but I'll pass."

You refuse to acknowledge the tinge of embarrassment at his dismissal and inch back as far as the hand on your hair will allow. The close proximity, or harsh sun, is making it hard to breathe. "Well, it's not fair for you to ask me shit about my life when you don't even let me see your face."

"I never claimed to be fair." 

"I promise I won't vomit no matter how ugly you are. I've seen worse things out here."

His hand tightens. "I think I miss when you were scared of me. Less mouthy back then."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"No?" He flips you around so your back is against him, one hand settling on the toned curve of your hip. His voice lowers to your ear. "Maybe I need to fix that."

An unwelcomed shiver courses through you. He lets go. A wristbone nudges against your spine, shoving you forward. Irritation simmers in your veins when his remark finally registers, and you whirl around, readying your stance. 

"If you even think about threatening me after I explicitly asked you not to, then I would suggest sleeping with a knife tonight."

"Who's threatening who, Twix?" He gives a low chuckle. "Relax. I'm sure I could handle you in my sleep, anyway."

He's egging you on; you know it. And yet, you stubbornly take the bait. His knee— the right one. That's where you got him last time that made him falter. Maybe an old injury. But when you swing a boot at it, he expects your attempt, knocking you away by the ankle. 

"Ah. Eager to get me beneath you again?"

Pink sears your cheeks as you wipe a trickle of sweat from your forehead. "I'm eager to humble you for once."

"Might need to keep your dinner down to do that."

You grit your teeth. So maybe he did allow it last time. The realization darts your eyes to his wide stance, searching for an idea. Without second-guessing yourself, you kick at the other knee. He must find your second attempt amusing because he easily predicts it, but before he can catch your leg, you snap it back and drop yourself to the ground.

The brief distraction allows the second of time needed to fit yourself between his legs. You're slim enough to push through, kicking at the inside of both knees once you're on the other side. His legs buckle, and you reach up to pull his arm, finishing the job.

Once he's down, you scramble to get on top, not caring if your boot kicks his face in the process. You grab both of his wrists and bring them above his head, but it's impossible to wrap your fingers all the way around them. Instead, you lace them through his fingers, breathing hard in his face as your breasts meld against the solid heat of him.

"Did you allow that?" 

His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it. "No."

Your lips furl. "Good."

A dark gleam passes through his dilated pupils that makes your head fuzzy. You let go of his hands. Immediately, they gravitate to your hips again, thumbs fiercely pressing into the sliver of skin exposed from where your shirt rides up. You don't move even an inch, frozen in place as you stare down at where he grips you against him. That feeling in your gut deepens and spreads. It is hard to pinpoint—so insane and foreign yet familiar at the same time—but one thing is certain: it begins and ends where his rough skin touches yours.

Before you can figure anything else out, a scream shatters the air, and Ghost rips you off of him in one swift movement. 

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | four

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: after a conference in new york, you and j miller phd take things a step further. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, i think i describe reader as having sweaty palms about 1500 times so it deserves a warning, alcohol consumption, the plight of being a woman in academia, oral [f receiving], unprotected piv sex [IN A BED ??? GASP] for you filthy animals, prone bone, a little roughness and then not much at all, uhhh pet names during sex.... uhhmm intimacy errrrrr.... soft!joel... feelings... okay bye word count: 9.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: hey folks, thank you so much for all your patience as i took my sweet sweet time writing this. we get to know our prof a little better in this one so a fair amount of dialogue for you but yeah anyways i hope you enjoy it, and i'd love to hear what you think! [and if i Fell Off because of the depression, don't tell me lol] A WORD ABOUT THE TAG LIST: i will continue the taglist for this part and for part five, and after that i will rely solely on my notifications account @hier--soirupdates so pls follow that and turn on notifs to be told when i post writing x this is part four of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three.

Saturday.

The conference centre is vast.

A large space that protects you from the threatening clouds that loom over New York City, and exposes you to countless dense conversations.

An NYU teacher’s assistant is glued to your hip, parading you through the centre with a wayward index finger that points out the bar, the room where the keynote speech will be given [large, with an imposing stage], and the room where you will give your presentation [less large, with a far less imposing stage].

Your presentation.  

You fight the urge to pull up the email for the thousandth time while she explains how there will be fifteen minutes to set up beforehand, and advises on when the doors will open for guests, and reminds you that you have a strict allotted time of 20-minutes, do you understand?

But the email is branded on the inside of your eyelids after this morning’s flight was spent reading and rereading and rereading the words. So you nod and smile and placate her on the tour of the centre, as you run through it in your mind.

We look forward to welcoming you to NYU’s Annual Classics and Ancient History Conference. Our team was intrigued by the presentation devised around your translation study in Athens…

“Did you hear me?”

You wish she wasn’t dressed so casually.

Loose balls of lint are collected on the back of her cardigan like trinkets, weighty and threatening to fall off in a sort of bread crumb trail behind her every movement. It makes your dress feel all the more serious, all the more formal. Navy blue and a little tight, with sleeves that slant across the middle of your bicep and a hem that cuts modestly across your lower thigh. Professional, smart, sexy, but not too sexy. You and Nora spent two hours at the mall picking it out last weekend. And you can see people in suits, in blazers, in dresses, everywhere you turn, but your eyes keep returning to the TA’s cardigan. Little pills, sad morsels of broken fabric.

She says your name sharply.

“Yes,” you snap to attention, and clock her poor attempt not to roll her eyes. “You were saying?”

“It’s an open bar,” she continues from a few steps ahead, slowly back away while raising her voice to be heard over the countless others sprouting across the room. “And food is served after the Keynote.”

Finally free of her and her cardigan, you scale the edge of the hall, curious eyes glancing across faces familiar and not. You notice some other postgrads from UNE, and some professors from your alma mater. But it isn’t until three hours into the conference that you notice him.

You’re in a painfully long conversation with Professor Carmichael, an ancient history department head from Boston, when you notice them.

“Well you see,” he’s saying, slowly. “The First Roman Triumvirate was very unique. Surely you agree with me there, my dear?”

“Of course,” you nod amiably. A waiter floats past you holding a tray of glasses. You grasp one with a grateful smile, and turn back to face him with a sip of cold white wine moving down your throat. “The Big Three, it’s all very interesting. Although I must say, I am personally more interested in the second triumvirat—”

“Oh they all say that,” he waves his hand. “Everyone is so taken by Antony and Octavian that they forget about Crassus! So tragic.”

“A very tragic death,” you offer an exaggerated frown. “I agree.”

Carmichael hums, eyes narrowing as if you’ve said something wrong. Sipping your wine, your eyes float over his shoulder, determinedly trying to spot any sign of food, gaze spilling across countless faces and tables and waiters and professors until one set of people makes you pause.  Wild dark hair atop a floral dress floats in your vision, her pale hand hovering over the sleeve of a tall man in a suit. You watch the backs of their heads; the way the woman tilts her chin upward to speak to the man and laughs at what he says in return. That laugh. You frown, and feel yourself take a step forward, a step in their direction.

“Is something the matter?” Carmichael asks and you halt, flash him a sweet smile and shake your head.

“No,” you rush, practically tasting the opportunity to escape the conversation. “I’m sorry, Professor, I thought I saw someone waving me over. If you don’t min—”

“Always so many people to talk to at these things,” he says in a sing-song tone of voice, smiling obliviously. “All in due course, dear. You’ll find them later I’m sure.”

It’s not until fifteen minutes later that the tap comes on your shoulder. You turn and feel relief wash over you as you come face to face with Rachel, with her tangle of curls and bright orange dress. But then a jolt shudders through your frame, for you spot the man accompanying her; the man you watched her traipse around the room with, the man in the sleek black suit—Joel, hovering a step behind her.

“Rachel,” you blink. “Joel. Hi—”

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Rachel says. Her eyes are wide, lips pulled back into a crooked grin that immediately sets you at ease. Joel, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable to say the least. You watch him tuck his hands in his pockets and then take them out again quickly, lips pursed together in a tight line as he glances between you and Professor Carmichael.

“Joel,” she grips the sleeve of his blazer and tugs him forward to stand beside her. You watch where her hand grazes him - the ease with which she jostles him around. “Did you know?”

“No.” He stares for a moment, lips parted and eyes darting across your face, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“I’m giving a presentation,” you explain quickly, eyes darting between the two of them, fingers tightening around your glass every time your eyes settle on him. He trimmed his beard again; the hairs are shorter, neater—almost too short and too neat for your liking. His shirt is pressed and crisp, shock white beneath the midnight black of his jacket. He’s wearing different glasses. Tortoise shell glasses. Someone clears their throat to your right, snapping you out of your reverie. You apologise quickly, “This is Professor Carmichael.”

“Of course,” Joel nods, stepping forward to grip the older man’s hand. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

“And you, Professor Miller,” Carmichael chuckles, patting a shaky hand against Joel’s shoulder. “When was the last time we crossed paths? A year ago?”

“Must’ve been a year,” Joel smiles easily. His eyes slip to look at you every few seconds. “The conference in Ottawa.”

“The conference in Ottawa!” Carmichael cheers, nodding away. A weight sinks in your stomach like a cinder block as you watch the Professor gear up to wrangle Joel and Rachel into another conversation about Crassus’ untimely demise. But then Rachel slips away, called out to by someone across the room. And before Carmichael can open his mouth, Joel is speaking again, that honeyed drawl like music to your ears.

“Excuse me, Professor Carmichael,” he smiles again. Two of his fingers grip your elbow, tugging you a step backward. “Do you mind if I steal my star student for a few moments?”

Joel tilts your body to the left, and then the two of you are veering off into the crowd, wandering through throngs of people, his warm fingers pressed against the soft flesh above your elbow.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” you say under your breath, glancing around warily, trying to spy any curious eyes that might notice the two of you.   

“Could say the same thing,” he murmurs, dragging you to a stop at the edge of the hall with his eyebrows raised. “When’s your talk?”

“At one. Overlaps with the Keynote, which I’m a little relieved about,” you smile, a pinched, tense thing. “Hopefully everyone will go to that, and I’ll have a smaller crowd.”

Joel’s eyebrows raise. You think you notice his shoulders stiffen. “S’that right?”

A persistent pang of hunger stabs through your stomach, you rub a hand over the front of your dress and nod. Curious brown eyes follow the movement.

“Here,” Joel reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. His fingers graze your skin as he tucks the shiny rectangle of foil into your palm. “They don’t put out any food until after the Keynote.”

It’s a granola bar. Peanut butter and banana. You stare at it for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the kindness of the gesture. By how attentive he is; how much he notices without you even having to speak.

“Thanks,” you say. Nestle it into your purse and give him an appreciative smile.

“Sure,” he nods jerkily. Adjusts the glasses on his nose. “I’m disappointed to miss it.”

“Oh?” you blink. Your eyes focus then, flitting downward to focus on the badge hanging from his lanyard.

Joel Miller, Ph.D.

University of New England.

Keynote Speaker.

“Oh, shit.”

“Mhm,” Joel squints at you. “Sorry if I don’t share the sentiment that everyone comes to watch me instead of you.”   

“Why didn’t you…” you gape. “You didn’t say you were giving a talk?” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“The Keynote speech is a big deal,” you say, as if he wouldn’t know.

“I was their third choice,” he shrugs you off with practiced ease. “First two weren’t interested.”

“Third time lucky then,” you smile, and he chuckles. Someone calls Joel’s name then, and you both spin to see Rachel across the room with a group of people, all eagerly waving him over. Something nasty curls in your chest – something bitter and unwarranted and cruel. You smother it with a mouthful of wine and a soft smile of farewell to him as he turns and walks in her direction.

A hand clasps down on your shoulder and you flinch, turning to see Professor Carmichael beaming.

“Where were we then, my dear?”

You eat Joel’s granola bar at the back of the hall five minutes before your talk and walk onstage with the taste of peanut and banana on your lips, brushing crumbs of dried oats off your fingers.

Fifteen people attend, spotted miscellaneously across the amassed rows of chairs. The slide clicker is damp in your palm, and your thumb hovers trembling over the button, awaiting each moment you need to press down.

“Working alongside some fantastic translators,” you tell them. “We focused on studying the disparities between how Greek texts are translated by men and women. Particularly, we aimed to delve into the way emotive language has been downgraded or elevated depending on the lens through which a text is being viewed.”

Professor Carmichael sits in the front row, those sun-spot covered hands clasped in his lap, offering an encouraging smile as you shift upon the stage. Rachel is a few rows back, and she nods intently whenever you glance in her direction.

“One of our main points of focus,” you continue. “Was to understand points of difficulty in translating while accounting for cultural nuances, and how the context of differing authors can impact upon this. In my next slide—”

It’s as you turn to glance at the display that you notice them for the first time. Three rows from the front, where a group of men sit. Two of them young, maybe around your age. You change your slide and watch them whisper in each other’s ears. One of them points at you. Or not you, rather—your legs.

And you yearn for it to be meaningless. A meaningless gesture between colleagues. Meaningless legs, meaningless dress, meaningless curves and slopes and dips and spins. But as you continue, you know it can’t be. The way they talk through your presentation, as if they aren’t bothered to be heard. The way they leer at you over Carmichael’s shoulder, grinning to each other. Your words in one ear and out the other—simply a talking point for them, a blue dress, something to stare at. Your dress feels hot, tight, and your chest feels hotter, tighter under the lights as those eyes glaze over you. You glance back towards Rachel. She gives you a thumbs up that doesn’t serve to cool your nerves.

“When translating word for word in our field, it’s uncommon,” you stutter to a stop, eyes flashing warily. “Sorry, it is not uncommon to find that narratological creativity dwindles.”

You hear a chuckle to your right and swallow down the urge to shoot daggers in the direction of the sound. “Translators struggle to maintain the in-depth imaginative expression that the original Greek text inspires. But through my discussions with Professor Samaras, we found that…”

It’s in the final minutes that you notice him. Tucked away in a back row of the room, arms folded across his chest. You pause for a moment, words caught in your throat. But Joel merely gives you a short nod. The faintest hint of a smile, of the corner of his eyes slanting upward, and it’s as if a cool breeze washes over you. Hands steady, knees lock, and you push through. You don’t look at any of their faces until it’s over.

And when it is, and scattered applause decorates the air, you can’t help but cast a smile in Joel’s direction. A smile that slips and wavers when you spot the broad expanse of his back, that sharp black blazer, as he slips out the doors without wasting a second.

The rest of your audience follows suit, a slim line that wanders out the doors without a second glance—spare Carmichael, who tells you he was quite taken with how you presented yourself, my dear.

You hear your own name and turn to see Rachel approaching, a burst of floral frock and swinging earrings. Her smile is wide and crooked, and you can’t help but smile back.

“That was wonderful,” she cheers, squeezing your shoulder. “I was so taken by how you spoke about the importance of linguistic quality assurance when translating emotive texts. Brilliant!”

Your face warms. “Thank you,” you shake your head quickly. “It was… thank you. That’s very kind.”

You glance over her shoulder, wondering if he’ll reappear – perhaps share her sentiments, maybe shower you with praise. He doesn’t.

She catches you looking. “Joel was in a rush,” she offers easily. “Lots of people wanting to talk to the man of the evening.”

“Of course,” you swallow thickly. Another smile.

Rachel stares at you curiously. “He’s very impressed by you, you know.” Her voice is warm, gentle—soft spoken like a mother who can sense the slightest flash of insecurity. You cringe immediately, feel your arms cross protectively across your chest. Don’t give the game away now. “Honestly, I think he read your comparative paper on the katabasis three times. Practically raved about it when I asked what it was.”

“Oh,” you blink, shifting uneasily under her gaze. “That’s… wow, I’m flattered.”

“He sees a lot of potential in you,” she says.

“Right,” you nod. “Well, he’s a grea—you’re both great teachers. I’m very lucky to be learning from the two of you.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, and you fear your face grows warmer in the silence. Can feel the slick on your palms returning, the flash of heat in your chest, the longer you sit in it. You make a quick and tumbling excuse to flee the scene, spitting a mess of thank you so much and just need some fresh air, before you’re stumbling out of the hall and wandering outside on newborn deer legs. You snag a flute of something bubbly off the bar on your way, and find yourself on a secluded bench in the breezeway behind the conference centre.

You sit there alone and watch the grass, the way the light from inside shines out across the green. Feel the chill of the wind slip past you, rustling your hair and raising goosebumps on your bare legs. Sip dry Cava and contemplate how many more of these things you can feasibly imagine attending in your career. There’s a single text from Nora on your phone, asking how the presentation went. You tuck it into your purse, leaving the message unanswered.

By the time you hear the door hinges creak, the glass is near empty. You spy a shadowy form snaking its way down the path, headed in your direction.

“Mr Keynote Speaker,” you hum. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Funny,” Joel mutters dryly, knees cracking as he falls onto the bench beside you. A heavy sigh slips from between his lips, fingers lacing together in his lap as he gazes across the breezeway. You down the last of your drink and place it on the concrete by your feet. “Needed some god damn peace and quiet. All that chit chat drives me insane.”

You murmur in agreement and stare at the side of his face – the neatened beard, the thick frame of his glasses. Purposeful or not, the side of his body is pressed against yours. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder – he’s sat directly in the centre of the bench. Heat radiates off his body and it’s almost too warm, and yet you find yourself relaxing against him.

“First time at one of these?” Joel asks gruffly. He’s still not looking at you, his eyes trained on a pigeon pecking at a discarded foil wrapper on the grass.

“Is it that obvious?” you grimace.

“Only because I’ve been to twenty of the damn things,” he says. “Y’learn how to smell the nervous energy comin’ off the first timers.”

“Twenty?” you mutter. Feel your stomach curl and twist at the idea of doing this day nineteen more times.

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Went to a lot during my second degree. Had to get good at talkin’, fast.”

“Ahh,” you say. “So, you weren’t always such a sweet talker then?”

He lets out a low chuckle, as if amused by the thought. “Sweet talker, huh? That what I am?”

You shrug, suddenly emboldened by him following you outside, by how close he is, by how open he seems.

“I suppose,” you say slowly.

“And what gave you that idea?”

“You here alone?” you offer a poor imitation of him, voice low and breathy with your awful take on a Southern twang. “Meet me in the bathroom.” You wink, quietly delighted by the way his lips have tightened into a flat line.

“Funny,” he says again, entirely unamused now.

Something warm shifts in your lower stomach. Something wet—a vivid memory of him on the ground behind you in the bathroom of a bar, of hands spreading you open, of his tongue pressing inside you, of The Eagles playing faintly in the background.

“You do that kind of thing often?” you ask.  

“Do what?”

“Approach young women at bars,” you wiggle your eyebrows, smirking. “Rob them of their virtue in the bathroom and then hope you never see them again.”

“You? Virtuous?” Joel rolls his eyes. You can see the corner of his lip curling upward. “Must be gettin’ yourself confused with somebody else.”  

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Sometimes,” he casts you a look, after a moment. “Not… often. And not young.”

“Younger,” you counter quickly.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” he trails off and shakes his head. “It’s not a thing I do, alright?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t date then?”

He tilts his head at you curiously, eyes planted firmly on your face now. “Not for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Been busy,” he grunts, clearly growing impatient by the line of questioning.  “Spent a lot of time studying. Working.”

“Where did you study?” you press.

“This twenty fuckin’ questions?” he snaps, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Came out here for—”

“You came out here,” you interrupt. “Because I came out here.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“Night classes at Texas A&M for my undergrad,” he grits out. You smile sickly sweet, pleased. “Did my postgrads part time at UT Austin,” Joel says.

Your eyebrows kick up again, the teasing pretence all but forgotten. “Sounds… unconventional?” you offer softly.

“That’s one word for it,” he agrees vaguely. “Spent the better half of a decade at school just to end up teaching at one. Ain’t that somethin’.”

“And before that?” you press.  

“Before that,” he continues with a wry grin, one full of distaste and frustration and resentment. “Was a contractor for a long time. Houses, buildings.” He rests a hand against his shoulder, fingers pressing against the muscle there, as if working out a decade old knot.

And for a moment you can see it. Can almost taste it. Collared shirts and glasses replaced with hard hats and hammers and dirt in the lines of his palms. Joel carrying a plank of wood on his shoulder, wearing a toolbelt. Joel on his knees, sweat shining on his forehead while he wields an electric drill.

Your dress feels too tight suddenly. Too warm.

“A contractor,” you say distractedly, and hope he doesn’t notice how your thighs press together.

“Mhm,” Joel nods. “With my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

He ignores that. “Where did you study?”

“San Diego State,” you flash him a grin. “Go Aztecs.”

“Good school,” he hums. “You’re a long way from California.”

Only a little further than Texas, you think.

“You did good up there,” Joel adds.  

Your smile dips and wanes into a scowl, uninterested in the change of subject.

“What?”

“It was…” you shake your head slowly, face warming as you glance down to your lap.

“What?”

“It just wasn’t what I expected.” You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your dress. “That’s all.”

“And what did you expect?”

“To be listened to,” you grunt. “Not gawked at by some ancient jerkoffs that were only there to stare at my ass when I turned to change a slide.”

Joel nods, quiet.

“I wanted it to matter,” you mutter. “Wanted to… fuck, I wanted to impress them.”

“I was impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” you snort, finally looking up. “You hightailed it out of there pretty quickly.”

Joel shakes his head and stares back at you, gaze heavy. His hands tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles lightening to white as he squeezes. You shuffle on the seat—ignore the flare of heat that erupts where your shoulder nudges firmer against his. 

“I guess you could say,” he speaks slowly. “I’m tryin’ to keep my distance.”

You arch an eyebrow and attempt to swallow the laugh bubbling up your throat.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” you smirk.

Joel laughs and your smile falters, mouth going slack at the sound. How rare it is, and how much rarer to have it all to yourself like this. For all of his sharp angles, his sweet talking, his harsh words, and harsher touch—that laugh is the cruellest part.  

He jostles his shoulder against yours a little. An acknowledgement; perhaps a glimpse inside. Something that says, I know, I see it, I feel it, I can’t stop either.

“You make it hard,” he says then, and his voice is soft—almost a whisper.

“How’s that?” You match his tone, as if you’re two little kids who’ve snuck outside to share secrets where no one else can hear them.

“You bein’ here,” he murmurs, eyes searching. “Startin’ to feel like you’re everywhere I turn.”

A breeze swims past and you shiver, locks of hair floating in a mess around your face until you pat them down. Joel moves almost imperceptibly, curling his side tighter against yours to shield you from the onslaught.

“I know the feeling,” you admit.

The muscle in his jaw ticks and he clears his throat, looking out across the green again. For a moment the pair of you sit in silence. Not as professor and student, but simply a man and a woman on a bench. Breathing the same air, soaking in a shared silence that only the two of you could understand. And there are so many more questions you want to ask him, so much more you feel compelled to know, but instead you settle for this—sitting on a bench together, shoulders and thighs and chests pressed side to side, two frames moulded around the welcoming shape of one another. For now.

“It gets easier,” Joel says then, jaw tense as he spares a glance back in your direction. “This stuff, these people, all the talkin’.”

You acknowledge him with a small smile, just the slightest twitch of your lip. Don’t bother saying, maybe for you. Maybe for a man.

“You know,” you suck in a breath and give him a lazy smile instead. “I think this might be the longest conversation we’ve had without ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“Mm.” He leans his head back to rest on the wall, eyes focusing up towards the sky.

“I like it,” you say quietly. Hear how vulnerability chimes in your voice – a wobble that begs to be ignored and understood all at once. “It’s nice… talking like this.”

Joel’s head tilts towards you, dark eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see that wariness in his eyes. The same wariness that poured out in flecks of brown and amber and gold in the light of your bedroom a week ago, when he told you he was fifty. A hesitant curiosity, an incessant suspicion, a bark of disbelief. You feel the desire to pluck the feeling out of him and swallow it whole. To lock it safely inside yourself and make it so he never has to feel it again.

So you lean in a press your lips against his. Painfully soft, just a whisper of two mouths slotting together. Chapped and dry from the wind, he tastes like bitter sparkling wine. You sigh into him, uncaring. Hook your ankle around his, place your hand on his thigh, and sink closer, deeper.

He pulls back an inch, mouth still hovering over yours, the tip of his nose pressed into your cheek.

“Shouldn’t do this here,” he warns quietly, eyes still closed. His breath is hot against your face, and you inhale the taste of mint and Cava and Joel.

“I know.” You grip the lapel of his blazer and kiss him again. Firmer this time, grazing your tongue along the seam of his lips until he welcomes you inside to taste behind his teeth. The frame of his glasses presses into your nose, your cheeks, and you smile into his mouth. Rough palms and lazy fingertips graze the skin of your bicep, your neck, until they find a home at the nape of your neck. His thumb presses against the hinge of your jaw, hot wet tongue working your mouth open until you’re whining, teeth nipping at his bottom lip and fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh.

Only when you move to press a hand beneath the collar of his shirt does Joel pull back again, this time to stand and take a step away from the bench. A tinge of scarlet creeps its way from the hollow of his throat to the apple of his cheeks. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, towards the door. When he looks back, there’s something new there. Some dangerous that flashes in his eyes and lingers when his gaze dances down the curve of your body against the seat.

“Where are you staying?” you ask, breathless.

For a minute he doesn’t answer. Simply stares, contemplating, broad chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The lenses of his glasses are fogged, and you watch them slowly clear.  

Then— “The Pendry.”

Joel reaches into his pocket and retrieves something small and laminated. You take it from his outstretched palm carefully. “Fifth floor.”

You stare at it for a moment. Turn it over in your palm once, twice. Read the room number printed on the key card before tucking it safely into your purse. When you look up again, Joel is already walking back inside.

It’s nearing midnight by the time you arrive at the Pendry – a high rise in Manhattan West, the kind with a fancy lobby and a doorman in a neat black suit. The polar opposite of the hotel where your suitcase lies unopened across the city. You feel out of place in an instant, but you’re still in your dress, and the staff don’t bat an eye at your presence. The key card he gave you is hot where your fingers curl around it, plastic damp and foggy with the sweat from your palms. By the time you reach his door you have to wipe it on your dress before the sensor will recognise it.

A hollow beep echoes through the hall, and his door presses open with a soft hiss.

The room is enveloped in darkness. Moonlight shines in through a slim gap in the curtains, highlighting vague edges of the space. A desk against the wall, a large bed on the left of the room. For a moment you consider that he isn’t here—that he got caught up at the conference, sweet talking into the midnight hour with other professors and alums. You can hear sounds from the street, music and car horns blaring, even from the fifth floor. But nothing else. No Joel.

Tentatively, you take a step inside the room. And then another. Kick your heels off and feel rough carpet hairs sift between your toes. Holding your hands out into the darkness, fingertips ghosting the wall for support, you venture further into the room, only pausing when your shin thumps against the corner of something sharp and sturdy.

You spit a surprised curse and stumble into the wall, hands falling to grip your leg where it throbs and smarts.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, smoothing your fingers against the already forming lump.

A lamp flicks on, and the room lurches into view, tinged in a soft yellow light. You jump, eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. Bed sheets rumple and shift, and Joel is frowning at you from his place amongst the pillows, a hand raising to drowsily scratch his chin.  

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasps.

Heat flares in your face as you straighten up, mirroring his frown. He moves slow, a sluggish stretch out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he looks almost concerned. It gives you pause for a moment, eyes unsure of where to settle, as you note just how much of his body you’ve never seen before. The soft muscles in his legs, the dark hair over tan skin. You can see the slight round of his stomach through the thin fabric of the shirt.

“Were you asleep?” you accuse.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Joel mutters, and the sound is a fractured medley of words and yawns. You feel a dull pang of disappointment in your chest as you watch him rub sleep from the corner of his left eye.

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You gave me a key.”   

“I know,” he sighs.

“Of course I was going to come.”

He nods. Yawns again, hand snaking upward to cover his open mouth.

You turn your back on him slowly. Take a glass from the little kitchenette and let the faucet run a cool burst of water into it. Little specks of water splash up, dotting against your hand. Your feet ache from wearing those damn heels all day, but you wilfully ignore the pain, gulping down half the glass while staring at your reflection in the splashback. Blue dress, hair tucked behind your ears, charcoal smudged around the curve of your eyes.

Joel’s fingers wind around yours, peeling the glass from your clutch so he can steal the final few sips. He discards it on the counter and leans against it. You try to make out his expression in the shadowy light, wiping your water-dotted arm against your side.

“S’a good dress.” He looks more alert suddenly, eyes sharp and focused, wide shoulders squared.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t say anything about it earlier.”

“Was tryin’ not to think about it,” he says plainly. “And how badly I wanted to take it off.”

Your hand stills. That misplaced disappointment slips out of the room, an unwelcome third party, and you grin at him. A sleazy, sleepy smile, and walk backwards in the direction of the bed without taking your eyes off of him.

“So take it off,” you challenge.

Your heartbeat is a steady thrum against your breastbone as he crosses the room. Badoom, badoom, no less than three strides and he’s there, gripping your waist to turn you so his chest is against your back.

Your zip is a low whir in the air, spinning downward slowly, slowly, from the nape of your neck to the sloping base of your spine. Deft hands trace skin, grazing every mark, every freckle as they are revealed to him, until the material of your dress is a gaping smile across your back. You shiver as the air rushes to meet your bare flesh, and then careful—cautious—you feel a pair of lips press against the top of your spine, soft pink against steely vertebrae. You say his name, low and surprised, and he doesn’t say anything. Those hands push the dress down your arms, and you watch it tremble and fall, a mess of blue at your feet.

You can hear his breathing; the way it stutters and jumps as he traces the clasp of your bra, the arch of your spine beneath it.

“Take it off,” you say again, and feel a sharp scratch of desperation that perhaps this time he won’t deny you this. This something that you’ve not experienced even once, and yet you find yourself missing.

The idea of his skin against yours is something prophetic, something inevitable, something divine—something determined far before the two of you met in that bar. It’s out of your control or his, irrevocable—a beast bred from desire that claws and snaps at the bars of its cage, calling you kicking and screaming into each other’s arms.

His fingers pluck at the clasp, and you smile. Sigh in relief as your bra hits the floor and the weight of your breasts are borne to the increasingly warm air. Joel is still behind you, still not seeing you. But broad palms splay across your back, massaging and flexing into your skin as they roam your sides, your stomach, up your front to cup your breasts. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as he squeezes softly, palms warm and solid against the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Fuck.” Joel’s nose buries itself in your hair, his forehead against the back of your head. Your legs shake, and you lean back into his chest, your body a soft and tremulous thing that would surely float away if he weren’t here to hold you up.  

His hands are on your breasts, sweet and tender and finally, and you wonder how long this wanting will feel like burning. Like nicks of flame that gloss over you and spit embers at anyone who dares to get too close—at him, sparking and sputtering as they collide in a spitfire symphony. This man who lives set ablaze in his own right. This man who welcomes your flame every time—swallows it whole, and lays kisses against the back of your neck with lips still warm.

Calloused fingers roll and circle your nipples, playing gently, listening for every gasp, every sigh, before diligently repeating whatever it was that called the sound forward. Your underwear is all but ruined, already damp and clinging to the slick skin between your thighs. And you can feel him against your lower back, albeit unmoving—not grinding against you, not pushing you down onto the bed, but waiting – for what, you can’t be sure.

You turn around faster than he can stop you. Hook fingers into the band of your panties and drag them down in a swift movement before straightening, holding his gaze all the while. And Joel—

He looks in pain. Dark eyes lock onto on your face and don’t stray. Don’t dip downward, don’t glance around the room. His hands hang by his sides, palms facing upward in a dejected fashion, jaw slack as he just—waits.

“Why won’t you look at me?” you whisper.

“You don’t….” he shakes his head. “If I look, I won’t be able to forget. And I—I can’t—”

There’s a flash of that memory again. Sweating in the dark bathroom of a bar in Portland. Joel wiping stained lipstick from your chin. The words I’m gonna remember this dripping from his swollen lips.

You take a step forward. Feel your nipples graze the soft material of his shirt. “And what if I don’t want you to forget?”

He says your name quietly, shoulders tense. But when you grip the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t stop you. Rather, he lifts his arms and lets you drag the fabric over his head. You marvel at the bare skin, eyes dancing across jutting collarbones and the soft swell of his stomach. Watch the way his chest rises and falls as stilted breaths flurry inside him before spilling into the air between you. Admire the trail of dark hair that rests between his bellybutton and the soft band of his underwear. His eyes don’t leave your face as you push the boxers down his legs.

“So handsome,” you say and Joel exhales, hands hovering a hairsbreadth from your waist. The weight of the moment hangs heavy between you. This moment of more. To be with him like this feels like more. To be naked feels like more.

You grip his hand and raise it to your breast again. Squeeze your fingers over his. His thumb flicks across your nipple and you gasp. His eyes darken, nostrils flaring as he fights to restrain himself.  

“Joel,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

Finally, he does. Those brown eyes flickering downward to rake in the sight of your body.

He’s on you in a second, mouth slanting desperately against yours while his hands drift aimlessly across skin, untethered in their access. Fingers pinching and grabbing and squeezing, teeth searing at your lips, and you gasp as his cock presses against your stomach. The long, thick weight of him, drooling and needy. Your fingers slip around him, rub softly over the underside of his head, the vein on the underside of him. Joel grips your wrist and pushes you backward a step, his lips leaving yours with a wet smack.

“Sit on the bed,” he orders firmly.

You wander backward, stumbling onto the edge of the bed when your calves collide with the heavy wooden base. He watches you, hand drifting to wrap around the base of his cock. He strokes himself gently, black eyes tracing vigilantly over every inch of your body. And you expect him to push you down, to crawl on top of you. Instead, you watch with bated breath as Joel drops to his knees in front of you. His knees crack as they bend but he ignores it, nudging your thighs apart so his broad frame can fit between them. Hooded eyes gaze between your thighs, roaming across all of the bare skin on show. Slowly, he lifts a hand and rests it gently on your mound. Calloused fingers stroke over the dark hair there, stroking through the short curls. You sigh and cant your hips up, but Joel only grunts, his free hand squeezing your thigh to hold you against the mattress.

Before you can process it, he’s leaning forward, nose nestling in your hair as his warm tongue parts your folds. You groan in unison, your fingers carding through his curls to hold him against you. He murmurs something that you don’t quite catch over the roaring in your ears, but you don’t care. Too caught up in a smooth slide of his mouth slotting against you. The flat of his tongue glides up and down your sex, smearing a mess of slick and saliva in his wake. You gasp as it flicks sharply across your clit, your jaw tensing at the harsh sensation. Joel notices—pulls back.

“Tell me,” he urges.    

“Slower,” you say quickly, voice feeble and desperate.

“Slower,” Joel repeats with a nod, and he massages your thighs as he licks into you, fingernails scraping your skin as his grip tightens and loosens and tightens and loosens. He traces slow circles around your clit with the flat of his tongue that have you gasping and bucking against his face. And when his tongue presses inside of you, you moan, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging.

“Fuck,” he growls into you, and he likes that. You do it again and his eyes flick open, pupils blown, gaze darting wildly across your stomach, your arms, your breasts, your face – watching, admiring, taking in every detail of the offering that you’ve laid so generously at his altar. The tip of a finger curls inside you and he grins when your thighs tense around him. He rears his head back to watch how you welcome him inside, eyes locked on the way your weeping cunt clenches and drips around one of his fingers, and then another.

“Yeah,” you sigh, nose scrunching at the slight stretch. “Yeah, like that, fuck.” 

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Christ.” And then the cut of his wet red mouth is back on you, lips parting to suck against your clit until you’re crying out, voice a hoarse shout as you speed rapidly towards your end.

“Shit, Joel,” you gasp. One of your legs kicks out straight and his hand drops from your thigh, one set of fingers working you open while the other comes up to part your lips, giving himself more access. As he lathes wet kisses against you, the coarse hairs of his beard scraping your inner thighs, you can feel it. That liquid heat that coils and stirs in the base of your stomach.

“Joel, I—ohh—I think I’m gonna come,” you whimper, hand shooting out to grip his shoulder. Your nails dig into the tense muscle there, using the leverage to rut your hips against his face.

He groans into your sex, fingers moving faster, unforgiving against that spongy spot deep inside that sets you alight. His teeth graze against your clit, the lightest brush, and your stomach is tensing, every muscle in your body locking up.

“Give it t’me,” he says gruffly. “That’s it, come on, baby.”

A choked gasp falls from your lips and then you’re coming, twitching against his face, pussy bearing down on thick fingers that stoke you through the high. Your hand leaves his shoulder to grip the back of his neck, holding his face against where you’re aching for him still. Joel moans, a low sound from deep in his chest, dragging his fingers away so he can drink down every heady drop of your orgasm.

Baby.

The word rings in your head, bouncing inside your skull, a fierce ricochet. Baby.

Trembling fingers feather across the cowlick at the crown of his head, twisting and petting soft wayward curls as his mouth pulls back, a wet drag across the skin of your hip. You catch a glimpse of his cock, heavy and throbbing between his thighs.

Joel’s teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your thigh, a sharp pinch that makes you flinch. Tired muscles tensing, face twisting up as he sucks and licks, hot tongue soothing over the stinging red mark. He breathes your name, mouthing the sound into your flesh once, twice.

“I’ve been tryna remember this,” he murmurs. “Only ever had it for a second.”

You whimper as he licks into you again, slowly. And you’re so sensitive, and maybe—maybe—it’s too much, too soon, but he doesn’t care. He grips your calf and tucks it over his shoulder. Holds it there in a vice grip.

“Wasn’t enough,” he says. Dark eyes look up and you’re rapt in them—bound and boneless simply from having those eyes on you you you nothing but you all he sees is you and he loves it, you can tell. Thrives on the way you melt beneath his rough fingertips, the wet drag of his tongue. “Remember that first day in my office?

Remember, remember, remember, how could you forget? I’m gonna remember this this this.

“Yes.” Your leg trembles against the side of face, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching your skin. The tip of his tongue lathes slow circles around your clit. A cruel, leisurely slip of flesh on flesh that has you gasping and twitching beneath his hands.

“I wanted this that day,” Joel rasps. “Needed it. But you were gone so soon, ‘n’ I couldn’t help myself.”

“What—oh fuck—” He flicks his tongue faster, hot swipes from side to side that have your thigh clamping down against the muscles in his neck. Your mind is a blur, eyebrows furrowed as you try to make sense of his words.

“Fucked my fist the second you left,” he growls. “My fingers in my mouth, the taste of you—Christ, couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, impatient. “I—get up here. Please, just—”

Strong hands push you up, push you back, further onto the bed until your head hits the pillows. His hair is a wild fray around his head, knotted and mussed from your fingers raking through it.

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say.

His knees press onto the mattress on either side of you and his eyes glance down your chest before he grips your waist and he’s turning you. Your stomach meets the sheets and you move to arch your back, to tilt your hips up towards him, but a firm hand rests on the small of your back, and keeps you down.

“Like this,” you hear him say. “Trust me.”

His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel him there, knuckles brushing the flesh of your ass, spreading you apart so his cock can press inside. The pillow swallows your wet gasp, and your eyes pinch shut against the stretch as he sinks deeper and deeper. Every delicious inch splits you open wider, further, carving out that space that’s just for him, and it’s more. Your vision blurs and you clutch at the sheets, fingers tangling in linen as Joel’s breathy groans fill the air.

“God,” he grunts. “Always so fuckin’—tight.”

You cry out as he begins to move, pressing you further into the mattress. The stretch of him is so broad—so deep—it has hot tears pricking in your eyes. Your legs are straight, almost clamped together, leaving the smallest gap for him to break through. His chest melts against your back, sweet sweat sliding from skin to skin. And his stomach is soft against the base of your spine, but his teeth are sharp where they nip and smart against the skin of your shoulder, your neck. He sets a pace that has you biting down into the pillow to muffle your groans. It’s almost overbearing how good it feels, how he surrounds you. Flat against the mattress, there’s nowhere to hide from the pleasure, no way to twist or curl your body away from how good it feels. A choked moan is muffled by the pillow.

And then his fingers are in your hair, dragging your head up.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’?” he grunts. You gasp, eyebrows furrowed and mouth ajar as you take take take. He pulls your hair harder when you don’t respond, presses his chin against your shoulder, lips curling against the skin of your neck as he speaks. “Don’t do that, not here. No more hidin’, I wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

He grips your hips and drags you upward so you’re on your knees, bracing against your forearms, and then his hand snakes around the front of your body, fingers dragging between your thighs as he begins moving again.

“Oh fuck,” your eyes widen in surprise, jaw hanging slack as he rolls his finger in expert circles over your clit. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Yeah?” he gasps.

“Fuck,” you repeat, mewling every time one of his thrusts sends your face forward into the pillows. “Yes, oh god.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ like that.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust of his hips. “That’s it, lemme hear it.”

“Joel,” you cry out, voice cracked and broken. “So good.”

“I know, baby,” he grunts. “I know.”

“You’re so—deep,” you gasp.

“I know,” he soothes.

“I missed this,” you babble, mouth moving faster than your mind. “Missed you.”

“Christ,” he spits, pulling you up until you’re leaning against his chest. His fingers are a blur against your clit, cock a fast wet shift in and out in and out.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, mouth hanging open as you press your ass back into him.

“Missed me?” Joel says, and his cheek is warm against yours. Wet. Your face is wet. “Gonna show me how much?”

“Yes,” you moan. His free hand grips your breast, squeezing and pinching.

“Need to get my fuckin’ mouth on you,” he growls.

“No,” you beg. “Joel, don’t—fuuuck, fuck, don’t stop.”

“Wanted to,” his hips stutter against you, losing momentum for a second. “Jesus, wanted to take my fuckin’ time.” You snake a hand behind his head to grip his hair again, to press his face into your neck. His mouth latches onto your skin, spit mixing with sweat where his teeth and tongue trace your roaring pulse. Your thighs are trembling, knees weak and wobbling against the mattress as he pistons into you, unrelenting, unforgiving.

“I’m—” your eyes start to roll back. You can feel your back arch and twist against him, toes curling into the sheets. “Oh my God.”

He says your name in a panicked hiss and pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, eyes flying open in alarm. He moves your body, not wasting a second as he lowers you down onto your back presses inside again, hands gripping the underside of your knees, holding them against your chest. Practically bent in half, you tremble in his grasp, eyes blurred and wet as you sob his name.

“Lemme have it,” he goads you, voice a dull vibration against your chest. “Bein’ so fuckin’ good for me, yeah, just like that.”

And it feels like something splinters within you as heat floods your senses, vision whiting out until all you can see is the soft edges of his curls against your chest, the wet smear of his tongue over your nipple. All you can hear is the words he speaks against your skin.

I’m close, he warns, and you say yes, say please, say I want it, because you do.

“Where?” You call the shots.

And you say, Inside, say, I want it, because you do.

Because you want everything. Everything he has and whatever dark matter is left after that. And everything is a naked thought, a stark realisation, a frighteningly bare streak of madness that zips down your spine and melts in your belly, and you can feel yourself tightening around him with the enormity of it. Can feel your body squeezing and sucking and holding it holding it holding it and with black eyes, spheres of a night sky’s pitch, he stares at you. Unruly eyebrows pinched tight. Mouth slick and swollen and snarling, white teeth grit like prison bars, keeping everything contained inside himself, just out of your reach.  

“Fuck,” Joel spits, pleading, desperate. “Don’t—”

But his hips are bruising against yours and you relish in the ache. The jut of bone amidst the softness of his skin, a reminder of the coldness in him, the determination, the impatience. And you know that you can only have so much softness until there is stone. But you cannot understand don’t, you never have with him, so you grind upward. Meet him thrust for thrust, and shiver in delight as a tortured expression passes over his face. And when you come again he curses, broad palms bearing down on you, holding your frame into the mattress as he pushes you through it, prolonging that naked thought, that fearsome idea. You only hope that he cannot see how your own everything spills. How it cools and congeals around him with its palms spread open, longing to receive as much in return.

Joel comes with a shout, hips dragging backwards so his spend can spill across your stomach and the puffy lips of your sex. He grips his cock, milking himself for all he’s worth until wet ropes of his come are smeared across your thighs too. You gasp and writhe against the bed, trying in vain to keep your heavy eyelids open, not wanting to miss a second. The shine of your slick on his thighs and lower stomach is clear in the dim lighting, and you smile at the sight of it – your claim on him. Chest heaving, he follows your gaze, fingers swiping across his skin before sinking into his mouth. He groans around his fingers and you stomach lurches as he lowers his chest to the bed, mouth drifting between your splayed thighs.

You cup his jaw and hold him still.  

“I can’t,” you murmur, and your voice is cracked and broken. “S’too much.”

And he agrees, tracing the marks on the inside of your thighs with his mouth until your eyes drift closed.

Time passes slowly after that. You don’t open your eyes for a while. Too fucked out, too tired, too tender.

There’s a warm glide of something soft and wet over your stomach, your thighs, between your legs—Joel cleaning up his mess. You almost wish he wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” you mumble a few minutes later. “I’ll go in a second.” But your eyes are closed, and the sheets smell like him.

You feel the mattress dip beside you. Hear a soft click as he turns off the lamp, and darkness swells around you once more.

“S’okay,” he says, and his voice is so close, as if he were whispering against the shell of your ear, breathing the words into you. “Don’t have to go.”

And it makes sense not to go. To stay, to stay, to stay. To sink deeper into the hotel mattress, and let the sounds of his heavy exhales lull you further to sleep. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t come any closer. But you can smell him. Can feel his warmth, a radiating sun that shines across the side of your body closest, and you sink deeper still.

You think of the katabasis - the hero’s journey spiralling down into the underworld. Of Orpheus seeking the safe return of Eurydice, his love lost too soon. Of Odysseus, guided by Circe to discover Teiresias on his quest for homecoming. Of Aeneid, venturing downward to meet his father and hear his true destiny. This descent into the afterlife, into the realm of the dead, wherein upon return our hero is irrevocably changed. But to stay, to stay, to stay. So warm it is here, you think, so lovely and warm to descend wholly into this wanting, this burning, this everything.   

“Is this a good idea?” you murmur, voice a drowsy call into the darkness. “For me to stay?”

Joel doesn’t respond.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @bbyanarchist @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @@lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5 @psychedelic-ink @what-is-your-wish @sugadolly @elissaaa @nobodycanseeinsidemysoul

thank you for reading! x

[stolenviolet]

ok ok i just stumbled upon your baby death au (and im feeling things idk what)... and just wanted to ask, what is voldy's relationship with harry here? not sure if i made sense but eh im curiousss-

You made perfect sense!

(And I hope they're good feelings? Maybe?)

As for their 'relationship' in this AU (my version anyway) well… let's just say it's complicated haha

To start, they basically just co-parent Death.

Obviously, they can't stand each other in the beginning. Being, y'know, enemies and what not, on top of navigating peace talks and treaties to end a war, isn't exactly a recipe for romance.

So yeah, nope! No butterflies in the stomach for these two (yet).

However, raising a kid together kind of forces them to adapt to one another, and that's when they start to notice the little things.

Harry notices Voldemort takes his tea straight in the mornings but prefers it a little on the sweeter side in the afternoon.

Voldemort notices Harry's love of flying and that he tends to get a bit antsy if he hasn't touched a broom in a while.

Harry notices Voldemort, while great at most things (his words not Harry's), is actually a pretty terrible cook.

Voldemort notices that Harry can only really sleep with the doors open or if there's another person in the room.(trauma from being locked alone in a cupboard, I'm sure.)

Both notice how, despite not having the best childhoods themselves, they ultimately want what's best for their son and tend to compromise on most things where he's concerned. (though this was incredibly difficult for Voldemort in particular to grasp. especially early on.)

Then came the lingering glances. The slight brushing of fingers when handing over a book. The casual teasing that leaves them both feeling bit warm.

Needless to say, eleven years of being domestic with someone, some type of affection was bound to take root and sprout. Not all at once, mind you. Voldemort is still, well…Voldemort, so there was quite a bit of emotional baggage to unpack (y'know the whole 'I killed your parents and tried to kill you' thing).

So it's not until their son leaves for his first year at Hogwarts, and they're truly left alone together for an extended period of time, that they both realize 'whoopsie! there might be more going on here than we thought!'.

Because now there's no lingering excuse of 'Well, clearly, we're only speaking/spending time with each other because Thomas is here'.

No. Now they both have to face the fact that something has been building between them.

And from there, things get a little, shall we say…romantic~

(kids out of the house, time for the parents to have some fun *wink*)

Long story short: Slow Burn, Enemies to...Co-parents? to Lovers.

[back2bluesidex]

Closure - JHS

Pairing: Hoseok X Fem!Reader 

Theme: slight angst, slight failing to move on, exes to lovers, second chances au. post discharge scenario.

Word count: 1k+

Summary: If the highest degree of love had a name - it would be termed as Jung Hoseok in your story.

Warnings: reader is bisexual (not a warning but just mentioning), implied pining. that's really all.

Minors do not interact!!

Masterlist | Patreon

A/N: Because my husband is home.

Your thumb hover above the ‘send’ button. 

Dilemma? Yeah, that’s right. 

You can’t decide whether to send this simple text or not. So, you read it again. 

“Congratulations on discharge.” - that’s all it says. That’s all you have to say to the man you have loved the most, you have felt pain for the most. 

Just before his enlistment - Hoseok broke up with you, claiming that the changes would be too much for him to take and he needed to start afresh. 

Absurd. You thought. 

But you realized you had been in his shoes when you moved back to Seoul after spending five years of a successful career in LA. You wanted to start afresh too, you had broken up with your girlfriend too. 

So you didn’t blame him. 

Kissed him all the best and moved on and failed to do that - miserably.  

Because if the highest degree of love had a name - it would be termed as Jung Hoseok in your story. 

Now that he has discharged just this morning - you can’t decide if you should send the text or not. 

If you do - he might think you are trying to get back in touch or worse back together. 

If you don’t - it will question your generosity because you and Hoseok go way back. He had been a close friend before he was your boyfriend. 

Just when you are about to close the messaging app, Poko, your cat, jumps on your lap and you accidentally hit the send button. 

Everything happens for a reason. 

“Poko!” you shout at her mildly “Thanks.” 

She purrs sitting on your lap. 

You are pouring the second cup of coffee of the day when your phone buzzes with a notification. Being afraid of the obvious, you decide to ignore it first but every pore in your body oozes with curiosity. 

Is it Hoseok? Has he sent a passive reply? Is he angry? Is he upset that you texted him? 

All of these questions raged inside your mind, making you give up. 

When you open the application you find four different texts while only one would have been enough to calm you down. 

“Hey, thank you so much.” 

“How are you doing, Y/N?” 

“I was going to call you. Haha. I actually wanted to talk to you if it’s possible.” 

“Let me know if you are in. I am all free so any time is fine by me.” 

Fuck. Hoseok wants to talk? What he wants to talk about? Is he writing a new song? Does he want a consultation? 

Or maybe it’s not professional? But personal? 

A tiny sprout of hope swayed in your chest. 

Sucking in a deep breath you reply, “sure. I am at the office till 7. You can come by anytime you want.” 

His reply comes within a second, “I will see you in an hour.”

Your heart thumps in your chest. 

Try as you might but you have never been able to act cool whenever Jung Hoseok was in the room - and even after dating him for an entire year, he still makes you nervous. 

He walks inside your office wearing baggy jeans and a soft-looking dark gray hoodie with snoopy painted in the middle of it. His hair is cut short just like it should be. His skin is glowing, his cheeks are full, his lips are stretched in a smile that translates to ‘it’s good to see you’. 

You urge your heart to slow down and your mind to take charge of your body parts that have stopped working since the moment his citrusy perfume has invaded your system. 

“When did you change assistants?” he asks casually, as if he didn’t ask for a closure of your relationship just 18 and half months ago. 

“Hana got married last month.” you gesture at him to sit on the sofa.  

He extends a bouquet of flowers towards you, just then you realize that he had been hiding his hand behind. 

“Ah. I should be the one to congratulate you with flowers.” you try to keep the blush away as you sit on the other corner of the sofa. 

“It’s alright.” he gives you one of his most charming smiles, making your heart flip inside your chest. 

“Y/N” Hoseok starts in a serious tone, “the reason why I am here is because I wanted to apologize- um- for the way I behaved during our very last meeting.” he sighs. The traces of smiles vanishing from his face as a frown takes over the space between his eyebrows. 

“It’s ok-”

“No please hear me out. I have been a fool. I thought things would change for me when I enlist. I thought I would change and I might not be the same guy you once liked and the guy who once liked you. But I was wrong. Hell- the wrongest I have ever been.” he covers his face with his big palms - veins prominent on the surface of the skin. You divert your focus instantly. 

“I- I had a long time to think. A lot of free time… at the end of the day… when my body would be exhausted from all the training but sleep wouldn’t come by. Or maybe during communal showers, when other guys would talk about their women back home - and I- I thought of you. I thought of the way we were so much in love and all the times we spent together. I would wish it was you whenever anyone came to visit me without prior notice. It was too much - what I feel for you is too much and that hasn’t changed a bit. I know I said I would like to start afresh so.. So I came to ask you out again, to start over. If you have anyone - reject me. Reject me on my face so that I know how stupid I have been all the time and-” 

“Fuck you, Hoseok. Fuck you because I still love you. And it’s pathetic how I wanna jump on your right now. My dignity as a woman is in question.” a lone tear slips down your eyes. 

Hoseok’s own eyes are glossy but his smile is returning in full length. 

He doesn’t say anything rather opens his arms for you.

When you press your body against his, and hear his heart beating faster than it should - you find that the closure of your story will always be Jung Hoseok. 

Permanent Taglist:

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[brandwhorestarscream]

Megop but hanahaki disease AU 😳

Both of them slooowly getting sick, a constant tickle and itch in their ventilation systems that cant be soothed no matter how much hot energon they drink, no matter what kind of medication they take. On opposite sides of the war, as the casualities grow so does the longing, the regret, the sparkbreak. And as the rift between them grows deeper and deeper, their internals are filling up with thorns and pods. Optimus develops a persistent choking, wheezing cough, and despite energon samples and scans Ratchet cant find any reason for it. Megatron is the same, stubbornly powering through his illness.

Crystal vines and thorns begin sprouting inside of them, roots digging into their spark chambers and beginning to slowly, painstakingly slowly, crush them. It progresses over centuries, spark crystals squeezed by strangling vines as the hanahaki grows worse and worse the more they miss each other.

During one of his coughing fits, alone in his room, Optimus suddenly gags. Blood--not undigested energon, blood--flies past his lips and he chokes on something hard and sharp, scraping his throat. He spits it out, blinking in surprise down at the unmistakable shape of a crystal rose, heavily drenched in energon blood, laying cradled in his cupped servos.

The diagnosis is extremely dire. The disease has spread through the vast majority of his body: crystal flora don't show up on scans, invisible to them because of their unique physical attributes, but once Ratchet opens him up and takes a look at his internals, they're everywhere. The strangling crystal flowers are in most of his vital organs, root system spread through and plunging into mainlines and sidelines, siphoning his energon to feed the parasitic plant. They're so heavily entwined with Optimus's body, growing on him, in him, a part of him, that trying to remove them would require surgery lasting multiple days. And even then, he'd be in recovery for months, and that’s only if he survives. Treatment wouldn't even be permanent, doomed to relapse within a few years time because they cant remove the plant's heart. The heart of the root system, the main bulb, has wound itself tightly around his spark where it originated. The bulb is inside his spark chamber, fused with the protective crystal casing. The roots are jammed in in a thousand different places, in a massive spiderweb network. Cutting them off and removing them would irreversibly damage his spark chamber, and he would swiftly perish afterwards.

The best Ratchet can do is treat him for a temporary reprieve of the symptoms, but he can't cure him. Can't save him. There’s only one cure for hanahaki disease, and Optimus knows it's impossible for him. Hanahaki stems from unrequited love and a broken spark longing for the object of it's desires: the only thing that could save him would be to reunite with Megatron 😌

[cal-writes]

some superpower/superhero au musings. that ideas been floating around my brain for a while. dont know where its going you know how my plot bunnies are but enjoy this sampler

-

"Have you figured it out yet, Surgeon?" Robin smiles serenly. She sits on the stairs, knees knocking together, her elbows resting on them and her chin propped up on both her palms.

He scowls at her, eyes narrowed. Law knows what she means but he won't admit it because it would reveal himself to be knowable. "What do you mean?" He juts out his chin.

She doesn't buy his feigned obliviousness but she humors him. "Zoro's abilities. You have been trying to discern their nature, have you not?"

He exhales through his nose and looks off to the side.

"He would tell you if you asked." Robin continues and Law glances at her from the corner of his eyes.

"I know." He says. Zoro has said as much. But Law isn't going to ask, at least not yet. It's a matter of personal pride and spite. Law doesn't owe people favors, they owe him favors. He demands answers, he doesn't ask for them. (Bepo would be telling him how unhealthy that is right about now if he were here.)

Robin considers him, head leaning to the side. She hums. Out of all the Strawhats, Robin is the person Law would consider his equal in temperament which is to say, out of all of them he is the most cautious around her. From what redacted history of hers that he has managed to unearth, he knows they've had a similar development. She is calculating. Always listening, even without sprouting ears everywhere. He needs to consider his words carefully.

"You are a curious man." She tells him, chuckling good-naturedly.

Law looks at her from above. "In more ways than one." His lips pull into a sharp smirk.

"Indeed." Robin says easily. "Have you made headway in your discoveries?"

Law squints at her, trying to gauge her angle. She might be simply curious - which Law believes to be the least likely. It could be a test, trying to see if he lives up to his reputation - possible, thought Robin seems largely desinterested in people she doesn't consider to be a threat (an insulting prospect in its own right, that Law is no longer considered dangerous to her, but he did work hard to earn their trust so he supposes it is to be expected). Maybe it's caution - there is a reason Zoro's abilities aren't public. Many people with abilities don't bother hiding the intricacies if they even can. But Zoro does. Whether that is for his own safety or someone else's is yet to be determined. 

"Some, I'd say." Law admits, trying to sound casual. Whatever Zoro's talents are they are subtle. He can rule out a healing factor definitively - even if it weren't a passive ability but one Zoro had to use consciously, Chopper is too concerned for him every time he is injured for there to be an easy fix. He has considered some form of super strength but ultimately ruled it out. Zoro was strong, occasionally supernaturally so but it was inconsistent. Law's leading theory on that front was some sort of adrenaline manipulation that would grant Zoro the ability of hysterical strength on command. He has yet to confirm that theory. The easiest would be to ask for blood samples but even with everything, Law knows they aren't quite there yet.

Other possibilies are some sort of enhancement, be that in reflexes or speed or general aptitute. Zoro is - as his alias suggests -  a demon with a weapon and almost impossible to beat one on one. He is fast but Law wouldn't say unhumanly so. A common public theory is that - as his name suggests - Zoro was either posssessed by or possessing someone and the otherworldly entity of whichever nature granted him his abilities.

Law had dismissed that one easily. Possession would indicate different personalities and quirks but Zoro's body language and fighting style are consistent - even when using something other than a sword. If he was possessed it was permanent.

He had considered the possibility that Zoro was normal. Well, as normal as any of them. Many of his talents could be chalked up to rigerous training and experience. Perhaps he had started young, had the natural talent and dedication to keep up to speed with other super powered individuals. From knowing the man, Law can entertain the idea. But there are too many things that trip him up. Too many things that don't make sense if Zoro truly had no other abilities.

Law has been staying with the Strawhats for a few weeks now and there are some things he has taken note off. Pieces of the puzzle he is sorting into piles before he knows where they connect.

Zoro trains, a lot. Both with weapons and without to the point that Law is quite sure that whatever ability he has is unrelated to his weapons. He's just as dangerous with his swords as he would be with Nami's staff. It's not a surprise. Zoro takes a lot of pride in his body and his prowress.

More confusing are Zoro's other eccentricities.

Zoro doesn't touch things. Law is almost mad it took him so long to take note of it. Obviously there are times when Zoro does. Out in the battlefield, doorknobs, light switches. Technically, literally, he does touch things. But at home, in the space he feels safe, Zoro goes out of his way to avoid touching things. Law would believe him to be a germophobe of some sort if he hadn't seen the man lick blood of his sword. So, no. It's probably not about germs. He just doesn't touch things in a casual way. He doesn't read books or magazines, doesn't use a phone, at most he will make himself tea or pour himself a glass of something to drink. He doesn't cook, nor does he do the dishes. For all Zoro and Sanji bicker constantly, Sanji always prepares his meals, even small snacks and doesn't nag him for not cleaning up after himself.

It might be a trauma response. Maybe he is sensitive to textures for unrelated reasons. Law can't quite define what to make of it yet.

Another thing is that none of Zoro's clothes are store bought. It seems innocuous but once Law noticed it, he could not let go of it. The Strawhats were vigilanties so money could be tight on occasion but he knows they aren't above stealing if they need or want to. None of the others seem to have a similar clothing style. Nami in particular wears fancy brands and designer clothing constantly. So it's not a matter of supply. Zoro isn't so vain he would be particular about it either. Law has seen him wear all number of things, especially if a battle dragged on long enough to destroy his wardrobe. He isn't opposed to wearing regular manufactured clothes. He just doesn't if he has the choice not to.

Perhaps it ties into the texture thing. Law will have to pay close attention to it.

Robin is still looking at him, unpreturbed by his long pause. "If you need a hint, do let me know," He scowls and it makes her chuckle. "It's quite entertaining." She says.

"Glad to be of service." He grits out.

"I am just wondering why go through the trouble. It must be thrilling to you to try and unravel the mystery." Robin tells him and Law's breath stalls in his throat. Something in her tone makes him feel warm.

He swallows hard. "Hardly a mystery. An annoyance, more like." He says, dismissively. Robin makes an inquiring sound. "I need to know what you all are capable of to make plans. Keeping it a secret needlessly complicates things."

"But it's not a secret." Robin says, bemused and Law feels himself bristle.

"It's not exactly common knowledge either." He throws back.

Robin hums again. "I suppose not but if you are expecting a grand reveal, I am afraid you will be disappointed."

"Zoro already said it's not what I'd expect." Law says. Zoro technically said 'it's not a big deal' which hadn't been helpful at all. If it wasn't a big deal, why make a thing out of it?

"That is apt. I remember being quite surprised when I was told." She says and now Law knows she's teasing him. This whole conversation is pointless.

He huffs. "I'll find out, won't I?"

Robin smiles. "Will you?"

[starry-eyes-love]

Part 2 of Too Young to Die Mini Series

Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Too Young to Die- Mini Series Part 2 out of 3.

Pairing |  Massage Therapist Joel Miller x F!Reader with Autoimmune disease, no outbreak, AU.

Summary | Joel takes you on your first date, where you eat pizza and joke together. Quickly, Joel finds out what it looks like to deal with an unmanaged autoimmune disorder. Joel, never faltering, stays by your side the whole way. Fast-forward to three years later, and Joel still helps you deal with the complexities of your body as life changes forever.

Banner image by CAImages on Instagram, banners by @saradika-graphics

Word Count: 6.7K

Warnings | Series is: 18+, Smut, Minors DNI (but no smut in this part)

Language, joking, pizza eating with odd topping choices, hints of smut without any smut, kissing, illness, fainting, pregnancy, boyfriend! Joel, husband! Joel, age gap, no major descriptions of the reader except she is younger and has autoimmune disease.

A/N:  This took me way too long to finish writing this part.  I found that I kept adding more to the story.  I love these two goofballs, so strap in for some fun and relaxing banter, with a few surprises along the way :) 

“Darlin’, don’t you ever question if I fucking want you, ya hear me. Baby, I always want you, day or night; it doesn't matter. And for the record, it isn’t me who needs any prep time to get in the mood; it's you.”

Your first date with Joel went exceptionally well. Conversation flowed easily amongst you where there weren't any awkward moments. Joel teased you for liking pineapple on your pizza, and you teased him for liking anchovies.

“Darlin’, you just ruin perfectly good pizza if y’do all that.”

“Well, at least I don’t put dead fish on my pizza, Joel.”

“Look here. I don’t want to hear any more sass from you, considering you put pineapple on your pizza and add marinara sauce.” 

Joel shook his head, clearly not thrilled with your pizza flavor choice. He also saw you dip your pizza into the ranch and then take a huge bite, humming to yourself at the flavor choice. Joel looked over at you, shocked like you were someone who had sprouted three heads.

“Darlin’, now you've gone and done it. Completely ruined the American way of eating pizza.” Joel was staring at you wide-eyed as you placed buffalo ranch sauce on top of your pizza. He was trying to figure out how a beautiful woman like yourself would have the oddest taste in food.

“Mr. Miller, I don't recall you being an expert at pizza toppings. If you were, the fact that you place anchovies on your pizza makes your entire argument invalid.” 

Joel laughed out loud at your attitude and shook his head. He loved the easy banter between you two. 

“You know, it's a good thing I find you cute, darlin', or I'd have to remind you just how much my argument has merit.”

“And what type of merit would that be, Mr. Miller, because there is none in this instance.”

“Well, baby, if you insist.” Joel sat up straight, placing his pizza slice down to continue. “Fish is healthy and nutritious; it gives you plenty of stamina for any extracurricular activities you want or need to do. Plus, it also makes certain things taste sweeter, too.” 

“It doesn't make things taste sweeter, Joel; that's a lie. Pineapple is the one that makes things taste sweeter.” 

“So, is that why you ordered pineapple on your pizza, darlin’? You wanted to make sure things tasted sweeter for me later?” Joel smirked at you, raising an eyebrow, knowing the offhanded sexual comment he had just made.

You sat in silence, feeling your cheeks flush a nice soft red. You had no idea that Joel was going to take it there, to a sexual place. You weren't mad at his flirtatious comment; you were just sexually flustered. It has been a long time since any man has given you any amount of attention. You found yourself shifting in your seat, trying to alleviate the slow throbbing that had started between your legs at the casual flirting and banter with Joel. When Joel saw this reaction, he knew that he had gotten under your skin, which was the purpose of his comment in the first place. 

“Why ya squirming, baby?”

You just looked at Joel with a soft blush on your cheeks.  You didn’t want to tell him that your stomach was in knots and that you were getting more and more turned on by him sitting in front of you. 

“Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, wondering if your discomfort was caused by his teasing or if you truly were in pain. The longer he looked at you, the more concerned he became. He could see that you were worrying your lip, eyes cast downward like you were focusing on something.

“Darlin', are you still with me?” Joel asked, seeing that you didn't answer his question, the one he just asked if your discomfort was due to feeling ill. You never heard him because you weren't listening. You were too focused on your hands, twirling your napkin between your fingers and fidgeting, overthinking things again. Will Joel even want me that way, or will he leave just like all the others? 

“Hey, honey, I was just teasing about your pizza topping choice. Just joking, you can eat it any way you like, darlin’.” Joel touched your hand affectionately, trying to bring you back to the present.

“I know, it's just- what happens when all of this gets too hard?” You said, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“What? What do you mean, too hard?” Joel was now sitting back and looking at you with a puzzled expression. He was trying to figure out why you suddenly changed your mood. Two seconds ago, Joel was teasing you about your pizza topping choice. You both were relaxed, enjoying each other's company, teasing each other back and forth. But now, the confident woman that Joel had seen just a few seconds ago was gone. He frowned at your sudden change, finding it difficult to remain optimistic about the night's events.

Joel didn't tell or show you he was nervous about tonight's date. He thought that you were beautiful, even though you were much younger. You were on a different path in life. You were 29, looking at living life and planning for your future, while Joel was 47, divorced, and looking towards retirement and potentially becoming a grandfather in the next ten years with two kids that were almost entirely grown up.

Joel has never attempted to date a woman 18 years younger than him; you were the first. Joel didn't know if you could relate to him or if he could relate to you. But the longer you interacted with him, the more he felt at ease. That was until he heard your comment about something being too complicated. It was unsettling to him, especially when his love life and family life were the true definition of what complicated meant.

“Joel, I mean, you, me, and all of this. What happens when all of this gets too complicated?” You were waving your arms around, motioning at the two of you and your surroundings.

“Oh, yeah, I see. Uh, I can understand how this can all be difficult for you or complicated.” Joel felt his heart sink in his chest; he needed to end this before it got any further and before you got any more embedded into his life to hurt him. If you weren't looking for a relationship, he should cut his losses and end it with you. If you didn't like complicated, then you wouldn't like him. His entire life was complicated. Joel had baggage and a lot of it. He didn't want to lead you on if you weren't looking for some type of commitment because he wasn’t looking for anything casual. 

“Look, darlin’, if you're not sure, then maybe we should just-” 

“I like you a lot, ok? I haven't dated in a while, but you make me feel safe. And no one has done that in a long time. No one ever wants the complications of me being sick, so I get it if you don't, but I want this to work. I don't want you to hurt me, though, when you find out I'm not enough.” You raced the words out, feeling embarrassed for getting this out in the open, but from your past experiences, you knew that, eventually, this conversation would come up. You figured now was the best time to discuss this topic, especially before Joel embedded himself into your life. You didn't think Joel would want a serious relationship with you, being an older man. He probably wasn't looking for commitment, marriage, or kids. Those were things that you knew you wanted. What you didn't want was a one-night stand or a casual hookup. You can't separate sex from love, and you weren't about to start now, no matter how sexy the man was in front of you. You have always liked older men but never had anyone even care to look at you until now.

Joel was amazed at your admission and the guts it took to tell someone that, especially on the first date. But he was also frustrated at you cutting yourself down, saying that you weren't enough when you were. While Joel didn't diminish your feelings, being sick didn't count as a difficulty to him. Could it be a slight hindrance at times? It could, but it wasn't a deal breaker for him. Joel was more of a homebody now anyway, not really into the whole party scene and going out all the time. He didn't care if plans changed. He wasn’t a 20-year-old boy. 

Joel reached across the table with a small smile and took your hand. He whispered, “Baby, that's never gonna happen,” as he gently kissed the top of your hand.

“No? How- how come?” You whispered. Your heart was beating fast in your chest as Joel slowly moved his fingertips lightly up and down the inside of your palm. The feather-light touches sent tingles down your spine, especially when he kissed and lightly nipped your wrist. 

Joel needed to calm your and his nerves. While he didn't want to have this conversation now, he knew it was better to get these feelings out in the open so both parties could decide how to move forward. That was one thing he learned from his previous marriage: to speak your mind when something bothers you. 

Joel stopped moving his hand and looked into your eyes. He could see a mixture of shyness, arousal, and what he thought was also fear; not fear of being with him, but fear of him leaving you. You both were broken inside from past relationships, wanting someone to see you for who you were. Joel didn't know how the future would evolve for the two of you; he just knew that his heart was beating fast in his chest, and butterflies were in his stomach because of the beautiful woman in front of him—someone he desperately wanted to get to know.

“You wanna know why I know that, honey?”

You gently nodded your head.

“It's because I like you a lot, too,” Joel confessed, intertwining his fingers with yours and gently stroking his thumb on your hand. “Honey, I know you're sick, but that won't stop me. We'll figure it out. I haven't felt like this in a long time with a woman, and I’d be a damn fool if I didn't continue seeing you because of it. I don't want casual honey; I want an honest-to-God, committed relationship.”

Joel slowly reached forward and tucked a strand of your hair that fell out of your ponytail behind your ear. He gently cupped your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “So stop fussin', ok? We'll figure it out; it's just you and me, alright?”

You nodded your head, exhaling the breath that you were holding. Joel squeezed your hand once more as he got up to go and throw away both of your trash. As you watched Joel walk away, you knew that you made an excellent decision by agreeing to go on this date with him. You just hoped he was telling you the truth.

After talking for the next hour, you decided to walk to a nearby park. As you slowly walked, Joel reached out and grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers together. It felt so good to have him hold your hand. You could see that he was trying and wanted this to work as much as you did. It made your heart race and your head feel dizzy at the thought that someone actually and truly cared about you and wanted to be with you. 

The two of you talked about Joel's life before he became a massage therapist. He told you that he was a construction worker who owned his own business before he hurt his back. After a year of treatment, including painful back surgery to remove a few bulged disks, Joel had to leave that line of work and sell his business to Tommy, his younger brother, who still manages it today in Texas.

“How did you end up in Minnesota, then?” You had asked as you both sat on a bench, eating ice cream from the small ice cream truck nearby.

“Well, that’s kinda a funny story, really,” Joel commented as he stole a bite of your chocolate ice cream, and then you stole a bite from his plain vanilla one.  “My daughters, Sarah and Ellie, live in lower Michigan with their mother, my ex-wife.” He paused, seeing if this admission of being divorced and having kids would be an issue for you.  When you looked at him curiously, seeing that you wanted him to continue, he told you the rest of the story.  

“Well, Tess, my ex-wife, took a job in Michigan when I was 28 when we got divorced. At the time, she had completely signed custody of the girls over to me.  When I hurt my back when I was 32, she took me back to court and requested custody changes.”

“What kind of custody changes?” You slowly placed your spoon down from your ice cream. The cold was starting to give you a headache, and you began to feel sick again with your autoimmune.

“Well, she felt I couldn't care for the girls properly because I was injured and healing from back surgery. According to her, I wasn’t working, yet I still owned my business and received paychecks from it. But still, to her, I wasn’t a father who could provide well enough for our girls, which was untrue.”

When Joel looked up at you, he was immediately concerned. You were starting to look pale on your face, and you were beginning to sweat. “She felt she was a better-fit parent to raise our girls, and the court sided with her.”

“What? How?” You couldn't understand how a judge would find him unfit as a parent just because he had back surgery and was injured.

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting.  The man she was dating at the time, secretly dating, was the judge who ruled in her favor.” 

“Oh my God, Joel. That is- that’s fucking horrible.” You reached out and gently squeezed his hand. You were trying to stay focused, but you kept having moments of dizziness mixed with horrible pain in your back and joints. Your body was suddenly starting to give you a flare-up of your autoimmune symptoms. You always hated it when your body did this, but right now, you were embarrassed because this was not what you wanted on your first date with Joel.

Joel noticed that you were getting worse and more pale in the face. You had officially removed your sweater, and he could see that you were sweating profusely.

“Honey, are you ok? You're not looking good.”

“No, I'm fine. I just need some water, and then I'll be okay.”

Joel got up and bought two bottles of water from the ice cream stand where you two were sitting. When he returned, he handed you one of the bottles and told you to drink. You murmured, “Thanks,” and then asked him to continue his story.

He smiled slightly at you as you murmured you were feeling a little better to him. 

“Well, one thing led to another, and I sold my business and returned to school to get my massage therapist license. I wanted to help people with injuries or chronic diseases that make it difficult for them.  I had a few back surgeries again along the way, three to be exact, all here in Minnesota with a specialist.  I had to live here for an entire year after my last surgery.  Tess said that if I were willing to live here full time, she would be okay with letting the girls come every other weekend, during holiday breaks, and then stay with me every summer.  So that’s what I did; I moved here to see my girls.”

“Is Tess still seeing that judge, then?” You took your sweater and wiped your forehead. You were now getting horrible hot flashes. You knew that if your body didn't quit, you'd have to end your date sooner with Joel than you wanted.

“No, Tess found out that the judge was married, and he said that he wasn’t leaving his wife for her. Kind of a perfect ending to a shitty situation, if you ask me.” 

Joel knew something was wrong when he saw your face lose color and sweat dripping from your forehead. 

“Darlin', you don't look well.” Joel knew your autoimmune was unmanaged and that you’d report getting these horrible symptoms when it flared up. But he didn’t expect this to come on so suddenly like this, and it worried him.

This was life with your autoimmune disease. You lived with this disease every day, and sometimes days were good. Other days, like today, made living life very difficult. You had been hoping this flare-up of symptoms would pass, but something was wrong; you could feel it.

“Joel, I'm sorry, I-I don't feel very well. I think I need to go home. I'm so sorry I-”

“No, darlin', don't apologize, it's okay. Come on, I'll take ya home.”

“No, I drove. I can-”

“Darlin', I'm not letting you drive home looking as sick as you are. Now come on honey, I'll drive ya, and we can pick up your car later, okay?”

Joel stood up and walked around the other side of the picnic table, where you were seated. You were mad, hating that your body did this to you. You mumbled, “Great, you blew it again, woman. Finally, get a nice guy, and this crap happens; good luck getting him to go out again with you.”

Joel heard what you said, and it upset him to think that your getting sick would bother him. Yes, it did bother him that you were ill. But not because it messed up the date you two were having, but because of how you looked; he wasn't comfortable just leaving you alone. You were so pale in the face, and you were struggling to stand that Joel was more concerned that you may need to go to the emergency room before the night was over.

As soon as Joel was by your side, he helped you stand. He took in your features and saw how suddenly weak you had become. Your hands had visible tremors, and you kept wincing and grabbing your back.

“Hey, honey, can you look at me briefly.” Joel gently took your hand and was looking at you in the eyes. “First, I don’t care what other people have done before me, darlin’. I’m telling you that I want another date with you, alright?”

When you nodded your head, he continued. “But, more importantly, I'm uncomfortable just dropping you off at home. Is there someone I can call that can stay with you?”

Shaking your head, you mumbled, “No, Joel, I don't have any family around.” 

“What about friends? I'm sure you have some friends that care about you enough that they would come and sit with you tonight.”

When he watched you look down, lip trembling at his question, Joel knew that he had majorly fucked up. You, indeed, were alone. This illness took special people away from you at your age. You reminded Joel of a cancer patient going through treatment, especially with how fast the illness symptoms came on. He remembered his mom being like that before she died of cancer. It broke his heart to think that you were struggling through life with this illness and that no one in these moments cared enough about you. He knew you had friends, as you talked about them earlier. But apparently, those friends were only surface-level friends, and when difficult moments like this happened, they were nowhere around.

“Oh baby, c’mere.” 

Joel pulled you into his chest and held you for a moment. “How about this, darlin’, I’ll take you home and stay the night with you. Don't worry. I'll sleep on the couch or the floor if you don't have a couch.”

You just nodded, but as you turned to leave, something in the world must have happened because it felt like the Earth tilted on its axis. As soon as you took a step, your vision went blurry, your face hit the ground hard, and you didn’t remember anything after that. You had fainted.

As you turned to leave, Joel grabbed your water bottles and sweater. As soon as he turned back around, it was like slow motion happened for him. Joel watched you take two steps towards the exit, and then all color left your face as your eyes rolled back into your head. You fell to the ground like a ton of bricks.  As soon as he saw that you were collapsing, he mumbled “shit” under his breath and then was moving fast to get to your side.

“Baby, come on. Open your eyes for me. Come on, baby, can you open your eyes? Darlin', look at me.” Joel was kneeling on the ground, lightly tapping your cheek. He was trying to get you to wake up after your fainting episode.  As soon as you started to come back around, you began coughing horribly. Joel quickly turned you on your side, rubbing your back as you kept coughing.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.  I’m right here, slow breaths, come on now.”  He was gently holding your head as you lay on your side, coughing and struggling to breathe after your fainting episode.

“Hey man- is she ok?” another man yelled, approaching the two of you.

“Yeah, maybe we need to call an ambulance,” a woman shouted as she quickly approached.

When he heard a third person add their two cents about the situation, Joel's patience had officially expired. 

“Yeah, I saw the whole thing happen. She just collapsed, and her father rushed to her side,” another man yelled approaching.

“STOP,” Joel yelled. Glancing down, he saw you wince at everyone’s statements and try to hide your face. This was the last thing you needed: a crowd of people telling you what to do.  

“I’m a medical professional, and I have it under control. I’m also her boyfriend, NOT her father, ok? She’s awake now, and she’s done coughing. She stated she didn’t feel well before she turned around. I was going to take her home, and then this happened.”

“Well, I still think she needs an ambulance called. I’m going to-”

“For the love of God, please leave me alone; I'm fine now,” you snapped, turning more on your side to cover your face. You were so embarrassed for fainting in front of Joel and for the crowd that was now gathering around you.

“We were just trying to help; no need to be rude,” one woman said, snapping at your comment. 

“Thank you for your concern and help,” Joel said, looking at the woman who snapped at you. “I honestly thought for a moment that I may have needed to call an ambulance for her.  But as you can see, she’s ok.  I’ll look after her and take her in tonight if she needs to be seen. Is that alright, honey?”

You gently nodded your head, looking up at him. Joel was holding you close to him, helping you feel safe. 

“Y’all go home now. We got it under control. Thanks for offerin’ to help.”

People were mumbling as they started to disperse. Joel and you never paid attention to what they were saying. 

“Do you think that we can get you to sit up without you passing out on me again?” 

Joel gently cupped your cheek, looking straight into your eyes with concern. He didn’t like seeing you sick like this. You gently nodded your head at him as you went to sit up.

“Easy. Nice and slow, sweetheart, don’t rush it.” When Joel saw your eyes start to cross again, he thought he should have let that lady call you an ambulance. 

“Woah there honey, come on now, look at me. Do I gotta call an ambulance for you after all, 'cause I will darlin’?” Joel placed his hand on your cheek, looking at you in the eyes.  He was shifting his eyes back and forth, looking to see how you were responding.

“I’m fine, Joel. Just give me a minute, ok. If I need an ambulance, I’ll call one myself.”

Joel shook his head, disagreeing with you. “Darlin’, I don’t think you’re qualified to make that determination and decision right now.”

You let out a long and exhausted sigh. To Joel's defense, he didn't know where you worked full-time when you were feeling ok.

“Joel, this is said with as much love and appreciation as I can right now, but fuck off, please. Believe it or not, I’m a Paramedic, and I know-”

“Paramedic or not, passing out and being dizzy doesn’t qualify you to treat yourself. You know this.” Joel hated reminding you of one of the biggest lessons in medicine: you don't treat yourself. He could see you were slightly annoyed and irritated with him and the other bystanders here. He decided that maybe a little humor might help lighten the tense mood.

“For the record, darlin’. I believe the proper term is ‘fuck me, please.’ And you say it when I’m doing just that.”

That made you smile and laugh at the ridiculous statement of telling off the one man still beside you. With a little bit of sass, you also added, “Yeah, and then when we’re finished, you'll moan; ah, fuck, my back.”

“Ah, there she is. There’s my sassy girl.” Joel was now laughing at your sassy attitude and statement that you just made. 

Joel looked down at you tenderly. Even though you were ill, you were still so beautiful. Joel cupped your cheek, slowly running his thumb up and down your skin. He watched you bite your lip, looking from his eyes to his lips. Tension started to fill between you both. The air was thick with it. Joel moved his hand to the back of your head, gently cradling it. He placed his forehead against yours, exhaling slowly, trying to control himself. He envisioned you underneath him but knew he couldn't tonight, not with you feeling under the weather. But soon, he'd take you in his bed and show you how a real man cared about a woman. But right now, he could give you something else. Joel slowly leaned in and gently pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was slow, soft, and passionate. 

When your lips parted slightly, he deepened the kiss, licking into your mouth and massaging his tongue against yours. When the kiss picked up in intensity, soon, you both were wrestling your tongues together, fighting to hold yourselves back. You let out a little whimper, moaning slightly into his mouth as your tongues continued to dance together. Eventually, when he pulled back, you found that you both were gasping for air.

“Baby, I'll take pain in my back any day if it means that I get to kiss you and hear you moan like that when I fuck you.”

“Joel, please-”

“Later baby, later. I promise when you're feeling better. Now, come on, let's get you home.”

You didn’t know how you lucked out and won the lottery with the man standing before you.  But goddamn, you were the richest girl in the world, especially when he kissed you like that. Joel wrapped his arm around your waist and helped you return to his truck to take you home. You didn't know then, but that would be the last first date you'd ever be on. 

3 Years Later

Joel was sitting in his office, finishing up some much-overdue paperwork. He glanced up when he heard you enter, giving you a warm smile at seeing you. But when you didn't return it, he knew something was wrong. You looked exhausted, like you hadn't slept much, yet today was your day off.

“Are you ready to go, babe?” You were not trying to sound irritated, but you failed miserably. 

You were uncomfortable, 32 weeks pregnant with Joel's child, a daughter, and she had spent all day kicking you hard in your internal organs. You were tired and frustrated, really not in the mood for grocery shopping with your husband. So when you got up to Joel's desk, you leaned back against it, placing your hand on your swelling stomach. You were trying to ease some of your discomfort. But as you did, you felt your daughter pick up with the constant kicks again. Usually, her kicks would give you comfort and joy, but not today. Today, your feet were aching, your back was hurting, and you were exhausted. You just wanted to lay down and rest today, but every time you attempted to, your daughter would give you hard, steady kicks against your internal organs.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart, then we'll go.” Joel smiled, quickly finishing up with his final notes from today.  

Next week was Joel's 50th birthday, so this weekend, you wanted to throw him an outdoor barbeque with his closest friends and family to celebrate his birthday. You wanted to go shopping tonight for all the supplies for this weekend, and Joel agreed to go with you to help you pick out the items he wanted. He was looking forward to the barbeque, and you were too about three months ago when you first planned it. Now, you weren't too keen on the idea of hosting 30 people in your backyard when you were 32 weeks pregnant.

You let out another long sigh, feeling the weight of life once again kick the hell out of you. You reminded yourself that this is what you wanted, a baby to grow inside you. But right at this moment, you wanted to go back to the night Joel fucked you to conceive this little fire pistol and hit your husband right in the nuts. 

“You know there, little one, you can stop kicking Mama so damn hard for once, and just quiet down, please.” You slowly rubbed your belly where you were feeling a fluttering of kicks. When Joel heard your discomfort, he immediately put his pen down and sat back in his chair.

“Baby, come here.” 

You slowly shuffled over to your husband, standing between his widened legs, then gently leaned yourself back against his desk.  As soon as you took up your proper standing position, Joel immediately took his hands and gently held each side of your belly, feeling his daughter kick both of you.

“Shh there, baby girl, don’t be so hard on your mama.  Daddy missed you today.” Joel slowly leaned forward and kissed your belly several times while his daughter kicked.

You had a huge baby belly at 32 weeks pregnant and in your last trimester. If people looked at you from behind, they'd never know you were pregnant. But from the front, it looked like you swallowed a giant basketball. So, to put it mildly, you were exhausted.  

Joel and you had been married for almost two years when you popped positive on a pregnancy test.  You both weren’t trying for a baby. She came to you as a surprise, and you were so happy to have her.  You had stopped your birth control the night of your wedding, hoping to get pregnant.  But after two years and a lot of tests, you had given up on the ability to have kids.  The doctors said that your body wasn’t accepting pregnancy because of your autoimmune disease.  So you went on with life thinking that you couldn’t get pregnant at all.  Then, by some miracle, the first night that you and Joel spent in the new house that you had built, he fucked you on every available surface, knocking you up somewhere between the kitchen counter and the coffee table. But now, as you rapidly approached your due date, you found yourself struggling with horrible exhaustion with the simple things in life like walking.  You were lucky that your autoimmune disease had calmed down so much during pregnancy, a hidden fail-safe that most people didn’t know about.  The problem was delivery day was rapidly approaching, and you were scared about what would happen with your autoimmune after your daughter came out.  But today, you didn't concern yourself with those fears, as you were exhausted at the fact that she wouldn’t let you hardly sleep last night nor relax anytime today.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” Joel had stopped kissing your stomach and was now cautiously looking at his wife. You were breathing fast with your eyes closed. 

“Honey, are you ok?” Again, you did not respond. Joel called your name, but you never opened your eyes. Your eyes were closed as your breathing became erratic.

“Hey, come on, look at me. Baby, open your eyes and look at me.”

“Jesus Joel, what?”

Joel's heart was in his throat at your lack of responding to him for a moment. He still didn't like how you were breathing, but at least now you were looking at him. He could see that you were frustrated, so he ignored that you snapped at him.

“Honey, talk to me, what's the matter?” Joel slowly rubbed your belly as he felt your daughter kick again. Tears welled up in your eyes, frustration and exhaustion being evident.

“I’m fine, it's just, it’s hard today, alright?” You placed your head in your hands as you felt your pregnancy hormones take over, and a light sob escaped your mouth.

Pregnancy hormones were complex every day, but today, they were awful. You hated the constant need of wanting your husband to be inside of you. You were horny for him, sex being something you haven't done in a few weeks again because of scheduling conflicts. But your daughter was constantly beating every organ inside of you, turning your need for your husband into something you couldn't do yet again. You were so exhausted today and just feeling so overwhelmed with life.

“Woah there, Angel, come on, talk to me. Baby, why are you crying? Are you getting contractions, honey?” Joel lowered his hand, trying to feel if contractions were starting anywhere on your belly.

“No, it's just she’s been kicking like this all day.” 

When Joel realized your tears were out of the pain of kicks, and not contractions, and mostly frustration, he felt himself calm down. Joel gently rubbed your belly, trying to calm your daughter down.

“She's been kicking you all day like this, hasn't she?”

“Yes,” you winced as your daughter sucker punched the heck out of your ribs once again, causing you to wince and call out in pain.

“Woah, there, little lady, that was a powerful kick. How about we save those punches for when boys wanna come around later in life, huh? Give your mama a break and let her rest.” 

Joel crouched down and kissed your belly again, talking to his daughter and trying to get her to quiet down for you. When he felt a strong kick against his mouth, he sat back and then scolded her. 

“Excuse me there, Baby Miller, but kicking your daddy hard in the mouth isn't very nice. We'll have none of that behavior, young lady, ya hear me?”

“God, Joel, I love our daughter, but today, these kicks fucking hurt. I thought maybe you’d want me after shopping, but how do people do this?” You exhaled again as your daughter kicked your ribs on your other side, not as hard, but still a firm kick.

Joel slowly stood up and gently lifted your chin. When he spoke his next sentence, he wanted you to look at him straight in the eyes. 

“Darlin’, don’t you ever question if I fucking want you, ya hear me. Baby, I always want you, day or night; it doesn't matter. And for the record, it isn’t me who needs any prep time to get in the mood; it's you. But with kicks like this, I’m assuming it’s a no again for any intimate time, which is okay.” 

Joel raised his hands defensively, ensuring you understood that he didn’t expect anything from you. But when he turned to walk across the room to grab his raincoat, you mumbled sarcastically under your breath. “No, the real reason is I look like a stupid whale; that’s why you don’t want me.”

Hearing what you said, Joel immediately spun around and glared at you. He was upset you were talking down to yourself and how you looked. You were his wife, who was carrying his child, and god dammit, you weren't a whale, and he did want you. You were a sexy, beautiful, attractive woman, even while pregnant. Joel loved you, but your constant put-downs of yourself were starting to tick him off.

“What was that? What did y’say?” 

“Nothin’,” you mumbled, knowing that Joel heard you criticize yourself. You knew you should have just kept your mouth shut.

Joel slowly approached you and placed his coat on the chair. You looked down, slowly biting your lip. 

“No, little girl, eyes up here.” Joel gently grabbed your chin and tilted your head up. When your eyes met his, you saw that they were impossibly dark, pupils were blown wide with lust.

“First, darlin', you ain't a whale, so none of that. And second, you're my wife who's pregnant with my daughter; that's sexy by itself, baby. And for the record, I fucking want you.” Joel grabbed your ass and gave it a firm squeeze while slowly thrusting his hips against your closed heat. You could feel that he was already hard, but he didn’t rip off your clothes. That’s not what you needed right now, and you both knew that. 

Joel slowly reached out and started stroking your belly lightly while gently tilting your head to give you a slow, tender kiss. However, very quickly you were the one to deepen the kiss, nipping his lower lip and shoving your tongue in his mouth. Joel growled at your heated kiss, struggling to keep his composure with you.

“Darlin', if we don't slow down, I won't be held responsible for what I will do. Do not tease me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth.

But you didn't want to listen, nipping Joel again on the lip, trying to provoke a heated reaction from him. As he went to give you a gentle tap on your ass and to rip your pants off, you let out a sudden cry in pain. 

“Fuck, shit, ow.”

“Ok, darlin', enough horsing around, what's happening?” Joel snapped at you, no longer wanting to play this game of you not communicating with him when he could see your discomfort.

“It's your damn child kicking my freaking cervix Joel. God, why is she doing this today?”

“I don't know, baby, but how about we head home? I'll give you a massage and try to get her to calm down. You're stressed mama, and that's unhealthy for you and our daughter. Now come on, up we go.”

Joel made good on his promise to take you home and help you relax. About five minutes after he began massaging your belly, your daughter finally calmed down. Apparently, she just wanted a little attention from her daddy. About fifteen minutes after she settled in, you finally fell asleep, exhaustion winning. As Joel looked down at your resting form, all swollen and pregnant with his child, he smiled. Life was extraordinary, giving him the chance to have a family again, but this time when he was older and almost 50. 

Joel made dinner and let you sleep the rest of the night. Later, as he lay next to your sleeping form, he felt his heart swell with affection and love for you.  He reached out and gently touched your belly, feeling his daughter was finally calm and asleep. He stared at you in the dark, until his eyes felt heavy with sleep and he found himself drifting off to thoughts of you. Joel didn't care what people thought about whether he should be with you at such an older age. Joel was damn happy that you were in his life, and to believe that this all started because of a simple debate about pineapple on your pizza. And that was the best 50th birthday present ever: the chance to have happiness once again.

End Part 2

[river-lethe-tears]

DC x DP Prompt

Sam gets Summoned

So instead of Danny being the one summoned, this time it’s Sam. Like, being possessed by Overgrowth (or whatever he’s name is stupid plant ghost :/ ) , made her get some cool plant powers and stuff. 

So the cult is trying to summon Overgrowth to return Earth to its former green glory or whatever. But instead gets this small goth girl. Who is suddenly looking very pissed off and angry. And oh no. They try to be really respectful and stuff because what if this is Overgrowth putting them through a test? So they toss their sacrifices into the circle because of course the entity is not happy until it gets what it was promised. 

The sacrifices are probably either Poison Ivy who they somehow got (most likely through threatening Harley than knocking them both out to use as sacrifices) or Red Hood since Jason was dead and all plus Lazarus Pits. (Or Batfamily if you’re more partial to that but I did not think of this prompt with them in mind as the sacrifices lol)

So Sam is really confused and pissed off cause she was in the middle of something with Danny and Tucker and both of those idiots are probably freaking out, so she needs to get back as soon as possible. So she just gives a nasty (burger) glare and just waves her hands. Plants start sprouting from the ground and knocking the cult out. Once Sam done she just rolls her eyes in all her goth glory and walks over to the sacrifices to untie them. Poison Ivy then just watches everything play out with amusement as Harley tries to cheer Sam on. If the sacrifices are Poison Ivy and Harley or Red Hood than they compliment Sam on her skills. If it’s anyone else it’s up to your imagination.

So yeah that happens. Depending on who the sacrifices are, after an undetermined time talking Sam just walks back to the summoning circle. She knows all about this stuff due to all the rants Danny goes on and on with about people being so inconsiderate when summoning him. So she just concentrates and taps into either her liminal status, powers due to Overgrowth, or ectoplasm residue in her system and reverse summons herself back to Amity.

The rest of the bats burst in just as Sam starts to reverse summon herself. And are freaking out or shocked before she is just gone. They only get a few glimpses at her and they can’t grasp the colours since the summoning circle starts to glow bright green. Poison Ivy and Harley won’t really tell them anything since they are amused at the bats frustration. (Bats knew to rescue them cause Selena told them that they were missing; Sirens are reformed(?) in this AU)

So the bats are trying to find out more information on this being the cult summoned and the Sirens aren’t really being that helpful. Selena finds it hilarious after Ivy and Harley inform her what happened. 

Just imagine a few months later there’s a Wayne Gala going on and the Mansons were invited so of course they came and dragged Sam along. Who also ended up dragging Danny and Tucker along. And the bats casually freak out when they see this girl who looks kinda like the being they saw in that warehouse a few months ago. Oh gods above. Poison Ivy please pick up. Please don’t let this be another Gala being crashed. They can handle their rouges, not inter-dimensional beings they have no information about. 

Danny and Tucker naturally finds this hilarious.

Until Tucker gets summoned a month later.

~~~ Please excuse the horrible everything. I am writing this very late, but I had to do a brain dump since this was haunting (haha) my brain. I literally had this idea pop up and not go away while trying to fall asleep. There are so many run off sentences, but I can’t bring myself to care anymore. Sleep waits for no man, woman, or in between before claiming their conscience for a few hours (or days). I might come back later to fix this up and fill plot holes. But that’s a huge maybe. Also I couldn’t be bothered to actually searched up Overgrowth’s real name lol or to fact check anything. My brain is gone. Into the wind. :p

[total-drama-brainrot]

Thinking about the fake dating AU again. 🤯

What if, during his segment on the Aftermath, Noah plays off his 'cheating' as something so emotionally detached it makes him look almost psychopathic, in an attempt to make himself as unlikable as possible?

The 'cheating' was simply strategic, is all. It wasn't his fault the two of them had to go and catch real feelings; Noah was just playing the game. Nothing more.

What? You thought he had feelings for them? Don't be ridiculous, Noah felt nothing for either of them- they were just there to carry him through the competition.

(He doesn't anticipate the ache that twists through his chest after that statement. It isn't true in the slightest, yet even just pretending to not care about his partners is physically painful.)

At first, both Geoff and Blaineley commend him for enacting some long overdue karma/vengeance on the antagonistic duo, but the more Noah intentionally digs himself into a hole- the more hateable he makes himself- the more people actually begin to pity both Heather and Alejandro. Which was the plan from the beginning, so Noah fully commits to it, playing off every interaction as just another cog in his manipulation machine; he's the 'High IQ', after all, of course he planned it all.

And he hides the nausea writhing in his gut from the blatant lies he's sprouting under a carefully blank, uncaring mask of indifference. Every claim he makes is said in the most casual tone- as if he's commenting on the weather instead of admitting to masterminding the heartbreak of two strong competitors- and that's somehow worse than if he would at least seem smug about his achievement. Because at least then he'd (appear to) care.

So, when the Aftermath finally ends, Noah becomes persona non grata. No one wants to even look at him- who knew the little snark could be so ruthless? So uncaring?

And Noah, knowing that he can't confide in Owen (who can't keep a secret to save his life) or Izzy (who's too unpredictable to trust- and who also 'leaked' fake information about him to Sierra during her time on Celebrity Manhunt, so who knows what else she's leak?) turns to his friend Eva, who promptly decks him in the face.

"I'm not friends with cheaters."

And when he tries to explain himself, clutching at his quickly bruising face and hoping that she'll see reason or at the very least afford him some decency, she throws his actions back in his face (actions have always spoken louder than words with Eva). Claiming that, if he's willing to lead on two people romantically, who's to say he isn't also faking their friendship? How can she trust anything that comes out of his slimy mouth?

It hurts. Every accusation is like a wave of searing heat against his already blistered heart, and yet Eva's eyes are so cold as she looks at Noah like he's the scum beneath her shoes.

So he flees to his hotel room.

And, for the first time in years, he weeps.

.

Given the informative finale of World Tour, the Aftermath crew were given the go-ahead to host one last hurrah, to properly question their finalists about their scheme, and to clear Noah's name.

Their audience was practically frothing at the mouth for an update.

During their interview segment, Blaineley (in an attempt to stir up some drama- she's always endeavouring to stay on brand after all) plays clips of Noah's callous 'confessions' on his Aftermath segment post-elimination, hoping to cause some trouble in paradise for the lovely throuple by sewing the seeds of doubt in their minds.

To her surprise, both Heather and Alejandro start laughing at the clips as if they're the funniest thing they've ever seen, huddling closer to Noah as they poke and tease him. Noah, in turn, sinks in unto himself, red-faced and mortified.

"What? How can you be alright with him saying that?" Cries Blaineley, scandalised that her attempt at brewing tension somehow didn't work.

"Because he does not mean it." Alejandro explains. To his side, Heather nods in agreement.

"How can you be so sure?"

Heather points to the screen, where past Noah is lying his ass off for the world to see, stoic save for the barely noticable twitching of his fingers and the occasional jump of his leg.

"He's lying through his teeth! It's so obvious- you weren't even trying to hide your tells, and after all the practice we did!"

"I didn't need to. Neither of you were there to call me out on the bluff."

[scaranation]

I saw that requests were still open and I crawled back from the firey pits of hell to offer you Scaramouche brain rott along with a personal AU that hit me like a foking brick like two days ago.

So first off. Imagine if you will. That Mr. McGrump wasn't actually just one entity but actually a trio of twin brothers that wandered around Teyvat known as the "the trio of eccentrics". They despise each other (cuz of course they do) but decide to travel together cuz no matter how hard they try to NOT bump into each other, the world is just so big for a trio of dumbasses that are chaotic on their own right.

They cannot get along to save their lives. The amount of times Scaramouche and Wanderer have gotten smacked on the face with Kabukimono's smithing hammer are just too many to count. Not to mention that as feeble as he appears to be he has a scarily good aim much to his brother's previous dismay as they have been greeted with a flying hammer to the back of the head multiple times when they have run into each other "by chance" before.

People tend just get confused when one of them randomly spawns on a town and seemingly sprout two other clones like some kind of mitosis type shit until they realize it's just a trio of siblings.

I also low-key feel y/n would accidentally bump and help all of them separatedly by chance only for them to all either think of them fondly or straight up have a little crush on them. I can just see Kabuki rambling to wanderer how some sweet person saved him from a hoard of electro slimes only for him to remember how someone offered to invite him to some food in one of his travels similar to the one his brother mentioned. Only for Scara to interrupt demanding if they were talking about this one very specific person that offered him shelter that one time he was injured after some misión or something. Cue y/n casually walking by and all of them losing their collective shit cuz HOLY SHIT THAT'S THEM- WAIT WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW THEM TOO????? And thus the quest of winning over the kind stranger begins.

Idk if this was even mildly entertaining but this idea has been eating my brain for days and needed to spew it somewhere. Love your work! ✨✨✨

OMLL HOWW YOUR BRAINROTS ARE SO GOOD I CANT 😭😭 this took me a while to write but i had to get everything out to even do this idea some justice it’s got me giggling fr

༊*·˚ 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄

ft. Scaramouche, Kabukimono, Wanderer

Content: fluff, crack (but treated seriously)

a/n - innocent Kabukimono just lives rent free in my heart omlll like just imagine a less traumatised Scara <33

The trio of short haired, violet-eyed wanderers (also known as “the trio of eccentrics” by the local children) were a common sight in Teyvat. Prior to the revelation that they were, in fact, siblings, people had believed that they were either a teleporting ghost or some human aphid with miraculous cloning abilities. That was until someone saw two of the them in the same room, and connected the dots.

Scaramouche, the Wanderer, and Kabukimono were inseparable - not of their own will, of course. On their erratic, impulsive routes across Sumeru, they’d somehow cross paths more often than they wanted. In fact, they’d made an effort to avoid each other. The Wanderer had retreated all the way to the Hypostyle Desert, cackling at his own genius. Unfortunately, he also found Scaramouche and Kabukimono at the desert too - both dumbfounded at the ridiculous situation. Somehow, all three of them had simultaneously decided that hiding in the desert to not see each other was a great idea.

“What are you doing here?” the Wanderer had blurted.

“No, what are you doing here? I had this idea yesterday!” Kabukimono cried.

“Both of you, get out of my sight. I hatched this plan two weeks ago.” Scaramouche grumbled.

“Oh, how diabolical and calculating you are,” the Wanderer rolled his eyes, as though he wasn’t just praising himself for what he thought was the most intelligent idea to ever exist.

“Fine, I’ll leave first.” Kabukimono sighed. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest, but he was always ended up giving in to his brothers.

“Pushover,” the Wanderer smirked.

“Says the unemployed one,” Scaramouche scoffed.

“At least I have a vision.”

“Shut up.”

The many other times the trio convened by accident, two of them weren’t even conscious to fully process their irritation. The moment Kabukimono spotted Scaramouche or the Wanderer at his favourite resting place, he’d let loose his hammer - striking them on the back of the head with scary aim. He’d congratulate himself if he managed to score a concussion, too. It wasn’t as though the others didn’t defend themselves equally vigorously. If they couldn’t settle things with words, the brothers would just break out into fighting.

Things were especially bad when the Wanderer got ahold of Kabukimono’s hammer. Upon wrestling it out of the blacksmith’s grip, the Wanderer would flit into the air, gleefully holding the hammer out of reach until Scaramouche had enough and struck him down with a bolt of lightning.

“You look like a fly when you do that, you know?”

“You’re just jealous.”

Somehow, you were always at the centre of the trio’s unpredictable paths of destruction across Teyvat. You never really guessed at the connection between them, only dismissing it as a mere coincidence that you’d developed a fondness for three purple haired, short-tempered travellers.

As an adventurer, you’d first met Kabukimono on one of your errands.

“Stay away!”

You heard the clanging of something heavy on your inspection in Guyun, turning around to locate the source of the voice.

You followed the commotion around past the domain you’d just exited from, finding a crevice tucked away into a small beach-like area. Clumps of electro crystals clung to the stone walls of the cove, the lapping of the waves only perpetuating the intense elemental reactions. At the centre of it all was a strangely dressed man, being attacked by a hoard of electro slimes. He flailed around with a blacksmith’s hammer, presumably caught in his own attempt to mine valuable ores for a project.

His clothes looked to be of Inazuman attire, too - what was an Inazuman doing, looking for electro crystals all the way out in Liyue?

“Do you need help?” You crouched down, a little hesitant over whether or not it was obligatory for you to jump into the electro-charged mess.

“It… certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?” The man flashed you a defeated smile. Luckily, as a pyro vision holder, it wasn’t too difficult for you to deal with the slimes. With a brief flash of your vision, you also mined the ores for the stranger as well.

“Ah! So they require elemental triggers to be mined. No wonder it was taking me so long. Thank you, by the way - I’m Kabukimono.” The stranger extended a hand. You took it, but he didn’t shake it. The two of you stood there awkwardly for a moment, before he released your hand.

“Ah, sorry… That’s what I see people at the workshop do when they meet someone new. Is it strange?”

“No, of course not! You usually shake the hand after holding it, though.” You quipped helpfully.

“Oh.” A flush spread across his cheeks. He thanked you vehemently once again, insisting on offering you some spare iron in exchange for your help.

“Travel safe!” You called after Kabukimono, as he hurried off. He was a little strange, but his awkwardness was rather endearing. You smiled and shook your head, before resuming work and thinking nothing more of the entire ordeal.

Unlike Kabukimono, the second of the trio you met was a lot more irritable. You met the Wanderer at some food stalls in Sumeru city, almost mistaking him for the acquaintance you’d met in Guyun - only to be quickly corrected by his vastly different attitude.

“Watch it.” The stranger that looked suspiciously like Kabukimono (but with a remarkably more hostile, pointed gaze) shoved past you.

“These lavender melons. How much do they cost?” Not-Kabukimono asked the vendor, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Uh, 200 mora-”

“What? Who sells trash like this so expensively? Forget it, I didn’t want them anyway.” The Wanderer scoffed, turning to leave before you quickly grabbed him.

“If you’re hungry, you can eat at my place. I have some leftovers,” you offered. He narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously.

“Why are you helping me? Is this a poisoning attempt?”

“No… You just remind me of an acquaintance of mine, so I thought I’d look out for you.”

“Pfft, I don’t need your baseless concern.”

At that moment, the man’s stomach grumbled. The two of you made eye contact, before reaching a silent agreement.

“My house is that way,” you pointed, as the stranger begrudgingly followed you.

Even if he didn’t say so, the stranger most definitely enjoyed your cooking. After introducing himself as the Wanderer, he was quick to open up - always stopping by to visit (claiming that you were a convenient dining place for his travels).

Whenever he stopped by, you’d laugh and cook him a warm meal - it almost felt like home to him, or at least what he thought a home was. He never really had one, nor did he care for the notion, but this arrangement was quite pleasant for him. If the Wanderer was in a good mood, he’d even share some of his travelling stories with you. He’d boast about the enemies he defeated in the wilderness, complain about the stupidity of mortals, before giving you the rare piece of acknowledgement (“you know, your cooking is edible,” or “it’s definitely not poisoned,” etc.).

You quickly grew to anticipate his sporadic visits, getting an understanding of what kind of food he preferred. You weren’t sad when he didn’t arrive, and the two of you thrived off a mutual relationship. The Wanderer was surely different from your other companion, but that didn’t make him any less welcome.

Lastly, you’d met Scaramouche on an ominous rainy day. Or, rather, he’d been deposited on your doorstep.

“I don’t remember ordering a parcel…” You peered out into your doorway, squinting through the lashing rain - before realising that this ‘parcel’ was very much human-shaped.

With a surprised gasp, you dragged the figure inside as carefully as you could, wincing at the blood mixed with rainwater that swirled across his smooth skin. Peeling back the heavy layers of his outer coat, you took off the man’s hat to gape again in shock.

“Kabukimono?” You spluttered.

“Who are you calling Kabukimono?” The stranger snapped, sitting up slowly.

“Wanderer?” You tried again, guessing based on the man’s furious expression.

“Hah, you dare to…”

Before the stranger (that was neither Kabukimono nor the Wanderer) could finish his sentence, he passed out again in a haze of dizzying unconsciousness.

The man’s deep indigo eyes fluttered open a while later to the sight of you tending his wounds. He immediately flinched away, looking at you incredulously.

“Who are you? Why am I here?”

“You quite literally passed out on my porch, then again in my house. Don’t you remember?” You quirked an eyebrow.

“You dare gaslight a Fatui Harbinger? Try as hard as you want, but I won’t be giving you financial compensation for this.”

“You’re… a Harbinger…?” You frowned. He sure acted and looked a lot like the Wanderer - perhaps he’d hit his head a little too hard.

“Yes, Scaramouche. I’m better known as the Balladeer, of course.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“Well, then that just means we’re doing a great job of maintaining confidentiality.” Scaramouche huffed, allowing you to continue wrapping bandages around the deep gashes on his body. You chuckled at his demeanour.

“I’m not expecting anything in return for this.” You offered, leaning back to scrutinise your medical work. Years of adventuring had given you experience in this sort of thing, but your expertise was still lacking.

“Then why? Don’t tell me, you believe in kindness?”

“Anyone would do this if they found a stranger half-dead at their door in the pouring rain.” You rolled your eyes.

“I was not half-dead, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Scaramouche huffed, and you almost gawked at how similar he was to the Wanderer.

“Um, do you happen to know anyone named… Uh…” You hesitated under your new acquaintance’s fierce gaze.

“Named what? Do I look like an Akasha terminal to you?”

“Never mind.” You quickly shut your mouth. Perhaps it was just a coincidence.

It took a few months before the trio finally figured out they had a mutual connection. They’d all visited you countless times, and yet were lucky enough not to encounter each other - that was, until they finally began talking about their latest travel experiences upon having a chance meeting in Sumeru.

“Hm, perhaps this is what mortals call… comradeship…” Kabukimono mused to his brothers one day.

“Feeling a little amicable, Kabukimono?” Scaramouche sneered. He eyed the glimmering purple blade Kabukimono flipped over in his hands.

“There was this adventurer who saved me from some electro slimes once. It was because of them that I could fashion this dagger… Humans really are compassionate.” Kabukimono mused. He happily smiled to himself at the reminder of you.

“You’re so naive, brother. After all, mortals are only driven by fair exchange. Nobody would help without expecting it return - ah, there is one exception. There was this person I met who offered me food. I’ve been having free meals with them for months, and they don’t even know how I’m taking advantage of them! How immature they are, selflessly acting like that. It almost makes me concerned for their well-being,” the Wanderer chuckled.

“I don’t think you’re taking advantage of them if you’re… just accepting the free meals they give you. It almost seems they have you wrapped around their finger.” Scaramouche snickered.

“You wouldn’t understand the idea of a mutually beneficial relationship. In fact, have you even talked to a living being other than your colleagues in the last week?”

“Yes, you, and a certain traveller who took me in after I was injured in a mission-”

“You got injured? How pathetic.”

“It was a calculated risk. Anyway, they gave me shelter and treated all my wounds without asking for mora once. And they even let me stay over long after I’d healed, too. Mortals are so foolish, to be blindly trusting. I could’ve snapped their throat in a second.”

The three brothers agreed on the extremely rare and (questionably naive) selflessness of humans.

Then, a beat of silence passed before a revelation dawned on them.

“Isn’t it weird that we’ve all met a strange, helpful adventurer?” Kabukimono murmured.

“Exactly what I was thinking. Surely not all humans are like this.” Scaramouche nodded.

“Maybe foolishness is more common than we thought…?” The Wanderer suggested, but an uneasy feeling was dawning on him as he began to connect the dots.

“Say, does the traveller you two met live near the Grand Bazaar?” Scaramouche prodded.

“Yes.” Kabukimono and the Wanderer responded simultaneously.

“And they have an adventurer’s bandana? With a Mondstadtian clock in the front room of their house?”

“Yes- YOU TWO KNOW THEM AS WELL?” Kabukimono spluttered.

The Wanderer only heaved a large sigh. He was so close to showing off that he had a new friend, only to realise that the new friend was also acquainted with both his brothers.

“How bothersome, it seems you’re already close with them.” Scaramouche raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I am! I met them first, after all.” Kabukimono insisted.

“Both of you, be quiet. I’m going to their place now.” The Wanderer pushed back his chair.

“Hey! I was planning to visit them too!”

The scraping of chairs resounded as the remaining two brothers hurriedly rushed to get to your house.

Any other person would probably pass out from fear at seeing all three of the notorious trio appear at their door. You, however, only shot them a bemused look and ushered them in.

Once the three realised they had competition, Scaramouche, the Wanderer, and Kabukimono would be unrelenting in competing for your attention.

It was quite comical at times - you’d barely have to say anything and one of them would appear, diligently doing tasks for you and looking back at you eagerly for praise. It seemed almost strange to consider that these three had been marvelling at your profound naiveness only a few days ago, and were now basically at your beck and call.

Scaramouche would definitely be the most demanding. Whether it was a hand on your elbow or a risky grip on your wrist, he made sure you were close to him and sought your undivided attention. He’d recklessly snap out searing insults at anyone else, before getting ahold of himself and stating that he was merely defending a poor, foolish soul from being taken advantage of by some calculating purple-haired villain. Not him though, he’d never do anything like that.

The Wanderer (like his name) was more relaxed - he could go without your eyes on him at all times, and he’d drift in and out as he pleased. However, he did see himself as being entitled to your energy whenever he did happen to stop by. Occasionally, he’d even offer to take you on a scenic flight across Teyvat. After you’d tried it once, you were quick to refuse his latter offers - zooming across rooftops at breakneck speed was not your forte. The Wanderer huffed at your reluctance and accused you of denying his altruistic favour, but made an effort to do things you liked regardless.

Kabukimono was fiercely shy. He’d always bring you trinkets - small mechanisms or self-defends tools he’d fashioned from spare parts during his work as a blacksmith. He’d press them into your hands self-consciously, unable to bite back a smile when you praised his handiwork. He wouldn’t hesitate to stand up against his much fiercer brothers if it was for you, holding you in a tight embrace whenever you’d let him.

And so, as it happened, it seemed as though “the eccentric trio” simply couldn’t escape each other. As if by some ill-humoured joke, they all ended up liking the same person. The only issue was, being that person, you now had to deal with all three of them at once.

As if one wasn’t enough, you now had triple the trouble.

༊*·˚

[indigodiskmybeloved]

May I please have your Mochi Desires AU trio? Do you have headcannons or ideas on how they act?

Casually dumps info on ye

So, Pechakeen's mochi not only draws out desires and capabilities, but who's to say it can't change personalities as well?

Nemona:

Due to Florian/Juliana not existing in this AU, the Paldea Trio never got their proper arcs. Nemona never found anyone to match her skill set,and because of that, she grew more and more desperate, even trying to convince Arven and Penny to join competitive just to help her, even when they don't want to.

If Penny or Arven speak up about it, Nemona's confidence easily gets shattered, her self image of being the best destroyed with a few words, and it can be difficult to get her feeling like herself again. So, the two agreed not to speak about it, of fear they may hurt Nemona more devastating than before.

So Pechakeen gifted him with a team straight from smogon, and due to Kieran and Carmine working to save them, Nemona gets to battle them all she wants, even if they are scared and terrified

However, the longer Nemona is possessed, the more she loses herself. The battles turn from somewhat friendly to harsh and controlling, essentially molding Kieran into competitive. All of Nemona's energy go into her battles, so when she isn't battle, she sways and staggers quite a bit, often dragging out her words. Okidogi frequently prevents her from collapsing and hurting herself.

When Geeta learns of what had happened to Nemona, she is devastated, and overcome with guilt and the need to fix things, and be the champion Nemona always aspired to be.

Penny:

Team Star got disbanded, and Penny wasn't allowed to have contact with them, as the school and Director Clavell had deemed them a "bad influence; disturbance to the learning environment," etc.

Their behavior gradually slipped, becoming more quiet and depressed, not having the energy or social life to do anything. And when Carmine yells at them, it triggers the similar response that Penny had with bullies: covering your head and running away.

So now what does mean for Penny, when Pechakeen offers to help? Well, they become more assertive, not taking shit from anyone. However, that quickly evolved into Penny becoming more snappy and bitter, and then eventually becoming a bully themself, yelling at Nemona for literally anything, berating them if they stepped out of line.

When Nemona breaks free, her first instinct isn't to battle, or look for a new rival.

It's to save the ones she loves most, and apologize for hurting them.

And right now, that is Penny and Arven.

Oh, and speaking of which....

Arven:

He had the most drastic change out of the trio. His wish was mainly to be in a world where his father was there and loved him, something that Professor Turo was not capable of doing. Not only that, it was a world where Mabosstiff was alive as well, so everything is peachy!

Except.... Not really. Unlike the others, Arven has no connection to Penny and Nemona through the toxic chain. His thoughts are more muddled, and distant, and memories of them fade away, as Pechakeen doesn't want them interfering with the paradise Arven is living in.

Because his physical body is deteriorating. Since Pechakeen is a decayed Glimmora, it needs a new host to survive, as the peach body is decaying and rotting after all this time. So, what's better than a human?

So Arven's body is currently a host for Pechakeen and Glimmet to survive and use to get around, able to withstand attacks from Paradox monsters that destroyed the body of Glimmora in the first place.

Of course, they take advantage and have a bit of fun, as they become more dramatic and theatric, basically removing all of Arven's blunt and assertive personality.

And the dramatic movements don't last for long, as flowers and glimmet start sprouting, basically using Arven as a host to live off of, until they can detach and live elsewhere. However, Arven has no idea this is happening, and gets paranoid when he feels something is tearing from his body; he just doesn't know what.

Wow, that got dark. But yea. Mochi Desires AU is fucked up. Happy Mochi Day :3

[royalrogue]

I’m a sucker for happy endings and a Zoraal Ja “happy ending” AU has been on my mind a lot recently so here’s an idea dump. This is probably a bit OOC but we’re here to have fun so bare with it.

I’m using my WoL for this as I think in a perfect world she would do this but feel free to think about your WoL instead!

Ahri has been keeping an eye on Zoraal Ja and his behaviour/vibe throughout the tournament. There’s alarm bells there, and when he makes his declaration about waging war on the star, she knows she’s going to have to nip it in the bud before it inevitably escalates.  War mongers are like that.

But she’s also been picking up on context clues the more she finds out. He’s been put in a pedestal since his birth as a literal miracle, which has both stroked his ego and placed a huge burden on his shoulders. Not only that, but he is the blood child of royalty, to the most powerful person on the continent who did the impossible and united everyone under a banner of peace.

He wants to surpass his father, that much is obvious, and it makes sense that he would go to an extreme option to try and make a “Superior Peace”. He’s also been surrounded by yes men and subordinates his whole life, which has made him think everyone around him is lesser. Ahri thinks she can push him to start down a different path, but she’ll have to wait for the right moment where she can break through his stone walls, especially when the sly Sareel Ja isn’t around.

She gets her opportunity following the Mamook trial, where he is defeated by the very man he is looking to surpass. Shade or no, no one worse could have bested him, and she knows he will mentally be at his lowest right now. Perfect!

When everyone splits up to get more information on the Mamook people, Ahri sees this as her chance. Locating Zoraal Ja, he seems to be resting/brooding while Sareel Ja is away doing Twelve knows what. You’d think the plants around him would die with the aura he’s giving off, but Ahri casually approaches, earning a glare that probably could kill someone.

She calls him out how she sees it: he’s been under the monumental pressure of being both the miracle son of a two head and the blood first born of the most important person on the continent his whole life. He wants to surpass his father using extreme means that will not work and will only lead him down a path of self-destruction not just for him, but for everyone around him. And, she knows for a fact that even if, by some actual miracle, he managed to get all the key stones and find the Golden City, his father wouldn’t allow him to rule as he is now.

But things don’t have to be like this. He doesn’t have to follow the expectations of other people. Has he ever thought about what he wants to do? Not as the Resilient Son, not as The Miracle, but as Zoraal Ja?

Zoraal Ja wouldn’t say anything in response, brooding as he is, so she continues by giving a proposition. There’s a whole world out there that doesn’t know him and his lofty titles and, with how things are going, she imagines he won’t want to stick around. So, why not leave Tural and travel? She can even be his guide, as travelled as she is, and show him all the places he wishes to invade. After all, he stands a better change of claiming the star if he knows his enemies weaknesses!

She tells him to think on it and leaves him be, having said her piece. She hopes the seed she’s planed sprouts the way she wants it.

Then the story continues as normal, with the gang finding out the village secret and then fighting the trial. But in the meantime, Sareel Ja returns to the waiting Zoraal Ja with information: Ketenramm has his own set of keystones that should allow them to access the city! All they need to do is take him out and steal them.

But to his surprise, Zoraal Ja refuses! He says he’s done, and he gets up to leave. Sareel Ja tries to reason with him but it falls on deaf ears, and Zoraal Ja departs for Tuliyollal. Sareel Ja can only stand there in disbelief, though he will not be deterred. He has waited too long to turn back now.

The rest of the story runs very similarly, Wuk Lamat goes on to win the competition and find the Golden City. They return to Tuliyollal triumphant, and the preparations begin for the ceremony. Ahri sees neither hide nor tail of Zoraal Ja during this time, which she expected, but she can’t help but worry her plan hasn’t worked. Her fears are put to rest though when she sees him at the ceremony, lurking in a dark corner at the very back.

He comes to her after the ceremony, knocking on her inn room door, to her surprise. It’s a bit awkward, but he tells her he accepts her offer for her to be his guide. Discovering the weaknesses of his future enemies in person would be a good strategic move. Ahri nods along, humouring him, and tells him he will need to wait until she has explored Xak Tural, which is her next stop. He agrees, he had preparations to make.

Things continue as normal once more, until the invasion. Instead if Zoraal Ja, it’s Sareel Ja leading the charge and confronting Gulool Ja Ja. While not versed in the way of the Viper, he is still an incredibly skilled magic user as the Palace seer. The duel still goes ahead, but due to the enhancements Sareel Ja has, he eventually deals the finishing blow on Galool Ja Ja.

Maybe through a combination of an inflated ego and still being sore over Zoraal Ja quitting, he challenges them to confront him in his kingdom, to lay witness to the empire he has built, that he rightfully deserves. If they don’t come, however, he will burn the city to the ground. Then, he departs.

Zoraal Ja is convinced to stay behind and help with the defence as the Commander of the Landsguard. Despite Sareel Ja’s threats and motivations being somewhat targeted, he is the best person to use the Landsgard to the fullest, and his battle knowledge will be crucial in the defence. The rest of the story plays out more or less the same, but with Sareel Ja ruling instead, and a (possible) exclusion of Galool Ja. (Could always be some cloning shenanigans!).

At the end of it, when everything is done and the battle is won, Ahri meets a less flashily dressed Zoraal Ja at the pier, ready to board a ship and start on the first leg of their journey.

[blacklegsanjiii]

Y'know the together!RLS au? The one where they stay "together"? Yes, so, a hc about it!

Sanji's birthday, maybe 14 yo especifially, and both Law and Robin aren't really far from Baratie and both just think "fuck it. we haven't see our baby brother in four years!" and call one month before his birthday to say they will go see him. Sanji is over the moon, of course, and the next day when ASL and Garp come to Baratie, he tells his boyfriends the news.

So, his day comes and both his siblings are there early, so they can help and have time for just the three of them. Some hours later, when the hour of the party comes, Garp and his grandsons arrive. ASL are very very happy to see Sanji and celebrate for the first time with him as boyfriends.

And they also meet their boyfriend older siblings and also watch their dynamic and... it's different from them own, RLS are more the quiet & subite affection type. Watch the casual way Robin and Law use their devil fruits (Robin even more) is kinda freaking out everyone except Sanji.

In the end of the day, Law gives Sanji a gift who is a new version of the blonde's old camera, bc the other wasn't working more (but Law managed to save the photos) with Sanji's favorite photos from all the ones they've take. Now, he has the photos on his wall and desk, just like new ones with his boyfriends.

That's so cute!! Oh lordy, okay.

So in preparation for Sanji's birthday Robin finds out Crocodile is headed to the East Blue for business around that time and she asks to tag along saying she has business at Baratie on Sanji's birthday and Crocodile shrugs and agrees. Law has to get a few things specifically in the East Blue before heading back to the North Blue and decides the crew is going to meet Sanji and celebrate his birthday. Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin are losing it as the others in the crew are confused about who Sanji is outside of the photo Law has hanging. So they are both headed to Baratie, having called beforehand to inform him of their being there. Sanji is absolutely ecstatic about them coming.

They arrive a day early for introductions to be made properly and to start setting up for the closure-even if Sanji insisted that they didn't need to be Zeff kicked him swiftly and told him to shut up and enjoy the family reunion properly. Patty and Carne and the other staff are concerned about Nico Robin being there because of the rumors but Law calls them all dumb assholes which Zeff laughs at. Law isn't wrong and Zeff says so. Sanji and Robin meet the rest of the Heart crew that came after the storm, excited to see them either way. So they close down and clean and Law of course runs scans over his siblings because they're his siblings and he needs to make sure they're okay.

The next morning as they're setting the last few things for the party up they find Sanji smoking outside and Law is shaking the now fourteen year old and demanding why he's ruining his lungs and tastebuds as Robin giggles. Sanji is grumbling something or other about them meeting his boyfriends and understanding. Law immediately sicks Bepo upon him. Sanji just burrows into the bear. Then Garp arrives with ASL and the loud screaming immediately interrupts the calm as Sanji apologizes for them. All of them touchy and grabby with the blond as they scream happy birthday and Sanji. Law sighs and Zeff did say Sanji warned them, Law disagrees and says they weren't properly warned.

Of course ASL are all over Sanji but when he does get them to calm down, as much as he can anyway, Robin and Law make polite conversation with them and help with the party. Garp is keeping an eye on the wanted siblings, losing a lot of trust in Sanji for hiding them. But Garp is also watching Law shambles dirty dishes away as Robin refills drinks and plates and fixes Sanji's hair and clothes with the extra hands she sprouts all over. Law also will just walk over and fix the way he looks and complains he's still too thin and chastise him for smoking.

The Baratie staff and Zeff find their powers weird and kind of gross. ASL are watching with interest because it's way more subtle, the way they show their affection to Sanji. It's just not as overt, subtle in the way they pull him aside to fix him. The little brushes as they pass by, and the looks thrown to him. When it's time for presents it's mostly cookbooks and clothes. Law gives him a box and apologizes for the first one breaking and Sanji is looking at him confused until he opens the box and freezes. Ace moves into ask what's wrong as tears start falling but Sanji is wrapped around Law as Robin sprouts hands to catch the box. Law is just holding him as Robin looks in the box and smiles as she picks through the photos and calls him a masochist with a smile. Zeff asks what the hell is going on as Sanji wipes his face and calls Law an asshole with a big smile as Robin displays the camera and explains they got one for Sanji a few weeks after meeting the little skeleton boy.

Do they take a lot of photos that day? Yes. Does Sanji hang up photos all over his room? Yes. Are they also all over the tree house and bandit house? Yes. Law gave him the best present that day. And it gets a lot of use.

[gaydiation-poisoning]

HORRIBLE MESSY IN-NO-PARTICULAR-ORDER AMP BULLETPOINT POST BEFORE SIDE ORDER COMES OUT LETS FUCKING GOOOO

THIS IS AMP ^ (art by @for-a-new-life)

SHE IS MY NEO AGENT 3

Age: 14

Height: 4'8

Full name: Amphitrite Takowasa

°She was born a little less than a year after the events of Splatoon 2 (we have a slightly altered timeline)

°She will BITE you if you call her Amphitrite

°Amp's mother Ashta disappeared when she was about 7 years old, ever since she's been growing up on the streets of Inkopolis alongside her best friend/little brother Sammy.

(pictured here, by @redginaldusrooiakker)

°She does not know her own full name

°She has faint memories of Off The Hook playing on the television when she was little, this inspired her dream of becoming a big time DJ. (cus there's not enough of these Octo DJ bastards running about)

°She made her way to Splatsville at age 13 looking to make it big, although having no money and no home took to crashing on the couch in the Lobby.

°Despite practically living in the Lobby, Amp does not play much Turf War or any other sport. She tends to find them limiting and aggravating, as she's not much of a team player and tends to prefer an aggressive solo charge over working with others. As a result she turns to working at Grizzco for cash.

°She is very reckless on the job, with a tendency to charge in headfirst with a seeming lack of self preservation, most coworkers dislike her for her behavior and think she's a liability. She is, however, effective, and thus Grizz keeps her on and assigns her 'mentors' to keep her focused. (At least until they burn out and she's passed to someone else)

°Mains Octobrush

°After about four months of working for Grizzco, she had a falling out with her favourite mentor and wound up meeting Craig Cuttlefish and joining the Squidbeak Splatoon

°She just wants to feel useful

°Amp has a very casual way of speaking, very rarely using honorifics. Some find this rude, but it's typically a sign that she likes someone a great deal and feels comfortable. She doesn't typically gel well with Authority figures for this reason. (Albeit this is not intentional on her end.)

°She takes to calling Cuttlefish 'Uncle' not long after meeting him.

°Also has very little in the way of a filter with profanity, and tends to cuss a lot when the urge strikes her.

°Very fidgety, tends to chew on wasabi sprouts or tug on her tentacles to keep her mind occupied. Hates sitting still.

°Has very little sense of aim, her method with a splattershot essentially comes down to 'Can't hurt me if you're atomized'

°Almost shoots Octavio after he fell out of the Octobot, Craig had to knock the gun upwards to deflect the shot.

°Prefers baggy clothes

°Will eat anything. Not picky at all.

°Has a love for spicy food, the hotter the better.

°Sometimes eats things with her hands that really should not be eaten with one's hands

°VERY loud for someone her size

°Has no concept of an 'inside voice'

°If you do so much as give her a sandwich she'd probably be willing to die for you.

°Runs very warm

°Very heavy sleeper, can sleep in almost any position.

°The notch in her ear is from a Grizzco Charger by her mentor turned nemesis turned best friend Mono

----

°The scar on her forehead comes from accidentally bashing her forehead against the Octobot's control console during the fight with Grizz

(on that note)

°If you have talked to me about her or simply read her name, you'd probably have figured out that Amp is the granddaughter of DJ Octavio

(This charming fella. Art once again provided by @for-a-new-life)

°Neither of them are aware of this connection until post Splatoon 3's story (although there are a couple AUs where that's not the case)

°Her mother is named Ashta, she is Agent 8 and a Clone of Octavio (if you're wondering why she came out female well the answer is 🏳️‍⚧️)

°Amp's lack of knowledge of or contact with her grandfather comes from her mother's distaste for her father (to put it lightly)

°She looks up to her grandpa a lot, she definitely sees him through rose tinted glasses in her younger years. (Honestly the Takowasa family drama will probably get a reblog dedicated to breaking it down)

°She wouldn't have even been accepted by him if Craig hadn't basically reverse psychology-ed Octavio into actually being a grandpa to her

°Amp is close with Octavio but the relationship is...complicated to say the least

°Despite this she is very determined to upkeep a relationship with him

°When she eventually starts her DJing career, she does so under the stage name of DJ ANG3LFISH, a mix of her title as Agent 3, and of Octavio's occasional nickname for her, Angelfish.

°She keeps up this stage performance until one particularly traumatic performance scares her into silence for a time

°She later comes back onto the music scene in a somewhat fishing themed band called The Reel Deal, with her once again as the DJ, and her friends Mono and now much more grownup Sammy as vocalists.

°Amp would not start singing in their songs until some of their later albums.

°She has a lot of vocal fry which can be very good for their harsher tracks

And finally (for now)

°Amp is a Virgo

(doodle by @redginaldusrooiakker)

(Second part breaking down the Takowasa Family Issues will be out soon!)

EDIT: PART 2 OUT NOW CHECK RBS

[saradika]

— WASTELAND, BABY

x. not an end, but the start of all things that are left to do

[masterlist] | [part ix]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 2.8k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, soft smut and feelings

a/n: the end! So hope you enjoyed this little journey! 💖

You learn and grow as time ticks down - but you never once forget.

With the help from Mos Espa, the Pika Oasis flourishes.

Each time you visit, the limits of the small city have grown - creeping out like ivy. Collecting others, as it slowly spreads. As it slowly thrives.

Houses rebuilt - now standing strong.

Those crops so carefully planted and cultivated now sprout up under the care of the settlers. Tall fields of gleaming razorgrain, the reaching branches of the growing muttfruit trees.

Finding a way, after the world had nearly ended.

It follows you, back to Mos Espa.

The streets are familiar now. Those connections with the people there growing. You make plans. Have friends. Even more than that.

It's what sends you out into the Wastelands. Sometimes with others, sometimes alone - even though it makes them, him, worry.

Looking for others, like you. An urge to shepherd them to safety.

It doesn't always go well - you now know just how uncomfortable the sting of a stimpak can be, the racking shivers that come from radiation sickness - but you've grown in the time that has passed.

The holster at your hip becomes more comfortable. Piecing together your own protection - thick molded leather. A new, long coat that fits you. Your blue Vault suit worn underneath, a personal symbol of what you’ve endured and survived.

A link to how you’ve come to find your voice.

Picking your way across dirt paths and broken buildings. Finding families, huddled around fires. Crouching down as you draw a map in the dust for them, telling them of a place where they can stay for a while, or even longer - if they wanted.

Sending them somewhere where they’ll be looked after.

And then, one day - after all your searching - you think someone finds you.

The morning doesn’t feel any different. You hadn't even gone that far, compared to some other trips. The morning and afternoon spent wandering under the sun, before you finally turned around to make your way back to the city before nightfall.

Glancing down at your Pip-Boy to check the road ahead - looking up to see a figure standing alone, in the middle of the path. The glitter of dark eyes peeking over a shoulder.

Gloved hands spreading wide - their voice carrying easily over the distance.

"We've been looking for you."

The hands reach up and lower the dark hood, revealing a man with dirty blond hair.

A wry smile on a face that feels just friendly enough that your hand doesn't immediately twitch towards your holster, "You're... not easy to find."

But still, you are cautious. You are a nobody.

The thought that anyone would be looking for you is disconcerting, even if that person looks as unarmed as they do. Though you suppose they could be hiding a weapon beneath the black cape that matches their dark clothes.

You cup your hands around your mouth, your voice carrying, "Why me?"

The stranger takes a step closer, and then another. Their gait is casual, though their steps are slow. Bringing himself close enough that you can see his companion - something small. Long, green ears that have you frowning.

Unusual... even after everything you've seen.

"There's rumors of a Wanderer, that brings home lost souls," He tells you - close enough now that you can see how his hair ruffles in the wind. That his eyes are blue, and friendly, "This one has been separated from his father."

At "this one", he reaches to pull the figure that huddles behind him. Lifting it from a carrier he wears on his back, bringing it around to hold him against his chest, like he would a child.

You haven't seen anything like it.

Cute in a funny kind of way - green, all over. Wrinkles, though he's so small and seems so young. Dark eyes above a tiny nose as he turns to peek at you - letting loose a squeal that makes you feel certain that he understands.

"Where is his father?" You're unable to help asking. Drawn to it, as you find yourself stepping closer. None of the alarm bells ringing in your mind, like when you run into raiders, or sense there might be a trap.

It's just you, and them.

"Last I heard, he is in Mos Espa." The Stranger tells you, as the Child's head tilts up to look at him.

Your head shakes, almost reluctantly, "I’m sorry. I haven't seen anyone like him in Mos Espa."

Wanting to help if you could, but it's the truth. You would have remembered.

He laughs, then.

"His father is a Mandalorian."

For the shortest of seconds, you think he means Boba. A weird sort of jolting flip in your stomach, the thought of a child that your lover had never once mentioned.

And then it's crashing over you - the realization making your eyes widen.

"You're Grogu." You murmur, "Aren't you?"

Din's son. The one you had heard so much about. The one that you knew was missed so fiercely. That he had to let go, because he believed it was the safest path.

The Child turns your way at the name. Cooing, as an arm wiggles. Affection flooding through you as the gap between you closes. His little claws close around your fingers when you reach for him, giving his hand a little shake.

"I do know your dad." You confirm now, with a smile, "He talks a lot about you, you know that?"

Grogu smiles - the gleam of two tiny teeth above the split of his mouth. The Stranger, smiling too, as he carefully transfers the Child into your arms. Helping you fit on the harness, for when your arms grow tired.

But, it leaves you wondering.

"If you knew where his dad was, why didn't you just come to Mos Espa?" You ask the Stranger, "And why the return? I thought he was safe with you."

His smile is as cryptic as his answer, "He was, for a time. But I've taught him all he knows. This is the path he's chosen."

A pause, before he adds, "And as far as Mos Espa... I think it would be best for everyone if I don't make an appearance. Wouldn't want to upset the Daimyo."

Rubbing the Child affectionately between his ears, as your brain trips to catch up. Giving you a puzzle to put together later, as he dips down in a small bow before stepping away.

Leaving you with a phrase, spoken with reverence, "May the Force be with you."

The Child sits heavy in your arms, as he chatters at the Stranger - a goodbye, in his own way.

"Uh, thanks," You call after, bemusedly, "You, too!"

Leaving you to blink down at your new companion. A careful adjustment in your arms, as he clings to the strap of the pack.

"Well," You smile, "Let's go find your dad, okay?”

The trip back to Mos Espa is mercifully uneventful - though you're still on high alert, with your precious cargo.

Your nerves starting to settle as the ground becomes more familiar - as the peeks of the Palace and the high walls come into view against the rocky horizon.

You fill the space with idle chatter. Gesturing to things you notice, the Child content to babble in your arms, to point out his own observations. Seemingly aware, in spite of his small size and what you assume to be his young age.

Until you're finally passing through the gates that creak open at your arrival. Large eyes grow wider at all the sights and smells, as you pass through the marketplace.

You think you must pass a little too close to a stall, because by the time you track down Din - checking over some new cargo with Fennec - there's a small pastry clutched in his hand, his robe dusted with crumbs.

"Mando," You call - striding up to them with a smile, "Look who's here!"

He's distracted, a hum buzzing through his helmet as it tilts your way for a second, before his head is whipping fully around, with an "oh!"

Arms going wide on instinct to catch the Child, as he seems to spring from your arms. Your own little shriek as he propels himself forward, colliding with Din's armor, burrowing against his chest, the space filled with his tiny chattering.

"Okay, little guy," Din is telling him - in a voice full of so much wonder and pride it makes your chest ache, "I'm happy to see you too. I didn't know when I'd see you again."

The emotion feels intimate, private enough that you start to move away, before his gloved hand brushes your elbow. Stopping you, mid-step.

“Thank you.” Din tell you, in that same voice. Making a space for you, in this family they’ve patched together.

It's a bright spot in the long week - a moment of joy to treasure among the long hours. A much-needed reunion brings all four of you close together, and even Fennec is unable to help going in.

"Been a while," Her fingers ruffle his ears, as the Child coos, "Glad you're back home."

Her smile and glance your way makes you think she means both of you. Her words are something you tuck inside your heart and your mind. How far you've come, since that day you had stumbled in.

There's the tilt of a head then, tiny hands against the Beskar as the Child tilts his head up. Flashing one last tiny-toothed smile skywards.

"Yeah," Din breathes out, with a soft chuckle, "I missed you too, buddy.”

And you find yourself thinking, that if you could see his face… he'd be smiling.

The breeze from the open window is cool against your skin. Those summer days bleeding into a chilly fall, then a dark and icy winter.

Spring has been creeping in, pushing through the frozen earth. Those days of being kept inside fading to morning and afternoons with a new appreciation of the sun.

“How many days?” Boba murmurs in your ear, his voice low and rough with sleep.

It’s become routine. He doesn’t ask every day. Sometimes it’s once a week. Once a month.

Your head tilting towards the Pip-Boy sitting on the bedside table in his - now, your - room. Fingers tapping at the display, until the black and green screen flickers to life.

“1342.” You tell him, before you’re rolling over to face him, fingers brushing bare skin.

Little over three and a half years left.

He hums, in the early morning light. A stretch as his hand flattens across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

It surprises you each time - has you wondering why he asks. At first it had been both touching and confusing. Not expecting him to remember that little conversation, those months ago.

Even if it had meant the world to you.

And then, you had just rolled with it. Thinking that perhaps he will want to go with you. You hoped that he would.

But this morning, you find yourself you asking him.

“What makes you ask?” His eyes crack open as your thumb smoothes against the scar on his bicep. The healed mark still pink from the Pika Oasis, the shot that had just grazed him, “The rooms have been marked off for weeks.”

They’re warm and brown and you lose yourself in their depth for a long moment, unable to keep the smile from your face. He’s softer in the morning light - a sight that’s only just for you.

You’re still not tired of it, and you hope you never will be.

“What?” You ask, when he doesn’t answer - when he just holds that eye contact.

He laughs then, a broad hand coming up to cup your face. The pad of his thumb smoothing across your cheek.

“You must know.”

His words are a low, careful rasp. A tenderness aching in your chest, as your heart seems to flutters. Beating against your ribs, as your fingers wrap around his wrist.

You must know that if it’s important to you, that it’s important to him. That he asks because it makes you happy. Because ever since the beginning, he’s liked looking after you. Being the armor that wraps around you, that keeps you safe.

You must know that he feels the same.

The sound you make is ragged, as you close that little gap between you. Smiles meeting before lips press together.

A quiet rumble in this throat before he’s rolling on top of you. Admiring, for a moment - the way you’re nestled beneath him. Looking at home, happy, in his room, in his bed.

How far, things have come. Your old memories feel like a lifetime ago, rose-colored and hazy. But world now doesn’t seem so grey - there’s green, now. Weaving into the muted shades and bringing life to all it touches.

And with that touch, there’s a sense of knowing. Not just in the intimate way he moves - hooking your thigh around his waist. In the way he knows how much you can take, fingers slipping between your thighs as you sigh into his neck.

It’s in the way your fingertips map his skin, the marks now memorized as you had learned some of the stories. A late night as he had opened up - as you find out about the liberation of a sister and friends of the Stranger in the Wasteland.

How Boba had been young and so full of vengeance then, how it had led to him being trapped in the nest of a Mireluck Queen - one of those creatures you had heard about in the Pika Oasis. The acid burning his skin, until he had finally been able to escape.

How the Tuskens had found him, after. Brought him back from the brink of death. Another small connection, now making sense.

It may had been known throughout the Wasteland - but there’s a sense of trust in the way he tells you. Something you think about, as your lips move to press against each one.

A rough groan breaking the soft silence, when he finally sinks himself into you. Never growing tired of the feeling of taking you apart, the way you always wrap so warmly around him.

The slow, now familiar build as his breathing hitches, as your fingers make new marks against his skin. Winding tight until you’re breaking in his arms, his name a soft sob on your lips.

And he follows, so soon after.

The early mornings pass slowly, like this. Your mind straying, but always coming back.

Because you no longer only dream about the artificial life created while you slumbered. Now, the people who fill your thoughts at night how include the ones that you spend your days with.

But you never once forget them. They are never far from your mind, as the time slowly ticks down on your wrist.

Days bleeding into weeks, and then months. And then longer.

And as that time passes, you make the journey out to check on them. Back to the Vault - its location still marked so carefully on your map, and now another thing you know by heart.

Tracing your way back to where it had all began, no longer afraid of what you might find in the Wasteland.

Realizing just how small that vault was - that nest of drab, connecting rooms - as your hand flattens against the glass where they sleep. Checking on them, making sure they're still okay.

Murmured promises that you repeat - hoping that somehow, they just might hear.

At a place now, where you can process that fury that stemmed from realizing that the Vault had been treated like an experiment.

A death sentence that surely someone had recognized - an idle entertainment from the ones in charge to see what would happen when a world of then and a world of now collided.

You transform it into a tool. Letting the anger flow into your work, as you spend each day helping Mos Espa grow. That drive is the motivator that sends you out to look for others. Gathering them up and bringing them back to saftely.

Doing what Boba had done for you.

Building up others, encouraging them to do the same.

How you’ve come to love.

Because you’ll be damned if you let them win. You’ll show them how you’ve come to thrive, even in the Wasteland.

You'll be there the very second that that timer runs down - a friendly and loving face waiting on the other side. All this time, spent ensuring that they will have someone who understands.

Who can help them, in this new world.

But... until then.

Until then… and you think, even after.

No matter what.

You know you've found your home.

(THE END)

Again, thank you so much for everyone who checked this out, left a little note or lots of love - I noticed and adored every single one. This was so many firsts for me and you all made it such a fun experience!! Sending you lots of love and sincerely grateful and thankful thoughts. 💚💕 (And may do a one-shot or two in the future - thinking about Boba and Bluebird taking a little trip to Goodneighbor together? 👀👀)

(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @ri-a-rose, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce, @monada43, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ray-rook, @dumfanting, @bedky, @thirsty-boba-fett-posts, @dukeoftheblackstar, @lifelikefae, @pentaghasm, @izbelross, @margowritesthings)

[sanjoongie]

𝓑𝓪𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓪 𝓷𝓪

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊My submission for CoDN's secret santa event!

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊To @pyeonghongrie! i tried to make this as personal as possible, so I hope you have a happy holiday and enjoy this!

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Pairing: Kim Hongjoong x Reader(M pronouns, female anatomy)

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Au: dystopian au, boxing au, loosely inspired by Jacqueline Carey's Santitos Duology

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Tropes: soulmates (red string of fate), childhood friends to lovers

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst (happy ending)

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Rated: 18+, MDNI!!!

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Word Count: 2,405

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Warnings: reader taller than hongjoong ((this is rie's fic, everyone 🤐)), reader is a tease!, pegging, bottom! hongjoong, top! reader

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Summary: In a world where you've been born in a sequestered city surrounded by a wall, Hongjoong would do literally anything to get the two of you out of this hellhole you grew up in. He would risk it all, just for you

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊Author's Note~  i found this saying in tagalog that i think fits perfectly for this scenario: the exercise of free will to take a risk and attempt to shape outcomes to a degree, in face of known and unknown factors that come into play. To throw yourself into the hands of fate, despite the adversity, hoping it will all end well 💞

The crowd cheered for Hongjoong but his eyes only searched out for one head that stuck out above the rest. He was looking for you. He only needed to win one more fight, and he would get his freedom--and yours. You two had half-bottled dreams of leaving this place the two of you fought through as children. He didn’t know how far you’d get but he was damn determined to make sure you found a place to be yourself and to be with him.

It was easy to find you in the crowd, your head always high above everyone else. But even if he couldn't see you, all he had to do was follow the red string of fate that always connected him to you. There were too many instances when that had saved the both of you.

🌠🌠🌠The Past

A few years ago, when the red string could be seen by you both, you had become even more inseparable. The two of you laid on a rooftop, limbs entwined casually, when Hongjoong sprouted his plan.

“I’m going to start boxing,” Hongjoong said resolutely.

You sat up, eyes wide with alarm. “But Hongjoong--”

“I know the risk, Love,” Hongjoong cut you off, sitting up as well.

“Then you know I can’t risk you!” You protested. 

Hongjoong smiled gently at you. “We can’t be together here. They’ll never let us. I have to try something.”

And so Hongjoong learned how to box. He trained with the other hopeful youths looking to earn their freedom. 

Once a year, the man in charge of this city within a wall, held a boxing tournament. He said it was built on the foundation of the gladiators of old. In fact, it was just a source of entertainment for the ones in charge of this place. You knew that, Hongjoong knew that, but if there was a chance to be free of this place…

The city was once the unfortunate recipient of a toxic accident. In order to make sure that none of the infection spread, a wall was built around it. Anyone born in that city remained in that city. After years and years of oppression, the ‘higher up’s decided that it would benefit the populace if there was a way to earn your freedom. 

🌠🌠🌠

You were there to wrap up Hongjoong’s hands before he donned the boxing gloves when he practiced. The material that protected Hongjoong’s hands passed through yours. You wanted to lean forward and kiss his fingers before you were done but you resisted. It wasn’t safe for anyone to see that there was a bond further than friendship between you and Hongjoong; it could be used against you, at the detriment of each other. But the small opportunity to ‘help’ Hongjoong was approved; you were his best friend after all. 

Oftentimes, when the majority of the boxing club was gone, you were afforded quiet moments with Hongjoong. Always careful, you were the first one with the first aid box, rubbing ointment on a split lip or placing ice on a bruise. Hongjoong always thanked you with a quick smile. 

“I don’t think Wooyoung isn’t going to last long, especially after that knock out,” You mused. You stood up and mock-jabbed at the air, pulling a chuckle from Hongjoong.

“I don’t think so either but I think one of the coaches is gonna ask him to be an assistant coach,” Hongjoong informed you.

Your eyes slid towards Hongjoong, now clasping your arms behind your back. “But you aren’t quitting.”

Hongjoong shook his head. “Nope.”

You plopped yourself down on Hongjoong’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Are you sure I can’t convince you?”

A gleam of lust suddenly lit up Hongjoong’s eyes. “You could plead your case,” He suggested with a smile pulling up the corners of his lips. 

Your arms around Hongjoong’s neck moved, tilting his head to the side to nibble at his ear, just the way he liked it. “I hate seeing them ruin your pretty face, Joongie,” You cooed.

“Ah!” Hongjoong exclaimed once your teeth set into his lobe. “It’s only--hhh--temporary.”

You followed a path of wet kisses and sharp nips along his jaw and down his neck. “Oh, well then,” You replied flippantly, settling back on his lap--away from the growing present in his pants. “If it’s just temporary.”

Hongjoong grinned but he groaned at the loss of your lips on him. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

Your fingertip found the head of his dick in his sweats and flicked it, causing Hongjoong to gasp. “It’s only temporary; you’ll be fine.”

Having his words thrown back at him, all he could do was pout and you cackled as you got off his lap. “Come on, we should head home.” You sent a dramatic look over your shoulder. “That is, unless you want to get caught.”

Hongjoong swallowed visibly and stood up, shifting his pants over his uncomfortable boner. “No, we can’t have that.”

You smirked. “No, I don’t suppose we can.”

🌠🌠🌠Present day

You shouted loudly from your place in the crowd. Hongjoong was fighting like the true scraper he was but you worried. His opponent was bigger than him in a way that you were certain would never fly in a real world boxing match. It was just another confirmation that no one actually left this place through this competition. But Hongjoong was determined.

Your heart ached at the sight of Hongjoong bobbing and weaving. His eyes were trained on his opponent, never faulting from his goal. He hadn't even winced when the man stormed out, a clear favorite of the crowd. Hongjoong’s left arm shot out, glancing off his opponent’s jaw, and then he received a punch to the gut before he could dodge out of the way. The bell rang to signify the end of the round and Hongjoong struggled to his corner.

You shouted for the crowd to move out of the way as your stomach moved upwards into your throat. You didn’t care for one fucking second one anyone thought: Hongjoong was hurt and you were going to his side. You followed the red string that remained connected between your pinky and Hongjoong’s, knowing eventually you would end at Hongjoong’s side.

Hongjoong’s coach was rubbing his shoulder muscles and whispering into Hongjoong’s ear as the medic was carefully handing some ice to Hongjoong. Hongjoong’s eyes widened as he watched you approach. He dismissed his coach, who sent you an unapproving look but moved out of ear shot. 

You grabbed Hongjoong by the nape of his neck and pulled his forehead towards you. “That was kinda stupid, Hongjoong,” You hissed.

Hongjoong laughed. “I got more points than him.”

Your eyebrows furrowed inwards for a moment. “Throw the match. We’ll try again next year. Just don’t hurt your money maker, okay? I’ve kinda grown fond of your ugly mug,” You teased. 

Hongjoong laughed and then groaned, clutching his stomach. “No, Love, I won’t throw the match. Now go back to the stands before Coach glares a hole into your back.”

You stuck your tongue out at Hongjoong’s coach but flounced away regardless. You pushed and glared at a few people until you arrived back at your previous position. Your gut was still twisting in worry, but you had to hope that the both of you would stick it to the man and leave this place. You needed it with all your heart.  

🌠🌠🌠The Night before

“Fuck,” Hongjoong bit down on his lower lip. 

You were deep in Hongjoong, as you preferred. Your strap-on was spreading Hongjoong’s tight little hole and he shuddered as the tip brushed his prostate once again. 

“Deeper!” he whined.

You angled your hips and continued to thrust into your lover slowly. Leaning in to capture Hongjoong’s lips in a messy kiss, when you released him, a string of spit connected you, not unlike your red string of fate. 

“Love!” Hongjoong’s black nails scraped the nape of your neck.

At a moment's notice, you began to jackhammer inside of Hongjoong, who could barely hold himself together after you gave him what he wanted. Pretty groans fell from his lip as his body jolted under you. He was just so cute, so tiny below you. You adored having him fall apart like this for you. This was your view, no one else could have Hongjoong like this.

“Give it to me, Pretty Boy,” Hongjoong encouraged you.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your hips pressing into Hongjoong’s ass, fervor renewed. “Take my dick in that tight hole of yours.”

“So good,” Hongjoong groaned, tipping his head backwards so you could view his sharp jaw and neck. You weren’t allowed to mark up his beautiful skin but you longed for the day you could do so freely and declare him yours. 

“Are you going to cum, Joongie?” You teased, getting wetter and wetter as Hongjoong’s chest bounced when you fucked him. 

“Gonna cum!” Hongjoong whined, getting more and more pitchy the closer you brought him to his climax. He reached in between his legs and eagerly began to tug on his cock as his cries began to reach a crescendo. 

“Cum, baby,” You ordered and Hongjoong’s back bowed, his toes curled, and he came all over his taut stomach. You watched with absolute glee as it was your dick that put him through that intense climax.

When Hongjoong opened his eyes, they were hooded and sated. “Thank you, Love.”

You didn’t need any encouragement to fuck Hongjoong silly but he always begged for it on a night before a big event. He always stated that he could never turn his brain off but your big dick always could. 

“Oh thank God you’re finished, you’re so hard to please,” You rolled your eyes and collapsed beside Hongjoong in his tiny bed.

Hongjoong propped himself up with one hand holding up his head, turning to his side. He had his serious face on, so your teasing grin slowly lost its wattage on your face. “I’m gonna win tomorrow, Love. I’m going to get us the hell out of here. I’m going to build us a better life; one that we deserve.”

You pulled at his free hand and lifted it to your lips, kissing his knuckles. “I know, Hongjoong,” You reassured him.

Hongjoong groaned when you slipped one of his fingers into your mouth and bobbed down on it, keeping eye contact. “You’re insatiable!”

You released his finger with a pop. “Only for you,” You informed him.

🌠🌠🌠Present day

Hongjoong was losing energy; it was apparent in the way he stopped dodging oncoming punches. He acquired a fat lip, and you thanked God for the teeth guard. Soon, with all the points the opponent was wracking up, it was very clear that Hongjoong was not going to win. 

You chewed on your lower lip, anxiety feeding you with dread, but still you were the loudest one cheering Hongjoong on. Even his boxing club mates had gone silent, eyes worryingly following the way he listed slowly to the left as he walked. 

There was nothing you could do to protect Hongjoong, but then again, he had always been the one that protected you…

🌠🌠🌠The Past

“You smell like poop!” You insulted the other child that had been throwing dirt at you and calling you weird.

“At least I’m not a weirdo like you!” The kid threw verbal daggers at you back.

“Hey!” Hongjoong turned a corner and ran as fast as he could. He tackled the kid looking to throw a rock at you next and stopped him.

“Leave him alone!” Hongjoong pummeled the other kid until that kid who had been harassing you was crying, covered in snot.

Hongjoong stood up and approached you. Even as a child, his eyes still held an amount of warmth that was really only reserved for family. But then again, you two had always felt like a found family with each other. He offered you a hand up and you took it; he had saved you after all.

“You’re not weird,” Hongjoong mumbled under his breath, cheeks looking red. “Don’t listen to that poopie pants.”

You giggled and Hongjoong smiled. And at that moment, although neither of you could see it yet, the red string of fate connected between you two.

🌠🌠🌠Present day

There was a bit of a commotion at the table where the higher ups watched the match. They pointed to the dirty sign that showed how many rounds had taken place and it looked like they were comparing notes. If they ended the match due to points and not a knockout, Hongjoong’s plans would be completely ruined and each blow Hongjoong had received would have been for nothing.

Hongjoong guarded his body and his head alternatively, not allowing for his opponent to swing at him and finally cause a knockout. And just when you thought he was about to collapse, his listing turning into a stumble, when the opponent swung at the obvious weakness, Hongjoong ducked and delivered an upper cut to the man’s chin. The big man collapsed, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and the referee began the count. 1, 2, 3! The referee brought Hongjoong’s arms upwards in a celebration and Hongjoong was declared the victor!

You jumped up and down and shouted until you felt your voice go hoarse. Hongjoong had done the improbable! His love for you and his determination allowed him to do exactly what he needed. He fought for your love, and he allowed fate to lead him where he needed to go. You felt like your heart was going to explode. The two of you would celebrate in private, of course, but still, you made your way back to Hongjoong’s corner of the ring, and gathered Hongjoong up and twirled him around. 

“Alright, alright!” Hongjoong protested against your chest. Even once you let him go, you saw how red his face was, using your height against him. 

You grinned, letting your love for him shine from your eyes. “You did alright for yourself, short stuff,” You said, ruffling his hair.

Hongjoong swatted your hand away and bit down on a pout. “I’m not that much shorter than you.”

“Sure, sweetie, whatever you say,” You teased him, clamping a hand down on his shoulder companionably. 

You’d show him later just how much smaller he was than you; that always seemed to get him the hardest.