#for no other reason than I want her to be

[partiallysame]

Price’s lil Wife Poly!141

Price’s rules for the boys

- work and home are separate. He can not stress this enough. No call signs used in the house. No ghost mask (told Simon this the very first time he met you. No mask. Not now. Not ever)

- soap used “gaz” once and price made him run laps around the neighborhood (the other housewives loved it)

- No talking about any mission any op. Complaining about recruits or higher ups was allowed. Only can talk about what happened on base.

- The missus was kind and pure and he would not let the type of work they do reach her

- When it came to what could and could not be done physically that was fully up to you “stop asking me. It’s her bloody body for christs sake” after the thousandth awkward “can I please fuck The Missus tonight 👉🏻👈🏻”

- If you wanted one of them one night? Just fine. All of them one night? Also fine

- In fact most things in this new relationship were completely up to you. If they stayed/lived in extra rooms, what they called you, how often and how they got to touch you

- Other than the No Work rule the only other thing Price (tried) to put his foot down on was “if she sends you a voice message. Don’t. Fucking. Open. It. In. Public” well that just seems weird now doesn’t it? No lil Mrs price was a lil tease and now she has more men to mess with????

- Only a week or so in to this whole thing Johnny was the first to get one and did he forget or just choose to ignore Price’s rule? The world may never know but he pressed play (full volume bc men always have their volume up for no reason) and the sweet sounds of you moaning his name played so fucking loud in the grocery store. The rest of the boys made the same mistake. Price tried to warn them, he really did.

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

♥️🎸♥️

✨also on ao3✨

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

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divider credit here and here and here

[sleepygirltwink]

Back in the summer, I went to my first ren fair ever, and I was new on HRT. So you bet I wanted to get one of the cool handmade outfits and it *had* to have a corset. I was so worried that the attendant would be weirded out by this chubby guy looking person walking in and asking to try on a skirt and a corset but her eyes lit up and she was super helpful and spent the whole time encouraging me the outfit was the most expensive one I ever bought and the one with the least actual occasions to wear it since it’s not often that a tavern wench outfit is called for in modern life lol, but it was worth it for how she made me feel(ok maybe it was still a little more expensive than I could reasonably afford but can you blame a girl? It was cute!). It was truly a wonderful experience.

She seemed almost happier to help me than to help any of the other girls there at the same time, but maybe that was my imagination.

So this is a totally useless rant, but as a skinny girl, I’m getting extra, extra tired of fat-shaming.

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

So actually, screw you, random dude. Fat girls are the highlight of my job.

[acphengene]

Sweets

₊ ⁺ pairing: Jungwon x afab!reader

₊ ⁺ genre: soulmate au, pining, tiny bit of angst and as always sappy shit

₊ ⁺ word count: 3.3k

₊ ⁺ the second story for this little au i decided to throw together. thank you all so much for supporting, and once again let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list

₊ ⁺ Jake ₊ ⁺ Jungwon ₊ ⁺ Jay ₊ ⁺ Sunoo ₊ ⁺ Heeseung ₊ ⁺ Niki ₊ ⁺ Sunghoon ₊ ⁺

When Jungwon got his mark it had taken him a while to figure out what it was. In the beginning he thought he was just having very vivid cravings for sweets or some very specific lasagna he had never had. But after his mother had dragged him to the doctor the secret was finally revealed, his mark was taste.

It could’ve been a lot worse, he knew that. And if he was being honest he found it fun most of the time, the only downside was that you ate breakfast when he ate dinner and the two things rarely suited each other very well.

He had a theory that you deliberately ate the sweetest things in the mornings for that exact reason, but it was a hard one to prove when the two of you hadn’t met yet. But as time passed he learned to eat early or late, all depending on whether or not he would want dessert before or after his dinner.

When he was on I-land the food was whatever young boys wanted to make after a long day. Sure Jay did his best but in the end, they were young and instant ramen seemed like the easy way to go.

It had ended up getting so bad you started eating salads for the first time in your life, no doubt an indicator that he seriously needed to take care of himself and his health. He had laughed at that but tried to listen.

When he debuted he knew he had a platform bigger than most, so he did his best to make sure he was eating whenever he was on camera. It could be small things and snacks, maybe even full on meals, because maybe you were a fan watching along? He hoped you were.

And then he went viral… for something as basic as strawberries with chocolate.

“Dude it’s everywhere…” Sunoo said as he checked weverse in the middle of dance practice. He hid his head in his hands.

“I know” he groaned. “God it’s so stupid, of everything I could be eating it had to be the most generic thing ever”

Jake laughed. “It could be worse, it could’ve been bread with butter or plain rice”

“Any response yet? Like did she maybe eat it too? You know, as some kind of bat-signal?” Heeseung asked as he threw a soul-bandaid on his knee, it was hurting yet again.

He just shook his head. No, there was nothing. You liked sweets, he knew that much, but you currently had an obsession with some kind of pastry he himself had never tried and unfortunately not chocolate covered strawberries.

But he now knew what he had to do to go viral, so he milked the meme for absolutely everything it had. Unfortunately you seemed to be annoyed at all the chocolate covered things he ate, and got the habit of eating a slice of lemon shortly after.

He hated it, mostly because it was a disgusting combination but also because it led to a lot of wierd facial expressions, all who became memes for engene to utilize.

He threw himself in bed and yelled into the pillows. “You okay?” Sunghoon said as he had overheard the commotion.

“Yeah it’s just getting annoying,” Jungwon said. “It’s been years and I’m no way near finding her”

“Don’t worry too much, she’ll come running with years worth of memes when the times right” the older man laughed as his leader.

“I’m sorry Hoon” he said silently, as he picked at a thread in one of his pillows that had come loose.

Sunghoon just shrugged: “don’t be, I’m used to it. Now come down for dinner before Jay comes up here and rip both of our heads off”

He knew that Sunghoon was right, and he knew he should be great full for you being out there communicating one way or another.

So how did he show you where in the world he was? He started eating nothing but Korean, he mixed and matched and had fun with the food. Sometimes waiting for retaliation if you didn’t like whatever he ordered, but it never really came.

One night while on a set you however finally ate something as simple as kimchi fried rice but it made him ekstatic.

“I think she figured it out” he said to the only couple of the group, as Jake cuddled close to his soulmate.

“You sure?” He asked and the two perked up.

Jungwon nodded. “She’s eating kimchi fried rice” and I think she might’ve made it herself, you know with a package of kimchi”

“That’s a good sign isn’t it?” Niki said as he reached out for his string and gave it a tug. His own way of showing he thought of his other half.

“Yeah I think so” he nodded excitedly.

You had indeed figured it out, as you had grown up you decided to stop fooling around when it came to your mark, even though you sometimes couldn’t help it. But when the Korean food became the only thing he ate, you had to think that maybe, just maybe he for once was try to tell you something other than the fact that he liked chocolate.

So you researched recipes, sure you worked with sweets and baked goods but you did have experience with the more savory side of the culinary kitchen. And Korean seemed to fit so you tested that out, all the while you researched the culture, the language and of course the sweets.

It didn’t take long for you to book a ticket to Seoul, desperate to try some of the delicious meals your other half kept eating. Some of your friends tried to convince you to just stay back home and test the recipes there, but they just never hit the spot.

As you touched down the only thing you knew all you needed was some type of comfort food, so you went searching.

The days you spent in Seoul made Jungwon extracting and almost unable to concentrate, he knew you were close, he could feel it, taste it.

Whenever he had the chance he went searching for you in the restaurants and cafes. On that specific day you were a little sad, he was harder to find than you had expected, and when you were sad you craved sweets.

In a little stand not far from your hotel you found a lady who sold tanghulu, and the treat looked delicious. And while your ordered it a group of younger girls came and asked for the one thing you had done your best to avoid; “strawberries with chocolate”

You saw how the lady herself rolled her eyes, and when you asked about it they all tried explaining it was a trend for fans, all because this one leader kept eating chocolate on absolutely everything,

As they spoke you felt something pull on your heartstrings and for some reason you decided to search it up. It could after all just be a coincidence… right?

There was no doubt in your mind, it had to be him. But then again you couldn’t help but feel delusional, just because both your soulmate and Jungwon, leader of Enhypen, both liked the same type of foods didn’t mean they were the same person.

You would have to test it out, and god you already felt with both his and your tastebuds.

Another live, another slice of lemon, but this time it had a hint of chili as well. You had been out of control lately and he hated it, where you had previously been somewhat predictable you had now just completely lost your head.

“I’m getting sick and tired of you spitting out my food” Jay said with judging look one evening.

“How do you think I’m feeling?” He just answered with hopeless eyes.

“Have you thought about making a diary? You know for all the wierd things they’re doing?” Sunoo asked.

If he was honest he had considered it, it just seemed silly to do so. He sighed. “I got nothing else to loose I guess”

Unlike Jungwon you had that thought as soon as you suspected him of being yours. And every day, close to whenever you suspected his last meal to have been you made a list of everything he had eaten, and everything you had too.

You knew it would be frustrating with the insane amount of lemons you just kept eating, but what was a girl to do?

One day you got a notification from Weverse, “I hate lemons” was all he wrote and you smiled harder than you ever had and then you plopped the infamous strawberry into your mouth.

Jungwon almost fell down his chair. His hands were shaking and he felt how he suddenly had tears in his eyes.

“What?” Heeseung looked at him as his eyes glazed over.

“I - I don’t know” Jungwon whispered. He didn’t dare to hope that this meant what he thought it might. But as soon as all there was left was the after taste, it was replaced with a chocolate cookie, that then was replaced by a chocolate covered almond.

Jungwon left his members behind and hid his face in his hands in one of the corners of the room. Heeseung was by his side a second later.

“Hey, what’s going on” He pulled the younger man into his chest as he held him close while he cried. He sent the remaining boys panicked eyes, and they made sure to empty out the room to give their leader a bit of privacy.

“She knows who I am” Jungwon sobbed into his hyungs chest and the comment gained loud cheers from all of his brothers as he tried to catch his breath.

“I’m so jealous!” Sunoo said, and couldn’t help but worry about his own soulmates heart as he knew their vision had just flashed every color under the sun.

“So what do we do now?” Niki asked.

They looked at one another but the room remained quiet, none of them had any idea what so ever. The mark the two of you shared made it a little harder to locate one another. Unless you ate something, somewhere in the city that Jungwon visited regularly, it was close to impossible. Especially since you couldn’t just walk through the front door at HYBE.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait until she figures something out” He answered as he dried his eyes. “Not let’s get back to work!” The kitten had once again become the leader.

You spent the next few days eating the same desert at almost 2 am every night. He knew it meant something, so he sent assistants out every night to collect anything even a little similar to the sweet, at every cafe close to their office and dorm. But every day he had to fall asleep disappointed, and you fell asleep with a stomach ache.

The guys were working on a comeback and had been in the studio until the late hours of the night, some might even call it in the early mornings. Heeseungs directions were almost as strict as Woozi’s were, at least if Jay were to believe Jun, as he had sat in on a session to provide feedback. The many sweets did however cause the guys to expect it every night, especially since Jungwon always was the one paying for them.

One night they were on their way home, this time the guys themselves stopped at yet another open cafe. Niki and Jake went in to pick up the large order.

“Picking up for Sim” Niki said with a somewhat low voice despite the almost empty room. He heard Jake laughed quietly, and he got a pointed finger at a young woman hitting her head against the table in front of her, as she stared at a raspberry cake.

“God I don’t wanna eat you” you kept repeating. You were so sick of the buttery dough, and the crunchy shell with the both sweet and somewhat bitter raspberry filling.

“You okay?” Jake asked.

You lifted your head towards the two caps and masks of what seemed like young men. You gave them a smile and a nod before groaning as you once again hit your head against the table. Niki laughed loudly.

“I’m not, I’m so fucking sick of eating this shitty desert” You said, forehead still resting against the wood.

The two friends were shocked at your boldness and of how you seemed to disregard the woman behind the counter. Niki was about to apologize when the woman told them that it was okay. She felt honored that you had chosen one of her cakes as the one to eat.

Niki smiled. “Taste mark, huh?” He asked and you sent them a thumbs up before dipping your finger in the raspberry cream.

“This is the only bakery in the city that makes this dessert with the berry. It seems that would be a given, but noooo… He insists on trying ever other cake with the taste” you said dramatically.

Jake took off so fast all you could do was stare after him in chock as he ran out of the shop as fast as he could and yanked the door to the car open. “Won, get the fuck in there!” He yelled.

“Really not in the mood okay, just give me my cake and let’s get home” he said as he pulled his hat down over his eyes.

“Nope!” Jake said as he pulled it off of him. He tried fixing his hair with his spit.

“That’s disgusting,” Sunghoon said with a grimace.

“You’re going in there, right. fucking. now” He opened his seat belt and pulled him out of the vehicle, before shutting the door after the man, to shut up the protest from the remaining members.

Jake pushed Jungwon all the way into the cafe, kicked him inside the door and grabbed Niki before shutting the door behind his leader, holding it shut.

“Jesus fuck Jake, what’s your problem? I said I would pay didn’t I?” He yelled through the glass where his two friends remained and did nothing more than to gesture that he should go.

The chaos had gotten your attention. And you looked up at the blond with eyes as piercing and special as a cat, and your breath hitched. Behind the window next to you stood none other than Kim Sunoo, with no mask and gestured for you to get the fuck up.

You coughed, hoping to get his attention, but he kept his back to you.

“Rasberry tarte?” You asked with a shaking voice as he grabbed the box in front of him.

He turned with a smile. "Exactly! How did you…” And as his eyes, as beautiful as crescent moons met yours, he dropped the box. “Know…”

“Holy shit” Was all he said before he bent down to pick up the cakes. You were next to him within a second.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I should’ve said something else, or just tabbed you on your shoulder or something instead of startling you”

He just stared at you while you kept rambling, as you tried to scoop up the cakes. God you looked beautiful, and the faint smell of raspberry made him almost lose his mind. He knew that was the same taste that was currently coated on his tongue. He wondered if it tasted sweeter in your mouth than in his, and had to mentally hit himself before he got carried away.

Instead of stopping your rambling with words he just grabbed onto you and pulled you into his arms. You screamed in surprise, but as soon as he started laughing, well so did you.

“You’re here” he kept repeating, and everytime he did you answered; “I am”.

None of you didn’t seem to mind that he had dragged you through all the cakes, all he did was to bury his head in the crook of your neck, as he laughed in pure bliss and utter disbelief.

The guys had celebrated and laughed at both of your expenses. It had been a mess trying to get the two of you cleaned up before the chauffeur would allow you in the car.

As you all got back to the dorm he constantly had your hands in his as he stroked your knuckles with his thumb, the gesture calmed you and made it absolutely impossible for you to stop smiling.

Jungwon went to his room and returned with a set of slacks for you to change into, all the while he to changed out of the cake smothered outfit.

“We’re matching” you said as you made a pirouette as you entered his room. The matching outfits had definitely been a part of his plan, and he absolutely adored the way you looked in his clothes. He made a mental note of always making sure that the two of you would always be matching.

“You look good” He said as he pulled on the large hoodie, pulling you towards the bed.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously. This was after all very new to you, to the both of you. He pushed a lock of your hair behind your ear and send you a half smile, as he hummed a tone.

“So… Any questions?” You asked as you pulled on his fingers, you wanted to hold his hand, but had trouble actually doing it.

Instead he did it for you, and intertwined his fingers with yours, you hummed by the skin to skin contact.

“I do have one…” He said and couldn’t help but laugh. “Why so many lemons?”

You laughed, it was loud and uncontrollable, and he couldn’t help but wish he were to hear that sound for the rest of his life. He smiled at the sound, and you saw how his eyes were shining like little stars when he looked at you.

When you catched your breath you told him: “Well I’m a pastry chef, so my profession is basically just baking and tasting cakes”

That made a lot of sense.

“And your obsession with chocolate” he was just about to protest when you held a finger to his lips to shut him up, “kind of ruined that a little. The lemons was a palate cleanser, and a small fuck you for ruining my taste tests”

He just smiled, as utterly bitter the days had been when the two of you ate sweets with lemon in between, it was also the reason the two of you had found one another. He was grateful.

“I’m sorry” he said as he laid down on the bed. “That must’ve been annoying”

You shrugged before joining him. “It’s okay, it let me here in the end, so there’s not much to complain about really”

His smile haltered and you saw how his eyes turned sad.

“What’s wrong?” You asked right before you stroked his cheek.

He leaned into your touch, savoring the warmth. “When are you leaving?” he asked with a small voice.

You laid down on the mattress and looked up at him, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Well that depends on you”

He perked up a little, and you ‘boob’ed’ his nose earning you a dimpled smile before you continued: “I’m done with school, so in reality the only thing kicking me home is my visa. Honestly I only need a job. But something tells me the sweet old auntie from tonight might offer me one on the spot after tonight”

It was a pretty good story, and he couldn’t wait to tell it over and over again as the two of you grew older together.

“We better drop by tomorrow then, but for now I wanna know everything there is to know about you my sweet”

“My sweet, I like that!” You said. You saw how his eyes lingered at your mouth, and before you had a chance to talk yourself out of it, you closed the distance between the two of you.

He savored the softness of your lips, the way your breath became faster, and how he could almost hear the beating of you heart. You really was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

Taglist: @why4anne @juicygirl4life @azzy02 @bluxjun @why-did-i-just-do-this

note: thank you all so so much for the response to this series, i honestly cant belive it! please reachout with feedback, theories or if you wanna be added to the taglist!

[melodyreads]

Our Little Secret

You and Hamzah are in a secret relationship. While you guys kept each other a secret to protect one another, was it really what you both wanted?

Contains: fem reader, angst, confused reader, lack of communication, arguing, happy ending <3

a/n: I appreciate all the love I've received for my most recent works. Hope you guys enjoy this one, it's definitely my best yet.

---

From an outside perspective, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this situation. Just two couples out on a double date. Me, Mandy, Martin, and Hamzah grabbing dinner at our usual pizza spot. Nothing suspicious. Nothing complicated. Just friends catching up.

Mandy waved kindly as she saw me approach their group. Martin stood next to her seemingly making a joke to Hamzah as he stood there with his hands in his pockets wearing a neutral expression on his face. That was, until he saw me arrive.

A familiar feeling of excitement filled my stomach at the look on Hamzah’s face. I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him while greeting him with a kiss. He would smile down at me as his left hand placed itself in my back jean pocket.

Except, of course, Martin and Mandy were the only couple actually together. 

I guess you could say me and Hamzah were together too. We basically lived at each other's apartments, always leaving clothes in each other's space. I would wake up to Hamzah’s messy curls aghast on the pillow next to mine. I would plant his face with kisses as he grabbed my waist and pulled me on top of him.  

We were together, but in a, “we don’t want to put a label on it” kind of way. No commitments, no pressure—just what we wanted.

I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

For me, it was about not wanting anything serious right now. I wanted to protect my relationship with Hamzah, what we had was different than anything I had experienced with boyfriends in the past.

For Hamzah, it had more to do with his online image— he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with their fans' inevitable perceptions of you if you two were to date. I joked that he was just playing up the “I’m available” act for his followers. He would always roll his eyes but I’m sure this was part of it.

If people found out we were together, it’d ruin the whole thing. Which is why I had to be extra careful. Even around our best friends.

So imagine my horror when, halfway through dinner, Martin suddenly narrows his eyes at me.

“Hey… isn’t that Hamzah’s sweater?”

The table goes silent and my stomach drops.

I freeze with my pizza halfway to my mouth, my brain scrambling for a response. The oversized grey hoodie I’m wearing is definitely Hamzah’s— the words “nap queen” in black letters I envisioned on my chest made me want to laugh and bury my head in my hands at the same time. I didn’t even think about it when I threw it on before leaving.

It even smelled like him.

I set my pizza down trying to brush it off, “Am I not allowed to wear your guys merch anymore? Y’all should be grateful.” I say acting offended.

Mandy’s eyes flick between me and Hamzah, who—thank god—keeps his expression cool, shoveling food into his mouth as he nodded his head at my response..

Martin, however, is still staring. “I swear that one is yours though, isn’t it Hamzah? It has the exact same material as the one you wear. ”

I let out a short laugh, trying to play it off. “I’m not sure why because this one is mine.” My voice started to shake

Pull it together.

“It looks exactly like Hamzah’s,” Martin insists. He turns to Mandy. “Doesn’t it?”

Mandy shrugs, sipping her drink. “A lot of those hoodies look the same.”

Hamzah finally speaks, his voice casual but just a little too fast. “Yeah, man, it’s just a hoodie. All those hoodies look the same, part of the reason we sold so many.”

Martin still looks unconvinced, but he lets it go, turning his attention back to his food. My entire body is tense, and across the table, I can feel Hamzah suppressing a smirk.

Under the table, his finger interlocks with mine, a slow, deliberate touch that sends a jolt up my spine. I flick my eyes toward him, and there’s something smug in his gaze—something knowing.

I roll my eyes at him, trying to ignore the way my face feels hot.

That was too close.

But the truth is, I kind of love the risk. I love the way we sneak glances at each other when no one’s looking, the way my body reacts when he’s just close enough to touch but doesn’t. I love the late nights, the whispered conversations, the fact that we’re both holding onto something we’re pretending we don’t want to name.

God I wanted him bad.

---

The party was loud—too loud. Music pulsed through the walls, and the mix of voices, laughter, and the occasional clatter of a drink being set down filled the air. Mandy and Martin were off in their own little world, and I had lost track of most people in the crowd.

Hamzah settled next to me "How're you doing?" he asked, leaning down to meet my ears while looking out into the sea of people.

I sighed in response, "Alright, I guess..." I snapped my head to meet Hamzah's dark eyes, "...Can we go home soon?" I asked sticking out my bottom lip. He chuckled before leaning down once more.

"Come with me," he murmured, his voice just low enough for only me to hear.

I barely had time to react before his fingers brushed against my wrist—just a ghost of a touch, but enough to send a jolt through me. Before I knew it, I was being pulled down the hall, away from the noise, away from prying eyes.

He didn’t stop until we were inside an empty room, the door clicking shut behind us. The sudden quiet made my pulse hammer in my ears.

"Wait, what if someone sees?" I whispered, even though I was far too gone to start moving away from him.

Hamzah exhaled, leaning back against the door with a sly look covering his face. His eyes were dark, and the dim lighting cast sharp shadows on his face. "I don't care," he said.

That was a lie. He did care. We both did. That was the whole reason we were keeping this secret.

And yet… here we were.

The tension thickened in the air between us, something unspoken crackling like a wire about to snap. Hamzah's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, stepping closer.

I barely had time to breathe before his hands cupped my face, his touch gentle despite the desperation in his eyes. This was the last look I could register before his lips were on mine.

A slow, deep kiss started, stealing the air from my lungs, and making my heart stutter.

I wanted this. God, I wanted this.

But before I could get too carried away, I thought of where we could have been. Kissing in the middle of a crowd, unwavering concerns about what others around us thought. His hand in mine not hidden beneath a table, but revealed proudly.

The weight of it—the secret, the hiding, the way we only allowed ourselves these moments in the dark—it was all too much.

A sharp pang in my chest pulled me back to reality. Before I could stop myself, I tore away, my breath ragged.

“Hamzah, I—” My voice broke, my hands shaking as I stepped back. “I can’t keep doing this.”

His brows furrowed, his hands hovering in the empty space between us like he wanted to pull me back but knew he shouldn’t. “What do you mean... what's wrong?”

I forced a swallow, blinking hard. “Being with you in secret... it just hurts too much.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the way Hamzah flinched made it clear he heard every word.

His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but I couldn’t stand there and let him try to fix it with more whispered reassurances, more stolen touches that would only leave me aching for something real.

Before he could even get a word out, I was already out the door.

I pushed past the crowd, the music and chatter barely registering. My chest was tight, my pulse racing. I needed air.

I needed to get out of here.

The cold night air hit me as I stepped outside, but it didn't stop me. As I started to come to terms with what just happened, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. I sucked in a sharp breath, hugging my arms around myself, trying to shake the feeling of Hamzah’s hands still lingering on my skin.

Then, I heard determined footsteps tracking behind me.

“Wait.”

Hamzah’s voice.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to turn around. But then his hand caught mine, stopping me in my tracks.

I exhaled shakily as he moved in front of me, his brows furrowed, his expression torn between frustration and desperation. Whatever it was caused your whole body to shudder.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said, his voice rough, his grip tightening just slightly, “Not if it means losing you.”

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. “What about your whole ‘single guy’ thing? What about—”

“Screw all that,” he cut me off, shaking his head. “None of it matters if it means I can’t be with you. I don’t care who knows.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of me.

I searched his face, looking for hesitation, for doubt. But there was none. Just him—bare, vulnerable, real.

A shaky laugh left my lips, part disbelief, part relief. “Are you sure about this?”

Hamzah let out a soft chuckle, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from my face before resting gently against my cheek. “Yeah, I mean it.” His thumb traced my skin, slow and reverent. “I want you. For real.”

I didn’t need any more convincing.

This time, when I reached out and kissed him, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. About who was watching or who would care. What came next and what the future held.

From now on, we came first.

---

a/n: Hope you'll enjoyed this!!!!! It's so hard to end stories, but I think I'm getting better at it lol. Lmk if you guys want a part two????????

[bonus-links]

MY TIME HAS COME please discuss in great detail the GrooZeLink dynamics in prologue part 5. I am so intrigued by the stark differences between this shot:

And this shot:

The scar on triforce. The hiding. Please tell me everything there is to know

this is 4 u groozelinkers

why did i do text bubbles this way. how did anyone read this comic. god bless.

this is essentially Loft Monologues His Feelings The Update. It was very important to me that the audience understands where Loft's head is at from the get-go. and like listen, sometimes u have to have a bestie debrief even if ur bestie is a dormant sword spirit who can't talk to u. if bonus links was a musical this would be Loft's I want song lol

jokes aside I think Loft comes here to talk to Fi a lot. it makes him feel both better and worse

LOFTS FI IMPRESSION i feel like he used to do this a lot and thought it was so funny and every time Fi would be like. objectively that is not what i sound like. also, peep the textbox pattern!

even though Loft has trouble acclimating to life on the surface, it was important to me to show that it's not all like. angst and doom and gloom. But that's kind of the problem right? things are good, and he feels like this anyway. also I did my best to include most of the young adult skyloft npcs, I feel like the older one have mostly stayed up on Skyloft for now. LAKE TRIP!!

this is a direct reference to this shot from the game. this line of dialogue is an important thing to keep in mind. tbh the entire reason this comic exists is bc i thought too hard about the implications of skyward sword— what if you found out your girlfriend was really your god, who had orchestrated your entire life? wouldn't that make everything feel a little strange, even if you love her more than anything? much to think about

I like the scar through the triforce mark as a kind of symbolic gesture, but there's not really any intended meaning behind the two pieces of the triforce is goes through. feel free to interpret it however u like tho lol

AND THIS SHOT my headcanon is that Loft doesn't actually help much with the early building in Faron. It's partially because he can't- he pushes his body to the limit during his quest, and then completely crashes when it's over, and it takes a loooong time to even start recovering. He spends most of the time sleeping.

But it's also partially because he doesn't actually want to move to the surface. He wants to stay on Skyloft. In my mind it's like. he fought really hard to return to a state of normalcy that doesn't exist anymore, and that's hard to come to terms with. This is Zelda and Groose's project, and while he'll go along with it, he's not that enthusiastic about it. It's a source of tension in their relationship. Combined with Zelda often acting as a mouthpiece for the gods, it starts to grate on Loft that this aspect of his future has also apparently been decided.

tldr groozelink love each other a lot but things are definitely not perfect, and especially not right now

this is actually something I intended to get a little bit more into in ch2, but the chapter kind of. wrote itself away from it. every time I tried to include a scene with it, it felt too much like I was forcing characters to have too many heart-to-hearts too early. we'll get there eventually

this is an important update in the grand scheme of things :-) mystery mouseketool etc etc

[wehavemadchemistry]

My parents were great parents. One thing they struggled with, though, was explaining the reasons for punishments or restrictions (with something other than "ahah because I said so")

But when they did explain, it always went over better. Little kid me just wanted to know. If I felt the reasoning was sound, I was okay with the rule. For example, my dad had a rule that I could not pierce my ears until I was 13. At first he said "because" but I annoyed him about it and he eventually gave me another explanation. He told me that, when my older sister asked to get her ears pierced, he panicked and just picked a random age for her. He was making me do the same thing, because he wanted things to be fair, even if the rule was kinda silly. Honestly, I was okay after that. Hearing my dad admit he had done something goofy, but was committed to being fair to both kids, was explanation enough for me. Piercing my ears wasn't that serious, I just wanted to be trusted with a clear answer.

I am exceptionally lucky in that my parents never hit me, grounded me, confiscated my things, banned me from my hobbies or threatened any of these actions to make me behave as a kid. as an adult it has made me realise how very very long a road most people have to traverse before they can take a statement like 'no rule that must be enforced by threat is legitimate' seriously.

[goatgoesmbe]

So about that post of Simons gf that's super kind. what if she's petty with her kindness. one time me and my mom got in fight and that same day she complained about how many house plants she had. so i bought her a miniature rose bush (roses being a hard plant to take care of) as make up gift. I've also made other people their coffee wrong, bought unbalanced pens, gave there cats cat nip, given their children obnoxiously loud toys, etc.

OOOH ANON, I LOVE THISS-

Like- just because reader is sweet, that doesn't mean being a pushover. You have class, and your own way of handling assholes properly.

I imagine Simon would think he needed to be the one who protect you, seeing you're all sunshine and rainbow, always so nice and kind- and he just didn't want anyone to take advantage of you, you know?

But then he realized that you're actually not a damsel in distress.

The first time he saw it, was at a neighbor's baby shower..

"You've been with him for what? 3 years now- and still no ring?" Simon glanced at you who simply smiled in response.

He recognized that voice, Stella was her name or something. She was one of those people who always wanted attention, bragging about every little thing while also dragging people down just so she could feel better about herself.

Simon had to hold back from rolling his eyes when she previously arrived. Wearing matching designer clothes with her five-year-old son, Aiden. Which was a waste of money in his opinion, the little fella will grow out of them in a short time after all.

"I mean.. come on, you're not getting any younger.. better make it official soon before you get expired- he might not be attracted to you anymore then" Before you could respond to the previous jab, Stella continued talking. You could see why she would ask something like that, it was just how she was like after all. You and Simon have reasons, but it was really none of her business. And you couldn't exactly explain to her that your boyfriend is legally dead so you couldn't marry him properly.

Simon wasn't even listening to the other lads around him anymore- not that he did in the first place. Looking at you directly from his spot, he observed the others who interact with you. You were surrounded by the other moms from the neighborhood, yet none of them said anything against Stella.

He saw you giggled and brushed off Stella's words way too casually like it didn't affect you, or maybe you didn't get that she was mocking you- Simon wasn't sure.

"It's time to go, luv" His gruff voice stopped their conversation as he approached you. He could feel their eyes on him, some of them not hiding the fact that they found him attractive from how they looked up at him with a slight flush on their cheeks. He wondered how you were comfortable being around them at all, he never spent more than a few words with them and already felt like committing murder.

Well.. whatever, you won't be meeting them again soon since you two were planning to move away.

You looked up at him with those big innocent eyes and pouted "But-". "It's late" he added, putting his hand on your hip and pulling you close to make a statement at the others who still shamelessly gawked at him.

Seeing that look in his eyes- the one that means he accepted no rejection, you sighed. "Alright, let me say my goodbye" You said before turning back to them.

Simon simply grunted and waited. And when he thought you were ready to go, he raised an eyebrow when you instead walked over to the kids who were busy playing. You told them about you moving out from the neighborhood and the kids didn't seem to like that, you were their favorite after all.

"I have something for you guys to remember me by.." You chirped. Immediately, the kids looked at you with eagerness as you rummaged through your tote bag.

The side of his lips lifted under his mask when he saw you pulling out mini harmonicas. Before you could say anything more, a brat snatched one out of your hands. That was Aiden, Stella's spoiled boy. Which means it would be hard for the mom to get the noisy thing from him.

A cute little giggle escaped your lips as you watched the boy immediately blew on the harmonica messily, spraying spit everywhere.

After you made sure every kids got one, you stood up and hold his hand before skipping away with him in tow. Cacophony of moms frustrated yelling, children's laugh, and loud harmonicas left behind.

So you had planned your revenge all along, huh? Seems like you're not a total angel like he thought you were.

...

The second time is when he visited you at work. While he provided you enough for you to stay home and do nothing, you still insisted on having your own cafe. Saying that it had been your dream since you were little. And how can he say no when you look at him with those puppy eyes?

And while you do have people working for you, you still helped around from time to time. "It's the best part about having a cafe" you said to him that one time.

He was sitting at a table close enough to observe you working in that cute little uniform you designed yourself for the cafe when a guy walked in. His appearance screamed 'douche', the kind of guy who would talk about how many body counts is too many for a woman in a podcast.

Despite that, you greeted him cheerfully like you do with every other costumers. Even when he told you to write 'daddy' on the cup after you asked for a name, a disgusting smirk on his lips.

Meaning you would need to yell out that word to call for him when the order was ready.

And while Simon was fuming inside, you were calm. Humming along with the music playing from the speaker as you prepared the coffee.

But, instead of calling for the guy yourself, you turn to one of your employees. His name was Shane, written on the name tag clipped to his uniform. He was a big guy, not any taller than your boyfriend but still. A simple man who will be pleased spending the night scarfing down pizzas and beers. Now, Shane was known for many things, one of them is being very gay, and he was totally not shy about it.

You smiled before turning away to take the next order, but also secretly paying attention to what was going to happen next.

"Daddy..!" Shane shamelessly sing-sung the word loudly and even when Simon expected it already, he still choked on his tea. He also saw you biting down your lip to prevent yourself from laughing.

Shane went on for a while until the whole cafe fell silent except for the music playing that didn't fit the situation at all, which made it more hilarious.

'Daddy' finally walked over to get his order. Red in the face and looking very pissed. He was not stupid enough to cause a scene however, and simply accepted his cup without so much as a thank you. And of course Shane added the cherry on top by throwing a flirty wink.

And when you noticed the way he glanced at you after taking a sip of his coffee, tasting regular milk instead of almond- knowing full well he told you before that he was lactose intolerant. You simply gave him that sweet smile of yours, a cheerful "Thank you, please come back again..!" Thrown his way like how it always is whenever a costumer was leaving.

Simon chuckled under his breath and shook his head. Feeling proud (and maybe a bit scared) of his pretty bird being cruel in her own ways.

So when he saw you sighing after an argument on the phone with your mom, he didn't question it when you went ahead and buy a make up gift for her.

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. Joel adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There's more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering slightly against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

X

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"Come on, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

X

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light of the fire turned her edge golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

"Eat," he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. Two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

"Good with his hands, my ass," Joel muttered. "What a fuckin' tool."

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted to the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like a untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle at her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. Something he didn’t have the time to name. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologizing, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, leveling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

X

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom made. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the knitting around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled.

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueler one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slow, one after the other before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel felt something shift, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this beauty." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is amazing."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

X

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy,” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling settled in his chest—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled warm and solid in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

X

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

{ taglist 🫶: @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

And to those in the reblogs, I have no idea how to respond to your sweet, sweet, wondrous words, but after reading them all, I have the most fulfilling, full eight-hour sleep I've ever had in three whole months! I love all the effort you put into commenting, and sharing your thoughts, I know it doesn't seem big, but really, you've made such a difference in my life :) Thank you all so much, and I'd love to keep hearing more!!

@darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams }

[taelophone]

Malevolence ⋆˙⟡ — Academic Rival!Luigi Mangione x Reader CWs: Slight narcissism . Mean Luigi (what did u expect) . He Makes You Cry . Identity Issues . Feelings Denial . Masturbation (Luigi) . Jealousy . Pebbling (literally lol) . Apology Sex . Oral (F receiving) . NOT PROOFREAD!! ⟡ — Reader is hinted Mid-Western cuz I thought it was funny lol. It’s NOT major tho + a cliffhanger cuz for some reason nobody wanted to wait n just wanted to blow my inbox up about this fic. Suffer.

Luigi had always been hailed as a smart boy. From the time he was born to when he opened his mouth, complexities and conundrums rolled off of his tongue that would leave the oldest and wisest of men in a marveled stupor.

He was used to having eyes on him at all times, and admittedly, it almost grew too much to handle at such a young age. However, after a couple of years of balancing paranoia and self-righteousness, Luigi had grown to adore the affections that seemed to shower him from all angles.

He was smart, incredibly talented, had both feet firm on his moral sands, and was at least somewhat attractive. What more could a man ask for?

He carried through his adolescence with the world nestled gently on his shoulders. The threat of faltering or underperforming wasn’t a possibility for him. He was better than that.

So when he got accepted into an Ivy League, he felt like he was on top of the world. No object stood between him and greatness, and if there were, he would conquer it like he had hundreds of times before.

On his first day of college, he wiggled through orientation with a relatively quiet presence. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, letting himself get a feel for his environment and how to acclimate before plunging himself in headfirst.

However, one of the people his eyes seemed to pull to the most was you.

Whispers and remarks whisked around him, flicking drops of color and light over your shadowed character. Valedictorian…pretty…community service warrior…and a STEM major from somewhere in the States that he had been ignorant of in his prior years. 

Love and hate are two sides of the same kind. Both require one to feel so deeply for the other, and it drives them mad and in anguish. For a man as intelligent as Luigi, it seems he wasn’t aware of this common concept.

He had never even properly interacted with the poor young woman, yet the years of evolution sent bells ringing in his mind that categorized you as a threat. The empire he had spent so much time building to better himself as a man— for the sake of other people, threatened to capsize with the introduction of a new apex predator.

You didn’t do anything. He didn’t even know you yet, and he was never one to believe mindless rumors or unconfirmed information. But alas, man is still man when placed in a foreign environment.

Ever since orientation day, he’s kept a close eye on you. He wasn’t ready to relinquish his title of valedictorian, especially not to some random Midwest malevolence that posed a threat to his persona’s integrity.

One thing Luigi loved about the grand and precise creation of man was the mind; what does it take to make it tick and writhe in shame? What can you do to influence the brain to tear itself apart until it reduces itself to its simplest biological form— vulnerable prey.

Well, there are many ways. Depravation, intimidation, ostracization, or simple bullying.

Luigi was never a bully, no, that’s too far. What Luigi really was, however, was wholly mad and half obsessed with the woman who sat two rows in front of him with a pen in her hand and a pink journal next to her arm.

Ostracization it is!

When you first spoke to Luigi, things seemed pretty…interesting. It was the day before midterms, a little later into October, and you were cooped up in the library with a large cup of liquid energy and a near-overheated computer.

Papers surrounded you in a way that would seem near manic to passersby, watching yet another engineer go mad with determination and get high off stress. You were so immersed in your work, the multi-colored highlighters gliding across the dry paper as you recited different codes in your mind and punched them into your computer, that you neglected to hear the footsteps that had stopped at the end of your table.

“Oh…you look…tense,” he smiled, his brows furrowing with mild concern. “You sure you got this, girl?”

You paused, gazing at him with what could only be described as disheveled innocence.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I’m Luigi,” He added, giving you a small smile as he sipped the coffee—…no, tea, in his cardboard cup of mystery.

You nodded, giving him your name in response with a half-there smile. You weren’t trying to be rude, but the near weeks of study and lack of sleep were starting to eat away at the back of your brain and left you feeling a little more vulnerable than you’d care to admit in front of a six-foot man.

“Yeah I’m…fine, sorry, just cramming,” you sighed, your hands resting on your head after you dropped your little pen.

“Oooh,” he whistled, sucking in a shallow breath through his clenched teeth. “That’s not good. Are you sure you’re meant to be in computer science?” He chuckled, boyish and unserious.

Crackle…Crack…KSSSHHKH.

You chuckled, breathy and shallow as your brows pinched together a little at the subtle audacity behind his joke. 

“Haha…ha, no, yeah I’m right where I wanna be. It's stressful but I’ve loved it ever since I was in middle school,” you nodded with a polite smile.

Well played, girl!

He nodded, the bone of his jaw locking up a bit more as he fought to keep the smile on his face. 

“Oh…that’s cute, yeah!” He beamed, readjusting his black-and-silver browline glasses that began to slip down the bridge of his nose. “Well…good luck!” He nodded before he slinked away almost as quietly as he had arrived.

Cute…? What’s so cute about my interest? Has he been involved in robotics and computer science longer than me? What does cute even mean…

You sighed, the slight feeling of insecurity and confusion creeping up through your spine and drowning your head in the murky black sludge of inferiority that infiltrated your mind. What a fucking condescending man.

Actually, I was gonna pack up and leave, but now I’m mad.

Pity the disease that plagues the mad scientist. For she has naught the skill or composure to stop the self-made machine that drives her into Abaddon.

Wholly mad and half-obsessed, you were now just as focused on Luigi as he was on you. Eager to prove him wrong— hungry for an outlet to be just as abrasive and patronizing to him as he was to you.

Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he genuinely thought your life-long interest in engineering and science was cute! Whatever that means.

But his strange and slightly infuriating comments became a habit of his. Every time you had a conversation with him, he made a little vague comment that left you feeling more slighted than before. Hidden under the guise of elderly concern, his viperous venom of hatred poured from his mouth like a child who couldn’t stand the taste of his food.

Everyone seemed to love Luigi, though… Whenever he came up in a conversation, at least one woman in the room proclaimed her platonic—or intimate—love for the nerd. He was so kind and reassuring, the kind of man who can only be born from a lifetime of gentle love and firm parenting to keep him on the right path.

But little old you never got any of that. He was always so surface-level, slightly cold, and maybe even aggravating– but nothing could have prepared you for when you finally began to get grades and mid-terms back.

A ninety-six.

You were ready to jump and shout with joy, do laps around the whole building, or maybe even praise the god that sat upstairs that willed your success into existence. Unbridled joy poured through your eyes as you nearly passed out from relief, much to the dismay of someone nearby.

Something about how your eyes twinkled like stars, the wet salt pooling at your waterline glossing them over like a beautiful orb of light. It made his stomach jump and twitch with…irritance.

Did you think you were better than him? He’s supposed to be the gold standard, not you! But that’s okay, but he got a ninety-eight on his exam and knew just how to knock the wind out of you.

Just as silent as last time, he approached with a slightly confused look on his face.

“What did you get for forty-seven?” He asked, folding over the packet of paper to reveal the only question he got wrong.

“Oh wow, you’re…really good,” you murmured, scanning over the big red number on the back of his paper.

“Oh, thank you! I think the class average was like ninety-eight or ninety-nine. I need to study more, really…” He fibbed, the little white lie falling over his words and casting a spell of superiority over you.

You instantly stopped smiling, the joy you once had flickering away drastically. You had always considered yourself a good student, but why now were you underperforming? 

“Oh, I guess I’ll just have to study more and beat you,” you joked, the weight of your words dying on your tongue as you attempted to placate the rage that ran rampant in your mind. It wasn’t a joke, you were one hundred percent serious, and you hoped deep down that he knew that.

Here you were, performing at below-average levels and celebrating it like some sort of fool with her red nose and fiery hair. Luigi had made as many comments as he could over three months, now all that had burned from the embers and ash of your strained relationship was unspoken rivalry and hatred. 

Rather than trying to find the root of Luigi’s strange animosity toward you, you matched his academic attitude. Sometimes, you even spent full days hunched over your desk in your dorm rapidly correcting and tweaking code in Hello World to organize and understand each command and its result.

Coffee, eyebags, pain, tears, and suffering were poured into your day-to-day life. Many philosophers claim women's strongest motivation is love and determination; In your case, Gandhi had never been more wrong.

No, what propelled you forward in your academic prowess was nothing short of abhorrence and resentment. The bitter citric acid of his words burned the tip of your tongue, the thoughts that had once flowed so easily from off of the wet muscle stumbling and pausing from the sheer weight of his vitriol.

And the worst part of it was, you were all alone in this feeling. There was nobody else who seemed to believe or have witnessed these small moments of malice.

Lashing out and crying was never an option. You were grown now, according to American law, and your days of crying because someone was even slightly mean were over. That wouldn’t do you any good, and why bitch and moan when you can just violently better yourself?

You buried yourself so deep in your work, immersed in the realm of source code and computing. In the rare moments where you managed to break free from your computer, your surroundings morphed into strings of code…you even found yourself trying to type the language into the ATM at Chipotle just off campus.

Your brain was so wrinkled it rivaled a dried grape, your eyes nearly crossing over from how hard you had pushed yourself the entire semester. Academic weapon was a criminal understatement— you were more like a philosophical firearm.

What you felt was your only outlet for coping with your classmates' puzzling animosity towards you wasn’t necessarily hurting you, after all, it was making you smarter! Unbeknownst to you, some eyes began to catch on to the subtle charge between the pair of you.

Both your professors and peers alike had noticed the rising tension. When one outperformed the other, suddenly all the other party could do was study until they threw up. In fact, your roommate had dragged you from your desk about twenty times in the past month so you wouldn’t deprive your body of sunlight and nutrition.

“What’s been going on with you and Luigi?” Ruby asked, attacking her pizza with the gentle bite of an untamed puppy.

“Who? Oh, Luigi?” You murmured, tearing your gaze away from your computer. 

You didn’t look terrible, but you certainly didn’t look put together. Your hair was a frizzy mess, your eyes had grown accustomed to their lack of sleep, and your sweatpants were low enough on your hips that you were sure there would be a problem if they weren’t your size.

“He’s just… passive-aggressive, and it pisses me the fuck off. I feel like he’s just putting me down constantly and being so fucking nitpicky…” you sighed, your arms crossing over your chest as you leaned back in your chair.

“Really?” She murmured, her face fixing into a look of disbelief as she bit into an overly salted French fry. 

“And that’s the fucking problem! Nobody sees it but me and it’s driving me up a fucking WALL!” You groaned, your hands running over your face and pulling down your bottom eyelids and lashes in their trail.

“Well…he’s like, really really nice to literally everyone. I’ve never seen him not being of use to someone,” she explained, a pitying expression on her face as she mirrored your stance, crossing her arms and throwing her ankle over her knee. “Why’s he doing that to you, then?”

“I don’t know! He’s been like…on my dick since orientation,” you sighed. “Is it obvious that we don’t like each other?”

“I mean, dental knows, so…yeah,” she nodded. “It’s actually a very known fact…but everyone’s confused because both of you are like, really nice and you’re literally so alike, so.”

“Oh wow…” you hummed.

“Yeah…well good luck with that, girlie, but stop locking yourself in the dorm that shit is not healthy. Take a break, you need it…like really fucking bad,” She smiled, reaching over to hold your hand with contrastingly gentle affection.

“If I take a break that fucker will catch up to me…I need to stay on his neck until I die,” you rasped, a deep sigh emptying from your lungs before you stood up to leave for your dorm.

It just wasn’t fair. Your entire college experience seemed to be going wrong from the very beginning all because some stupid future frat boy decided he wanted to make your life difficult.

Hate was a strong word, and rivalry was another, but you felt very strongly about Luigi. He did too, but unfortunately for him, not in the way he thinks he does.

He was unsure at first, the hornets and sickness that stung and bruised his stomach when he laid eyes on you served as his first warning. Then, it was the agonizing heart palpitations that came from seeing you pay attention to him.

He wanted your eyes on him and him only; your beady black pupils to burn searing hot holes into his own. He wanted the fiery red embers of the flame he had cast upon you to open up and swallow him whole, condemning him for the plague of madness he had released upon your soul.

You made him so mad, so bitter and disgusted, so hot with envy that he wanted nothing more in the world than to just see you crumble beneath his hands in a fit of…tears. And so what, maybe it does stem from a place of insecurity, but he was grown enough to admit that he was the only perfect specimen!

Fire cannibalized his body from head to toe, burning and blazing the expanse of his skin, rivaling the scorching hot droplets of water that dribbled down his shoulders in the foggy shower. He hated you more than he had ever felt for anything before, but he couldn’t explain for the life of him why.

He had seen you stalk the streets of Penn’s campus in the passing weeks, and you looked more exhausted than you did anything else. Still, he wasn’t able to pull his attention off of you.

He had chalked it up to envy, green and scaled with fanged fury that bit him at the neck and fueled him full of venom, but he wasn’t able to deny the bubbly side effects of the initial bite that kept his heart a little fast. Or maybe he did, and he just refused to acknowledge it.

Regardless, he hated you. Your stupid small hands, your dumb gorgeous hair that you barely even changed anymore, your stupid fashion sense that was oh-so-true to your character…oh god—

Hatred is a strong force, but pleasure is another. He would never speak of what happened in the shower, but he’d bear the burden of his sin as soon as he finished.

When spring rolled around, her trail of warmth melted the icy roads and awakened the creepy crawlers from their deep slumber. Spring was a time for flowers to bloom and praises to be sung— and more importantly, break was just three months around the corner.

As you made your way into the levine hall for what felt like the millionth time this month, you were nowhere near surprised to see your professor absent with instructions displayed on the large projector board. Class project; develop a tool to identify potential vulnerabilities in computer networks. Due in two months. You will split up into the following groups.

Nikoletta Wiley

Hayden Stein

Rico O’Brien…

Luigi Mangione…

You.

Your fight-or-flight senses lurched in alarm, alarms and screams of rage echoing in your head as a deep and slow breath filed out from your lungs like a hasty bullet flying from its chamber. You could be cordial…you could be calm, you could be tame.

Could Luigi? You’d come to learn if that was the case soon enough.

You dispersed from the front of the room to go find each member of your group, starting with Rico and ending with Nikoletta. Finding Luigi was simple, you just didn’t wanna talk to him right now.

“Yeah I’ll make, like, a group chat and then we can talk about everything there,” Nikki beamed, you all standing huddled together with your phones out while quickly punching in each other’s numbers. 

It seemed everyone already had Luigi’s and didn't need to retrieve it from him, but Hayden still beckoned him over so you could fill in all the details and plan as a team. As soon as you felt him join, the energy seemed to shift as three sets of eyes burned searing holes into you and Luigi’s heads.

“How do we wanna do this then? Like, what program are we using? Cuz Billards has been using VS, but we can use Sublime, too, I think…did he say what we had to use, actually?” Hayden asked, peering over at the board once more to double-check the requirements.

“No, I think we should just—“ you began, powering your phone off and slipping it into your back pocket.

“Nah, we should just use VS. I think it’s the easiest, plus it’ll be much easier for some people.” Luigi smiled, completely ignoring the fact that he just spoke over you in favor of observing the nods from everyone else.

“I wasn’t finished, but sure, Luigi, we can use VS. It’ll be much easier for you, don’t worry,” you nodded with a contrastingly kind smile.

“I was thinking that it would definitely help you out more, but thank you for the advice,” he nodded with a smile just as kind as yours.

You chuckled, straining against the will of goddesses to not lash out at him in the middle of the lab. The icy exterior that coated his words disguised as warm concern had hit you just as hard as he intended them to, and it was even worse considering you were in front of all of your partners.

“No, I’m actually extremely talented with VS right now! I’ve been coding apps in my free time. I even have an app that lets you track your finances and predict stock market changes…I think I’m fine. What have you made this month?” You smiled, your eyes intensely focused on his as your chest subconsciously puffed out a little bit more.

For the first time in a little while, Luigi became slightly intimidated by you. He hadn’t done anything this month, and it was a grave error that would follow him to his grave and fatal embarrassment.

“I’m not working on any projects right now, actually…I heard you haven’t stopped working, though. That’s not good, maybe get some rest. You look like you need it…” he hummed, watching as your partners wordlessly exchanged slightly panicked glances.

“Guys, I think we should just use VS…” Nikki interrupted, placing a hand on your shoulder to calm you down.

The rest of the group nodded, adjusting their bags on their shoulders in an effort to self-soothe before Rico spoke up. “Yeah, it’s no problem…we can work on VS, and then we can all code together and fix any bugs we find in the process.”

Everything was over just as quickly as it began following Nikoletta’s excellent timed bucket to the budding forest fire. With that out of the way, you began to file out of the room to carry out your separate strings of life.

You’d reunite later at around seven at night via a discord call that featured nothing but silly side chatter and furious typing in a shared file. It was much too serious to your grades if you decided to start throwing jabs at each other— but whenever you or Luigi made even the smallest mistake, like missing a semicolon or even a typing error, your cursor would immediately fix the problem with the most passive-aggressive speed possible.

“That’s wrong…” Luigi murmured, his brows raising and dropping with haste as he highlighted a whole section of your code.

“No, it’s not…are you sure you’ve been coding recently? This is perfectly fine,” you sighed, glaring at your monitor’s camera briefly just to catch the eyes of a very irritated Mangione.

“Yes, all my life, actually! That’s wrong. When you put this in, it’s not gonna do anything, because you’re missing a bracket, and that’s the wrong function…I think you should drop this course,” he chuckled, shaking his head like you were being ridiculously stupid before rewriting your code for you.

He took immense and almost sickly sadistic pleasure in seeing your face scrunch a little and your brows pinch together. He was right under your skin, nestled between your nerves and kicking his feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum on the ground.

Good. Just like how he wants you to feel.

“I think you should shut the fuck up and stop being a dickhead…” you murmured, your hands now completely off your keyboard.

“I think we should all take a break!” Hayden beamed, immediately leaving the call after waving with a bright smile on his face.

“Yeah, he’s probably right…it’s like, one in the morning, and we have class tomorrow. I’ll see you guys in the morning,” Nikki yawned, exiting the call as well and shortly followed by a very laggy and loud goodbye from Rico, leaving you and Luigi alone in the files.

“No, like, actually, what the fuck is your problem? You’ve been on my dick since before we even met?” You groaned, saving all changes in the file so nothing would mysteriously delete itself later.

“You’re slowing us down! Like, everyone knows you’re not the smartest in this class! Some of us worked hard to be here, and if you’re just gonna fuck around—“ he began, leaning back in his all-black gamer chair and running his hands down his face, the expanse of his neck on full display.

“First of all, we never even had a proper conversation. I am trying my best! If you feel like I’m such a burden, then join another fucking group!” You huffed, throwing your arms out to the side in defense. “You literally gave me shit the first day we met, and all you fucking do, is belittle me, and—…and make me feel like I’m not good enough…”

Your voice wobbled, its usual sturdy and focused tone lacking its regular discipline as you came completely apart in your dorm room. How fucking embarrassing…

“And I’ve felt like shit, and I haven’t been getting proper sleep, and fuck you! You’re so nice to everyone but me! Literally, what did I do to deserve this?” You warbled, rubbing your waterline with the knuckles on your pointer finger.

It was like you couldn’t get it to stop. He had popped the cork, and now all the bottled-up insecurity and sleep deprivation came pouring out like shower water, and he had no idea how the dial worked.

In that moment, the weight of his actions finally hit him. The woman on the other side of the screen was in tears, all because he didn’t know how to cope with the fact that there were other smart people in his environment.

Poor, sweet thing…a lamb too close to the frenzied blade of the executioner, forever stuck with the inner turmoil that stems from unrest. Maybe if he indulged the flames, jostling the hot coal with his bare hands and made amends before your altar he’d no longer be bound to the eternal suffering from the merciless and bloodied hands of Aphrodite.

He didn’t mean for it to get this far. After seeing your tired and shaky form sob and whine on screen, he suddenly didn’t have the same drive to compete anymore.  

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin— and Luigi now understood that he was never really threatened by you in the first place he was heads over tails in love with you. Even though he didn’t want to admit it and wasn’t going to admit it, Luigi understood the consequences of being a jackass after the smoke from the machine cleared.

“I’m not doing this, no,” you sighed, ending the call immediately and ejecting Luigi from the file.

Ouch.

Following the storm of emotions that raged between the both of you, the heavy silence of guilt filled his dorm room.

“Dude, you’re a fuckin’ dick…” Luigi’s roommate, Logan, murmured from his half-conscious slumber in his bed.

“Shut the fuck up,” he groaned, his hands carding through his hair as he took a deep breath.

In with renewal and purity, out with grudge and taint. This was going to be the longest, most shameful two months of his life.

And long was an understatement— the painful stretch from early February to late March was just as terrible as he imagined. Now you wouldn’t talk to him, or even give him a second glance when your group congregated to work on your project.

By now it was well within its development, and the app was able to identify potential security threats and offer solutions to whoever wanted to keep their information within a concentrated network. As much as it pained his ego to say it, the constant studying he had forced you into paid off entirely. 

After he had corrected your code once, he was never able to do it again. There were no more passive-aggressive changes, no silly side conversations, and much less any interaction outside of your group.

You made yourself completely unavailable to him, even going as far as moving farther away from him when it was a lecture day. You had no reason to cross paths, and that’s exactly how you wanted it.

So you can imagine your surprise when you holed yourself up in a corner, typing away like normal before you heard the familiar foot pattern of a certain Italian man approaching. You stilled the anger and hurt bubbling over in the glass pot that certainly wasn’t meant to be on the stove.

“What,” you stated, not tearing your eyes away from your work.

“I just wanted to say that I’m…really sorry for how I treated you earlier. I had a lot going on that I’m still trying to address, and it was really…really wrong of me. If I’m being honest your grades are probably better than mine, and I just felt threatened by your intelligence,” he explained, holding a little blueberry muffin and a baby-blue crystal as a peace offering that he slowly slid toward you.

“My roommate told me girls like crystals…this is untumbled blue topaz…” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact by all means necessary before he pulled out an extremely large chunk of what you recognized as Rose quartz from his little tan canvas bag. “I picked out this one cuz I didn’t know if you liked blue topaz.”

You stared in disbelief, the casual implication of the crystals he gave you was enough to almost make you laugh, considering he gave you the stone that’s symbolic of uncovering lies and the stone of love. How fitting.

“How much was that…?” You asked, sizing up the fat pillar of pink that surpassed the circumference of your hand. “You’ve been carrying that all day?”

He nodded, a light pink dusting his cheeks as he found himself suddenly interested in the window next to you. He felt like you were prying him apart for the first time, and he didn’t like it…it felt like losing his virginity somehow.

“It was a hundred dollars…” he mumbled, his voice barely audible as a hand came to the back of his neck.

“A hundred dollars!?” You repeated, your brows pinching together as you stared at the madman in front of you.

He nodded again, this time a small ghost of a smile pulled at the ends of his lips as the steady red began to creep up to his nose. 

“I didn’t really know what else to get you…I don’t know you that well” He blushed, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket.

“Oh…uhm…thank you?” You murmured, more of a skeptical question than genuine gratitude. After almost six months of torment and competition, you weren’t entirely ready to forgive or forget. “I don’t really know what to say.”

You stared at the cute little offerings, pondering if his apology was genuine…he seemed slightly on edge. After all, he was rocking back and forth on the tips of his toes, his teeth nervously chewed on his bottom lip, and if his face was any redder he’d be competing with many women’s blush routines.

“I accept your apology, but I don't forgive you. That was really cruel, Luigi. Like, we literally could’ve been best friends. But thank you, for the things,” you nodded, watching as he mirrored your nod as well.

“Yeah, I get that, and I’m just really sorry…you don’t have to forgive me, I know that trust comes with time,” he nodded, giving you a rather cute awkward smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow..? I think?” He added, tilting his head to the side in thought.

“Sure…I’ll see you” you nodded.

And just like that, he was off again. 

Now that he wasn’t spitting hatred and torment at you, you were able to conceptualize just how attractive he was…his chiseled nose, sharp jaw, and gorgeously high cheekbones added a blow tint of masculinity to his boyish face. Both adorable and sexy— a rare combination that was scarce these days.

Now that you were prepared to deal with him again, you thought it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him if he spoke to you. Usually, when he did, you’d end up having short conversations about code or crystals, a small spark of a bond being built from the debris of the fire that had scorned the two of you before.

You came to learn that he was a kind man with a special interest in Pokémon, and he had recently rushed into the “virginity rocks” frat of Penn, Phi Kappa Psi. It seemed fitting, besides the fact that he began to grow into somewhat burlier as he spent more time in the gym.

Now you were in the lab after hours, helping Nikki wrap up with a little robot designed to detect and pick up trash in a small environment. Somewhere in the distance, you saw Luigi tinkering with the 3D printer, printing out pieces for his plans and mini Pokémon in between.

“Alright, I’m gonna go home…I’m hungry as shit and my man is probably stuck in his dorm alone right now,” Nikki sighed, packing her bag and reorganizing her station before giving you a tight squeeze and a wave. 

The wind whistled against the windows, rattling every loose pane of glass as the gentle pitter-patter of rain pressed against the casements while you scrolled on your phone absentmindedly. That was until Luigi approached you with a mini-printed figure of Jigglypuff and a stupid smile.

“I made this in like…four hours,” he chuckled, placing the pink figurine on your table for you to inspect.

“Oh, that’s so cute…” you murmured, pinching it between your finger and thumb and running your eyes over the little details printed on its plastic. “Where are you gonna put it? Your shelf?”

“Nah, I was gonna just give it to you. My shelf is literally so full,” he smirked, watching as you rolled the pink Pokemon between your fingers.

“If only you had a desk,” you sighed, a sarcastic but amused smile creeping up on your face against your will.

“If only there were a pretty woman to alleviate me of my creative burden…” he sighed, pretending to be a woman in distress clutching her imaginary pearls with a limp wrist on her forehead.

“Pretty?” You hummed, tucking the cute figure in the shallow back pocket of your high-rise denim.

“Is complimenting you off limits, too?” He challenged, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the side of the desk you were sitting at.

“No, it’s just unexpected…” you chuckled, pinching your brows together slightly as a smug expression overtook your features, piloting the steady rise of heat that boiled at the apples of your cheeks.

“Why? I’m sure you hear it all the time,” he hummed.

“From men? No, they don’t voice their affections” you shrugged, propping the back of your heel up on the white table.

“Stop it, don’t do that, fuckin’ vandal,” he chuckled, immediately grabbing your ankle and gently moving it off the table, opting to just hold it for you instead.

The silence was heavy, bated breaths and mixed signals mingling with the cold air of the room as you stared up at him with a playfully defiant scowl. He smirked, the right side of his teeth flashing at you briefly as he tilted his head to the side.

“What?” You asked, gazing up at him through his lashes.

He didn't respond, only cutting his eyes at you briefly before chuckling deep in his chest.

“Nothing. C’mon, let me walk you home, it’s pouring,” He offered, dropping your ankle with careful abandon before pulling the drawstrings of his hoodie taut around his neck.

“I can walk perfectly fine on my own,” you shot back, gathering your things regardless of what had spilled from your mouth.

“I know you can, but let me do it with you. It’s raining, you have no umbrella, and it's getting dark. I don’t care what beef we had, you’re not walking home alone,” He murmured, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and guiding you out of the Levine hall.

“Okay, Hero Time…” you scoffed with a light chuckle.

“Is that a Ben Ten reference?” He asked, turning his head to face you after holding the door so you could pass through.

“Maybe.”

“You like Ben Ten?”

“I watch it sometimes.”

“Huh…You’re a lot cooler than I thought. We’ll talk about that later,” he nodded, keeping you firmly against his side as you trekked and trudged through the heavy rainfall together.

“Will we?” You asked, raising a smug brow at him as you began to direct him across the wet pavement.

“Maybe. Who knows if we’ll talk at all later” he mused, the sneaky double entendre rolling off of his tongue like hot water from an overheated kettle, the scorching fire causing it to bubble over with heat.

“Interesting…define talk?” You asked, an innocent chirp in your tone.

He didn’t answer, only chuckled under his breath as he made his way into the college house. The difference between the chilly spring rain and the warm comforting heat was stark, immediately engulfing you in a sudden burst of gentle kisses of comfort.

“What I mean is…” he began, pressing the button for the elevator with his knuckle as he waited in front of the heavy metal doors. “If you let me, I’ll show you how sorry I am versus tell you.”

“Oh, you’re forward,” you chuckled, your right hand gently trailing down the veins that rested just underneath his olive-toned skin. “Don’t tell me you acted an ass because you wanted to fuck me…”

“No, never!” He gasped, placing a hand over his heart in exaggerated scandalization. “I acted an ass because I had identity issues, and didn’t know how to talk to pretty women.”

“Funny, I recall hearing you were everyone’s favorite on campus,” you hummed, your hand sliding down to his and taking two of his larger fingers in a closed fist.

The elevator dinged, the doors opening up to reveal the hospital-esque elevator, illuminated by its bright white fluorescent lights and the gentle glow of the red floor number on the opposite wall.

“Duh, I’m great,” he joked, a sassy little grin on his face as you pressed for floor number four. “I didn’t struggle to talk to anyone cuz nobody’s as pretty as you.”

“Oh wow,” you purred, your fist enclosing around his ring and middle finger a little tighter, giving them an experimental tug that would mimic the motion of a handjob.

“Oh wow indeed…” he mirrored, his eyes slowly trailing down to your half-intertwined hands, watching as you pumped his two fingers.

“I wish you weren’t so mean to me earlier, we could’ve been the best of friends…” you sighed, now leading the way to your dorm room after releasing his fingers from your selfish hold.

“Now we both know that’s a lie,” he murmured, following you over to your dorm room like a lost puppy trailing after their owners' calves.

You slid your little keycard over the keycard entry system attached to your door, waiting for the green light to flash and flicker before pushing the door open by the silver handle.

“Is it? We’re very similar,” you hummed, letting him waltz into your dorm room like he could rip the title from thin air and declare ownership.

“That’s the problem, there's no way we’d just be friends…” he chuckled, watching you place your keys on your desk and shuffle into the bathroom with a new shirt and dry pants in hand.

“That’s a bold statement…” you chuckled, kicking off your shoes and throwing on your dry clothes before emerging from the bathroom. “I don’t know, you’re a dick…I don’t think we would’ve been that close.”

“C’mon, I said I was sorry,” he sighed, his hands in his pockets as you stepped up to him, leaning your chin on his chest and peering through his soul.

“Yeah, but you don’t seem sorry…” you snickered, letting his hands come down to your waist as his brows furrowed together slightly.

“You want me to show you?” He purred, lifting you by your hips.

He let you dangle just above the ground, smirking like a smart Alec at the way he knew how easy it would be to toss you around if it was this easy for him to lift you. Watching you place your hands on his forearms in a slightly panicked attempt to steady yourself was adorable.

“Luigi, please.” You squeaked, unsure of whether you wanted him to put you down or devour you whole in your very own room.

“Nah, that’s not enough,” he hummed, his head tilting to the side with an amused snarl. “What are you asking for? Matter of fact, where’s that attitude?”

You chuckled, immediately tapping into this little power-play dynamic that broiled in front of your very eyes. 

“I’m sure you’re not sorry, actually…I'm sure you do this to all the women you talk to,” you giggled, watching as his brows shot up with a faux-shocked and slightly offended affection.

“Oh wow, okay, so you need that actually…That’s a’ight, I’ll show you how sorry I am,” He purred, tossing you over onto your bed with a boyish chuckle as you bounced off the mattress with the weight of gravity.

Your bed was soft and comforting, the familiar gentle sheets folding and creasing under your elbows as you propped your upper body up to watch the downright predatory glint in Luigi’s eyes as he took his shirt off. The impurities in his normally angelic aura shimmered in the dim lighting of your dorm room, the black iron bits of his soul reflecting the sterling silver desires that shielded yours.

“I’m sorry,” he smiled, wasting no time in climbing over top of you, slotting his leg between your thighs as he peppered your face with kisses and apologies.

You whined, the pressure his kneecap applied to your achy cunt through the restrictive fabric of your sweats, eliciting sinful sounds of seductive shudders underneath Luigi.

“I’m so sorry, pretty,” he breathed, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants and pressing chaste kisses down your neck trailing to your navel.

“That was very wrong of me, I'm sorry,” he pouted, pulling your sweatpants down to your mid-thigh to press his fiery kisses to the hem of your panties.

“I should have never let my emotions and pride get in the way of such a beautiful lady,” he continued, his teeth pulling your panties down your thighs just so his mouth could attach to your glistening cunt.

Your eyes snapped shut, too embarrassed to hold his heated gaze as his tongue explored your folds with hunger. You were lost in the sensations, waves of pleasure blocking your vision as the sounds of sin echoed across the four walls— until a loud pop interrupted, along with a sharp sting on the side of your thigh.

“I’m apologizing to you, it’s rude to not look at me…you wanted this apology and you’re gonna take it like a grown woman,” he ordered, cutting his eyes at you before his hand came to soothe the pain on your skin.

You whined, fluttering your eyes open to meet his as the heat of shame and ecstasy caught up to your face.

“That’s better,” he hummed, his tongue resuming its relentless attack on your folds, his wet and pink tongue working itself near exhaustion as he coaxed you into two shaky orgasms.

“I’m sorry, I hope you can forgive me someday,” he pleaded, his little pout flashing you his apologetic glare as he kissed all over your stomach and womb.

“F—forgive! I forgive you—!” You choked out, your senses feeling all tingly and sensitive as you pushed his head away from your body weakly.

“No, no, I insist…I don’t feel sorry enough, you can take more.”

[archaardvarkarchive]

“As it turns out,” the younger children leaned forward intently, normally wandering eyes more rapt than a raptor, “dragons subsist on pleasure. They are always stealing treasure for the pleasure of having wealth, gorging themselves on horses for the pleasure of a full belly, stealing maidens for the pleasure of their sweet song. Now, of course a dragon can try to pick the pleasures that do others the least amount of harm or fright- but what that will look like is hotly debated,” I took a pause in case any of them caught the stupid pun- they did not. “But at its most base, dragons are magical creatures and their magic depends on pleasure. They are physically incapable of being an ascetic like the friars.”

“Asheh- tick?”

“It means abstaining from rich food, wealth, a host of things depending on their specific oath.”

“So what about you? You’re half-dragon.”

“I have yet to find that out. I’m a pretty typical functioning alcoholic at present.”

“What will happen to you if you go off of drink, and favor your dad’s side?”

“Well, since he is a willowy owl-type dragon, one reason he did not object to being in charge of food like a lion-type would, on gendered grounds, it would appear as if I was starving to death. No matter how much food I ate, if it wasn’t delicious. My body would atrophy. For many hefty mammal types it is the opposite- their limbs grow more sluggish and wider and wider until they can’t move at all.”

All the children whispered among themselves.

“An aunt of mine once tried to stop participating in the dragon games because she’d get too wound up and fight with other dragons like some humans do in sports. But it was no use- competition was her most coveted pleasure and nothing else would do to sustain her. She got what looked like bedsores, as if she’d been entirely immobile for a long time, even though on her own, she tried flying, galloping, even swimming, looking for some type of physical activity that would sate her magic drive.”

I paused.

“An uncle would do blown glass sculptures- with his own fire of course. After a rough patch, he lost his creative spark. Couldn’t think of anything specific he wanted to make, or his concepts he considered trash to his previous works. So he quit. He was beset with fits of twitches, which progressed to thrashing. Until finally he settled into doing just basic reproductions of anything he saw. That was enough.”

“. . .”

“So, lads and lassies, don’t go envying dragons too much- they may be powerful, but they are at the mercy of their passions.”

"Growing up, my father prepared absolutely all food. Mom wasn't even allowed in the kitchen. He said my mother's cooking could kill a dragon — which was interesting, because he was one."

[trinnityn]

Caitlyn Kiramman HCS

Warnings: SFW + NSFW 18+ content below. View with discretion. possesive!cait, she fucks you with a gun at some point, Reader and cait are married, shower sex

A/N : lowk short cause i was lazy but i wanted to post this 💙 please dont flop.

SFW

LOVES waking up next to you, and she's definitely a huge morning person cause of that sole reason. yes, she hates work and all the stress that comes with it but getting to wake up to her wife after an amazing night of sleep? thats reward enough for her. probably the only thing she thinks about whenever shes on her way home the only thing she dislikes about your mornings together is whenever she leans in for a kiss and you whine about how you just woke up and think you're too messy, cause. so what? she sees nothing but perfection, even in your worst.

"goodmorning, darling."

"cait i just woke up im all gross-"

"you mean to say you're absolutely exquisite, and yes cait i want a kiss."

"dont ever speak ill of yourself, love."

Speaking of so, she always has something to give to you whenever she got home from a long day at work. it doesnt matter how tired she is. you were mentioning a craving of yours at the morning? immediately getting it after work. hell she'll even go as far as buying flowers or something even more expensive than just food. she just loves spoiling you.

has a habit of grabbing or squeezing your waist tighter whenever she sees someone even glancing at you longer than 10 seconds. she grew up spoiled and basically getting everything that she wanted, in result, she becomes very possesive of the things she has. including you, her dearest, most precious asset.

"cait.. stop squeezing so much. im not going anywhere."

"he was gawking at you, like you're some object."

would beg you for a massage daily or just to play with her hair. would sometimes over exaggerate how tiring her day at work was just to get extra effection from you.

gets SUPER whiny for some reason whenever you dont have your ring on. its like, everyone has to know she has a gorgeous wife, right? thats her wife. always uses the reason that "it compliments your pretty hands.", always kisses every individual finger before sliding the ring back on. she likes to think shes proposing to you again.

"will you marry me?, my lovely wife?"

NSFW

loves tying you up and taking full control. something about it makes the heat pool up in her stomach, and to think that she has power over you makes everything all the better. when shes desperate enough, her handiwork doesnt have to be perfect as long as you're restrained, but when she takes her time? trust it'll be hell. being fully undressed as she works to tie different ropes all across your body, your wet, sopping cunt grinding against the rope between your legs as you squirm for the slightest bit of friction. she'll make sure to punish you for that, though.

VERY dexterous with her hands, better than her strap by a slight difference. has basically fingered you everywhere in the kiramman house. bedroom? had you on her lap as she basically probed and bruised your cervix before having to leave for work. kitchen? bent over and begging for it as she just slipped them in and out of you. bathroom? held you against your back with the shower running, the cold water washing over the couple as she parted your folds, taking her sweet time.

Got jealous of some other girl clearly trying to get in your pants while she turned away for a few minutes at a social event she took you to. even in a prestigious, sophisticated soiree filled with distinguished leaders, politicians she still couldnt hold back her greed. her greed for you, and how much she despises even the sight of you near another person that isnt her. she threw you right on the bed before having your skirt bunched up on your waist and getting your brain fucked dumb with her 8 inch royal blue strap. rubbing your clit in small, tight circles before pushing your panties aside when you were wet enough to plunge straight in your wet heat, taking a moment to adjust before setting a harsh, and punishing pace.

fucked you with a gun once at her desk. sprawled out and shivering at the cold air as she eased the pistol's barrel in and out of your pulsing cunt, your wrists grasped in a tight, almost brusing hold as she held them above your head, whispering into your ear breathlessly keep you on edge.

"good girl, taking my gun well.. what if i just.. pull the trigger? no? then take it and stop squirming, darling."

A/N: thinking of making a fic out of that last one OHHHHH lord. i already have a draft saved LOL

-XOXO, trinnifer💋

[chikifumoto]

DPXDP prompt

I haven't seen many fics/ prompts where Danny inherits Dlav co, unless everyone he knows is dead or it's never mentioned.

<I'll be honest it's more of a story outline that i might never use so i decided to see what others would do with it, i would have liked it to be a dead slient ship, but it should work with any of the characters>

<So let me set the stage>

Amity Park gets dragged into the infinite realm, not when Danny is 15 but when he is 17 to 19 like just before college. Vald is completely ended by Pariah Dark or Fright Knight <it doesn't matter as long as he's dead😋> pretty early into the battle, and Danny goes on to defeat them/him in single combat and becomes king of the infinite realms the usual in these fic. After the battle and the return to Earth, someone finds Vald's body(turned back human after his death), and he's buried, leaving everything to Danny.

Danny, being who he is, is reluctant to take over the sketchy company, but with a push from his friend and Jazz, he does making Tucker his head R&D and Sam his co-ceo after buying up some stock after the public learned of Vald's death and that the company was going to his underage(17) godson leading the investor to sell there shares.

Ok, this is we're ideas I saw from other prompts come in.

For one, this does not have to be a reveal gone wrong, but I don't want it to be fine either. Their relationship is stained at best, and no contact worst. <it could be worse, just not my cup of tea.>

Hey, look!! This is where the batfam comes in for one Spirit co.(formally Dlav co.) Is a big hit as a million dollar eco-friendly company working powerful renewable energy(ecto energy)and meeting Tim at a gala hosted by the Wayne's for a fundraiser, and they hit it off and become fast friends has young Ceos and there coffee addiction, they're about the same age give or take a few months. <maybe more, I'm more partial to Danny/Cass because we need more of them>

Bruce, being the suspicious person he is, is suspicious of this company that had less than ideal origins and given the fact that there have never been a successful brake in <Yes!! Danny uses ghosts with the obsession to keep things safe> the company that set up shop in Gothem. He wants to investigate but can't get his children to help because they have gotten too close to Danny and co. <yes, including Jason>

<i have decided to give Danny(Kendrick Lemar)levels of hatred for Vald. That is to say that there is not a single cell, not a single atom in his body that does not hate that man and that is the reason that Dani/Ellie is unstable and is the reason she is certainly destabilizing, her DNA is fighting against itself and she is falling apart, this should takes place a months or a year into the relationship(trio,batfam or other DC characters...)>

<That is as far as I got with this, so good luck and have fun with this🫡>

[eupheme]

— you’re the one that I want

worst!wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader

tags: soulmate au, roommate!wade & neighbor!f!reader, valentine’s day fic, blind dates, use of alcohol, flirting, light misunderstanding, semi-public makeout

rated m - 2.6k

a/n: my submission for the loveuary challenge hosted by the wonderful @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt! thank you so much, this was so fun 💘

“You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

“No fucking way.”

Wade’s groan stretches long, as his head lolls against the back of the sofa.

“Logan. Peanut. My sweet cheese, my good-time boyeh, please-” His voice strings out the syllables, “I need you to do this for me. I already set it all up, all you gotta to do is go.”

Logan’s scowl deepens, with a sharp jerk of his chin, “I’m not fucking going.”

A sigh then - Wade’s legs stretching wide, as he springs to his feet. Circling around to where Logan leans against the counter, looking every bit rooted to the apartment as the thing growing in the corner of their shared shower.

“I need this. I am finally back on track with Vanessa, and this is a real chance for me to knock it out of the park.” A finger raises, before poking him in the chest, “But I can’t have Mr. Grumpy Gus cramping our style. You feel me?”

An eyebrow arches up, but Wade barely pauses for a breath, “Besides, would you really stand a girl up on Valentine’s Day? Don’t you know what that could do to her psyche? What if that was her thirteenth reason? You really need that on your conscious?”

The filthy scowl Logan shoots him is like a three claw punch to the gut. Wade at least has the decency to look ashamed - fingers splaying wide in placation.

“Just give it a shot. If it all goes south you can just come right home. I won’t even be mad, even if it’s mid-coitus. Pinkie swear.”

The visual makes Logan’s lip curl. Arms crossing over his chest, as his head tilts, “You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

Wade misses the sharp look Logan shoots his way. His tone still teasing, missing just how deep his comment thrums through him.

How it meant something different in his world, rather than the shallow note of connection it seemed to mean here.

It didn’t matter, anyways. There’s only one person in the city he might not mind seeing, and surely you would have other plans.

Logan’s seen your recent date, stopping by the door down the hall in the evenings. Doesn’t much care for his goody-two-shoes vibe, the State University tone.

The memory sends his skin itching. An urge to move - and it’s enough that his arms are loosening.

Deep down, he really doesn’t want to stick around. Had been planning on hitting up a bar, anyways.

Can’t take much of this lovey-dovey shit, never been one of his favorite holidays.

And if his drinks are on Wade’s tab, then…

He’s sure he can let whoever the poor girl is down quick.

“Yes. Yes! Thank you, bestie.” The resignation must flick across his face, because Wade’s fist pumps with triumph, “This is gonna be great, I promise. Even better than the Tony Awards.”

Logan ignores another asinine reference - a final warning leveled his roommate’s way, as his hand curls around the doorframe.

“You got thirty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Wade grins.

“That’s twenty-nine too many.”

The heel of your boot bounces underneath the booth. Fingernails drumming on the surface of the sticky table, trying to keep your eyes from flicking to the door each and every time it opens.

This was stupid.

You don’t know how you let Wade talk you into this.

Sister Margaret’s was not your idea of a place to meet someone - romantically, at least. And therefore, the chances of this evening going well were historically low.

But it’d beat your second year of ordering in - the prices hiked up with the holiday. Of another movie marathon alone, picking apart the sordid end of your last relationship.

Anything was better than that, surely.

You’re double-checking your phone for the third time, confirming the text noting which booth to be in - the back left corner one next to the totally-not-a-bloodstain on the floor - when a shadow passes over the edge of your table.

Eyes catching on the flannel that creeps into your vision. Worn, in shades of brown and muted red - a slow drag upward across a broad chest, then higher. Your breath catching, as your mind whirrs - racing catching up.

You should tell your upstairs neighbor “hi”.

Something that resembles polite, normal conversation.

But you can’t seem to find the words.

Because as he slips into the booth, you’re quickly realizing he might just be here for you.

What you do find is -

“Is this a joke?”

Logan’s frown deepens.

A snarled out “what?” that sends a jolt though you, but you’re too confused to examine it. Left babbling, trying to make sense of this.

“Is this because I told Wade he’s a winter?” Your voice pitches higher, “Because his photo was really blurry, and I don’t even do that kind of color analysis-”

Logan scoffs, a hand braced on the table as if to push himself up. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, before he’s asking, “Why would this be a joke?”

Your lips part.

“Because-”

Because you’re here in the hopes of finding someone else. A distraction.

Unsure what to make of this magnetic feeling deep inside your chest when you see him. Having to hold yourself back from taking one step, and then another, when he lingers near the mail room.

You had hoped tonight would help you erase the man that surely does not even know you exist.

“…because I’m sure you have better things to do then uh, do this.”

“This?” He hedges, a brow arching.

“A blind date.”

Something in his eyes flicker, when you finally meet them. The little mark between his brows deepening with the rough rasp of his voice. ”You really didn’t know who you were meeting?”

“No,” Your head shakes, “No. Did you?”

His eyes drop for a beat, before they flick back up.

“No.”

Your tongue dips out to dampen your lip, and you miss the way his eyes track the movement. The question slipping from you without thought.

“Would you have come, if you did?”

The silence stretches out, tipping towards uncomfortable.

And yet, he does not leave. A leather jacket still slung across the back of the booth, as his fingers tap the table.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” He deflects. “You want another?”

Logan’s head dips towards your drink, only the glittery dregs of red remaining, a cherry nestled against the ice.

Your shoulder lifts, about to answer that you probably shouldn’t. That you’ve already made enough of a fool of yourself.

His lips curl at the edges, before you can voice your answer. ”Wade’s buying. Thought we could make a dent in his wallet.”

“Oh.” The word draws out, as your smile stretches.

So, not a rejection.

It might just be an invitation, actually.

“Definitely.”

It’s not how he thought his night would go.

Should have peeled himself away twenty minutes ago, somewhere between your second and third drink and the wind of conversation.

Slunk back home, or to another bar.

Had thought about it, in that moment when you confessed that you hadn’t known he was meeting you.

The thought of it being a disappointment turning his stomach, until you had voiced your question. The hope that wound its way between your words.

Unable to answer, even if he knows what it would have been.

The alcohol flickers inside him, a brief respite to the burn of sore muscles and a bone-deep ache that he’s carried since his world.

Should stop drinking this shit, but he’s been taking it a day at a time. Swapping rubbing alcohol for anything with a kick. That for vodka. Vodka for beer.

It’s not progress, but it’s something.

The feeling never sticks around, but something about you almost mirrors it. A wash of calm as his chin cups in his palm. Senses narrowing down, blocking out all the noise around him.

Eyes snagged on the curl of your lips around the white straw, the pink tinge of gloss left behind.

Helpless, to the tug at his arm as you loosened. The point of your finger to the empty dart board, how he had followed two steps behind.

You’ve missed a handful of your throws. Two darts stuck between the numbers running around the rim. His lips twitching at the frown that pulls down the corner of your lips, the hand that braces at your hip.

“So, did Wade guilt you into coming?”

Your fingers brush his, as you hand over the darts.

“You could say that.” He grunts, eyes slipping towards the board. Still catching the scrunch of your nose, as he amends, “But, like I said. Didn’t know.”

It’s not an answer to your question before, but it’s something that tip-toes close to one. It’s enough that your expression softens - an excited touch against his shoulder when his throw flies true.

“Same.” Your fingers curl against his shirt, transfixed. Hazy - those walls around you from before unstacking one brick at a time, “Almost didn’t go. But you know Wade, and his puppy-dog eyes.”

Logan didn’t.

“-and I uh, thought it would be nice. To not be alone, this year.”

He missed his next throw. A side-eye shot your way.

“Alone?” The word comes out close to a scoff.

Can’t pretend it hasn’t been eating at him. Wondering what the hell Wade had been playing at, inviting you.

“Figured you’d be out with your boyfriend.”

The last dart sinks into the green rim around the red center.

“Very funny.” You hum, stepping up to take his place. A glance over your shoulder, to find him still watching you.

That frown back, as your head tilts.

“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He wished he hadn’t asked. Should have just stayed silent, taken this night for what it was.

“Thought I’ve seen a guy around the last couple weeks.“ Logan hands shove into his back pockets, “Just figured…”

Your expression persists. His fingers tap his temple, “Grey streaks, suit.”

As if he doesn’t have some of his own.

“Oh!” Recognition flickers, as you spin back, “Definitely not boyfriend. He’s like, super married.”

Your shot flies wide, bouncing off the wooden walls behind the board - a little huff as you turn back, “They’re due to have their first in a couple months. Been helping them pick things out for the nursery.”

A finger pointed back towards yourself, in explanation, “Figured I could help. Interior designer, and all.”

Something like relief flickers in his chest. Another feeling - deeper, hungrier - almost drowns it out.

The words smooth, as they slip from his lips.

“No guy, then?”

The shake of your head is slow, and that sweet smell that clings to you curls around his senses. Thickens, even - betraying you.

It gives him the confidence to step into your space. Emboldened by the look you give him from beneath the thick fan of your lashes. Hope, burning once again in blown-dark pupils.

“Here.”

A hand touches at your hip, as he eases closer. Plucking the dart from limp fingers.

“You’re holding it too far back. Lemme show you.”

He never gave a damn about this game, but he’ll take any excuse to get closer. To feel the way you stiffen beneath his fingertips, the hitch of your breath.

The shot is lined up.

His wrist extends as he aims, chest brushing against your back, and suddenly - your palm curls around his forearm. Fingers splaying wide as a jolt arcs through his nervous system, shooting from his hand to his core.

Your words muted - it’s only his enhanced senses that have him catching the tail end.

“-like me.”

He makes a rough sound, and again you turn to face him. The prick of goosebumps as your finger trace the dots at his wrist.

“I said you have freckles like me.”

The knitted cuff of your sweater tugged back to show him how yours mirrors his, down to the very last mark.

Time stands still.

Logan’s dreamt about this moment for decades.

Using that little crisscross of dots like a compass.

Guiding him through life - thinking there had to be something about the mansion, its symbol, that tied it to him. Taking on the mantle that mirrored the shape, ink-like against his skin.

Thinking it would lead him somewhere.

Even if he’d been certain he had missed it, somewhere in those two-hundred years. Ships passing in the night, across a lifespan that has stretched far too long.

Always trying to push away those “what ifs”. Had stopped looking a long time ago. Never once, since he’d crossed over. Told himself he was luckier not to have a match.

Not to know love like that - because one day he’d have become acquainted with the loss of it, as well.

He’s had enough of that, in his lifetime.

And this - it’s not what he ever expected.

Finding you in a world that’s not his own. His match with a girl, living on the floor just below his.

It leaves him mute, as your eyes linger.

Not sure what to make of him, he’s certain. Of the part of his lips, his own heart hammering beneath his ribs.

Unsteady, for the first time in decades.

His name pulls him out of his thoughts. Cherry-sweet on your tongue, lilting into a question.

The dart is thrown by muscle memory.

Your fingers still pressed against his mark, as it hits dead center.

He takes his prize, back in the shadowed corner of the booth.

Your eyes already slipping shut, when his fingers tuck under your chin. Lips parting, and he finds himself grateful again for those animal-senses.

Permission in the galloping of your pulse beneath your skin. The held breath as you wait, balanced on the knife’s edge of anticipation.

The soft inhale of breath, when his mouth slants against yours. Fingers curling in his shirt once more, as you part for him.

Swallowing your moan, with the sweep of his tongue. Sweet - grenadine syrup blending with you, and it’s like he cannot get enough. The kiss drawing out, insistent and hungry - a shuddering breath when it finally breaks, as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Pliable, in the way he tugs your thigh over his, seating you in his lap. How you follow, so easily.

Fitting against him as if you were meant to.

And maybe you were - the thought sending his fingers tightening, where they grip at your hips.

As if he won’t let you go, now that he’s found you.

You’re right there with him. Just as affected - your palms smoothing over his chest. Tracing the chain biting into his neck, sinking into his hair when they loop around his shoulders.

Letting your hips rock - a tentative movements, paired with the softest sighs.

Growing bolder when you feel him beneath you - how he encourages it, with the press of his palms. The tips of his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, a pulse of pleasure at the way you shiver with his touch.

The second gift of his name, and it’s the one he’ll remember most. Drawn-out. Needy, and it only makes him want to hear it more.

Another breath huffed out, a heady throb against the too-tight confines of his jeans.

There’s the crack of a pool cue, a cheer rising at the table across the room.

The bubble bursts.

Bringing him back - even in this dim corner, it’s still far too public for everything he needs to do to you tonight.

A shared thought, your lips kiss-swollen as they press against his neck.

“Can we go home?” You husk, into the shell of his ear.

Something deep inside him purrs at the word. Possessive, wrenching a growl from deep in his chest as he carefully eases you off him.

Pushing himself up from the booth - a hand coming to wrap around your wrist.

Thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your skin once more.

Right against your mark.

He’ll tell you tomorrow.

He’ll have time - he’s always had that.

Never been grateful for it.

Not until now.

thank you again, lub and kiwi! I am so excited to check out the fics for your event, and happy I was able to contribute one! I’ve wanted to write a soulmate fic for some time, this has me 👀💖 about writing more!

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Ex Step “Kids” x Reader

Where the man you're dating and soon to marry have their reservations about you. Considering you're closer to their age and their father has millions in his name...

Thinking about the Step-family in question being adults; well established and acting on their own from their aging father

Unknowingly letting him fall prey to you 

Walking Temptation with a hunger for deep pockets and a smile innocent enough to make anyone swoon

It’s a shock when the next time they see their dad for the holidays he’s got you on his arm

Just a little bit older than them (half his age) and with a giant engagement ring on your finger

“You like it? Your dad got it for me when we were in Dubai!” 

“Uh Dad can I have a word? Alone?”

Taniya, his eldest is the hardest to grill you

Being incredibly open with her suspicions about you

And she’s the most vigilant when it comes to reprimanding her father for spoiling you

“Dad think about it (Y/n) doesn’t need another sports car! You’ve already gotten them two!”

In no uncertain terms, you’re sure Taniya hates your guts

If the way all the restaurants your future husband has worked with for some reason can’t serve you has anything to say about it, that’s likely the case

But you don’t mind!

That way you can take your man to the best place to get croquettes

Yeah it’s sketchy but that’s what his bodyguards are for

The second worst is his youngest, Titan

Classic attention-hungry influencer son who thinks pranks on you are going viral because everyone enjoys your misery as much as he does

“Your misery” is the curious tilt of your head when you find the leather seats of your range rover decorated with glitter 

Doesn’t really bother you though, so you’ll show off your new interior to all your new followers on socials 

Wonder where they came from

Finally the middle son Tariq always forgotten but not quite estranged doesn’t seem to dislike you too much

After all, he did start coming around the villa more since you’ve moved in

“Oh hey (Y/n) I heard those flowers my dad got you went missing, it just so happens to work out that I brought you some.”

“Those are my favorites! How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. Anyway, I heard you got the latest VR tech, want to show me how it works?”

For a while you fall into a cycle with your fiance and his family

Eventually tying the knot in a luxurious venue in front of hundreds of masked billionaires

Of course, all your older husband’s kids decide to be civil

And all is well…until it isn’t

All too soon are the siblings gathered again when their father dies two weeks later

It’s all so sudden

With heavy hearts, their knowledge of his decline makes it better for the siblings to take on the funeral preparations

Begrudgingly Taniya takes it upon herself to try getting the funds from you, coming to the Villa prepared to argue

Instead, she’s met with one of her father’s most loyal bodyguards

Woefully opening the door

“(Y/n) has been too distraught to leave their bed since the…last hospital visit.”

“What?”

She would have expected someone like you to have been jumping for joy

Having tied the knot with a man who’d pay for any tuition you might’ve needed paid Taniya doubts it she expected you’d be as bubbly as others in your…profession

But instead of partying you were glued to the giant California bed clutching an old shirt of his

For once Taniya feels bad for you

“Uh hey (Y/n) I was wondering if you maybe wanted to come to the first meeting with the mortuary staff. We’re looking to pick a coffin and–”

Instead of something snarky or even an agreement, you throw a black card in her direction and pull the covers over your head

Barely smothering the crying sounds

“You know what? Maybe it might be best if I stay back here..with you.”

It’s all too easy for her to lend her shoulder as you wail about your late husband–her father

Its awkward for awhile and then it’s not

She weirdly looks forward to pulling your tear-stricken face into her chest she wore the v-neck for a reason while you discuss the funeral arrangements

Purposely making her meetings online so she can rub your back off screen

Finding that the lingering security guard–your unofficial butler is getting more and more on her nerves

Taniya doesn’t even realize she’s gotten this bad until she’s hoping the chandelier will fall on her brothers when they eventually show up

“Wow. You two are here. In-person…why didn’t you call?”

“I don’t need your permission to see (Y/n)! But you know I would’ve come sooner if my company wasn’t dealing with a major crisis by some mysterious corporate giant!”

“Don’t look at me, I told you working for a shady company would get you no where.”

“I cannot with you right now–”

“I also came-!”

“Shut up Titan.” “Please Titan we’re talking.”

Titan isn’t all that worried about his old man being dead except his allowance stopped

And technically he shouldn’t be staying in the Villa anymore…but his followers are asking questions

“And in here we have the–whoa crying widow alert!”

“W-what?!”

He gets a lot of hate for that one

And while his siblings circle around you like vultures he’s finding it hard to insincerely apologize so that you can do a follow-up apology video with him

He’s following you around so much and observing all your little quirks 

he worries it might be important when ‘apologizing’ so maybe he should record it…

Thus begins his long and greatly popular series of getting to know my dead dad’s spouse

He records as much as he can–what you eat, how you talk, how you whisper promises to the pictures of his dad you put up

It weirdly makes him question everything

It also has him posting to a new platform…a more hidden one

“Alright, guys! I actually got into their closet without issue we’ve just got to hope they won’t need to come in here anymore. OMG They’re back! I wonder what they’ll do…next. Uhm…sorry chat but I’m going to shut off the camera for awhile….I think this is just for me.”

Unlike Taniya who will hesitate, thinking of her father while cuddling up to you Titan does not think

Because after his copious amounts of stalking streaming with you

He's decided you will be his inheritance from dad

Clearly the old man wasn’t strong enough to handle you

So Titan would be the hero to sweep such a camera worthy beauty off their feet

Tariq doesn’t hesitate either 

he’s gotten over that the day he met you

Sure he misses his dad a lot less than he expected+ but he does miss the privacy he used to have with you

“Hey (Y/n) do you want to go out for a ride like we used to do.”

“Oh Tariq I’d love to but I already told Titan we’d do a muckbang with him.”

“And after that, we’re going to film our feet ASMR!”

“Titan I said I’d need to think about that–”

“What?! You already said no to the hot-tub stream, how much more of a Karen can you be?!”

“Okay okay, but I’d rather it not be live.”

“Duh, I may not ever want to post it.”

Tariq is so tired of everyone else realizing just how much you’re not like any gold-digger he’s ever known

In fact, you’re so bad at it that he doubts you were ever a gold digger in the first place

“Hey Tariq the lawyer had a question about the life insurance money, should I just write you a check or do I keep it? I’m so confused.”

“Wow uh, that’s a lot.”

“Yeah, but your dad always told me what to do with this kind of stuff. So what do I do?”

“Uhh, how about we open our own bank account and put it there!”

“Oooh like a married couple’s bank account?”

“Yeah just like marriage. It’s a little too early to ask right?”

Nonetheless, all three siblings are beginning to realize just how ‘bad’ of a gold digger you are

And they’re more than eager to show you the right way…as long as you change your allegiance to them.

Rules | Kofi | Masterlist

[ahermitinverted]

I am tired of liberals finding this post and yelling at me for getting Trump elected. I will attempt to put my thoughts together concisely.

First point: there is some mythmaking that Kamala did everything she could to win and the American public failed her and the Democrats. This is an inaccurate recasting of history. From the very beginning, Harris's internal polling showed that she was losing this election. You can come up with whatever excuses you want for why that is, but the point stands that she had a losing strategy that she knowingly committed to.

This USA Today article references the Pod Save America Podcast where Kamala's staff talks about this:

Second point: there is mythmaking that she simply had no winning strategy that she could find other than courting Republicans, because she was already too far left to get elected. This is inaccurate and we can see what voters wanted to vote for. I'm not going to go over every example, but I will point to a representative one. I don't think it's controversial to say that a major reason that Kamala lost Michigan is because of her hardline stance on supporting Israel's genocide of the Palestinians. Her strategy was to send Bill Clinton to yell at them to fall in line. Yet those voters didn't abandon Democrats for the Right because we still saw them vote for Rashida Talib. If Democrats wanted more people to vote for them, they could have met the voting base on the matters that they were asking for.

Here's an interesting article from some indie progressive new outlet that goes over some more progressive wins that got the votes that Kamala failed to find:

Third and most irritatingly, people are still mythologizing that third party voters voting for Jill Stein or whoever should have fallen in line and just voted for Democrats to stop Trump. I will acknowledge that it is absurd to demand that random people behave more Machiavellian than the literal politicians to mitigate harm, but that's a conversation for another time. We need to remember that Kamala didn't lose narrowly; she lost everything. She lost every relevant battleground state, and these losses were not due to third party voters.

Michigan: Lost by 80,103 votes. Jill Stein only got 44,607. Even if you give her Cornel West's votes, that's only another 6,664.

Wisconsin: Lost by 29.397 votes. Jill Stein and Cornel West only "stole" 15,028.

Nevada: Lost by 46,008 votes. No one voted Stein or West, but "None of the above" only got 19,625.

Arizona: Lost by 187,382 votes. Stein got 18,319.

Georgia: Lost by 115,100 votes. Stein found 18,229.

Pennsylvania: Lost by 120,266 votes. Stein got 24,538.

These are all states that Biden was able to win in 2020. I need people to understand that Kamala lost this election and it wasn't even close. The Green Party didn't steal it from her. Non-Voting Progressives didn't fail her. She lost so badly that they can't even convincingly run the normal "progressives abandoned us" playbook. They abandoned their own base and traded it for a handful of Liz Cheneys.

My issue with Liberal Electoralism is a desperate belief in the power of the individual voter. I get the impulse to think 'what could WE have done differently,' but ultimately it's not on 'us.' Democrats did not want to win this election, so it is silly to blame the people who pointed out the reasons they were going to lose as it happens.

So yeah I stand by my position. Go donate burritos to unhoused folks. It will do more good than yelling at people for not voting for Kamala. Mostly because the people that you're yelling at probably did still vote 'strategically' for Kamala and still saw her eat shit. Democrats aren't going to save you.

In conclusion vote if you want to. I don't care. But remember that the situation we are in was chosen by the power structures and not by the people who are criticizing them.