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macfrog · 1 year ago

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sweet child o' mine | pt. i

purely just some fun and games putting big grumpy joel miller slap bang in the middle of a romcom. i hope you guys enjoy. dedicated to big sis @mrsmando, who is the light of my life, let herself be completely swept away by this idea into unhinged, whimsical mania with me, and who inspired so many lil details for this story. love u, zhort x

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you strike up a deal to attend a wedding with your neighbor as his date. what could go wrong?

warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), grumpy!joel initially finds reader mildly infuriating, cursing, alcohol consumption, discussion of a car accident (non-graphic) & dead parents, softdom!joel as per, fingering, handjob, comeplay, spitting, drunk unprotected one night stand, creampie, praise kink, one mention of nausea (but nothing happens, my little emetophobic angels), someone falls pregnant and it's not joel miller i'll tell you that much. honk if you love cats!!!

word count: 9.8k

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It’s just gone seven on a Saturday night when his knuckles rap on your door.

The sun casts tall, angled shapes on your living room wall. Lights the pages before you in a glow of tangerine. Refracts through the glass tumbler on your coffee table and bleeds the amber liquid onto the pale wood surface. Everything lit in some variation of gold, everything bowing its head quietly as the day begins to turn its back.

The house is still. The world feels still, as though transitioning. Like you’re sat in a waiting room, leg bouncing, anticipating something you don’t know to look for yet.

Perfect, comfortable, still – until he’s on your porch. And he knocks again.

You snap your book shut and slide it across the table, nudging the heavy glass. The ice clinks, irritated.

“You mind fastenin’ your…delicates to your clothesline a little better?”

His voice shoulders its way into your hallway before you’ve even pulled the door back enough to see him. Not that you need to see him to know who it is. You’ve lived in Austin three years now and met only one person with a voice as low and toneless as Joel Miller’s. Slung in sarcasm, dripping with disdain. All that.

You cross your arms and slant against the doorframe, unable to mask your amusement. “Excuse me?”

He answers by lifting his left hand. From his pointer finger hang a tiny pair of white panties, lace pattern fluttering in the late summer breeze. You glance over his shoulder as you steal them from his grasp, balling them in your fist.

“Uhuh. They were sitting on my back lawn. I have company tonight, y’know. I can’t have women’s underwear just – lyin’ in my damn yard.”

Your head tilts. Ears prick. “Company? You hostin’ somethin’?”

His shoulders drop with a sigh. “No. I am not hostin’ anythin’.”

“Good. ‘cause I’d want an invite.”

“If I were hostin’, you’d be the last person I would invite. And you know that.”

“Ouch,” you pout, “that hurts, Miller. I watered your plants while you were off visiting your brother last month. They woulda died without me there.”

“And I am grateful to you,” Joel grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I need those anywhere in view of my kitchen window.” He throws a pointed finger to your elbow, where your panties sit scrunched in your fist.

You look down to the froth of frill spilling between your knuckles, and back up to his dark features – his glower casting a shadow over the hazel eyes and deepening the creases between his brows. You smirk, a realization dawning.

Company – that he doesn’t want seeing a pair of someone else’s underwear.

“You have a date.”

Joel’s tongue flicks across the inside of his cheek. He glances over his shoulder and speaks through his teeth. “No, not a date,” he quietly tells the street.

“But you have a lady comin’ over. Or at least – someone you don’t want seeing these.” You unfold your arms and twirl your fist. The gentle wind lifts the lace.

He grunts. A low hmph. Agreement, you think.

“Sounds like a date.”

He hisses, “’s not a date.”

Your stare doesn’t slip from his. Not when his brows tighten, not when his jaw does, too. Not even when he sucks a breath between gritted teeth. Your smile widens.

Finally, with a sigh, he concedes. “It’s…it’s somebody Tommy ‘n Maria are tryna set me up with. Alright?”

“So – a date.”

“If you don’t –” Joel’s head flicks over to his own driveway at the same time his hand lifts, a pointed gesture you read as – shut the fuck up. “We’re just having a few drinks. Just – hangin’ out.”

“Just hangin’ out,” you repeat, eyes widening. “One-on-one. With some woman who – Wait, Tommy’s in Wyoming. How the hell do he and his wife know someone way the hell down here?”

“From before they moved. And – Maria ain’t his wife. Yet. They’re getting married next month.”

Suddenly the sun reappears over the dark horizon. The evening begins to clear up, make sense again. You lift your chin, nodding.

“Right, right. So, she gonna be your plus one, or…?”

The understanding raises his heckles again. Exasperated, he asks, “How many damn questions are you gonna –? I’m only here to – to return your –” He nods once more to the pale fabric in your hand.

A laugh shoots from your nostrils. “What’s the matter? You don’t like – whatever her name is?”

“Laura.”

“Laura,” you breathe.

“And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. She just – she…”

“She…?”

“She has, like, five cats, and it’s just…hair, everywhere. And at their engagement party, she spilled an entire margarita down me. Right down my –” He sweeps a hand down his front, balling his fists again once they reach the hem of his shirt.

Your lips turn, amused. “Five cats. Cat lady Laura. Well. Have fun, I guess. Thanks for these.”

He acknowledges your raised fist with a bashful glance. He’s already halfway down your front steps when he says, “Keep an eye on your laundry from now on,” and strides off back to his own place.

Joel has lived here his whole life. In Austin. You’ve no idea when he moved in next door, just that he was here when you did. You don’t know much about him at all – the fact he even filled you in enough to tell you about his date is shocking enough.

The day you first arrived, U-Haul truck squealing to a halt by the curb, he found himself unlucky enough to be stood in his front yard watering the blond patches of his grass. He saw you struggling to open the rear door of the truck, and with a grumble and a glance across the street for a more eager rescuer, he tossed his hose and came over to help.

He unclicked the heavy latch and pushed the door up with enough ease to put you to shame. And he seemed to feel some obligation when he saw the mass of belongings stuffed in the back, to help you unload them. Didn’t seem overjoyed by the thought, mind you, what with the sigh he let slip when you hopped up and held out the first box.

He indulged you for no more than one hour. Answered every question you had about the neighborhood, dodged every one about himself. He told you about the couple across the street with the newborn baby, told you about your neighbor on the other side who pretends to garden just so she can snoop on everyone else’s business. And as soon as the last box thudded down on your gleaming living room floor, he nodded, and paced back over to his own property.

He's a good guy. You know this much. He’s a dick to you most days, but he’s honest, and he’s kind when you catch him in the right light. He takes deliveries for you when you’re not home; he once drove Diane to the vets when she showed up on his doorstep in the dead of night, Fred the Jack Russell ailing in her arms.

He’s observant. Noticed just this summer the three different plumbers who showed up to your house in the space of two days, and came over as the third guy was leaving – his shining bald head low between his shoulders.

‘s the matter? Joel asked, watching the navy overalls sink into the rusted vehicle.

Kitchen sink’s leakin’. Fuckin’ – nobody can fix it.

He shouldered you out of the way with his then-trademark sigh and left twenty minutes later, your kitchen finally free of the dripdripdrip you’d been plagued with for a week straight.

He’s good. He’s a good neighbor. But, man, is he private.

You’ve never seen the inside of his place. His body blocks it anytime you’re on his doorstep. He has a brother, you know that – though, only since last month, when he asked you to keep an eye on his garden – and you know, now, that the brother is getting married.

You know that he likes country music, know he plays guitar – accidentally. You heard him one day in the spring, when he left his window open and you were lounging by your pool. When he looked out and noticed how you’d angled your sunbed to listen, really listen, he slammed it shut.

You know he’s single and childless and has been for at least the three years you’ve lived next door to him.

You know little fucking else.

The words on the curled pages seep into one another. You’re staring through the book now back in your hands, the shape of your living room blurring around you: the brick fireplace, the still, red light of the TV. The lulling sway of the sheer curtains, pushed like the tides by the air through the open window.

You cross your ankles on the coffee table. Your lips purse. Tongue dabs at the smoky-sweet singe of whiskey on the flesh of your cheeks. From here, you can see the street outside Joel’s house. If – when – Laura pulls up, you’ll know. And you’ll be here to watch. Survey. Observe.

See what kind of woman a guy like Joel Miller takes to his brother’s wedding.

It’s nine fifty-two when she eventually leaves.

She’s been in there two hours and seventeen minutes. Her car – a kind of rotten green Chevrolet with one tail light out – sits patiently out front, like even it can’t wait to help her fucking disappear.

You’re hoisting a swollen black bag down your drive when his porch light flickers on and his front door opens. The glossy plastic exhales as it slumps against the trashcan. You dust your hands. Joel hasn’t noticed you yet.

“…so nice gettin’ to properly know you,” Laura’s crooning, sidestepping as Joel walks calmly down to her car. Ushering her. You hold back a laugh.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, his voice falling flat in the windless evening. He’s a step ahead of her, like a parent leading their child away from the park. She’s still babbling about his six-string.

“Maybe next time I can hear a little somethin’…” she says, and you know from the way he halts that Joel hears the same questioning tone you do, the way somethin’ curls up at its end.

“Maybe,” he says, curtly. His words curl down. And then nothing else, and Laura – who, now that she’s a little closer, stood on the curb by her car door, you notice has sweeping golden hair which flicks away from her plump cheeks, and bright eyes which dazzle in the dusky glow – is forced to cough up one last chance.

“I gave you my number,” she says, then, “I didn’t get yours?” and this time, it’s definitely a question.

Joel pretends to pat down his pockets. “I musta left my phone in the house.”

You can’t help it. A scoff bursts from your lips. But he still doesn’t look over.

“Well,” Laura tugs on the handle, “thank you for a lovely evenin’. I’ll hear from ya.”

Joel smiles but puts a hand on the door, like he might slam it shut for her if she tried to backtrack. But she doesn’t. She swings both legs in, pulls it closed, and the engine spurts to life.

As she pulls off, Chevrolet jolting a little, you notice the bright yellow bumper sticker plastered squint beneath the license plate. You walk silently over to Joel, grass prickly under your socks.

“Honk If You Love…Cats,” you murmur, shoulder brushing off his bicep.

He sniffs. Tightens the grip his arms have on his chest. His eyes are fixed on the one red light, slowly shrinking into the distance. “Don’t even.”

“Good date?”

“I said don’t.”

“She talk much about her cats?”

“Goodnight.”

“Did you ask their names, at least?”

He’s backing up, crossing the dark lawn towards his front steps. He looks you up and down, his lips a flat line. Your sweat shorts. Your bare legs. The tight vest top molded around your breasts. His eyes shoot back up. “No more questions. No more pesterin’ me.”

“Nothin’ about the cats? Seriously, dude?” You lift your arms, grinning after his dark figure, swaggering up the porch steps.

Joel ignores you. He disappears through his front door and the light is snuffed. You slink back up to your house, grateful for the blanket of darkness covering the skip in your step.

Eleven hours later, you’re stood in front of your bedroom mirror.

The day melts against your window. Brilliant blue sky, cradling soft puffs of snow-white clouds. Crows on Diane’s roof cawing, slowly yellowing trees rustling. The bright, hot square across your front where the sun forces her way in.

You turn, taking the loose hem of your sleepshirt in your fingers, and pull it over your body, tossing it to the foot of the bed as you examine the pattern of colors hanging from inside your closet.

You take them one by one, tug them free, slot them back in. Eventually you settle for a gray hoodie, cropped and loose. As you haul it from its hanger, there’s a whine from the wooden cabinet. A squeal. The top shelf rips from either side, dropping to the closet floor and taking the pole with it.

“What the f–? You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you growl, stepping forward to run your fingers along the splintered wood where the nails have ripped themselves free. Four black holes, jagged insides of the closet pricking your fingertips.

The crumple of clothes and hangers sulks up at you pathetically. You fall back onto your bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The fan whirs slowly, scooping your gaze and throwing it in lazy circles.

The closet was old, anyways. Was here when you moved. It’s probably about time you had some new ones built. But fuck, that’s gonna cost. Ripping the old ones out, building them from scratch. The fan pulls your eyes back around to twelve o’clock.

Joel’s a contractor. He could do ‘em. Might give you a discounted rate, too, for all the times you move his newspaper from his front lawn to his doorstep for him. Either that, or he’d want something in return. And what handy skills do you have? You once knitted a scarf for you grandma for Christmas. Maybe not Joel’s thing. You can cook mac ‘n cheese – though one lousy meal isn’t payment enough for an entire wall of solid wood, two panes of glass and two days’ labor.

A favor, maybe. An IOU. What the fuck kinda favor does Joel Miller need–?

You’re hopping over the tiny burst of hedge between his yard and yours before the thought is finished, bending to scoop his newspaper up and slotting it under your arm. He answers just as you lift your fist to pound on his door for a second time.

You slap the rolled paper into his chest. “I have an idea.”

He squints at you in the summer light. “Wh–? Didn’t I tell you not to p–?”

“I’ll be your date.”

Joel blinks.

“I’ll be your date,” you repeat. “I got a wardrobe needs replacing. You do it, for free, and I’ll be your date.”

“Your wardrobe?”

“Crapped out on me this mornin’. I don’t want to pay for some stranger who’ll overcharge me ‘n do a half-assed job. Fix it, ‘n you don’t have to take cat lady Laura to Tommy’s wedding. And you can fix my kitchen sink, too.”

“I already fixed your kitchen sink.”

“It’s back at it. Drippin’ all through the damn night. Drip drip drip –”

“Alright.” Joel’s palm is up again. He does that a lot when he’s talking to you. “Alright. Wardrobe ‘n sink.”

“We have a deal?” you ask, extending your hand.

His chest fills with a thoughtful breath. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering somewhere a little lower than your jaw for a second. And then, the heavy weight of his palm against yours. The tightening of his fingers around your wrist. One sure shake.

Deal.

Two weeks before the wedding, you’re at Joel’s door again.

He’s in a black tee, dark sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, fringe still dripping onto his forehead. He runs a hand through the gray-singed brown and stares at the tangle of fabric slung over your arm. “The hell is this?”

“Do you know what you’re wearin’?”

His eyes roll up to meet yours. “Do I know what I’m wearin’?”

You nod. “You’re the best man. Guessing Tommy has you covered?”

“Black suit,” he says, after a beat.

“That’s it? He ain’t got no theme?”

Joel’s head cocks. “I don’t do themes.”

You roll your eyes, ducking under his arm fixed against the doorpost. He manages three words of protest and then shuts the door in resignation, turning to watch as you take his stairs two at a time.

“You are so damn annoyin’, you know that?” his voice echoes behind you.

“You want this date or not, Miller?” you call over your shoulder, following the route through the identical house to your own bedroom – thankful when you nudge the door and it opens to reveal his bland, colorless decor. “Very…gray,” you note, feeling the shadow of him over your shoulder.

You throw the dresses down on his bed, satin and lace and pink and green swimming between one another on his sheets.

“I’m not wearin’ a dress.”

You glower at him. “Ha. We have to match.”

He rubs the towel against the back of his head, drying the dark hair. “Match how?”

“Y’know, your suit ‘n my dress. If I’m your date, we have to match.”

“Already told you. I’m wearin’ a black suit.”

“Right. But, like – what color tie? And can it be any of these colors?” You hold your hands out, surfing over the sea of shades. “Maybe,” you lift your eyebrows, eyes darting to the pale teal color, “this one?”

Joel entertains you for all of five seconds, lifting his cheeks in a false grin before they deflate. “No. Black.”

“Joel.”

He slings the towel over his folded arms, and looks at you plainly. “Black,” he says again, in a tone of voice which sounds something like a door being slammed shut.

Your eyes thin, and you gather your dresses up in one swipe. “Can you just –? Will you make sure that you match my corsage, at least?”

“Why the hell are you so hung up on this?”

“I’m not. I’m just tryna make it believable. You turned down cat lady Laura, this is what you get.”

He sighs, tossing the towel over to his laundry basket. “I will make sure I match your corsage. Happy?”

“Happy. Are you ready?”

“Give me five minutes.”

You huff, head rolling back. “You are so prima-donna, Joel Miller.”

With a sarcastic chuckle, he shoves you out of his bedroom to get dressed. You saunter down his stairs, drinking in every detail of his home as though it’s the only chance you’ll get to see it.

It probably is, when you think about it. You don’t imagine he’ll be inviting you over for drinks anytime soon.

Your eyes move along the wall as you slowly thump down his stairs, thrown from framed photo to framed photo – a black and white photo of a man with a tousle-haired boy on his lap, the kid’s tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he wraps his small hand around the neck of a guitar; an out-of-focus Christmas photo, a family of four sat in front of a million multicolored orbs dotted along the branches of a tree; a kid with skinned knees crouched by a German shepherd, his lanky arms hooked around the dog’s thick neck.

One brown suede jacket hangs from a coat peg at the bottom, Joel’s boots sat loose and unlaced beneath. A dark blue blanket draped over the back of his couch. A painting of a moose over his fireplace. Shelves lining one entire wall decorated with carved-wood animals, with more photographs of times gone and memories made, with books and DVDs that lend your fingertip with a heap of white dust as you drag it across their spines.

Enough to paint a picture, not quite enough to show you the colors. The tones, the depth. Despite your best efforts, the man remains a mystery. You settle with the fact he will never be fully revealed.

The creak of his stairs turns your attention from the guitar on the wall around to his tall figure, fixing the collar of the loose flannel over his shoulders.

“You ready?” Joel asks, bending with a groan to reach for his boots.

“Yep,” you reply, leaning forward to glance into his kitchen while his head’s down. The most you manage to observe are the light drapes, the sunlight shooting through and bouncing off of a white-topped island.

“’s go,” he says, keys dangling from his finger.

It takes twenty minutes to drive to Home Depot.

You chitter in Joel’s ear the entire time, reading from his handwritten list of measurements and supplies needed for your new closet. ‘n how do you know this is all enough? Because I know. What if you get started and it’s not? I won’t; it’s enough. You sound so sure. That’s ‘cause I’ve done it before, kid. You take many closetless girls out on fake wedding dates, Joel?

“What’s our story, then?” you ask in the store, fiddling with hanging packets of door hinges while Joel reads thrice over his note. Your hand dives into the bag of M&M’s he begrudgingly bought you at a gas station on the way.

“Our story?” he mumbles back, the words slipping under the mental math you can see going on behind his eyes.

“Like, when people ask how we met. What’s our meet-cute? Both reached for the same door hinge, our hands touched and lit aflame? That kinda thing?”

He doesn’t laugh. Your smile dampens instantly. You kick his boot. “Joel.”

“’sec,” he frowns, “I’m focusing.”

You lean close, pushing on your toes to study the folded slip. His scrawled numbers, the pencil lines blunt and smudged in the creases of the paper.

“Twentytwofortysixeightyninetyfivesixhundredelevenfourtwelvenineteen–”

Joel’s lips seep a maddened sigh; he glances down the aisle like a store attendant might separate you from him if he demanded with enough passion, or maybe if he slipped them a twenty.

“Do you mind?” he barks, his expression a brick wall for your giggles to fall flat to the floor against.

“Home Depot’s your stomping ground. Why the hell do I gotta come watch you pick hinges and timber?”

“Because it’s your damn closet I’m fittin’. Just –” he swipes two packets from their peg, tossing them into the shopping cart, “– come on.”

Joel makes off down the muck-colored floor, the overhead lights reflecting harshly in the shiny surface. The front right wheel of the cart trembles as it rolls, nervously leading the two of you down an aisle lined with cylinder tins and pamphlets on Choosing the right finish.

“So, are your parents gonna be at this wedding?” you ask, taking the cart from Joel’s hands when he drifts off to study a shelf of wood varnish.

His jaw turns towards you, and then back to the tin in his hand. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do I get to meet ‘em?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna introduce your date to your mom and dad?”

He scoffs, stealing a handful of candy. “My fake date?”

“They don’t know that. Let me meet Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

He holds two tins up, offering them to you like answer to your question. “Matt or gloss? Guess it don’t really matter if I’m painting ‘em after.”

“Stop fuckin’ ignoring me. I hate when you do that.”

He leans in close, lowering the matt varnish into the cart. “You think I’m gonna introduce you ‘n your potty mouth to my mom?”

You smirk, eyes narrow. “Dick.”

“Funny. What color paint you want? You said something about duck egg?”

“Planning on repainting my room that color, yeah. Hey, you could –”

He swats your pointed finger away, taking the cart back. “We shook on new wardrobe. No changin’ the deal,” he mutters, wandering over to the rainbow of paint tins on the opposite side of the aisle.

You follow him over, eyes moving from blue over to green, the tins plastered with the fake smiles of families and fluffy pet dogs on the front. “Where are your mom and dad from?” you ask.

“Austin,” he replies, eyes squinting to read the small print on the back of one vibrant shade. You shake your head and guide his wrist back to the shelf, where he obediently sets the heavy tin back. “Never known anywhere else,” he adds. “What about you? Where’s Mr. and Mrs. Potty Mouth?”

“Uh,” you swipe at your nose awkwardly, “they’re up in Allandale. That’s where I grew up.”

“That so? I got a cousin who used to live that way. Used to take my bike up every Saturday. He lived right by this old car shop, all these old classics they used to fix up ‘n resell.”

“Yeah,” you say, “right next to the cemetery, right?”

“That’s the one,” Joel says, lifting paint tins to the light and setting them down again. “They live nearby?”

Your breathing shifts, starts to claw its way up your throat. Your chest heats, skin lighting with an irritating anxiety. “They’re, um,” you gulp, “they’re in the cemetery.”

Joel pauses, letting the tin slip from his grasp with an echoing thud against the wooden shelf which reverberates in your ears a second too long. “Oh,” he says, set on your expression.

“It’s okay – I don’t mind. It’s – it was a car accident, back when I was eight. I wasn’t in it, or anything. I grew up with my grandma. Really, Joel, I don’t mind,” you add, when his face falls and he begins to apologize.

“I had no idea,” he says, and you break the eye contact before you break a fucking sweat.

“’s all good,” you murmur, lifting paint tins of your own now, focusing on deblurring your glossy vision, “I got to buy a big house with the money they left.”

It thaws him a little. He snorts, and taps the lid of the tin you’re holding. “That one’s nice. You, uh – you okay?”

You finally turn back, the world clearer, colors no longer bleeding into one another through sharp tears. “Yeah. I’m fine. We got everything?”

Joel nods, and wheels the cart around. “You can meet her, if you want. My mom. She’s a little full on, but I reckon you can handle her.”

You smile, following him down the aisle.

A month after he delivered your underwear back to you, you’re back on Joel’s doorstep.

Your hand flicks nervously at your side as you wait for him to answer, petals of your corsage quivering. The clip of his footsteps echoes down the stairs, a deep sound growing louder and louder until the door clinks open and you’re separated only by air.

Joel’s eyes scan down your body at the same time yours scan down his. Black suit, sure enough, just without the jacket, and with his tie slung around his loose collar. You both freeze when your eyes meet again, your lips silently forming the shape of an avalanche of words that refuse to sound until Joel’s do.

“Wow, you –”

“– look great, I –”

“– nice dress, is that –? Sorry –”

“– no, I’m sorry, you were – sorry.” A laugh pushes from your throat. “You look – you look good. Scrub up well, ‘n all that.”

“You too. You – Yeah. That’s a nice color, after all. You suit it.” His eyes linger on your chest, your breasts draped in lustrous silk, decorated with the glint of golden jewelry. You notice.

“Thanks. After all?” You snort, and Joel’s exterior seems to crack a little.

He steps back, ushering you in. “Alright,” he says, taking the tote with your change of clothes from your wrist. He watches across the street as you step over the threshold, his fingertips light on your back as you pass by, like little shocks of lightning up your spine. “You know what I meant.”

Your dress swishes around your ankles, your heels clicking along his varnished floor. Your arms lock around your torso, holding your pashmina in place while Joel totters around, tossing his jacket over his shoulders. His shirt stretches from his tight waistband, fabric flattening against his tummy. Your eyes shoot north again when he speaks.

“You mind doin’ my tie? It’ll end up squint if I do.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping forward.

He buttons the top of his shirt and lifts his chin, staring at the wall behind you as you tug on the black fabric, the silk slipping through your fingers. You steal glances at the trim of his beard, his pink lips beneath the dark bristles; the slope of his nose, the lines on his worn skin.

He’s rough around the edges, sure, a man in his late forties. But there’s something soft about him, something familiar and…comfortable. The pages of a used sketchbook, the lived-in material of a favorite dress.

You pull the knot higher until it’s sitting in the notch below his Adam’s apple, smoothing it down and giving his chest a light pat before stepping back again.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he mumbles, and a spark lights in your chest. “Oh,” he says, holding a finger up and disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with a little white box, holding it out for you to see.

Your cheeks swell, eyes flitting up to acknowledge the proud look on his face. “Very nice. Good job.”

“You can do the honors,” Joel says, handing you the boutonniere by the stem.

You pin it through his lapel, straightening it with a focused glance. Joel’s eyes are on you, watching the flutter of your eyelashes, the tilt of your head. “There,” you whisper, leaning back.

He extends his elbow, something of a smile on his lips. You don’t see it often. It beckons a mirrored expression.

Arm in arm, Joel leads you out to the truck, where he helps you up and waits for you to scoop your dress into the footwell before closing the door. You watch patiently as he locks the front door, slings both your bags over his shoulder and jogs back to the truck, tossing them in the backseat before joining you in the front.

“How come he didn’t send a limousine? Or a Jag, or somethin’?”

“You think we’re made a’ money?” Joel asks, smirking.

You return the smile, wrapping your shawl over your body. “Can I pick the music?” you ask, earnestly, a tinge of sweetness to your voice.

Joel glances over again, reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the drive. He runs his tongue along his top teeth. “No,” he says.

Three hours later, Tommy and Maria are married.

The wedding is…big. Joel’s family is big. The venue – a rustic hotel suite, fairy lights draped from the rafters, blooming flowers sprouting from crystal vases, lace tablecloths and tied chair cushions and wax dripping from thick, naked candles – is big.

Joel’s been good about it – that friendly neighbor you see all too little has been kicked into high gear. He delivered you by hand straight to his mom – a small woman with silver hair neatly twisted into an updo at the back of her head – who took your hand and held it tightly all the way to your seats.

Kind and warm, she asked where you were from, how you met Joel, how long you’d been dating. She offered you some tissues before the ceremony started, then winked and nodded in Joel’s direction as the bridesmaids swept down the aisle.

You lingered behind the photographer while he took photos of the wedding party, instructing them to shuffle a little closer, that’s it; ma’am, with the red hair, lower your bouquet a little; alright, now, everyone: big smiles!

You worried that Joel had kept the same placated smile frozen on his face for so long that it might never melt away, might never return to the stoic scowl you’re so used to seeing on him. You didn’t even realize you were staring at him, until he waved you down, flicked his hand, and beckoned you over to the group.

You hesitated. I don’t know if I –

Get over here, girl, Tommy had called, grinning alongside his big brother.

The two Millers slotted you in like a jigsaw piece between their bodies, two arms wrapped around your back – Tommy’s, loose on your shoulders, and Joel’s, tight around your waist. He held you close, squeezing you into his side while the photographer praised the party and snapped photo after photo, the flash burning into your eyes by the time he clapped his hands and thanked you all for your patience.

Drink? Joel had asked, and you’d responded with one thumb up, the other massaging your eyelids. He squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the crowd of bodies.

He’s still over there – by the bar, a wooden structure draped in ivy and studded by steel bolts. His beer in one hand and your wine in the other. A lean, poised figure stood opposite him – her dress a royal purple, her hair a wave of brown spilling over her bare shoulders.

She’s beautiful – a striking charm which draws your eye to her like an arrow directly through the sea of bodies between here and there. Her languid movements, the slow roll of her neck to sweep the hair from one side of her body to the other.

Her head falls back in laugher, her bejeweled hand falls softly on his arm. Your throat closes sharply. Joel nods, angling as if to make off, but she holds onto him and leans in. He laughs, then, at whatever her full lips whisper into his ear, and he finally breaks off from her and returns to you.

He pushes the glass by its base across the smooth tablecloth. Your fingers brush over one another as you trade, the stem sitting between your index and middle. He’s warm, his knuckles kissing yours.

“How was it, then, talkin’ to my mom?” Joel asks.

You smile, propping your chin on the heel of your palm. “I like her. She’s funny.” And then, when he tosses his head in response, “Who were you talkin’ to?”

Joel follows your eyeline over to the woman in the purple dress. The glint of white crystal on her neck. The drama of dark hair on pale skin. “Uh,” he wanders around your back to his chair, “we used to work together.”

Your nails tap against the glass. “Oh, yeah?”

He sniffs. Doesn’t meet your eye. “Yep.”

“You were talking to her for a long time.”

He watches a blue orb dance over your head on the wall, a spot of light from the disco ball over the dancefloor. “Lotta memories.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

His eyes plummet. Fall from the string bulbs straight to your face, sparkling in the rainbow lights. “You want me to look at you? There.”

You grin. “’s better. If you stare up there long enough, they might stick.”

“Safer to have ‘em stuck on you, is it?”

“Mhm,” your voice echoes around the curve of your wine glass, “better view. So, who is she?”

Joel shifts uncomfortably. He twirls the bottle in his fingers. “We…we were together for some time. A few years.”

“An ex,” you muse, stain of lipstick left on the rim of your glass. “How many years?”

“Eight.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Eight – eight years?”

Joel nods, waiting for you to catch your breath. Expression never changing. Bottle still twirling. “Haven’t seen her in a while. We were just catchin’ up.”

“Eight fucking years. Why the fuck aren’t you married?”

He scoffs. “That’s a fifth-date question.” He lifts the bottle to his lips, tongue pushes against the glass.

“I don’t need five fuckin’ wardrobes,” you quip, and he laughs. Like, genuinely laughs. His head tips back, his teeth show. Your chest swells, confidence and relief blooming there. She didn’t make him laugh like that – not from where you were watching.

It becomes something of a mission in the back of your mind – tallying up how many times you can make his chest shudder, his shoulders jerk. How many times he leans in closer and repeats whatever you said, eyes closing over and hand hitting his thigh. How many times he looks at you and your stomach flutters, the blood cartwheels through your veins, the bones of your ribcage readjust and make room for the swelling of your heart.

Within four rounds, you’ve lost count.

The thudding beat of the music muffles in your drunken ears, like it’s coming from the next room. Your gaze fixes on the vase in the center of the table, the bouquet spilling over the glass. The wide burst of speckled lilies, the humble blush of tulips between. The colors soften and blur the longer you stare at them.

The jerk of Joel’s shoulders stirs you from your daydream. That’s one more.

“What?” you ask, head rolling to look over to him.

“You still in there?” he asks, one word slurring into the next like waves lapping.

You scoff, looking back to the pink flowers. “You know who has tulips?” you ask him.

He lifts his eyebrows. Who?

“Alice.”

“Brown?”

Your head nods heavily. “One time, she was out getting her mail, and I had just pulled up in my car on the phone to my best friend – he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, it was a whole thing…” You bat your hand. “Anyway. She pretended to tend to her tulips for forty-five minutes while I sat talkin’ to him in the driveway.”

Joel’s head tilts back with a burst of laughter. “She hear every word?”

“Every – damn – word. Stood by the fence listenin’.”

“That woman is som’ else,” Joel says, shaking his head. He stares down at the bottle between his fingers. His thumbs play with the curled corner of the label. “Didn’t I warn you about her?”

“Mhm.” You smile, realizing he has the same memory that you do, locked up somewhere in his mind. The sweat running down his temple, the dark patch between his shoulder blades. His hands gripping the heavier boxes, leaving you to carry the linen, the base of a lamp. Nodding as he wandered back over to his own porch, calling back for you to Holler if you need anythin’.

The high squeal of the Sweet Child O’ Mine intro snaps you back to the wedding reception. Tommy and Maria are playing air guitar on the dancefloor over Joel’s shoulder. You unstick your gaze from his white shirt, unsure how long you’ve been fucking staring.

Joel sits forward, drags his chair across the polished floor closer to you. He fixes the strap on your dress, untwisting it before settling back again. Your eyes follow his fingers as they leave your shoulder and sit back on the curve of his thigh, lifting when his voice breaks through to your eardrums.

“What room number did you say you were, again?”

Your shoulders roll. “Thirty-four, I think.”

Joel nods. Points to himself. “Thirty-six.” And then he glances over his shoulder, watches as Tommy kneels before Maria and rocks his head, his messy mop of hair tossed across his shoulders. The older Miller brother turns back. “Think they’ll miss us if we call it a night?”

“We’re callin’ it a night?”

“Figure if I’m headin’ off then you won’t wanna be sat here by yourself,” Joel says, and he’s right. He stands up, sets the half-empty bottle on the tablecloth and stares down at you. “I’m callin’ it a night,” he tells you. “You comin’?”

The colors in the room spin like the reels of a slot machine. Your fingers sit lightly in his outstretched palm, and you pull yourself up alongside him.

“’s a good girl,” he mutters, looking over your shoulder to the doorway, and your eyes sober up long enough to catch the flicker in his eye.

You totter along the hallway, arm in arm, anchoring yourselves together. Whichever way one sways, the other inevitably follows. You’re laughing, and Joel’s hushing you, warning that there are folks tryna – tryna sleep, we’re in a fancy place, hey, da-rlin’, no – you gotta shhhut up.

“Great party,” you decide, finally docking against your door.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, leaning a little on the wall. The gentle glow of the hallway lights him perfectly; the strong angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. The hazel pools that make up his irises, the swollen circles of black in the middle. And the twinkle in them, like the moon reflecting on dark water, every time his gaze lifts to you.

He’s different tonight. Maybe it’s the alcohol. The way it colors everything in a peachy film, all objects softened and rosy and shapeless. But he feels different, too. You suddenly realize, shoulder pressed hard against the cold doorframe, that you’ve never touched one another more than you have today. His elbow in yours, his arm around your waist, his hand through yours as you danced together.

“Are you tired?” you ask, head rolling.

“Tired? No. Drunk, yeah. Not tired.” He laughs again. It’s infectious.

“You wanna come inside?” you ask, words leaping from your giggle.

He takes ten seconds to consider it. Slumps into the wall, steadied only by his forearm pushing him back upright. His watch face catches the light behind him.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, I do.”

Your hand fumbles in your clutch for the keycard, swiping the handle and pushing down heavily. You spill into the dark room, light sneaking in from the sconce outside your window, and spin back to face him, his hand locked tight with yours.

Joel follows you slowly as you back towards the bed, kicking your heels off and tripping over the skirt of your dress. When your legs hit the plush mattress, his body leans into yours. Your lips ghost across his, your words pushing them apart one by one.

“This ain’t – part of the – agreement,” you murmur, the coarse hair of his beard scratching your chin. You pull apart his tie, loosening the knot.

“Changed my mind,” he replies, collapsing on top of you on the bed.

Your head rolls back when his lips suck into your neck. You wrestle with his belt, with the waist of his suit trousers. “No changin’ the deal, remember?”

“Tell me to stop.”

If you had any intention of answering him, your body overrides it. Words lassoed and dragged back down where they came from, your throat opening only to gasp when Joel’s teeth graze the flesh of your breast. His fingers tug on the straps of your dress, letting them fall from your shoulders until your chest sits exposed.

He drags his tongue along your skin, dipping between your tits while his hands massage them, fingers pinching your nipples. Your back lifts and his hands move beneath, following the curve of your spine to where your dress pools loose around your waist. He pushes down, slinking the smooth fabric from your body.

“You fuckin’…” He clicks his teeth, laughing behind them. Another flush of heat washes over your skin.

You giggle, bending your knees to cover the lace panties he knows all too fucking well. Joel stops you, pushes your legs back down with two heavy hands.

“Don’t get shy now, baby,” he murmurs, opening your body up again. “You were so happy about me seein’ ‘em a few weeks ago, no?”

“’s different,” you reply, tang of alcohol fueling your words, “now I just want you to take them off me.”

He cocks his head, drinking every word you’re handing over like it’s water from an oasis. “Such a dirty girl, ain’t you?”

You pull him closer by the collar and line your mouth against his, the tip of your tongue wetting the inside of his lips. “You got no fucking idea,” you whisper, whipping the shirt from his torso.

Joel growls, flipping you over and pulling you by the shoulders flush against his chest. You hook an arm around his neck, turn to grant him access to your lips. He kisses you like a starved animal, savoring every taste, teeth nipping at your tingling lips.

His hand curves around your hips, pushing beneath your underwear to cup your mound, middle finger pushing on the spongey hood of your clit. Your head falls limp against his collarbone, back arching as Joel holds you steady with an arm around your waist.

“’s alright, baby,” he coos, his tongue licking the shell of your ear. “I’m gonna take good care of ya. Gonna give you what you need, alright?”

A strangled moan unravels across your tongue, echoing into Joel’s mouth. Your hips begin to gyrate, meeting the rhythm of his hand, his finger massaging rough circles into your clit. He smirks, peeling the panties down your thighs.

“Attagirl,” he breathes, “you want it bad, huh? Gettin’ so worked up so fast. Here.”

He removes his hand from between your legs, ignoring your moan of protest and replacing it with two fingers on your bottom lip. “Open,” he instructs, and you obey like a fucking dog. He slips them in, thick and heavy, and waits for you to coat them with your wine-stained tongue.

Joel pushes down, forcing a muffled gag from your throat which lifts the corners of his mouth. He shakes his head lightly, whispering, “You got it, ‘s okay.”

A thread of saliva strings between his fingers and your lips when he lowers his hand again, trailing his fingers through your folds until he’s dancing along the seam of your cunt. You jolt forward; Joel hauls you back.

“Just fucking – do it,” you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing.

He holds his fingers together, curling and inserting them in a painfully slow motion. Your knees widen on the mattress, body sinking down by instinct to meet his fist, to feel his thick fingers and wide knuckles as deep as they’ll go.

You gasp when Joel begins hooking them inside you, nudging against your walls like your heartbeat against your clit. Your hand lowers, slipping beneath his loose waistband, beneath the elastic of his boxers and around his already solid cock.

Joel groans, fucking you harder on his hand. “Fuck, just like that, baby. You feel what you do to me?”

“Uhuh,” you reply, voice wanton and broken.

You squeeze him, your fist moving up and down, his warm skin following the movements of your tight grip. His tip is already soaked, precome staining his underwear, dribbling down your thumb.

Joel uses his free hand to shove his pants down, crumpling on the floor at his feet when they free his cock. You carve your mouth around his, the two of you exchanging breath and flicking your tongues together as you fuck one another’s hands, the room slowly filling with the hot, muggy smell of sex.

Joel’s the first to cave. With a jerk of his hips, he takes you by the wrist and frees himself from your clutches.

“You’re gonna make me come, darlin’,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your cunt.

“That’s kinda the point here,” you reply, teeth bumping into his in a grin.

Joel shakes his head, lifting his hand, glistening with your arousal. “Gotta feel this fucking pussy first.”

You smile, parting your lips for him for the second time, suckling on his fingers and licking them clean of your own salty slick. His cock draws sticky trails on the seam of your thigh.

“Yeah,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on the place where you close around him, “that good, baby? You gonna let me taste you?”

You release his fingers and he pulls you in, tongue slipping against yours with a groan which vibrates against your jaw. When your lips part, you hold your mouth open, your tongue sat on your bottom lip.

Joel reacts instantly, collecting a bead of saliva in front of his teeth and letting it drop into your mouth. You moan and swallow it, a cocktail of beer and whiskey and slick. Joel watches as you lick your lips, the stained-pink coated in a thick, white shine.

“Alright,” he says, letting you fall forward onto the bed. He jacks himself a few times, spitting into his hand and using it to coat his cock.

“Want you to come in it,” you whine, wiggling your ass for him as he lines up at your slit. You can feel the arousal gathered on his tip, dripping down your cunt.

“Yeah, baby,” Joel growls, a smirk on his lips as he watches himself slowly disappear inside you. And then –

You both fall silent, mouths hanging wide open as you each feel the width of his cock and the tightness of your cunt. The way your body opens up to accommodate his size, the direct pain and ethereal pleasure of Joel pushing into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, your pussy drawing him in with a sweet, wet sound. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. So damn gorgeous in that dress.”

You slowly move your hips back to meet him at the base of his cock; dark, trimmed hair bristling against your lips. Joel’s hands lock around your waist, holding you steady with his entirety buried inside, letting you adjust to him.

He’s so fucking big, so wide and deep that your breath tears rugged from your lungs, barreling up your windpipe. Your walls squeeze tight as he pulls out like your body refuses to let him go, like your cells understand better than you do that you were made for this – made for him. Like the only place in the world that he belongs, is somewhere deep inside you.

So big that it hurts, each time he fills you up and stretches you wide open. The pain an eye-rolling, lung-closing, limb-shaking sensation.

Your elbows give, falling chest-first onto the mattress while Joel fucks you hard, his hands gripping your hips. Your cheek and breasts flat against the sheets, your back arched. He slams into you, edging you closer and closer with each meeting of his warm skin against yours, each sopping slap of come and saliva.

The mattress shifts above your head, two valleys where his palms push down heavily, then the weight of his body at the back of your thighs. He towers over you, hips hammering so hard that you’re forced to hook your fingers around his wrists just to stay on the same fucking planet.

“Gonna – fuckin’ – come – baby,” he spits, his jaw locked tight. “You want it in this little pussy? You think she can take it all?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, the edges of your words rounded by the silk sheets. “Joel, I – fuck –”

“Yeah, she can,” he agrees, playing with the hair spilling across your shoulders and taking it in a fistful.

The hazy drunken blur begins to turn over in favor of something sharper, something electric pulsing through your veins. Every part of your body alive, everything rising to meet the same high, the same release. You cling onto him, body beginning to melt beneath his.

Joel’s lips press between your shoulder blades. “Don’t fight it, baby, let go. I got you.”

You moan his name in one last pathetic attempt before the world whitens. You clench around him as a deafening orgasm shocks through your body, curling your back and forcing your nails deep into Joel’s wrists.

“Fuck, baby, fuck me,” Joel gasps. He slams into you one final time before you feel the staggered pump of his come flooding between your walls. “Ahh,” he groans, pushing apart your ass cheeks to watch the trickle seep from your cunt. “Good fucking girl. Take it, baby. That’s my girl.”

He turns you over onto your back and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against your body as he thrusts into you again, tenderly pushing his spend deeper inside. It draws a strained moan from your throat.

“’s alright,” he coos, hips slowing against yours, “just feel it, baby. You feel how deep I am?”

“Uhuh,” you cry, nails digging into his skin, damp with sweat.

“So fuckin’ full of me,” he says, more to himself, before collapsing alongside you, holding your thigh on his hip, his tip still sheathed inside you.

You lie like that for a while, listening to the distant hum of music from downstairs, the party still raving in the belly of the hotel while you two lay in content bliss somewhere in its ribcage. Tracing one another’s features, learning the lines on Joel’s face, the flecks of gray in his eyebrows – all the parts you’re never close nor brave enough to get to know.

His right hand massages your plush waist, his left arm a pillow to rest your heavy, dizzy, drunk head on.

“I wanna do it again,” you whisper, the words sneaking out between heavy breaths.

Joel nods. His bottom lip sticks with sweat to yours. His hips push a little neater into you. “I wanna do it again, too.”

“I wanna do it all night.”

He hasn’t stopped nodding. He shrugs, tightens his grip around your shoulders, and tilts his head. “Then let’s do it all fucking night,” he says, and his lips slam back into yours.

The morning after the wedding, Joel drives you home. The truck soars down the highway, the two of you an uncomfortable distance apart. The same sobering distance you’ve kept all morning – the unreal aftermath of sex.

The rolling waves of bedsheets between your bodies; the sun sifting her long fingers through his hair as she peered through the curtains. The way you’d silently pushed yourself from the mattress, fragmenting your movements and allowing the spring to dip a fraction at a time so not to wake him. The spongey feel of the hotel carpet under the balls of your feet as you’d tottered to the bathroom. The sharp shot of the lock sliding into place, echoing like a bullet.

He waited until you finished showering to get ready himself. Sat on the edge of the bed patiently and watched your shadow beneath the door, the to-and-fro of your silhouette breaking the sliver of golden light as you dressed your sticky body. When you pulled on the metal lock again, he was sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. His bare shoulders were curved, and tanned. You blinked twice to store the image and turned away as he stood.

He says he feels hungover. You say you do, too. It’s the closest you come to talking about it. You hop out of the truck in his drive, your tote bag hooked on your shoulder. The canvas gnawing at the silk inside. Joel tells you he’ll see his end of the deal through in a couple weeks.

“Real busy with work,” he mutters apologetically, his wrists still balancing on the steering wheel.

“That’s good,” you tell him, nodding. “I ain’t in any rush. I know where you live, so.”

A relieved laugh pushes from his lips. “I will get to it,” he assures you.

You shrug casually. “Whenever, Joel.”

You don’t talk for a few days. A few days bleeds into three weeks. You find yourself stood by his front tires, throwing his newspaper onto the porch and scampering when it lands. The noise like a bomb dropping.

Slowly, as the month draws on, you become braver and braver – daring closer and closer to his front door, until you’re back to marching up the steps like you own the place, depositing the roll on his doormat. Rubbing your thumbs against your fingers to feel the ink like satin.

The door cracks open as you make your way back down his steps one bright morning.

“Hey, kid,” Joel murmurs, reaching down for the paper with a groan.

“Hey.”

“You doin’ okay?” he asks, leaning his forearm against the door.

Your head tilts back and forth, your hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. “Think I ate som’ bad, maybe. Weird stomach this mornin’.”

Joel’s chin angles. “Hope it ain’t contagious. Was thinkin’ I could get that closet started for you, maybe tomorrow?”

The offer takes you off guard. You buffer for a few seconds before answering, “Sure. Sure, just, uh – just come over whenever, I guess.”

“Nine work for you?”

You nod. “Nine’s good. See ya then.”

It’s something like nine when you find out.

You wake feeling groggy. Tired, sluggish. A heavy ache pulling on your breasts as you rise from bed, tender and swollen. You stand in the bathroom, milky morning light filtering in through the doorway, and your stomach lurches. Waves of nausea deep in your belly, rocking back and forth, swirling and spiraling.

You’ve a box under your sink. It makes sense. Before Joel was some date from Hinge, who fucked you against the wall of his living room and who snored so loud that you left before the sun came up. Negative. Like always.

But it never hurts to be sure.

The pack tears like it’s liquid in your hands. Peels back to reveal the plastic white test, the bubblegum pink cap – like it’s something fun and sweet to place the direction of your future into this little device. A clinical compass needle.

Three to five minutes. You set it down on the counter and drag yourself back through to your room, lifting your bedsheets, tucking them under the mattress, heaving your pillows back into place against the headboard. An uncomfortable heat boiling under the surface of your skin, a prickle of sweat clinging to the nape of your neck.

A sickly taste harboring on your tongue, you pad back to the bathroom and swipe the test up. Your eyes scan past the result window to the counter as you reach for your toothbrush – and then snap abruptly back to the tiny oval. Your outstretched hand freezes in midair. There’s no fucking w–

Your arm swings back to reach for the light cord. The bulb hesitates – flickers, like it’s unsure whether to reveal the truth to you. It knows something you don’t. It’s seen something it doesn’t want to show you. You stare at the pregnancy test.

Two little pink lines stare back. And Joel knocks at your door.

#forgive me for it not being clm or sof #they're coming very soon i promise #this was too fun an idea not to chase #i have the attention span of my labrador retrievers (nil)#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller

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itacats · 3 months ago

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Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, stalking, use of the name "sweetheart", please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Welcome to the underground, where secrets are currency and alliances are as fragile as glass. Part 1 of our Mafia AU story is here, ready to pull you into a world of shadowy deals, unexpected loyalties, and high-stakes drama. Step carefully, but don’t look away—you won’t want to miss a thing!

Read Part 2 Read Part 3 Read Part 4 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 1: The Hidden World

The dim lights of the bar flickered, casting a soft amber glow across worn wooden tables and well-worn stools. The low hum of the jukebox played in the background, mingling with the clink of glasses and the steady hum of conversation. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the bar's gritty charm. This was no high-end joint — just a dive, a haven for the forgotten and those who preferred to keep their lives in the shadows. For years, you’d been part of that rhythm, the steady beat of routine keeping the world at bay, making you feel just detached enough to avoid the spotlight.

And then they walked in.

Members of the 141 Mafia.

For months now, they’d come in like ghosts slipping through the shadows — deadly, enigmatic, and utterly out of place in the world most people knew. To the outside eye, they looked like any other patrons, but the air around them was charged, like a storm perpetually on the horizon. The kind of tension that made you realize they weren’t just men who had seen an unspoken battle, but men who carried it with them, like a weight that could never be set down. But to you, they were just regulars, faces who blended into the dim light like anyone else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

John "Soap" MacTavish was the first to break the ice. His boyish grin and easy banter disarmed you from the start, making you forget, if only for a moment, that he was part of something darker. He’d sling a joke your way or toss a casual flirtation across the bar, a half-finished beer in hand. His carefree nature seemed almost out of place, but when you caught the flicker in his eyes — a fleeting darkness — you knew there was more to him than the easy charm. He often asked you to stay after closing for a drink, and though you’d laughed it off the first few times, lately, you found yourself lingering a little longer, drawn to the mystery behind his laugh..

Then there was Simon Riley — Ghost. Silent as a shadow, he would plant himself in the farthest corner of the bar, a hood pulled low and that eerie skull-patterned mask always hiding his face. No one dared approach him unless invited, but his eyes, constantly scanning the room, missed nothing. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, though not from fear — it was something else, something deeper, as though he carried the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. Whenever Soap got too close, Ghost’s gaze would darken just a shade, his silent watch never breaking, as though ensuring nothing more than words passed between you two.

John Price was different — a man who exuded authority and a weariness that came with a lifetime of hidden battles. He’d sit at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sharing stories that sounded more like fiction than fact.

And then there was Gaz. He brought a breath of fresh air to the heavy atmosphere. His laid-back attitude, the way he could light up the room with a joke or a quick challenge to a game of darts, made it easy to forget that he too was part of this group of regulars. He’d always laugh at your terrible aim, encouraging you despite the fact that you’d never win, but that was the charm of it. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, like you were part of their world, if only for a moment.

But tonight was different.

The bar, usually bustling at this hour on a Friday night, had grown unsettlingly still. Midnight had come and gone, and the usual hum of late-night laughter and drunken banter was absent. You were meant to take your break, but something gnawed at the back of your mind, keeping you anchored behind the bar. There was a heaviness in the air, a stillness that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t quite see.

You wiped down the counter, deciding that it’d be better to call your boss and close up instead of standing around, casting a glance toward the door. Nothing. No one. Even the regulars had slipped away without you noticing. The quiet was unnatural, as if the bar itself had exhaled its last breath. The jukebox continued its soft, haunting melody, the only sound left in the deafening silence. As you reached for a bottle to busy yourself, your fingers brushed against something cold.

A folded piece of paper.

It sat there on the counter, exactly where an afternoon patron had been sitting earlier. Your heart thudded in your chest as you unfolded it, the jagged handwriting making it somewhat hard to read:

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart…"

Read Part 2

Part 1 just scratched the surface of what’s to come! Thanks for taking this first step into the underworld with me. The stakes are only getting higher, and Part 2 will be here before you know it!

#bt extra #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #gaz garrick #cod fic #mafia au #tf 141 x reader #fanfic #cod #operation 141: the family business

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weemssapphic · 1 month ago

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Split in half

Larissa Weems x f!reader

This is a part two to We're not who we used to be set a few months after that fic, from Larissa's POV. It's just as angsty as part one, maybe even worse. It's inspired by the song Stick Season by Noah Kahan. Enjoy 😅

Words: ~1.5k | ao3 link in title

And I love Vermont, but it's the season of the sticks And I saw your mom, she forgot that I existed And it's half my fault, but I just like to play the victim I'll drink alcohol 'til my friends come home for Christmas And I'll dream each night of some version of you That I might not have, but I did not lose Now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

“Ow - fuck!”

It takes Larissa’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness blanketing her quarters. She steadies herself against the little table by the door and squints at the floor as she searches for whatever she’s just tripped over that caused her to ram her hip into the corner of said table.

Now she remembers - she’d changed her mind about her heels that morning and left the initial pair next to the door. She sighs and kicks off the heels she’s wearing now, leaving them lying haphazardly next to the others.

She walks towards the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Pain blooms in her hip, growing sharper with each step - she can already feel the deep purple bruise forming across her hip bone. She opens the fridge and stoops down, the bright, fluorescent glow shooting straight through her eyeballs into her already throbbing skull, making her eyes water. The fridge is nearly empty and Larissa groans in frustration as she closes its door and blindly reaches for the cabinets above the stove instead, running her fingertips across the smooth, familiar wood as her eyes adjust again.

Her fingers bump into the little brass handle and she opens the cabinet, pulling out the first bottle she finds. Whiskey. She opens another cabinet and takes out a crystal tumbler, then pads across her quarters to her little balcony, clutching both bottle and tumbler to her chest.

A chill seeps through her stockings and straight into her bones as she steps outside, and she grits her teeth as she lowers herself onto the oversized pillow she’d taken out here when she first started spending her evenings after work out on the balcony.

It’s a lot colder tonight than it was those weeks - or has it been months? - ago. Fall is as good as over, the trees barren of their gorgeous red and orange foliage, but winter hasn’t fully started yet either, the first snowfall having yet to make an appearance.

Larissa pours some of the amber liquid into the tumbler, raising it to her lips and tossing it back in one go. It burns her throat and the swift motion smudges her lipstick, not that that matters. It warms her a little from the inside, so she pours herself another.

She supposes she could do something productive, or at least try to distract herself, but there’s not really a point - she can’t read books or watch films or even knit without spending the entire time trying to reign in her wandering thoughts. Even her work is suffering as a result.

She should’ve seen it coming, really, you leaving her. After all, she thinks bitterly, as her thoughts once again hone in on you, she had been rather absent in your marriage. Even when you told her you were moving out, that you were done trying, she could hardly wrap her head around it. Hardly believe it was actually over.

On the day you’d left, she’d woken up to a horribly loud rummaging in the closet. It was a Sunday, and she remembered the pang of irritation that mixed with her confusion, the frustration that you’d woken her early on the only day she ever slept in. She’d remembered readying herself to berate you, tasting the words on her sharp tongue as she’d pushed herself up onto her elbow - the words dying just as quickly as they’d come when her sleep-filled eyes were met with the sight of your half-full suitcase (the big one, the one you used for longer vacations) on the floor in front of the walk-in.

Between stuffing everything from your underwear to a few framed photos into the suitcase, you’d explained your reasoning rather coolly for someone who usually wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at even comedy films - it had unsettled Larissa to see you so casual about leaving. Perhaps it was due to this that she didn’t say much. She didn’t say any of the things she should have said, any of the things you might’ve hoped she’d say or the things she wishes today that she had said. She’d watched you pack, nodding along to whatever you were saying about divorce lawyers - divorce? - and robotically seeing you to the door.

Your tires had screeched a bit on your way down the driveway - the sound rings in Larissa’s ear as she tosses back another tumbler of whiskey.

Everything had passed so quickly after that, weeks and months blurring together. She’d signed the divorce papers in what she can, in hindsight, only describe as a fugue-like state, not realizing until much later the full consequences of her actions. And ‘much later’, apparently, translated into ‘too late’.

So I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad No, I am no longer funny, 'cause I miss the way you laugh You once called me forever, now you still can't call me back

One tumbler turns into two turns into three, and then she’s abandoned the glass in favor of drinking straight from the bottle. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, scrolling to your contact as if on autopilot and staring at it as if it would suddenly come to life.

You’d forgotten an old pair of sneakers at the back of the closet. She’d told you when you’d stopped by with the divorce papers, and you’d told her to just throw them out.

Just throw them out.

It should be so easy. They’re dirty and they stink and the sole is peeling off on the right one. Every time Larissa sees them, she picks them up and wills herself to walk straight to the trash bin. She picks them up - then puts them right back, next to her own rarely-used running shoes.

Larissa clicks ‘call’. She lifts the phone to her ear as she waits, taking another gulp of whiskey. It doesn’t burn anymore.

Her throat gets tighter with every ring, a thin film of tears beginning to blur her eyes. After a few long minutes, the call goes to your voicemail - which is full - and Larissa’s tears spill over, clinging to her lashes before racing each other down her cheeks.

“Pick up, goddamnit!” she growls, her voice hoarse and wet. She tosses her phone angrily onto the floor beside her, not caring if it gets scratched.

There was a time when you’d have picked up the phone in the middle of a packed movie theater if it was her calling - now she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since the divorce was finalized. It’s at least half her fault, she supposes, but she’s still angry at you for ignoring her. For leaving her. Even if she seemed intent on driving you away.

It’s getting late. Larissa knows this not because she’s checked the time, or because the moon is already high in the night sky, but because time always manages to slip away from her when she’s sitting out here, and because her ass is numb and her knees hurt from sitting in one position for so long.

She pushes herself up, a bit shaky on her feet, nearly stumbling then steadying herself against the railing of the balcony. She bends, stumbling again, grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck, fumbles with the tumbler, then makes her way into her quarters, leaving her phone on the floor and the balcony door open behind her. It’s been so drafty in her quarters lately.

The bottle of whiskey is placed on the counter and, as Larissa goes to place the tumbler into the sink to be washed, it slips and shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere. She feels the warmth of her own blood on her finger before she feels the sting of the cut.

“Fuck!”

A little bit of moonlight is streaming into the kitchen, and Larissa raises her finger into the light and stares at it, watching blood form a large bead on her fingertip, then slowly trickle down towards her hand. She sucks her finger between her lips, trying to stem the flow of blood. The metallic taste mixes with the whiskey on her tongue and, as she stands there in the darkness of her kitchen, she suddenly feels tired, so unbelievably tired.

She wants to call you again. She wants to tell your full voicemail box to go fuck itself, all she wants is to hear your voice. It’s all she wants yet it’s all she can’t do.

And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @gwens-wife

#larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #larissa weems #principal weems #principal weems x reader

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hookhausenschips · 2 months ago

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Whispered Intentions

Ch.1 of The Game Of Seduction

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Summary: At a glamorous charity gala, mob boss Lando Norris encounters Y/N, a captivating and enigmatic woman who disrupts his control with her fearless charm. Their meeting sets the stage for a dangerous game of power, seduction, and hidden motives.

Warnings: Manipulation, Deception, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Psychological Tension, Mature Themes

WC: 2.1k

17+

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The charity gala was a spectacle of wealth and shadowed power. Beneath the golden glow of crystal chandeliers, the elite mingled—mob bosses masquerading as philanthropists, business tycoons laundering their riches, and politicians exchanging favors with quiet handshakes. Conversations were murmurs of veiled threats and promises, the kind of deals that could move markets or topple governments.

At the center of it all stood Lando Norris, the newly crowned leader of the McLaren Mob Family.

Lando carried himself with a calm authority that demanded respect. His midnight-blue suit was immaculately tailored, its sharp lines emphasizing his slim but commanding build. The soft curls of his infamous mullet rested casually along the nape of his neck, a style that shouldn’t have worked but somehow added to his mystique. With a crystal tumbler of bourbon in hand, he exuded an effortless magnetism, his every move calculated yet unhurried.

The room was his, and he knew it.

But when she walked in, even Lando couldn’t deny the shift in the atmosphere.

---

Lando’s POV

I didn’t see her at first.

The room was filled with the usual crowd—men trying to act more powerful than they were, women hoping to catch the eye of someone important. All of them, predictable. Forgettable.

Then she walked in.

I caught a glimpse of green first, a flash of emerald against the subdued tones of tuxedos and evening gowns. The dress clung to her curves like it was made for her, shimmering with every subtle sway of her hips. Her skin, rich and smooth like polished mahogany, glowed under the chandeliers, and her hair—jet-black curls swept to one side—framed her face perfectly.

I couldn’t look away.

Who the hell is that?

My grip on my glass tightened as I watched her glide through the crowd. She was unlike anyone else in the room. Where the other women fawned and flitted, their presence ornamental at best, she was electric. Every step she took seemed deliberate, her gaze calculated.

She didn’t belong here—or maybe that was the point.

It wasn’t just her beauty, though that was impossible to ignore. It was the way she carried herself as if the world bent around her will. The other men in the room noticed her too, their attention blatant, but she dismissed them with the slightest tilt of her chin. I had seen countless women try to get his attention, but this one wasn’t trying at all.

And yet, she had it entirely.

She didn’t scan the room like most people, trying to figure out who mattered and who didn’t. No, she moved like she already knew she was the most important person here. And the way people turned to watch her... they might have agreed.

Then her eyes met mine.

Dark, piercing, and unreadable. She didn’t smile right away. Instead, she studied me like she was deciding something.

I tipped my glass to my lips to cover the flicker of unease that ran through me. For a split second, I felt like I was the one being observed.

Then she smiled, slow and deliberate, and started walking toward me.

---

Y/N’s POV

The room was a stage, and every player was already in character.

I spotted Lando immediately. He wasn’t hard to find. He stood near the bar, effortlessly commanding the room with his presence. The pictures I’d seen of him didn’t capture the full picture—the sharpness of his jawline, the casual confidence in the way he held himself. And the infamous curly mullet? Somehow, it worked. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

I let my gaze linger on him for a moment longer, just enough to make sure he noticed. Men like him loved being noticed, but they hated feeling studied. It was a balance, one I’d perfected.

The emerald gown was a weapon, just like the bold red lipstick and the diamond cuff that glittered on my wrist. I’d chosen it all with precision. Tonight, I wasn’t just here to seduce Lando Norris. I was here to dismantle him.

I began moving toward him, my steps slow, deliberate. The crowd parted without me needing to ask, their gazes trailing me like whispers. I didn’t acknowledge them. My focus was entirely on the man watching me with a sharp, unreadable expression.

“Mr. Norris,” I said when I reached him, extending my hand. My voice was smooth, velvety, as though this was the most natural moment in the world.

His eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face. For a moment, he didn’t move, and I wondered if he would refuse. Then he reached out, his grip firm and warm against my skin.

“Y/N,” I offered, letting my name roll off my tongue like a secret.

“Y/N...” he repeated, his voice low, almost testing the name. “And your last name?”

“Just Y/N,” I replied, my lips curving into a faint smile.

His brow arched slightly, the first crack in his otherwise unreadable expression. “Intriguing.”

“Not as intriguing as you,” I said lightly, releasing his hand but not the tension between us.

---

Lando’s POV

She was fearless. Most people, even the bold ones, had some tell—nervous hands, a flicker in their gaze, something. But not her. She was poised, calm, like this was her gala and not mine.

“What brings you here?” I asked, keeping my tone polite but cool.

“Curiosity,” she said. Her lips quirked into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “And the promise of an unforgettable host. I must say, you don’t disappoint.”

Flattery, but not the usual kind. It wasn’t heavy-handed or desperate. If anything, she said it like she didn’t care whether I believed her or not.

I leaned in slightly, enough to close the distance but not enough to touch her. “You don’t seem like the type to come to an event like this just for curiosity.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she tilted her head as if considering me. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

It was maddening. Every question I asked, she answered without actually giving anything away.

“Are you always this forward?” I asked, my voice dropping lower.

“Only when it’s worth it,” she replied smoothly, her gaze locking with mine.

I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years—unease. She was too calm, too composed. But damn if I didn’t want to know more.

Before I could press her further, she stepped back, her curls brushing against her bare shoulder as she turned. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Norris. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”

And just like that, she was gone.

---

Y/N’s POV

I felt his eyes on me as I walked away, burning into my back like a physical weight. I kept my movements steady, controlled, but my pulse thrummed beneath my skin.

This was the first step—a small victory in a much larger game. But I couldn’t deny the flicker of something unexpected. He was sharp. Sharper than I anticipated. And the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to see more than he let on, had left me unsettled.

I hated it.

The mission came first. It always came first. But the way he looked at me, like he was unraveling me even as I tried to unravel him... it made me want to play this game a little longer than I should.

---

Lando’s POV

She’s dangerous.

That was my first thought as I watched her disappear into the crowd. I didn’t know who she was or what she wanted, but I knew this much—she wasn’t here by chance.

There was something about her. The way she carried herself, the way her eyes held mine like a challenge. She wasn’t scared of me, and that was rare.

I didn’t trust her. I couldn’t.

But as I tipped my glass back and let the bourbon burn down my throat, I couldn’t deny the other thought running through my head.

I wanted to see her again.

The bourbon didn’t do a damn thing to settle the unease she’d left behind.

I was used to people playing games around me. Men schemed to gain favor, women fawned to get closer, and everyone always wanted something. It came with the job. Hell, it came with the name. But her? She didn’t fit into any of those boxes.

She didn’t want my approval. She didn’t need my validation. And somehow, that made her the most dangerous person in the room.

I leaned against the bar, pretending to survey the crowd, but my attention kept drifting to her. She was moving through the gala like she owned it, smiling at strangers, exchanging words I couldn’t hear. She laughed once, a soft sound that seemed effortless but made my chest tighten.

What was her game?

She’d disarmed me with that dress, that smile, those damn red lips that still lingered in my mind. But it wasn’t just the surface—she was clever. Too clever. The way she parried my questions, the subtle way she prodded at my defenses... it felt like I’d walked into a trap and hadn’t even realized it.

No one had made me feel like that in years.

I set my glass down harder than I intended, the sound drawing the bartender’s attention. I waved him off, keeping my eyes on her. She was talking to a group now, her hand resting lightly on the arm of some wealthy politician I didn’t care to remember. Her body language was relaxed, her smile easy.

She was working them. Just like she was working me.

---

Lando’s jaw tightened as he watched her. To anyone else, she seemed nothing more than an enchanting stranger. But he knew better. He had to.

Her calculated movements, the way she had studied him during their conversation—it wasn’t just casual curiosity. She was too deliberate. Too perfect.

But that was the problem.

Despite all the warning bells ringing in his head, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her confidence, her quick wit, the way she stood toe-to-toe with him without so much as flinching. For the first time in a long time, someone had gotten under his skin.

He hated it. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

---

Y/N’s POV

I could feel his eyes on me again, as sharp and heavy as the blade hidden under my dress.

Good.

This was the part of the game I thrived in—the tension, the dance of pushing and pulling without revealing too much. Lando Norris wasn’t the first powerful man I’d faced, but he was the first to make me second-guess myself.

I hated that.

I’d done my research. He was smart, careful, calculated. A man like him didn’t get to where he was by being easy to manipulate. And yet, there was something about him that surprised me.

He didn’t act the way I expected. He didn’t flaunt his power, didn’t preen like most mob bosses. Instead, he carried it quietly, like it was woven into his very being. It was... unsettling.

And worse, it was intriguing.

I forced myself to focus, to push past the little voice in the back of my mind whispering that this was dangerous. That he was dangerous.

I couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not when I was so close to the first step in unraveling him.

---

Lando’s POV

There was something else about her. Something I couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just the way she moved, though that was enough to drive any man insane. It was the way she looked at me. Like she already knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.

No one looked at me like that.

I should’ve been angry. Hell, I should’ve had someone follow her out of the gala to see who she really was. But I couldn’t bring myself to act. Not yet.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I was the one holding all the cards.

And that terrified me.

---

As the night wore on, Lando found himself returning to the same questions over and over again.

Who was she?

What did she want?

And why the hell did it feel like she was toying with him when it should’ve been the other way around?

From across the room, Y/N caught his eye again. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile before she turned away, leaving him with nothing but the taste of his own uncertainty.

It was a game, no doubt about it. But as Lando stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd like smoke, one thought gnawed at the edges of his mind.

What if he was the one being played?

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Series Taglist: @laptime-deleted

LN4 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @ilivbullyingjeongin, @ggaslyp1, @icecoldtires, @cmleitora, @cheyennep3107, @d3kstar, @fadingcloudballoon-blog, @same1995, @hinamesgigantica, @laptime-deleted

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ms-snape · 2 months ago

Note

Lucius x Reader in which Draco hypes him up to court the Reader. Maybe she is Lucuis old hogwarts crush who is visiting the manor with her family for pureblood stuff, (No hating on Narcissa tho,)

Title: Old Crush

Warning: none

Words Count: 3000+

Masterlist

---

The Malfoy Manor stood tall against the waning twilight, its grand silhouette casting long shadows over the carefully manicured grounds. In the distance, the dark stone walls of the estate loomed, holding secrets—secrets that had been carefully locked away for years, only to be stirred up by a seemingly innocuous dinner invitation.

Lucius Malfoy was pacing inside the drawing room, the ornate chandelier above him casting a soft, golden glow over the room. His fingers tightened around the edge of his crystal tumbler, the amber liquid swirling inside as he tried to focus on the current matters at hand. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—toward a time long ago when his life had been less complicated, when the future had seemed as bright as the stars themselves.

The evening had been meticulously planned. The table was set with the finest silver and crystal, each piece gleaming under the soft, flickering light of candles. The house-elves had been instructed to prepare a banquet of the highest quality. The guest list had been carefully curated, and there was one particular name that occupied Lucius’s mind: Y/N.

Y/N.

The name had not crossed his mind in years, not since their last encounter at Hogwarts. It was a memory he had buried deep, choosing to focus on the present rather than the past—on the rise of the Dark Lord, on the responsibilities of being a Malfoy, on marrying Narcissa, and eventually having a son. Yet now, with her impending arrival at the manor, the memory resurfaced in a wave of nostalgia that caught him off guard.

It wasn’t just the passing of time that had changed things. It was the sudden realization that, all these years later, he would see her again, this time as an adult, no longer the shy, innocent girl from their youth. The girl who had unknowingly occupied a special place in his heart, a place he had tried—unsuccessfully—to forget.

Lucius adjusted the cuffs of his pristine robes, his long fingers brushing over the fine fabric, his mind returning to their last interaction as teenagers. He could still remember the way she had looked—radiant, graceful, the very definition of elegance. Her laughter had been soft, like the gentle tinkling of silver bells, and her smile... he had always wondered if she even realized how her smile had haunted him.

He had never acted on his feelings for her, never had the courage to tell her how much he admired her. But now, years later, the same inexplicable pull he had felt back then was beginning to return. He wondered what had become of her, what path she had walked after Hogwarts, and whether she would still remember him, or whether he had faded into the background of her life as the years passed.

There was a knock on the door, snapping Lucius from his reverie.

“Master Malfoy,” the voice of the house-elf called through the crack in the door. “The guests have arrived.”

Lucius straightened, inhaling deeply, before giving a subtle nod. “Show them in.”

It was time.

The grand double doors to the drawing room opened slowly, and there, standing in the doorway, was Y/N.

Lucius’s breath caught in his throat.

She looked exactly the same—yet not at all. Time had sculpted her into someone more refined, more poised, but the essence of the girl he had once admired was still there. Her hair, long and dark, cascaded down her back in soft waves, her eyes gleaming with that same quiet intelligence he remembered. She was dressed in a deep sapphire gown that complemented her complexion, her posture exuding the kind of regal confidence only a powerful pureblood could possess.

Her presence filled the room, commanding attention effortlessly. Lucius found himself momentarily lost in her gaze, his heart racing in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.

Behind her stood her father—an older, more imposing figure—and her mother, a woman whose face was lined with the wisdom and grace of decades spent in the company of the finest families in the wizarding world. But it was Y/N who held Lucius’s attention.

“Y/N,” Lucius finally managed, his voice low, almost tentative. “It’s been so long.”

Her smile was warm, though it held a certain distance. “Lucius,” she greeted, her voice just as melodic as he remembered. “It’s good to see you again.”

The formality of the greeting did not go unnoticed. Lucius gave a polite bow to her parents, who had entered the room behind her, before turning back to Y/N.

“I trust the journey was comfortable?” he asked, his tone polite yet undeniably genuine.

“It was, thank you,” she replied, her smile never faltering. “Your home is as magnificent as ever.”

Lucius chuckled softly, though a pang of nostalgia tugged at his heart. “I suppose I have to keep up appearances.”

It was then that Draco entered the room, his steps light but deliberate, his eyes scanning the group before landing on Y/N.

Lucius’s son, now a young man on the cusp of adulthood, had been observing the scene quietly from the corner. He had never met Y/N before—his father’s feelings for her were not something he had been made aware of—but there was something in his father’s demeanor that immediately caught Draco’s attention. The way Lucius stood a little taller, the subtle way his gaze lingered on Y/N, the shift in the atmosphere that seemed to hum with unspoken tension.

Draco’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a single detail. He could feel the unspoken history between the two, even if he didn’t fully understand it.

After a moment of awkward silence, Draco’s natural instinct to break the tension took over. He gave a slight smile and extended a hand to Y/N. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Y/N. I don’t believe we’ve ever had the honor of crossing paths.”

Y/N’s smile was kind but polite as she took his hand. “The pleasure is mine, Draco. I’m sure we’ve heard much about each other.”

Draco gave a small laugh, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I imagine the stories have been exaggerated.” His tone was light, but there was something calculating in the way he observed the interaction between his father and their guest.

Lucius’s expression shifted subtly, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face before he masked it. It was clear to Draco that something about Y/N had affected his father deeply. And given that Draco had never heard of Y/N before, this piqued his curiosity even further.

As the dinner began, the conversation turned to more mundane topics—the state of the Ministry, the ongoing political shifts, and the upcoming Quidditch season. Lucius was doing his best to appear composed, but his attention kept drifting toward Y/N.

There was no ring on her finger.

It was a detail that had not escaped his notice. Lucius had always assumed that, by now, Y/N would have married someone, settled down, perhaps had children of her own. The absence of a ring intrigued him, though he told himself it was of little consequence. The years had passed, and his life was no longer the one it had once been. He had responsibilities—his son, his family, his position in the wizarding world. Yet there, sitting across from him at the table, was Y/N, and he found it impossible to ignore the feeling that something had been left undone between them.

Draco, ever the observant one, had been watching his father closely. He could sense the shift in the air, the subtle tension that lingered around Lucius whenever Y/N spoke. It was as if his father was trying to suppress some old, long-forgotten feeling.

Draco’s mind worked quickly. He didn’t know what had transpired between his father and Y/N in their youth, but it was clear that there was unfinished business between them. And Draco, ever the opportunist, decided to play the matchmaker.

As the meal progressed, Draco made several subtle attempts to draw Y/N into conversation, asking her about her travels, her work, her family. Each time, he steered the conversation back to his father. He did it casually, but with a knowing glance. Lucius, however, was hardly aware of his son’s matchmaking efforts, too focused on Y/N.

Finally, after dessert had been served, and the conversation had shifted to lighter matters, Draco leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He smiled at his father, and then at Y/N.

“You know, Father,” Draco began innocently, “I was just telling my friend Theodore Nott the other day that it’s high time the Malfoy family expanded its connections. The right connections.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to Draco, an eyebrow quirked. “And what do you mean by that, Draco?”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Y/N, and then back to his father. “Oh, just that perhaps some old friendships could be revisited,” he said casually, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of mischief in his voice.

Lucius froze. His heart thudded loudly in his chest. Draco’s words were carefully chosen, and Lucius couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of discomfort. But Draco’s eyes were innocent, yet there was something knowing about them—something that suggested he had picked up on the tension between the two.

“Perhaps,” Lucius replied, his voice tight, “it’s best to leave the past where it belongs.”

Draco merely shrugged, but his eyes gleamed with a kind of satisfaction.

The evening wore on, but for Lucius, time seemed to stretch on forever. His thoughts were consumed by Y/N, by the memories of their youth, by the realization that life had led them both down different paths. Paths that, now, perhaps, could intersect once more.

The evening ended on a polite note, with guests exchanging pleasantries and preparing to depart. Lucius stood by the door, his eyes lingering on Y/N one last time. She was the same woman he had admired all those years ago—yet she was so much more now. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an awareness that something had shifted, though neither spoke of it directly.

As Y/N reached the door, she turned back to Lucius, her gaze softening.

“It was a pleasure, Lucius,” she said quietly, her voice filled with an emotion he couldn’t place. “Perhaps we should not wait so long before we meet again.”

Lucius’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in her words, in the way she said them, that held promise. The past wasn’t quite finished yet, and neither, it seemed, was their story.

As she walked away, Lucius found himself standing there, staring after her, unable to shake the feeling that his life had just taken an unexpected turn.

And so, as the last echoes of footsteps faded from the Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy found himself at a crossroads—one that he had never anticipated, but one that was now as inevitable as the coming dawn.

Weeks passed after that fateful dinner at the Malfoy Manor, and life returned to its predictable rhythm for Lucius. The manor remained pristine, his family’s reputation intact, and his position in the wizarding world unchallenged. But there was a lingering thought, a feeling that refused to dissipate, a presence that had subtly taken root in his mind—Y/N.

Lucius had tried, with all his might, to push aside the memories of their evening together. He had responsibilities, his son to guide, and the political landscape to navigate. But every time his gaze caught a glimpse of something familiar—a sapphire blue cloak, a flowing dark mane, or even the scent of lilies—it reminded him of her. Of their past.

It had been years since he had thought of Y/N with such intensity. During their days at Hogwarts, their lives had been shaped by their families' ambitions and the great conflict that loomed over them. But now? Now, after the passage of so much time, it seemed the possibility of a future, or at least a rekindling of something, hung in the air.

The moment came, unexpected and seemingly out of nowhere, one crisp autumn morning in the heart of London. Lucius had been summoned to the Ministry of Magic for a series of meetings with various department heads. The Ministry had always been a place of both opportunity and political minefield for someone like him—navigating it required a careful dance of diplomacy, subterfuge, and a very keen eye on potential allies and threats.

Lucius arrived in the Ministry lobby, his steps deliberate as he made his way past the statues and glittering marble. His robes whispered across the floor as he passed familiar faces, most of whom nodded respectfully at him, knowing his status as one of the most powerful purebloods in the wizarding world. His mind was preoccupied with the matters he had come to discuss with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he paid little attention to the mundane sights of the bustling Ministry.

But then, as he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with a figure emerging from an adjacent hallway.

Y/N.

It happened so quickly that Lucius barely had time to register the shock of her sudden appearance before their eyes locked. Her figure was as striking as ever—tall, composed, with an air of quiet authority that could command a room without a single word. But it wasn’t just the years that had passed that changed her—there was a subtle maturity about her now, a sense of self-assuredness that radiated from her, it was second time he noticed it, the first itme being during that dinner, and now...

“Lucius,” she said, her voice softer than he remembered, though still carrying that familiar warmth.

“Y/N,” Lucius replied, his voice a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something far more personal.

The moment stretched between them, brief but intense. It had been years since they last spoke, just the two of them, no one else around, but in that instant, Lucius was reminded of their time together in their youth—the secret moments shared when the world had seemed so much simpler. Now, it was as if no time had passed at all. But the world had changed, and so had they.

The noise of the Ministry seemed to fade as Lucius and Y/N stood there, as if the room itself had quieted in reverence of this unexpected encounter. But the spell was broken when a voice called out to Y/N from behind.

“Miss Y/N! We’re running behind on the schedules for today’s meeting. Shall we?”

Lucius’s gaze shifted slightly as the interruption pulled him from his reverie. The speaker was a young, eager-looking wizard, dressed in a crisp, understated suit—clearly someone in a position of power, though nowhere near the caliber of Lucius himself.

Y/N smiled politely, though Lucius could see the slight tension in her posture as she turned her attention back to him.

“I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere,” she said, her tone apologetic. “But it was good to see you again, Lucius.”

Lucius nodded, though a part of him felt as though he had just missed the opportunity to truly speak to her, to catch up.

“I didn’t know you worked here at the Ministry,” Lucius remarked, his voice smooth but tinged with curiosity.

“I’ve been here for several years now,” Y/N explained, a faint but knowing smile on her lips. “I’m in the Department of Magical Transportation. It’s... far from the more public-facing departments, but I find the work fulfilling.”

Lucius’s brow furrowed in surprise. He had assumed, given her background, that Y/N would have found herself in a position more aligned with the prominent pureblood families—perhaps a post in the Department of International Magical Cooperation or even within the Wizengamot. But the Department of Magical Transportation was far more obscure, dealing with the intricacies of portkeys, apparition regulations, and other aspects of magical transportation that most wizards never gave much thought to.

“Magical Transportation?” Lucius repeated, almost incredulously. “I must admit, I didn’t think you would be in such a... practical department.”

Y/N laughed softly, a sound that brought a flash of warmth to Lucius’s chest. “I suppose it’s not glamorous,” she said. “But it has its own importance. Not all of us are eager for a hight and important place as yours.”

Lucius’s eyes searched her face for any hint of irony or regret, but there was none. She seemed perfectly content with her life, though he wondered what had brought her to such a quiet corner of the Ministry. Had her path truly diverged so completely from his own? Or was it by choice that she had stayed out of the political spotlight?

“Well, I won’t keep you from your duties,” Lucius said, though the disappointment in his voice was clear despite his best efforts to mask it. “It was good to see you, Y/N.”

“You as well, Lucius.” Her smile was warm, but there was a hint of sadness in it, as though she, too, regretted the brief nature of their meeting.

With that, she turned, and her figure disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast corridor.

Lucius stood still for a moment, his thoughts racing. The encounter had been so unexpected, so fleeting. He couldn’t help but feel the weight of the years between them, the paths they had taken that had led them to such different places. But in that brief moment, it was clear to him that whatever distance had grown between them in the past, it hadn’t erased the connection that still lingered, hidden just beneath the surface.

Later that day, Lucius sat in the sterile, polished offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, going over the details of an ongoing case. But his mind was elsewhere, occupied by the encounter with Y/N. He found it difficult to concentrate, to keep his thoughts fixed on the matters at hand. His gaze kept drifting to the corner of his desk, where a small piece of parchment sat, untouched—a note that had arrived earlier that day, courtesy of Y/N’s office. It was a formal request to discuss some bureaucratic matters between their departments, a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things. But for Lucius, it was a lifeline—an excuse to see her again.

He hadn’t forgotten the way her smile had made his heart race, how the years seemed to melt away when their eyes met. She was more than just a former acquaintance; she was a reminder of something he had long buried—a part of his past that, despite his best efforts, refused to stay buried.

Lucius sat back in his chair, steeling himself for what would come next. He knew he would have to play the game carefully—after all, Y/N wasn’t just a passing fancy. She was someone who had the potential to change everything. He wasn’t the same man he had been at Hogwarts, and neither was she. But their meeting was proof that the threads of their past hadn’t unraveled completely. There was still something there.

And Lucius Malfoy, despite his carefully curated life and responsibilities, was beginning to wonder if that something was worth exploring.

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aperfecthalosblog · 11 months ago

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Freddy Krueger 20oz or 30oz skinny tumbler (Glow in dark)

This listing is for one 20oz or 30oz skinny tumbler.. Glow in dark Option..

Vacuum insulated tumbler with lid and straw. Drinks stay ice cold or steaming hot ALL DAY LONG. Perfect for hot coffee in the morning, cold drinks all day long, or wine at the end of the day.

These are custom made and can be custom made for you with a process called sublimation..

Add a name or saying

Since these are handmade the image maybe slightly different then pictured

** All tumblers should be hand washed and not placed in the dishwasher.

There is no actual glitter the image make it appear like glitter..

#20oz 30oz tumbler #horror movie tumbler #homemade Handmade #kitchen collectibles #Freddy Krueger #party Supplies #Friday The 13th #personalized Customi #birthday gift #Halloween tumbler #glow in dark tumbler #Scary Movie star #gifts for girlfriend

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enby-art-creations · 1 month ago

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Mardigras eye

#eye #mardigras #mardi gras beads #mixed media art #heart #neon #blacklight #glows in the dark #glitter #artists on tumbler #trans artist #nonbinary artist

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moonchi-af · 1 year ago

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Glow in the dark tumbler

✨ Get yours custom made ✨

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nelapanela94 · 1 year ago

Text

“Levi?”

You push the door open with your back and the weathered hinges creak. It’s dark and quiet inside, Levi’s leather jacket hangs over the chair backrest. The window behind his desk is closed, the quill stands in the holder.

The plate and tumbler clatter on the tray as you inch toward the door that connects his office to the room. It is ajar and you, uninvitedly, slip inside.

“Levi?”

A faint glow flickers from the nightstand, and Levi is tucked in bed, like a bundle, covered from head to toe.

Your eyes squint, lines mar the space between your brows. Something doesn’t seem right. You set the tray on the side table and pad gingerly to the bed, lay a hand on the quilt where his shoulder should be.

“Levi? Are you ok?”

What is someone kidnapped him and left the corpse of an animal behind? Panic rises in your chest.

“Y/N?”

His gravelly voice tames the drama snakes in your head. He rolls onto the opposite side. “What are you doing here?”

“You missed dinner. I thought you’d be hungry, so I saved some leftovers…”

“Not hungry.” His voice is shaky, like the rest of his body.

“What’s wrong then? Why are you in bed?”

“Why couldn't I be in bed?” He coughs. “I’m not a child. Get out of here.”

You frown, tap tapping the floor. “You’re acting like one now. And I’m not leaving until I make sure you’re fine.”

He flings the covers off and reveals himself. “I’m fine.”

His eyes are glassy, his lips dry, cheeks red, his hair glued to his face in sweat. He wriggles up against the headboard to a sitting position. You sit next to him, making him curse under his breath, and bring the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re far from fine. Why don’t you go to the infirmary?”

“I don't want to waste their time. Besides, there are others who need it more.”

“You could’ve asked for help at least.”

“I don’t want shitty glasses entering my room.”

“You could’ve asked me.” You jab a finger to your chest, pouting.

His cheeks sizzle with a deeper blush. What a shame it is that you see him in this deplorable state. He is the one who should be protecting you and not the other way around.

You peel from bed and scuff to the washbasin. In the shelf next to it, Levi keeps towels and linens. You take a lavender-imbued cloth, soak it and wring the excess. “Lay down, Levi.”

“Leave me alone.” He grunts and reluctantly complies. You brush his hair off his face and place the cloth on his forehead.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

“No, it’s just the fever. Thanks. Now, you can leave.”

“Are you kidding me? What if you get worse?” You plonk on the wing chair, arms folded on your chest.

“You’re worse than lice.”

“Just let me know if you need anything.” You stretch out your legs, and your ass sinks into the cotton canvas.

Thirty minutes later, your soft snores swarm the room. Your chest rises and falls steadily in your peaceful slumber. Levi sighs. And you were the one who was supposed to take care of him? His lips curve in a half smile. The ache in his bones and muscles is ebbing, the trembling in his limbs is easing. It's not of him to catch a seasonal flu, but a little attention from you doesn't hurt, does it?

He throws a cushion at you, and you jerk awake.

"Water."

#levi ackerman #aot #attack on titan #levi attack on titan #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #snk #levi aot #snk levi #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman fluff #shingeki no kyoujin #levi ackerman x female reader

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dreamgrlarchive · 1 year ago

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A Prissy Girl’s Guide to Spring

since i won’t be active on tumblr when next spring comes around, and i’ve done 3/4 seasons, i felt it was appropriate to go ahead and finish the series! if you find yourself inspired by my aesthetic/looks, you can absolutely use this as a guide for the next primavera season! 🐇

what’s the look this spring?

my personal forecast for fashion spring ‘24 is “pink pilates bimbo” for sure. the renewal of spring is the time for a wellness reset. so i’ll be engaging in a physical activity but i’ll still be in barbie attire. pink athleisure pieces with super girly additions is my predicted aesthetic. 🎀

first and foremost…

let’s talk about what spring symbolizes: renewal, cleansing, and restarting. that makes itself apparent in the seasons colors; the darkness of winter transitions to the soft pastels of spring.

preparation

start spring cleaning and prepping for seasonal allergies. stock up on in season fruits to keep in the house. take up outside activities like biking, outdoor yoga, and jogging. buy new fragrances. prep your skin and hair for the overtime humidity.

essentials

pretty umbrella

allergy meds/quarterly check up

new water bottle/tumbler

fresh and clean candles + home fragrances

matcha and jade citrus tea

humidifier

neti pot

clothes and accessories

pink athleisure. the lululemon strawberry milkshake jacket is a must! (or a dupe if you’re on budget)

foldover yoga pants

bedazzled pieces

pastel colored pieces

cute mini bags

victoria’s secret totes

tennis skirts

sheer + lacey tops

florals for spring? groundbreaking.

glitter + sequins

satin dresses

lace up sandals

hunter boots

coach baguettes

victoria’s secret co-ords, leggings and sweaters

ballet flats

ugg slippers + fluff sandals

cute gym shoes with pink/sparkly details

lace up pieces

baby blue is a staple color for spring

ruffle trims

warm materials + revealing cuts

“pastry princess” looks inspired by sweets and dessertz

cropped baby tees

stripper heelz

diamond jewelry

body jewelry + belly chainz

sparkly hair clips and headbands

butterfly aesthetics

ribbons and bows

ostrich feathers

sparkly keychains and wristlets

bodysuits + heels combo

statement jewelry like hello kitty, fruit or desserts

beauty

pretty eye pigments (try mac, huda or iconic london)

vibrant pinks

warm bronzer

glitter gloss

translucent glosses in pink and orange

charlotte tilbury flawless filter

nars super orgasm blush

morphe 8r complexion palette

morphe nikita palette

natasha denona diamond & glow (favvv)

a bunch of clear glosses

fenty diamond bomb

fenty fussy gloss bomb

urban decay moondust shadows

cake beauty products

joseon spf 50

bright and/or floral fragrances (gucci flora gorgeous gardenia, jimmy choo illicit flower, carolina herrera good girl blush, juliette has a gun collection, yves saint laurent mon paris intensement, marc jacobs daisy fragrances)

victoria’s secret love spell + warm and cozy + la crème fragrances

sol de janeiro body mists

body shimmer (fenty beauty or bath and body works)

sweet body butters

sol de janeiro beija flor

exfoliating gloves

juicy sheet masks

cetaphil moisturizing cream

native candy shop collection

victoria’s secret tease + eau so sexy

5 blade razors and post shave oil

cute mirrors to keep in my purses

glitter nails

lavenders and pinks

protein treatments for moisture overload

#diva seasonz!#the prissy girl agenda #dream girl beauty #dream girl journey #my posts

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immortalbumblebee · 15 days ago

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The Sunken City

Chapter 2: Hidden Shadows

When I tell y'all that this chapter was already almost at 10k and THEN I WROTE A SMUT SCENE! Like this chapter is probably the longest I've written, it's a little insane.

But don't make me regret it! MINORS DNI PLEASE I'M SERIOUS

Again, this is a sequel series to City of Iron and Glass!

Masterlist

The moon hung low over Piltover’s shimmering harbor, its pale light fractured by ripples in the dark, inky water. The salty air mingled with the faint creak of moored ships, the rhythmic splash of distant waves, and the occasional muffled clink of metal from the nearby docks. Looming in the shadows, the warehouse stood like a sleeping titan—silent, yet alive with the hum of machinery within. Its walls of corrugated steel, weathered and streaked with rust, were dappled with golden light leaking through gaps in its panels. The glow pulsed faintly, flickering like the heartbeat of the city’s tireless industry.

At the edge of this industrial monolith, four young figures crouched in the shadows near the entrance. The air was thick with tension, every creak of wood or echo of a footstep setting their nerves alight. Silco, the leanest of the ragtag group, worked with practiced precision, his long, nimble fingers twisting a thin lockpick inside the heavy padlock that secured the warehouse doors. The faint clicks of tumblers turning echoed in the still night, each one a small victory, though far too slow for anyone’s comfort.

“Hurry!” Benzo hissed, his hand tightening and loosening around the crowbar strapped to his back. His restless energy was palpable, his foot tapping lightly against the ground as if he could speed up the process through sheer impatience.

Silco rolled his eyes, though his focus never wavered. “How about you shut up and let me work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Vander, crouched just behind them, shot Benzo a warning look. His broad frame was tense, his arms resting on his knees as he kept his eyes locked on the shadows around them. “Keep it down, both of you,” he rumbled, his voice a quiet growl that brooked no argument. “We’re too exposed out here.”

You, easily the smallest of the group, sat closest to the ground, your back pressed against a crate as your eyes flitted nervously between Silco’s meticulous work and the distant glow of a patrolling Enforcer’s lantern. Your bandana was pulled low over your face, but the faint sheen of sweat on your brow betrayed her unease. “We’re not exactly blending in,” you whispered, glancing at the dim light spilling from the nearest lamppost.

“Almost there,” Silco muttered, the tension in his voice betraying his usual calm. Another faint click echoed as he worked, and the lock inched closer to surrendering.

From somewhere further down the docks came the muffled bark of a guard dog, followed by the distant murmur of voices. The group froze for a heartbeat, their breath collectively catching as the sound carried across the water. Silco’s hands paused mid-turn, his jaw tightening.

“Hurry faster,” Benzo urged again, his tone sharper now, his hand gripping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silco didn’t respond this time, his focus narrowing to the final tumbler. His fingers moved with deft precision, his eyes narrowing as he coaxed the mechanism into compliance. With a soft, triumphant click, the lock popped open, and he pulled it free with a small smirk. “Told you I’d get it,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.

Vander was already on his feet, gesturing for the others to move. “Save the victory lap for later,” he muttered. “Let’s get inside before someone spots us.”

As the heavy metal door creaked open, the faint hum of machinery swelled, its vibrations mingling with the soft whisper of the harbor wind slipping through cracks in the warehouse walls. The four of you slipped inside like shadows, leaving the moonlit harbor and its watchful eyes behind. A heavy heave of Vander’s broad hands pushed the doors shut, sealing the group within. The clang of metal meeting metal echoed briefly before falling into a tense silence.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of salt carried from the docks. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Moonlight filtered through dirty, streaked windows high above, casting pale beams across the vast interior. The light fell in fragmented patterns, painting jagged lines on the walls and floor. The midnight darkness cloaked much of the space, obscuring the finer details, but what you could see was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Rows upon rows of wooden crates filled the space, stacked high and bound tightly with metal straps. Each bore the faint stenciled logo of a Piltovan arms manufacturer. One crate lay open nearby, its contents spilling out—a chaotic jumble of pistol parts, rifle barrels, and gleaming magazines. The metallic glint caught your eye, and you realized the sheer volume of weaponry around you could turn the tide of a hundred skirmishes.

Benzo was the first to move, his grin splitting wide as he bent over to inspect one of the open crates. “We could arm a whole militia with these!” he cackled, his voice echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He reached into the crate and pulled out a box of armor-piercing bullets, the heavy rounds glinting in the faint light. He turned one over in his hand, holding it up as if admiring a rare gem. “These babies’ll punch right through an Enforcer helmet.”

Vander shot him a warning look but didn’t speak, his focus on scanning the warehouse for any signs of danger. His jaw was set, his frame tense as he stayed near the entrance, ready to spring into action if the need arose.

Silco is crouched a few feet away, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for weak spots. His voice is quiet, but the edge is unmistakable. “Take what you can,” he says, “but pack light. We’ve still got to make it back across the bridge without getting caught.”

You nod silently, your fingers already working on the nearest crate. The cold bite of the crowbar in your hands feels grounding, a small comfort as you pry open the wooden lid with practiced ease. Inside, rows of pistol parts glint faintly in the moonlight, neatly stacked and pristine. You swallow hard. There’s enough firepower here to change everything for the Undercity—or destroy it.

Your hands move quickly, grabbing what you can fit into your satchel. Beside you, Benzo is stuffing bullets into his bag with reckless enthusiasm, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. You glance at him, wanting to tell him to slow down, but Silco beats you to it.

“This isn’t a game,” Silco snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. “One screw-up, and we’re all dead. Focus.”

Benzo huffs, but he lowers his voice. The tension in the room tightens like a noose, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every sound—the soft scrape of metal, the distant hum of machinery, and the muffled crunch of gravel outside the warehouse.

That sound makes your blood run cold. Gravel shifting. Footsteps? You freeze, your fingers hovering over the next crate as your heart thunders in your chest. You look up at Vander, who’s already gripping the wrench strapped to his back. His expression is unreadable, but his body language screams alert.

Your stomach churns as you glance at Silco. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see a flicker of something that looks like worry. Then his face hardens. “Move faster,” he whispers, the urgency in his tone making your hands tremble as you shove more ammunition into your bag.

Every sound seems louder now—the rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, the faint clang of metal. You force yourself to keep going, your breath coming in shallow bursts. The weight of the bullets in your bag feels heavier with every passing second, but you can’t stop.

You steal another glance toward the door, your mind racing. The crunch of gravel still echoes faintly in your ears, growing closer—or maybe that’s just your imagination. Either way, the oppressive weight of the dark warehouse feels like it’s closing in, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re running out of time.

***

The soft chime of the doorbell announces your arrival as you and Vander step into Benzo’s shop, the warm, cluttered air enveloping you instantly. Vander turns over his shoulder, giving Claggor a quick but firm look. “No one comes in,” he instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Claggor hesitates, his boyish face creased with unease, but he nods curtly and takes a stance outside, glancing up and down the lane like a sentry.

Inside, the shop feels smaller than you remember, stuffed to the brim with shelves packed with all manner of shinies, baubles, and trinkets. Trinkets you know intimately—some of which had passed through your own hands, carefully engineered, polished, and sold to help keep the Undercity scraping by. The faint smell of old wood and machine oil lingers in the air, the hum of a small motor somewhere in the background adding to the charm.

At the counter, a much fuller Benzo is hunched over, studying some sort of gemstone. The years have thickened his frame, but his presence is still the same—equal parts gruff and reliable.

Tucked away in the far corner, working with quiet concentration, is a boy no older than twelve. His dark skin is dusted with oil smudges, and his silver-white hair glints in the dim light as he fiddles with the intricate inner workings of a battered grandfather clock.

Benzo doesn’t even look up as the two of you step inside. “We’re closed!” he barks, his gravelly voice filling the small space.

Vander doesn’t miss a beat. “Then open up!” he retorts, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a pint at the Last Drop.

“For good!” Benzo snaps back, finally lifting his head to glare at the two of you. “You can take your worthless junk elsewhere!”

Vander sighs loudly, one hand running over his thick beard in mock exasperation. “Just as well,” he mutters. “The owner’s the shittiest businessman I know.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes as a heavy pause settles between them. The weight of the silence stretches for a moment before both men erupt into booming laughter, their voices filling the shop and breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.

The boy in the corner glances up briefly, his bright eyes flicking toward the commotion before returning to the clock’s delicate gears with a faint smirk of his own.

Stepping over to the counter, you offer Benzo a familiar smile, one he can’t help but return despite his gruff demeanor. “Hello, old man,” you greet, your tone light but warm, the playful jab carrying years of friendship behind it.

Benzo snorts, leaning back from his hunched position and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You’re no spring chicken yourself these days, fishie,” he shoots back, a twinkle of amusement in his sharp eyes. The nickname pulls an exasperated chuckle from you, one you’ve grown used to over the years.

Before you can retort, Benzo’s attention snaps to the corner of the room, where the boy with silver-white hair is still elbow-deep in the inner workings of the grandfather clock. “Ekko!” Benzo barks, his voice carrying that unmistakable tone of authority. “What’s going on with that thing? You plan on fixing it or marrying it?”

The boy glances back over his shoulder, a small wrench clutched in his oil-smudged hand. His expression is focused but calm, the kind of cool confidence that only comes from doing this sort of work a hundred times over. “Give me a few seconds,” Ekko replies evenly, turning back to the intricate gears in front of him. “The cannon pinion’s still busted.”

You resist the urge to walk over and help, your fingers twitching at your sides as you watch Ekko work with precise, careful movements. It’s a familiar instinct, but you remind yourself that the boy doesn’t need your intervention. He’s got it under control—he always does.

You think back to when Ekko had first come into your lives, a scrappy war orphan whose parents’ names were lost to the chaos. You hadn’t known them, but you didn’t need to; their absence was written in the boy’s cautious eyes and the way he clung to survival like it was the only thing he had left. You and Vander had talked long into the night about what to do. You’d already been stretched thin, barely keeping your own heads above water, but the idea of turning him away was unthinkable.

Even then, Ekko had stood out. A genius young lad, his sharp mind and boundless curiosity shone brighter than the glittering spires of Piltover’s skyline. His talent was undeniable—academy-worthy, some might have said. Not that you put much faith in that pompous institution of classist elites. Still, his eye for engineering and science had been like nothing you’d ever seen before. Except maybe in Viktor, that sickly boy from Zaun who had somehow clawed his way up to become Councilman Heimerdinger’s assistant.

But before you could make a decision, Benzo had beaten you to the punch. “Let me have the youngin’,” he’d said, practically begging as he crouched down to Ekko’s level. The boy had been barely three at the time, small and wide-eyed, clinging to a makeshift toy he’d cobbled together from scraps. “I’ll make something great outta him, just you wait.”

You’d been skeptical, of course. Benzo wasn’t exactly known for his parenting skills, and the thought of leaving a child in his care had made your stomach twist. But Vander had seen something you hadn’t, nodding quietly and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll do right by him,” Vander had said, and for all your doubts, you’d trusted his judgment.

And somehow, Benzo had kept his word. Over the years, he’d molded Ekko into something extraordinary—not just a boy who could survive but one who could thrive, even in the harsh realities of the Undercity. He’d taught him not just the mechanics of machines but the mechanics of life itself: how to navigate its moving parts, how to fix what was broken, and how to know when something was beyond repair.

Still, as you watch Ekko now, focused and calm as he works on the clock, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride—and maybe a little ache of what-ifs. He could’ve been under your roof, learning from you, growing with you and Vander. But he’s happy here, in his own way. And maybe that’s all that matters.

“Finish it later!” Benzo barked, “The grown-ups need a word.”

Ekko voiced his complaints, grumbling under his breath about wanting to keep working, but Benzo waved him off with a flick of his hand. “Time to pack it in, kid. Go on, out you go,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Reluctantly, Ekko gathered his milk crate of tools, muttering something about the clock being “practically done anyway.”

As he shuffled out the door, Claggor greeted him cheerfully, his wide grin immediately brightening the boy’s scowl. You watched through the window as the two exchanged a few words before disappearing around the corner, leaving the shop quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the creak of settling shelves.

Benzo turned his attention back to Vander the moment the door clicked shut, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “You’re early,” he grumbled, leaning on the counter and giving Vander a pointed look. “My guys are still out rounding up this month’s collections. Won’t have the numbers until next—” His words were abruptly cut off as Vander hoisted the burlap sack from his shoulder and dumped its contents onto the counter with a dull thud. The bag fell away, spilling a jumble of items across the wooden surface. A pair of garden clippers. Mylo’s battered earhorn. A few well-worn switchblades. A tangled mess of mundane gadgets that looked more like the detritus of a street vendor’s stall than anything of value. Benzo let out a breath. “Why are you two muckin' about with this?”

You leaned a hip against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched Vander with an amused smirk. He didn’t respond right away, instead taking his time to spread the items out, turning one of the switchblades over in his hand as if examining it for the first time.

Benzo lets out a snort of laughter, the sound rough and hollow. “Yeah, me and half the Undercity,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the weight of the news is too much to shake off.

Vander sighs for real this time, the kind of sigh that seems to pull the air from his lungs and leave him momentarily deflated. He slumps, his shoulders heavy as the burden of the situation presses down. You watch him for a moment, your fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette from the pack in your pocket. You flick it between your lips, lighting it with a practiced motion, the ember catching the flame before you draw in a steady breath.

“How could they be so stupid?” you mutter through a cloud of smoke, the frustration bleeding through your words.

“They were just trying to do what they thought was right,” you remind him, your voice softer now, thoughtful. “Lady knows we did the same when we were their age.”

Vander’s eyes narrow, the dark circles under them deepening. “It’s Vi…” he mutters, his voice tinged with exasperation. “She throws herself at trouble wherever she can find some. I can’t watch her do it anymore.”

You glance over at Benzo, who’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching the two of you with a kind of detached curiosity. His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—an odd mix of understanding and cynicism.

“Eh, they’re growing up, Vander,” Benzo hums, as if this whole mess were just another part of the dance. “Looking to write their own stories, carve their own place. You can’t protect them forever.”

Vander doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, grab something solid to anchor him against the weight of those words. You can feel the heaviness of the room, the sense that the conversation has turned into something bigger, something unavoidable.

"Someone was following them."

Your head immediately perks up at the words, your senses sharpening. "What?" you ask, your voice tight with sudden alertness.

Benzo lets out a low chortle, clearly enjoying the way you’ve reacted. "Whole lot of someones, from what I heard," he adds with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the tension of the moment.

Vander shakes his head, his expression hardening. "Not Enforcers," he mutters, as if the very thought of Piltover’s law enforcement being involved would somehow be a lesser blow.

"Someone on our side?" you ask, the curiosity edging out your annoyance. "Who?"

Benzo’s gaze shifts, the playfulness draining from his face as he leans forward, the gravity of his next words settling over the room. "There’s worse things than Enforcers out there."

Vander’s gaze darkens at that, his fingers subconsciously running along the leather cast that envelops his arm. The faint scrape of his thumb against the material is almost inaudible, but it speaks volumes—memories, the kind you never quite forget. His eyes flicker briefly to his cast, the weight of past encounters pressing down on him.

"We all know that," Vander says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding, of history too painful to erase. The room grows heavier, as if the very air itself has thickened with the unspoken truths. You glance at Vander, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Benzo seems to sense the shift in the mood, his playful tone turning into something more serious. "Whoever's been tailing them, they aren’t just looking to knock some heads around for fun. There’s intent behind it. And that kind of target’s dangerous."

Your gaze hardens as your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended, frustration creeping in. "Just tell them to lay low? You know they won’t like that."

Benzo huffs, shaking his head. "Don’t have much of a choice, I reckon," he mutters, his tone gruff but resigned. He extends his hand toward you, and without a word, you offer him a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the shop.

He takes it without hesitation, inhaling deeply before passing the cigarette back to you, his gaze flicking down to the counter. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding.

Without breaking the silence, Benzo’s hand ducks under the counter, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a large glass container. The amber liquid inside catches the light in a way that almost makes it look warm, like liquid gold.

"For now, though…" Benzo's voice softens slightly, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he places the bottle on the counter, "some liquid comfort to ease the struggle?"

Vander sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pipe. The familiar ritual of filling it seems almost automatic. "You read my mind, old friend," he mutters, the weight of the situation settling in his bones.

You watch them both for a moment, the world outside the shop suddenly feeling distant, almost irrelevant. Benzo pops the cork with a satisfying thunk, and the rich smell of the liquor fills the air—warm, inviting, like an old friend. It’s a brief moment of comfort amidst the chaos, one that feels a little too fleeting.

As Benzo pours the liquid into two small glasses, you take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield against the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t have a clear plan yet, no concrete steps to follow, but something tells you this won’t be the last time you’ll need a drink to get through the night.

Vander chuckles lowly, his fingers gently tapping the bowl of his pipe. "To the mess we’re about to clean up," he says, the humor in his voice barely masking the tension that lingers in the room.

You clink your glass against theirs, the sharp sound echoing through the small shop before silence settles back in, thick with anticipation.

The moment was shattered by the sharp chime of the door opening, the cool night air sweeping into the shop like an unwelcome guest. The heavy thunk of boots against the worn floorboards followed, each step deliberate and echoing. You barely had time to react before the sharp chill running down your spine forced your shoulders to hunch. Your gaze hardened instinctively, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand.

Two uniformed Enforcers strode in, their presence slicing through the casual warmth of the room like a blade. Their faces were unreadable, save for the subtle tension in their postures and the way their eyes scanned the shop. Almost immediately, the younger of the two removed his air purifier, the smooth hiss of the device disconnecting was a reminder of everything you despised about Topsiders.

It wasn’t just the purifier—it was what it symbolized. It was their disdain for the Undercity, their belief that nothing here could ever be clean enough, pure enough, good enough. Vander had worked tirelessly to improve the air quality since he’d taken charge, striking uneasy deals with the Council to make life just a bit more bearable for those who called this place home. The upper levels had seen progress, but the mines remained a stubborn stain, a task unfinished. A promise unfulfilled.

But of course, nothing would ever be enough for the weak lungs of Piltover’s elite.

“Evening, friends!” Benzo greeted with a practiced smoothness, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Something I can help you with?”

The older of the two Enforcers stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Grayson. Time had not been kind to her, though she wore it with a quiet dignity. The streaks of silver in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes spoke to a decade of hardened resolve—of battles fought, lost, and somehow survived. Her gaze swept the shop lazily, but there was nothing casual about the way she took in every detail.

The younger one, though—he was different. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t look at the shop; he looked at all of you, as if he were cataloging a list of things to hold against you. “Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district, but you already knew that.”

Your teeth clenched at the term, your distaste barely hidden.

“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson said, her tone even but tired. She glanced around again, her eyes lingering on the counter, the shelves, and finally on Vander. She, like the rest of you, had aged in the past decade. Grey and white hairs sticking out at her temples, and the shadow of crows' feet framing her cold, but softened, eyes.

“Well, wasn’t us,” you muttered, your words carrying a deliberate edge as you lifted your glass and took a slow sip. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, but the warmth it left behind did little to chase away the growing tension in the room.

Grayson’s eyes shifted to you, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t think it was,” she said softly, her voice quieter than her companion’s but far more effective

“Got a description?” Vander asked smoothly, his voice steady and calm, giving nothing away. His neutral expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable weight to his words—a quiet warning. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the air as he leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

The younger Enforcer, Marcus, bristled immediately, stepping in close to Vander, his posture stiff and aggressive. “Yeah,” he growled, his tone laced with venom. He leaned in threateningly, the move deliberate, an attempt to intimidate. “It’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours.”

Your muscles tensed instinctively, your hand itching to grab the dagger concealed at your hip. The urge to intervene surged through you, but Vander’s calm demeanor held you back—for now.

Instead of reacting, Vander smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that only seemed to irritate Marcus further. He turned his head slightly to look at you and Benzo, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken humor. “You think my head is thick?” he asked lightly, the subtle challenge in his tone almost mocking.

Benzo shrugged with a casual ease that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Eh, just past the average,” he replied, his tone deliberately blasé.

Vander’s gaze shifted to you, and in that single look, he gave you a silent command: Stand down. His expression was calm, but the unyielding steel in his eyes left no room for argument.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders as you offered him a small, wry smile. “But just as handsome,” you quipped, your voice light, though your body remained coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.

Marcus, however, was far from amused. His frustration bubbled over as he snapped, “Listen, you shady son of a—”

“Marcus.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone left no room for debate, and Marcus immediately stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned to look at her.

Grayson didn’t even flinch, her calm, piercing gaze fixed on him. “How about you take a walk?” she suggested, the words polite but unmistakably firm.

Marcus hesitated, clearly reluctant to back down, but after a beat, he scoffed and turned toward the door. His boots stomped against the floorboards as he exited, muttering under his breath.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s new,” she said, almost apologetically. “Doesn’t know when to pipe down.”

Vander lets out a long, weary sigh, the cool and collected facade he’d held so carefully starting to crumble. His shoulders slump, and he hunches over his drink, his large hands wrapped around the glass as if it’s the only thing grounding him. “Some things are the same topside and bottom,” he mutters, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion.

Grayson steps closer, her boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. She stops beside you, offering a curt nod that you return in kind. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a shared weariness from years of dealing with the same unending cycle. Without a word, you extend your glass to her in an unspoken offer.

She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, her fingers brushing against yours briefly as she takes the glass. She raises it to her lips, taking a measured sip. The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, and she winces slightly, but her expression remains grim.

“You know this crossed a line upstairs,” Grayson says, her tone cutting through the quiet like a knife. She sets the glass back on the counter with a soft clink, her sharp eyes fixed on Vander. “Right?”

Vander doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Grayson’s lips press into a thin line. She exhales through her nose, glancing away briefly as if to compose herself. “A building was blown to bits,” she says finally, her words deliberate, heavy with implication. She swallows hard, her throat still stinging from the drink. “What do you think?”

The weight of her words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Vander’s jaw tightens, and his fingers flex around the glass, but he says nothing for a long moment. His silence speaks volumes, though—an acknowledgment of the consequences that are already spiraling beyond anyone’s control.

You watch them both, feeling the tension pull tighter with every second. The lines between right and wrong, between survival and destruction, have never been more blurred.

“Those who did this will be dealt with,” Vander says, his voice low and resolute, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface, like a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. You don’t like how much it sounds like a plea.

Grayson straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” she says, her words measured and deliberate. The name strikes a chord, and you immediately recognize it—the influential family tied to one of the council members. The same councilor who had supported the air quality initiative that Vander had fought so hard for.

Grayson continues, her voice hardening. “Do you know what kind of equipment they had in there? Cutting-edge prototypes, tools worth more than half the Undercity combined. This place”—she gestures vaguely around the shop—“looks like a candy store compared to what they lost. The Council isn’t just angry; they need to make an example of someone. People need to feel safe.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “You mean Piltover needs to feel safe,” you say sharply, your words dripping with contempt.

Grayson’s head snaps toward you, her eyes narrowing in warning, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Vander, the weight of her attention bearing down on him like a hammer. “We had a deal, Vander,” she reminds him, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “You keep your people off my streets, and I stay out of your business.” She leans in, her tone softening just slightly, almost as if she’s pleading. “Give me a name. We’ll handle it quietly. No one will know you were involved.”

Vander exhales heavily, his broad shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of the situation. The stress rolls off him in waves, palpable even to you. He shakes his head slowly, his jaw tightening as he finally meets Grayson’s gaze. “I can’t do that.”

Grayson’s hand slams down onto the counter with a sharp crack, making you flinch. “You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her composure cracks, revealing the urgency and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of Enforcers with me.” She leans forward, her face mere inches from Vander’s. “And we both know how that’ll go.”

The shop falls into a heavy silence, the weight of her threat settling over the room like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, Grayson,” Vander says finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t give up our own people.”

For a moment, Grayson stares at him, her jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding. Then she straightens, her expression hardening into the steely mask of an Enforcer doing her job. “You’re making a mistake, Vander,” she says, her tone cold and formal now.

You straighten, pulling your glass closer back to you. “I think it’s time you go, Captain.” Her cold eyes move from you, linger on Vander, then back to you. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp chime.

The silence that follows is deafening, and for a long moment, no one speaks. You glance at Vander, but his face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door as if he can still see her retreating form.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzo mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no hiding the worry in his tone.

Vander doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at the door, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

***

As you stepped back over the threshold, the sounds and smell of home filled your senses. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the faint smell of spilled ale and old wood mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the Underground’s air. It was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening, save for the faint creaks of the rafters and the occasional drip of condensation from the exposed pipes above.

Claggor trailed behind, his young face a mask of determination that couldn’t quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he stifled a yawn, glancing toward you for a moment before looking away.

You gave him a small, tired smile and placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into a side-hug. “Go on, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You’ve done enough for one night. Get some rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Vander, who nodded in agreement. “You heard her,” Vander said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “We’ll take it from here.”

Claggor gave a slight nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before heading toward the back door. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving you and Vander alone in the quiet bar.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you glanced around the space. The chairs were scattered haphazardly, the tables sticky with the remnants of spilled drinks. Behind the counter, a few empty glasses glinted in the low light, waiting to be washed. You immediately walked over to the bar, grabbing your rags and spray bottles as you prepared to clean the expanse of tables. Silently, for a moment, Vander watched you.

“I know you hate working with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, hushed, wary of any overhearing little voices.

You pause mid-spray, the rag in your hand frozen against the tabletop. For a moment, you don’t turn to face him, letting the silence hang between you like the damp air of the Lanes. Slowly, you straighten, glancing over your shoulder at Vander. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow gives him away.

“It’s not about liking or hating her,” you say, turning back to the table and scrubbing at a stubborn stain. Your voice is matching his, hushed, calm, measured. “It’s about what she represents. What they all represent.”

He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean agreement, frustration, or both. “We’ve been over this, Love. We don’t have a choice.”

You can’t help but scoff. “You think I don’t know that?” More scrubbing. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, when she comes in here, making orders. Like we’re her lackies. Like she doesn’t respect us,” you look back at him over your shoulder, “wasn’t too long ago she was throwing you in Stillwater.”

“She’s trying to help,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “Just like us.”

You glance up at him, rag poised over the table. “Is she? Or is she just trying to keep the peace so Piltover doesn’t have to dirty its hands with another war?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves behind the bar, his large hands steady as he begins stacking glasses. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice quieter.

“It never is,” you reply, resuming your work. The rhythmic motion of cleaning gives you something to focus on, something to anchor you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. “But it doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”

Vander stops what he’s doing, leaning heavily against the counter. “You don’t have to trust her,” he says, meeting your gaze. “But you do have to work with her. For the kids. For all of us.”

You sigh, your movements slowing as his words sink in. “I know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” he agrees, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t.”

The room falls into silence again, save for the faint creak of the rafters and the soft scrape of your rag against the wood. Vander watches you for a moment longer before returning to his task, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you like a familiar, unwelcome guest.

The two of you continue to work in silence, but your mind is anything but. Every thought feels like a sharp edge, cutting deeper the longer you let it fester. You hate it—hate how the idea lingers in your mind like an unwelcome guest you can’t quite kick out. You know you have to say it, to release the weight pressing against your chest, even if it makes everything worse.

As you finish wiping down the individual tables, your feet instinctively carry you over to the old jukebox in the corner. You press a few buttons, the familiar crackle and hum signaling it’s come to life. A low, mellow tune begins to play, not loud enough to disrupt the peace but just enough to mask any prying ears that might be listening.

With a steadying breath, you turn and step toward the bar, your gaze finding Vander. He’s behind the counter, absentmindedly drying glasses, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells you he’s thinking about more than just the task at hand.

“Vander,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the music. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I’m just gonna say it once,” you begin, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that demands his full attention. “And then never again.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing the leather cast on his arm. The worn material feels rough under your touch, a stark reminder of what’s at stake. “There is someone we could hand over to Grayson.”

The moment the words leave your lips, you see it—the flash of betrayal, hurt, and anger in his eyes. It’s as though you’ve physically struck him, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as if willing you to take it back.

“Minnie,” he says, his voice low and warning, laced with disappointment.

You pull your hand back, holding both up in surrender. “I know,” you say quickly, trying to cut through the tension before it boils over. “I know. We don’t give up our own people.” You shrug, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “But you and I both know the kids being stalked today wasn’t some one-off incident.”

His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders squaring as if to brace himself against your words. You can see the fury in his expression, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles whiten. But beneath the anger, you see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the hesitation he’s trying so hard to bury.

“I hate even thinking about it,” you admit, your voice quieter now, tinged with guilt. “But if it’s him or them…”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and final. “We don’t give up our own people,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the only way this works. If we start turning on people, even him…” He shakes his head, his gaze burning into yours. “We lose everything. Trust. Loyalty. Unity. It all falls apart.”

You nod, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settles over you. “I know,” you whisper, the guilt in your chest twisting like a knife. “I know, Vander.”

For a moment, the silence returns, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the jukebox. Then, without a word, you make your way around the bar, stepping into his space. You take his hands in yours, the roughness of his skin grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m scared, Vander. For them.”

His hands tighten around yours, the calloused grip grounding you in a way only he can. For the first time tonight, some of the tension in his shoulders softens, and his gaze, though still heavy with the weight of his responsibilities, holds something warmer. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But I need you to back me up here. If I don’t have you…” His voice trails off, as if saying it aloud would make it too real, too raw.

You nod, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. “I understand,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. His skin is rough, the stubble coarse beneath your palm, but the way he leans into your touch feels so vulnerable, so human. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, either. I’m sorry for even thinking it, for even saying it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand. I don’t blame you for thinking it. Things are… complicated right now.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And thank you for not saying it with anyone else in the room.”

“Of course!” you reply instantly, your tone carrying a faint edge of indignation, though your lips quirk into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s you and me, Vander. Always.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, holding on to each other in the quiet safety of the empty bar. The jukebox hums softly in the background, its low melody a distant reminder of the chaos outside. But here, in this bubble of stillness, it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, like it’s always been.

Vander’s hands shift slightly, his rough fingers brushing against the backs of yours in a way that feels almost reverent. His eyes meet yours, the familiar storm of conflict and determination softening into something deeper. The flicker of light from the bar catches in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed, the weight of everything giving way to this single, fleeting moment.

Without thinking, you step closer, your breath mingling with his as the distance between you narrows. His calloused hand rises to cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line across your cheek. It’s such a gentle gesture for someone who carries the weight of the Undercity on his shoulders, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Minnie…” he murmurs, your name barely more than a whisper on his lips, filled with so much emotion it almost undoes you.

You don’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on your toes, you close the remaining space, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is fierce, filled with everything unspoken—fear, frustration, love, and the unshakable bond that has carried you both through every storm.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace of this moment. You lose yourself in the warmth of him, in the way his lips move against yours, rough yet tender, commanding yet vulnerable. The rest of the world falls away—no Enforcers, no chembarons, no threats hanging over your heads. Just the two of you, anchored to each other.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His hands linger on your waist, keeping you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled with the quiet hum of the jukebox and the sound of your uneven breaths.

“I love you,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady, the words a promise, a declaration, a plea all at once.

“I love you too,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t just a repeat of the words you’d both said a million times, but rather, a promise. To him, to the life you’d created together, to the idea of your shared future together.

It started soft, tentative, like he was handling glass—terrified that one wrong move might shatter you. His lips brushed against yours with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a man who carried the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. The coarse itch of his beard against your skin grounded you, a quiet reminder of the ruggedness that hid the tenderness beneath. His hands settled on the small of your back, steady and secure, while his forehead pressed against yours, anchoring the moment.

The kiss was gentle but spoke volumes—every unspoken word, every hidden fear, and every promise he couldn’t quite put into words. It was restraint and love wrapped into one fragile moment.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

Your hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the coarse strands as you tugged gently. Just as you expected, Vander groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deeper. His grip on your back tightened ever so slightly, betraying the restraint he was desperately trying to maintain.

Then, with a small, mischievous smile against his lips, you nipped at his bottom lip. The action was playful but bold, a silent plea for him to let go, to give in.

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes burned with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something far more primal. For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath, and then his lips found yours again—this time with more urgency, more need.

The gentleness gave way to a deeper passion, his kisses more fervent, his hands gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you. Your own hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of your own feelings into the moment. The jukebox hummed in the background, but it was drowned out by the sound of your quickened breaths and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against yours once more, eyes closed as though savoring the moment. His hands stayed firm on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“M’love,” he whispered, his voice husky, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “You drive me mad, you know that?”

You smirked, your thumb brushing over the lines of his jaw. “Good. Someone’s got to keep you in check.”

He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss—this one slower, softer, like a thank-you—against your lips before pulling you into a tight embrace. In the quiet safety of the bar, the world outside could wait a little longer.

Between kisses, his lips brush against yours as he breathes out a barely audible, “Bedroom?” His voice is low and ragged, the word almost lost in the heat of the moment.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, the sound cutting through the intensity like a bright spark. “Kids are going to bed,” you remind him, your hands sliding from his hair to his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as the passion simmers between you. Your fingers dig gently into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath. “Office,” you suggest, your tone playful yet laced with urgency.

The corner of his lips quirks upward in a smirk, and he doesn’t hesitate. In one swift, practiced motion, his hands lower to your waist, gripping you with a confidence born of years together. Effortlessly, he lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all, his strength so familiar yet no less thrilling.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, holding onto him as he shifts his grip to better support you. The intimacy of the motion, the way your bodies fit so perfectly together, sends a new rush of heat through you. You can feel the tension in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Blindly, his steps take him around the bar, his focus entirely on you even as he navigates the dim room with ease. Your laughter echoes softly, a sweet contrast to the muffled hum of the jukebox in the background.

When he reaches the base of the stairs, he pauses for a split second, adjusting his grip as if savoring the closeness before beginning the ascent. Each step is deliberate but unhurried, the anticipation between you growing thicker with every passing second. You brush a kiss against the edge of his jaw, and he groans softly in response, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Someone’s enjoying this,” you murmur teasingly against his ear, unable to resist.

His response is a low chuckle, the vibrations resonating between you. “With you? Always,” he counters, his voice a mix of affection and heat. The words hang in the air, adding yet another layer to the smoldering intensity of the moment as the two of you disappear into the shadows of the upstairs office.

This moment, here, on the staircase. Those moments where you have someone safe, someone to come back to when the world outside was so harsh and unforgiving. It made your heart flip and your breath hitch in a way that felt as though it could shatter you, yet you leaned into it willingly. So few good things had been left here, in this city that tried to take everything from you, and you were impossibly grateful—achingly, desperately grateful—that Vander was still one of them.

“Something you want?” Vander’s voice pulled you from the spiral, his words gentle but teasing as his beard grazed your skin. One of his hands left the sanctuary of your hair, sliding down to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your jawline.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I always want you,” you admitted, the words leaving you unfiltered, vulnerable, as raw as the feeling surging within you. It seemed to be all the incentive he needed. Without another word, Vander carried you up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation. His office wasn’t anything grand—just a small, wooden room with a simple, scratched-up desk, its surface covered in scribbles and doodles from your youngest, a reminder of the life you’d built here amidst the chaos.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, none of that mattered. The world outside faded entirely as you felt your back press into the wooden paneling. Vander’s broad chest pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you, grounding you. Your legs stayed locked firmly around his waist, keeping him close, while your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him in as though letting go might make him disappear.

His lips found yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up your sides, memorizing every curve, as though reassuring himself you were still here. And you needed him just as much—primal, all-consuming. Every inch of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning you a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned into you, his strength overwhelming but never overbearing, as if even now, he was holding back just enough to keep you from breaking. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not now.

“Vander,” you breathed against his lips, your voice laced with urgency.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’m here,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a brief, grounding moment.

That moment was all too brief, though, as his lips returned to your neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin that made your breath hitch and your knees feel weak—even though you weren’t standing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring you to him as his movements became more insistent, more certain.

You tilted your head back, letting the tension of the day melt away under his touch, letting yourself get lost in him. Because in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the threats, not the fears, not the looming uncertainty of tomorrow. He took hungry advantage to the access to your neck, nipping at the tender skin there, which in turn sent electric shock through and down your spine.

“Beautiful…” he whispered into your skin, “absolutely breath-taking.”

“Could say the same about you.” Your grin was large, breath quickening with every movement of his lips against the flesh of your neck. He pulled away only slightly, a mix of emotions on his face.

“Even after all this time, Love?” He asked, his voice gravelly and heavy with feeling. His voice tinged with playful self-deprecation, though his smirk gave away the spark of mischief in his tone. “With the ‘dad-bod’, as you say, and the gray hair?”

“Always.” You affirm with a smile, leaning in so your lips were just a whisper away from his. “Especially with the dad-bod and the gray hair.”

Your words made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm, but it quickly turned into a low growl as your fingers trailed down from his face, over his broad chest, and settled at his belt. You tugged at it deliberately, your lips curving into a smirk of your own. “Now, get those damn pants off and come here,” you commanded, your voice husky with need.

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped back just enough to comply, his hands placing you down onto your own feet to undo his belt with practiced ease. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and desire.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you shot back, pulling our shirt over your head and leaning back against the door, watching him with a mixture of affection and anticipation.

He let the belt drop to the floor with a heavy clink, his hands now working the button and zipper as he shrugged out of his suspenders. “Oh, I love it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes raked over you. “Almost as much as I love the thought of filling you.” His words sent a rush of warm blood through to your cheeks, even after all these years together. The air between you crackled with heat, the playful banter giving way to something far more intense as the space between you disappeared again. His pants hit the floor, and before you could quip back, his hands were on you—gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. “And Gods, do I need to fill you.”

With a somewhat shaky hand on his chest, you gently pushed him towards his desk, his body easily and smoothly following your guiding as he found himself leaning against the wooden piece of furniture.

“First,” you began, slowly falling to your knees in front of him, “let someone else take care of you for a change.”

You run your tongue slowly along his length, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and ready before diving into the real effort. Once satisfied, you let your lips glide from the base to the tip in one smooth motion, preparing him—not just physically, but teasingly, setting the tone. His sharp exhale of approval sends a wave of heat through you, a rush of endorphins mingling with your anticipation. That sound, that subtle reaction, only fuels your desire to push further, to see what other noises you can coax from him.

“Fuck,” he sighs as you start to really work, moving the hand at the base in tandem with your mouth as you begin to slowly bob your head up and down, your tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is already deeper, more measured, and he shifts lower, trying to tilt his hips further into your mouth. You could, honestly, listen to the sounds of his moan all day.

Spitting into your hand, you used the combination of saliva and precum to begin pumping his cock while you eagerly took in the full view of the man above you. Chest rising and falling in staggered breaths, Vander’s head was fallen back as he grips the edge of his desk with one hand and the other moves to your hair, carefully gathering it and holding the strands out of your face.

“Bleedin’—fucking hell—” he choked out, his voice rough and raw as you lowered your head, taking him as deep as you could manage. His length felt heavy on your tongue, the warmth of him filling your mouth completely as you worked yourself closer to the base.

When the tip of him brushed against the back of your throat, the sound he let out shifted from a groan to something primal, a deep, guttural noise that sent a shiver down your spine. His reaction only fueled your determination, and you relished the way he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure.

You managed a couple of steady bobs, finding a rhythm, but that softness didn’t last long. His grip tightened, firm and commanding, as if his control had snapped entirely. He thrust into your mouth with a force that sent your head back slightly, his hips moving instinctively, hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The sheer intensity of it left you breathless, but you braced yourself, meeting his pace with as much control as you could muster. This wasn’t just passion—it was raw, consuming need.

It wasn’t long until you felt a distinct pressure at the base of your skull, his hands-carefully with an edge of urgency-removing you from his shaft and lifting you to your feet. Dutifully, you obey, letting him guide you with a firm grasp on the strands of hair in his hand as he moves you back around, gently moving you atop the desk. Hurried hands rid you of your pants and underwear as you take your perch, and for a moment, the coolness of the wood felt unpleasant. But he’s quick to warm you with the heat emanating from his body as he stepped between your legs.

“Gods, I love that mouth of yours.” He all but croons. His voice like butter to your ears and you have to physically try and focus your mind to not just fall to your knees for him all over again. His presence between your legs, however, keeps you present as he lines himself up to the warm, dripping slit between your legs. “But you know damn well which of your holes I prefer.”

You didn’t mean to let out the desperate whine that ripped from your throat. But as he slid into you, filling you so entirely, that whine turned into a breathless gasp. He took his time filling you, letting both of you fall whole-heartedly into the pleasure. His hands were moving, sliding up from your hips and along your sides to grasp your tits, busying himself to not get lost in the warmth of your cunt and how it seemed to take him perfectly. But you were too busy to focus on his hands, suddenly flooded with the sense of feeling intensely full. “Fuck…”

He shushed you gently, like a tender kiss to your hair as his hands continued to play with the mounds on your chest. “Hush my love, wouldn’t want the little ones to overhear.” His strong hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he presses his warm body against yours.

As he begins to move, you move your face into his chest, letting the soft muscle muffle your downright sinful sounds. Vander, however, continues to whisper into your ear, hands moving down to your hips. "Gods you feel so good…” he murmurs, “need that cunt so bad, all of you. Every damned inch.”

You’re clinging to him now, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he thrusts in and out of you. Vander’s eyes watched you intently, concentrating on studying the way your body reacted to his thrusts, how you bounced and quivered with his movements, all while he became drunk on the very feeling of you.

Knowing you were both nearing your limits, his movements became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked every thought out of your mind, your brain completely blank, pleasure becoming the only thing that occupied your thoughts. His body leaned into yours, forcing you to lay down across the surface of the now creaking desk, your face pressed into his shoulder as his hands traced over to your knees. Well-versed in this, you let your flexibility take over as he maneuvered you into a breeding press, his hips now thrusting into with reckless pleasure.

“Need to fill you, breed you.” He groaned into your skin, voice deep enough that the tone was enough to make your walls clench around him, in turn making him let out a wolf-like growl. “Yeah? You like that? Want me to breed you, love?”

The two of you had discussed this so many times, both within the warmth of the bedroom and outside it. The thought of having your own child—your own little one to nurture, to love, and to watch grow—had always been a dream, but a complicated one. You had both agreed that another mouth to feed wasn’t something you could afford, not when the weight of raising the children you already had was such a burden. They were your joy, your reason for everything, yet the reality of your lives felt too fragile to invite another little one into it. There was also the truth of your years, the undeniable fact that time had a way of changing things.

Didn’t stop the breeding kink from being hot as fuck, though.

“Gods, yes, please!” You cry out, trying desperately to not carry your volume too high. “Vander, please, I need it.” Your horny brain has fully taken over at this point. “I wanna feel it.”

“Cum for me, Love.” He grunts, droplets of sweat rolling down his body. “I’m right there with you, just…fuck, please, I need to feel you cum around my cock.”

Your climax crashes into you at his words, and this obliterates him. Crumpling into a mess of guttural groans, Vander plunges into you one final time and Gods, it’s like you’re seeing the stars again.

As you both lay there, tangled in a chaotic blend of sweat and breathless sighs, your mind, hazy and clouded by desire, can only vaguely register the sensation of him trailing soft, tender kisses along the curve of your collarbones. Each gentle touch, each lingering kiss, sends a shiver through your body, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment as you struggle to catch your breath. Your arms instinctively move up, draping around his shoulders as you nestle deeper into the comfort of his warmth. The stillness of the moment is almost enough to make you forget the mess you’ll have to deal with soon, but it’s there, lingering at the back of your mind.

‘I… needed that,’ he admits softly, his voice low and filled with a quiet satisfaction. You can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes you, the sound light and playful.

‘No shit,’ you tease, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He lifts his head then, his eyes meeting yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Without warning, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s deep and heated, pulling a soft moan from your throat. The kiss leaves you breathless, the sensation of his mouth on yours stirring something within you that lingers even as the moment fades.

As he pulls away, Vander’s gaze has softened, his eyes tender and filled with a depth that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as gentle as ever.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he speaks too loudly. You can feel the sincerity in his words, a truth that has been woven into the very fabric of your lives together.

You smile, the warmth in your chest spreading, and you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too, Vander. More than you’ll ever know.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Nothing else matters, not the worries of tomorrow, not the world outside. There is only this—the soft exchange of love, shared in the stillness of your hearts.

He rests his forehead against yours, his breath slow and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of hearing you say that,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You chuckle softly, a sound that feels like it’s part of the warmth between you both. “Then I’ll say it every day, if I have to.”

And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his heart laid bare, you know you’ve found your home.

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