#guess who just had another goddamn breakdown

[damneddamsy]

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

summary: Birthday dinners and blues, laughter over a crowded table—and Joel, caught between the past and something new.

a/n: are you ready for your prescribed serotonin boost :) are you reading to die :) are you ready to have your heart broken :) are you ready for pain :) if yes, it's here, and it's fucking good! can you spot where exactly I had a mental breakdown? virtual bear hugs for those who get it!

Joel had faced a lot of things in his life—clickers, raiders, shit ration food, the long, merciless stretch of empty roads—but this?

This might actually do him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the open boxes like they might bite. Three whole boxes. Packed full of baby clothes, soft and delicate, in shades too clean for a world like this—pale yellows, powder blues, faded pinks. Those colours didn't belong in this world anymore.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his beard. It was just one of those things, one of those moments where life threw something at him he wasn’t built for anymore. Throwing a punch, taking a knife, breaking his nose—those, he could handle. But picking out a damn dress for a baby?

“This ain’t my thing, baby girl,” he muttered, glancing at Maya sprawled out beside him on the bed. She kicked her legs, fists flailing like she had strong opinions on the matter. The second he walked through the door, she’d lit up, beaming that wide, gummy grin at him like his very existence was the happiest thing in her tiny world.

Joel shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You ain’t the one stuck pickin’ through all this.”

He waved a hand at the neatly folded mass of tiny expensive dresses, bloomers, and booties, smelling faintly of time and soap. They’d been Leela’s once. That part stuck with him—the fact that these had once clothed her, when she was no bigger than Maya.

His rugged fingers hovered over the fabric, hesitant. Everything was so soft, worn down in the best way—not ragged, but loved. Clothes, to him, had always been practical. Denim, leather, sturdy boots. He’d spent years in a world where softness didn’t last, where anything delicate got torn up, dirtied, or lost. And yet, here it was. Preserved. A little piece of the past, kept safe.

He picked up a tiny white dress with a lace collar, holding it to the light. “This fancy enough for a birthday dinner?” he asked, squinting at Maya. “Hm, looks like your mama's dress, doesn't it? Just missin' those... buttons.”

She just cooed, kicking harder, wiggling like she might crawl right out of the blanket. He set it down and picked up another, something in a buttery yellow with embroidered flowers. Lighter, easier.

“This one. Like a pretty sunflower.”

Maya squealed like she agreed, flailing her arms toward him. Obviously sick of laying there, wanting to be up here with him.

He snorted. “You got strong opinions on style, huh? Don’t take after me, then. I ain’t got a clue.”

And yet, here he was. Doing this. Going through the whole process because Leela had asked him—because it mattered to her. The realization settled in, quiet and solid. He was doing this because he cared. About Maya, sure. But about Leela, too. Enough to sit here, sifting through baby clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, picking up a tiny pair of bloomers and setting them aside with the yellow dress. “Guess that’ll do. Don’t want you upstaging your mama.”

Maya gurgled in agreement, and without thinking, Joel reached over, scratching a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her onesie. Happy, just because he was here.

And he was only here because Leela had asked this of him. After all, she was downstairs, turning the kitchen into a goddamn laboratory. She’d been at it since morning, long before he even peeled himself off the pullout in his living room. The kitchen light had been on when he woke up, spilling a soft glow onto the snow outside, and through the open window, he caught glimpses of her—stirring, measuring, dicing and slicing with careful, mathematical precision.

At one point, she’d pulled out a scale. A scale. Like she was preparing for an experiment instead of a birthday dinner. Her own birthday dinner, that is. The one Maria had specifically asked her to butt out of because then it'd be pointless. Don't think Leela caught that part.

He’d spent his morning like that—half-awake, watching her move through the kitchen with the kind of focus that made his chest ache. Maya was strapped against her in a sling, her dozing head tucked beneath Leela’s chin, and her mother’s long braid trailed past her back, swaying with every movement. She barely stopped to sit down.

And Joel—still groggy, still warm from sleep—just lay there, watching.

Watching from the outside. Watching a life that wasn’t his, but could be.

Maybe, in some version of things, he’d be sitting at that damn marble island with her, sipping coffee, watching her openly instead of from behind the glass. Maybe he’d be close enough to tease her about overcomplicating her own birthday meal, close enough that she’d smile that shy smile, but lean into him anyway, chin up for an apology kiss.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder what it would be like—because he’d already know.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off. Right. First things first.

He crouched down, dragging Maya closer to him over the bed, the buttery yellow dress draped over his arm. “Alright, darlin'. Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, slipping her tiny arms through the sleeves. She surprisingly went along with it without a fuss, blinking up at him, her round face curious, watching him.

Joel worked quickly, big fingers clumsy against the delicate buttons, careful not to tug too hard. “Y’know, you make this real easy,” he said to her, smoothing the fabric over her legs. “Your ma ever tell you that? Some little shits scream their heads off over this kinda thing.”

Maya just cooed, trying to catch her toes, like she knew she was being praised.

He snorted, lacing up her brown booties—useless, yet so adorable. “Don’t let it go to your head. You're still trouble.”

With a final adjustment, he lifted her, tucking her against his chest. She fit there like she always did, perfect and warm, her breath puffing against his throat. The second she was settled, her legs kicked in delight, hands curling into the collar of his shirt—habit, just like always.

Joel huffed, pressing a steadying palm against her back. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, rocking slightly, just enough to keep her from getting squirmy. “Yeah, you are.”

Maya gurgled in response, gripping tighter, like she had any real strength to keep him there. Like she thought she needed to.

Joel didn’t move for a second, standing there, one hand spanning nearly the whole of her back, feeling the tiny rise and fall of her breaths against him. He arched his head to brush a kiss at her ear and turned toward the door.

Then he noticed it. The humungous closet doors were open.

It wasn’t like him to pry, but something about Leela always pulled at his curiosity. He glanced at Maya, as if seeking permission—she only pushed her lips into a pout—so he stepped inside.

Due to lack of better words in his dazed head: it was a rich woman’s closet. Joel had worked on plenty of houses back in the day, done high-end custom storage, and seen his fair share of luxury—but he’d never been around long enough to see it lived in.

Drawers lined one wall, sleek and built into the cabinetry. Rows of dresses, coats, scarves, bags, and belts filled another. Shoes—so many shoes—lined the shelves, some still wrapped in plastic, some broken in just enough to show which ones were loved. In the centre, a long glass table gleamed under the dim light, scattered with jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, and jade sat in their cases like they belonged behind some jeweller’s counter instead of lying out like an afterthought.

Maya made a soft, curious sound, leaning forward in fascination. Joel caught her before she could squirm right out of his arms. "Woah, kiddo."

His attention snagged on the dress draped over the table, carefully selected from the clutter.

Black. Velvet. Long-sleeved. Nothing flashy. No lace, no frills, no shimmer. Just smooth, short, heavy fabric, dark as ink, the kind that’d cling in all the right places. Understated, sure—but that only made it worse.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening. Christ, that can't be it, can it?

But Leela didn’t dress up much. Hell, he was used to seeing her in practical things—thick holey sweaters, clean jeans, and overstretched socks. Even the night dresses she wore were simple, easy. Unbearably cute.

But this? This was intentional. This was her putting thought into it, picking something that would fit her like a fucking glove. Black so stark against her skin, those big eyes, her legs. And Joel—he needed to stop thinking about that immediately.

He shifted Maya in his arms, clearing his throat like that’d help steady him. She was still staring, as if equally entranced, her small hands flexing toward the diamonds glinting under the glass table. He sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stepped back.

“Don’t even, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I ain't raisin’ no flashy tastes in you.”

She gurgled in protest, kicking her feet, and Joel took that as his cue to get the hell out of there.

Now mind you, the past two weeks had been a state of grace.

He didn’t know what else to call it—what else to call the way he found himself here more often than not, the way it felt more natural by the day. He wasn’t just some frequent visitor anymore or a guest, or that guy who'd come around to hover with his tools. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was here with them. Even after patrol, he still ended up on their porch, dropping his rifle and pack by the door before stepping inside like it was just a given.

Hell, it kind of was. A little 'honey, I'm home' moment, if he really brooded on it.

Breakfast. Dinner. Sometimes all three meals, if time allowed. And they’d sit together on the kitchen stools, him and Leela, Maya on either of their laps, silent but companionable, sharing the space like it had been carved out for them alone. They didn't talk about much, sometimes Joel would hit her with a 'back-in-the-day' spiel, or Leela would inform him what happened in her workshop, though most of it went over his head. He liked to listen hard when she spoke, especially when she gave so little. And each morning to come, each evening in leave, Joel would feel it—that want, quiet but persistent, tugging at him, already pulling him into the next day.

Even Leela was eating again. Not much, but enough. It relieved him that she hadn't entirely given up on herself. He noticed the way she still picked at her food sometimes, however delicious it was, pushing it around more than eating it, and he never said a word. Just let her be, let her do what she could. He’d take what he could get.

There were moments, though—times when she got stuck in her own head as if phantom hands had reached out, clawed in and dragged her back to whatever had put her here in the first place. He’d see it clearest when she nursed Maya, like something about it sent her spiralling inward, caught in something he couldn’t see. But he could pull her back to him. He quickly learned how.

“Hey.” His voice was always low, careful, like he was trying not to spook a horse. And then a distraction, a lifeline. “How about I get us a cut of lamb again tomorrow? Y’know, those meatballs you made last week?”

Her eyes would clear, focusing again. “Yeah. Koftas.” And that smile would come alive, trademarked in his name. “Did you like them?”

“Too much. Hits the spot.”

It helped that Leela was a stupidly good cook. It wasn’t about the skill or the recipes—though she sure as hell knew her way around those—it was the way she did it. The way she measured things down to the last goddamn granule, cut with a precision that could’ve put surgeons to shame. She had a scale drawn onto her chopping board, and every damn herb on her windowsill was labelled like she was running a test kitchen instead of a home. He thought about it sometimes and had to bite back a smile.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he'd asked her once while stuffing his face with generously salted roast potatoes he'd passionately complimented. "I dunno, deadlift three thousand kilos? Roofing? Fix a busted engine? I bet that's nothin' to you."

She'd laughed, aimlessly twirling her fork in her hands. "Hmm... I'm quite inartistic. I can't strum a guitar as well as you. I can't sing or dance either."

"I'll give you five days until you're a pro guitarist," he challenged playfully.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, Joel. Now that I think about it, I might be a lost cause.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You learned how to do everything else, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Not everything. You make me sound like some superhero.”

Joel stabbed another potato with his fork. “Nah, I bet you’d pick it up fast.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He chewed, swallowed. “You got the... hands for it.”

Leela looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could see what he meant. She had the prettiest fingers, long, soft, wide nails that would've graced those fancy designs once upon a time, and pale nerves coiling over lean bone. Jesus, he really was losing it.

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought,” she mumbled.

Joel just shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not that much thought.”

Her mouth quirked, but she didn’t push. Just filled his cup with more water. “I still don’t think I could do it.”

“Why?”

She tapped the prongs of her fork against her plate. “I don’t know. I guess… it’d feel too good. And then I’d have to wonder why I spent so many years not doing it.”

Joel watched her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her eyes had gone elsewhere. He thought about telling her that was the whole damn point. That just because you hadn’t done something before didn’t mean you didn’t deserve to now.

Instead, he just said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She met his eyes, and after a second, she nodded. “Yes. I do.”

And the way she stated it—gentle, effortless, like it was unmistakable—had Joel suddenly very interested in his plate again.

Then there was little Maya. His ray of sunshine. Growing like a wildflower, changing in ways he barely had time to keep up with. And he was there to see it. More than that—he was there for it.

Like that day, sprawled on the living room carpet beside her, lying flat on his back while Leela worked at the blackboard nearby, mumbling numbers under her breath at miles per hour, the scratch of chalk entwined with the dusty warble of Merle Haggard on the record player. Just another quiet moment, another stretch of time folded in between everything else.

Until Maya grabbed at his hand.

Her fingers curled tight, her little voice rising in breathy coos, calling for his attention. And then—just like that, way too ahead of schedule—she twisted, flipped herself over onto her front, and grinned at him like she’d just conquered the goddamn world. All that, in scarcely three months. The kid's going to be a genius just like her mama.

“Shit!” Joel breathed, pushing up on one elbow. “Daggum, girl. C'mere. That was really good, baby, real nice. You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She grinned wider, pleased with herself, kicking her legs against the carpet. He lifted her right off and plunged her in the air, pulling out a happy squeal. He brought her all the way down to push three deep kisses into her bunched cheeks.

Leela turned, brows raised, eyes flicking between them.

“Finally rolled over, she's been trying for weeks,” he told Leela, laughing, out of breath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Rolled over?”

“Oughta get a picture or somethin’,” he muttered, still looking at Maya, pride swelling in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand over her downy-soft hair. “It’s a milestone. Turnin’ point, as I say.” The pun slipped out before he could stop it, and he cursed Ellie in his head.

Leela just blinked at him. Like it hadn’t even occurred to her. And maybe it hadn’t. Because, later that night, without a word, she passed him a little silver digital camera and said he spent more time with Maya than she did.

Joel had caught her elbow before she could walk away. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to as he told her, “You’re doin’ a great job at being her mom. It's not just me here.”

It didn’t help, not the way he expected to. She just nodded, scooped up Maya, and left the room.

That was the thing about Leela.

She didn’t believe it. She didn’t think she was in a position to care for another person. Like she was still caught somewhere in between—stuck in the space between whatever hell had given her Maya and the life she was trying to build around her.

She didn’t even have to say it. Joel saw it.

He saw it in the way she tried. The way she forced herself to be soft, forced herself to hold Maya just right, forced herself to soothe her, talk to her, to touch her like it was second nature instead of something she had to teach herself from scratch. It was in the way she hesitated when Maya reached for her like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be needed. It was in the way she lingered outside the nursery door some nights, just standing there, like she was working up the nerve to go inside.

It wasn’t easy for her. But she tried. Joel marvelled at that, her patience despite whatever tormented her. And yeah, progress was slow, but it was there.

Joel’s boots scuffed against the freshly washed mat at the foot of the stairs—he’d done that himself, thanks for fuckin’ noticing—as he made his way to the kitchen. Leela was crouched in front of the oven, arms wrapped around her shins, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Somethin’ wrong, or you just real interested in watchin’ bread bake?”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scent hit him—sweet and sugary, with a crispness that wasn’t quite like bread or cake, something lighter, airier.

Leela still didn’t look up. Whatever was in that oven had its hooks in her.

Joel pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, bending just enough to peer in. White. Puffy. Looked like a cloud. “The fuck is that?”

“Pavlova.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.

He squinted at it. “Uh-huh. The fuck is that?”

She exhaled, shifting just enough to glance at him. “For Eton mess.”

Joel lifted a brow. “You just sayin’ words at me now, smartass?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something in her posture—the way she kept her nose tucked between her knees, fingers lightly gripping her calves. She was nervous.

“It’s meringue,” she admitted lowly, like she didn’t want to say it too loud in case that made it collapse in the oven. “It’s delicate. Needs to set just right.”

Joel straightened, rubbing at his jaw. “So it’s just sugar?”

Her mouth twitched the closest thing to a smile she could manage while preoccupied. “And egg whites.”

“Ah, so fancy sugar.”

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He snorted, ready to argue—but then Maya leaned in against his chest, watching them with big, curious eyes, her tiny hands reaching for the oven knobs. She was getting handsier every day.

Leela finally turned, and for the first time, she really saw Maya, and took her in—the tiny white dress, the soft embroidery, the way her dark eyes blinked down at her with nothing but unfiltered, open-mouthed joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just love for her mama, plain and easy.

And just like that, Leela’s whole face softened. Melted, almost.

“Oh, Maya,” she breathed, reaching for her. “You look so pretty. Aw, my sweetheart.”

She scooped the baby out of his arms without a second thought, cradling her close, and tucking her against her shoulder. Her fingers ran through the fine baby hair at the nape of Maya’s neck, gentle, reverent, like she was trying to memorize her.

Then, before Joel even knew what was happening, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Maya’s forehead.

Not him. Oh, never him. But he felt it anyway. It relaxed in his chest, warm and unwanted, curling into the space he’d been trying real damn hard to keep empty. Like a ghost of something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose, adjusting his stance like that might shake the feeling off. It didn’t. Because the truth was—he’d thought about it. Too much. Too often.

The way she tilted her chin when she looked at him, how her mouth softened when she spoke to Maya, the bare curve of her throat when she laughed—all of it had lodged itself in his head, taken up space like it belonged there. And the worst of it?

He’d imagined it. His own mouth against hers. Slow and deep, catching the breath between her words, pulling that softness into him, feeling the curve of her spine, the softness of her hair twisted into his fingers.

And it was fucking ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Didn’t stop the way his gaze snagged on the spot where her lips had just been, where his had been too—because yeah, he’d kissed that exact place on Maya’s cheek before. More than once.

That was different, though. Right? Had to be.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless, needing something to do. He settled on the island, finally taking in what was right in front of him.

And, Jesus. Five trays. At least.

Stacked and spread out across the counter, gleaming under the low kitchen lights. There was no rhyme or reason to it—roast lamb chops, some kind of stewed eggplant, rice flecked with peanuts and saffron, a whole mess of things he didn’t recognize.

Still, she was gonna lose her goddamn mind. Not because Leela had transcended her at her own game—but because she’d cooked her own birthday dinner. Like she didn’t know how to sit still, even for that, or that she couldn’t let people do for her the way she did for them.

Joel shook his head, dragging a hand down his beard. One of those things. Something about Leela that made sense and didn’t, all at once.

“I’m going to go get dressed before Maria gets here,” she said, finally pulling his attention back to her.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something tight curling in his gut, she added, “I laid something out for you, too. If you'd like to wear something nice.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the foyer, leaving Joel standing there, staring after her like an idiot. Like a man in deeper than he had any right to be.

X

Joel had thought long and hard about what to get Leela for her thirtieth, and it had damn near driven him mad.

He wasn’t good at gifts. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, really—at knowing what people wanted, at knowing how to give without feeling like he was handing over pieces of himself. It felt impossible.

What the hell do you give someone who already has everything—even in the goddamn apocalypse?

Leela didn’t need anything. She had a home, one of the nicer, better-built ones, passed down to her like an heirloom. She had clothes, ones she patched up herself, sewn with delicate little stitches. She had music, kept safe on a high shelf, and books stacked in neat piles by the fireplace. She had cars, she had diamonds just sitting up there in a closet, and she even had her own plants thriving.

She had all that and more. So, yeah. He’d considered it all. Clothes. Music. Books. Lights. Pictures. A cat, even. Something that meant something. Significant.

And then, out on patrol, he’d found it.

A cherry tree. Growing wild, untamed, tucked between dense brush and the gnarled twist of maple roots. Dark fruit hanging low, the weight of them bending the branches, like they were waiting for him.

At first, he’d strolled right past it. Just a tree. Just cherries.

And then he’d stopped, brows furrowed. He’d remembered the way she wove them into her life. The careful little cherry embroideries, the tiny red-painted symbols on her sugar and salt tubs, the delicate pattern etched everywhere.

She loved them. Enough to keep them close. Enough to mark them as hers. And so, like a damn fool, he’d kneeled and plucked them.

In a few hours, he'd picked the whole thicket clean. He’d stuffed them into his jacket pockets, let them fill the space in his backpack, red staining the fabric, fingers sticky and sweet with their juice.

It had felt right at the time. He'd felt so proud of himself. She was going to love the shit out of this.

Now, standing by the front door, having Tommy and Maria say that they'd managed to acquire a goddamn Polaroid camera for her—yellowed with age, probably out of photo paper but still lasting—Joel felt like a massive fucking idiot.

At least their gift had value. At least it wasn’t perishable. But, she already has a digital camera, his conscience reasoned with him. Sure, but especially to her, it was the thought that counted. She wouldn't be out here, letting Joel borrow cashmere sweaters and luxury denim on the fly.

And then Ellie had showed off her gift—another layer of shit over his confidence—a handmade journal, stitched together with patience and effort, thick pages bound in soft, timeworn leather. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Her best friend, Dina, definitely had a hand in this. Ellie didn't have the patience to craft something this considerate.

And Joel was the one to talk—well, Joel had a box of cherries. Fucking cherries. Cherries he’d spent hours picking, his fingers raw, his back aching for two days straight. Cherries he’d plucked in pairs, stems still intact, trying to mimic the little embroidered ones she stitched into her life. He’d thought he was being thoughtful. Now, how the fuck was he supposed to compete with journals and cameras?

So he did what any man with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

He pretended they didn’t exist. Let them sit out on the little porch shelf where he’d left them, where he figured he’d grab them when the time was right. Except now, the time wasn’t right. Never will be. And he’d just let them sit there forever, let the cold creep into them, let them wrinkle and rot and become another thing he never got around to.

Better to just let everyone think he was a callous, inconsiderate bastard than actually admit he’d put his heart into something. Easier that way.

As Maria and Ellie jogged upstairs, loud and chattering, off to greet the birthday girl and Maya, Joel made his way into the kitchen—only to get cornered by Tommy’s knowing look. That damn eyebrow, he got that from their dad.

Joel ignored him. Busied himself with laying foil over that one lonely tray, the rhythm of his hands methodical, grounding. It wasn’t until Tommy leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice low and amused, that he finally spoke.

“I knew you hated sappy shit, big brother, but this is a new low.”

Joel exhaled slowly, flattening the foil more aggressively than necessary. “Not now, Tommy.”

“Not now,” Tommy mimicked in a baritone, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You couldn’t even get her somethin’ small? The girl was ready to let you move in, for cryin' out loud.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Hell, Maya, at least?”

That one stung. He didn’t know why. And somehow, the thought of that bothered him more than the idea of disappointing Leela. Maybe because he could take being an asshole to her. Could brush it off, let her think he was callous, numb. That was easy, safe.

But Maya? She was just a baby. His little girl. This tiny thing with nothing in the world except her mother, who carried all the pain and all the worry, while Joel sat on his hands and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about them more than he should.

He pressed down on the foil harder, smoothing out creases that weren’t there. He could feel Tommy watching him, expectant, waiting.

“Right,” Tommy sighed, knowing what to expect. “I’m gonna go drain the lizard.”

He scowled, finally looking up. “That's some real dignified talk. Better tone it down at dinner.”

His brother just grinned with a playful salute, disappearing down the hall.

Joel stomped his way into the dining room, fists stuffed into his pockets. Not because he knew what the hell he was even looking for, but because he had to move. The ache in his chest was getting to be too much, and if he sat with it any longer, he might actually have to acknowledge it.

Leela had transformed the shit out of this dining room, and Joel took it all in. Candles flickered across the table, their golden light pooling over the wood, catching on the edges of intricate ceramic plates, and warming the dark corners of the room. The food that Leela had slaved away to make was spread out, lavish, rich, the kind of meal that had no business existing in a world that had already ended. As if this little town, this home, was untouched by the decay beyond its walls.

The blackened, humungous yard outside those slightly gaumed French windows—he ought to get around to that this week—was paved with a clean sheet of snow, and it was clear what lay under it. A manifold garden of some sort, from the cursive-letter markers sticking out from the ice. And a pond, maybe.

It was all so soft. Painstaking. Conscious. Like everything Leela touched.

A sudden thrum of light, breathless, girlish laughter echoed from upstairs, Ellie's the most rambunctious of the lot, obviously having fun with that new camera.

“Maya, smile...” Then later, “Ha-ha, she's got no fuckin' teeth!”

It flushed a small smile of his own at the sound. He hadn’t heard that kind of laughter in years. Not since Sarah. Not since the days when she and her friends had holed up in her room, voices tumbling through the walls, their shrill giggles slipping into his evenings, melding with his exhaustion, belonging there, like a part of his house itself.

Back then, he’d barely noticed it. In fact, he'd wanted them to shut the hell up so he could focus on paperwork. He’d never thought to savour it. And now? Now it pressed against the deepest crevices in him, brittle and aching, something he couldn’t touch without it breaking apart in his hands. It still hurt like hell.

And then, as dinner time neared, the big room filled out—oh, Joel hadn't meant to look. Hadn’t meant to let his eyes linger that way. Fuck, he forgot how Leela was going to be tonight.

No. He dragged his eyes from her, yet the image remained seared into his head.

But there she was, standing at the far end of the room, completely different and exactly the same.

That velvet dress—Jesus Christ, he needed air.

He’d known it’d be trouble the second he saw it. It fit too well, soft in places he shouldn’t be noticing, snug over her hips, floating around her legs bare, smooth, unfairly right there. Her usual braid was pulled back tight, but a few strands had already come loose, slipping against her cheek, catching at her collarbone, and softening her face. A thin strand of pearls nestled at her neck—simple, understated. Like she was one of those lunching ladies in country clubs, lugging their crocodile leather bags, and clutching their pearls. Fucking adorable now that it registered, she was probably dressed like what she'd seen her mother wear back then.

And in another life, a girl like her would’ve walked right past a man like him. Would’ve mistaken him for a valet. Would’ve never even looked at him. He should be thanking his stars that the world went to shit and brought him her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced his gaze away, and focused on the room instead. Maya, the real star of the show, was being passed off between the rest like a pack of smokes, her little chubby arms reaching, everyone cooing, fussing over her pretty, new dress.

Everywhere except. Leela...

She had drifted toward the bar cart at the edge of the room, breaking out the good stuff. He glimpsed the label—vintage Pinot Noir, knotty French scramble and expensive as hell. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that somehow, without even thinking, he’d ended up standing beside her.

And when she looked up—she smiled at him. Small, a little shy, the kind of smile that said she was nervous for no reason at all.

“Hi, Joel.” Her hand smoothed down her stomach as if flattening that cute little belly bulge, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. “Do I look okay?” she murmured, hesitant. “Is it too much? It is, isn't it?”

Too much? For him, fuck yes. Fine? Fine wasn’t even in the same goddamn ballpark.

So, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing.

“No.” A beat. “You…”

Nothing again. He was drawing a blank. The words dried up before they even had the chance to form, like dust in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be poetic about it, but there was nothing in his head that felt close to good enough. No simple word, no half-mumbled compliment that could measure up to her tonight.

Leela stood in front of him, shifting slightly, looking down, constantly pressing her palm over her stomach like she was suddenly self-conscious. She was always incredible. She always knew her way around things. That wasn’t news.

But tonight, she just...—his jaw tightened. He wasn’t even gonna let himself finish that thought. His throat worked as he opened his mouth again, ready to force something out, anything—

“God, this smells fucking delicious!” Ellie’s voice tore through the moment, shattering it.

Leela startled slightly, before blinking, exhaling a soft laugh, and looking away. And just like that, the moment was gone.

The next thing he knew, everyone had settled in, chairs scraping against the wood, good wine flowing, voices overlapping, the liquor kicking in, laughter beginning. The candlelight flickered against the dishes, the soft golden glow catching on deep greens, bright reds, and the spread of food that looked like something out of a damn painting.

Joel wasn’t even sure where to start, but Ellie had no such problem. She was going to town, her plate stacked high, fork stabbing into rice and lamb and eggplant, making a goddamn mess of herself.

Maya sat in her lap, eyes wide, fists curled into her mouth, watching every movement with a sort of blank curiosity, like she was studying some unknown species.

Joel almost smirked. Baby girl had better instincts than most.

Meanwhile, Maria was not having it. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, watching Leela with something sharp in her gaze.

“Why would you cook your own birthday dinner? I told you to let me handle it.”

Leela shrugged, reaching for Joel’s plate once more. He barely had time to grab his plate back before she was scooping more roast potatoes onto it. Christ. At this rate, she was gonna have him fattened up like a prize hog by the end of the night.

“I had to say thanks to all of you somehow,” Leela murmured, matter-of-fact like it truly was that simple. Like, it wasn’t the most Leela thing in the world. “For everything you did for Maya and me. Thank you.”

Maria sighed, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Tommy beat her to it.

“Honey, there’s no thanks between family. You just take it and be happy about it.” His laugh was muffled by a sip of his wine.

Leela, in the middle of reaching for another serving spoon, paused. And Joel saw it—the way she responded. It was subtle. Not a gasp, not anything dramatic, but something small. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she should smile like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. He let his own smile grace his face as he did.

Before he could think on it too much, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Leela, still standing, still serving, still doing everything but eating.

Joel set down his glass with purpose.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, and firm, leaving no room for argument as he grabbed the spoon from her hand and dropped it onto a tray. “Eat. They're grown-ups, they can serve themselves.”

Leela sighed and sat. Finally. “Okay.”

Joel didn’t give her much choice, pressing the chair in behind her knees, setting her plate in front of her like it was law. He caught the flicker of hesitation, the way she lingered as if she had something else to do, something else to fix. But there was nothing left. The food was hot, everyone was fed, and she was out of excuses.

He scooped a little of everything onto her plate, careful not to overdo it, careful to leave out the eggplant. He didn’t know when he’d learned that about her, just that he had. And she didn’t object, just picked at what landed in front of her, moving the food around with her fork. She didn’t eat right away, not really.

Maria, Tommy, Ellie, and Joel had a rhythm. They talked over each other, ribbed each other, passed stories back and forth like well-worn cards, easy and unthinking. They'd raised a toast to the birthday girl, Maya's new dress, this astonishing dinner, Joel smiling for once—it felt… safe. Loud, but not in a way that grated. Just lived-in.

He wasn’t sure what she thought of all this. Maybe it was too much, too loud, too different from what she was used to.

Especially when Tommy, halfway through a sip of whiskey, nearly choked and gawked at her. "Wait, wait—back up. You didn't know turnin’ thirty was a big deal?"

Leela blinked, clearly lost. "Why would it be? It’s just… a number."

Tommy clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. "Oh, Jesus. Joel, tell her. Tell her what happens when you turn thirty."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at her, smirking. "Your knees start makin’ noises you ain’t never heard before. The hangovers last three to five business days. And suddenly—" he jabbed a finger at Tommy, "—this clown starts talkin’ about cholesterol like it’s the Grim Reaper."

Tommy pointed back at him, indignant. "It is the Grim Reaper! You think I like checkin’ my blood pressure for fun?"

Leela stared between them, unimpressed. "So, you’re telling me turning thirty means getting old and miserable?"

Joel shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tommy raised his glass. "Welcome to the club, darlin’. It’s all downhill from here."

Leela huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but Joel could feel her eyes on him. Not in an obvious way—Leela wasn’t like that. But he could tell. The way she always tucked herself into the background, listening instead of talking, watching instead of stepping in.

Like she was still trying to figure out how all of this worked. How they worked. And Ellie, for one, was having the time of her life.

She jabbed a finger at Joel, like she was about to make some grand accusation. "I swear, it’s like clockwork! Dude’s got, like, five phrases in rotation. Seriously, he's some old Western cowboy stuck in a fucking time loop. It’s insane."

Joel exhaled sharply, already tired. “The hell are you talkin’ about, girl?”

Maria smirked, leaning in like she knew exactly where this was going. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“That one didn't count. You ready? Okay, let's go.” Ellie straightened in her chair, cleared her throat dramatically, and then—“‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Tommy barked a laugh. Maria made a face that said, damn, that was actually a good one. Joel just shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pushed on with that wicked smirk. “‘Coulda told you that one.’”

That got Maria and Tommy good, they were already in fits. Joel sighed, reaching for his glass. Meanwhile, Leela pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“See? See?” Ellie counted on her fingers, riding the high. “‘You ain't gonna like the answer.’ Huh, Tommy?”

Tommy wiped at his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Shit.”

Joel took a drink, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. That one was sadly dead on.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head, but Tommy only leaned forward, grinning wide. “Oh, oh, what about ‘Never said I was a good man’?”

Ellie, inspired, went for the kill. “Right, yes! And my personal favourite, ‘Shit’s fucked,’ obviously.”

That one did it.

Maria actually turned away, full-on wheezing hard. Tommy clapped a hand on the table, throwing his head back to roar out a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for his whiskey. “Table’s turned against me.”

He flicked his gaze to Leela, watching her reaction—like maybe if she thought it was funny, it would be worth the humiliation.

She met his eyes over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable for a beat, then—slowly, her lips curved. She took a sip of her water like she was trying to hide it, but he caught the way her eyes softened, the way she tucked her chin slightly, almost sheepish.

Leela finally spoke, her voice a soft, amused murmur. “I think they just know you too well, Joel. It's nice.”

Joel paused mid-sip, watching her as she turned back to her plate, finally taking a bite.

It was a simple thing, but the words sat with him. It wasn’t just that they were teasing him. It was the fact that she was here, part of it, taking it in, letting herself be in this moment. He realized then—that Leela had spent so much time holding herself apart, hovering at the edges of things, always wary. Not tonight.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head like he wasn’t entertained, even though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Whole lotta talk for a bunch of ingrates,” he muttered. “Maybe I oughta keep my words to myself. See how y’all fare without my wisdom.”

“Your wisdom? Are you fucking kidding?” Maria scoffed, still wiping at her eyes. “Joel, the day we take life advice from you—”

“Will be the day the world actually ends,” Tommy finished, reaching for his drink. “Again.”

Ellie snorted, still looking way too pleased with herself. “Go on, old man. Say something profound.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just took another sip of whiskey, glancing at Maya on Ellie's lap. That same warmth ravaged him for a moment.

But when he looked to his side again, his eyes found Leela. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of them—not outright. No sharp, teasing glances, no knee-slapping or head-shaking.

Just that same small, quiet smile, the kind that broke his fucking heart in two.

He wasn’t sure how long they looked at each other, just that he noticed how the candlelight softened her features, how her fingers smoothed over the rim of her glass absentmindedly, how her braid had loosened slightly throughout the night, one long stray wisp of hair curling by her shoulder. God, she took his breath away.

And then he noticed the table. Maria. Tommy. Even Ellie. Side-eying and smirking like damn fools.

Joel scowled, bracing himself. “What now?”

“Not a damn thing,” Tommy said, though the way he fought back a grin suggested otherwise.

Ellie waggled her brows. “Oh, no, you just—look really wise right now.”

Joel fought the urge to groan, letting his head tip back slightly. “No, really. Thank you.”

Leela shifted, clearing her throat, poking at her plate like she wanted to disappear into it.

Tommy looked like he had more to say, something locked and loaded, but before he could get it out, across the table, Maya started to fuss, her hands curling and uncurling toward the plates on the table, making that small, needy noise. Baby girl was the centre of attention, as always. She had a way of pulling eyes to her without even trying like the whole world naturally revolved around her.

But the moment Maria chimed in, her voice carrying easily over the table—“Maya, honey”—that was when it happened.

Her eyes snapped up, searching the table with a determination far too strong for someone so small. Her fingers flexed, hands opening and closing in that telltale way, reaching, waiting—and then Maria tried something else, something that shouldn’t have stood out, except—

“You wanna say hi to Joel?”

The second it left her mouth, Maya’s little head swivelled, locking onto him with that same urgency, that same expectation. Maya made a soft, almost questioning noise, like she was waiting for something, her arm stretching further, fingers still curling and uncurling.

He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t think about how much she knew him now. How his name meant something to her, how she was already learning that when she reached, he would be there.

“Ugh. But I just got you,” Ellie clucked her tongue, bouncing Maya slightly. “Can’t believe this, you're straight-up ditching me for a fogey. Breaking my heart, kid.”

“Guess she's just sick of you, kid,” Joel teased.

“Shut up.”

Maya squirmed, unsatisfied, her arm stretching further. Then came that stubborn cry, the kind Joel had long since learned to recognize—the warning before real tears, before she got herself all worked up.

And, well, he had tried to resist it before. Tried to tell himself to let her be, that she needed to settle on her own, that he wasn’t supposed to get her used to always having him right there. Didn’t matter one fucking bit. The minute those eyes got glassy, he was already reaching across the table.

"C'mere, baby girl," he muttered, hands steady as he lifted her from Ellie’s grasp. “There you go. Hi.”

She melted against him instantly, her warm little body pressing into his chest, a fist curling into the fabric of his shirt. He barely had time to adjust before she shoved both hands into her mouth, hiding that big, gummy grin like she was suddenly shy.

He chucked her chin. "Happy now?"

Maya let out a tiny giggle, then dropped her head forward against his shoulder, burrowing in, pressing her face into his collar like she wanted to disappear inside him.

"Yeah, that tracks," Ellie said, smirking. "Guess she just likes dinosaurs."

Joel only fed the fire. "I think it's my rugged good looks."

That drew out a few annoyed groans around him.

Ellie snickered. "Not that she’s got much to compare to, though.”

It was a silly joke. A throwaway line. She didn't know any better.

But Joel felt it shift the air at the table, quiet but undeniable, like the slow pull of a storm rolling in.

Leela’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles paling around the metal. It was barely a reaction. Just the barest pause. A slow blink, calculated and measured, like she was pushing something down, pressing it deep, locking it behind her ribs before it could surface.

But Joel caught it. He wasn’t sure what it was—not exactly. He only knew the way it felt. The way a sharp sense of awareness dug into the back of his skull, the way his chest clenched, like something inside him had just brushed against a wound he hadn’t known was there.

Maria noticed, too. She shot Ellie a look. Just a quick, subtle thing, but full of meaning.

Ellie’s chewing slowed, the realization dawning. "Shit. Sorry," she muttered, suddenly fascinated with her plate. “I'm so sorry, Leela. I wasn’t trying to—”

Leela’s voice was too even, barely managing the dismissive smile. “It’s alright, Ellie. It's nothing.”

It wasn’t. She was practically forcing this lie out of her mouth.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go... um, be right back.”

Joel caught the way she moved—not hurried, not frantic, just a little too controlled, like she was forcing herself not to make it obvious that she needed to get out of there.

He should’ve stood. Should’ve gone after her, said something, done something.

Maria was already moving. “Let me check on her,” she said softly, chair scraping against the floor as she followed Leela through the kitchen doors.

Joel exhaled, slow through his nose.

The warmth of the meal, the easy hum of conversation—it all dissipated like heat off an open plate, leaving only the scrape of utensils, the occasional clink of glass. The space Leela left behind stretched thin, like a too-wide gap in a picket fence.

Ellie exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I really wasn’t trying to… god, I have such a big fucking—”

Joel adjusted Maya in his arms who was busy combing fleece off the expensive cashmere on his chest. “Ain’t your fault, kid. 'S’all right. Just a touchy subject.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the candlelight slice through the amber liquid.

Because it was the truth. It wasn’t Ellie’s fault. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wishing he could take back that moment, wipe it clean. Like smudging out a scuff on a wood floor—pretending it had never been there at all.

Ellie nodded, but her fork just scraped uselessly at the plate, pushing food around in slow, absent-minded circles. She curled in on herself, shoulders drawn tight.

Tommy cleared his throat, voice pushing for something lighter. “Think it’s time we brought out dessert, huh? Said it was some trifle or somethin’.”

The words hovered, waiting for someone to catch onto them, and keep the momentum going. But no one did.

Joel didn’t answer either. He just tipped his whiskey back, letting the burn roll slow down his throat.

“Ah, what the hell,” Tommy muttered, scratching at his jaw.

Joel barely registered it. His mind wasn’t here. It was behind that door, past the threshold of the kitchen, where Maria had gone.

He should’ve been the one to follow. But Maria knew better. Knew when to step in, when to let someone walk away without pressing.

And Joel—Joel just sat there, gripping his glass too tight, holding Maya closer, listening to the faint rattle of silverware, the flicker of candlelight, the distant creak of the floorboards in the kitchen.

The moment had died out. They just hadn’t called it yet.

X

Maya's nursery looked different now.

It used to be dim and quiet, a place half-lived in, half-abandoned—just a room with a crib shoved into it, like it didn’t belong there. Like she didn’t belong there.

Now, it felt like a home. A place meant for a child to grow. Soft, muted green stretched across the walls, warm in the glow of the low bedside lamp. Shelves lined with neatly folded onesies and tiny socks, stuffed animals tucked into corners like silent sentries. The window bench had been cleared of dust and laid out with a fresh quilt, facing the snowy street below—facing his house.

Joel rocked on his heels, shifting Maya higher in his arms as the low murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Goodbyes being said. Chairs scraping back. The door cracking open to the cool night air.

He should go. He knew that.

But hell, it was barely ten. He never left before Leela fell asleep—not until he was sure she was actually going to sleep. And that wasn’t for another couple of hours, at least.

Not that he was leaving anytime soon. Not unless he figured out a way to pry this little troublemaker off him.

Maya wasn’t having it.

He’d tried everything—rocking, pacing, humming low in his throat—but she refused to close those pretty eyes, just kept watching him, Her fingers patted at his chest, curling into his shirt. Then she'd reach up, clumsy and determined, fingers smushing against his nose, his cheek, his scruff.

Joel exhaled, shifting her slightly in his arms. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Maya blinked up at him, all big, dark eyes and stubborn little fists. He knew how much she loved conversing with him, even if it seemed deranged to talk to a fucking infant.

"You gonna let me put you down, or you plannin’ to keep me hostage all night?"

Maya made a breathy 'o' up at him, mouth parting in a wide, drooly grin. Like that would get her off the hook.

Joel snorted. "Yeah, that so?"

Another coo, this one higher-pitched, like she had a whole argument ready.

He shook his head, tired but amused. "Mhm. I'm convinced."

Joel sighed, lifting her up so they were at eye level, holding her by the armpits. Her legs kicked in the air, her chubby fists went straight to her mouth, and she tilted her head back, distracted by the warm glow of the nursery lights.

Too big. She was growing too damn fast.

He felt it in the way she relaxed against him now, her body stretching longer, heavier. Felt it in the way her head fit differently in the crook of his neck, in the way her fingers, once barely able to grasp his thumb, now had a grip strong enough to tug at his shirt.

It was frustrating. Fucking unfair. She'd only been in the world for a few weeks, and just when she was starting to fit perfectly in his arms, she was already growing out of them.

Joel swallowed thickly, staring at the soft roundness of her cheeks, the dark lashes fluttering against her skin. His fingers traced the slope of her back, feeling the tiny, steady rise and fall of her breath. How can you miss something that was not yet lost?

A lump pressed against his throat.

“You know I love you so goddamn much, right?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A thought barely forced out past his lips. And yet—it felt so final. How long until he heard it back from her? Another year? Two years? Would he still be around when she said it to him?

Joel clenched his jaw, sighing. Hard as hell, saying it out loud. Felt damn near impossible, like something fragile, like something that wasn’t his to admit. Like if he said it too much, too often, he might have to face what it really meant. That he’d already taken responsibility for her, or if anything were to happen to her—

Maya let out a breathy giggle, legs kicking, fingers smacking against his cheek.

Joel blinked, barely catching himself before he smiled.

When he pulled her closer, she wriggled against him, pressing her small, warm face to his, her tiny palms patting at his chin, his nose, his temple. Soft puffs of air landed against his skin, clumsy, open-mouthed, like her own sloppy, little version of a kiss.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. This was really all he needed in whatever was left of his life. It seemed too easy to make it enough.

“Fine, you win this time,” he muttered, voice rough, thick.

Maya gurgled against his cheek, cooing, like she understood his plight.

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Maya too much, hoping the rhythm might finally lull her to sleep. Her head lolled against his shoulder, tiny fingers curled into his collar again, but she was still awake, just blinking wide-eyed at the world.

Joel paused at the landing when he caught voices near the door—Ellie and Leela, still lingering. A strange sight, to be honest.

“Look, I really messed up back there and—” Ellie started, arms tight around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

Leela didn’t let her finish. Instead, she pressed something into Ellie’s palm—a tightly rolled set of charts. “Joel told me you love astronomy,” she said simply. “These belonged to my mother once. She was like you, too.” A beat. “They should go to someone who’ll actually use them.”

Joel shifted against the railing, watching as Ellie unrolled the top just enough to glimpse the faded celestial maps inside—one for each month, constellations inked in delicate, ghostly lines.

Her breath hitched. “Holy shit.”

Leela blinked. “Is that a good 'holy shit' or—”

Ellie nearly lunged forward—almost, but not quite. She caught herself, scratching the back of her head instead, a grin breaking through like she couldn’t hold it back. “Best fucking holy shit. Thank you.”

For a moment, she just held the maps, careful, reverent, like something fragile. Then she exhaled, shaking her head with a laugh—the kid really couldn’t believe her luck. “This is so sick. I’m gonna—I don’t even know, but it’s gonna be fucking awesome.” She clutched the charts to her chest, voice lighter than it had been all night. “Thanks, Leela. Really.”

Leela gave a slow nod, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gratitude. She hesitated, then tested out a cautious, “Um. Have... fun.”

Ellie barely caught any of that. She whooped into the night as she left, the charts still hugged close. Oh, Joel was definitely not going to hear the end of this for at least a month.

Leela lingered in the doorway, lips parted, watching Ellie disappear down the street. Then, almost like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened, she slowly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands lifted, covering her face, fingers threading through her hair. A breathy laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving.

Joel caught the tail end of it, the faint curve of her smile before she tucked it away. Small. Quiet. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

And hell, if that didn’t do something to him.

“I take it you enjoyed dinner then,” he said, his voice rough with amusement.

Leela startled slightly and hadn’t realized he was still there. Her eyes flicked first to Maya, softening instinctively before settling on him. The edges of that smile lingered—that wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

She stepped closer, hand brushing over Maya’s back. “Little troublemaker fighting sleep again?”

Maya let out a big, sleepy yawn, eyes drooping but still resisting, gripping the fabric of Joel’s shirt like she could anchor herself awake. Stubborn baby girl.

Joel huffed, shifting his hold on her. “Like she doesn’t even need it.”

Leela hummed, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the baby’s onesie. Joel expected her to say something, but when he glanced up, he found her watching him—something different in her gaze. A glint, teasing but warm, something playful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It softened him in places he wasn’t prepared for.

Then she took a step back, and before he could think too much about it, she reached above the shoe rack, retrieving something small and wooden. A box.

Joel tensed the second he saw it. Goddamnit. Should've buried that thing in the snow.

She bit back a smile, shaking the box near her ear. “So, um… Tommy found this on the porch shelf,” she mused. “Told me you went through a lot of trouble to get it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. He knew exactly what Tommy had done—ran his mouth just enough to make sure Joel would have to sit through this whole damn thing.

Leela tipped her head, all exaggerated curiosity. “I wonder what it is.”

“Yeah, real mystery,” Joel muttered, walking past her like he could simply exit this situation.

Instead, he focused on Maya, carefully easing her onto the soft padding of the playmat. The thing was space-themed—little planets and stars dangling overhead, catching the dim glow of the living room. Her tiny fingers curled around a plush moon, legs kicking as she let out a gurgled sound of delight.

Joel let out a quiet breath. This was fine. He could watch her do that. Much easier than watching Leela.

But there was no avoiding it, not really. Not when she was already lowering herself onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, looking away. He could’ve bif goodnight, walked out the door, and left her to open the damn thing by herself. He could’ve avoided this whole moment, let it pass, let it go.

With a great, defeated sigh, he sank down beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Leela carefully slid the lid open, and the ruby cherries sat there, dark and glistening, their juices staining every inch of the wood. The smell of them hit the air—ripe, sweet, unmistakable.

She sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp.

Joel pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to explain himself. That it was dumb. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was silly. That he’d done it because—hell, because. Because he wanted to see her smile for him. Because he wanted to leave some sort of a mark on her special day.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Thought you liked ‘em. It's not much, but...” yeah, it was from his heart. And he went on with a gruff, “Happy birthday.”

Leela nodded with a gentle laugh, but she didn’t say anything at first. Just reached in, plucking one between her fingers, rolling it like she wanted to feel every dip and curve of it before finally slipping it past her lips.

Joel tried not to watch too closely. The way her lips curved around the fruit, the divots on that pillow-soft skin stretching, before her tongue darted out to catch the juice. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. God, he was going to lose it.

“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head. “This is wonderful, Joel. Thank you.” She held up a sudden finger as if lit up by an idea. “How about a blackforest cake?”

He winked. “Right on, darlin'.”

He reached for one, too, grinning, chewing in sync with her.

Then he caught the way she twirled the stem between her fingers, that amused little gleam returning in her eyes, and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Oh, come on. Right now?

Leela quickly popped the stem into her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

Joel smirked despite himself. Fine. They were doing this then.

He followed suit, slipping the stem between his lips, tongue working it in practised motions—an old skill, long-buried, but still easy enough to find. A long time ago, he’d done this a hundred times over, showing off for Sarah, besting Tommy every damn time.

Sure enough, when he held the knotted cherry stem between his teeth, he arched a brow, only slightly smug. “How ‘bout that?”

Leela let out a muffled laugh, sticking her tongue out to reveal hers. Looser, messier, but still knotted. “You’re way better.”

Joel huffed a small, satisfied sound, settling back against the couch. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait for it.”

She cocked her head, intrigued, and he felt it then—her undivided attention settling warm against him. That expectant little gleam in her eye.

Well, hell. No turning back now. He worked his tongue around the stem again, shifting it between his teeth, coaxing it into another trick—one a little tougher, one he hadn’t pulled off in years. One wrong move, and he'd choke.

It took longer, and she was watching him too damn close, like she was trying to map every movement, every small shift in his jaw.

Then, finally, when he held it back out—the knot was gone.

Leela gasped, surprised, hands flying to her mouth. “How?”

Joel smirked, slow and deep, feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her reaction. He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Sworn to secrecy.” Then, just because he could, he added, “It’s a Miller thing.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, shaking her head. “So dumb.”

Joel chuckled along with her, feeling ten pounds lighter at that sweet sound.

Leela, still grinning, tossed another cherry into her mouth. And then another. And another. Until her cheeks puffed up like a damn chipmunk, lips barely able to contain the burst of juice dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Joel snickered at her, shaking his head. “Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching out without thinking. His thumb swiped slowly and easily at the corner of her lip, gathering the stray stain. “Slow down. It’s all yours.”

And that should’ve been it. The moment she pushed him away. But.

Leela didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him. Not startled, not uncomfortable, not embarrassed. Just… watching. Chewing. Observing. Curious.

Her lips, still slick with juice, parted the smallest bit, like she might say something, but she didn’t. And neither did he.

But instead of pulling back—God help him—his gaze flickered down, just for a second, tracking the spot where his thumb had been. And before he even fully processed what he was doing, he brought it to his mouth, pressing the tip between his lips, tasting the cherry juice there.

A big fucking mistake.

Because it wasn’t just the cherry. It was her. All Leela and sweetness. He'd imagined moments like this for hours on end in his lonesome.

It was the heat of her skin, the warmth lingering on his fingertip. A trace of something softer beneath the tartness of the fruit. Something that made his breath go tight in his chest.

Leela inhaled, shallow and quiet.

See, Joel should’ve drawn off her. Should’ve laughed it off or said something—anything—to keep this from tipping too far. He shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Because for a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine it—let himself fucking want it. Joel wasn’t a man who let himself have much. Wasn’t the kind who asked for more than what was given, especially when life loved to take so much away from him. Sarah, his softness, his humanity.

But this? This, he wanted. He wanted it so bad.

Not just in passing, not just in a way he could ignore, but in a way that curled deep in his gut, low and slow. In a way that had him tilting forward before he could stop himself, his breath hitching ever so slightly, just as any man would attempting to her, his hands grounding against his knee like that might steady him, like that might make this less surreal.

Because she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flicker of amber light in her eyes, the crease between her eyes, the way her breath had changed, softened, like she’d been expecting this.

Maybe she had. And maybe that should’ve been enough to make him stop. Because, Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? Kiss her? Laugh? Maybe for once not leave this home feeling like a drop-in?

Leela was younger, cleverer, and healing. She was light, and he was nothing but a warm, dark, empty void pressing down on her, on this moment, on the air between them, threatened to swallow any hope of life.

She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t moving away. But God, she should’ve.

She should've punched him square in the jaw, woken him up from whatever dream he was walking. She should’ve recoiled at the smell of whiskey on his breath, should’ve been weirded out that he’d even dared to lean in, that some old, beat-up man thought he had any goddamn right to touch something as brilliant as her.

Because that’s all he was, wasn’t he? Worthless. Worn down. Hands stained in more blood than he cared to admit. A hardass heart that refused to stop beating.

And she? She wasn’t for him. She was for someone who could meet her in the daylight, who didn’t have to carry every sin, every regret, every ounce of grief in their bones. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

Yet, something pushed him on. Told him to take that chance.

His breath came rough, unsteady. The space between them felt impossibly small, thinning with every heartbeat, every second, every goddamn pull of the air between them—

Except—just then—

Leela’s shoulders dropped with a slow, measured breath, and instead of leaning in, closing the last bit of space, she leaned away.

Her voice was a sigh, not scolding, not sharp. Just beaten. “Joel.”

It settled somewhere in his ribs, dull and heavy. The truth of it. That this had been a mistake. That she was kind enough, maybe even foolish enough, to let him down gently.

He didn’t pull back fast—he had a little more dignity than that. But he did pull back, gritting his jaw, clearing his throat, nodding once like that had been nothing, like he hadn’t just let himself be stupid, let himself slip into the foolish idea that he could have this, even for a second.

Because he wasn’t that man. He never had been.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Joel could hear the soft tick of the clock in the next room, and the low hum of the wind against the windowpane, Maya's soft, sleepy puffs from the playmat. He could hear his own breathing, slower now, measured, because he had to make it so.

Leela stared down at her lap, at the way her hands twisted against each other. Her shoulders had drawn in, tightening like she was trying to make herself smaller, and he hated that—hated that he’d put that look on her face, that he’d made her feel like this.

He tried to work his voice, to apologize, tell her that he'd leave and never look her way again. Nothing came out. Because, ultimately, in doing so, he knew he stood to lose Maya, too. And he just couldn't let that happen.

But, when she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t sharp or angry. It was just… hollow. Blank. Terrifying.

“I’m rotting inside, Joel.” Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy stirring in his chest. He waited, but she didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at her hands like they held something, some mark or stain, only she could see.

“It’s a good thing Maya needs you more. I'm glad she has you.” She let out a small, breathless laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “She's better off with you than me. You're good for her.”

A fit of unexpected anger rose in him—not at her, never at her. He wanted to tell he she was wrong. That Maya was hers. That no matter what she thought, no matter how deep she believed the 'rot' had gone, she wasn’t something Maya needed to be protected from.

“Any longer, and I’ll sicken her with me. She’s so small and pure… the softest part of me. And I can’t bear to even touch her. To feed her. To just be with her. I'm so afraid...” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and then, quieter: “I think I might really kill her, Joel.”

Joel froze.

The words hit him like a stab to the abdomen, like a goddamn gunshot, something he wasn’t ready for but should’ve seen coming. He’d heard her say those words before, hadn’t he?

That night—Maya’s first bout of colic. He’d rushed up to her nursery, rubbing at her back, murmuring low nothings just to calm her down. The screaming had gone on for hours, splitting apart the thin walls, rattling through the house like something relentless and starving. When he'd hatefully asked her to pull herself together, blamed her for knowing nothing.

And Leela had been standing at the threshold, watching. Her hands limp at her sides. Hollowed out. She had whispered it then, too. I think I might kill her.

And back then, he had thought it was the average… exhaustion. Fear. That helpless kind of inadequacy that came with first-time mothers.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it?

No, this wasn’t about being unsure.

This was agony. That bitter edge, that raw, bleeding thing inside her. That feeling of being left to die in her own body. And she was still living in it, with that numbness within.

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse beating thick in his ears. “Leela,” he managed, rough and uneven. It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud, and it landed heavier than he knew how to carry.

She sniffled, fingers curling tighter into her palms.

“I disgust me,” she whispered. “I stain everything, I know this. I’d never forgive myself if I did it to you.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, because if he didn’t keep himself calm, if he didn’t keep himself grounded in this moment, he didn’t know what he’d do. What he’d say. He didn't trust his instincts anymore.

And Leela was still looking down, fingers twitching in her lap, like she could feel something crawling under her skin. If she dug her nails in deep enough, if she pressed hard enough, maybe she could carve out whatever filth she thought was still inside her.

Joel knew that feeling. The itch of it. The glare from his mind's eye.

He’d stood in front of a mirror after things he could never undo, scrubbing his hands raw, watching the way the clear blood seemed to seep deeper between his nailbed and fingertips, no matter how much water ran down the drain. But no, this wasn’t the same. Not even remotely.

Joel had earned his stains.

Leela had been made to bear hers.

The thought clawed at him, made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Because she wasn’t talking in metaphors. Not really. Not the way he might have, not the way he sometimes felt it, an unbearable burden in his gut, an ache in his chest.

She was talking about it like it was real, like it was something rotting inside her body right now. Like it was fouling her up, stinking only to her.

Because it was. Because someone had done that to her.

He clenched his jaw, heat rising behind his ribs. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know when. Didn’t know the details, and Jesus, did he even want to? He'd lose his shit.

A part of him did. A part of him wanted to be the man he used to be, the man who wouldn’t ask questions, who would just take his rifle and hunt down whoever had put this look on her face, this disgust in her voice, this strife in her bones. If that was what she wanted...

He could still kill for her. He absolutely would, without hesitation. If she said it, he'd walk right out that door and make for the front gates. He could wipe those motherfuckers off the face of the earth, make them suffer, bleed, scream, and beg before he pulled the trigger. He'd done it before, to less violent people. Why not now? What were a few more bodies to him? Nothing but newer ghosts.

But really, what would that do for Leela? What would that change?

She had to wake up every morning in the body they left her with, haunted, festering. And worse—she had to live in the mind, unable to outrun the moments between the others, the life they had shattered.

She had to look at Maya every day and wonder if she was capable of being her mother. Wonder if she was capable of loving her, if she was capable of keeping her safe. How could she when couldn't even protect herself?

Joel wanted to tell her that she could. That she already did. But that wasn’t something his words would fix. Especially not his.

So he didn’t say it.

Didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched her, just took in the way her shoulders hunched, the way she trembled like the truth had broken something loose inside her, and now she couldn’t shove it back down.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to ground her, but he knew better than to startle her. He was stupid, just not a fucking idiot. He knew the way the past could reach through time, could grab hold of you even when you were safe, even when you were far away from where it happened. And fuck, she was drowning in it, wasn’t she?

Drowning in memories she hadn’t spoken aloud.

He didn’t need to hear them to see them.

Because her eyes—those dark, gripping, hollowed-out eyes—were far away, looking at something else. Someone else.

A room. A face. Hands. A warning. A little help.

The moment he thought it, bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t know, not really. But he could imagine. And it made him fucking sick.

He knew, somehow, that she had spent months alone, trying to live past this, trying to bury it under silence, under time, under the thousand little ways she kept people at arm’s length.

Leela sniffled sharply, yanking herself back to the present, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Just wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers curling inward again like she wanted to disappear into herself. Like she deserved to.

Joel wouldn’t let her.

Carefully—slowly—he reached forward, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of her hand.

She flinched. A slight tremor. A barely-there shake in her breath. Fuck, it hurt him, too. That some part of her—some deep, instinctual part—still thought she had to brace herself for what might come next.

But she didn’t pull away.

He worked at her fingers, gentle, patient, until she let him unfold her hand from the tight, white-knuckled fist she had made. Her palm was damp, warm from being clenched for too long. There were crescent moon indents where her nails had pressed into her skin.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he laid his own hand over hers. Mangled beyond repair, scarred, spoiled, lost to time.

Leela finally looked up at him. Finally, he let him see her.

Her face was blotchy, her dark eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, and God, she had never looked more exhausted. More fragile. This girl, who could accomplish anything and everything, looked helpless.

And she didn’t believe him. Not a single thing he’d just said. Yeah, she was right not to.

Maybe he was stained. Maybe he was rotting, too. Maybe it was too late for him, too late for a man who had done what he’d done, lost what he’d lost, to be anything else.

But not for her. Never for her.

He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them softly against her knuckles.

She made a noise—small, unsure and confused. But she didn’t pull away. God, she didn't pull away.

His grip tightened just slightly, cradling her hand in both of his now to brush another kiss, like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to her. He let his forehead rest gently against hers, breathing slow, trying to keep himself from gripping too tight, from pulling too close.

"There's nothin’ left to stain or rot in me," he admitted. "Just a lot of space left for the two of you."

The words landed soft, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, like maybe he was trying to convince her that they were true.

And Joel—he knew what that felt like. To be left alone with it. To drown in it. To have no one there to pull you out of it. So he didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. This time, he wasn't heading for the door.

All he did was stay.

Leela sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together, but Joel could already see it—she was already falling.

And he wasn’t about to let her hit the ground alone.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, his other hand coming up to the back of her head, his thumb brushing just barely along her hairline. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, felt the way her breath came uneven, quick and unsure.

Close enough that he could feel every tremor in her body, every sharp, shallow breath she took. But he didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe. Didn’t whisper that it would be okay.

Because he wasn’t a goddamn liar.

And because this—this agony, this slow, rotting thing inside her—wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t something she could be reassured out of, something she could be reasoned or comforted or willed away from.

It was in her bones. In her blood. It lived there, like a sickness that had no cure.

So what the hell could he say? What good would empty do?

All he had—all he could offer—was this. His hands around hers. His touch, light, present. The slow press of his forehead against hers, grounding, real, unmoving.

And he held her. Not tightly, not desperately—just enough.

Enough for her to know. Enough for her to feel, just for a second, what it was to be held and not taken.

To be seen and not used.

To be broken and not discarded.

Joel breathed out slowly, before pulling back just enough to see her. Leela didn’t move or speak, just watched him quietly. Hoping for something from him.

His palm lifted to touch her cheek. Not enough to startle, just enough to remind her he was still here. That he would be.

“Alright then, birthday girl,” he murmured. “I’ll put Maya to bed. See you in the morning.”

No reluctance. No more questions. No trying to make sense of whatever had just passed between them.

Because nothing had changed. And that was the point. Whatever had been said, whatever had happened—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Leela didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm gently like she was holding onto the warmth he’d left behind. There was a little curve that rested on the edge of her lips.

Joel didn’t look back as he left the room, didn’t linger in the doorway like he sometimes did. He just walked upstairs to Maya's quiet little corner of the world, enduring, sure, carrying her small weight against his chest.

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, unfurling her fists from his collar. She stirred, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she calmed into a deeper sleep.

Joel sighed, pressing his hands against the crib’s edge, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at her, at the impossible being that she was.

Warm, breathing, real. A perfect thing born from ruin.

Joel swallowed against the knot tightening in his throat. How the hell did something like her come from so much pain? From something that had swallowed her mother whole?

He didn’t know how it had happened. Didn’t know when he had stopped just watching from the outside and stepped into the mess of it. Didn’t know how someone like him—someone as stained, someone as wrecked—had ended up here, standing over something so goddamn perfect.

Nothing mattered because the truth was—he wouldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t take back a single second of this.

His breath ached with that same old, familiar twist as he reached down, brushing his fingers over Maya’s impossibly small hand.

She twitched, her lips parting slightly in sleep, and goddamn it—he felt it everywhere. Joel let a small grin pull at his lips as he curled his fingers around hers, feeling the faintest squeeze in return. Yeah, she was all his.

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Once. Then again. Then a third time, lingering, his lips brushing over her fine, downy hair, drinking in the warmth of her, the scent of her, the sheer, impossible realness of her.

No, nothing had changed.

But somehow, everything had.

X

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[valtsv]

it's such a bummer that losing control of your emotions only makes the entire situation worse in really embarrassing personal ways. losing control of my emotions should give me pyrokinesis.

[maxwell-grant]

The Penguin: Episode 8 "Great or Little Thing" Series Finale Breakdown

So first and foremost I need to give a shout-out to everyone who's been following this with me and helped me week after week process and articulate this show, this brilliant Penguin Braintrust without which I would be incredibly lost on how to even begin breaking this thing down this way: @davidmann95, @wil4x, @book--wyrm and my friend Lucas who is not on Tumblr.

And so we're here at last, in the end of the show. This took forever. I need a goddamn break. This isn't enough and will never be enough but it'll have to do. So let's get to the episode that has had the world joining hands in the unanimous urge to see the absolute shit kicked out of Oswald, and has made the character at last earn this:

(Episode 1) (Episode 2) (Episode 3) (Episode 4) (Episode 5) (Episode 6) (Episode 7)

So who would have guessed that cartoon dirtbag Rex Calabrese was still gonna turn out to be less of a cartoon dirtbag than Oz the moment we stop seeing him through Oz's eyes. Still a terrible person by every metric, but terrible in the same way a lot of Sopranos characters are terrible: this is, at the end of the day, a job, and you can talk to them, you can sit at a table to get down to business with them, and you probably know people in your life like them, and maybe you can even count of them to get real and even help you when the chips are down, even if it doesn't mitigate everything else that they are or do. At the very end, he was neither the benevolent god-king that Oz saw him as, nor was he the absurd dirtbag gangster we had him pegged as - there was never anything exceptional about Rex Calabrese, he's just a real criminal. Maybe the realest in the show.

I said in the last post that Francis burned with hate at everyone in the world except the person who most ruined her life and haha WOW was I wrong, because it turns she's known the entire goddamn time, and quite possibly no one has ever hated him more than Francis.

Most people in the show who hate Oz do so because he's a destructive bastard who craps on their lives directly, or because he's a lying sneaky fuck who does nothing while their lives are ruined, and Francis has had to deal with both longer than anyone else. I can't possibly count every single way this wildly recontextualizes every single interaction, every moment, everything that Francis has shown us and done since the first episode, because I'd have to recap EVERY scene and line of dialogue she has and we still have so much else to get through.

Why was Francis was so effectively able to withhold affection and hold his feet to the fire and give him that bottomless pit of yearning in his stomach that's driven him to move mountains in pursuit of it? Because Francis wouldn't have loved him even if he gave her the entire world at age 12. She never had any affection or love left for him. Oz was always chasing nothing.

And all along it was Rex who shaped the entire course of Oswald's life, as well as prefiguring his dynamic with Victor, with a single conversation. Oswald spend his childhood wanting for Rex Calabrese to notice and like him and be his friend, and he has no idea how much Rex actually affected his life.

That fateful night at Monroe's was never the feel-good story about his Ma summoning the willpower to live by dancing away the grief, and it was never even just the night of the eternal promise that Oz thinks back to, it was a fucking trap to kill Oz. Nothing he has in his life is real, nothing he says is true, he has never not lived in complete total delusion.

The sheer disgust in Deirdre O'Connell's face at the "I do too". How much of her personality we completely understand was born from this absolute resentment she's nursed for decades towards Oz.

And this rotten little turd comes at her with a perfect speech that hits her every insecurity and bitterness and spite and situation and convinces her to give him another chance. The nature versus nurture thing again - Oswald was shaped by hardship, by decades of hard work and neglect, by the total absence of his mother's love while in turn being forced to live in stunted childhood dedicating himself to always taking care of her, and maybe what we're seeing here is heavily distorted by Francis's POV - or maybe he was always a little monster, because this guy talking to her is The Penguin, the same guy doing the same things in the same way, either way it doesn't matter. Again, born fucking ready.

So now we see our three major supporting characters - Sofia, Victor and Francis - all of them have shown that they had a chance to walk away from Oz, to not let him ruin their lives further. All of them could have left Oswald behind, and all of them should have left Oswald behind, but they had to come back and justify the choice to do so, they had to get satisfaction, it couldn't have been for nothing. Victor had his car and a girlfriend in a bus waiting for him, Sofia had a jet to take her to Italy, and Francis had Rex Calabrese ready and waiting to put him down without a word. All of them had a chance to get out of the show and never look back, but like Oz, they had to rectify and overcorrect for an insult.

Sofia can't walk away from Gotham without punishing Oz for turning her in, for killing Alberto and further lying to her, she can't accept that this man, this embodiment of Carmine's legacy and hold over her, is still out there unpunished getting away with what he's done. Victor can't walk away from Gotham knowing that his parents did everything right and still died for nothing, that every hurtful thing Oz said was right, he can't let "They don't give out awards for dying in the projects" be the last word in his and their lives. And Francis can't walk away from Oz, who killed her two sons and keeps lying about it, who ruined her life and now keeps promising he will take care of her and acting like everything will be fine, she can't let this pass even if she can't kill him either, and so she'll make him give her the world and die trying.

The tragedy of what happened is what hurt/broke them - the added insult of what Oz said or did is what they just can't live with. It can't be for nothing.

Goddamnit it, it was really just too telegraphed for it to not happen the way it did.

I fucking knew it the moment the episode started and we got the grungy boss orchestral take on the funny Penguin chords that we were in for some calamitous shit.

We see at first that, in spite of seemingly failing, Vic has graduated to the point he can give his own speeches, gain his own allies, run his own cons - he's not just Oz's proxy, but will manage to convince the others to become such as well, and he's coming at this from a place of complete sincere belief in everything that Oz says, all of the man of the people rhetoric he will so thoroughly pervert and then sell to the people actually responsible for everything he told Victor he was fighting against.

Zeke walks up to him nearly crying about how Sofia blew it all up and Vic instantly asks back where's Oz - not because he doesn't care about Crown Point, but he's already processed it and has already learned with Oz how to just barrel forward regardless, now it's time to get to work. Victor who so readily throws himself into rescuing Oz again and again. Victor who's lost everything - he doesn't have his family, he doesn't have Graciela, he doesn't have the other mobs backing him up, and right now he doesn't even have Crown Point anymore, all he has is Oz.

The man in red who reads the Law Gave him three weeks of life, Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood The hand that held the knife - The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Sofia dressed in two thematically appropriate outfits - the red scarf echoing both the first outfit we see her in, back to covering her neck but in control of her own collar, and the outfit we see her the farthest back in time with at the start of Episode 4, and with her final crimson fur coat outfit accompanying her final greatest triumph and ultimate defeat in the show. Not only that, but in this episode she also gets to perform characteristically appropriate stylized torture - holding a family intervention and therapy session with mafioso torture tactics to try and wrench the truth out of her victimizer, enacting calculated sadistic yet righteous justice via psychological breakdown, and ultimately allowing the woman he victimized and wronged to take her killshot at him.

See, it's not just that Sofia Gigante is a Batman Villain, or that she's well passed the threshold of supervillain. Cristin Milioti doesn't play Sofia like she's a new character, which she basically is, and she isn't just playing a tortured gangster lady protagonist dipping into camp villain territory, which she also is - she plays Sofia Gigante like she's been a Batman Rogues headliner for decades now stepping into the spotlight once again, like she's the dark modern revamp of someone Adam West would have thought and she's just always been around showing up in stuff along with The Penguin, like she's only not fighting or teaming up with Two-Face in this because he's not here yet. It is crucially important that Sofia passes every standard of Batman Villain imaginable with flying colors, in part because it helps to reinforce that The Penguin is a monster all his own.

Even here, with as much power as she's ever possibly held over him, reduced him to a whimpering begging mess to be killed off in a second, she is so shocked at the sheer brazen selfishness and delusion and level of bullshit on display, that even now he won't break character and think about his actions and admit to what he's done not even to save his own mother from mutilation, that she just loses the script entirely. Her entire show of power collapses and she physically recoils from sheer disgust at just how low Oswald is, at just how much he lacks the ability to even suffer for what he's done. Realizing that there is simply not enough of a soul in this filthy beast to even torture, and that however much she hates Oswald for ruining her life, someone had a prior claim all along.

Eve - Sofia - Francis in the end united in, however much they may dislike each other, however different their circumstances may be, there is nothing they could possibly do to each other that would be worse than what Oswald has done to all of them, joined in silent agreement that their rage ultimately belongs in a bullet fired at Oz's head and that they deserve their kill shot at this man.

"I had enough to give, Oswald".

This really is gonna be the high point of Francis's life from this point on.

Aw man, I liked Sofia's scruffy dirtbag detective, I wanted him to stick around as one of the reocurring characters like the movie cops

Oh Victor, sweet kind Victor, you couldn't possibly ask for anything worse in the entire world.

Oz feebly already beginning to lie and spin his new version of the events, that Sofia stabbed him and fucked up with Ma, and here comes Victor with the reversal of their dynamic, seeing this guy who's been brought low by the oppressive force looming over his life that he must defeat (because all that Victor knows about Sofia at this point is that she used to be Oz's boss and is now out to kill them, that she is scary as hell, and regardless of whether or not she was the Hangman, she just bombed his fucking neighborhood) and reaching out to him with a speech about solidarity and dignity and self-worth and picking yourself up by your fucking bootstraps to save the day. And Oz responds by coaching him on how to be a better bullshitter. Because to Oz, he knows the playbook by heart, but Victor meant it all.

Victor rebuilds Oz from basically nothing by providing him with the validation that he so desperately always craved and never got, saying all the things he always wanted to hear, poised so they can finish this together, poised to give him not only the army he asked for, but a full-blown revolution, and he never once asks for anything in return. Just, goddamnit this isn't hurting any less.

"She, sh-she'll never look at me again, all right?....unless I get this done. Got a promise to keep." Maybe the one and only time his mask ever fully cracks. For a second. He rebuilds it right back up and gets to work, but it cracked. He knows what he's doing, up until the moment he doesn't. It's that simple.

A lot of what drives Oz is acceptance, and a lot of what drives him is his desire to be accepted in worlds that have been declared, by how they run themselves and by the people that inhabit these worlds, as worlds that he was never going to be included in. And one of those worlds is the hierarchy and the hoi polloi of the political realm and the power within the political realm because he understands that all politics are corrupt essentially, and the damage that he could do then in being part of a political infrastructure of Gotham interests him. I thought it would be nice if, in that time jump, he had been invited to maybe a gala or two, you know what I mean? It'd be awkward. He'd be slurping out of the fucking teacup, there'd be stains on the table, he wouldn't really fit in, but he’d fucking love being there. - Colin Farrell

Mirroring the scene in Episode 01 where he adjusts himself next to the car, scuffing himself up to look like the sleazy funnyman the Falcones keep around for kicks, now he's dressing up as much as he can and asking Victor for input, because he truly values what the kid thinks and, goddamnit.

"C'mahn, I don't bite", pfft yeah, not in this movie universe anyway. And to the same guy you did the nose-gushing-blood bit to, even.

Minutes inside of City Hall and he already parks his ass right on Bella Real's seat - not as any kind of intentional slight against her, it's just naturally where he goes to, even before the scene ends and we see his new plans start to come to fruition.

Guy who takes offense at Viti calling Sofia a psycho and then goes up to Councilman Hady talking about the unhinged loony bin broad who went "full psycho" that he's handing to him on a platter, pointedly calling her Falcone.

At first I thought it was funny that Sal Maroni was getting blamed here for Bliss and the underground lab, but then I remembered that he was actually the one who introduced Drops to Gotham and the whole epidemic that became, so if anything it is an extremely easy part of the story to sell, even without his body being down there and all.

"You're gonna have some trouble, Oz" - pointedly smiling and calling him Oz instead of Oswald as he had up to this point, because by that point he's already a crony and already willing to work with this guy handing him all these miracles.

"You wanna be welcome? You gotta look, clean" Yes Father Pal, I Shall Become A Capitalist Caricature

You can see in the walk around, in his look at Bella Real and the mayor's office high up above and the steps, how little Ozzie's gears turn once again and rebuild his life after losing the streets and everything that happened with Ma - This is the next nest, this is the next throne, this is next schmuck I gotta cozy up to, this is the next boss looking down on me that I gotta destroy, there's the reward waiting for me if I do. This is the one that matters, I did everything in the shit and now I'm gonna get me sum goddamn respeck, Feh Ma of course.

And before all of this we see Sofia's next move, showing the ways in which she is good at this, the ways in which she truly is something outside of the worldview of what these gangsters are used to, and why she is going to lose. "Because I can". She is good at commanding a room and promising rewards beyond the wildest dreams of these street crimelords because she can offer everything they want and lose nothing she cares about for it, she will hand them everything and dip because she can, and she is going to lose because she can lose. Because she still thinks there is an end in sight for her, she thinks she will get to walk away from this universe and go meet a happy ending at a cafe in Florence.

It's not just that Sofia was born into privilege and never really lived in Gotham and could just hop onto a plane out of here anytime, it's also that she has room in her life for introspection, self-awareness, consideration towards others, and all those things that come easier when you're "born full", and not when you're the starving hustler for whom leaving the city was never an option even if he had all the money in the world, the hungry animal who wants this, wants everything, harder than anyone has ever wanted anything. The guy who has no room for anything else in his brain other than a perpetual bullshit generator set to a 24/7 chorus of "I GOTTA WIIIIIIN"

Another element to her that I really love is, she's good at this. She knows she's good at this, she was supposed to take over the family. She may not know the ins and outs of the game as it currently stands, but she is good at this. Some of it is, I think that's the only world she knows, and some of it is there's something in there, that's always been there, and she believes it is rightfully hers. There's an element of, "I need to have made it worth it for something", and if that means power, then okay. - Cristin Milioti

There’s a level for both of them that they enjoy each other’s suffering, and that sort of leads to Sofia’s downfall. If she didn’t need to see Oz suffer she might have been free. And she really gets in her own way in that regard and largely because Oz is this crutch that she just cannot let go of. - Lauren LeFranc

And here we get to the end of season 1 of HBO's The Sofia Show, the bittersweet in hindsight but extremely cathartic torching of the set as a last hard-earned spiritual victory by our hard-done-by lady protagonist. All of her family is dead, the city is out for her blood, she gathered all the remaining criminals for One Last Job with everything on the line, and she is having a very fun time with her montage destroying her home and family name beyond recovery. She is going to finish her character arc, get to finally kill her former comedy sidekick turned mortal nemesis, and hop on a plane to The White Lotus resort straight away into greener (if only marginally less fucked up) genre territory away from this ugly nightmare city. Alas, this is not The Sofia Show, and it's time for her theme suite to catch up to her once again and tell us of how very badly this is all going to go for her.

And she can't even be that shocked, when the high of burning it all down goes away, when she sees that old Ozzie Cobb wriggled his way out of this jam regardless and is now coming at her with a speech, she can't even react to it. Deep down she knows how the rest of the night is going to go. She may not have expected Arkham outright, but she was braced for a loathsome fate.

It rules so much they give him a big fat fight the power speech with a bloody revolution montage, and we can only sit there aghast with Sofia at the sheer audacity of him to act like this, like a man of the people, thinking he truly has the right to be talking like this and to her of all people.

And now we see how Oz won the gang war, and the next domino to fall on the downfall of Gotham City, and the first effect of his own rise to power: like The Riddler, he has toppled the order of things and he has turned people into extensions of himself, Victor being the first and the one who gave him this revolution, of all the little mini Penguins out there devouring the social structure of Gotham crime forever. You kill the boss, you become the boss now. Everyone can bleed and everyone can be killed and everyone must be killed in the quest to the top, no handrails or codes, they wouldn't invite him and so he crashed. After he unified the criminal underdogs, Victor rallied the underdogs beneath the underdogs, and now the streets are a jungle where there will never be an end to the wars over who gets to be atop the food chain, because they are all fighting to see who gets to be the next Penguin.

For decades people have written Oswald Cobblepot as a creep and a sleaze and an incel who hurts/kills women for rejecting him, or who is chronically insecure about them and I can very confidently say nobody ever did anything half as horrible and half as truthful and half as meaningful as LeFranc did here. We see the other reason why it was so imperative to her that Oswald not be a misogynist, and it has nothing to do with just making him more likeable or sympathetic or honorable. We get in this episode the pay off to the thoughtline: okay, he's actually a gangster who respects women, he does not act like every other prestige drama gangster who ever lived, we are going to center women in this show and he will treat them with respect - now let's watch how he HORRIBLY screws them over in the name of this respectful gentleman persona he lives by, let's watch how he betrays them in the ways that matter most, how he even makes them wish they were dead without personally ever lifting a finger to harm them, let's do some grown-up feminist commentary in Batman for a change and highlight the ways in which men profit from belittling and oppressing and destroying women even when they're pointedly not misogynistic and even self-professed genuine allies to them.

And so it is that the only Falcone mobster who isn't misogynistic towards Sofia is the one who screws her the most horribly. He will murder every man he comes across, he will murder every man he could have been and every man who is even marginally better than him in any way, he will push all of his brothers out of the nest and not tolerate any other big shot in town bigger than him and not even the only man, the only person, in town who loves him will be spared. But he is a gentleman, so he leaves the women alive (well, except for Nadia Maroni, but she was a rival big shot and worse, his boss for a day or two, so she obviously had to go eventually).

I thought about his greatest fear, and it made a lot of sense to me that his greatest fear would be that love is transactional. That if he does not achieve a level of power and give Francis certain types of things that he’s promised her she might not love him. And that informs every relationship he has on the show It was always important to me, and this was always part of my initial pitch, that if Oz was to achieve a level of power—and that is something that was not up for discussion, that was my job that I was tasked with for the season—that he has to lose something emotionally. It can’t come without a cost. - Lauren LeFranc

"the crooked politics that have allowed wealthy elites like Sofia Falcone to wreak havoc". Oz has weaponized the status quo against her so throughly that she is going away under the exact same image that she did it the first time, as a privileged serial killer and Falcone. She doesn't even get to have her new name anymore, and the rest of Gotham does not see her as the new and strange and horrific new threat that she embodied in Oz's life - she is going away as just another upper-class monster like her dad.

The triumph that Oswald has fought his entire life for, the Big One that he's scraped and fought and hoped his entire life would happen and he'd get to show his Ma at the end, the thing that he's going to throw a party for at this moment, is just a politician on tv saying things that Oswald claims he told him to say.

All of our 3 major supporting characters will thus reach the high point of their lives, on the moment before it is ripped away and they are destroyed forever. Francis gets to finally spit all of her hatred back to Oz and take her revenge on him, and her babies appear before her alive and unharmed. Sofia gets to burn down her father and his legacy once and for all, and is on her way to kill her nemesis and finally be free of it all. Victor succeeds in helping Oz win, they have revolutionized the gangs and defeated the big bad Falcone and he's done right by his new family what he couldn't do with his old one.

And of course, Oswald finally wins - he is the last man standing, he's defeated his greatest enemy, he is the big shot of Gotham and his victory is, so he claims, right there on the tv for his Ma to see, he can finally get what he's always wanted now - and then he doesn't, and then his soul crumbles, before he finishes the job by murdering his heart.

Oz didn’t need to do that, like it wasn’t actually necessary. In that moment, Victor did not betray him. He did nothing wrong. In fact, the thing that he did “wrong” in Oz’s eyes is that he loves him and that he cares about him and Oz actually cares about Victor. I think by the end Oz sees that as a really big problem because he loves his mother so deeply and Sofia took advantage of that love, and then it became sort of a weakness in his eyes. Victor saw him at his most vulnerable and for Oz to achieve the power that he thinks he needs, he can’t have that level of humanity. He can’t have that heart with him anymore. So he stifles his own heart. He kills it. - Lauren LeFranc

When he said to Vic in the sewer, “They'll tell stories about us one day, kid,” he meant it. At that stage, he actually saw that he could rise and Vic could come with him. It's only when the vulnerability and the shock of his mother being taken from him, and the place of vulnerability and danger that puts him in, that he realizes there's no more love, there's no more affection, there's no one else I'm going to have in my life that can lead me to such vulnerability as my mother has led me to or as this kid could potentially lead me to. - Colin Farrell

He's not relishing being horrible. When he realizes, "Oh God, Victor makes me vulnerable. I can't have that shit anymore." The way that Lauren wrote it, and the way Colin played, there's such sadness under the horror. You're like, oh my God, how fucked up do you have to be that the one person who you feel you have any connection with now, you have to snuff out because it makes you weak. What happened to you? - Matt Reeves

"You think she forgives me?" Once again, the mask cracks. Only around Victor. Only because of Victor. And he can't have that again.

And thus we get to the final parallel between our 3 side characters - that in the end, all they did was serve Oz's own rise to power, and hand him the world in exchange for their lives. All they were to him were additional steps in the ladder that began with his brothers. Francis gave him his life, his drive, his motivation and eternal justification, the insatiable pit in his gut driving him to do this forever. Sofia got him his promotion to Falcone lackey, and then she got him another promotion by handing him the tools with which he could become an underground boss and rally them, and then she got him another promotion by handing him the keys to his political career on a silver platter. And Victor saved his life, more than once. He helped him, provided the justification he has craved for a lifetime, rebuilt him, gave him his revolution, gave him the streets, and showed him the last thing he needed to kill to make it to the top.

Wow man let me tell my good friend, The Family Butcherer, who butchers every family he gets his hands on whether a crime family or a literal one, how much I think of him as family.

"They don't give out awards for dying in the projects"

Just like with Squid, Vic's emotional intelligence dooms him. He sees this man whom is like family to him brought to his lowest point, crushed beyond measure, in what he assumes was just a phenomenally terrible stroke of fate and not something he had any blame whatsoever for, and reaches out to pat him in the back, emotionally reassure him that it wasn't all for nothing, that his family would surely be proud of him, and that there's things to look forward to.

Vic threw away his chance to walk away into the sunset with Graciela and he just had to come back to save Oz (AND Sofia, the one who'd bomb his neighborhood) from the Maronis, the least of all possible evils in his life and his city and who never even noticed him. Victor only narrowly missed out in 2 situations that Oz would have absolutely left him to die in, so there just had to be a third where he'd die in the absolute worst way possible. Not with Sofia's gunshot to the head, not bombed to rubble along with his neighborhood, no, Mr. Carmine 2 had to make it as painful and intimate as possible.

Vic the only Number Two in town who couldn't kill his boss and in fact never even considered doing so, and so he dies - there is just no room for him anymore, not in Oz's life, nor in the new Gotham that the two built together.

LEFRANC: "You see Oz become this next level monster, I remember the take too. Jennifer and I look at each other, Colin transforms his face in this really remarkable way, that I don't think any of us fully anticipated could be achieved in that way." - The Penguin Podcast Episode 8

I knew that the general sentiment was that, by the end, they kind of wanted to, in a way, kill the Oz that we met in the film. I felt that there was a sense of creative responsibility that leaned towards, “We cannot have this man as a likable character,” which is hard I think they wanted that in the earth by the end of the eight hours. They wanted that RIP. That's gone. I hated that scene. I really did. I was fucking so pissed off. It felt in performing it as — guess what? — you would like it to feel in viewing it. It felt gross, it felt cruel, it felt absolutely insane, and it felt like Oz was reaching a point of no return. - Colin Farrell

So the day after I watched this episode, my friend Lucas messaged me in the afternoon sending me audio messages, "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! He stole his identity, he didn't even die with his fucking name! They'll never find him! Fuck, goddamnit!" "ELE MORREU COMO INDIGENTE, PORRA" and, yeah. Yeah. That gets to the heart of it.

If Vic was just a guy taking his money, if Vic was purely transactional, if he was just another Link, he'd have made it. Oz wouldn't have given a shit about him, Oz would have died on the sidewalk when the Maronis hit at minimum. All this piece of shit wants is love, and when he gets it, when it's finally non-transactional, from the ONLY person in the entire show who loved him, he has to kill it, he doesn't know how to deal with it, he has to smother his heart.

He has to become Carmine Falcone 2, strangling the poor and vulnerable of Gotham while pinning all of his crimes on Sofia.

Vic just wanted his family back, man. He just wanted a family again, to at least show his family that they didn't die for nothing. The thing that Oz spits in his face as he dies. It wasn't for nothin.

This show has so many dozen little variations of Penguin getting his heart broken and retaliating cruelly, but this one hurts the most partially because it has no basis whatsoever on any pre-existing insult or cruelty, there was nothing that warranted this, and you still get why Oz felt that he had to do it. The lowest, weakest moment of his life, and he can never permit anything like it ever again.

Victor was his heart, and The Penguin remembered that his heart only exists to be broken.

Victor punctures the illusion, and he cannot have that. Everything about The Penguin hinges on that singular fact of his life: he cannot and will not break character. He cannot break character, otherwise he dies, otherwise Gotham City will eat him alive, otherwise he has done it all for nothing. That is the ultimate threat Sofia posed to him, and why his ultimate victory comes only from creating a perfect delusion and spinning everything that happened in service of it. Because all those things said at Monroe's? They weren't true - his Ma, y'know, it was just her disease acting up, that psycho did something to her, she wasn't thinkin straight, and it was really Sofia that stabbed him and did all that fucked up shit, and his Ma is really happy that she got the penthouse in the end and that he didn't put her down, look, she's crying tears of joy even, I gotta keep doing everything for her.

Everything and everyone in his life, he can spin in service of the delusion, they can all play dress-up with him forever, except Victor. Victor may not have the slightest clue as to what Oz actually did, but he's seen too much, he knows he has vulnerabilities, he knows the thing that Oz needs to bury far, far more than all the horrible things he's done. Killing Victor is maybe the one thing that he absolutely cannot in the slightest spin a decent delusion out of, that he did it for him or did it for noble reasons or anything other than out of disgusting self-serving weakness.

But who's Victor? Some kid who died in the projects and didn't even have a name? Someone with nobody left to mourn him, not even a street to get back to, nothing but a guy who's already forgot him?

That Victor Aguilar? Never heard of him

“I will never think my mother doesn't love me. She was having a bad day when she stuck that bottle in me. She was under a lot of pressure. She nearly lost her finger. She stuck a bottle in my belly. It was a bad day. She didn't get a good night's sleep the night before.” It's that kind of thing. He'll make up fucking whatever. He's already lying when he goes, and he's stitching up his belly, and Vic says, “What happened?” And he says, “Sofia, she stuck me with a bottle.” He's already beginning to bury the truth. - Colin Farrell

He needed your love, and then you didn't give it to him, and you didn't obey, and you didn't do those things that he needed, and then you mentally aren't there for him in the way that he needs, but he's got to physically keep you around because he's too weak to not do that. He can't give you the gift that he promised you in Episode Six, he's too weak of a man to do that. And so he needs to hold onto you, but under his terms. - Lauren LeFranc

There's a thing that happened on that last day that made my blood run cold, which was I felt Oz not love me anymore. I felt his coldness, and I think that Francis felt it too, and she always had so much of his attention and so much of his love. I don't even think she realized how much she had until he withdrew it. And when he withdrew it, it was utter and… slightly terrified. I was just lying in that bed, I just felt the love leave the room. It's a real thing, and it's gone, yeah, and I think Francis feels it, too. - Deirdre O'Connell

He's this man who is clawing his way to the top, and I knew he wanted power, but what what does that mean for him? That's where I started to conceive of like, he wants his mother's love, and he wants people's affection. He wants to be revered. That was like the main thrust for me of what defines power for Oz, and then by the end you realize that, when he doesn't get those things, he doesn't get his mother's acceptance, he still gets it. He makes sure he gets it. - Lauren LeFranc

So bowled over and miserable I was that I didn't even notice until later that he was wearing a version of the classic Bronze Age/Triumphant get-up.

If the pattern of his life is unjustifiably cruel retribution for slights and insults, perceived or not, by the end Francis had done it to him as well. That she never loved him and in fact always hated him more than anything and anyone else is the biggest insult of all, and so he punishes her the most cruelly, knowingly or not.

"You are who you are, and you couldn't change if you tried."

He will never stop telling Rex Calabrese stories, he will never stop bringing up his brothers and mom as a sympathy ploy, and even if he will never truly love her again, he will never stop ruining the world in her name, he will never stop, he will never stop, he will never stop.

You had to sit through 8 hours chipping away at all of his fun and charm and wacko comedy antics and motivations and all the scruples and principles that he turns out to have less and less of, until he butchers them all in the very end along with the heart of the show. Penguin burning through all of his lovable quirks and charm, everything that we loved about him in the movie, until he comes through as a black-hearted bastard of unlimited malice who will never stop growing and getting worse and putting more lives in danger. Not only as much of a lowlife backstabber as we initially assumed him to be in the movie, but far worse than what we could have imagined.

I said as much that the first episode marks the transition from The Batman to The Penguin with the titlecard, and this brings it back around. The show dies with Victor, we get Sofia's post-credits Nick Fury Tease with Selina's letter and with Selina's theme playing and a final grace note of hope for Sofia, and thus the only character in the show to end with anything resembling positive, and then we get the first scene of The Batman Part 2. showing us the horrible thing in this world that Batman will have to defeat for us.

RIP Bella Real, we all know this asshole is gonna become mayor, and he's not waiting for the next election.

Credit to @book--wyrm for pointing out one more horrible fucking thing, that at the final dance, his hands are covered in scratches, much like the hands of Carmine Falcone when he comforted Sofia.

“One of the very early things that Lauren pitched was that ending with Eve where she looks like Francis,” said Reeves. “He can’t get what he needed from his mother because she’s no longer in that state because of the dark events and what he’s done, so he recreates it in this other way with Eve, and it’s very disturbing,” said Reeves. “That was something we thought was a great idea and was so emblematic of this guy’s internal state. It’s like, even as he now seems to have gotten that first major step toward being the kingpin, you know that some part of him will never be filled. - Matt Reeves

When I read that, I was like, “Oh my god, we're going full Bates Motel here.” But again, it speaks to what has become a pathological inability to accept the world that he has played such a heavy hand in creating. As far as he's concerned, he's just doing what he needs to do to live the life of a good son. And look, his mother can't talk anymore, so he needs a surrogate. I mean, it would be kept out of the sexual realm — it wasn't about that. It was about the intimacy and the tenderness and the pride that Oz always so deeply needed to feel his mother had for him, and pride in him, that he never really got from her. The one time when he finally can say to her, can go to her bedside and say, “It's done. Everything you said that I was capable of, everything you said that I should aspire to, it's done. I am now the boss. I took it from everyone else.” And he gets nothing back. His mother's already gone. That's just too horrific for him, so he needs a surrogate. He would say to Eve, “Look, I'm grieving. I'm finding it hard to deal with the fact that my mother's alive, but she's not here. She's gone, but she's fully present at the same time, physically, but she's nowhere there. She doesn't recognize me. I don't recognize the woman she's become. Do me a favor. We used to dance together and talk at the end of the night. Would you put on her dress and just let me pretend?” But it was twisted. It was twisted, but I dug it. He needs it from his mom so much. And again, his imagination is so potent that he just cast her as that figure, that most prominent and most powerful figurehead in his life, which has always been his mother. She's got to stay alive. He's got to hear that he did well from her. He's got to hear that she's proud. Look, by the end, he's bananas, as they say in the film. Good cop, batshit cop. At the end, he's batshit. - Colin Farrell

Remember when this show had fun Dolly Parton end credits, remember when this almost looked like it was gonna be fun and light-hearted compared to the movie and The Riddler: Year One

So turns out all along they actually had something real twisted planned with the name Karlo, and the Clayface concept that evokes. Asking his prostitute girlfriend to shapeshift into his crying comatose mom in the room upstairs so he can finally get the dance with her atop the world that he craved his entire life and have her tell him how proud she is that he ruined everything forever.

It is not a good ending, but it is his happy ending. He achieved everything he wanted in the smallest possible amount and at the highest cost imaginable, and thus he burns more than ever to take more and more in the name of a satisfaction he will never, ever have. He ended his arch-nemesis, and he didn't have to kill her, that's not what a gentleman does. He got the streets, and he's poised to take political power, and there is nobody left to care about, nobody except the only person who's ever mattered. He can still keep taking care of Ma as a justification for all the shit he will do now and forever, but he doesn't actually have to take care of her anymore, he doesn't even have to love her or grovel her for validation anymore: He has a Ma who will tell him everything he wants to hear, forever.

Of course, he may not have his three dance partners anymore - his Ma is in a vegetative state, Sofia has been locked away once again, and that kid, what was his name again, ain't around. But then, he will simply move on to new ones: He didn't actually lose his first dance partner, his Ma is fine, look at her telling him how proud she is of him and everything he's done and how unstoppable he is now. And he has a new partner in City Hall who is all too eager to play along to everything he says and does, who will receive and spit back his rhetoric just as Vic did to the streets of Gotham. And if he's defeated his nemesis and dance partner, well, not for long. There's a new one waiting for him. He never wins without losing. He will never again live without his next dance partner there to hound and foil him at every turn. There will always be something in the way.

It was exciting to me, the idea that we’re going to meet Oz as a mobster, and to play him as just a man. There’s nothing fantastical about him. There’s so many people like Oz in our world who hold a lot of power, who also connect with people because they speak, on some level, the truth. They can be charming and engaging, but also really terrifying and calculated, and not necessarily doing what they say that they will do or caring for people in the way that they say that they will. It felt so timely and so important to really engage with a guy like Oz and not turn away from him, but actually turn towards him so we can start to unpack, in our own society, what makes a man like Oz so appealing, and what makes him equally appalling. - Lauren LeFranc

I think Oz has always been someone who believes that everything he’s saying in the moment is true, and he creates worlds and illusions for himself to merit his actions. He does it sometimes very briefly in impulsive moments, and then sometimes more methodically, and in the end the fact that he didn’t get from his mother what he’s always desired isn’t good enough for him. So he has to create this strange fantasy live in this delusion of his own making, and pay Eve to dress as his mother and force her to tell him he she’s proud of him. So mentally, emotionally, Oz is embracing his own delusion. I think, for the audience, I hope they more deeply understand him psychologically and realize that there is a deeply broken man inside. He is violent and problematic and and very emotional. And that’s really the man that will carry into the next film. - Lauren LeFranc

And it has to end in a total reversal of the movie ending - The Batman ends with showing there is a light in the darkness, that this tortured broken man can fix his mistakes and lead us into something better. The Penguin ends by grabbing your face and desperately yelling at you SOMEBODY FUCKING SAVE US, HE WILL ONLY GET WORSE. The Batman ends with telling us Batman can save us all, and The Penguin ends with telling us Penguin will kill every last one of us in real life if he hasn't already, if nobody stops him.

And so I'll leave these last partings words to the Penguin Braintrust as we close off this series - see you all in therapy and in theaters when The Batman: Part 2 drives us all completely insane once more.

@wil4x

I don't think this Penguin is someone Batman can tolerate, I don't think Bruce can ever save Gotham's soul with a force of corruption as big as Penguin taking root in the seats of power. No amount of informant work can justify letting a monster like Penguin stay "King of Gotham". I think there's an argument to be made that Oz is a bigger threat to Batman's overall long-term mission than guys like Joker or Riddler. Those are huge immediate threats, but Penguin does a lot more long-term damage to the very soul of Gotham and its people. As long as The Penguin is on top, there's no hope, Gotham will never not be the most corrupt and nightmarish place on earth with him in charge

@book--wyrm

He will truly climb anything no loss so great it can't be flipped into an asseet A nuke Francis armed out of pain and grief and desperation and despair And poor vic Only wanting to do good And instead he saves gotham’s own typhoid mary of misery

@davidmann95

so the thing is Oz kills hope for Gotham forever in this

he's replacing the mayor who stands for hope at the end of The Batman with a corrupt comics rando built on a lie so he can install himself as the power behind the power forever Batman can't be alluded to in the slightest until the very end because it can't be until there's no lingering 'aw, I don't want my boy to get Batman'ed' it can't be until we understand truly and completely why this man proves the necessity of someone out there to stop him

The other stabs at this with Oswald, from what I’ve seen, are trying to make him low-down and dirty and vile enough to be a ‘proper’ Batman villain. But this already made him low-down and dirty and vile. And made us love him for it. This isn’t about ‘fixing him’, this is about taking him all the way to the top He’d accept no less

This is about making him operatically nightmarish enough to be a guy Batman is going to fight forever

Lucas

VENGEANCE, GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

[stillthe1]

5 (& maybe 16) for the fluffy prompts w lestappen 💕

1600k of lestappie following these prompts for u, c!!! 🩷🩷🩷 i tried to make it fun enough n maybe horny enough, so... yeah. kind of nsfw? don't really know what came to me. non-betaed so all mistakes r my own 🩷

Charles’ had the worst fucking weekend, Miami was not kind to him, as he found himself battling with a Haas and losing. And sure, he respects Kevin very much, but come on. Really, Ferrari?

(Maybe he should’ve let the Mercedes rumors continue–)

So it’s not a surprise, really, when Pierre forces him to go out. Let go of the feelings of the weekend, and maybe he’s right. As the music starts to get to him, Pierre comes back with a Cosmo for Charles and a Zombie for him. Fruity and bright, as Miami, non?

As soon as he tastes his cocktail, he makes a face. Holy hell. “Pierre, this is strong. Did you ask for more vodka?” His nose is scrunched up, and his eyes may or may not be watering. Sue him, he knows he’s a lightweight, but this was another level.

He already felt a bit drunk, and it was the start of the night. Welp. Let’s hope he doesn’t do anything too wild, or he would have to sit through another Ferrari meeting about the brand and how he’s supposed to act. 

Fuck Ferrari.

He lets go of the constant voices in his head that sound like Fred, and his management team. Let’s go of all the things and just dances around, listening to Bad Bunny singing about whatever – he just hopes it’s not Max’s song. He needs Max out of his brain for a night. For an hour, at least.

“So,” Pierre's smile is blinding, too bright for today, but he’s still Pierre, so Charles will ignore it for now. “Did you see who was in the paddock this weekend? It was insane!”

And trust Pierre to get all the gossip from whoever he gets it, always the first to know everything. And Charles, too. Being best friends has benefits, sometimes. 

“Huh? Who?” He thinks about guessing, it’s a fun game around the USA, the most random celebrities always show up and act like it’s their catwalk. Whatever. “David Beckham? Or maybe Shakira? Carlos told me way too many times about her leave to Miami…”

“No, Charles! Well, I don’t know, but!” Pierre’s hands do a strange movement, and Charles thinks he’s had too many drinks already. “It was Martijn Garrix and Daniel!”

“Daniel?” His voice sounds weird even to his ears, all flat and no energy behind it. “Ricciardo? What were they doing here?”

He knows that Daniel is Red Bull’s third driver, but he was around in Australia too. Did he really need to be around that much? Around Max—

Do not think about Max. Charles, do not think about Max. Abort, abort, abort.

“They were here to support Max, or so Danny told me. Oh! And they told me they’ll be here too, so we’ll see them!”

Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. Merde. No, no, and no. He wanted a night free of Max Verstappen, free of the thoughts he had around him, the way his heart started beating faster and faster around him. He had a bad weekend, a bad season, and a bad year, already. He needed this. Fuck.

He feels his breath come in short, and the familiar feeling of panic settles inside his chest. He excuses himself from Pierre quickly, noticing his friend’s concerned stare, and walks quickly to the patio of the club. 

He needed space. He needed to be alone for a minute. His vision is blurry, and for a moment he thinks it’s the alcohol. But no, fucking hell. He’s tearing up. At a goddamned club in Miami. What a great year, huh?

He sits on one of the couches with a view of the sea and breathes in the salty air. He closes his eyes to avoid tears, or worse, a whole breakdown. He does not have time for a breakdown, no matter what his therapist said.

He needs his bubble of personal space and some minutes to himself–

“Charles?”

He opens his eyes, a bit reluctantly, and looks up at Max. How did he find him? Has he been looking around, praying to catch him? Or was he just casually walking by and thought, huh, let’s stop a moment to talk to my ex-nemesis? Fun times, hah.

He realizes his eyes are full of tears at the same time as Max's. Max’s eyes widen, sitting quickly by his side. It feels nice, and Charles suppresses a sob.

His walls are down, a combination of alcohol and Max’s proximity, and all he wants is to cuddle up to Max, give in to the urge he has always had and kiss the freckle that frames Max’s lips. 

“Charles, hey, love. Can you hear me?” Max’s voice is soft, and it scratches all of Charles’ needs. He nods, biting his bottom lip and trying not to cry. “Okay, can you look at me?”

He shakes his head no and prays Max does not read into it. It’s just. Max’s eyes have always been Charles’ obsession. Deep blue, with the prettiest lashes known to mankind, and. Max always says so much with his eyes, wears his heart on his sleeve, and makes Charles feel untethered. 

“Tell me what I can do for you, honey. Please.” The emphasis on honey makes Charles tear up even more. Fuck, he needs Max. He needs Max for himself, maybe show everyone around them – Daniel Ricciardo, especially — that Max Verstappen is his.

But he is not. They’re not dating. They’re nothing. Charles always feels lost when he sees Max direct his soft smiles at someone that’s not him. Feels like he has traveled through time, feels the scratchy texture of the Sauber fireproofs, and feels the indifference in Max’s eyes when he looked at him back then.

Charles always tries to not be selfish and tries not to ask too much. But right now, with Max asking him what he needs, he can’t lie.

“Stay?” His voice sounds scratchy, even though he has avoided crying for now. He refuses to look up. He doesn’t want to look at Max while he feels like this. Lost, jealous, possessive. 

He feels Max’s nod against his arm, and he startles. Since when are they so close? He can smell Max’s cologne and it’s intoxicating, spicy but with enough vanilla to feel cozy. 

He feels Max’s sigh against his shoulder, and he lets himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy Max’s proximity, the smell of his sandalwood shampoo, everything that makes him Max.

It’s enough to calm him down. Enough for him to see things a bit clearer, without that much panic taking over his brain. Max is here. Max is sitting by his side, when he should be celebrating his incredible win, getting drunk with Daniel and Martijn.

But he stayed. Because Charles asked him to. It’s too much for his brain to catch up, and he can’t stop himself. He can’t help it, not with the amount of alcohol his Cosmopolitan had, not while having Max cuddling up with him.

“Max…” 

Max looks up at him, blue eyes full on display and face smushed against Charles’ arm. Fuck, he looks so beautiful. So freaking cute. Charles almost wants to kiss his nose, but he must refrain.

“Max, can I kiss you?” 

Max nods quickly, biting his bottom lip, worrying it under his teeth, and turning it a very pretty pink. As pink as the blush in Max’s ears, cheeks, and neck. He looks edible.

“Took you long enough, Leclerc. I thought you would never ask.” His smirk is ruined by the nervousness his eyes show, and really, Charles has never been patient. 

And he has always wanted Max Verstappen. So he cannot be blamed if their first kiss is a bit rushed, a bit too quick. Max smiles against his lips, and everything feels like a movie. He almost expects the techno music around them to switch to Taylor Swift.

Charles giggles, finally giving in and kissing Max’s nose, too. 

Max takes a hold of his face with one of his big hands and Charles feels the world around them disappear, his eyes focused on Max’s pretty, pink plump lips. He presses their lips together once more, and it feels like home. Max tastes like gintonic, a bit minty, and it’s heaven. Charles, being his bratty self, bites Max’s bottom lip, and finally gives fully into the kiss. 

It’s slick, hot and fucking perfect. Nothing could have prepared Charles for this, no matter how many fantasies he had as a teenager, not even the ones years later. This was his own personal heaven, with Max’s hand caressing his face softly and kissing the lights outta him.

He stops the kiss to breathe, and smiles at Max, dimples out in display. It feels unreal, having Max so close. So so so close that he can see the damned lip freckle, the one that has taunted him for years.

Without giving it too much tought, he closes in again, and it’s intoxicating to see Max close his eyes. He’s expecting a kiss, but Charles bites his freckle. Gently, extremely gentle, but. It’s there, it’s taunting Charles, and he had to take action.

Max moans, and Charles has a full-body reaction to it, and the urge to grind against Max’s thigh is too big to ignore it. 

They need to get out of here, right now. 

Or Charles will create a big mess for both Ferrari and Red Bull, they will call it Il Predestinato and the Golden Boots.

“Max, Max. Please, let’s go to the hotel. Please.”

He’s begging, pleading with the worst case of bedroom eyes he has ever used against someone. But somehow it works, and Max gets up immediately. Takes Charles’ hand on his, gently as he ever his with him, and guides them towards the private exit of the club.

“Let’s go, my love.”

[certifiedwerewolf]

*pops in*

Can I get a Kimball breakdown?

How I feel about this character

I don't like her. I really did try to. This time around. "Maybe without her fandom screeching in my ear I'll enjoy her more." I didn't. The truth is, Vanessa Kimball is spiteful and angry, and deliberately fucked over the running of her army to stick it to a man who spent most of their time on screen together begging her to work with him. She was the queen of disproportionate retribution. She got Doyle killed. And I want so badly to like her, because she is FASCINATING. She is SO interesting, as a character, as a writing study, her implications in the greater RvB canon, everything about her could and should delight me. But there it is and here we are. Ask me in another ten years.

2. All the people I ship romantically with this character

Tucker and Doyle are my go-to's, I was actually really fascinated by the possibility of her and Tucker during my watch-through. I think in a hypothetical au where Sharkface didn't have the WORST GODDAMN TIMING EVER, she and Doyle could have gotten a chance to talk and maybe found that middle ground. I also found myself interested in the idea of her and Wash, which I think I might have shipped for a short while last time too.

3. My non-romantic OTP for this character

Their fanbase might have been obnoxious and annoying as hell, but I really do think there was potential in a friendship between her and Carolina. What could have been if the RvB writers knew what the fuck they were doing.

4. My unpopular opinion about this character

She sucks and not in the fun character way. She just sucks. She's not even funny.

5. One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

Kimball and Doyle as coleaders they can never take you away from me. Oh well, there's always TDOPFLID I guess.

[astralscrivener]

for the fic ask game! ★✎ϟ (for this one, in my case it's gotta be every angsty moment you write, especially every time keith cries or has a breakdown in soopits lmao <3<33)

★ what was the scene you most wanted to write in [fic]? what was the hardest scene to write?

gonna use SOOPITS for this question as well! in terms of chapters that are already posted, for what i wanted to write:

keith's almost assassination. i had been sitting on that for YEARS. that chapter started as a oneshot idea shortly after s3 aired (and the fandom put together in like 5 minutes that "shiro" was a clone). the oneshot never came to fruition, and then when i started SOOPITS i realized i needed to use it. desperately. the broganes angst. the klance angst. the chaos of "oh okay so we just have a secret assassin on our ship drifting in space. cool cool cool". very among us. i tried to write an among us oneshot a few years later during late 2020 and then realized that was essentially the entire s5-6 arc

the s6 finale (6.06 & 6.07). i had the ending of s6 planned FOREVERRRR i had the scene of lance in the black lion in my mind for YEEAAARSSSSS i had the keith & lance vs kuron + shiro vs sendak fights in my head FOREVERRRR i would constantly make music videos in my head to those chapters on my walks to class for a good 2 or 3 years. i dearly miss walking across the quad with starset or the score or hidden citizens blasting in my head.

the KEITH BREAKDOWN in OPERATION KURON (6.05). another chapter i had rattling around in my mind for years. like hey it sure is fucked up that your older brother is actually a clone who tried to kill you! you know all those walls you had up? it is NOT going to be enough to hold this breakdown off. MAN. MAN

hardest scene? the goddamn TRIAL. before the current chapter which is giving me grief (gameshow rewrite), the trial chapter took me AGES. i started it in like september 2019. by the time i updated it, it was ten months later. july 2020. covid had started. everyone's lives were in shambles. i rewrote it dozens of times. i watched judge judy as "research." i had extensive talks with nicole. i hated writing that chapter so bad but i feel like the ending was rewarding enough

✎ how do you think readers would guess a fic was yours if you posted anonymously?

so i actually do have a reliable answer for this. keith and lance almost always have a very "us against the world" kind of mindset in my fics, and i guess someone reading one of my fics one time didn't look at the author that closely and realized it was me when they did their whole "you and me" "us against the world" shtick so. devoted klance ig! disgustingly in love dumbasses!

ϟ tell me what moment/scene in [fic] made you sicko in the window.jpg to read and i’ll tell you which scene made me feel that way to write

my GODDDDDDD first of all thank you. i also go bonkers over writing keith being emotional. he's very repressed in public / in front of the team and in private he is a mess and emotional. boy has walls up

scenes that made me sicko in the window to WRITE are indeed all the scenes where keith is emotional, especially those scenes in s4 (particularly 4.05) where he tells off kuron. stand UP for yourself bestie !!!

also, all of the scenes in 6.06/6.07 with keith, matt, and lotor, and then in 7.01/.02/.03 with keith, matt, and pidge. i LOVE writing keith and matt as friends/relating to each other, but also i love writing keith and pidge as besties who relate to each other. i am having a GREAT time making matt avoid his own trauma.

oh and also? the entire operation kuron chapter. actually just all of 6.05-6.07. absolutely fucking bonkers. cackling at my monitor the whole time

thank u for the asks these are fun !!

fic ask game!

[bloominginsanity]

My dad was able to explain fear and how to work through it so well that I apparently rationalized and created my own coping mechanisms for my OCD and didn't realize I actually had the disorder until I was 30.

No one can touch my room. I sound like a teenager saying this and in college I didn't actually care, but in my teenage years and when living in certain unsafe homes, I would have a goddamn break down if this was not listened to.

My life was high stress at one point, like HIGH STRESS. My brain redirected this to having utter and complete control of my room. One day, while I was at camp, my mom moved a stack of games from one shelf to another because she thought it would look nice. I came back, saw the change, and broke down sobbing, curled in a ball on my floor for twenty minutes. I had to move it back. I then moved it again to the same location later because she was right. It looked better that way. The problem was that I had to be the one to do it.

I knew it would change when I left home and I was right. I didn't care as much. The stress and the danger was gone from my life for the most part so the coping went away too. Fast forward to when I'm 30 and I move back into a high stress environment. My mom borrowed my sewing kit BY ACCIDENT. I was helping her with a craft project and apparently put it in the bag for her to take to work with her. She got back, unloaded it, and I found the kit. Out of order. It was a pretty raggedy thing in a ten-year-old plastic Ziploc with safety scissors and scraps of cloth. I had duct tape on the bag to cover the holes in it. But: The needles were out of order. The scissors were in the needle and stray-thread tin. There was a stray, white thread just floating around.

I stared. I hadn't had a breakdown in ten years. I told myself it was fine. I tapped my fingers on the table. Made a weird noise. Finally muffled a scream. Slammed my fist on the table to get the feeling of STRESS out. It didn't work. My brother asked what was wrong and I told him nothing because I KNEW it wasn't serious. I ended up in a ball on the floor trying not to sob as I told myself it didn't matter.

My mom apologized to me when she found me and I told her she didn't need to and that it wasn't her fault because I knew it wasn't. I was likely the one that had put it in there. I was still crying. It took me FIFTEEN minutes to be able to even look at it and fix it. I tried around ten minutes and I had to look away and stamp my feet to get the horrible feeling out and not cry. I was antsy for the next hour even after I fixed it. It doesn't even bother me to think about it now, four days later, but at the time I wanted to dig my nails into my own skin and make myself bleed just to distract myself from the feeling.

It was just a slightly messy sewing kit.

I never show signs otherwise. I check for my wallet, phone, and keys when I'm out several times but that's not all that odd. I've lost things before and am an expert at finding them. I guess I wash my hands a lot but I have dogs and I don't like getting sick. That's it.

My dad taught me that the repeating voice in my head that tells me everyone finds me annoying isn't real and that if you don't try that you'll never even know otherwise. He taught me how to identify what the fear looked like and what it was and how to call it a liar. Once I knew what to call it and what it was, I knew it was never who *I* was. It was normal to be scared and if other people could fight it then so could I.

[He taught me a lot actually. He taught me how to recognize social queues and what they meant. I got shouted at a lot as a child for not being able to react to them properly even if I saw them. Pretty sure the man is ND in some way and just found a super positive way to cope, which he passed down to me.]

I am still not normal, likely never will be, but I've been told so many times that no one would ever guess that I suppose I slot right in here. I didn't know it was actually called OCD until I was 30 and talking to another friend that had been diagnosed and thought 'that... sounds familiar.'

fuck it. shout out to "high functioning" neurodivergents

the ones who can mask easily, the ones who can get social cues, the ones who have managed to go most of their life not even knowing they were ND because they didn't present as the stereotypical ND person.

the ones who can pay attention in class, understand social etiquette, who understand societial expectations

the ones who don't feel neurodivergent enough bc they don't struggle in the same ways/areas a lot of NDs do, or they can't relate to other NDs' experiences because they always understood these things easily

the ones with high empathy, the ones who DO get the joke, the ones who are constantly told that they can't possibly be neurodivergent because they don't act like what you'd expect a neurodivergent person to act like.

you are neurodivergent enough. you are valid, and so are your experiences. not struggling as much as others do in some places doesn't mean you dont struggle at all. your condition and diagnosis is valid. your symptoms are valid. YOU ARE VALID. not checking all the supposed boxes doesn't mean you aren't neurodivergent. you are enough. you are valid. you are loved. you are valued. you matter. you belong in neurodivergent spaces, you deserve to use whatever resources are available to you, you are allowed to take up space in these communities. and i am so, so proud of you.

feel free to, and actually, i encourage you to reblog this with your experiences. we belong in this community as much as anyone else. please also tag this w/ any neurodivergent conditions i may have forgotten 💙

since this is getting lots of notes I'd like to add, even if you're undiagnosed or maybe self diagnosed, for whatever reason, (i.e. can't get access to a diagnosis, not being taken seriously, or just not wanting an official diagnosis, etc.) this still applies to you. actually especially to you folks. don't think for a second you're not valid just bc you don't have the paperwork or whatever to say it

[espoopee]

Strangely back to my pre-pandemic personality

It's been a month and unfortunately Tumblr isn't where I find myself hanging out frequently, but at least this is still my emotional and mental refuge, I guess.

So...

Ever since I broke up with my ex, I've been in a weird space where because I don't really have an outlet for affection and romantic urges, I tend to get frustrated and get very distracted. I understand that I now have some sort of freedom to go date whoever I want; that being said I'm reminded of my pre-pandemic romantic struggles of being attracted to a lot of guys, but not finding a lot of guys attracted to me. It's not really that big of an issue, but I do get irked at this really familiar feeling that I once thought I'd be over and beyond it.

As much as being attracted to lots of guys is very fun and honestly motivating to go dating, having this constant communication with one guy is very confusing, and not where I want myself to be at mentally.

Soooooo... storytime!

I met this one guy while playing Monster Hunter Rise: Sunbreak. He caught my attention with his funny username (BigDickDaddy) and the fact that we were using the same weapon. Following our interaction, I decided to add him as a Steam friend because at the time, I was just adding people who were willing to talk and banter while playing. I didn't really care who they were, I just needed some fun people to play with.

We hit it off pretty well. He started playing later than I did, so I decided to help him out with grinds and missions. In the meantime, we started getting to know each other better. I wasn't really all that interested in him personally, but as we talked, it seemed clear that he was looking for a friend to play with as well. I figured, why not, let's be friends.

This went on for 2 or 3 more weeks of just consistently playing and hitting each other up when we felt like it. I started learning more about him, like that he has a girlfriend... Not that I cared at first. I did start feeling some type of way when he started showing me more attention, I suppose. We'd play for hours. I think it caught the attention of his girlfriend, who found it strange that we would always play, yet we don't really know each other. He said, "she asked why we play so much but we're not even Facebook friends."

So, I said to him that he can add me if he wants. I gave him my Facebook, and when I received his friend request, well... I was stunned. I saw his profile picture, and he was hella cute. I almost had a breakdown because I was afraid of this happening. I didn't want another unattainable attraction to another guy. But, as it happened so many times in my life already, it was inevitable. I knew from that point on that I could only control how I would act around him if I knew that I had no chance whatsoever. That being said, I figured there wouldn't be any harm in getting to know him some more if at least I can a friend in him...

We've had some really interesting conversations about ourselves, and what we do. It's kinda bizarre how I managed to hold his attention for so long. Now, it's slowed down a little bit. On one hand, I'm kinda thankful that I can have a little bit of distance and learn to focus on myself... but another part of me hates that and craves his attention so bad, particularly because I haven't yet learned to be content with myself as a single person, desperately craving affection that had been abandoned by my ex.

I'm honestly stuck in a peculiar situation that, from what comments on Reels on Instagram are saying (from those weird breakup-related videos), I'm not totally alone in feeling this way, but the introduction of this guy certainly adds new obstacles that I wasn't fully prepared for.

At the very least, I just don't want to jeopardize anything we have, what little of it, just because I find myself attracted to him. But... goddamn, it sucks. The real real real honesty from me is that I wanna be with him, I wanna go on a date with him, I wanna get to know him bone-deep, and I'm absolutely afraid that all of these desires are just gonna end up being unfulfilled fantasies and regrets I'll be carrying 'til the day I die. If anything, I'm already carrying some from previous experiences.

[sleepyivoryrose]

Tomorrow I'm visiting my mom at the hospital...I am pretty nervous. I normally don't travel alone, or travel at all, so I'm kinda scared I might get lost, even with a plan of how the train and the bus drive. Last time I travelled last year I came back only to find train strikes. I normally would have to travel 2 hours until I get home, but thank god one of my caretakers got me with their car from the station. I don't think they will do that again though, since they strictly mentioned it was an exception.

Also, even if I manage to travel safely to the hospital, I still have to ask for my mother at the reception, and my crippling social anxiety doesn't make that exactly easy.

And then, after I managed to travel safely and overcome my fears, I still am afraid of what state I might find my mom in. They told me she couldnt eat food for a while, and knowing her, she's been struggling with eating before she came to the hospital. Also, she's sort of a shut in? So I can imagine that she's scared out of her wits with so many unknown people. She hates hospitals and doctors too...I hope i can ease her mind a little bit, I'm sure my dad and my brother did a great job at that too.

The things you do for love, right?

I'm sure everything is going to turn out fine.

At least I hope so.

----------

On the other hand, I'm worried about the pooky (aka my cinammon roll friend), and how the pooky is feeling physically and emotionally worse by the day. Honestly? I am already proud of her she came this far. I sure would have had a mental breakdown...no, several in her position. She's really strong...I admire her from the bottom of my heart.

I don't know how much longer she can handle this though. I'm worried sick about her.

----

Nobody is doing necessarily great in my environment. That's life for ya. I wish I could do more, something, anything...this feeling of helplessness is driving me nuts (or even more nuts than I probably already am). I guess the only thing I can do is be there for them, listening, and hoping.

----

Did something good happen last days though? Aside from my usual fangirling, not really, I'm afraid. Life goes slowly by, uneventful and peaceful, and I wouldn't want it any other way. I do wish I could live alone in an appartment though, but I know it's not possible, since complete isolation could worsen my condition really quickly. But it would be nice to have some more privacy.

One of my caretakers is still trying to convince me to get into a workshop for the mentally ill, and I was already there, and it was goddamn awful, because the boss treats his sick and (by the way, working for less than minimum wage) workers like shit, since he has no patience for us. And of course, most people who work there are in a worse condition than I am, so they keep trying to make conversation, even though I told them I just want to work in peace.

Yeah...on the other hand; I can't have a "real" job, because I didn't work for over 10 years already, and I'm sure nobody wants to take someone who sits on their ass all day. My future looks bleak.

AAAAAHHH I'm spiraling down again. Positive thoughts! Positivity!

I'm going to do something with my favorite character designs. Probably something with pokemon, since their outfits are really flashy. Maybe work on one of the animal crossing islands.

I can do this, definitly.

I will be creative today, and tomorrow will be tomorrow. No use of thinking of another day than today.

[eddiestightywhities]

well eddie did have (another) breakdown not too long ago and his only son did leave him for his evil biological parents that he's been desperately trying to keep away from his precious boy for roundabout forever which means he had to grow a crisis stache that is really fckn gay bc he's a big fat closet homo who's work husband slash best friend slash love of his goddamn life has just come out as bisexual and got himself into a relationship with eddie's new sparring buddy that he now can't possibly keep sparring with bc it'd be waaaaaay too gay so yeah, guess it was just eddie's turn to get a nepo boost from his loving fire-dad!

eddie did one thing this whole episode other than looking pretty and it was putting out a single fire which buck also did on top of stopping the entire highway and starting the rescue when the plane landed but only eddie got a "good job." bobby really said eddie wins the nepo baby olympics today

[percontaion-points]

Client No 5 chapters 11 & 12

This book review contains discussions of sw; reader discretion is advised

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 11

“What do you want, Todd?” I snapped.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to remind you how good we were. I helped you that night.”

For sure the relationship between Todd and Ally is filed under “he might not hit you but…” Yes, Ally is working under him of her own free will. But look me in the eye and tell me that Todd constantly pushing her to have sex with him, to go meet more clients than she wants, to go see a client that she’s said she will not be servicing again… Is a healthy relationship. 

I smiled. My friends were certainly unconventional, but I loved them for it.

Chapter 11 summary: At home, Ally tries to sleep but can’t. So she gets up to get some warm milk, and finds Jamie dressed to go out. She says that she’s going to a party with Amy, Todd, and Adam, and that Ally should come along, too. That it would help get her out of her funk. Ally agrees, and gets ready. 

When they arrive at Adam’s apartment, the other three had already started. What happens next is… well. It’s a goddamned orgy. I don’t know what anybody was expecting. 

But then Todd tries to fuck Ally, and she has a nervous breakdown. She runs into the bathroom, but Todd comes to try and talk to her. 

The two of them end up fucking in the other room. Ally uses Todd to get over every bad relationship that she’s been in. The guy named Nick who broke her heart. Widower Robert. Scott. When they finish, Ally feels more like herself, like her mask is back in place. 

She looks at herself in the mirror and decides that she’s ready to face Scott in the morning. He called her a whore, because that’s what she is. 

She slips out, leaving the others to their fun. 

Chapter 12

He dipped his fingers into my [vaginal] wetness and swirled them around. He pumped them in and out a few times, and I moaned to give him a show. 

Then, to my surprise, his fingers moved higher and he started spreading the moisture over my anus. It appeared he did want ass after all— literally. 

I wasn’t opposed to anal sex. I’d done it plenty of times before; I was just surprised because most guys would start with the girly parts and move to the ass after they were worked up. 

“I’m going to fuck your ass.” 

Thanks for stating the obvious! I pushed my butt a bit higher to give him better access and moaned. “Mmm, put it in me.”  

Anal sex was probably a good option for Mr. Quickie. I’d found through experience that guys could go a long time in the pussy, but anal sex was usually over much faster. I guessed that the extra tightness and pressure was too stimulating for guys to hold out for long. 

He pushed inside me slowly and I relaxed my body, letting him in. 

SHE’S LETTING HIM DO ANAL WITHOUT LUBE?! DEAR LORD, DOES THE AUTHOR KNOW HOW MUCH THAT FREAKING HURTS?!

He took my hand as we left the 21 Club, fingers laced together. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I suddenly had a boyfriend. Who was I, and where had Ally gone?

Chapter 12 summary: Ally is getting ready to go meet with Scott when Todd calls to tell her that she has a last-minute client. She’s upset, but he points out that she’s got 2 hours before that, so she has plenty of time.

So she goes to meet the guy, who wants anal. Ally thinks that the guy is a closeted gay but is too embarrassed to hire a gay escort. She thinks about asking Todd to find another guy who’ll do that, as she doesn’t think Adam is into guys like that. Not even gay for pay. 

That appointment made her a little late for her meeting with Scott. Exactly as everybody had predicted, he’s there to beg for her love. But he doesn’t want her to be an escort anymore. Ally obviously says no, that she’s doing this because she loves to fuck, and not because she’s hard-up for money or a job. 

It really boils down to the fact that Ally is scared of being hurt again. In her opinion, you either have a messy break-up, or one of you dies. And either way, the only thing that’s left is so much pain you wish you were dead. 

Despite Ally wanting to leave, and to never see Scott again, he somehow convinces her to be his girlfriend. And that she shouldn’t take any clients when he’s in town. Ally doesn’t like that last bit, and points out that he’d simply move to New York full-time and force her to stop working if the two of them want to be together. He insists that he wouldn’t do that. Ally does agree, but inwardly winces over how she’s going to have to pick up the slack during the rest of the week. 

[lunathebee]

[11:02]

Ok guess what I'm back with another sad sopping stuff and it's still about Steven, can I call this a drabble?

Y/n is Steven's lover, and she struggles with making friends at work. When she thought she was doing a good job, reality hits her in the face.

It was a Saturday morning and Y/n had forgotten about an important meeting, her brain tricking her into thinking it was a normal day, and by the time she realized it, it was too late.

But the thing that made Y/N sad wasn't her boss being mad; it was her co-worker.

"You aren't in the meeting this morning?" A woman in a beige pencil skirt said, holding a cup of coffee in her hand. She seems surprised when Y/n is having a breakdown over the meeting.

"I- I don't know, I DO know there would be a meeting, somehow I- I forgot?!"

"Well, you should tell the boss" The woman said before leaving to get back to her seat, pretending to be busy with the paperwork.

Y/N has no choice but to also take a seat and quickly type an apology message to her boss. After hitting the send button, she doesn't have the energy or motivation to finish the work anymore.

===

"Love! You're home early" Steven said when Y/N walked through the front door, but his joy quickly turned to concern when he noticed she had been crying."Did something happen?..."  

Y/n doesn't say anything back; she just slowly sits down and holds her knees close to her chest before starting to cry loudly. This of course makes Steven's worries skyrocket, and he quickly rushes to her side to see what's wrong.

"Love, hey hey why are you crying?" The British man held onto Y/n's hand, the warmth from his hand making her calm down a bit, but not enough to stop her from crying.

"Do..Do you think people hate me Steven?"

"What? No, who would hate you?"

Y/n wiped her tears with the jacket's sleeve; it already had a big wet patch now. "My coworkers, whom I have known for more than three years. Do you think they hate me?"

Y/n doesn't wait for Steven to answer; she continues to speak. "Today I have an important meeting, and... it was my fault; I forgot about it somehow, but it was a two-hour meeting, and no one texts me, or calls me, or whatever... they don't even notice I wasn't there."

Steven's heart clenched at Y/n's words. His lover is like the sun; she is warm-hearted and always trying her best. Steven never failed to notice her presence; how could he? And yet here she is, talking about herself like she's just a dull piece of rock or a puddle of mud.

"Oh...love-"

"I WORKED WITH HER, I ATE LUNCH WITH HER, I CHATTED WITH HER; I have done everything, I thought she was my friend! ..." Y/n suddenly feels angry and frustrated; she doesn't realize her voice is so loud Steven was taken back.

"And not just her, NOBODY noticed I wasn't at the meeting; all the co-workers... STUPID, this workplace is a goddamn PAIN" She threw her suitcase across the room; it made a loud slam when hitting the floor before sliding under the table.

Steven cringed at the sound before turning his attention back to Y/n, her face full of dry and wet tears, her eyes puffy and red, not to mention her nose too.

"Love, I know you have tried your best, and if someone can't realize that, it's their fault, not yours" Steven stopped for a moment to look at Y/n's reaction, making sure she was listening to him. "There are still people who are worth your love and kindness, people that you can trust to be friends with"

Y/n bites her lips to stop herself from crying, and she lets Steven hug her afterwards, listening to him rant about fun Egyptian facts before dozing off to sleep in his embrace.

"Take some rest, darling. I love you" Steven brushed off the strain of hair on Y/N's face before giving her a small kiss, admiring the subtle smile on her face.

[mxtxfanatic]

Alright, finished Yu Wu, so now we have our character breakdowns!

Our Main Cast:

Murong Lian: I am so serious when I say that a sad (not even tragic, just fucking “sucks I guess, dude” sad!) backstory and working with the MCs towards a mutually beneficial goal IS NOT A REDEMPTION ARC.

Yue Chenqing: a lesson in why ignorance is NOT bliss and you should NOT blindly follow whatever your elders say. (Especially if your “respectable elder” is a known rapist with children he don’t even know about under his own roof falling in love with each other 😬). I expected that he’d experience some traumatic bullshit, but holy shit?

Jiang Yexue: I knew there was something off about him, but holy shit????? Hope he rots in hell, but also, he was obviously tainted by that dark cultivation he took in to save his brother’s life, so maybe the real villain who needs to rot in hell is their rapist daddy 💁🏽‍♀️

Murong Chuyi: I knew he liked Yue Chenqing deep down and that something must have happened to make him turn on Jiang Yexue, but holy shit???? Anyways, hope he gets to beat that fool’s AND his rapist daddy’s asses in the afterlife before reincarnating into the most peaceful next life. (On another note, wtf is up with meatbun and jumping into blood pools????)

The emperor: I CALLED IT! A MOTHERFUCKING SNAKE AND A COWARD 🗣🗣🗣 IF YOU TRUSTED HIM AT ANY POINT, DON’T TALK TO ME 🗣🗣🗣

Guoshi of Liao/Hua Po’an: everyone is afraid of this super ultra powerful, seemingly invincible guoshi and ain’t none of y’all stopped to think, “wow, this is suspicious; wonder if that one villain IN ALL OUR STORIES maybe didn’t die, especially since we keep seeing hints that the one who “killed” him and died with him is ALSO not dead!” What foolishness… Anyways, man had plans on plans and still couldn’t predict human kindness, what a tool lmao

Princess Mengze: everyone was playing 3D chess with politics but bitch was on 4D; I was shook 😳

Gu Mang: MY BOY! Wwx if he was written into a trauma porn novel. Stuck. To. His. Convictions!!! Every reveal of his was a whammy on top of a whammy 😭😭😭 Thought he was out here being Naruto-level foolish without the protagonist halo, but he was really out here playing 4D chess on human morality with the best of them! GIVE HIM HIS FLOWERS 💐 💐💐

Mo Xi: love how he loves Gu Mang. Hate how goddamn naive he is. At some points, instead of feeling emotionally overwhelmed, I was just getting secondhand embarrassment. Would obviously NOT survive a political intrigue novel.

Honorable mentions:

Lu Zhanxing: his death fucking suuuuuucked, but he was a real one.

Li Wei: standing up to the emperor’s men to protect your lord, LET’S GOOOOOOOOOO

Lan’er (Changfeng-jun’s daughter): they didn’t have to do her like that… (also, is she still alive???? We just kinda drop her and never check back in????)

Madam Jiang/Su Yurou: wish I could be this unbothered in the face of conflict, while having the balls to defy the most terrifying not-quite-human in the known world 😭 glad she survived 💙

Jiang Fuli: fuck, I’m glad HE survived! He deserves it!

Hong Shao: she walked into death bravely and heartbrokenly, and I wish she didn’t have to. I hope she and Li Qingqian reincarnate into a better life where they grow to be the old man and hag together, like she dreamed…

Li Qingqian: the way he found out that in attempting to save Hong Shao, he had actually killed his love AND that her murderer “was” the man who saved him? I’m glad Su Yurou got to tell him the truth, and I hope he was able to reunite with Hong Shao in the afterlife

[fcdcdmcmories]

"A GOOD PERSON THAT HAS BEEN STEALING MONEY THAT DOESN'T BELONG TO HIM. WHO JUST LOST HIS JOB AND WILL PROBABLY BE IN JAIL BEFORE THE WEEK IS DONE. AND FOR YOUR FAMILY? REALLY? WHO BENEFITED FROM IT BESIDES.. NO ONE?" that plan had been foolish and reckless and he couldn't believe that it had happened to this day. not to mention that.. no, he wasn't SORRY about what RANDOLPH was going to have HAPPEN to HIM. absolutely NOT. served him right for sticking his nose where it didn't belong and letting something like this happen? "no, she fucking wouldn't have! she wasn't the one that came to your home with a knife, threatening to KILL YOU, was she? no, that was you. goddamn it, she was helping me. helping us. we would have made all of this better, if you hadn't--" he ran a hand through his hair and then another, reminding himself that this wasn't her. this was pederson, in her head, and it was TIME to get him OUT. "you messed up. you keep messing up, but.. it's not your fault. you're not yourself and.. now? now, you can get the help that you need to get better." did his words sound rehearsed? MAYBE. it wasn't as if he had NOTICED such a THING, though. for a moment, he looked at her. really, really looked at her and there was hesitation in his eyes, and he found himself taking a few steps in her direction. he wanted to reach out and his hand twitched for a moment as if he was about to do so. he opened his mouth to say something, but.. quickly closed it. "you.. you may not see it right now, but.. i'm doing it for you. you can't keep going on like this. under his control. on a downward spiral. what happened was horrible. no one is blaming you for having a nervous breakdown or for losing it for any of it. we just want you to get better. i just want you to get better." he stumbled backwards, fear showing in his expression at her tone. it was just for a brief second, but.. it was there. what the fuck? "you once told me that i'd never be able to understand what you have with that.. MAN, try as i might, and i accepted it. i made my peace with it. that's the same thing here. LANEY AND ME, WE.. IT'S COMPLICATED. SHE NEEDED ME TO BE THERE FOR HER." his own way of admitting that he had done what she had said and more? it was indeed complicated and he had NEVER wanted ANY of this. "jokes on me for believing you could be more than that, right? i stood by you. when everyone told me i was insane to do so, i still didn't give a shit. i stood by you and i defended you to anyone and everyone, because.. i thought that you were OVER doing his bidding. guess i was the fucking fool, huh?" was he crying out of anger? heartbreak? more than that? he didn't know. not at all. @xtinyslip

"PAUL, HE'S A FUCKING PERSON! A GOOD ONE! HE WAS ASSISTING ME WITH A PLAN, THAT I AGREED MAY HAVE BEEN RUSHED BUT I WAS DOING IT TO PROTECT MY FAMILY! I WOULD DO IT AGAIN! I --" her father was a difficult topic because the change in them was very all of a sudden, she hadn't had a chance to even process it. they shared TWO moments together, and it had been made out to be this and she didn't know what it was to even try to explain it. the truth was that she was scared too, scared because anything she said about her father would only given them more fuel to keep her locked away. "IF I HADN'T STRUCK FIRST? SHE WOULD HAVE AND YOU'RE BEING AN ABSOLUTE FOOL IF YOU DON'T SEE THAT!" he clearly didn't, not that she was looking at him to know because she couldn't look at him. she couldn't bring herself to do it. "i'm not going to make excuses for myself. i'm doing the best i fucking can." and she had been. it was a lot to overcome, she doubted many people would have ever gotten over what her father had done. had she? but she'd gotten back up, she'd done that and she wasn't going to let him or anyone else take that away from her. "i wasn't lying. i, we've been through all of this. why are you doing this to me? to yourself?" cecilia wouldn't have known what love was if it hit her in the face. she'd felt it even then, but how would she have ever known? it wasn't like she really ever experienced it before him, at least not like anyone should. she couldn't believe he was holding that against her now, with how hard she'd tried to make up for that. "STOP CALLING ME CRAZY!" the venom behind her words would have silenced most people but of course, she was angry that everyone kept throwing that word at her. oh, but telling her it was alright because it was to be expected after what her father had done. NO, if she was crazy, she'd own it and not need her father as an excuse but she wasn't. "you really did it… you locked me in here, and rushed to her without a second thought? shared a bed with her? stroked her hair until she fell asleep?" she could imagine it all now and it just made her sick, it made her sick to her stomach that he could ever do that. what could she even say? cecilia honestly thought the times of letting anyone come between them were over and yet... he'd let it happen in the worst possible way. "well, i would really hate to keep you. i'm sure saint elaine needs someone to assist her in the shower? hm? whatever it will be next and you'll just go along and do it because she's nice? and i'm a monster? FUCK YOU! i never lied about who i was! not once!" @fcdcdmcmories

[switchbrainedholylime]

In other news, the mun has a mental breakdown

Mental rambling where I spiral into madness. (tw: self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts) 

As a bisexual woman, despite being cis, I’ve been directly impacted by JK Rowling’s transphobia. 

She’s gone on record saying that “people who menstruate” are only women. Turns out, not all women menstruate; I suffer from amorerrhea (lack of menstruation) due to my chemo regiment to battle my Hogkin’s Lymphoma. Thankfully I’m in remission, but my body never fully recovered from the treatment. I might have a scanty period every 6-8 months, so I’ve lost that connection with other cis women. 

Rowling has ALSO donated to anti-LGBTQ figures like Matt Walsh whose sole purpose is to make the lives of gay people, cis or trans, a living hell. 

So enter Hogwarts: Legacy. It’s doing massively well, despite calls for boycotting from minority advocacy groups. I thought that maybe, just maybe, my generation’s support for LGBTQ rights would be more powerful than their nostalgia. 

It wasn’t. Turns out I and all other LGBTQ+ people are worth less than fictional characters, ink on pages or code on a computer. I have less of an impact on people’s lives than FICTIONAL CHARACTERS. 

I’d matter more if I didn’t exist at all.  

That means that I don’t qualify as a human in the eyes of society. I’m more than an animal, less than a person. 

Despite being published in over 50 literary journals, my specialty is in poetry, which no one cares about nearly as much as fiction. The fiction I have written is awful. I’ll never have half of the success that Rowling has had. I’ll be forgotten after my death. 

I wonder why I even bother sometimes. I only keep going because my family would be devastated if I’m gone. I try to write uplifting messages on my arms instead with pen instead of cutting myself like I tried to in middle school.  

I thought that people cared for strangers. I had hope after we stopped the red wave after the midterms that the tides had turned against bigotry. 

Thanks for proving me wrong, assholes. I guess nothing will ever be more important to you than your goddamn nostalgia. 

I need to see a therapist, but I have Medicaid and no one takes that. The ones who DO are all booked up. 

There are people out there who’re buying MULTIPLE copies of Hogwarts Legacy JUST to screw over the “alphabet soup people”. That’s the equivalent of eating at another homophobic franchise, Chic-fil-A (let’s say a $10 meal) for a week at least. 

Granted, if you eat at Chic-fil-A for a week, homophobia’s not the ONLY problem you’ll be dealing with. 

It’s times like this where I just want Goku to fly down and punch JK Rowling in the fucking face. Dragon Ball’s WAY COOLER than HP anyway. 

Goku, where are you? Why can’t you save us from evil? You can defeat Frieza, you can defeat the TERFs. 

Thanks for listening to me ramble. 

[emeraldiis]

Supernova // i

A/N: get in loser we’re going loki simping. ask if u wanna be on the tag list!

AO3 Link

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary:  On a vacation to Earth, you catch Loki’s eye and end up being his booty call whenever he’s on Midgard. Things take a turn for the worse when your fuckbuddy ends up nearly killing you with his attack on New York. Left permanently changed from the incident, time will only tell if you can forgive Loki and turn your flings into something more. If only you could resist his seduction for longer than a week....

Tags: fwb to lovers, slow burn, canon typical violence, smut, more tags to come as i figure out wtf im doing

The beer was warm. You’d been dumped by your long-term boyfriend less than a month ago, found out he’d been sleeping with your best friend since kindergarten, and the goddamn lukewarm beer was the thing to send you over the edge. With a shaky sigh, you pushed the bottle away from you until it reached the other side of the booth’s table. Sure, you didn’t have to take up an entire booth, given it was just you drinking tonight. But sitting at the bar seemed too open, too exposed. You didn’t want anyone to see your nervous breakdown. And for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t even a good idea to come out in the first place. You’d dressed up with long-gone confidence and marched out the door, ready to face your life as a newly single woman. But the second you’d sat down, staring at an empty bench across from you, your mood had soured. 

It wasn’t that you missed your ex. No, you just missed having someone to spend time with. The asshole had left and taken your best friend with him, leaving you nearly entirely isolated from the human race. There were a few numbers in your phone—acquaintances and coworkers—but no one that you knew well enough to invite out. All you had for company was a stale beer that you’d barely taken two sips of, and a crushing sense of loneliness that had your throat tightening. 

Your watery eyes searched the bar for a familiar face, someone to run to, but came up empty handed. All the faces blurred together until they were just featureless extras in your miserable movie. You wished you had the courage to approach one of the many single men loitering around the venue, but social skills had never been your forte. You’d just embarrass yourself. Fresh out of a three year relationship, you were a little rusty when it came to the dating scene. And honestly, you didn’t even want to date anyone new. A one-night-stand was what you were after; affection without risking your fragile heart.

A loud bang on the table in front of you got your attention, and you jumped slightly before giving the waiter a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I didn’t order this,” you said, gesturing at the fruity-looking drink he had just set in front of you. 

The server nodded. “I know, he did.” He jerked a thumb back to point at someone sitting at the far end of the bar. You squinted. There were too many people to figure out who he was pointing at, but as you opened your mouth to ask for clarification, he had already rushed off to attend to another table. You eyed the drink hesitantly. You would’ve really preferred to know who sent it before accepting it, but the mixed drinks here were expensive. It would be stupid to turn down a free drink. Especially considering your only other option was to force down the beer you’d paid too much for. Shrugging to yourself, your fingers closed around the cold glass and brought it to your lips. The tangy flavor washed over your tongue, and you hummed in appreciation. It was delicious, and you could feel the satisfying burn of liquor as it slid down your throat. Whoever sent it had good taste, you thought to yourself. 

As you sipped, a part of you wondered if your mystery man was going to reveal himself anytime soon, or if he was going to keep you guessing. Surely accepting the drink was enough to let him know you were interested. A million images raced through your mind as you sat waiting. Would he be handsome? You supposed that didn’t really matter as long as he was a gentleman; you’d had more than your fair share of assholes in the past few weeks. And besides, you didn’t really consider yourself to be model standards. Attractive men weren’t exactly falling at your feet.

At least, that had been your experience in the past. Tonight, however, it seemed that life was finally throwing you a bone. A bone in the form of the most hauntingly beautiful man you’d ever seen in your life. The way he moved was so graceful and effortless that you hardly noticed him sliding into the booth across from you until he was fully seated. You blinked hard, trying and failing to keep your mouth from dropping open in awe.

The man was well dressed in a ghost white button down and dark dress pants. His long black hair was pulled back in a braid, a few stray pieces framing his angular face. Pale skin gave way to striking blue eyes, and he had leaned back against the booth to stare down at you from under long lashes. His arms were thrown back along the upper top of the seat, and he lounged back. He looked downright regal. And then he opened his mouth. You were so focused on his deep hum of a voice that you forgot to actually listen to what he was saying. He sounded British, but there was something else there that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

When you realized that he was waiting for a response, you managed to close your gaping mouth and snap yourself out of whatever spell he had cast on you. “Sorry, what?” Very eloquent.

He laughed, and you were glad you were sitting, because the sound turned your legs to jelly. It was dark, yet sweet at the same time. Like dark chocolate, melting smooth across your tongue. “I asked if you were enjoying the drink.” His eyebrows raised as he smiled at you, revealing a dazzling set of teeth that you wanted to feel on your neck. Shit, he had only sat down barely a minute ago, and you were already drooling over him like a teenage girl.

“It’s really good,” you replied, taking another sip to both calm your nerves and to show him that you meant it. The glass shook in your trembling hands.

“I’m glad, I wasn’t quite sure if it would be up to such a gorgeous woman’s standards.” He sighed wistfully and shook his head in regret. “The drinks are far better where I’m from.”

You clenched your fingers around the glass to hide how jittery you were. “And where would that be?” You could at least get to know him before inviting back home with you. If the world wasn’t playing some cruel joke on you, that’s where you hoped the night was headed.

The man winked at you. “That’s a tale for a bit later, I think. May I have your name?”

For a brief moment, you considered lying. You’d read somewhere that names held power, and that beings such as the fae could use them to bewitch unsuspecting humans. Because there was no way this guy was human. He was way too gorgeous, way too charming. But you also wanted to hear your name spoken in that alluring voice of his. Guess there’s worse ways to die, you thought giddily, and told him your name.

He repeated it, and it sounded so beautiful coming from his lips. You wanted to ask him to say it again. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he said, making you blush. “I have a few names, but you may call me Loki.”

“Like the Norse god?” You asked dumbly. 

Loki laughed again and your heart ached. “Yes, I’d hope so.” 

Not quite sure how to continue the conversation, you busied your mouth with your drink again. The liquor had had time to take effect, and you began to feel just the slightest bit more confident. You smiled as you recalled all the times your best friend had made fun of you for how brazen you got when you drank. But then your smile faltered as you corrected yourself. Ex best friend. 

Loki frowned as he watched your expression fall. “Everything alright, darling?”

You snorted. “I think you just solved every single one of my issues by calling me that.” Oops, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “It’s nothing, really. Just life.” And that was true, wasn’t it? People got cheated on all the time. Best friends stab each other in the back all the time. Betrayal was a fact of life, and you were foolish to think that you would never feel its wrath. 

“Why don’t I buy you another drink, and you can tell me about it?” Loki leaned forward, pushing your abandoned beer bottle out of the way and staring at you intently. Those blue eyes burrowed down into yours, winding their way up into your brain and coaxing out its secrets. At least, that’s what it felt like. You were about to spill your guts to a stranger and you couldn’t even find it in you to fight it. 

“I got cheated on,” you said. As the words left your tongue, you realized that you hadn’t actually said it aloud since it happened. As if saying it would make it real, you danced around the topic when people asked what had caused the split. We wanted different things. It just didn’t work out. Differences in lifestyles. All of those were just nicer ways of saying that he fucked my best friend and tore my heart into millions of tiny pieces. 

Loki’s eyes softened. “That must have been hard.” His words were kind, but something in the tone told you he didn’t care as much as he was trying to get you to believe. It didn’t matter. He was a stranger to you, and you were a stranger to him. Strangers don’t care about each other’s sob stories; he most likely just wanted to get in your pants, and you were okay with that.

Not wanting to hear any more false empathy, you shrugged it off. “It’s cool. He thought my best friend was hotter, and I thought he should go to hell. I guess we all have our differences.”

With a soft chuckle, Loki cleared his throat and waved a hand at a passing server. It was a different person from the man who had delivered your drink earlier. The waitress smiled at Loki, clearly as dazzled as you were. “What can I do for you, sir?’

“Another of those mango flavored drinks for the lady,” he purred. “And I’ll have the same.”

The server barely even glanced at you. She batted her eyes at Loki. “Of course, I’ll have those right out.”

You wanted to scoff at how enamored she seemed by whatever gorgeous being sat across from you, but that would be hypocritical. He had you in the same web, caught and too starstruck to struggle. Instead, you reached for your glass again. The ice clinked against the edges and you frowned down at it, realizing that you had finished it. That would explain the way your face was heating up--as was the area between your thighs. At least, you hoped you could blame that on the alcohol.

“I doubt that harlot is half as pretty as you,” Loki said, a mock sneer on his face. You frowned and glanced at the waitress before realizing he was talking about your ex friend. It would be so easy to take him at face value, to hang off of every word and convince yourself that he really did think you were the prettiest girl in the city. But you knew better. Still, it would be nice to pretend.

You grinned at the waitress as she returned with two more drinks, and eagerly took another sip of yours. “I can’t believe you think I’m pretty when you get to see yourself everyday.” Okay, so maybe you could flirt. This was easier than it looked. 

Loki hummed, tasting his own drink. “Not too bad,” he said. “And be careful with that flattery, darling. I might take that as an invitation.” His pupils dilated and he leaned forward to give you a predatory smirk. “Unless, that’s what you’re aiming for?”

Fuck it. “I’m sure you’ll find out if you stick around.” You were absolutely certain that the alcohol was the reason you were so bold. But this little game was so fun, it was a shame that you had missed out on it when you were stuck with that scumbag. 

Loki seemed to echo your sentiments. “It’s a pity that your child of a boyfriend didn’t appreciate what he had; you’re far too intriguing to belong to a man that blind.” 

That made you pause. It was so tempting to let your reservations go and promise yourself to this stranger. But however handsome he might be, you would rather die than open up your heart again. This man had random women nearly drooling whenever he spoke--including yourself--and you weren’t exactly keen on dating a playboy. “I’d rather not belong to any man, ever again,” you said carefully, testing the waters to see if you were on the same page.

To your relief, Loki nodded. “It’d be a crime to put shackles on that fire.” He folded his hands in front of him on the table, smirking again when your eyes followed his movement. “Would you like to know where I am from, now?”

Ah, you’d almost forgotten. “I’d love to,” you said, fully expecting to hear a long-winded story that essentially boiled down to him being from London. He seemed a bit narcissistic, but the confidence was attractive, you’d give him that. If he wanted to make his hometown into a grand tale of dragons and princesses, you would allow it.

“Have you ever heard of Asgard?”

You cracked up, nearly choking on your drink as you laughed. “Didn’t I already make the Norse god joke?” You asked between giggles when you finally got your breathing under control.

Loki was not laughing. He raised one eyebrow at you, waiting for your laughter to subside. “I am not joking.”

There it was, his singular flaw: he was crazy. You waited for him to continue as you pondered whether or not you’d risk letting crazy stick its dick in you. Wasn’t it only an issue when it was the other way around?

“I am Loki, god of mischief and lies, prince of Asgard. My brother is Thor, god of thunder, and I’m sure you’ve heard of my father.”

“Odin,” you said quietly. This was beginning to be a bit much for you. Not quite ready to give up on a good lay just yet, you decided to play along. “Can you prove it?”

As if he was expecting this, Loki’s face broke out into a wide grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.” With a quick glance around to see if anyone was looking, he held out an open palm to you. “What’s your favorite color?”

You hesitated, caught off guard. “Um, green.”

Loki’s smile grew wider. “Mine, too.” 

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head as Loki flexed his fingers. A miniature firework show had appeared in the center of his hand, shooting green sparks up a few inches into the air. They even made little whistling and crackling noises as the sparks burst into flecks of emerald. They twinkled like stars before fading and falling back down, disappearing into Loki’s open palm. Energy crackled in the air around you like lightning. It made your muscles stiffen and the hairs on your neck stand up, and you watched in rapture as the lights dwindled until they fizzled out.

You sat in silence, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “I’m trying to think of a way you could’ve hidden mini fireworks up your sleeve,” you mumbled, brow furrowed. 

With a huff of laughter, Loki rolled up his sleeves to reveal nothing but an expanse of pale white skin, smooth and untarnished. He looked good with his shirt like that, and you swallowed hard. “I’m not a magician, darling. I’m a god.” As if to further prove his point, he leaned forward and hovered a finger just above your forehead. “May I?”

You wanted to shrink back, but his gravitational pull was far too strong. Bewitched, you thought dreamily. “Yeah.” Your own voice sounded far away, like it was underwater. Reality as you knew it was shifting, changing into something exhilarating and terrifying and arousing all at the same time. He had just shattered everything you knew about science and fiction. Magic was real and it was sitting right in front of you.

When Loki’s finger made contact with your skin, the bar dissolved around you. The walls melted from wood stain into baby blue, and the booth you were sitting on somehow transformed into a soft bed without so much as jostling you. Bewildered, you whipped your head around, looking for Loki. He was gone, and you were left sitting in your...childhood bedroom? You glanced down, eyes going wide when you saw your own small hands. You were seven again, swinging your legs back and forth on the edge of your bed.

It seemed as if your body had a mind of its own, because before you knew it, you were flopping down next to a cat sleeping soundly on the pillow. Orange fur ruffled softly in the breeze of the AC, and you wanted to sob. It was your old cat, Pickles. He’d passed just before your 14th birthday and you missed him so, so much. Just as you reached out to stroke his head, the room began to spin. As suddenly as your surroundings had changed, they switched back. Back to the crowded bar with Loki staring intently at you from across the table.

You gasped and threw yourself back against the booth, panting in confusion and shock. “What the fuck was that?”

“A memory,” Loki said softly. “Or the frameworks of one, at least. I’m still working on that.” He smiled at you. “You have a cat named Pickles?”

“Had,” you corrected, still dazed. “Um, I guess mark me down as convinced.” Either you were crazy, or Loki was telling the truth. You weren’t sure which one would scare you less. Or, he had somehow slipped LSD into your drink without you knowing. You figured that was unlikely, as you felt completely clear-headed. Even with the alcohol running through your veins, you knew the difference between being tipsy and being high out of your mind. 

“If you’ll have me, I’m sure I can find other ways to dazzle you tonight,” Loki said. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and you clenched your thighs. Fuck, what you wouldn’t give to have that tongue slide across something else.

“And if I say no?”

Loki narrowed his eyes and his smile grew sinister. “Well, love. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ve heard the age old saying about names having power.” Your blood ran cold. Yeah, you had fucked up. “If we’re going by ancient rules, I own you now.”

You shrunk back against the booth, scared out of your mind, but also intrigued. No one in the bar seemed to pay any attention to your cowering form or Loki’s predatory expression. To them, he probably just looked like a horny guy trying his luck with an intoxicated girl. You almost wished it was that simple.

After a few seconds, Loki broke. He covered his mouth with a slender hand and let peals of muffled laughter ring out from around his fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “I couldn’t resist, it was too easy.” Taking a moment to catch his breath against his fit of laughter at your expense, Loki held both palms up in reassurance. “I was joking. If you were to turn down my advances, I’d respect that. Can’t say I wouldn’t be surprised, though.”

You buried your face in your hands to let your heart slow down. “That was cruel,” you said, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He had gotten you pretty good, and was definitely selling the ‘God of Mischief’ act pretty well. “And the answer is yes, but I’m sure you knew that already.” You removed your hands and looked back up at him from under your eyelashes. He nodded and leaned back against the booth again. 

Everything about him seemed big. Not literally, given his lean frame, but you couldn’t think of another word for it. He took up space with his presence, occupying the air around you like perfume. An intoxicating, deep scent that beckoned you closer into the maw of the beast. “Just say the word,” he said. Even his voice was dripping with confidence and royalty. He spoke like a prince, like he knew that he was above you. 

“My place?” You asked shakily. Your half finished drink sat in front of you, but you decided against downing the rest. You wanted to remember this night clearly, if it was going how you thought it was.

“Yes, I doubt my father would appreciate it if I brought you to mind,” he said with a snicker. Loki rose from his seat gracefully in one fluid motion. He produced a crisp hundred dollar bill from seemingly nowhere, and carefully placed it on the table. 

“Does it count if it’s just magic money?” You asked carefully. “It’s not gonna disappear once you leave, right?”

Loki rolled his eyes at you. “Stealing is distasteful, not mischievous. I would not give somebody vanishing money.” Reassured, you nodded and slowly got to your feet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized that this was really happening, you were about to take a god back to your lame studio apartment. And bang him. What the fuck was your life?