#he looks really worried in those new stills

[damneddamsy]

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

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

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

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

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

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

And he fucking hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

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

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

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, he always saw it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck this.

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

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

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

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

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

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

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

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

And he hated that, too.

X

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

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

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

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

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel’s jaw ticked.

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

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

The house across the street was unlocked again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just vitamins,” he played off.

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

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

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

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

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

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

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

"Eat," he said, firm.

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

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

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God help him, he wanted to be.

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

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

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

Joel frowned. “What?”

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

Damned baby spit-up.

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

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

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

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

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

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

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

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

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

On him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

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

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

Joel gave a slow nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel raised a brow.

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

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

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

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

And then—the cars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You said it," he mumbled.

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

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

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

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

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

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

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

No response.

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

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

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

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

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

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

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

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

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

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

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

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

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

“Just go.”

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

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

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

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

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

So he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed that fucking drink now.

X

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

Didn’t matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For real, Joel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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[revelboo]

Do you think Tarantulas does that little feet taps some species of male tarantula spiders do to try and calm their mates into letting them mate?

The little tappy taps would just be so cute

Him gently papping the reader and thinking he’s being so sexy and calming 😂🤭

That’s so cute?! I didn’t know male tarantulas do that and it’s even better if he just starts unconsciously doing it the more reader relaxes around him and accepts him.

Disappear Pt 6

Tarantulas x Reader

• “Maybe we should practice more,” he murmurs, tapping his avatar’s fingertips nervously together as he follows behind you. Further away from the safety of his lair and into the city. His anxiety slowly increasing the closer he gets. The noise, the humans, their vehicles. A living hive moving with a strange order he doesn’t understand. Tensing as you step out of the shadow of a building and onto the sidewalk, he reluctantly follows. Expecting someone to cry out. To react, but humans walk by and ignore him like he belongs. And it’s what he wanted. A chance at a new life. To disappear among them.

• Turning to look over your shoulder and check on Tarantulas, he’s frozen in the middle of the sidewalk as people go around his avatar. “You’re doing fine,” you say grabbing his wrist and tugging to get him moving. “But don’t just stand in the way like that.” Inhaling when he interlaces his fingers with yours and allows you to pull him along. Clinging to you like you’re his safety line. “Relax. You’re doing the serial killer smile again.” And you can’t even explain to yourself why you’d stuck around except that he’d seemed so lonely and that was something you’d understood. That’s a big part of it, but not all of it. You like his quick retorts and wit, his uncertainty and sarcasm. The way he freezes and slowly taps those extra limbs on the ground when you say something that surprises him. Getting used to the creepy spider legs and mandibles and getting over the anxious fear of him. Realizing he really isn’t going to hurt you.

• Staring at your hand in his, he follows you as you point out things in store windows. Relaxed and smiling. And it’s what he’d wanted. To belong among your people. No war. No factions. But he’s not sure it’s that simple anymore. Not sure that’s all he wants. Because he’d still be alone. Among your kind, but always separate, hiding what he really is. Your hand slips out of his as you turn toward a little shop and his spark constricts in his real body hidden in his lair. Afraid that you’re going to run away. Leave him behind. Catching at the back of your shirt so you rock to a stop, he can’t let go. Doesn’t want to be alone again. To be shunned because of who he is. A freak. A monster even among his own.

• When you look back at him, he’s not moving again aside from his hand trembling where he’s clutching the back of your shirt. Maybe there are too many people? Did he get overwhelmed? Turning against him, you cup his face to tip it down toward you. “Hey, you okay, spider man?” You ask, voice soft, because people are staring now. Going around them and paying too much attention to the two of you. What happens if his avatar glitches with people watching? “Snap out of it. You’re worrying me.”

• Soft hands cupping his face. His avatar’s face. And he tips his head against yours, feeling you tense at the contact. For a disconnected moment, he’s trying to curl his extra limbs forward to touch you and they’re not there. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I think I just need a break,” he manages and you hook an arm around him. Leading him down an alley and away from the other humans. Taking care of him even though you could have run from him. Escaped. So why hadn’t you? “Thank you.” Those words so inadequate to what he wants to say to you, because the fact that you’re still here with him means so much. Doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Can’t bear it after having you around and he doesn’t just want anyone beside him. Wants you. Wants to keep you as selfish as it is and he can’t ask that of you.

Previous

[lockandkeyblade]

@dclovesdanny since you asked to be pinged if people did stuff with your prompts

Hey so- what exactly just happened?

This is the question Danny doesn't have an answer to, and it really doesn't seem like Red Hood has an answer either. He'd thought he was running into the middle of a gang fight-- had definitely heard the scream of a child, which was the tipping point to, y'know, running into said fight, rather than away.

There had been a kid, and sure, there'd been a few heads to knock together for a few minutes. But the moment booted feet slammed into the ground heavily enough for the sound to carry, everyone stopped. They looked.

One of the guys he'd headbutted grins, even though he's missing a tooth. In the time it takes for Red Hood to walk up to Danny, everyone else scatters. And they seem happy about it.

"...That's not the usual response you get, right? Like, sure, the running, but the-" Smiles? Danny thinks he can be excuse for not realizing just how close the man had gotten by that point, so when he turns around he almost winds up pressing his nose into kevlar.

It does absolutely nothing to hide the scent of the man wearing it, which is-- yeah sure, poetic description of all the underlying nuances of said scent go here. The guy smells like gunpowder and sweat, is what he smells like.

Danny tries his damndest to hide the fact that he has to swallow in order to keep talking. Who gets a mouth full of saliva over B.O and guns? He does, apparently.

"Joker's not back out, is he? No whacky new toxins we should be worried about? 'Cause that wasn't normal."

"Sure wasn't." Red Hood agrees. It should be impossible to tell, with the helmet and all, but Danny feels the second those eyes stop surveying the scene, and start surveying him. "I'll handle it." "Sure, big guy. You do that." His Haunt-- his terf, his responsibility. That's the thing he likes about Hood the most; he takes that responsibility seriously.

Seriously enough to have Danny smiling dumbly up at him like a lovesick puppy for a hot minute, until his brain catches up. Then he takes a step back, Red Hood's gaze rooted on him all the while.

That shouldn't be attractive too. It absolutely is.

"Alright, well- see you 'round, Hood." He offers the man a lazy salute, turning on his heel while consciously thinking about how he is going to walk away normally, he is not going to preen. He is not going to try for something that leaves his hips a little looser. He's-

"Y'know, Scrappy," Hood calls after him. That nickname is awful. Danny loves it. "You ever feel like running from me with a smile on your face, call me."

He turns back around, cautious but maybe a little more dry in the mouth than he was a few seconds ago. Hood's still just standing there, completely relaxed. It's not a threat, or a claim. He's not about to just pounce after him, even if Danny did decide to take flight.

Hood's not that kind of alpha. Danny already knew that. But he'd have to be a brick wall not to pick up what's being offered, slowly tilting his head to the side. Purposefully baring a little more of his neck than he needs to, really.

"I'm not that kind of omega, mister Hood." He isn't. He really, really isn't. But-- "But I'll keep that in mind." --He's actually tempted to be, for once.

When he finally does walk away, with the goofiest smile on his face, Danny thinks he sees something in the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

It looks like a kid pumping their fist in the air?

The stupid smile gets wider.

Dead on main x omegaverse

Danny had met plenty of knot head alphas who had either flirted with him since he was an omega or bullied him since he was a male omega. He had resigned himself to being alone, especially since he had died.

Then, he met Red Hood, an Alpha who was known for not putting up with knot heads in his haunt, known for protecting omegas on the run from knot heads who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Danny had to fight back a blush.

Jason had met plenty of omegas in his life who acted like fainting flowers, reinforcing the stereotypes that people like Bruce and Dick had to fight to break through for most of their lives. He hated those kinds of omegas.

Then, he met Danny, a scrappy omega who broke the Joker’s nose during their first meeting and protected a bunch of street kids by volunteering to be dosed with fear gas during their second meeting. Jason was never so glad he wore a helmet.

Crime Alley knew that the new scrappy meta had a crush on Red Hood. All of Red Hood’s goons knew Red Hood had a crush on the meta who bit Scarecrow on one occasion.

It was everyone’s mission to get those two together.

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔦𝔭

Mike Munroe x male reader

Summary: now that you’re finally reunited together at the lodge, you help Mike patching up his left hand after what he went through at the sanatorium. He shows his appreciation the only way he knows how: by wrecking you completely.

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. No use of Y/N. Established relationship. Taking care of Mike. Some gore details but nothing too explicit. Make out session. Dirty talk. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Dom Mike Munroe. Bottom male reader. Anal sex.

Words count: 4000

You traced your fingers over the worn cover of the book the stranger had left behind along with many other things. It smelled of old paper and smoke, something that had been carried through decades of harsh winters and open flames.

Chris had gone with him.

Brave, loyal, stupid Chris.

You respected the hell out of him for it, but you doubted you could have done what he was currently doing. Not after what Josh had done to you. The sheer fucking terror of that night as you ran through the snow until your lungs burned, your hands raw from clawing through ice and tree bark, the weight of exhaustion dragging at your legs.

If Mike hadn't found you when he did, if he hadn't stripped off his own jacket, wrapped his arms around you and dragged you back to warmth, hypothermia would have turned you into just another body on this goddamn mountain.

You swallowed hard, running a hand through your hair, trying not to let the worry consume you, thumbing the book's edge.

"Hey," a familiar voice murmured, low and soft.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, a solid and comforting weight pressing against your back. Warm lips brushed your cheek, the scrape of stubble a slow, pleasant scratch against your skin. He smelled like sweat and smoke, the faintest trace of cologne that had long since faded but still clung to him.

Mike’s head settled on your shoulder like it belonged there. "Whatcha lookin' at, babe?" he murmured, voice rough but quiet.

You felt yourself lean back against him instinctively, seeking out his warmth. His arms tightened around you, solid, protective, the heat of him seeping through your layers of clothing.

"That man’s book," you murmured. "Might be a diary or something. There's a lot of stuff about those wendigos."

Mike made a soft sound that was meant to allude acknowledgment, but he wasn’t really paying attention. You could feel how distracted he was, his hold on you heavier, his thumbs brushing absentminded circles over your hips.

"You're warm," you mumbled, letting your fingers slide over the book's worn edges.

"Mm." Mike nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath fanning over your skin. "You're still freezing."

You let yourself close your eyes for a second, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Then he hissed.

Your eyes snapped open.

"Mike?"

"S'nothin," he muttered.

You twisted in his hold, looking down. His left hand, wrapped haphazardly in cloth, speckled with new droplets of fresh blood, the skin around the edges darkening with a sickly yellow hue.

Your stomach lurched.

"Mike," you said again, this time sharper. You reached for his hand and he winced as your fingers curled around his left wrist.

"Babe, seriously, it's—"

"How long has it been hurting?"

He hesitated.

"... Dunno."

"Mike."

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck with his good hand. His jaw worked, lips parting like he was about to brush it off again, but you weren't in the mood for his bullshit. He'd lost fingers, had barely any supplies to clean or dress the wound, and now he was just acting like it was nothing? No. Fuck no.

You grabbed his wrist, turned on your heel, and dragged him toward the stairs.

"You're getting this checked out."

"I am checked out."

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

Mike was taller and definitely stronger but didn't apply any resistance. He let you haul him up the stairs, grumbling the whole way even as you ignored every attempt at reassurance he threw your way.

When you reached the bathroom, you shoved open the door, flicked on the dim light, and pushed him inside.

"Sit," you ordered, gesturing to the edge of the tub.

Mike gave you a look, somewhere between amused and exasperated, but he sat. "So bossy," he muttered.

You crossed your arms, eyeing the way he was cradling it. "I don't get why you're acting like this is nothing."

Mike exhaled through his nose, glancing away briefly before looking back at you. "It's not nothing, it just hurts, yeah, but I'll live. You don't have to—"

"I do have to," you cut in sharply, dropping to your knees in front of the cabinet. "Because if I don't, you won't."

Mike let out a sigh of annoyance, legs spread lazily, one arm draped over his knee. "Are you always this rough with your patients, doc?"

You ignored him, kneeling to rummage through the cabinets, tossing aside spent candle stubs and old toiletries in search of medical supplies.

Behind you, there was a beat of silence. Then a low, appreciative hum.

Slowly, you turned your head just enough to catch the way he was leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes raking over you with a lazy and warm smirk.

He was checking you out. You put yourself literally on your knees in front of him, though. What was there to expect from him?

You pulled out all the supplies that you needed, taking a steadying breath before finally turning back to him. His eyes flickered down to your lips so fast you almost missed it, but you caught the way he licked his own right after.

Focus.

You huffed, shaking your head, but your pulse was already picking up, skin burning under his attention. He was hurt, but that didn't stop him from watching you like he wanted to drag you right into his lap.

The cloth Mike had wrapped around his hand at the sanatorium was stiff with dried blood, its edges dark and crusted where it had fused to his skin. As you carefully took his wrist in your hands, you could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the way tension rolled through his muscles.

"Alright," you murmured, voice steady but quiet. "I'm gonna take this off, okay? Might sting a little."

Mike let out a huff, trying for nonchalance. " 'M not a baby, doc. Do your worst."

The moment you started peeling the fabric away, he sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching so tight that the muscle twitches beneath his skin.

The cloth resisted at first, sticking where dried blood had hardened over raw tissue. You worked slowly, peeling inch by inch, watching as fresh beads of dark crimson welled up in places where the wound had begun to heal over.

Mike inhaled sharply through his nose. His free hand gripped the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

The cloth clung like a second skin.

Dried blood, thick and dark, had cemented it to the raw, exposed tissue beneath, and as you worked slow, methodical, careful not to rip too hard, Mike's body tensed, muscles coiling beneath your hands. His jaw was locked tight, breath a little too controlled, like he was forcing himself not to react.

The fabric resisted, the edges fused to the cuts where his fingers had been, and with every slow pull, fresh beads of crimson welled up, tracing thin, sluggish lines down his palm. His breath stuttered once when you reached the worst of it, the exposed ends of his two amputated fingers, swollen and dark, the skin around them an angry mix of purple bruises and sickly yellow where trauma had already started its slow decay.

Mike turned his head, like he didn't want to see. For a guy who'd hacked off his own fingers with a rusty machete, he looked pale.

"Not fully clotted," you muttered, more to yourself than to him. "Need to clean this before it gets infected. Still think this is nothing?"

Mike made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Looks badass, though, right?"

You didn't answer, just reached for the antiseptic.

The second the cool sting soaked into the torn flesh, Mike jerked.

"Motherfucker—!" His head knocked back against the bathroom wall, his whole body going rigid. His free hand, the one not currently being brutalized, gripped his thigh so hard you swore you heard the fabric strain.

"You could warn a guy before going in dry," he gritted out.

You smirked. "That sounded suggestive."

Mike cracked one eye open. "And you didn't deny it."

"Would it make you shut up if I did?"

His grin was wicked. "Absolutely not."

You sighed but didn't fight it. If he wanted to talk his way through the pain, you'd let him.

Still, when you pressed a little too hard near the exposed bone, his breath hitched sharply, his amusement faltering for half a second.

"If you wanted to hold my hand this bad, you coulda just said so" he rasped, cracking an eye open.

You scoffed, fingers tightening slightly around his wrist. "Yeah, real romantic. Holding the bloody stump where your fingers used to be."

Mike smirked. "Hey, don't kinkshame."

You groaned in annoyance and he grinned, even as another sharp inhale betrayed the pain lancing through his hand. "Seriously, though. You're really good with your hands, babe. Ever consider nursing?"

"I am considering strangling you," you muttered, reaching for fresh gauze.

Mike exhaled a laugh before leaning in up close to your face.

The movement was so casual and natural that it caught you off guard. One second he was watching you and the next his face was too close, his breath warm against your cheek as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek. His light beard scratched and heat curled under your skin, a slow, involuntary reaction that made your fingers tighten against his forearm.

Your jaw clenched. "Mike—"

He hummed. "Mmh?"

"You're bleeding."

"Uh-huh." He grinned, smug and lazy and when you adjusted your grip on his wrist, he made a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat just to mess with you.

"Jesus Christ, Mike."

"What? I'm just appreciating my hot, talented and very caring boyfriend for patching me up."

You pulled the bandage too tight just to make him hiss in pain.

Mike grinned through clenched teeth. "Fuck—okay, point taken."

"Finally."

Mike chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

His fingers twitched again. His hand curled slightly, as if testing, as if waiting for something that wasn't there anymore.

You hesitated for only a second before tightening the last wrap around his palm. "Gonna feel different for a while," you said, keeping your tone light, casual. "Your grip, I mean."

Mike snorted. "Shit, you think? I just lost two fingers, babe."

His usual sarcasm was there, but something about the way he said it felt different.

You taped the gauze in place, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Mike had survived everything tonight. He had fought through it all with nothing but adrenaline, sheer luck, and that reckless defiance that had always defined him. But now that he was sitting still, now that the worst of the pain was fading into a dull, pulsing throb...

Now, he had time to think.

And it was hitting him.

His fingers were gone.

Forever.

He wasn't going to wake up tomorrow and have them back. This wasn't just some temporary wound that would heal with time.

It was permanent.

He flexed his remaining fingers absently, as if testing his grip, his jaw tight.

"Feels... weird," he muttered, almost absentmindedly. “Think I'll still be able to hold a beer?"

He was joking but there was something off in the way he said it.

You looked at him, really looked at him. The tension in his shoulders. The faint, forced edge to his grin.

He was thinking about more than beer.

His fingers. His hand. The permanence of it. How people might look at him and how much harder things were gonna be now.

You finished wrapping his hand, smoothing the last bit of gauze in place with a final, deliberate touch. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold.

Leaning back on your heels, you exhaled, shaking your head. "Guess I'm the one who has to handle all the hard stuff now."

Mike blinked.

For the first time all night, he was speechless.

"... You flirting with me, doc?"

You shrugged. "Just making an observation."

Mike let out another laugh, but this time it was real. His shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of him just a little.

His grin was real this time.

“Don't even start, man. If anyone's gonna be handling shit, it's still gonna be me."

You lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah? Kinda hard to do that when you're down a couple fingers."

His smirk sharpened, eyes dark and dangerous, flicked up to yours and something in the air shifted as he leaned closer, his lips just a breath from yours.

"Also, real talk—what if I can't give proper back rubs anymore?" He leaned in even closer, voice dipping into a low murmur. "Or, y'know... other things?"

You shoved his shoulder, feeling your face heat up instantly. "Jesus, Mike."

"What?" He grinned, smug as ever. "This is serious. I had skills, babe. Top-tier skills."

You rolled your eyes. "You still have a perfectly functional hand."

Mike smirked. "Yeah, but both were better."

"Oh my God."

"You're picturing it now, aren't you?"

You let out a frustrated, flustered noise, turning away. "I'm leaving."

Mike laughed, low and rich and tugged you back toward him before you could escape. "No, no, no. C'mere."

You stumbled, landing right between his legs, hands instinctively pressing against his chest.

His teeth grazed your jaw, voice dipping into a low, teasing growl. "You worried I can't fuck you properly anymore? You really think losing a couple fingers is gonna stop me from wrecking you?"

A sharp, involuntary shudder ran through you. You gritted your teeth. "I was worried about your hand, you asshole."

Mike grinned, lazy and wolfish, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His good hand slid along your thigh to make your muscles tighten beneath his touch.

Your throat went dry.

Mike leaned in, pressing close, his body heat sinking into yours. His lips ghosted over your jaw, his breath hot as he murmured, "Keep up that attitude, babe. We’ll see if you keep acting like this when I spread you open and make you beg.”

Fuck.

You barely had a second to process before his lips crashed into yours.

A mess of teeth and heat and sheer desperation. You gasped, barely able to keep up and Mike took the opportunity, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it. His grip on you tightened, fingers digging in like he was staking a claim, like he needed to feel you against him.

Your hands shot up to his chest, gripping at his shirt, and fuck, he was solid, hot, broad, so damn strong even now. Then his hand dropped lower, sliding down your back, curving over your ass in a slow, possessive squeeze that made heat bolt straight to your core.

"Fuck—“

Mike hummed in approval, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before he bit down. "That's it."

His arms tightened around you and you barely had time to register that he'd lifted you before his body slotted between your legs, pressing firmly against you.

A single, quiet grunt slipped through his teeth as he moved so quick despite the way his injured hand should've made it difficult.

"Mike—"

"You worried about my hand? Babe, I could still fuck you stupid with one hand tied behind my back," he muttered, his mouth already on your throat, his hands gripping you tight, controlling the pace.

Heat spiked through your veins.

Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging him closer and Mike groaned. A low, deep sound that sent a thrill straight down your spine. Your nails bit into his shoulders, head knocking back as his mouth moved, claiming every inch of exposed skin.

His grip on your jaw tightened, angling your face exactly how he wanted, his thumb swiping rough over your cheekbone before he was on you again. Kissing you deeper, hand sliding down your back, fingers curling at the base of your spine before dropping lower, gripping at your waist to pull you against him.

His head spun with the warmth of your mouth, how your body molded so easily to his and the quiet, breathy noise you made.

He groaned into your mouth, fingers flexing to get a better grip on you, to take more. Because right now, the only thing he wanted to think about was you.

His perfect, hot as fuck boyfriend.

The taste of dried blood clung to your tongue as Mike kissed you. His lips were chapped, rough from the cold and when you pressed harder against him, his teeth scraped yours, a sharp, desperate clash that sent fire straight to your gut. The scrape of his stubble against your skin was maddening, dragging a raw burn down your jaw as he moved from your lips to your neck, breathing you in like he couldn't get enough. His hands gripped your waist tight, fingers digging in with bruising force, like he was trying to brand himself into you.

Your legs tightened around his waist, holding him flush against you and he groaned into your throat, the sound low and rough as his teeth, sharp and claiming, bit down.

"Shit—Mike," you gasped.

He just chuckled against your pulse, hot breath sending a shiver racing down your spine. "Yeah, sweetheart?" His voice was thick with amusement, but when he pulled back to look at you, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, hunger etched into every line of his face.

He swallowed your next breath in another kiss, deeper this time, tongue pushing past your lips. His injured hand stayed at your waist, firm and grounding, while his good hand slid lower, rough fingers finding the buckle of your belt.

You barely had time to react before he flicked it open in one practiced motion, dragging your pants down enough to expose you to the cool air. A sharp shiver shot through you at the contrast, your skin burning hot from his touch and freezing from the exposure.

"Fuck, babe. You're already hard?" he murmured, voice drenched in heat.

You could barely bite back the whimper that threatened to escape when his fingers wrapped around you, his grip firm but teasing, dragging slow strokes up and down your length.

He sounded entirely too pleased with himself, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, then lower, nipping and sucking marks into your throat as he kept working you over with slow, torturous strokes.

Your breathing came ragged, uneven, and you barely registered when his fingers left you until they were lower, pressing against your entrance.

A sharp inhale shot through you as he teased the tip of one finger inside. It wasn't enough.

"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, "Lemme take care of you."

The second finger pushed in, scissoring you open and you clenched around him, a choked sound escaping your throat. Mike groaned, his hips pressing forward, letting you feel just how hard he was through his jeans.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice wrecked. "So tight, even after all the times I've fucked you open like this." His lips dragged over your throat, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

You couldn't answer. Not when his fingers were fucking you open with precise, practiced motions. His pace quickened, pushing deeper, stretching you until it burned, but you wanted more, needed more.

"Please," you finally managed, your voice barely a whisper.

Mike chuckled, the sound low and dark. "Please what, sweetheart?"

You groaned, nails digging into his back. "Fuck me, Mike."

That was all it took.

He withdrew his fingers abruptly, making you whimper at the loss, but then he was undoing his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself. You barely got the chance to breathe before he was pressing against you, the thick heat of him nudging your entrance.

You tensed, fingers gripping his shoulders, breath catching in your throat.

Mike leaned in, brushing his lips against your ear. "Breathe," he murmured, "I got you."

Then he pushed in, stretching you wide around him even further than his fingers had already done. The burn was sharp, overwhelming, but fuck, the feeling of him filling you up, stretching you to your limit, was everything.

Your jaw clenched, a shuddering gasp escaping as he bottomed out, his hips pressing flush against yours.

Mike groaned, his head falling against your shoulder. "Jesus fuck," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. "Always so fuckin' tight for me."

He throbbed inside you, every inch of him stretched you open, forcing you to take every bit of him.

Then he moved.

The first thrust was slow, dragging every inch of him against you before slamming back in, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your head fell back against the mirror, teeth clenched to suppress a broken moan.

Mike grinned against your throat. "Let me hear you," he murmured,

He set a brutal pace. Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, slamming deep, hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body tighten.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, his teeth dragging over your jaw. "So good for me."

Your nails raked down his back, your body tightening around him with every deep, relentless stroke.

"Shit—" His breath hitched, his rhythm stuttering for a fraction of a second. "You're squeezing me so fuckin' tight, babe."

You barely registered your own voice, wrecked and desperate, babbling his name over and over as he fucked you open.

His good hand slid up your chest, fingers wrapping around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse jump.

"You love this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your lips.

You could only nod, your hands tightening around him as his pace grew frantic, reckless. His thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping against yours with desperate force.

"Close," you gasped, body tensing.

Mike groaned, his grip on your waist tightening. "Fuck yeah, come for me, sweetheart."

Then he angled his hips just right, hitting deep, and that was it.

Your orgasm hit hard, pleasure slamming through you, leaving you shaking as you clenched around him. Mike groaned at the feeling, his rhythm stuttering.

"Fuck, fuck—" His breath came in ragged gasps and then he was slamming into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat. You felt the heat of his release as he came, filling you completely, his body trembling against yours.

You both stayed there, panting, trembling, bodies locked together in the aftermath.

After a moment, Mike let out a breathy chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw.

The bathroom was a mess.

The counter was damp from where you'd been pressed against it, your clothes haphazardly tossed somewhere near the sink, and Mike, smug bastard that he was, looked deeply pleased with himself.

"You good, sweetheart?" His voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, but still dripping with that lazy, teasing confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further, his grin downright sinful as he glanced at you, sprawled against the counter like you'd just had the life fucked out of you, which, to be fair, you had.

He hummed, reaching for his shirt-before pausing, wincing slightly as he flexed his injured hand. It wasn't as bad as before, but you still noticed the way his jaw tensed and how he carefully curled his fingers like he was testing them.

"... Does it hurt?" you asked softly, watching him.

Mike glanced at you, blinking, like he hadn't expected the question. Then he snorted, shaking his head. "Nah. Feels fine."

"Mike."

He sighed, rolling his eyes but smiling as he lifted his hand, wiggling his remaining fingers. "Look, I can still flip people off. That's what really matters, right?"

You gave him a flat look.

Mike chuckled, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was softer now, lower. "I'm good, babe, Promise."

You let out a slow breath, still unconvinced, but before you could argue, Mike smirked again, reaching down to tug his jeans back up. "Damn. Y'know, you really are somethin' else," he mused.

You eyed him warily. "Why do I feel like I'm about to regret asking why?"

Mike grinned. "Because. You're sittin' there, lookin' all blissed out after I rocked your world, and somehow, the first thing you're worried about is my fuckin' hand."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "I take care of my dumbass boyfriend. Sue me."

Mike let out a low chuckle, leaning in to nip at your jaw. "Yeah, yeah. You love my dumb ass."

You scoffed, swatting at his shoulder, but he caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before releasing you.

"... Yeah," you admitted, voice quieter. "I do."

His smirk softened into something more genuine, his fingers curling under your chin to tilt your face up to his.

"Good," he murmured, lips brushing against yours. You smirked, brushing your thumb over his jaw.

For once, Mike didn't have a snarky reply. He just kissed you again, slow, deep and lingering before pulling back with a lazy grin.

"C'mon," he said, offering his good hand to help you up. "Let's get outta this bathroom. Chris should have come back already by now."

You laughed, taking his hand, letting him pull you to your feet.

Yeah. You were stuck with Mike Munroe.

And honestly, you wouldn't have it any other way.

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one. 

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can. 

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father. 

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you. 

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before. 

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone? 

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well. 

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the  little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners  as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf. 

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ? 

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside. 

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality. 

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids. 

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour. 

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered. 

These answers, these excuses. 

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart. 

Why? 

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away. 

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him. 

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers. 

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck. 

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did. 

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck. 

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him. 

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you. 

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper. 

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same. 

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening. 

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon. 

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up. 

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

.

.

.

Little gremlins.

────────────────────

Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

[stinkysam]

Choi Subong “Thanos” - Ka-ching.

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : “thanos with a rich reader?” -anon

Reader : male (you/yours)

A/N : bold is in English

Oh, he’s so gonna use your money to his advantage. You freed him from his debts and are constantly paying him stuff, so he believes himself untouchable now.

You’re always spending money on him and he’s absolutely smug about it. A bit like a sugar baby but with feelings involved.

Don’t worry, he too spends your money as well.

Buying new high fashion clothes, special edition shoes, expensive rings. Sometimes he uses your own money to buy you stuff.

It’s the thought that counts, right ?

His clothes are really bright and colorful, with a few occasional darker ones, for you it’s the opposite. You own a lot of suits that are generally quite basic and dark but the colored and original looking ones come from him.

One day, you were staring at one of his bright orange t-shirts. It made you think of those fluorescent safety vests.

“Are you afraid to not be seen at night ?” You suddenly asked.

“Huh ?”

“It’s so bright I can’t look at it.” You continued, closing your eyes with a dramatic grimace. He scoffed, taking the shirt from your hands to put it on.

“Everyone’s in dark clothes.” He replied. “I want all eyes on me.”

You nodded, watching him put some cargo shorts on.

“You make me think of, uh, birds.” You smiled, trying not to laugh.

“Huh ? Birds ? Pigeons ?”

“When did I say pigeons ? Are pigeons the only birds ?” You sighed. “Birds try to mate by displaying their colorful plumage. Courting.”

He looked at you weirdly, thinking.

“Why the fuck are they attracted to colors ?” He asked, sitting on the bed to put his shoes on.

“Bright colors show their good health and that they’re genetically advanced. There’s more but I doubt you care that much.”

“You’d be a boring looking bird.” He said as you flopped next to him on the bed.

“Ah, you hurt my feelings, man.” You threw your hand in the hair, hitting his shoulder before letting it glide down his back. “You’ll learn that there’s no boring looking birds. Even pigeons. You’d be a pink-necked green one.”

He scoffed, standing up.

“Search it up ! It’s not as flashy as you but it’s still really pretty.” You said, resting on your elbows.

“You think I’m pretty ?” He asked with fake shock. “Homo.”

You snorted.

“No. Ugliest man I’ve ever laid my eyes on, get out of my house. I'm gonna scream.” You replied, throwing a pillow at him, hitting the back of his head as he laughed before exiting the room while flipping you off.

Later he sent you a text saying pink necked green pigeons were actually decent looking.

He says he doesn’t like asking for money yet he’s spending every won you give him.

He’s like this especially after his rap career flopped. He worked his ass off to succeed, made some money off of it and suddenly everything went to shit.

But now that he has your money, he can make a big comeback and shock everyone back to their places.

He’s trying to find a label that would want to work with him while making an album, already planning which song would have a music video and what’s gonna be in it. It’s far from cheap. Though it’s all just ideas for now as he hasn’t finished writing even half of it.

You had to put some limits to his spending habits. Because as much as you loved him, he was spending way too much like a teenager with zero perception of the cost of things and life in general.

Either you help him with his album but no more expensive clothes, shoes, cosmetics.

Or he can buy whatever he wants but does his album on his own.

He whined about it a lot, but chose you to help him with his album in the end.

“I still don’t understand why I can’t do both.” He sulked as you rubbed his back.

“Do you think I’m Jay Y. Lee ? Or maybe you miss your debts that badly ?”

“Of course not ! But I’m not spending that much !” He scoffed, rolling his eyes like a child.

You chuckled, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Maybe you should use your money to pay for all the things you buy in a month. What do you think ?”

“Huh ?” He stared at you, caught off guard. “No way ! Come on !”

“I don’t know. I like that idea.” You said with a shrug standing up and walking away. Thanos quickly followed you.

“Hey, let’s not be hasty.” He grabbed your shoulders, rubbing them. “You’re still gonna help me with my album, right ?” He leaned closer with a smile, wrapping his arms around you.

“Ah, should I ? I don’t know…”

“You told me you would !” He said as he slapped your shoulder, making you chuckle. That fucking brat.

“I’m fucking with you, of course I will. Just no other expenses.” You smiled, turning to face him.

He sighed, throwing his head back in frustration with a groan.

“Okay, fine. But you promise you’ll help me ?”

Your hands gently went to his face, pulling it closer as you caressed his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

“Of course. Pinky promise or whatever.”

He absolutely loves your house. It’s big and spacious and it’s equipped with recent gadgets. A fully equipped kitchen that looks like you never used it. You actually use it, well, not you but your cook does. And the food is always delicious.

The bed is definitely bigger than his. He still hogs all the blankets and most of the place.

He refuses to sleep on the sides, preferring to be in the middle because he fears he’s gonna fall. So if he goes to bed before you you’ll have to push him a bit especially if you like sleeping in the middle as well.

You let out a long sigh as you watch him sprawled on your bed, arms and legs open wide with the blanket wrapped around his body.

“Subong. Move.” You said, pushing him to wake him up. He hummed before replying.

“…no.”

He hissed as you placed your cold hand on his naked back, successfully making him move away from the middle.

You quickly laid down, pulling on the blanket wrapped around him.

“What are you doiiing ?” He asked with a groan, stretching, bones cracking.

“What do you think ? Going into my bed to sleep.”

He just hummed, not caring anymore about what you just said as he went back to sleep.

Just like you he’s not really patient if you go to bed first and sleep in the middle.

He scoffs as he climbs into bed and pushes you away from the center. You fight back, yawning half asleep as you try to not lose your territory.

“Fucking bastard, move !”

“Nooo. Fuck off !” You replied with a tired voice, wrapping your arms around him to trap him.

He tries to fight it but ends up giving up, falling asleep on top of you with a frown.

That scowl never really disappears even as he’s long gone, drooling on you.

You categorically refuse to let him drive your car. He has extreme road rage and drives with way too much confidence to be safe on the roads. And with how much your car had cost you, there was no way you could risk it.

Do not believe Thanos only loves you for your money. He definitely appreciates that part about you, don’t get it twisted. But he also really likes just spending time with you.

If you have free time, he’ll take you to the made-up studio in your house so you can stay with him. Sometimes he’ll record you making weird noises to put in the background of his songs or he’ll ask you to give him a beat.

He spends a lot of time there and as interesting as it is, it gets boring for you after some time. Hearing the same part over and over, random instruments, erasing it, making the same one but slightly different, going to another part, repeating it over and over. And so on.

If there’s a concert or show he can do, and the opportunity is rare now, he’ll invite you backstage even if he’s not allowed to.

He’ll just piss people off until they accept. You told him to stop because they’ll probably won’t ask to come back again if he’s too annoying. But he doesn’t care, you have to be here.

There’s a mental note in his brain to repay you completely once he's a well known and loved rapper. For now he’s just stuck dreaming.

But with a little bit more patience and your help, he can definitely make it and even make people forget about the lyrics troubles he had.

[the-traveling-poet]

So Clumsy In Love

~ Valentine’s Day Special ~

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎~ As resourceful and observant as Levi is, one thing about his new life above ground still throws him for a loop; how could such a simple concept as romance be so difficult for him to understand? You made him nervous—confused and unfocused. Eventually he grows tired of fearing his own emotions, and finds the perfect excuse to spend time with you; the Valentine’s Day festival downtown.

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉~ Levi Ackerman x GN!Reader, SFW, v-day themes, inexperienced love, language, cannon-verse, Levi being awkward and crass.

𝒜/𝒩~ Just a lil V-Day fic, since I missed out on doing something for Thanksgiving and Christmas :) Happy Valentines lovelies!

I might make this a mini-series eventually?? Lemme know what you think!! See below for more Levi content.

{ 1.9k words }

It had been an honest mistake, hadn't it?

How should he have known your interpretation of his words wouldn't be what he'd intended you to pick up on?

Though, in hindsight, perhaps he'd subconsciously worried you'd mistake his intent all along—he wasn't known for his poetry. He more than anyone knew this as fact.

The intended compliment he quietly uttered your way could have been more carefully thought out, to avoid confusion. The hand-up after a round on the training grounds could have been a bit more delicate, less forceful and rigid. Hell, even the smile he'd flashed your way last week probably looked more like a grimace or a scowl, now that he thought about it.

Levi honestly had tried to find a way to convey what he felt for you, in any way shape or form—but in all honesty, he wasn't good at this.

Humanity's Strongest Soldier...Seemed more fit to label him Humanity's Most Awkward Bachelor.

Life above ground has been more than he anticipated it to be; so many new sights to behold, so many new things to learn... Back in the Underground, things were much more to the point than they were up here. Much more crass, much more invasive, so much more painful...Up here, on the surface, all of that could easily apply: to certain circumstances—yet never quite so harshly as it was below the surface.

At least, that’s how Levi views it, as a fresh Scout within the Survey Corps. Perhaps one day his interpretation would change.

With having to learn how to read the people of the surface, and adapt to their so-called proper way of life, Levi was left feeling adrift. The stark contrast between their social cues and those of the underground was nothing short of overwhelming.

So, to say that romance was uncharted territory for him would be a vast understatement. It was one thing he’d never expected, never even thought on. He'd never had time for it in the past. He'd been busy surviving, and providing. But now? Now...He wasn't so sure that he couldn't carve out some time between his new duties in the Scouts to understand his emotions a bit more.

Especially the ones he'd recently taken notice of regarding you—the ones that made him stutter whenever you were around, and avoid prolonged eye contact when you spoke. The ones that sparked a warm flutter in the pit of his stomach whenever you laughed, or chanced a smile his way.

It was near maddening, in the beginning. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t understand why he felt what he did. Briefly he recalled having been urged to just really think about it, to make up his mind and listen to his own heart. He’d scoffed at them, the damned bespectacled squad leader—always sticking their nose into his business. But maybe they had a point…

So eventually, he’d done just that; he’d sorted his thoughts and his feelings, dwelling heavily over them for quite some time. Eventually, gradually, he’d discovered that the attraction he held towards you was more than just a fleeting admiration for a fellow Scout.

It was so much more than that.

Such a simple notion should have come much easier to him, as self-observant as he was. His own stubborn pride had kept it hidden away from him, though.

Until now, that is.

Now, it was all he could focus on.

Every moment he wasn’t fully focused on a task, his mind would slip back into a pattern of obsession—fond observations he’d made about you over the many long months he’d been enlisted.

He’d watched you, unbeknownst to you.

Not so much in a way that would border on stalking, but merely keeping himself at a distance, silently absorbing every little fact he’d pick up on and store it away for a later time to muse over.

He found himself admiring you, out of sight. Certainly out of mind to you. Even after the revelation he’d made of his feelings, he couldn’t help but continue to keep his distance and simply watch you go about your days.

Stubborn as he had been, he truly was trying to understand himself whenever you were around. It wasn’t like him to be so unsure—so nervous, even. He’d watch you train, clean, socialize; all at a distance. He wouldn’t dare approach you and intervene with your time, worried he might somehow soil the moment for you, more so than for himself. He’d always frowned on obsessive stalkers in the past; he wasn’t about to become one himself. And yet…Here he was. Pining. Wishing, hoping…Pathetically entranced by all that you were.

In the present, he cursed himself. He’d mustered up the courage to face you in a way much softer than he usually preferred, hoping to not startle or offend you in any way this time. And yet, despite his careful planning, he’d managed to make the moment more awkward than endearing. Once again, the silly cycle repeated itself.

“The hell even was that?” he grumbled to himself, quietly so as not to be heard by passerbyers.

“Why the hell didn’t I just say what I initially thought, instead of butchering any chance I could have had?”

Levi sat alone in his newly appointed office now, silently contemplating his actions the day before.

He really had meant it as a compliment—it had not come across this way. Instead of seeing the smile on your face that he was after, he was met with a furrowed brow and a set of pursed lips.

“I don’t suppose you find yourself funny?”

Your quietly spoken words still echoed in his mind.

What had started as a feeble attempt at pursuing a conversation with you after a meeting—in hopes to steer it in a more progressive direction—ended abruptly in narrowed gazes and an awkward silence.

“Idiot, fucking idiot…” he muttered as an afterthought to himself, standing up to pace the small space.

He’d heard tell of an event celebrated amongst the people born and raised above ground—some sort of ‘lovers day’, meant to bring attention to a love one held for another. Initially, he thought it was corny. A little ridiculous, even. Soldiers and civilians alike would participate in this festival of sorts, celebrating ‘romance and unity’.

‘Pointless. Waste of a good coin. Waste of time.’ He’d once proclaimed.

It took him falling in love to understand why any such thing would be celebrated as a ‘holiday’ worth entertaining.

Now that he had fallen for another, however, he suddenly could understand. Even just a little.

He’d pondered over such an idea for months, long before the event would take place. At first he brushed it off as some teenage fantasy, asking the one person he admired from a distance to join him on a night of fresh starts and new experiences—some ridiculous little event to finally express his heart to you.

But after some time, in which he truly began to understand what he felt for you…The idea seemed plausible, at the very least.

Cringy, maybe. Satisfactory, definitely.

Eventually he’d made up his mind, only a couple of days before the dreaded date. He would ask you to celebrate: with him.

He’d hoped to ask you if you would join him for dinner—maybe walk amongst the festivities together, as a way to indulge in the festival being held in the town square. Maybe there he could admit to you, in some way or another, how he favored you above all others. How he wanted to pursue something, anything with you—if you’d let him. Only if you shared his ambition.

But of course, approaching this subject with you only made his clumsiness worse. The attempt he’d made at broaching the subject couldn’t have been more uncomfortable for either of you.

“You people up here tend to celebrate weird shit…You’re alone for this weird ass holiday, right? I don’t imagine you’d have the time for such things, anyways—always caught up in perfecting your shitty strategies and formations.”

That had been the first and last statement he’d made before your remark, regarding him in an almost offended way. Even now, your response still haunts him.

In his mind, he figured this was a compliment; a rough one at best. You were always focused, always concentrated and putting your best foot forward for any task that demanded your full attention. Of course he’d noticed. He always had. Yet…now hadn’t been the time to point that out—much less, in such a demeaning manner.

He hadn’t meant to underline your lack of a romantic life. But he had, and the moment the words left his lips he knew it.

Less than a full day had passed since then, and still he mulled over it, sulking over his inability to take that step forward and just say what he meant. To say what he needed you to hear.

It was evening when he left his office, the sun filtering through his window setting over the walls beyond in crisp oranges and bright pinks. He might have stopped to watch it for a moment, if he weren’t at wit’s end.

He’d kept himself cooped up stewing over his mistakes long enough—It was now or never, wasn’t it?

Finding you hadn't been too difficult. In fact, it had been a little too easy; of course he’d find you chatting happily amongst comrades before turning in for the night.

The difficult part, the one he knew he would inevitably face, was getting you alone for a single moment. Just long enough to grab your attention and say what needed to be said…

To his silent astonishment, he’d managed the task easily enough; a simple demand for a moment of time seemed to do the trick. He’d pretend he didn’t see the hesitance in your eyes, the silent judgment that you never verbally conveyed.

“Listen; I’m shit at words. Especially the weird shit you all say up here on the surface. It’s strange, and it’s stupid. But…The other day, what I’d meant wasn’t what I said. If-If you are alone tomorrow…Well, I suppose I am as well. I’d wondered: what if we grabbed a bite to eat? Avoid the drama these love sick idiots parade around and just…I dunno…Get to know one another a little?”

You’d huffed in amusement, a crooked smirk on your enchanting lips. The earlier hesitance disappeared from your gaze, replaced now by a nearly mischievous look of understanding.

The silence left behind from his proposal was enough to spike his nervousness once again—he was so far out of his element that even he would laugh at himself if he were observing from afar.

Maybe he’s misjudged, made a mistake…

But eventually you shook your head, uncrossing your arms and looking him over head to toe, curiosity beaming in your pretty eyes.

“As it should happen, I’m not busy for Valentine’s tomorrow, and I suppose I could stand to better familiarize myself with my fellow Captains…”

A pause in your voice brought about the stilling of his heart, his chest aching briefly with anticipation. But then you gave your final answer; a few simple words that lifted the anxious weight in his heart and eased the tension in his shoulders. He nearly sighed with visible relief.

“Why not? I’ll go to dinner with you. There’s a new café in Trost; I hope you’ve heard of it?”

~𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐿𝑒𝓋𝒾 𝒜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ��𝑒𝓇𝑒!~

~𝒟𝒾𝓋𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇~

[gnohomotho]

Hello there,

Valentines day tomorrow, and ofc i am a lonely gorl, so i thought about husband!junho making the day special for his wife? Fluff, fluff, fluff bc i am sensetive lol

Keep up the good work btw

You are doing amazing on here ❤️❤️😚

Aww, Anon, sending a big virtual hug your way. ♥ I'm sorry you're a lonely gorl. :c I am too, so please, I really hope this eases the loneliness just a little bit!

I have one slightly longer, but hopefully fluffy and very loving piece specially for Valentine's Day.

Thank you so, so very much, it truly means a lot to me. ♥♥♥ c':

(And if you like it, I really appreciate the reblogs, you're all so very lovely!)

Enjoy! .

.

.

Even If You Had Walked Away

Pairing: husband!Jun-ho x wife!f!reader Summary: Valentine's Day hides more than just a loving date for you, and Jun-ho knows this very well. It is a reminder of a day he almost lost you - and he has a surprise for you, for all those years, in one single evening. Warnings: Fluff! So much fluff. A tiny bit of angst, but I promise it ends in fluff. Please pack your insulin. Word count: 3.2k A/N: I hope you feel lovely on this day and all the next. ♥ Love your requests and your messages! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶𐭩 ♡

Oh.

This day.

Valentine’s Day.

Somehow, each year, you managed to find a way to plan over it, and Jun-ho just as meticulously managed to pull you back in.

Last year, it was notes left around the house, your car suspiciously warm before you got in, and your favourite breakfast cooked before you left. He knew you would be worried about big gestures – he knew, but not quite, what the day signified for you. So when you saw him in the kitchen, after a sleepy kiss on his neck as he slowly turned around to greet you, you expected nothing more.

“Darling?” You looked at him softly, a little quizzically, as you always do when you’re a bit worried things aren’t as fine as they seem. You did so as you pulled away from the cuddle and felt his body pull with yours, not wanting to leave your embrace or your warmth.

One strong arm was still holding yours – lightly, but with deep affection. Jun-ho did not wish to sever the connection between you by letting go even for a second. Slowly he slid his arm around you, letting it rest against your back, should he need to pull you close again.

You waited for your answer but could not resist the peaceful warmth of the moment, and lifted a hand – tenderly brushing the hair from his forehead and sliding down to cup his cheek. Instinctively, Jun-ho closes his eyes and leans into your palm, caressing you as he does so.

Even as your touch leaves, he remains quiet, and you look at your husband with new eyes. Still in casual clothing, still just your Jun-ho, swaying with you in his favourite black v-neck shirt that you associate with only him and his sleepy form.

How many nights have you woken up to this shape, this broad chest, inches from yours...or suddenly lifting and falling peacefully against your own heart.

How many times have those strong arms unabashedly stolen your much contested blanket only to wrap you up thoroughly in its place.

How many times did those legs lovingly intertwine with yours the moment your alarm clock rang, his sleepy voice murmuring sweet nothings of discontent and forcing you to set your alarms ten minutes before their actual time because his legs and fervour at keeping you close were strong.

And somehow, with your thigh firmly against his, aided by his own, your calves wrapped in his warmth and so very close, your tummy tucked so comfortably and perfectly to your sleeping love you could feel him breathe, well, you learned to set your alarm a full half hour before its actual time.

And now, though his form looms over you, you feel entirely safe; though it is snowing fluffy snowflakes outside, you are brimming with fluttering, affectionate warmth that could keep a fireplace alight for days. Though the day isn’t your happiest, you might as well have forgotten the number on the calendar.

And Jun-ho, with his gentle smile reaching his eyes, was only swaying with you ever se so slightly as he held your hips, thumbs tucked up against your waist; the smile was cheeky, but incredibly sweet.

You melt in his touch and almost let a little laugh carry the mood – he couldn’t look cunning or devilish if he tried. Not to you. But he was trying, and you did not wish to ruin his sincere attempts.

“Hmm?” He humms with a little inflection, nonchalantly, still smiling. As if saying “nothing to see here, officer,” though he was obviously not used to being on the other side of the law. And it showed. Before you answer, Jun-ho almost unnoticeably shifts you with a gentle tug where his arms and fingers rest against your skin – you notice nothing but a little dig into each of your hips – and kisses your forehead the moment gravity trips you into him. Clever, you grin into the crane of Jun-ho’s neck and kiss his chin in retaliation.

“I don’t think all is going according to schedule, sweetheart.” He pulls away and smiles the sentence into existence, a hint of genuine care for your wellbeing crossing his visage. Jun-ho’s eyes move towards the window, then to your phone resting on the table. You follow his gaze and your heart momentarily sinks.

“Are we seriously getting snowed in? How will I get to…”

“I’m pretty sure that phone lit up with messages regarding not coming to work, darling…and,” Jun-ho looks upwards as if thinking, truly acting his way into the Oscars here, playfully ponders around, “if I know anything about the wiring and the outlay of that building, I am highly inclined to assume you’d be sitting by candlelight, using folded paper in place of a computer if you really wanted to try and keep up appearances.”

After a small moment, he added, “and I don’t want my Y/N alone by candlelight with anyone else, thank you very much.”

He kisses your forehead again without warning, but you feel him smile into the kiss. As he pulls away, you almost regret brushing his hair away from his forehead, because that single eyebrow lift abetted by that absolutely cheeky smile should be illegal.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You did your best trying to work from home, finding it very hard to focus. The nicer and more wistful your thoughts were towards Jun-ho, the more a slight pang of guilt tore its way into your chest.

A few years ago, you almost broke up.

And the thought cementing it, the thought where you couldn’t keep it up anymore...came on Valentine’s Day.

You did not wish to do it then (as mean as it was clichéd) and Jun-ho laid it all out on the table – a beautiful dinner date and absolute honesty. You fell in love with him, then, all over again, when you truly thought it would be a sad end to a broken coupling.

Many things played their part back then – his secrecy, his constant disappearing, his excuses for being gone for so long.

His face was so very troubled back then, deepened with new stress lines and new worries each time you saw him – each time, the moments you spent apart seemed to use a sharper knife on his face whenever they returned him back to you.

Sometimes you worried they would keep him.

You were suffocating and so incredibly distraught. When he left. You worried. When he was with you. He wasn’t. Not truly. And you worried more.

The weight that he refused to share with you was dragging you both down into the depths of the ocean and no matter how much you tried, how strong your grip, how intricate your angle – you could not unravel him from whatever was at the end of the rope.

Somehow, you even tried to suspect cheating, though you knew he would never do that – simply for the fact that whatever he was doing was far more dangerous than another woman. And through all, you truly, deeply cared about Jun-ho. And Jun-ho knew that what you had between you, the love he held for you and the love held in your tender chest for him – held the sharpest blade of all.

What was it, back then? Your love extended past simple ownership or relationship status – if he were to be with someone else or alone, but safe and content, sleeping through the night, you would very bitterly but gladly swallow that pill. And he knew it. He knew it and sensed you pulling away.

Jun-ho wasn’t content with distance from you, never. One day, he came back, close to this particular date. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes smelling of salt and seawater, his eyes dim and tired, and his hands covered in scrapes and scratches.

But his eyes, his eyes stared into yours with resolute burning depth, speaking with no words necessary. Jun-ho loved you, and did not wish to lose you, nor endanger you, and he was as lost in the cruelty of the situation as you were. But above it all was a silent promise. Your mind wanders away, for its own safety, as your eyes begin to sparkle – your skin suddenly enveloped in frost.

Doubts. Worries.

Is he happy? Is he regretting the choice? Did I mess up a loving date forever and remind him each year? Does he ever wish to…go back and reverse it all? All of it? Go back to a time he never met me, go back and erase the wedding, the proposal, was there ever any doubt in that lovely smile?

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

A little knock on the door to your make-shift office alerts you from tables and notes. You look up, and realise the soft orange light reflecting the snowy cape on your window is the streetlamp, and it is dark outside.

“Yes?”

Jun-ho slowly opens the door, dressed in a comfortable, but elegant sweater, long dark trousers, and sensible socks.

You blink.

You blink again.

“Jun-ho? Is…what’s going on?”

He can’t be going anywhere, the snow outside is as beautiful and tranquil as it is all-enveloping.

Jun-ho says nothing, a knowing smile dancing on his lips as he stands in the door; he makes a small leaning motion with his neck, closing his eyes as he points out of your door without using a single word. He had the air of someone who knows all there is to know, and what he doesn’t does not matter.

And in this moment, you were all he wished to know.

“I’ll just…I’ll just put on something nice, you look too lovely.”

You manage to stutter, but he has already covered half your distance and is extending a hand to you.

“You look beautiful, my love. You always look beautiful. I have never seen you in a piece of clothing that could even begin to rival your features, Y/N. Come.”

You take his hand and he leads you to the living room. You adjust your eyes to the reassuring darkness that is softly illuminated by guttering candlelight of many, many little flames.

They hop as you disturb the air – dancing and fluttering in seemingly the same anticipation you are feeling in your chest. Cushions are arranged into a cute, comfy, fort-like bed. A little makeshift table sits in the middle, your favourite flower resting upon it next to a meal you…you shared on the day a few years ago.

He…he remembers.

Your hand grips Jun-ho’s, both to steady itself and to convey your utter adoration for your husband.

In this moment. In the next. In all moments to come.

You are lost for words, heart beating out of your chest, you wish to thank him, to hold him, to jump into his arms and push him into the pillows he so lovingly arranged – you want to whisper sweet ‘I love yous’ into his neck and chest and hear his heart jump at each touch, you want to melt in his arms and his tenderness and lose your train of thought.

“Jun-ho…this is…this is so beautiful, I don’t know what to say…”

But Jun-ho pulls away from you, still holding both your hands, now standing far enough to leave both your arms extended. His eyes rest upon you with affectionate tranquility – his fingers are softly circling yours as he holds you. Slowly he lets go of your hand and lifts a single finger to his mouth, in a small hushing motion. You say nothing more, but your melted heart doesn’t do well with surprises. Not on this day.

Jun-ho turns and leaves your other hand empty, taking the flower from the table and resting it in his place.

It’s beautiful, gentle, elegant. Your very favourite. You close your eyes and inhale its smell.

Jun-ho watches you intently. Eyes filled with the same knowing adoration he watched you with all those years ago. He wonders how he managed to get so very lucky. How foreign the thought of you seemed back then.

You, standing in your shared living room, smelling a flower and blissfully, beautifully, utterly his to love and cherish.

His wife – with her hair cascading down like a beautiful river, the lines of worry gone from her face, her tender eyes that could spark a fire in a lake now peaceful, loving, resting upon a flower as beautiful as her.

You notice the slow fall of his eyelids as he watches you, eyes closing in adoration and joining a subtle, guarded smile. Jun-ho clears his throat and leans back to the makeshift table, pulling a note from behind the candle in its centre.

Was it your imagination or did his hands shiver in the flame’s warm light?

“Y/N…my Y/N…” he begins, and no, that wasn’t your imagination. The paper contracted a wave from his grip as he steadied his breath.

“I…know what today represents. To you. To us.”

He looks up, looks at you, steadies his breath, and the smile nervously spreads – but you see the fervour in his expression to keep matters serious.

Jun-ho continues, eyes firmly buried in the letter.

“But I don’t think you know what it represents to me.”

Oh.

A twinge of worry. Ice prickles the small of your back. Those doubts threaten to break the warm atmosphere, yet he continues.

“It’s the day I almost lost what was most dear to me.”

Your eyebrows stiffen as your gaze fills with both concern for him and a need to hold him tight.

“I felt you slipping away each day, and with that, I felt as if I was losing parts of myself. As if each heartbeat in your presence catalysed by your warmth, by your presence alone, wasn’t mine to keep anymore."

"Each touch we shared, each breath I exhaled – it was as if all the warmth in me, all the good things that were growing so few and far between within me back then, all of them wished to remain with you."

"And I am sorry, my sweet, my darling Y/N…I am sorry that I, for even a moment, almost let them leave with you."

"I knew you would keep them safe, I knew you would hold them, protect them, care for them with the tenderness and love you hold in your heart for each being you encounter – and you would expect nothing in return."

"I watched sorrow, worry, frustration and finally, the most painful of all…acceptance caress your beautiful face and shine through your eyes. Dimming those unconditionally accepting eyes I did not deserve."

"Offering a pale reflection of what was left of me without you.”

Your hands were trembling. His large yet gentle form in front of you was losing its sharp lines; the scene began to blur into a soft orange hue as you realised your eyes failed to hold onto their tears. Though it was Jun-ho, he seemed…so very delicate in this moment. Laying himself utterly bare before you. Your heart was sending ripples through your body. You wished to hold him, kiss him, reassure him. But remained still. Your husband continued.

“Each year, I wrote down what was following me every time I thought of that night. I wrote of what I love about you – but managed to run out of paper.”

He let out a small, self-soothing chuckle, failing to meet your eyes, and you noticed the candles reflecting a few errant sparkles in their corner. Oh, Jun-ho…

He blinked his eyes quite harshly and continued.

“So I wrote down all the reasons…you should be happy without me.”

He breathed out a faintly shaking breath and let the silence speak for him. Exhaling once more, he now sounded like the weight was beginning to leave his chest and grip his shoulders with less strength.

“Which proved incredibly fruitless.” Jun-ho straightened, narrowing his eyes towards the paper, still avoiding yours.

“Not that you did not deserve to be happy, not that the reasons weren’t both valid and sound – but I refused to let you go without a fight. To lose something I breathe for, someone I keep safe in a place inside of my heart no one else may enter, come hell or high water, someone whose voice alone brings nothing but joy and serenity to all it touches…losing that…by doing nothing but letting her go?”

Jun-ho finally looked up at you, eyes sparkling, and that smile – that beautiful, wide smile you loved so much, underlining his words:

“Well, we couldn’t have that.”

You let out a quiet, incredibly nervous yet sweet noise that was intended to be laughter before it got caught in your throat. Tears fall once again, the motion and exhale alleviating the built tension in your heart and chest.

Tension and strain caught wrestling with a wave of all-encompassing love aimed straight for Jun-ho.

It was already flooding you from tip to toe, and you had no words. No words at all. Your hand slowly lifts up to your lips, shielding your mouth as you try to hide your expression, your tears, your smile – and still, Jun-ho continues.

“So each year, I wrote something else. Something concerning every reason I would fight for you again.”

He lowered the paper now, arms at his sides, looking directly at you.

“And again, and again, and again if needed.”

You let your hand leave your mouth, slowly letting it fall to your side too, caught in the waves starting to pool in the soles of your feet, you were sure he had to feel them too.

“Unfortunately,” he half-laughed, half smiled, getting rid of the last of the tension in his body as he rested the letter back on the table, “the weight of that almanac threatened to break our bookshelf.”

Jun-ho stepped closer to you, beckoning your hand with his slowly extending, up-turned palm. You laid yours upon it immediately, relishing the familiar safety, the beautiful warmth, the love emanating from each brush of his fingertips.

“And although the physical copy exists, safely stored away, I thought it better to translate every word for my wife into a language she might prefer.”

Jun-ho closes the distance between you and softly places his other arm around your waist, resting his hand in the small of your back.

With a small pull, he softly, leans into you and kisses your forehead.

“A language which I would most certainly love to express.”

He kisses the bridge of your nose right between your brows, slowly planting kisses down to the tip of your nose, then finally, finally ending upon your mouth. Jun-ho’s soft lips caress yours without kissing just yet, brushing, enjoying, cherishing…a tender whisper circles your ear:

“Would that be alright, miss Y/N? I hear your husband is terrible with words.”

You both start giggling at the same exact second, momentarily leaving each other’s lips to bask in the intimacy and bliss of the moment.

“Of course, Jun-ho, I mean, Mr. Officer and Official Translator, I would be delighted to learn.”

Jun-ho needed no further signal to scoop you up into his arms as if it were nothing to him, momentarily holding and enjoying your warmth, your laughter, your body against his. With a little circling motion he holds you closer, squeezing you tight and softly, gently, without letting even an inch of skin go without his touch, lays you into the pillows below.

And follows straight after with that beautiful, mischievous grin you fell in love with all those years ago.

[waynes-multiverse]

Lover – Part 2

Series Summary: Free from his past, Ben’s trying to move on and find a little drop of happiness in this new world. But when he finally holds everything he ever wanted in his hands, it threatens to slip through the cracks, and he has to fight one final time with everything he’s got to keep it.

🫡 Catch up here! Sequel to Rehab & Video Games.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female!Reader

Warnings: 18+ due to language & mature themes, established relationship, Soldier Boy x wife!reader, human!Soldier Boy, angst with a side of hurt/comfort, sickness & generally gross descriptions thereof (the Gen V virus says hello 👋 – with minor adjustments), tw: mentions of euthanasia & suicide, sprinkles of fluff between

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: Don't read too much into the whole virus situation, guys. I promise this is a full fix-it, and that annoying little bug is just how we're gonna do that 😜 Come tomorrow, all's well because we all know the V stands for... I do this joke every year, don't I? Never mind! Happy reading! 💕

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Part 2: Lovesick

Ben’s worried. Y/N keeps saying she’s fine.

They stroll through the supermarket. Benny pushes the cart in front of them, racing down the aisles.

She woke up this morning around eleven o’clock after a thirteen-hour sleep. He’d held a small mirror under her nose several times at night to assure himself she was still breathing. She never woke up. She’d looked so peaceful it had almost been creepy.

She also sweat through her sheets and jittered like a leaf in the wind. He tried to hold her when she was freezing and gave her distance when she was ablaze. In those breaks, he scoured the Internet for answers and tried to keep his frustrations over it quiet with little grunts and a deeply creased brow.

The hard lines on his face are still there, though. They never left.

Ben isn’t entirely clueless, however. Sure, he’s spent some four decades locked away, then came back for a short period of time to a world he can barely understand, only to be put to sleep and experimented on some more for a couple of years. People don’t really expect him to follow the news at this point, and they’re not wrong in their assumption – he rarely ever gives a shit.

But he remembers how she’d given him an update of the world’s dire state when he’d first gotten to the clinic. She’d mentioned a virus – one designed to kill any supes. The plan was to wipe everyone out. Biological warfare, they’d called it. It hadn’t come as a surprise to Ben. He’d seen this all before. Hell, he’d even helped with some of those things back in his glory days.

The virus had been one more reason, one more need for the cure. It had been the perfect deal: If you can’t kill ‘em, cure ‘em. But once that infectious little vial was opened, well, it had been hard to put the genie back inside.

The cure acted as both a vaccine and a remedy against the virus. Soon, the pesky little thing was pushed back but was never quite eradicated. It had eventually slowed its progression but never became any less deadly.

Now, instead of quick and painless, there was agonizing and torturous.

But Y/N can’t take the cure. He might as well kill her this second out of mercy.

When she woke up from her beauty sleep this morning, she admittedly looked better. She said she felt better. Ben still didn’t believe her. She barely touched her food, picked at her breakfast, and ended up only eating the leftover crusts of their son’s toast. He watched her from his periphery as he nursed his coffee in the kitchen, stoically worrying more.

Y/N coughs once more next to him as they pass the frozen food aisle. Ben eyes her cautiously. She’s done it all morning. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to help her or how to stop it. Not even the blue vial could help him fix it. He doesn’t even know if it’s real yet. Is it normal? Is he overreacting?

She coughs again. He shakes his head and bites his tongue.

“You okay?” he checks gruffly, his voice thick with tension and concern, but he already expects her answer.

“I told you not to worry. I’m alright,” she says, her throat dry and her voice coarse. Her words are meant to soothe her husband. She can see the worry shimmering in his juniper eyes. She’s lucky he’s not a supe anymore, or he would’ve gone nuclear a while ago.

And admittedly, she knows she might be in denial. If true, it seems like a cruel trick the universe is playing on her. Giving her all she’s ever wanted and take it away immediately after? It definitely feels like a cosmic joke all the Gods are laughing about.

But deep down, she knows it’s true. She knows she’s screwed, but she doesn’t know how to tell Ben. He’ll lose his shit. She knows he’s not built for this.

She coughs again into a used tissue, which she has stored in her pocket since last night. Her tongue tastes something metallic – copper and iron. And when her eyes land on the white cloth, they notice spots of a deep, scarlet red.

She stops walking then and swallows thickly, her hands trembling as her eyes transfix on the blood. Ben halts as well when he realizes she’s not moving. He sees the panic in her face, sees she’s a lot paler now than the night before. Her skin looks clammy, her eyes red, weary, and dazed as if she had just taken a hard hit from one of his blunts.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks and steps closer. He cocks his head at her, the creases of his brow now harsh lines. She seems out of it, confused. She doesn’t even seem to understand his question, let alone be capable of answering.

Her mouth opens, but instead of words, she only inhales shakily like it’s the last breath she’ll ever take. Ben barely reaches her fast enough when her eyes roll back into her head till there’s only shining white and her knees begin to buckle.

Ben pulls the knitted wool blanket up to her shoulders and gently kisses her temple. It’s been two hours since she’s fainted in the supermarket, and she’s still burning up.

He caught her just in time before her head hit the linoleum. He shooed away a group of concerned strangers that had gathered around them, assuring them that his wife was fine and just experiencing a minor dizzy spell. He sold it with a humorous eye roll and chuckled the word “women” before grabbing the kid and carrying her quickly out of the store and into the car. If she hadn’t been out cold, he’s certain he would’ve heard several objections to that comment.

Ben knows he can’t take her to a hospital, however. No one knows she’s a supe, and these days, they don’t receive the best treatment – too many bridges burnt after Homelander’s reign of terror. People have become angry, fearful, and distrustful.

Again, he feels a little responsible. He’s sure Soldier Boy had laid some groundwork for that, too.

Softly, the door to their bedroom clicks shut, her phone in his hand as he searches her contacts. His shoulders tense as he reaches the one he needs. His jaw tightens as he holds it to his ear and waits for an answer.

“Hey, I figured you’d call. Already fed up with the wrinkly dick and coming back?” Victoria Neuman’s voice sounds through the speaker, causing Ben’s hair to stand up on its ends.

Chalk on fucking board, he thinks and bites the anger back. He hates talking to that bitch, hates being nice, and hates asking for favors. But he swallows the acrimony down for the sake of his wife.

“It’s me,” Ben grits and feels his jaw beginning to ache. Why the fuck does everything hurt all the time? It’s something he figures he’ll never get used to – every time his back cracks and creaks in the mornings.

“You have exactly five seconds to tell me she’s not locked up in your basement before I make a few calls and let hellfire rain down on you, you decrepit piece of antiquity,” she bites her threat, but Ben can hear the concern in her voice, although he doesn’t give it too much weight. She’s probably faking it like her orgasms.

“Look, I wouldn’t fucking call if it wasn’t serious, you cunt,” Ben snaps and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing the surge of fury and impatience out of his temples.

His admission causes a beat of silence on the other end. “What’s going on?” Neuman then finally asks and swallows down her own snarky remarks.

Ben licks his chapped lips before pushing the words out. “She’s-… she’s sick.”

There’s another long pause. “She can’t be sick. She’s a supe.”

“I fucking know that.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah…”

They both sigh (and both hate that they have something in common).

“I-… I have the cure,” Ben says and bites down on his tongue immediately after. He doesn’t want to show her all his cards.

“You can’t give it to her. It’s going to kill her,” Victoria reminds him firmly.

“The fucking virus is gonna kill her too, right?” Ben’s eyes drop to the floorboards that hold the solution to all his problems underneath.

“Yeah, it is,” Victoria admits. “What are her symptoms? You sure she’s not just pregnant?”

“I fucking hope not.” There’s a sentence he never expected to say. But– “I haven’t fucking cum inside of her for months.”

“Charming,” Neuman retorts on the other end.

“Wait, do you fucking know something? Did she cheat on me?” The grip around the phone in his hand tightens. Was that why she forgave him so fast and said she believed him?

“Unfortunately, no,” Victoria replies with obvious disappointment. Ben refrains from releasing the sigh of relief he feels. “Believe me, I’ve tried to get her cockdrunk on someone else…”

If Ben still had super-strength, he would’ve crushed the goddamn phone in his hand. Instead of exploding, he closes his eyes and takes a deep fucking breath, though. Ten… nine… eight… Where’s your happy place?

“Why the fuck are you calling me? What do you want?” Victoria’s voice snaps him out of his fatal fantasies of tearing her limbs off one by one.

“What d’you got in your labs? You gotta have a new cure, a new sample, fucking something,” Ben says but doesn’t even know what he’s asking. He’s grasping at straws, hoping to stumble upon an answer.

“If they’d found something, I would’ve already given it to her,” Neuman says.

“You fucking sure about that?” Ben doesn’t believe a drop of what she’s telling him.

“Yes,” Victoria still insists. “Look, before you give it to her, I’ll ask around, make a few calls, okay? See if there’s any possibilities to stop this.”

Ben’s hands tremble, his jaw quivers as he desperately tries to steady himself. “Thank you, fucking hurry,” he forces out in a murmur and immediately hangs up.

Y/N stretches with a grumbling sigh as his hand gently caresses her head. He presses his lips to her burning temple, her weary eyes fluttering open.

“Hey, my love,” Ben says, his deep voice soft as if he’s singing her a lullaby. “How are you feeling?”

She yawns and fights back the sleep in her eyes. “Still tired.”

“You’ve been sleeping for five hours,” he tells her and watches as she curls into the couch cushions with a coughing fit. He lowers down to the carpeted floor, stroking her back till she strenuously takes a breath again. “I think we need to talk about it now.”

Slowly, she meets his gaze, and he sees the fear shimmering in her eyes behind a thin veil of tears. She knows what this is, what her body is fighting, and Ben wonders how long she’s known without saying anything. He guesses she knew right from the start. Sometimes, he forgets he likes to pretend she isn’t really smarter than him.

But then, the fear morphs to determination. She nods, swallowing. “The gun’s in the safe in the closet.”

“I know where the fuck it is,” Ben grits, his brow densely creasing with a mix of confusion and angry suspicion. “What exactly do you think I’m gonna fucking do with it?”

“Shoot me.”

Her eyes are steady and firm, his voice is sterner.

“No.”

The word booms through the living room, threatening to quake the earth and shake books off their shelves.

“Ben–“

“You fucking listen to me, I’m not fucking killing you. End of discussion,” he snaps furiously. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him this angry before – not even when she said they should consider a divorce. Although, this seems to be a different kind of anger – one that cuts deeper.

“Sid shot Nancy,” she says quietly, hoping it appeals to him in some dark, ironic twist.

“She was stabbed, and they could never fucking pin it on him,” Ben shuts her argument down. “Ain’t fucking happening. I’m sorry, but you’re not gonna be the last person on my kill list, love.”

She forces a wry but weak smile. “It’d be a mercy killing. Euthanasia.”

“I’m familiar with the fucking concept,” Ben huffs tiredly. His hand then dives into the pocket of his sweats and pulls out a small vial that holds yellow liquid.

Her lips part in shock as her eyes fix on the familiar cure in his grasp. “How long have you–“

“Stole it from that black site while you and that Neuman cunt were busy yapping about policies,” Ben explains. “I also took something blue. Figured I could use it at some point.”

“Still wanna be Soldier Boy, huh?” Her voice sounds almost bitter, mocking. A small part of her has always hoped she’d be enough for him someday. That he didn’t need the fame, the money, and the fake heroics. That he’d love himself enough to not rely on a façade.

“No,” he replies to her surprise and watches her straighten a bit on the couch. “I’d fucking do it for you.”

“I don’t want that,” she tells him firmly, hoping he still remembers her words even when she’s gone.

“I know that. Why the fuck do you think I haven’t done it yet?” Ben says with a raised brow and as much patience as he can find within himself. Chats like these aren’t his strong suit.

“So, this is your idea?” She cocks an eyebrow at the vial in his hand, her look pointed. “You don’t wanna kill me quickly, but you’d rather watch me die in fucking slow-motion?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Ben argues, the lines on his freckled face hardening again. Why does she have to be so fucking stubborn all the time?

Ironically, she thought the same thing about her husband.

“For who? You?! You can’t be that fucking selfish,” she spits and rises from the couch with a shaking head.

“Funny. I was just about to say the same fucking thing to you,” he returns with the same fire.

She thunders into the bedroom and slams the door shut before he hears her rummaging through the closet. Annoyed, he rolls his eyes once the first expletives bleed through.

“Where’s the fucking gun?” she snaps as soon as the door flies open again.

“Already hid it somewhere you won’t fucking find it,” he answers slyly and purses his lips as she storms past him into the kitchen.

She lets out a deep sigh of frustration when she finds both the knife block and drawers empty. “Seriously? Did you fucking baby-proof the house while I was asleep?!”

“Well, if you’re behaving like a fucking baby…” he retorts and patiently follows her frantic steps. “You also won’t find fucking scissors and pills, either.”

“Ironic coming from you,” she scoffs, opening and shutting cabinet doors in the desperate search for something strong enough to put her out of her goddamn misery.

“Yeah, how do you think I knew which shit to hide, huh?” he asks rhetorically and takes a careful step closer, cornering her between counters and appliances. “Would you stop that now and fucking talk to me?”

“You don’t wanna talk to me,” she retorts. “You just wanna fucking pump me full of poison, so you get to feel fucking good about yourself again.”

“You think that’s it? I’m fucking jealous?” He arches a brow and crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest, his offense hiding behind amusement.

“Aren’t you?” she bites back.

“Is that you or the fucking V talking, huh?” Ben has never said it out loud before, but he hated how that blue shit changed her. Sure, it only amplified certain parts of her that he supposes have always been there, but it made her less caring, more arrogant, too.

“It’s me, you asshole,” she snarls.

The look on her face breaks his heart into a million pieces. He almost doesn’t recognize her anymore, and he knows reaching any sense of clarity or humanity within her is impossible at this point.

“You sure about that?”

She doesn’t reply, just shakes her head at him and opens the fridge. Her shoulders still for a second, and Ben knows at that moment she’s found something and is thinking of a plan to outfox him.

His gaze swerves to the full beer bottle that has found its way into her hand. She’s quick when she breaks it forcefully against the countertop, the golden-brown liquid splashing onto the floor. But Ben’s faster and bruisingly clutches her wrist, spinning her to face him. Tears sting her eyes as she fights against his hold. Ben knows she’s not using her full strength on him, though, and is almost curious as to why.

He’s not sure Soldier Boy would’ve shown the same hesitant restraint, even if it had been her.

“What the fuck are you doing? Let me fucking go,” she grits through her teeth.

Ben only shakes his head, his gaze on her stern as he tightens his grip around her wrist.

“You want me to fucking melt you into a puddle?” she threatens.

“Fucking do it,” he challenges her defiantly without a blink of a single eye. “If you wanna do this, you’re gonna have to step over my fucking body first, ‘cause there’s no way I’m letting this hand go unless you drop that fucking bottle. What’s it gonna be?”

Her nostrils flare in sync with the heavy rising and falling of her chest, her glare deadly. Slowly and mutinously, she opens each finger till the bottle crashes to the floor and shatters into sharp daggers at their feet. As soon as his grasp on her loosens, she breaks down and falls into his arms, sobbing against his chest.

He feels a flood of relief rush through his body. Thank fucking God, because he’s totally been bluffing.

He wraps his arms tighter around her, holds her closer, and nuzzles his face into her hair. “I know. It’s okay, sweetheart…”

“I’m fucking scared, Ben,” she cries, and he swallows the thick lump in his throat and forces his own tears back into his skull.

“I know, I know…” He cradles her head, resting his chin on her crown. “You know, admittedly, I’m-… I’m a little scared, too.”

She peels from his chest and meets his forest green eyes, amusement dancing on her lips. “Well, I’m glad you’re not a cold-hearted psychopath.”

Ben curls his lips, cheeks reddening. This is what he gets for opening up. “It’s my job as your husband to take care of you. Be a strong front.”

She rolls her eyes back dramatically and groans into his shirt. “You know, it doesn’t make you less of a man for feeling things.” She teasingly grins up at him. “In fact, I think only guys with the biggest dicks can pull it off.”

His lips tug at a smile. “I know what you’re doing.”

She locks her arms around his neck and pulls herself to his height for a scorching kiss. And Ben can’t fight the feeling this is meant to be their last one.

“Don’t get weird when I’m gone, okay?” she tells him then, and it feels like the beginning of a list of last wishes. “No reverting back to full asshole. No blue shit.”

“Christ, you’re not fucking dying,” Ben replies, his deep voice calm but firm.

“Ben, denial will only make it worse,” she says, her heart cracking at the forlorn look on his face. “You can’t fix this. There’s nothing you can do. It’s okay.”

Ben shakes his head wordlessly, and she knows the conversation is about to be over. There really isn’t more she can do, either.

“C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. You need some rest,” Ben says and already scoops her into his arms before she can respond.

Y/N’s head rests on his broad and bare chest as he holds her tightly in his arms. The skin-to-skin contact seems to soothe her, which is good because he plans to never let her go. If he just keeps her here right next to him, she’ll be fine. She won’t leave him.

She’s talked some when she wasn’t out like a light, but Ben could tell her mind was getting hazy. She talked about her parents and her childhood, something she rarely ever does.

They had never really talked a lot about their respective pasts altogether. They’d covered the basics, but what actually happened didn’t matter as much. They knew they’d both done things they weren’t proud of. But the point of their relationship had always been a clean slate – a fresh start.

She had barely gotten that. She stupidly sacrificed it all for him, and he still wishes she would’ve never done that. He was supposed to die that day with Homelander. It had been his time.

Not hers.

She snores softly in his arms. Her heartbeat is faint, her breathing shallow. An hour ago, it used to be labored, each breath a struggle. She’s so hot he’s afraid she’ll melt in his embrace. He knows she doesn’t have long anymore. He’s running out of time.

Carefully, he stretches his arm to reach for the glistening yellow vial on the nightstand. He pops the lid open and stabs the syringe through the top, drawing it to the brim.

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his green eyes. What if he makes it worse? More painful? What if he kills her?

Victoria’s words ring in his ears. There’s a chance the virus accepts the cure. A loophole, if you will. The cure’s deadly for two-timers, but if they were also infected with the virus, the cure could piggyback on that. One in eighty rats had survived the ordeal before they stopped the trials. Ben didn’t understand the rest of the scientific mumbo-jumbo, but he knows those aren’t great odds.

Still, it’s something.

Ben doesn’t have the luxury to be picky about solutions, though. What he thought were minutes turn to seconds once her breathing stops entirely.

He rolls up the sleeves of the oversized shirt she’s wearing, one of his, and looks for a good angle on her forearm, just below the elbow. He’s not a doctor, he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing or where it should go best, but that one time he did heroin in the 80s, he’d put it exactly there, and it had been fine.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he mumbles into her hair and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

One rough prick through her steeled skin, and the needle is in. He empties the liquid in one swift motion before discarding the used syringe back on the nightstand. He cautiously slides out from underneath her then and ensures she’s lying comfortably on the mattress. He doesn’t want to leave her side, but he knows her powers might short-circuit soon.

Ben remembers the stories from other supes at the rehab clinic – the agonizing pain, the feeling of puking your organs out before the rest follows. Flickers of his own process trickle into his mind. He can’t remember most of it, but he remembers how they’d locked him up in a nuclear-proof prison at some point during the procedure.

For now, he prefers not die by a rain of acid if he gets to pick.

His hand gently caresses her head. He’s not even sure she’s still alive. She might not, and he may have been too late. All for nothing.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers and takes her hand in his. It feels cold and lifeless, but he still tries. He’s not ready to let go yet. He’s not sure he’ll ever be. “I know you can beat this shit like everything else. We’re this fucking close. Just a little more…”

And then, there’s a flicker of something – a weak tap of a finger against his palm. There’s movement behind her eyelids and a twitch of her brows.

“Sweetheart?”

There’s a groan, her hands gripping a fistful of bedsheets as she coils into the mattress, muscles contorting. He gently rubs her back, trying to help her as the pain tears through her.

“Hey, hey, you’re good. You’re alright,” he soothes and feels the guilt bubbling in his stomach. He hates that he did this to her, but he did it for love. The knowledge barely makes it better, however.

“Oh, fuck, Ben!”

She usually screams those exact words for different reasons, and Ben notes the soft tones of annoyance and anger that are lacing her voice.

“Did you give me the fucking cure?!”

Ben draws his lips into tight line and nods. Admittedly, she might not have fully consented to the procedure. But he prefers her furious with him for the rest of her life over dead. Besides, he’s her husband – shouldn’t the decision be his? Like pulling the plug? That’s a thing, right?

“Motherfucking–“

She bites down on her tongue and swallows her curses with some blood as another surge of pain takes control of her body. Her fingernails claw at her forearms as if she’s trying to scratch it out of her system. If Ben could compare it to anything, he’d probably go with a demon exorcism.

“You selfish fucking prick! You can’t even let me die in peace?!” she grits through her teeth, fighting another surge. She feels the nausea too, like a parasite trying to flee its host through her throat.

“Look, I’m fucking sorry, but I had to take the shot, alright?!”

Y/N groans in loud exhaustion, and Ben’s not entirely sure if it’s because of the pain or a little bit because of him, too.

“Ben, you need to fucking leave,” she presses through her lips, her stern gaze finding his.

He can tell by her look that she’s not saying it out of anger. She’s not saying it because she doesn’t want him to stay and never see him again. She says it because she’s trying to save his life.

Again. The fourth time.

Her name falls from his lips, but she shakes her head as she stumbles out of bed and pushes past him towards the bathroom.

“Leave,” she tells him with more urgency. “Close the door. Go now.”

Ben stills with a hand on the doorknob and looks at her. He can’t leave her like this, can he?

“I’ll be fine. I promise. Please go,” she says as if she can read his mind, steadying herself against the cool wall. She can feel it everywhere, trying to escape her body.

His breaths are ragged, his heart is hammering against his ribs. “I fucking love you,” he says through the sting of tears in his eyes. He says it like it’s the last time he gets to say it while she can still hear him.

She sends him a weak smile and mouths, ‘I love you, too.’

And all there’s left then for him to do is staring at a closed bedroom door. And waiting. Fucking waiting…

Part 3: Lovestruck

Ah yes the waiting game 😂🫶 Are you excited for the finale aka the happy end tomorrow? After this, they truly deserve it haha

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Soldier Boy: @deans-baby-momma @snowayumi

Rehab Series: @nancymcl @sparkydonugh

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Just My Type

This one is for @henderdads with her prompt - accidental first kiss. Happy Valentine's Day, Cass! I hope this will bring you some joy!

Steve Harrington wasn't known for sharing his problems with others. He was the one who resolved all your issues, not brought more to the already very overcrowded table. The kids needed some stability, and as much as he loved Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, they weren't exactly fit for that role. The girls would soon leave Hawkins for college (Steve was so proud his heart could burst), and Eddie had his hands full with the whole finishing high school thing while still recovering from being nearly eaten by demobats.

No, Steve had this handled. He was the least fun of the four, but reliable. As far as the kids knew, the only issue Steve had was his inconsistent and ever dramatic love life, nothing else.

When Steve's eyesight started getting worse, likely from all those concussions, he handled it on his own. No need to worry anyone. A secret pair of glasses for home, prescription sunglasses for driving (and yeah, he looked cool in them, despite the kids' grumbling), and that was it. They didn't need to know. Everything was working out just fine. He was great at faking things.

At least until that fateful day. But we’ll get there. First, something about Steve’s love life.

See, Steve was dating around. He had been feeling anxious, unfulfilled, and the more he thought about it, the reason wasn’t Nancy for once. Even stranger, he knew he was over her, but the feeling of needing something and not being able to get it wouldn’t leave. So he got out there, used his charm, and prayed he’d finally find the one.

So far, it wasn’t working out. Most of the girls he went out with were lovely, kind, and gorgeous, but there was always something missing that made him break things off before anyone could get hurt. He had a type - curly or wavy dark hair and even darker eyes, but hey. It wasn’t his fault that Nancy had been the closest to an ideal relationship he’d ever had! That had to be the reason, he thought. Maybe his concussed brain decided that curly hair meant a good girlfriend.

“It’s not like I can help it,” he lamented, pretending not to see Eddie’s amused smirk. They had become good friends after their Upside Down near death experience, and as Dustin never failed to mention with a truckload of disgust, they were now practically inseparable. “Who doesn’t like curly hair? They’re making it this whole thing. I’m over Nancy.”

Eddie snorted and tossed his chemistry textbook somewhere towards the pile of stuff that might have included his desk. “Uh-huh. Sure thing. So this new one-”

“Jenny.”

Eddie snapped his fingers. “Yes. This Jenny. It’s just a coincidence that she’s a dead ringer for Wheeler.” He nudged Steve’s side with his bare foot. “Come on, Harrington. Be honest with your only adult friend.”

Steve kicked him in retaliation. “Wow, rude. I’ll let you know, I have Robin!”

“Buckley is so much more than a mere human, Steven. She doesn’t count, she surpasses our species. Whereas I,” he announced to the broken ceiling fan, “am very human, non-judgmental, and I have seen you go through half a dozen ladies of the same type since the spring break. So?”

Laughing, Steve kicked him again. “So nothing. She doesn’t look like Nancy. Hell, she looks more like you - her hair is darker, more wavy, and she has those really pretty dark eyes. And she’s tall. Are you saying you’re my type too?”

Eddie rolled over and batted his eyelashes. “I don’t know, Steve, am I?”

Steve hit him with a pillow in the face. If he hadn’t been so busy laughing, he might have just noticed the tinge of longing in Eddie’s voice.

..

To recap: the two things that led to the most important day of Steve’s life were a) his tendency to date a certain visual type of girl; b) his unwillingness to admit to anyone that he needed glasses.

Here’s what happened.

Steve, being both a good friend and a good boyfriend, took Jenny to see Eddie perform with the Corroded Coffin. Was metal his favorite music genre? Not really, but he wanted to support Eddie, and Jenny didn’t seem to mind, she even agreed to wear a Corroded Coffin t-shirt from Steve’s wardrobe.

Steve found himself enjoying the concert way more than he’d expected. The alcohol helped, sure, but it was so heartwarming to see Eddie in his element, scarred, but still the same. Steve had even learned to recognize the lyrics within all the noise, and even if he wasn’t ready to discuss that with Eddie yet, Steve considered them surprisingly deep. He really hoped Eddie would make it big, he was a wonderful guy, and life owed him big time.

After the concert, Jenny excused herself to the bathroom, and Steve went to grab some beers. His head was pleasantly buzzing, and even though his eyesight was more blurry than usual, he found his way through the crowd with ease.

He put down both beers and wrapped his arm around Jenny’s waist. He’d lost track of time at the bar, she must have come back in the meantime. And so, as they tended to do, he touched her cheek and turned her face into a quick kiss.

Steve noticed several things at once.

First, stunned gasps from the Corroded Coffin members, along with Robin’s snickering.

Second, Jenny’s cheek felt different. Almost stubbly?

Third, it was the best damn kiss he’d ever had.

And fourth, before the kiss could end, he felt something wet - the beer he’d just brought - hit his head and back, along with an angry shriek.

What happened next was a blur, and not just because he had trouble seeing it. He was vaguely aware of a second Jenny hitting him with her purse and storming off, Robin trying to control her laughter, and the person next to him, also drenched in beer? That was Eddie.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry!” Steve instinctively grabbed napkins and started drying off the beer in Eddie’s hair, on his jacket. “I...OK, not the best time to tell you, but I’ve noticed I can’t see shit, and normally I wear glasses, but I couldn’t take them with me because I look like a baby accountant or something, and I didn’t want you guys to worry. And uh, you probably know, but your hair looks kinda like Jenny’s, and I’m really sorry I did that without asking.”

Eddie was motionless, letting Steve fret over him. He was just staring into the distance, cogs turning in his brain.

Robin, bless her heart, re-directed the Corroded Coffin guys to grab a mop and a dry t-shirt from Eddie’s van for both Steve and Eddie. After that, she started ushering the unlucky pair towards men’s bathrooms, to “wash off that smell before it’s too late.” She snapped her fingers in front of Eddie’s eyes, getting him to move.  

As she shoved both of them towards the sink, she grabbed Steve’s hand and pulled him close. “Since you are freshly broken up, I would strongly suggest you think hard and fast about why you made that mistake, Steve. I can’t spell it out for you, even if it would be easier for everyone involved.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Yeah, uh...I think I might know.”

“Might?”

“I definitely know.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m so dumb. That...even if I didn’t mean to, it wasn’t fair to Jenny. Or the ones before.”

Robin smiled at him and, not unkindly, patted his shoulder. “They’ll get over it. In the meantime, your man looks like he’s about to faint. Don’t mess this up, OK? I couldn’t stand to see you brooding again and going through another set of Eddie substitutes.”

After she closed the door behind Steve, she grabbed the mop and started cleaning the mess. She could say it would cost Steve a lifetime of driving her around, but she knew he’d do that anyway.

..

In the bathroom, Eddie was slowly finding his words. “You...you kissed me.”

Steve took a step towards Eddie, trying not to spook him. “Yeah. I know it sounds like bullshit,” he said, pushing down the bitter memories of that word, “but I really mistook you for Jenny. I can’t see much, especially when it’s dark. I’m really sorry, Eddie.”

He couldn’t see Eddie’s face, but his voice didn’t sound fine. The music from the club drowned out most of the quieter sounds, but Steve could swear he heard a sniffle. “Of course,” whispered Eddie and he seemed so sad. Steve wanted to punch his own face. “Of course it was a mistake.”

Eddie straightened his back and wiped at his eyes before turning towards Steve. “Don’t worry, Steve. It happens. I mean, you should feel more sorry for yourself, you’re single again, and if Jenny or anyone from the club talks, they’ll think you’re a-”

“I don’t care.”

With a bitter chuckle, Eddie shook his head. “You don’t get it, Steve. You have a reputation to protect. Our lovely and pious citizens of Hawkins expect something like that from me, they know I’m...wrong. But you? You’re the golden boy. Steve, you should think about what this will do to you.” He wasn’t looking at Steve, his eyes were glued to the floor. Steve didn’t need a hint to know why Eddie was blinking so rapidly, why he sounded so strained.

He reached out and grasped Eddie’s hands. “Eddie. I really don’t care. I won’t feel sorry for what someone might think. The only reason I’m sorry is that I kissed you without you agreeing to it, in front of people, because...” He took a deep breath and squeezed Eddie’s hands. “...because I wanted our first kiss to be something special. Not a case of a mistaken identity caused by my shitty eyesight. And I wish I could have done it differently, that we wouldn’t be in this dirty bathroom, and sticky and disgusting from that beer. But even if I’m sorry for not asking you, I’m also glad. Because it made me realize something really important.”

Eddie was staring at him with wide eyes, still wet with tears, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. A hint of hope. “And what is that?” he asked.

Steve moved several wet strands of Eddie’s hair from his face. He looked just a little bit like a wet rat, but to Steve, he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And he couldn’t wait to bury his hands in Eddie’s hair properly, when it was freshly washed. Maybe smelling of Steve’s shampoo. That was a thought.

He stroked Eddie’s cheek and for the first time in so long, he felt puzzle pieces falling in place. This was right.

“I realized that I didn’t answer you when you asked me,” he smiled and pulled Eddie closer. “You, Eddie Munson, are exactly my type.”

[bnuuyclub]

Let's Talk About Playboy Rabbits!

Yes, they really did exist. Back in the 1980s, when Playboy Clubs were starting to lose business, Christie Hefner had the bright idea to introduce what would come to be known as the male equivalent of Playboy Bunnies—Playboy Rabbits—in order to attract female keyholders. They made their debut at the Empire Club, and they fit right in with the rest of the themed character costumes designed by Bunny June De Young.

Top: Rabbit photo taken by Andy Warhol on the Empire Club's opening night. Bottom: photo clipping from a Newsweek Article.

In October 1985, The New York Times published a story to drum up interest a few weeks before the club had its grand opening. The following was said about Playboy's shiny new Rabbits:

"Rabbit Uniforms are still under wraps, but Richard Melman, who as acting director of the club division of Playboy Enterprises is opening the new club, said that the seats of the uniforms would be padded (for some reason), that Rabbits would almost certainly not wear ears and that the uniforms would be all-American, but sexy, don't worry."

Clearly, Melman had changed his mind by the time the club opened, opting to include one Rabbit costume with ears and a tail. He later described the uniform as "cute" when interviewed by the Chicago Tribune. "I mean, when you get the right guy, it works."

Otherwise, the standard costume for Rabbits consisted of a shirtless tuxedo and white cuffs with Playboy cufflinks to match the Bunny uniforms.

Left: a Statue of Liberty Bunny, two Rabbits, and an Olympian Bodybuilder Bunny surrounding Richard Melman at the center. Right: photo clipping from a New York Post article.

But what did the Rabbits think of it all? To start off, a few of them were interviewed by the same news outlets for their thoughts on this new job opportunity. Their impressions were mostly positive:

"I always wanted to be first. I came to realize that I would not be the first astronaut or the first to hit 62 home runs. This is an honor." - Louis Affenito (first Rabbit hired) for The New York Times.

"A Rabbit projects an image of someone you would like your daughter to date. We don't want hardcore sex appeal but something more subtle. Like when you walk in, you look again." - Benjamin Lucas for Chicago Tribune.

"I wouldn't really classify myself as a sex object. Well, the more I think about it, I guess I would." - Greg Gunsch for United Press International.

I was surprised I was able to find some of the Rabbits' names. Not very many, considering there were roughly 35 of them working at this club, but eventually I came across more information after finding this image in my search:

Hugh Hefner with Bunnies and Rabbits at the Empire Club. Note the variety in uniforms!

You see those guys on the far right in the first picture wearing vests? That would be Jeff Rector and his twin brother, Jerry. If they sound familiar, it's because they both made guest appearances on Star Trek. If they don't sound familiar, it's because they were buried under a bunch of chunky sci-fi prosthetics.

Jeff and Jerry Rector as Tennis Rabbits. It was easier to find work if they played up the twin act. Also, probably the clearest photo of Playboy Rabbits available on the free web...

According to Jeff's autobiography that is currently available on Audible, numerous dancers from the nearby male strip club Chippendales applied for the job, but none were accepted. Playboy was looking for classy, attractive, "boy-next-door" types — about the same as the Bunny standard. He considered it an honor to be working as a Playboy Rabbit.

Jeff Rector's headshot on the cover of his autobiography.

Because the club was waning in popularity and themed nights at other bars were trendy at the time, Jeff was allowed to suggest a handful of new ideas to renew interest. This included a "historical explorer" theme in which he wore an Indiana Jones costume and the Bunnies dressed up as jungle girls! Unfortunately, despite his efforts to liven up the scene, novelty clubs didn't have very long lifespans to begin with. Boys at the Empire Club were only able to enjoy their cottontailed fame for a little over a year before it ended.

During this time, the Bunnies and Rabbits ended up growing very close with one another. In Jeff's own words:

"We had become a family and the family was about to be split up. Where would we go? What would we do? How do you follow up a gig with Playboy?"

After a week of crazy goodbye parties, the Rector twins moved back to LA to resume acting work.

This marked the beginning of the end for Playboy Clubs. The Empire Club officially shut down in 1986, and other locations remained open for a few years, but the last U.S. Playboy Club in Lansing closed its doors by 1988. What a shame!

[idkwh0y0uare-haha]

MCR HELPED ME FIND MY CONFIDENCE AND NOW IM GONNA RANT ABOUT IT

admittedly, I'm a new mcr fan. I started listening to them a year ago and they've been my favorite band ever since. Shortly after I started listening to them I started watching clips and interviews bcuz i thought the band was so interesting. The last band I really liked was lovejoy (yes, ik what the lead singer did and I no longer support him or his music) but i started liking mcr a lot more

Of course, I really started liking gerard way, and he stuck out to me in particular. Dw, I love mikey, ray, and frank too, but gerard was the first to stick out to me (could also be because he's the frontman, but I don't think so)

I found gerard to be such a relatable person. Obviously, I don't relate to EVERY ASPECT of gerard's life but there were some things that I was able to relate to, which I won't go into detail about that right now but probably later

As a trans, queer, and alternative person, I found comfort in the fact that mcr was (and is) such an icon to those communities. Like if I was alone in a room with gerard, mikey, ray, and frank, I would feel EXTREMELY safe and just the fact that they're so well known is just so important to me

I was able to relate to gerard's gender non conformity because even though i'm a trans man, I still appreciate things that would be considered "feminine" especially amongst my peers. Before listening to mcr, I would try to present as masc as possible because my more "feminine traits" made me feel extremely dysphoric and all I wanted was to pass, but the things that gerard would say about gender and sexuality helped me feel seen in a sense. That's when i realized that I liked wearing eyeliner and eye makeup. I actually liked dressing differently in clothes that made me happy. I actually liked painting my nails black and red. And I actually liked wearing lots of jewelry. I'm not sure when I would have realized that if i didnt start listening to mcr

Not only that, but I stopped caring about how "masc" I looked, because in the end, none of it mattered. I wasnt happy trying to be as masc as possible. I wasn't happy trying to be like every other boy in my school. I'm happier just being me and not caring about how I'm perceived, and ironically ever since i started dressing how i actually wanted to, I've been misgendered a whole lot less which I personally thought was hilarious.

And because i'm dressing and looking how i want to, I feel so much better about my appearance and personality. I feel like I can actually be myself and like what i wanna like, and nobody really gives a shit anymore. Sure, I get a few weird looks and people just not knowing what my gender is, but I don't care anymore because i'm happy, and I feel like mcr really contributed to that fact

if it wasn't for me listening to helena on the school bus one random day, I would have never watched any mcr interviews and I would have never known just how much gerard way specifically would have helped me in my journey to finding my confidence again. Gerard way helped me stop caring so much about how other people see me and instead how I saw myself and while i still have those days where i feel like shit and just wanna hide in a hoodie and a pair of jeans, that happens a lot less than it used to, and who doesn't have a bad day every once in a while?

it probably sounds stupid saying that gerard way (unintentionally) helped me find confidence in my gender and how i express myself, but he really did. I feel so much more comfortable in my skin and to be honest, it's because listening to mcr made me realize that i'm not alone and that there are other people out there who feel the same things i feel, and that made me feel seen.

So excuse me if i talk about gerard way a lot, but gerard really helped me understand my gender and how i wanna express it. I'm so much happier not having to worry about conforming to gender roles that don't even matter, and honestly my chem and gerard way really helped me realize that

so yeah, I fucking love gerard way. Before you get annoyed about the fact that i talk about him so much, maybe think about why i do

Mcr saved me

thank you for listening to my emo yap session

[sunny5656]

Stolitz week 2025

Mortality/soulmates promt (warning: sad)

"You know I love you, right?"

They are laying side by side on their bed, in their home. Rings decorate their fingers and dozens of family portraits their walls. The moon is full but they don't see it -they are only looking at each other. Life is good.

"Oh, darling..." Stolas breaths out, "I love you too. More than anything. I simply cannot imagine a life without you anymore."

Blitz's smile turns bittersweet suddenly. "Yeah, me, too... But... what if one day you have to?"

"No!" Stolas protest quickly, not wanting to let this topic sneak into their conversation. "I don't wanna think about that... not now, please."

"Shit. You're right. I'm sorry... happy thoughts?"

Blitz's smile is warm again as he catches his husband's hand and squeezes thight.

Stolas blinks the forming tears away, nodding. "Yes, please."

Blitz shifts closer to Stolas, nuzzling his face on those silky soft chest feathers. "Wanna go see the M&M baby tomorrow? Mills told me she learned to "kick some ass" or something."

Stolas chuckles at that, happy at how the athmosphere has immediately changed. Oh, what kind of chaotic, funny, delightful person their satandaughter was growing up into. "Oh, my! Then we simply must to! Actually, I have some new books I've been wanting to read her!"

Now it's Blitz's turn to chuckle. "Pffft...nerd."

"Maybe..." Stolas raises his eyebrow, "But I'm your nerd."

💜💫💜💫💜💫💜

"You know I love you, right?"

It's one of those sleepless nights again. They are laying on their bed, in their home, and faint marks of the years past decorate the corners of Blitz's eyes and the sides of his mouth. He has been smiling and laughing a lot during all these years with Stolas.

"Oh, dearest. I do know that." Stolas says, "And I love you. Forever."

"R-really?" Blitz asks carefully, his eyes gleaming with a mix of hope and worry. "Even after I'm-"

"Blitz!" Stolas doesn't let him finish this time either, "Blitzy, please. Don't say that. Don't you even dare think about that. I- I'm too..."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, Stols." Blitz quickly says, brushing it off by a warm smile and a firm squeeze of his hand. "Happy thoughts?"

"Happy thoughts." Stolas agrees.

"Remember that one mission we went on together, just the two of us...?"

Stolas blushes immediately at the memory, recalling back to the time he remembers very vividly. "Oh, I do... If I remember correctly, we got barely anything done~"

"Oooh I did something alright. Or someone."

Blitz winks an eye, and Stolas' feathers puff out like he had just fallen in love for the first time -which he did, every single day.

"And..." Blitz continued, wiggling his eyebrows and disappearing slowly under the covers, "I think I'll do that someone again right now."

"Ooooh yes please~"

💜💫💜💫💜💫💜

"You know I love you, right?"

His voice has deepened, and so have the wrinkles on his face, but he looks still ever so handsome as always. They lay on their bed once again, in their home. Their daughters had visited them earlier, and they had spent the most wonderful evening playing board games and watching movies.

"Of course I do, darling." Stolas answers softly, "And I love you, always."

"Me too, pretty bird. Even when I'll be- nevermind."

Silence surrounds them for a while, but this time Stolas is ready. He sighs deeply and with a pout and scared look in his eyes he says:

"No, it's okay, Blitz. I think I'm ready to talk about it."

"Oh." Blitz shifts closer, and so does Stolas, "Oh, okay."

"I just... I'm really, very scared. I don't know what I would do without you here by my side..."

There's already tears in his eyes, but they are quickly swiped away by Blitz's trembling hands.

"You'll do plenty. You'll water your plants, and drink some tea, and read your favorite books. And you'll be sad, I know you will. B-but..."

Now Blitz's own eyes fill with involuntarily tears.

"But I hope you will smile too. I- I need you to smile! Fuck, if- if you will end up some numb ghost of this person I know right now, I fucking refuse to die!"

"Blitz..." Stolas reaches out, gently cupping the imp's face.

"Stolas..." Blitz leans into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment to get the tears out.

"I fear I cannot smile without you in my life." Stolas admits. He would love to tell his husband that yes, he will smile and find happiness in the little things of his life, but how can he, when the biggest one will be gone.

"Then I refuse."

Stolas forces a fragile smile besides his almost broken heart already at the mere thought.

"We will find a way. I'm not letting it happen." He assures, "In this life or in the next, fuck it -even in the afterlife- we will be together. Just like this."

Blitz's lips start to tremble and he holds onto Stolas' like his life would end here and now if he didn't.

"....Happy thoughts?" This time he's the one to ask.

"Sure. Happy thoughts." Stolas agrees, "Remember how I won the game today?"

Blitz laughs between his tear-filled face. "Umm, what I remember is you begging me wordlessly to let you with those fucking doe eyes!"

"Oh you mean these~?"

Blitz's heart skips a beat at the sight and his tears turn to happy ones.

"Yes. Those." He whispers, capturing his love in a deep kiss. "I love those."

💜💫💜💫💜💫💜

For so many nights to come they will lay side by side, just like this. And for so many mornings they will wake up next to each other, and eat breakfast together, and go on holidays together, and argue and cry and kiss and laugh and make love.

And when -if- the day comes they will not be doing that, Stolas will still find Blitz in everything he does. He will be in the trees, especially the one's that grow stubbornly where they shouldn't. And he will be in the breeze of a wind, playing with Stolas' feathers just like before. He will be the moon looking down from the skies and the sunlight and all the stars waving at him from beyond the galaxies. And he will be the mundane, the coffee that wakes Stolas up in the mornings and all the heroes in the books he reads, and all the times when someone fiercely stands up for themself or their loved ones.

But for now, they lay side by side on their bed in their home, true love decorating their heart shaped eyes.

[zappedbyzabka]

Some of my general thoughts on CK season 6 part 3

Ralph and Billy's tearful scenes with 'Miyagi' and Kreese were phenomenal. They're such great actors 10/10.

I have a lot to say about Johnny's scene with Kreese but just to keep things short, I'll talk about that another time. But wow wow wow. Dominique Swain applauds.

Daniel's nonstop anxiety about his family getting hurt :/ least he had fun getting tipsy with his wife. Amanda looked gorgeous with that new hair (though she always does.) He really tapped into offense side this season. Looove how he knew exactly what to say to make Silver blank-face and leave lmao.

I'm SOOOO never getting over 'You're alright, Lawrence!' and lawrusso recreating the nose swipe scene with Daniel acting as Kreese for Johnny to inspire him. Johnny was MUCH enjoying that.

Daniel basically buying Johnny his building back?😭 AGHHHH. 'I believe in you'....

Tory being dressed in the same gi as young Johnny, and Robby being dressed in the Miyagi Do gi with a hurt leg—paralleling Daniel—in combination with those scenes being where they get back together makes me insane. Like, lawrusso in another universe.

I feel Robby could have gotten a more smoothed out and rewarding end but at the same time, I'm glad he's happy and taken care of now. Angel.

Sam and Tory's scenes together were so heartwarming. Especially the scene of Tory getting emotional over the LaRusso's kindness and generosity to her. Finally getting some one on one with Daniel and Johnny.

When Sam brought up having something to tell Daniel but being worried he'd be disappointed in her, my mind instantly went to a coming out scene tbh.

The montage of binary boyfriends and samtory as Bobby's reading the vows? What are you trying to say???

Bobby and Johnny meeting up again <333 Bobby still gives him that special 'I would actually do for you' stare (whether platonic or not) and I squeal about it. I love that Ron got some time to shine<333 I thought Jimmy would appear, but he sadly did not.

I also thought Anoush was gay but I was obviously mistaken since he was kissing Ralph's daughter (Julia's performance was hilarious.)

Silver speeding away with Johnny in that car was crazyyy. Billy had yet another Scott (not the werewolf) Mccall moment except he didn't get locked in a tower this time. You would've thought the employees would have seen Silver in the papers months ago and called the cops.

His envy over Daniel and Johnny having things to live for and people that actually love them was sad—especially with him being ill. If you think about it, Kreese was all he had besides the money, and when he didn't have Kreese the only way he had anyone around him was pretending to be someone else.

His jealousy over Kreese's love for Johnny really shined through as well with that 'I don't know why you messed up what I was doing with Kreese' (paraphrasing) and the way he called Kreese pathetic for groveling to Johnny no matter how many times he rejected him. Silver felt that he himself was pathetic for having always crawled back to Kreese no matter the rejection he faced.

Also the fucking grenade boat explosion scene??? INSANE???? Literally died in each other's arms. I know many people have problems with it but I don't see what else they really could have done for the two villains with endless crimes (which I love about them alright) that wouldn't be worse.

Think about how Silver probably thought he'd die alone, but didn't. When I realized Kreese was set on offing himself and taking Silver with him the whole time, and that was the reason he spent most of his scenes apologizing to the last few people he loved...

Would like to know more about what happened to Wolf. His bitchiness almost rivaled Johnny's, and damn did he eat up every scene he was in. Just a great character.

Johnny with the tailor? There's my prissy brat.

Considering everything wrong with the baby plot, I at least liked how they did end up choosing to show it. Johnny going full girl dad and being so sweet and coddling to the baby + Miguel and Robby made my heart SOAR. He's always been tender with them but the writers never really did let him to just relax and love. He deserves to be happy, like every imperfect victim irl and in fiction who gets bashed for not meeting people's standards does.

Carmen is a baddie. Just chilling truly

[gethoce]

Alright Dutch's turn!!

1: If your partner could only eat one food for the rest of their life, what would it be?

“Urgh… He isn't really the picky type. He'd earn just about anything you put near his mouth.” There is a sense of annoyance in his expression. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “He'd probably eat my scales all day if he could, which I wouldn't recommend to anyone. They're dark matter, just like the rest of me.”

2: Who has the better sense of fashion?

“Heh…” A chuckle escapes him for a moment. “Limos doesn't really do fashion. I've only seen him dressed on a handful of occasions and those times he merely copied his warlock.” He shakes his head and then points at himself with a claw. “While I'm not particularly fashionable, it's more than nothing so… me.”

3: Who would win in a battle?

For a moment he grimaces, rolls his eyes and stares into the distance in quiet contemplation. “His lazy attitude makes him easy to defeat but if he was to go all in for once few would stand a chance, including myself.” Then he leans forward, all three eyes wide open. “Though against my truest form he is but an insect.” For a moment his voice has a threatening undertone to it, but then he leans back again, dismissively. “Not that I'd be able to summon The Plurality on my own, but still… It is part of what I am.”

4: You get a new pet that you love, but your partner doesn’t. What kind of animal is it?

It takes him a few seconds of thinking. The thought of getting a pet never crossed his mind before. “I don't think he would care either way. There is about a 50/50 chance that he likes it or feels neutral about it and something aggressive he'd probably be more so on the neutral side of. He doesn't hate many things.”

5: Where would you take your partner for a vacation?

“Assuming I can get him to leave the house and do something in the first place?” He does a little horizontal waving motion with his hand, ons eyebrow raised. “Someplace where no people are. He hates meeting people. He's a solitarious locust… I'm not particularly social myself, but not quite that anti-social. Anyway, probably the wilderness somewhere.” Once again he rolls his eyes. It seems like he doesn't get to take Limos to places as much as he would want to. It's not a topic he wants to linger on.

6: Which video game do you always beat your partner at?

“The game of actually doing something. I'm not a gamer but I'm certain I could beat him with ease no matter which game it is without any prior training.” He waves away the topic, unable to even name any games.

7: Which Copy Ability would best describe your relationship?

He rests his chin on his fist as he is pondering his options until he comes to a conclusion. “UFO. I will not elaborate.”

8: You have to make breakfast for your partner. What are you cooking?

For a moment he bares his teeth in annoyance. “I don't do cooking. I can just about prepare some toast for him. That I can manage. Between the two of us he is the cook. It's actually one of the few skills he makes use of frequently. Probably because while he could eat just about anything, tasty food is still better.” He looks to the ground, mumbling with a sense of worry. “Not that he's ever eating as much as he should.”

9: What’s the best gift your partner ever gave you?

“He gave me this magatama necklace when he proposed to me” With one hand he withdraws a green necklace with a magatama as its centerpiece. “Other than that he isn't much of a gift giver. He gives me his company and that's all that really matters to me.”

10: What’s something you started doing because of your partner?

With a huff he turns silent for a few too many seconds. “Staying at home more often than travelling. I used to be constantly on the go, now I'm almost always there with him and our children. Maybe when the kids are adult I can go out again with no worries.”

Muchadoo is hosting a romance-themed game show called Dream Date, and new contestants are invited! Kirby ship couples (including AU and OC characters) are invited to see how well they know their partners!

While the game is heavily romance themed, the questions are meant to work for platonic couples as well!

The rules are simple: it’s just the Newlywed game. Both players are presented with the same question regarding their partner, and each one must write the answer they think is correct. After both partners have written their answers, they reveal them, and we see just how right they are!

Here are some questions the couples might be asked:

If your partner could only eat one food for the rest of their life, what would it be?

Who has the better sense of fashion?

Who would win in a battle?

You get a new pet that you love, but your partner doesn’t. What kind of animal is it?

Where would you take your partner for a vacation?

Which video game do you always beat your partner at?

Which Copy Ability would best describe your relationship?

You have to make breakfast for your partner. What are you cooking?

What’s the best gift your partner ever gave you?

What’s something you started doing because of your partner?

There are no planned win conditions for this event, nor are there prizes; the point of this event is to simply provide a fun set of prompts for character couples/partnerships to answer in drawing or writing form! Just reblog this post adding your characters answering the questions, have fun, and have a happy Valentine’s Day!

[ikkesola]

No hear me out what if when Tommy gets ‘weirded out’ and isn’t much help in the situation its not because hEs An AwFuL bOyFrIeNd but because he’s fully convinced the loft is cursed and Buck is actually the level headed one in the situation