#in the words of The Velveteen Rabbit

[jaxasstm]

i love the hc i have that Jax wasn't always so mean when he first arrived to the circus. he was actually pretty quiet and shy and mostly went along with everything.

...that's till his first friend in the circus abstracted, and it was pretty much his fault too. they had gotten into a fight, and Jax said pretty hurtful stuff..

after that said person was gone, it's when the walls started to build up. and at one point Jax figured being nice doesn't matter in the end, people will just abstract anyways.. it made Jax became bitter, and angry cause why did people leave?? when they promised not to????

i'm just really sad today and this idea got me WEH soBBING SIMPLY, CHEWING ON THE DRYWALL

[moe-broey]

Mani is a Perfect Beautifully Crafted Definitely Not Haunted doll and Moe is velveteen rabbit coded. You understand.

[devine-acension-831]

“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Margery Williams - The Velveteen Rabbit, 1923.

[litandlifequotes]

It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’

The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams Bianco

[palmtreesx3]

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard. 

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control. 

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

 New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

 Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly. 

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”  

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar. 

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology. 

 Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut.  Let him wonder.  Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you?  You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade” 

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.” 

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn��t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile.  God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

 Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples.  Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve?  Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free. 

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum.  And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

 Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

 Ugly.

 Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back. 

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first. 

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off.  Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides. 

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse  loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak. 

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care. 

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up. 

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open. 

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to  pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches. 

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching?  Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open. 

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you. 

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful. 

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger. 

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze. 

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away. 

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs. 

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy.  Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer. 

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,” 

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.  

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock. 

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?” 

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly. 

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.”  She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.”  His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed. 

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

 Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.  

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—”  You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it.  Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

[heechwe]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO | 양정인

⟢ PAIRING: yang (IN) jeongin x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2K ⟢ GENRE: lots of fluff, smut ⟢ TAGS: marriage au, parents au, body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, fingering, breeding kink ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Who would've thought the greatest wish that your husband had for his birthday was to read his son a bedtime story? Well, that, and one other thing... ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to all of the betas who worked on this for me—a (@chugging-antiseptic-dye), ley (@pars-ley), tiya (@gyubakeries), ally (@lovetaroandtaemin), and kae (@ylangelegy)! I love you all loads. And happy belated to the fox himself ♥︎

Where have Jeongin and Kyungsoo gone?

It’s the one question that permeates the corners of your mind as you search for your husband and your son. You had stepped away after slicing the cake you baked for Jeongin’s birthday dinner to fold a few clothes; the chores got away from you, your focus entirely on your husband’s arrival and quiet birthday celebration. However, by the time you came back, the two tricksters were nowhere to be found.

They’re not in Kyungsoo’s toy room, the study, or the backyard. Your husband usually likes to burn off your four-year-old’s energy with a game of tag after dinner, but you don’t hear squeals of glee or anything else to indicate they’re playing. It’s deadly silent, and it puts every one of your nerves on edge.

Trekking up the stairs to the second floor, you realize the last places you haven’t checked for them are your bedroom and Kyungsoo’s across the hall. Tiny giggles emulate from the crack in your son’s door, and you feel relief wash over your bones. You creep quietly so they can continue without being interrupted, listening to the two of them, the inseparable father and son duo.

“‘What is Real?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’” Jeongin says the words in a high-pitched voice, making Kyungsoo laugh harder than before. When his father continues, however, he goes silent again, eager to hear the next part of the story. He’s just like Jeongin; a jokester, but an inquisitive one.

You forget how long it’s been since Jeongin read Kyungsoo a bedtime story. Work and adult responsibilities had to impede on one of your husband’s favorite ways to spend time with his little boy. He found other ways to make up for missing it, but you know it’s one of the best parts of his day. Perhaps it’s a small birthday wish come true.

“‘Real isn't how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.’

“Papa?” Kyungsoo asks amid Jeongin’s reading of The Velveteen Rabbit, a book you’ve had in Kyungsoo’s library since he was little, but you can barely remember if you’ve ever read it to him before today. His voice is curious but small, and you wonder what his next words will be before he says them.

“Yes, bud?”

“Does that mean you and Mama are Real, too?” Kyungsoo’s question makes your heart swell, the muscle in your chest already overly expanded from listening in on the two of them together. “Because I really love you. Mama too!”

Jeongin chuckles, and you hear his lips kissing the crown of your young son’s head. Your husband plants a dozen into the little boy’s hair, making him giggle again, the sound making you croon internally. “Of course, Soo. The day you were born was the day Mama and I became Real, I think.”

“Really?” Without looking, you can tell Kyungsoo is so curious yet so happy. You feel tears spring to your eyes.

“Really really. And you’re Real too, because Mama and I love you just the same.” Jeongin responds. “Right, Mama?”

Your cheeks heat up, your husband too perceptive for his own good. You should’ve known better; he’s always been able to sense your presence since you were teenagers, no place too big or small for him to not feel you around. You wipe the tears away before cracking the door open, smiling down at your two favorite boys in the world.

A million memories flash in your mind as you look at Jeongin with the nursery book in one hand and your son in the other. The day he asked you out in the library, the night you said yes to his proposal, the moment you held Kyungsoo for the first time. It’s all because of the man whose birthday you not only celebrate, but thank the universe for in the quiet of your own mind. Without him, you’d really be without some of the best things in your life.

“He’s telling the truth, Kiki.” Hearing his nickname makes Kyungsoo’s lips turn up harder at the corners and his ears turn pink, the color matching the shade on your face.

Jeongin kisses the top of Kyungsoo’s head again. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed. But I’ll read the rest to you tomorrow night, alright?”

“Promise?” Kyungsoo holds his pinky out, and Jeongin takes it a second later. “Pinky promises,” in your husband’s words from so long ago, “are no joke, babe. Once you make one, you can’t take it back.”

“Extra pinky promise. I love you, bud.”

He nods and hugs Jeongin tightly in his small arms, an “I love you” leaving the little boy’s lips and settling into his father’s chest. Jeongin feigns weakness under the hold your son has on him, and you giggle. “You gotta stop growing. Soon you’ll be stronger than Uncle Chan.”

Kyungsoo lets Jeongin go so he can get cozy under his comforter. “Love you, Mama,” Kyungsoo says with a small, sleepy grin, his face suddenly riddled with fatigue.

“Love you too, honey.” You blow him a kiss as he shuts his eyes. Jeongin takes your hand in his before he closes the door to your son’s room.

The second you shut your bedroom door, Jeongin has you sprawled out onto the bed and his lips attached to your neck.

He peppers his words in between kisses, his love and admiration for you clear with each press of his mouth on your skin. “I may have lied to Soo earlier.”

You sit up and furrow your brows. “What?”

“I think I became Real the day you told me you loved me for the first time,” he confesses. His eyes gleam with raw intensity, his lips still placing butterfly kisses across your body. He, then, latches them to your collarbones and sucks, marking you in places nobody else will see.

"Ditto" is the only coherent word you can then say aloud. Jeongin smirks against your body and unbuttons your shirt with agonizing slowness. 

“I love you so much, angel,” he whispers as he pulls your shirt off entirely, the lace bralette underneath making his mouth water. “I’m a lucky man, you know that, right?”

“You say that like I’m not also incredibly lucky myself,” you gasp as he yanks your pants and underwear down in the same motion. He hovers back over your body after he takes off his own shirt and pants, the only garment left on him being his underwear.

He reaches into one cup of your bralette to reveal your breast, his lips and tongue latching onto the exposed nipple. You moan quietly, not wanting to disturb your child in the next room.

“Every day is my birthday because I have you and our family. I’m so fucking blessed, angel. You have no idea.” He turns his attention to the other breast, and you feel like a frenzied animal underneath him as he continues to tease you. You move your hand down to palm him over his underwear. You whimper at his firm erection and the wet patch on the fabric.

“Like what you feel, doll? That’s all for you,” Jeongin says, unclipping the bralette from your back to toss away. “For you only, forever.”

You giggle, dazed and breathless. You use your free hand to press one of his own between your thighs. Your slick folds greet him eagerly, his fingers gathering your pleasure in a matter of seconds. “And that’s all for you, Yinnie.”

He rubs your clit between his fingers, and you roll your hips up to meet the movements head-on. You clumsily pull Jeongin’s underwear down over his ass and thighs, the fabric reaching the spot just above his knees, but you don’t care. You need him inside of you, sooner rather than later. “Yinnie, please fuck me.” The lilt in your voice makes the statement sound more like a question. It’s a question you know Jeongin will always answer with quick ease.

“Of course, angel.” You gasp when the head of his dick glides across your folds before he pushes inside. Your walls have to adjust to his size, even after all these years. When he bottoms out, your eyelids flutter and your mouth hangs open from the fullness.

He says your name once he begins thrusting his hips. “I have one birthday wish I didn’t tell you about.”

You moan when he reaches between your bodies to rub your clit once again. “Anything you want, Yinnie. Always.”

He smiles and takes your lips in his, tugging on your bottom lip lightly. His pace between your legs increases, as does his fingers against your center. “I want another baby, sweetheart. Will you give me another one, please?”

When he asks so nicely, and gives you so much pleasure, how could you say no?

It’s been enough time, you think. Deep inside of you, the prospect of another baby, a sibling for Kyungsoo to dote on, has always been on your mind. You just didn’t know when the right time would be.

Now, it seems, is as good of a time as any when Jeongin begs for it so beautifully.

“Yes,” you say finally. “Fill me up, Jeongin.”

“Ah, fuck.” He switches positions, your body in his lap as he bucks up into you. “I’m gonna make you so swollen, baby. Can’t wait to see you pregnant again.”

As he helps you to bounce on top of him, his finger still deftly playing with your clit, you recall the memories of your pregnancy. How excited Jeongin was to feel Kyungsoo’s first kicks, the look on his face when you finally settled on names, and the tears in his eyes when his first child entered the world.

He’s a great husband, and an even better father, and you know without a doubt in your heart, you’d give him a dozen more if he asked you for them. He would love each one to the depths of his soul, the heart inside of him so big you don’t know how it stays inside of his chest.

“Give it to me, Yinnie. I want it so bad. Come inside of me, please.” The words come out in a tumble as you orgasm, your walls fluttering around Jeongin’s cock and your release coating him as he thrusts harder and faster. 

He changes positions once again, throwing your legs over his shoulders so he can truly go deeper than either of you thought possible. “I love you so much, angel.”

It’s the last words on his tongue before he comes, your insides filled with so much of his seed that you know he won’t let it go to waste. He milks the last of his orgasm before he pulls out, only to stuff what’s seeped out of you back into your pussy. Satisfied he’s done his job, he kisses your stomach and pulls you tightly in his embrace, your back to his front. The two of you are covered in sweat and sticky in more ways than one, but he’s so in love and enamored with what’s coming for the two of you, he pays no mind to instantly cleaning up.

“Best birthday ever,” Jeongin says into your neck. You laugh, thinking the celebration might just be for you rather than him. He treats you like a princess, even on days he’s the one who's meant to be ravished with attention and love. But that’s how he’s always been and always will be, a giver more than a taker. “I love you, sweetheart,” Jeongin says.

“I love you too, Yinnie. Always,” you say as you fall asleep, hoping he knows just how real your love is for him.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @lovetaroandtaemin @xomakara @pars-ley @addictedtohobi

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

[bootsukki]

warnings: pregnancy, mentions of vomit, i think this is cuteeeeee

masterlist

it was a cold december morning when your world completely changed.

the two faint lines on the pregnancy test confirmed all your doubts, finally finding an answer to your nausea, headaches and dizziness that you had for more than two weeks.

the realization washes over you in waves, equal parts joy and disbelief but full of joy. you tocuh your stomach softly, still flat but a soft smile spreads accross your face. this tiny secret, this fragile beginning on a new life is yours to treasure for now.

but, you don't want to keep it a secret for long. you think of kei - his quiet strenght, the way his guarded exterior softens when it is just the two of you and of course, his desire to be a dad.

you have been with kei for nearly a decade, having met him at university. even since then, he had made it clear that, between his future goals, having a family was a priority for him and, as you grew older, his idea didn't seem to change.

you want to tell him in a way he'll never forget.

a week laater, the perfect opportunity present itself. kei's mom calls one morning, asking if you can help her tidy up the attich ahead of the holiday season, as well as keeping an eye on you.

"kei says you have been feeling sick lately."

"oh, he's just exaggerating, i'm perfectly fine!" you answer into the phone. "but yeah! i would love to help you."

when you arrive that same afternoon, she greets you warmly, leading you up the creaky stairs with a smile. as you walk through kei's childhood bedroom, your eyes water at the image of a little baby having a room just like his but you save your tears and go up.

the place smells of old wood due to the amount of furniture they have been saving for years and you quickly set to work, sorting through different christmas decorations and boxes alongside her.

it isn't long before you open a box filled with old books. kei's mum smiles softly, telling you stories of some of the books, telling you anecdotes of akiteru's and kei's childhood.

"oh!" kei's mom exclaims, face lighting up as she holds up a worn-out book. the cover is faded, edges frayed and it is clear that it was a well-loved book.

"kei adored this book as a kid!" she turns the book around -The Velveteen Rabbit. "he asked me to read it every single night and would sob whenever i tried to pick up another book. he was fascinated by the idea of toys becoming real through love."

you let out a soft "aw" and pick up the book.

"he would say hello and goodbye to his toys every single day and he would sleep next to them, ugh, so cute." she laughs. "one time, he kissed his stuffed dinasour and told me it would protect me while he was at school and he even left it on the kitchen counter a few times so the dinosaur would look at me." she smiles. "he was my cute little boy. still is, i guess."

"he is truly the sweetest."

"i'm glad he has you, really." she states, giving you a quick look at you keep flipping through the pages of the book. "you make him really happy."

"he makes me happy too."

you smile. warmth blooming in your chest at the image of a young kei, so small and full of energy. it's in that attic, surrounded by the stories of his childhood, that the idea comes to you.

a few days after, you take a different route home, finding yourself in the main street of the city, browsing through the different children's bookstores to find a pristine new copy of The Velveteen Rabbit and after many failed attempts, you enter the last bookstore. your eyes browse the shelves, browing through the different titles, completely dissapointed about the fact that it seems to be out of stock.

"mayi help you?"

you quickly turn to look at the young girl wearing a cute uniform and a big book of books.

"yes! is there any chance that you have a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit? i've been looking everywhere."

"actually, we just got a book restock of new editions." your eyes widen at her words,and you feel like you could cry of happiness. "it includes a little rabbit plush." the girl leaves the giant box she was carrying on the floor and opens it, showing you its contents.

the book is included in a beautiful box filled with rabbit decorations and you can see the cutest little plush you have everd seen in your life.

"could i get one?"

"yes, of course! let me ring you up if you are done."

--------

on christmas' day eye, you feel like you could die of nerves. the day had started out in the worst way possible, with you vomiting everything that dared to enter your mouth. apart from that, you had been feeling extremely tired and dizzy, which worried kei to death, he had never seen you this sick and he couldn't understand wy you were so persistent on not visiting the doctor's office.

"maybe we should just stay home. my family will understand"

"no! i swear i'm fine."

"you've been really sick lately, i'm worried."

"you don't have to worry about it." you say, getting comfy under the blanket in the sofa, the rubbish bin right next to you in case you couldn't make it to the toilet. "i had a really big breakfast and maybe that's why my stomach is acting up."

"you ate an apple for breakfast."

"kei, my love." you run a hand through his hair and he sighs, closing his eyes for a second. "you don't need to worry."

"i...." he opens his eyes again, sending you a glare. "i feel like you are hiding something."

"what? why would i?"

"i don't know, you've been acting really weird this past couple of weeks." he answers, holding your hand and kissing it. "you've stopped drinking coffee."

"i'm changing my habits."

"uh-huh." kei kisses your lips softly. "whatever you say, pretty."

"i'm just..." pregnant. "nervous about tonight."

"what about tonight?"

"presents and everything. you know i always want them to be perfect."

kei smiles, kissing you once again. "you always get the best presents. no need to worry."

you nod, thinking about the perfectly wrapped box hidden in your closet and pray that it is indeed, the best present.

----

as night falls, the tsukishima household grows quiet, everyone sleeping in their respective beds except for you and kei, who always enjoy having a cup of hot chocolate as you relax in the sofa.

"i love this." kei says softly, putting ar arm around you, holding you closer to his chest. "i love spending christmas with you."

you smile, kissing him slowly for a few seconds before you pull away.

"i actually... i want to give you a present now."

"oh?" kei's eyebrow rises and a playful smirk makes its way to his face. "baby, my whole family is here."

"it's not that, you perv!" you hit his chest playfully and stand up to grab the small package under the tree, your heart pounding as you give it to him. "i hope you like it."

he smiles as he unwraps it, peeling back the paper until the book and toy are revealed.

he pauses, his expression unreadable as his eyes take in the title.

"how...?"

then, he opens the cover.

Can’t wait for Dad to read this to me! See you next July! <3

kei's breath catches and his gaze flickers to you, wide. "what? is this...?"

you nod, tears gathering your eyes. "we're having a baby."

his lips part but no words come. instead, his hands begin to tremble and his eyes grow misty. slowly, he sets the book aside, reaching for you, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he was afraid of letting you go.

"i..." his voice craks as he pressed his face into your shoulder, hands roaming your back. "i'm so happy. the happiest i've ever been."

you giggle, stroking his hair as he cries softly.

"i knew you were hiding something from me." he laughs, kissing your neck. "i... holy shit."

he pulls backs just enough to look at you and you swoon at the sight of his teary face. softly, you clean his tears with your thumb and kiss his cheeks before he cups your face in his hands, leaning to kiss you tenderly.

when he finally rests his forehead against yours, he smile. "thank you," he whispers. "for this."

you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. as the night goes on kei asks you questions and, obviously, freaks out at the realization that he is going to be a father, you know that you've given him the best gift he could ever receive and that, even when you were still at the beginning of this long journey of becoming parents, he had given you the best gift he could ever give you: unconditional love.

[jeongsoob]

like real people do ᯓ 𝚢𝚓𝚒

SFW version of my fic posted on @heechwe .ᐟ

୨୧ pairing: yang (IN) jeongin x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 1.3K ୨୧ genre: fluff on fluff ୨୧ tags: marriage au, parents au, so fluff it may rot your teeth ୨୧ synopsis: Who would've thought the greatest wish that your husband had for his birthday was to read his son a bedtime story? Well, that, and one other thing... ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to all of the betas who worked on this for me—a (@chugging-antiseptic-dye), ley (@pars-ley), tiya (@gyubakeries), ally (@lovetaroandtaemin), and kae (@ylangelegy)! I love you all loads. And happy belated to the fox himself ♥︎

Where have Kyungsoo and Jeongin ran off to?

It’s the one question that permeates the corners of your mind as you search for your husband and your son. You had stepped away after slicing the cake you baked for Jeongin’s birthday dinner to fold a few clothes; the chores got away from you, your focus entirely on your husband’s arrival and quiet birthday celebration. However, by the time you came back, the two tricksters were nowhere to be found.

They’re not in Kyungsoo’s toy room, the study, or the backyard. Your husband usually likes to burn off your four-year-old’s energy with a game of tag after dinner, but you don’t hear squeals of glee or anything else to indicate they’re playing. It’s deadly silent, and it puts every one of your nerves on edge.

Trekking up the stairs to the second floor, you realize the last places you haven’t checked for them are your bedroom and Kyungsoo’s across the hall. Tiny giggles emulate from the crack in your son’s door, and you feel relief wash over your bones. You creep quietly so they can continue without being interrupted, listening to the two of them, the inseparable father and son duo.

“‘What is Real?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’” Jeongin says the words in a high-pitched voice, making Kyungsoo laugh harder than before. When his father continues, however, he goes silent again, eager to hear the next part of the story. He’s just like Jeongin; a jokester, but an inquisitive one.

You forget how long it’s been since Jeongin read Kyungsoo a bedtime story. Work and adult responsibilities had to impede on one of your husband’s favorite ways to spend time with his little boy. He found other ways to make up for missing it, but you know it’s one of the best parts of his day. Perhaps it’s a small birthday wish come true.

“‘Real isn't how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.’

“Papa?” Kyungsoo asks amid Jeongin’s reading of The Velveteen Rabbit, a book you’ve had in Kyungsoo’s library since he was little, but you can barely remember if you’ve ever read it to him before today. His voice is curious but small, and you wonder what his next words will be before he says them.

“Yes, bud?”

“Does that mean you and Mama are Real, too?” Kyungsoo’s question makes your heart swell, the muscle in your chest already overly expanded from listening in on the two of them together. “Because I really love you. Mama too!”

Jeongin chuckles, and you hear his lips kissing the crown of your young son’s head. Your husband plants a dozen into the little boy’s hair, making him giggle again, the sound making you croon internally. “Of course, Soo. The day you were born was the day Mama and I became Real, I think.”

“Really?” Without looking, you can tell Kyungsoo is so curious yet so happy. You feel tears spring to your eyes.

“Really really. And you’re Real too, because Mama and I love you just the same.” Jeongin responds. “Right, Mama?”

Your cheeks heat up, your husband too perceptive for his own good. You should’ve known better; he’s always been able to sense your presence since you were teenagers, no place too big or small for him to not feel you around. You wipe the tears away before cracking the door open, smiling down at your two favorite boys in the world.

A million memories flash in your mind as you look at Jeongin with the nursery book in one hand and your son in the other. The day he asked you out in the library, the night you said yes to his proposal, the moment you held Kyungsoo for the first time. It’s all because of the man whose birthday you not only celebrate, but thank the universe for in the quiet of your own mind. Without him, you’d really be without some of the best things in your life.

“He’s telling the truth, Kiki.” Hearing his nickname makes Kyungsoo’s lips turn up harder at the corners and his ears turn pink, the color matching the shade on your face.

Jeongin kisses the top of Kyungsoo’s head again. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed. But I’ll read the rest to you tomorrow night, alright?”

“Promise?” Kyungsoo holds his pinky out, and Jeongin takes it a second later. “Pinky promises,” in your husband’s words from so long ago, “are no joke, babe. Once you make one, you can’t take it back.”

“Extra pinky promise. I love you, bud.”

He nods and hugs Jeongin tightly in his small arms, an “I love you” leaving the little boy’s lips and settling into his father’s chest. Jeongin feigns weakness under the hold your son has on him, and you giggle. “You gotta stop growing. Soon you’ll be stronger than Uncle Chan.”

Kyungsoo lets Jeongin go so he can get cozy under his comforter. “Love you, Mama,” Kyungsoo says with a small, sleepy grin, his face suddenly riddled with fatigue.

“Love you too, honey.” You blow him a kiss as he shuts his eyes. Jeongin takes your hand in his before he closes the door to your son’s room.

The second Jeongin shuts the door, he has you wrapped in his arms in the hallway, rubbing your back softly and whispering his love and admiration for you in your ear. It’s so quiet as to not wake your now sleeping son, but just loud enough to make your knees weak. “I may have lied to Soo earlier.”

You furrow your brows at his words. “What?”

“I think I became Real the day you told me you loved me for the first time,” he confesses. His eyes gleam with raw intensity. He, then, places butterfly kisses all over your face, peppering you with all the physical actions his words can’t say.

"Ditto" is the only coherent word you can then say aloud. Jeongin smirks against your cheek.

“And…I may have one birthday wish I didn’t tell you about.”

You chuckle and hold him closer, your chests tightly pressed against one another. “Anything you want, Yinnie. Always.”

He smiles and takes your lips in his before saying, “I want another baby, sweetheart. Will you give me another one, please?” He pouts like Kyungsoo does, the two of them so intertwined in their appearances you can't distinguish one from the other sometimes.

When he asks so nicely, how could you say no?

It’s been enough time, you think. Deep inside of you, the prospect of another baby, a sibling for Kyungsoo to dote on, has always been on your mind. You just didn’t know when the right time would be.

Now, it seems, is as good of a time as any when Jeongin begs for it so beautifully.

“Yes,” you respond. “Of course.”

He’s a great husband, and an even better father, and you know without a doubt in your heart, you’d give him a dozen more if he asked you for them. He would love each one to the depths of his soul, the heart inside of him so big you don’t know how it stays inside of his chest.

He laughs joyously, spinning you around with so much of his strength that you laugh too. “Best birthday ever,” Jeongin says into your neck. You laugh, thinking the celebration might just be for you rather than him. He treats you like a princess, even on days he’s the one who's meant to be ravished with attention and love. But that’s how he’s always been and always will be, a giver more than a taker. “I love you so much,” Jeongin says.

“I love you too, Yinnie. Always.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @lovetaroandtaemin @xomakara @pars-ley @addictedtohobi

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

[tyissolavish]

could you do little!dominik Mysterio head cannons?

of course!!! he’s my favorite boy in the entire world i loveeee baby dom

-regresses super young, like 1-4 years old headspace.

-he’s definitely a velcro kid and cries if you don’t take him everywhere you go, even if it’s just across the hallway at home. if you don’t tell him what you’re doing and where you’re going, he just wails until he gets to come with you.

-total opposite to the way he is in everyday life. the smart mouthed, easily annoyed brat persona people see isn’t like him at all. he’s usually rather meek, always keeping his fingers wrapped into your shirt or your belt buckles. he usually lets you speak for him and he will get behind you when he feels like he needs to be guarded away from something scary.

-super attached to his pacifier and his stuffie. the stuffie is one of the plush animals that has a rattle inside and he’s absolutely in awe at the sounds of the rattle, even after he’s had it for the longest time.

-token crybaby. he can’t verbally communicate as well when he’s regressed and he usually ends up crying/whining rather than being able to vocalize what he wants. though half the time he’s pouting over silly things, like the laundry being done or the weather outside.

-so many nightlights. literally plugged in random places all over the house so he’s not scared to walk through the house with his caregivers when it’s dark. he has one of the projector nightlights as well that shows stars n stuff on the ceiling and he really likes when it’s turned on.

-loves to have sweets and snacks but downright refuses food that isn’t chicken tenders or fries. he’ll eat mac and cheese sometimes, but only if it’s white cheddar.

-he’s regressed at work pretty often and it’s usually never an issue. the main roster has grown to love baby dominik, even volunteering to babysit or help keep him occupied when you’re working or busy with segments that he’s not included in. he’s an extremely shy and polite baby, so he’s never causing problems for anyone.

-he’s easily entertained and he loves simple things like playing peekaboo or playing with simple baby toys like plastic keys, blocks, etc. he has to be watched carefully though, because he tries to put everything in his mouth despite always having a pacifier and a backup on standby.

-literally always wants to drink milk in some form. whether it be just whole milk, strawberry milk, anything of the sort. he’s always got a sippy cup of milk if not a bottle, but he’s been known to accidentally knock stuff over and spill it so he usually only has bottles when his caregivers can feed him.

-he loves rubber duckies so bath time is super easy, just give him all his duckies and let him babble away.

-baby babbler. he thinks you understand him if you play along and he’s always very chatty and bubbly, even though he’s almost never speaking actual words.

-he loves bedtime stories and his favorite is the velveteen rabbit, but he’s content to listen to any of them as long as the endings aren’t too sad.

-he’s not easily impressed with cartoons or tv shows, but there are a few he’s absolutely obsessed with. he loves care bears, dinosaur train, bluey, original looney toons, tom and jerry, mickey mouse, and the muppets.

-has to be put in a playpen or some type of enclosed space when his caregivers are cooking dinner so he doesn’t sit directly at their feet and cause accidents in the kitchen.

-he loves soft and fuzzy things!! pajamas, blankets, stuffies, clothes, everything!! especially if they’re some form of cow print. he’s very very proud to tell everyone about all his “moo moos”

i think that’s all for now, but i definitely could write baby dominik forever and still have more left to write!!

[fanficsbysteve]

Passing of Presents

Note: Oh look, it’s a “sequel” to Jeremy Crow. I had this idea, and then I had a different idea. So, I mashed them together by the end. Hope everyone likes it. They are a mash of Toy Story 3, and The Velveteen Rabbit.

You should read Jeremy Crow first before this one.

***

Tommy sat on the bed, holding Jeremy Crow out in front of him. It had been 7 years since Evan had taken him into the Repair Shop he had found online. And this was worth every cent they paid to get him fixed up. He had new ‘feathers’ on the outside of his body, he had been restuffed with new soft cotton, and had his eyes repainted and then glazed in. He appeared how Tommy imagined he would look if he had gotten him brand new instead of second hand.

Jeremy Crow had a good life with Tommy. Fending off nightmares, keeping him company in his darkest times. But 5 years ago, Tommy’s life had started to turn completely around. He had gone to therapy to start handling his PTSD in a more productive way. He hadn’t been having nightmares as often and had been testing to see if they would come back by sometimes not having Jeremy with him, or Hubie for that matter. About the same time as he started therapy, Evan had moved in with him. They had settled on Tommy’s house because, well, it was a house and not a loft. As nice as the loft was, it didn’t compare. They had also started to host weekly BBQs for the 118 and the 217 at their house, Evan, however, was the clipboard tyrant when it came to getting everything organized for those events. Tommy wouldn’t admit it, but he found clipboard Evan extremely attractive.

Tommy thought back. They had been living together for 2 years by this point, and Tommy had been leaving Jeremy on a shelf above their bed. Somewhere he could watch over. He was testing the waters. Instead of holding Jeremy at night, he spent his nights holding Evan instead. And Evan really enjoyed that. Though Evan also had a habit of wiggling his butt against Tommy, attempting to get a rise out of him. It usually worked and always lead to some fun times. Tommy did feel a little guilty about making Jeremy watch that. But only a little.

Tommy chuckled to himself. He looked at Jeremy in his hands and smiled. It was time, “Well Jeremy,” Tommy said, “You’ve been one of my best friends for decades now. You were my only friend for so long.”

Tommy brought him close and into a hug, “But I think that it’s time that we parted ways with each other. You always know that I still will have a special place in my soul and heart just for you. But I think it’s time you go somewhere that you will be appreciated.”

Tommy stood up and put Jeremy next to Hubie. Hubie still looked the same as when Evan got him for Tommy. Both Jeremy and Hubie were in separate boxes. Tommy placed a lid on the boxes, each with a different name, and then placed them into a bag. He wasn’t good at wrapping gifts. It would always look like a blind T-Rex had wrapped it if he wrapped it. Better to just do a gift bag.

Tommy walked down the stairs into the living room, Evan was already in there, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I think it’s time,” Tommy replied, “I know it’s time. And they are going to a good home.”

Evan smiled and took the bag from Tommy, he attached a tag to the and held his hand out to Tommy, “Ready to go over then? The invite said 1 pm and we are going to be fashionably late already.”

“What else do they expect from the Guncles?” Tommy said.

“Guncles?” Evan said, “I know you are a Guncle. Not sure what I would be.”

“Buncle?” Tommy said, mildly panicking that he was being offensive to Evan, “I just figured having a plural word would be easier.”

Evan smiled, “I was just teasing. I know what you meant.”

Tommy playfully punched Evan, “Let’s just get going,” Tommy went towards the door, “Maddie’s going to kill us if we are later than fashionably.”

“She won’t kill me at least,” Evan joked as he followed, “Mildly maim probably.”

Tommy shook his head, and they head out to the truck. Evan, jumping into the passenger seat, asked, “Why don’t you let me drive the truck?”

“Well, we always need a passenger princess,” Tommy joked, “Someone to handle the music, and just be all around awesome.”

“Well thank you for calling me the Royalty that I am,” Evan joked back. They started driving towards Maddie and Howie’s House. The Han’s didn’t live too far from Tommy and Evan. Just far enough that they needed to drive to get there in a timely manner, but it wasn’t more than a 15 minute drive. Usually, they would walk over but with the things they needed to bring with them, all of Evan’s baking, gifts for the kids, all kinds of stuff.

“We could have just piled everything into the wagon and walked,” Tommy said, “Would have been faster,” They were currently stuck in traffic.

Evan looked offended, “Firstly, if we had walked, we would be later than we will already be. Second, with all the bumps, all the baking I’ve done over the past two days would be ruined.”

“A ‘ruined’ cookie,” Tommy attempted air quotes while driving, “Is still edible. It’s not like it was underbaked.”

“But you eat with your eyes first,” Evan defended, “A ruined cookie is not as appetizing as a perfect cookie.”

“I’ll let you have this one only because we are going to be at their place soon,” Tommy laughed, “And I’ll eat all the ruined cookies that we have just to prove my point.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Evan laughed as well, “I’ll be sorting out the cookies when we get there anyway. Have to make the platter look nice.”

Tommy pulled into the driveway of Maddie and Howie’s house, behind their minivan. Once they had gathered up everything, they walked up to the door and rang the bell. There was a flurry of jumbled footsteps running towards the door before the door swung open, “UNCLE BUCK!! UNCLE TOMMY!!”

Two children stood before them, with a teenager standing in the back, trying not to look like she was interested. One of the children, a boy, was around 7 years old, while the other, another girl, was maybe 4, “I’d pick you up and give you each a hug if I had any hands left,” Evan joked, “How about you let us in, and we can get to the hugs.”

The children moved out of the way so Tommy and Evan could get into the house, “About time,” came a yell from the kitchen. Howie was sitting at a table, attempting to put together what looked like a nuclear bomb, but it was just one of the many toys the kids would have gotten, and Maddie was in the kitchen, cooking away.

Evan put the gifts down and gave each of the kids a quick hug. Then he went directly to the kitchen, “You didn’t follow the step by step plan I sent you did you,” he said with a smile as he arrived.

Tommy placed his stack of items down as well and gave each of the kids, including the teenager, a longer hug than Evan had, “Come here Daniel” he brought the 7 year old boy into a tight hug, “and you too, Anne,” He pulled the 4 year old into a hug as well. He kept them in the hug for a while, “You have to hug someone for at least 20 seconds for it to work,” Tommy explained.

“20 seconds?” Anne asked.

“Yeah,” Tommy explained, “You need to hug someone for 20 seconds and it will have some health benefits. I don’t know what kind exactly, but your Uncle Buck read about it. I’d go and ask him for a longer hug and ask him why 20 seconds is so important.”

The two smaller kids giggled and ran away into the kitchen to find their other uncle, “And what about you Jee? A hug for your Uncle Tommy?”

Jee rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she came to give Tommy a hug, “I saw you just last week,” she said into his midriff, she wasn’t quite tall enough that her head was at his chest height, but she was taller than it being at his stomach, “You helped with my homework.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want another hug,” Tommy laughed. He let her go, “Alright let’s get to the tree so I can put some stuff under it and then I can help your Mom and Uncle with the dinner. Based on what I’m hearing in the kitchen, they will need a mediator soon and your Dad really likes to just watch the drama unfold far too much. Maybe help him out with that toy he’s currently struggling with.”

“He really does,” Jee laughed. Tommy grabbed the pile of gifts they had brought, including the bag that held Jeremy and Hubie, and put them under a beautifully decorated tree in the living room. Buck had come over to help with it, and he had developed a way to hang the baubles that made it both visually appealing, while keeping the most space for other items such as garland and lights.

After placing the gifts under the tree, Tommy went back to the entry and grabbed the containers of baked goods that Buck had made for the night. There were two containers just for cookies, one held a pumpkin pie, another held several different loaves that Howie had specifically asked for, “How are things going in here?” Tommy walked into the kitchen. Maddie was beating Buck off with a wooden spoon as he attempted to try and get the timing of everything back on track. He had his clipboard out.

“Clipboard Buck is in the house tonight,” Howie joked, “I would stay out of there if I were you.”

“Oh, I know Clipboard Evan quite well,” Tommy shuddered as he pulled a chair out at the table and sat with Howie, “The first time we held Thanksgiving at our place,” Tommy shuddered, “I put the potatoes on 10 minutes too early and I got a 30 minute lecture on following the timings on the timetable. He also comes out before all the BBQs at our place.”

“He is not to be reckoned with when he has his clipboard out,” Howie went back to building the item in front of him, “It’s like you need a doctorate in rocket science to put these things together.”

“Should have invited Karen and Hen if you needed that,” Tommy joked, “You just have me who can read instructions.”

“Well, be my guest if you can make heads or tails of it,” Howie pushed the instructions over towards Tommy.

It took them about 20 minutes of deciphering and eventually the toy was put together and Daniel was happily playing with it. Maddie and Evan had made a truce and were successfully cooking, “When can we open Uncle Buck and Uncle Tommy’s presents?” a voice cut the calm.

Anne was waiting anxiously to open them, “When we are finished dinner sweetie,” Maddie said, “Its almost done.”

Tommy looked at Evan and he just mouthed, “Not even close.”

“But I want to open them now,” Anne stomped her foot and whined.

“Maybe let her and Daniel open one to keep the peace?” Tommy suggested.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Howie said, “Uncle Tommy, would you go get something?”

Tommy left the room and went and grabbed the bag that he had placed both Hubie and Jeremy into. He brought the bag into the dining room where both Anne and Daniel were waiting, “Now we put something special and unique into this bag just for the two of you,” Tommy looked at Anne and Daniel, “We need you to take care of them ok? They are old and need a new home. You think you can give that to them?”

Anne and Daniel both nodded their heads. Tommy smiled and handed the bag over. The two boxes had been labeled already. One for Daniel, one for Anne. The two children took the boxes with their name on them and opened them. Jeremy and Hubie sat staring back at the children. Hubie at Anne, and Jeremy at Daniel, “Does he have a name?” Anne asked as she pulled Hubie out of the box. Howie and Maddie were standing together looking at their children opening gifts while Evan hovered behind. Tommy knew that Evan was hovering to make sure that he was ok with this.

“Well, I used to call this one,” Tommy pointed at the penguin, “Hubie,” He then pointed at the crow, “And that one was named Jeremy. But you can name them whatever you want. I just want you to know that they are old, so you need to be careful with them. As I said they need new homes and new kids to play with.”

Anne pulled Hubie into a big hug, “I love him,” she announced as she stood up and dragging Hubie along with here came and gave Tommy the biggest hug.

Daniel looked at Jeremy. Tommy could see something in Daniel’s eye as he looked at the stuffed crow. He recognized it as the same sense of love that Tommy had when he first got Jeremy all those many years ago, “Thank you,” Daniel whispered. He also walked over and gave Tommy a big hug. Anne had already moved on to hugging Evan at this point.

Tommy took this moment to whisper in Daniel’s ear, “Jeremy used to be mine when I was a little boy. He helped me through lots of things growing up. So, I want you to have him now. And when you have a family of your own, I want you to pass this down to your family as well. So, he can always be there to help everyone when they are growing up,” Tommy looked around conspiratorially, “And there is a story that if a stuffed animal like Jeremy is loved fully and completely by someone, they will turn real.”

“Really?” Daniel looked awed by this idea, “I’ll love him so much that he turns real one day.”

“That’s all he wants,” Tommy said to Daniel, “Now lets let Uncle Buck and your Mom get dinner ready.”

***

Tommy and Buck were sitting in their living room, both too full to move anywhere. Evan had to undo the belt and button on his pants, “So full,” He moaned stretching out, “I’m going to not have to eat for a week.”

“With all the leftovers Maddie sent home with us,” Tommy replied, “I don’t think we will need to cook for the next week.”

“Oh, I have plans for those leftovers,” Evan joked. He then looked over at Tommy, “How are you doing? I know that had to have been hard passing Jeremy along like that.”

“Honestly it really wasn’t,” Tommy said, “And I added a little extra bit of something for Daniel,” Tommy smiled to himself, “I told him that if he loved Jeremy fully, then Jeremy would turn real.”

Evan chuckled, “That’s one way to make sure that he doesn’t get destroyed.”

Tommy smiled. He looked out the window and gasped, “Look,” Tommy said as reached out for Evan’s hand and leaned forward. Sitting on the banister of their front porch was a pitch black crow, just staring in at them. Tommy looked at the crow for a minute before it flew off.

“Jeremy was just here,” Tommy breathed still staring at the spot on the porch where he saw the crow sitting. He felt Evan sit up next to him and look.

“Well, you did love him fully and completely,” Evan said, “Giving him away to someone else was the last sign of loving him fully. Now he could become a real crow for you.”

Tommy felt tears welling up in his eyes and he leaned back into the couch, Evan pulling him into a hug. That was the perfect ending for Tommy, “Maybe he did.”

The two of them curled up on the couch, too exhausted and full of food to move. They snuggled up, Tommy curling up into Evan and he fell into a peaceful sleep. His dreams were of a crow flying freely among the city’s skyscrapers, the wind lifting him up to heights that Tommy could only dream of seeing like he does. Jeremy had visited him to say Thank You, Tommy knew it was what happened. And now Tommy was at peace. Curled up with his husband on a couch that was bought specifically for snuggling on, Tommy sighed and had the most restful sleep he had ever had.

***                

Note: I wrote this on Christmas Eve (it went extremely fast) and edited it to the best of my ability on Christmas Day morning so I could post it for you all to read. Let me know what you think of it all. Happy Holidays to everyone for whatever you are celebrating today.

I haven't posted this on AO3 yet cause everyone on here seems to love Jeremy Crow and the notes I'm getting on it made me weepy so I want you all to get it first. I'll probably post it there tomorrow morning before I go Boxing Day shopping.

[badlydrawnbabydirk]

theory time because someone else sent one and I've been holding this between my teeth since I saw that one gif. from this post.

Dirk is a Heart player and Heart is about souls. Dirk is a baby and also has not played the game yet so obviously cannot really control is powers, but as evidenced by Hal in canon— and maybe/probably even Brobot, who he sent to Jake— he can clearly still USE them, even if it's not really a conscious thing.

so like. with robro here. he wasn't built to be a person, we all know that. most of us are probably quite glad that he is !! I sure am. but it wasn't in his design parameters. he was supposed to be a nannybot to keep Dirk alive until he could take care of himself, basically. but what I'm thinking here is that baby Dirk has everything to do with his sapience and having A!Dave's memories. to Dirk, this is his Bro. he's a baby and doesn't understand things like Being Alive yet.

but on some unconscious, soul deep level, the baby has poured his love for robro into making him Real. it's giving me extreme Velveteen Rabbit vibes and I'm dying.

most of my internal thoughts on this are just incoherent wailing so I hope I've presented this in a way that makes sense because Words Are Hard, to quote these youtubers I like named Evan and Katelyn. but like. I've been absolutely freaking out and losing it over this idea since that post dropped. you get it right like do you get it

I feel bad for robro, that he has to know that he's sort of a cosmic accident, or however else you want to look at it. but I'm also glad that he gets to love Dirk fully, and that little baby Dirk gets a real guardian after all. (and I am pointedly ignoring how hard I want to cry at that other asker's theory about an 8 year old Dirk's tragic lack of mechanical engineering skills. nope. no thank you <3)

// DING DING DING YOU FUCKING GOT ITTTTT

[sequinsmile-x]

Velveteen

A short tale about Aaron, Emily, their toddler, and a tiny stuffed rabbit.

AKA I just really needed to write some fluff.

-x-

Hi friends,

Work was rough this week, so I decided to write some very fluffy fluff based off a cute picture I saw on twitter of a man in a suit with a little bunny in his pocket, and a conversation with the lovely @astridncs <3

I really hope you like this, and that if you've had a bad week too I hope it makes you smile.

-x-

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: pregnancy. so fluffy I hope you have dental insurance

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“Mama, up.” 

Emily smiles as she feels Evie tug at the material of her jeans, her tiny fingers digging into her thighs as she tries to get her attention. She looks down at her little girl and is, as she always was, taken in by her wide eyes. She runs her fingers through Evie’s dark hair, her unruly curls shifting against her skin, “Can you wait until we get off the elevator, sweet girl?”

Evie huffs out a breath as if she has the weight of the world on her two, almost three, year old shoulders. “But you’re holding the baby.” 

She chuckles, running her fingers through her hair again, “I’m not holding the baby Evie,” she says, her other hand on her bump, “The baby lives inside of me, remember? I’ll pick you up the second we get out, okay.” 

She struggled to pick Evie up at the best of times at the moment, her almost full term pregnancy and shifted centre of gravity making it tricky enough when she was on solid ground, let alone in a moving elevator. 

Evie nods and wraps both of her hands around Emily’s, squeezing her fingers tightly as she sighs, “Fine.” 

Emily has to press her lips together to stop herself from smiling, her daughter’s wilful, stubborn, attitude one of the many things she loved about her, even when it was aimed at her. Ever since she’d first been handed Evie, back when she was a tiny thing no bigger than Aaron’s hand, everyone had always told Emily she was just like her. At first, it was just about her looks. The undeniable Prentiss nose, the eyes that were the same depth of brown as hers, the dimples she and Aaron would playfully argue over - each saying they were from the other. As Evie grew and her personality grew with her, the comparisons only became more frequent. She was exactly like her. Emily couldn't, and didn’t want, to deny it. Every single trait her mother had complained about in her nothing short of beautiful in her own little girl, a type of love that had eventually turned inwards. A strange type of recognition that if she loved those things in Evie she should love them in herself. 

As promised, the moment they step off the elevator she picks Evie up, resting her on top of her bump as the little girl wraps her arms around her neck, “There you go, baby.” 

“I not baby,” Evie demands, giggling despite her cross expression, a stern look she’d picked up from Aaron, when she feels her little sister kick against her from below, “She baby.” 

Emily laughs as she presses a kiss against Evie’s temple, “You’ll always be my baby.” 

“Princess,” Derek calls out as Emily steps into the bullpen, his smile wide and excited as he walks over,” And Mini Princess,” he says as he addresses Evie, “What are you two doing here?” 

“We are meeting Daddy for lunch, aren���t we?” Emily says, poking Evie in the belly. The smile and nod she receives warms her heart just as much as it had the first time she’d seen it when she was just a couple of months old, the joy in it growing with her. 

“Maternity leave boring you already?”

It was the first working day since her maternity leave started and she was already itching to get out of the house, hence why Aaron had suggested she and Evie came to meet him for lunch.

Even though she’d left the BAU when she had Evie and was now in Counterterrorism the team had thrown a small party for her in the conference room. Penelope had baked a cake that they still had the leftovers of in their kitchen at home, and everyone had bought gifts for the baby even though they still had everything from when they had Evie. Despite her grumbling, which they all knew was put on, she loved that Jack, Evie and the little girl in her belly had so many people in their corners. That somehow she’d found a village that would always be there for her and her family. 

She raises her eyebrow at the question, “Maternity leave is a lot less relaxing when you have a toddler to chase after.” 

Derek smiles at her with mischief sparkling in his eyes, but he’s cut off when Aaron steps out onto the walkway, something they are alerted to when Evie tries to scramble out of Emily’s arms, her excited yell reverberating around the office. 

“Daddy!” 

Emily puts her down, smiling when her eyes meet her husband's as Evie runs towards him, determination and excitement in her movements as if it had been weeks since she’d last seen him, not just a matter of hours since he’d left the house that morning. 

“There’s my Evie girl,” Aaron says when he meets her at the bottom of the steps, hauling her up into his arms, his smile something that would have once been considered rare as he kisses her cheek before he settles her on his hip, “Are you excited for lunch?” 

Watching them together was something that Emily knew she could never get enough of. She loved watching Aaron be a dad. A type of contentment she hadn’t known existed would flood through her whenever she saw him press a Superman bandaid to a skinned knee, either Jack or Evies - the toddler always keen to be like her big brother - or whenever she overheard him reading a bedtime story. She’d always loved watching him with Jack, his gentle care for his son one of the many things she’d loved about him before she could admit she was in love with him, but there was something about watching him with Evie that would almost knock her off her feet sometimes. Something about the absurdity of such a tiny little girl having him wrapped around her little finger, able to convince him of anything with half formed sentences and a sparkle in her eyes Aaron always said was all her, made her ache. 

When they first found out the baby she was pregnant with was also a girl she’d worried he’d be disappointed, a fear that was born out of a comment her mother had made when she’d told her the news. 

“Poor Aaron - he and Jack will be outnumbered.”

Emily had held it in for a couple of days, her fears eventually all spilling out with tears she couldn’t control after he unknowingly, and good-naturedly, made a similar comment. He’d apologised repeatedly, his lips against her temple as he assured her that not one part of him was disappointed. His promise that if they had a half dozen girls he could be nothing close to disappointed or annoyed, desperate to have a world that had as much of her in it as possible. 

Aaron walks over and leans in to kiss her cheek, unashamed in his affection for her around their co-workers since she was, for all intents and purposes at the moment, simply his wife. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi,” she replies, smiling widely at him, her hand lifting to rest over his on Evie’s back on instinct, never wanting to be too far away from either of them. Her attention is drawn to the small pink fluffy bunny in the pocket of his suit pocket. It was Evie’s favourite toy, part of a set of small bunnies that Aaron had bought when Emily was still pregnant. Evie had pressed it into his pocket first thing that morning before he left, her tongue stuck out between her lips as she concentrated on her task. She’d told him he had to look after it and keep it in his pocket all day, and it looked like he’d kept his promise. “I see your little friend is still present and correct.” 

He hums, raising his eyebrow at her, his amusement clear behind his mask of fake annoyance, “He’s come to all my meetings with me today.” 

She has to hide a laugh with a cough, her enjoyment of the situation only made stronger by his straight face. She’d told him as she saw him out of the house that morning, Jack keeping Evie entertained in the living room as their parents exchanged goodbyes and kisses like they were secrets, that he could take the bunny out of his pocket. That he didn’t have to sit with it in there all day during meetings with Strauss and the Deputy Director, but he’d simply shaken his head at her, his expression serious when he said he’d keep it there. 

“I promised her, Em.”

It made her love him even more, the absolute sincerity he had as he walked out of their house with the pink bunny in his pocket, its arms hanging over the edge of it like a strange pocket square. 

“You should have seen Strauss’s face when she walked in here earlier,” Derek says, confirming for Emily what she already knew - that Aaron had kept his promise to Evie and sat in front of his bosses with the bunny on full display, “I think she thought he’d lost his mind.” 

Aaron sighs, “Morgan.” 

“What’s your little friend's name, Evie?” Derek asks, undeterred by Aaron’s attempt to be stern, his usually effective glare diminished by the little girl in his arms and the pink bunny in his pocket. 

Evie beams, her smile wide and entirely Emily’s as she traces the ears of the toy in question with tiny fingers, “Medatwon.” 

Derek frowns, his eyebrows pulled together as he looks at Emily, her lips pressed together as she suppresses a smile, “Medatwon?” 

Emily clears her throat, “Megatron,” she corrects, Evie’s inability to pronounce the name she’d insisted on for her favourite toy something that made it infinitely more adorable.

“Megatron?” Derek asks incredulously, “Like the Transformer?” 

“Jack obsessed with the Transformers and Evie is obsessed with Jack,” Emily says, an edge of challenge to her voice that they all know has more to do with her hormones than anything else, “You do the math.” 

“Okay Princess,” Derek says, his tone teasing as he throws up his hands in mock defence, “You can chill out, I was just asking.” 

She hums, only calmed down as Aaron wraps his arm around her, his smile tinged with amusement when she looks up at him. She clears her throat and looks back at Derek, “Sorry.” 

“No harm, no foul,” Derek replies, throwing a wink at her, “Plus, you said much worse when you were having Mini Princess here.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Look, how many times do I have to tell you that you shouldn’t have eaten my sandwich.” 

He chuckles, “A crime that deserved me the title of ‘stupid fuc-’”

“Let’s remember there are small ears in the room,” Aaron says sternly, nodding towards Evie, making Derek nod and clear his throat apologetically. 

“I seem to remember it being in French anyway.” 

Emily hums, “Evie knows some French,” she says, leaning in to kiss her daughter’s forehead, “N'est-ce pas, mon ange?” 

“Oui Mama,” Evie replies, mimicking Emily as she mimes the words for her, the words half mumbled as she tripped over the pronunciation.

“Smart girl,” she says, kissing her forehead again, not missing the pride that sparks in Aaron’s eyes too. She smiles at her husband, “We should go eat before I cuss out Morgan for being annoying again.” 

Derek scoffs, “What did I do?” 

She hums playfully, “Something, I’m sure,” she looks at Aaron again, “You ready?” 

“Always,” he replies, turning to Derek, “If Strauss comes by-”

“I’ll tell her you took your girls and Megatron to lunch.” 

Aaron nods gratefully, unable to stop the corners of his lips from twitching up into a smile, “Thanks, Morgan,” he says, his hand on Emily’s back as he leads her towards the elevators, “Right, what do we want for lunch?” 

Emily presses her lips together thoughtfully before her eyes go wide, “Cinnamon rolls.” 

Aaron barely hides a groan, his desire to make her eat at least relatively healthily well known, “Em, that’s not really-”

“We want cinnamon rolls,” she says, tickling Evie, making the girl giggle and squirm a little in her father’s arms, “Right, sweet girl?” 

“Cinna’ wrolls.” 

He shakes his head at them as they step into the elevator, “Fine,” he says, all of them knowing he was always going to get them for them anyway, “We’ll go to that place you love with the cinnamon rolls. But you’re having something else too. Like a sandwich or a salad. Deal?” 

Emily smiles and nods, resting her cheek against his shoulder, contentedly breathing him in. The smell of his cologne and something uniquely Aaron washes over her, the smell she would forever associate with home and safety. 

“Deal.” 

[ohwhataniight]

I'm stuck on your heart - Chapter 8

They spend Christmas day getting full with the sumptuous meal cooked by Sherlock’s mother. There is a pang in John’s chest as he remembers the Christmas of two years ago, making up with Mary in front of the fireplace, promising to be by her side, no matter what. He’s starting to heal. He’s found a way to cherish her memory while moving on. And Sherlock isn't exactly what moving on means, because it feels like there was no life before him, like there can be no life without him.

The thing is, he’s hungered for this - for them - for so long, he’s forgotten what it is like not to pine, not to ache, not to have his heart broken again and again. He remembers the times he almost lost Sherlock, the fall, his crater-hollow life the years that followed, Sherlock flatlining, Sherlock. He’s craved this for so long he doesn’t know how to approach it now that it’s finally here, how to give in.

After Rosie falls asleep, exhausted, on the lap of a very bewildered Mycroft, John excuses himself and heads to the bathroom. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes following him as he exits the living room.

John stares at his own reflection in the mirror. He looks positively knackered, a middle-aged father of a hyperactive toddler who’s certainly not getting any younger. He's spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning in his bed, replaying the brief moments he shared with Sherlock in the kitchen, dreading the fact that in a mayhem of Christmas carols, gifts exchanged, Rosie, phone calls and getting ready to visit the Holmses, they never got the chance to discuss anything.

He half-expects to meet Sherlock waiting for him outside the bathroom, but instead he’s met with the just as imposing although more frail figure of his father. “Mr. Holmes,” he grins. “Thank you for this wonderful day. Rosie really enjoys being with you.”

“And we love having her around,” Mr. Holmes returns the gentle smile. “May I have a word with you, John?”

“Oh, uh... ‘course”.

He follows the older man in a room of the mansion he hasn’t seen before. It is decorated with twinkling Christmas lights although obviously nobody lives here. The single bed is meticulously made, and the shelves are full of books - The Velveteen Rabbit, Dickens’ Complete Works, Chemistry textbooks, A Brief Introduction to Taxidermy - and trinkets - toy dinosaurs, stones of various colours and shapes, the plastic miniature of a human skeleton.

Sherlock’s childhood room.

Mr. Holmes motions at the chair in front of the desk, for John to take a seat. Sherlock’s father seems to prefer standing up. His long fingers (so similar to Sherlock’s) brush over the spines of the books. “You should take those, for Rosie,” he hums softly.

“Thanks. Although maybe not the Introduction to Taxidermy,” John chuckles.

Mr. Holmes laughs and shakes his head. “No. Not this one.” He turns to face John. “I know you’re her father, but she does remind me of Sherlock too, when he was younger.”

John huffs. “What do you mean? She’s his spitting image, inside and out, apart from the blond bit of course. You should see her when he plays Frozen on the violin."

“She’s the granddaughter we’ve always dreamed of. And you,” he moves to Sherlock’s bed, smoothens the duvet and sits on it. “You’re the family we’d always hoped he’d find.”

John swallows. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“He’s a sensitive kid. Our Mycroft too. They somehow decided they had to play it tough at some point, each in his own way. But I know my Sherlock, John. He’s loyal, doting.”

“I know, Mr. Holmes,” John exhales. “I see him with Rosie every day, he’s incredible...”

“And with you?”

John opens his mouth, then closes it again. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had,” he says eventually, and then mutters, “he’s my best”.

“He’s yours alright,” the older man smiles and nods. “I know that look on his face. I used to go around with that look when I met Violet. I know he’s found everything he’s been looking for. He’s whole, he’s happy. You’re the only one who can make him happy, John.”

For the first time in forever, John finds himself agreeing. Not only that, but also opening up about his feelings. To Sherlock’s father, of all people. “But... will it work?”

“If this doesn’t work, then nothing else will. You both went through hell, apart and together, and life has led you to this... this everything. You have everything,” he extends his hand and John gives his own. He’s surprised when it’s wrapped into both of Mr. Holmes’ hands, in a fatherly manner. “I know Mary is still so fresh, but please know that you are already part of this family, John, and if it happens, whenever it happens, it’ll make us the happiest people on earth to call you our son”.

Fresh tears prickle out of nowhere on the edge of John’s eyes (God he’s gotten soft). He swallows hard, and nods.

They stand up and walk to the door, but when they open it Sherlock is already waiting for them there.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” Mr. Holmes says, and slides quickly between them and down the stairs.

Sherlock is smiling at John. “Did he call you his son?” he asks.

“He did.”

“He ships it so hard, as the cool kids tend to say.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing.” He extends his arm, taking John’s hand into his own and leading him back into his childhood room. They both sit on Sherlock’s bed this time, side by side.

“Do you think she enjoyed her second Christmas?”

John chuckles. “Sherlock, she loved it, especially her View Master and your mother and all the amount of sugar we let her consume”.

“I want her to experience everything, and I want her to remember it”.

“You know memories are created anyway. You don’t have to micromanage them. As long as we try our best as parents, she’ll remember everything very fondly.”

Their fingers are still entwined, Sherlock’s thumb rubbing soft circles on John’s knuckles. Their eyes meet, the lights are twinkling inside Sherlock’s irises.

“We are good, aren’t we?”

John’s smile widens. “I’m good,” he corrects him. “You’re the best.”

The kiss is chaste and tastes of alcohol and hot chocolate. John also tastes Sherlock, the dew in his mouth, his heavy breath, gently at first, then with more urgency. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, throwing his fingers into the taller man’s hair. The detective moans softly, parting his lips and letting John in, pulling him back against the mattress, hands exploring, cheeks flushed, hearts thrumming like drums as they feel their hunger grow and spread like warm lava in the pits of their stomach.

They are interrupted by Mycroft, who excuses himself and mutters something about going to bleach his eyes.

Needless to say, the universe decides to tease them for a little bit longer.

John is willing to wait, even though a lifetime of this doesn't seem anywhere near long enough.

Chapter 9

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

I so very rarely cry at fiction but from Tula’s first look in the ending of episode 5 of Burrow’s End I had tears rolling down my cheeks.

There’s something about roleplay I think that makes it a truly incomparable medium for emotion. To roleplay well and really immerse yourself in the game of it all you have to learn to live in your character’s reality. You have to be that character. Because it’s not even like normal method acting where you have the net of the script to catch/trap you, everything that they do every word that comes out of their mouth has to come from YOU. Right then in that moment. and for the trick to work it all has to be true. And that by its very nature inspires empathy and a sort of sublimation of the self to make room for this person and view the world through their eyes. You feel their feelings you experience their grief, their joy. Their catharsis is your own. Good roleplay is making the velveteen rabbit real and it’s one of the most impactful things I’ve ever had the privilege to witness and experience in my life, and God bless actualplay for bringing that to the masses.

[diabolica45]

Chapter 3: The Velveteen Rabbit

Okay, I know I'm spamming - but I have like 13 chapters of this fic, so bear with me! I will post 5 chapters total tonight and then I'll stop, I swear.

Summary:

Homelander's descent isn't just apparent to him - but to the Seven as well. Sage and Maeve team up and investigate.

Notes:

"Maeve (and Sage)": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BfyVPHsAMM

Maeve slunk down the hall, a wobble in her step. The bright glare of the sun streamed down on her through Vought's gigantic windows, and she squinted, throwing a hand over her face. It was 10am - she was late for the Seven's meeting, by about 30 minutes. The thought didn't truly concern her - after all, what was there to say? "New York is a cesspool." "Crime is up 5%."  "Here's an itinerary full of staged saves."

She thought back to Starlight and Maeve's banter at the New Year's event, face souring in disgust. "350 saves," she mocked under her breath. 

But no matter. It's not as if, a few years ago, Maeve hadn't worn that same shining optimism on her chest like a badge of honor. It hadn't even been five, if she recalled correctly. Saving children from drowning in fake pools on sets, disgusted with the theatrics - but proud nonetheless, when she saw it reported on the news. She sighed. Badge of honor, she scoffed internally. Five years... had she really fallen so far, so fast?

Reaching the door of the meeting room, she prized it open tentatively, though she knew there was no use. Everyone within the room was super-abled - and, of course, as she made her faltering entrance to the room, all eyes of the Seven bore down on her, a myriad of expressions that set her nerves fraying.

There was Deep, in his usual stupor, lips parted in confusion, brow furrowed stupidly. He raised a hand, looking around the table. "Oh, hey, Maeve's here."

Homelander rolled his eyes. "Very astute, Deep. Yes, Maeve is here." She thought she saw a shadow of darkness flit across his eyes - which could have been about anything, she assured herself. If anyone cared less about these meetings than her, it was Homelander. The only rival to her apathy, her dark match in more ways than one. She let the thought blow past her. Not the time.

Maeve took her seat, settling in, letting Ashley's words lull her into a state of dull compliance and allow her to slip from the role of "lush, drunk at 10 am" to "attentive member of the Seven". 

She looked on with a half-lidded gaze, barely registering the slides Ashley clicked through, instead focusing on the heartbeats of her teammates. It was something she did when she wanted to still her own; Starlight's was jumpy, erratic - like an overexcited puppy. Maeve grimaced. Deep's was almost alarmingly slow, though whether this was a testament to his aquatic nature, or a reflection of a man unimpeded by thought (and therefore worry), she didn't know. She didn't care. Firecracker's heartbeat was... strong, she admitted with grudging respect. Red. A-Train's heart... she bit back an anxious rumble in her throat. She knew that his dependency on Compound V took a massive strain on his heart, and the super-speed likely didn't help, but the resulting arrhythmia was unsettling, nonetheless. His heart would race... then lull, then, for the smallest instant, stop entirely. His face betrayed his worry - a tightening of the eyes, a twitch of the hand, reaching, then stopping, for his heart. But the muscle resumed what would now be its normal pace, and he relaxed, if only for a moment. 

Sage and Noir's hearts, Maeve had noted with surprise, were nearly in sync, and the two she focused on when her own grip on control was tenuous. The two beat only one step out of tune with each other, the calm, resounding thud in her ears like the sound pat on a back. She didn't have the presence of mind to speculate on the reasons for this dance they unwittingly engaged in, but she did treasure it secretly. She watched them with vague curiosity, and wondered what it must be like to have that kind of resolve.

Maeve did not listen to her own heartbeat. She did not listen to Homelander's heartbeat. Never.

The thought of him brought dark, murky memories to mind, like fishing Polaroids out of a filthy swamp. The two of them, once blinding in their shared flame, wrapped in an embrace that suffocated her and bound her up, made her whole, all at once. All his love, all his devotion... it spread like a salve over a wound, seeping into her hurt, pressing a kiss into the weeping cut and coming up with blood on his lips. It had felt like coming home.

Sage nudged her, and she flickered back to life. Ashley had asked her opinion on something, who knows what. She blinked, and gave her best approximation of what they'd expect from her: a wry remark, a subtle put-down, a bitter swig of her drink. Sage nudged her again. Maeve shifted away from her. She nudged again, insistent - she'd written her something on a notepad, and slid it in her direction.

I could smell the liquor on your breath 30 yards out. Maybe you should cool it.

Maeve gave an irritated sigh, picking up the pen, scribbling hard as she filled in a big, red droplet beside her message, sliding it to Sage with a nasty smile.

Your eye is leaking blood. Maybe don't throw stones from the glass nuthouse.

Sage brought a swift hand to her eye, and finding no blood, gave Maeve a bitter scoff - but nodded, resigned.

The meeting carried on, placid and meaningless, until the subject of Vought's newest endeavor came up: the Annual Hero Expo. Homelander, of course, would be hosting, and Ashley looked around the room, with a look of premature defeat yet unrelenting hope plastered across her face.

"We have 3 additional slots that need to be filled! And there will be food, comped travel... free parking? A bonus, plus commission?"

The team turned its bleak gaze onto her, all seven of them the picture of distain and outright refusal. Ashley gave a whine.

"Come on, guys! Don't make me pick names out of a hat again, please? Deep... this is your target audience, males aged 16-25! And A-Train..."

A-Train gave her a petulant look - but the sight of her, imploring him, shifted his mood. He sighed. "Fine, sign me up."

"Yes! Thank you! See, everyone - you could all take a page from A-Train's book." 

A-Train seemed to brighten, if subtly, at the statement - though a withering glance from Homelander ended the moment swiftly.

Ashley managed to wheedle the other two - Sage, and Maeve (whom Sage had volunteered the both of, much to Maeve's irritation) before the meeting drew to an unceremonious close. The team hastily filed out, leaving the two women alone.

"Look, I don't know if being 'the world's smartest person' -" Maeve started, voice laced with disbelief and barely-concealed rage. Sage cut her off smoothly, her self-assured nod making Maeve see red.

"I am," she replied simply. Maeve ground her teeth until she felt the slick shift of her molars give way to a grind of aching intensity, the crack audible in her ears. She closed her eyes, and started again.

"I don't care. That doesn't give you the right to impose whatever Lex Luther ass plan you have on other people's lives." Sage snorted.

"What else did you have planned for the day? Burying your sorrows in pussy and Jack Daniels? We have good shit, by the way. Your self hatred is just so all-consuming you won't even allow yourself good poison."

Maeve had had it; with that, she rose to her feet, gathered Sage by her shirt, and slammed her into the wall, breath violent against her cheek.

"You need to watch how you speak to me," she whispered, the snap of her canines hot on Sage's nose.

Sage looked up at her, her lips parted slightly, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Curiosity, Maeve realized, too late - and before she knew it, Sage had darted a hand up to her ear - her hand, soft, warm, almost hot - and pressed soundly on the space behind her earlobe. Instantly, she erupted in pain and staggered back, her hold slackened. Sage stepped smoothly out of her reach.

"And you... should keep your hands to yourself," she answered lowly. She let Maeve come to, before extending a hand. Maeve gave her a glare - but took it, and rose.

"Bitch..." Maeve muttered. Sage beamed. "Don't forget it."

Maeve seethed quietly, but the dust had begun to settle in the wake of their fight. Sage gestured for the redhead to walk with her, and they exited the room, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

"So... I know you didn't sign us up for that bullshit expo just for the fun of it. Why?" Maeve and Sage were sitting in Vought's cafeteria, lounging over coffee. They rarely left the Tower if not on business these days; while Maeve was sure that Sage had her own reasons, things to run from, for her, it was about the silence of her apartment. The stale scent of despair that wafted through the entire place, so thick and unyielding that she swore she could smell it on her skin when she left - and that others could, as well. Certainly Homelander could. He tried to mention it to her once - and she'd gone off. No thoughts of what he could do to her - just an endless stream of vitriol so intense that even he stepped back, hands raised. For anyone else, he would have repaid this disrespect with a death so gruesome that putting yourself out of your misery was the only viable option. But for Maeve, he relented. He knew what it was like for someone to poke the bear within. He understood.

Maeve took a sip of her drink - an Americano, dappled with a hint of French Vanilla, a load of heavy whip - and a bite of Daniels, a shark fin beneath the milky surface.

Sage took a sip in turn - water. Iceberg water. Antarctica. 

She nodded, and when she opened her mouth to speak, the faintest hint of a condensation cloud  billowed from her lips. Maeve leaned in. Condensation cloud... more like condescension cloud. She snorted at her own joke. Sage raised a brow - but Maeve waved it off. 

"You're right," she said, leaning forward in turn. "I want you to come to the Expo with me, to do a bit of... investigation."

Now it was Maeve's turn to raise a brow. Sage gave a discreet look around, before searching through her satchel to find a pen and paper. Maeve pressed her lips together, waiting.

"So, I saw your save last week on VNN. Really good stuff - my cousin actually showed it to me, she loves you," Sage's tone was light, belying the tense preamble she'd started just seconds ago. But Maeve caught on quickly, darting her eyes down to the table, to see that Sage had written, in small, neat print, unlined twice:

Homelander.

Maeve felt a slithering sense of unease ripple under her skin, though she did not shiver. She brought her eyes to Sage's for a brief moment, before writing in turn.

"That's so sweet... every time I do a save, I always think of the girls from my first Expo. My biggest fans. I paid for their colleges."

Why? Is something... wronger than usual?

Sage snorted, eyes crinkled in amusement, before her gaze turned more severe. The scratch of the pen against the paper rattled Maeve; she took another sip of her drink.

He was shouting last night. Talking to himself. He hasn't been the same since New Year's. 

Maeve furrowed a brow, pen shaking in her hand, dread creeping up her spine.

Not the same... how?  A violent scratch of the pen - Sage flipped the notebook over then, urgently. Maeve gasped.

Sage placed the book, calmer now, into her bag, before turning her gaze - piercing, methodical. The Arctic - onto Maeve.

"I don't know," she said lowly. "But we need to find out."

They started with the camera footage, going after hours so as to not arouse suspicion. Clad in black (Sage had insisted, the dramatic, Maeve snorted), they crept into Vought's Surveillance Department, the whisper of their footsteps muffled by pieces of cloth Sage had glued to the bottoms. Logging into the system brought a vibrant glow to the room, the blue light casting eerie shadows onto Sage's face. But no matter - she'd taped a thick, black sheet of poster board to the window at the door.

The hum of the monitor droned low and threatening as Sage clicked through the security footage, flicking through with a dizzying speed that Maeve had to turn her eyes from, until Sage gave a soft gasp, and she turned to face her.

Homelander. He was flying home, sneaking in through the window - the video was timestamped at 2:38am. January 1st.

"Why the window?" Maeve murmured, leaning in despite the mounting disquiet that swirled within her.

What does he have to hide?

The video ended there, with him sweeping inside the window, shutting it behind him, then cutting to static.

Maeve looked at Sage, a million questions on her lips - but Sage held up a finger, and fishing through her page, produced a small camcorder.

"I recorded this the other night. Outside his room."

The two women leaned into the camcorder, ears nearly touching, listening to the crunch and pop of the tape rolling within.

Anger, in his voice. But... not just anger. Rage. Blindingly hot, searing rage. The intensity of his shouts made Maeve flinch... but the next thing out of his mouth made her entire body go cold.

"Jo-ohn..!" Maeve's jaw dropped, and she looked to Sage, who'd heard this nightmare already - her gaze, though level, hinted at a subtle disturbance by the audio.

"There's nobody in there..." Maeve whispered. Sage shook her head.

"And get this," she continued, fishing her phone out of her bag as well, and playing a video. Homelander's New Year Speech. Maeve grimaced.

"Yeah, even I'd noticed he was a bit... off, that night." she recalled his blank stare, the way they'd had to try for attention 3 times on the walk to the meeting room. He'd seemed... almost defeated. Depressed, even. Maybe bordering on a mental break... she couldn't banish the thought of his eyes, clouded over and flat where they usually sparked with dark vigor, and power. Broken, Maeve realized. The realization brought a sinking feeling with it. Homelander survived only by virtue of the mask. The one that painted him as a god, untouchable and blisteringly cold. If that mask were to slip, or crack... Maeve's anxiety spiked.

"I think something happened, either before New Year's, or directly after," Sage stated, logging the computer off, storing the camcorder and phone away. "That's why we're going to the Expo. To find out."

She rose to her feet, retrieved the poster board, breaking it down into squares, and put that in her bag, too. Then, she rolled a chair to the way they'd entered: a vent in the ceiling. Maeve hoisted her into the crawlspace before joining her, the thud of Sage's heartbeat echoing in their close quarters, resolute as always. Slowly, as she let the sound move through her, Maeve felt her pulse stop its jagged upward climb.

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

It's interesting how word associations change and don't change over the years, because even though I don't really know what 'velveteen' is (besides some kind of material) the idea of a 'velveteen rabbit' still conjures up something small and cute and soft and strokeable— but meanwhile his best friend and mentor The Skin Horse sounds like something out of a second rate creepypasta that gave you nightmares when you were thirteen.