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fanaticsnail · 3 months ago

Note

Saw a post about how penguins "propose" with rocks. Meaning if you were dating penguin:

He would gift you cool rocks all through your relationship but especially when he's going to propose

2. That engagement ring is about to be MASSIVE

-♡♡

I loved this concept. It needed to be in a fic, ♡♡ Anon. As soon as I saw my asks starting to work again, I began this little penguin fic for you. I hope you enjoy it!

Penguin's Rock Collection

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,450+

Synopsis: Penguin finally tells you about each piece in his extensive rock collection, and you are left in awe when he shows you his crowning piece.

Themes: Penguin x gn!reader, fluff, proposals, Penguin is a thief, he is a kleptomaniac, kisses, proposal, cute things, just let him talk about his rocks.

Mini Part 2, Mini Part 3

When you first began dating Penguin, you were in awe with the small cluster of miscellaneous rocks he kept in his private quarters. There were only three or four lining his bed frame, littering the surface and adding an element to his side of the room that was something distinctly his. While Shachi kept tri-fold posters of various wanted bounties of his friends throughout the Blues, Penguin had a few small rocks.

Each time you visited him in his quarters as opposed to yours, you witnessed the collection grow in vast number and size. Not before long, the shelves and cabinets in his shared room with Shachi was overwhelmed with rocks of differing textures and sizes: all labeled and tagged with the appropriate title, size, weight, and color. You laughed at the disdain Shachi would pull over his face, the scowl permanently plastered on his mouth as he flicked the overlaying cabinet with his toes and pushed it further onto Penguin’s side of the room from his recline against his bed.

As you show interest in his hobby, asking before touching any that seemed to catch your interest, and he would tell you the story behind it. Reclining back on his bed and propped onto his elbows, he would watch you with a soft smile drawn up on his lips.

“That one was from Swallow Island, just outside Wolf’s house,” he gestured to the pebble in your hands, “Nicked it from his front garden. Wanted something to remember him by.” You offered him a soft smile before placing the rock back onto the side, just above its correlating slip of paper.

“And this one?” you ask, cocking your head to the side and gently tracing the contours of the soft shell-like stone.

“That one was from the first time I met you,” he uttered quietly to himself, slowly stepping over his blankets to draw himself at your side, “You were wearing that green shirt. Took that piece of jade from the wall near the beach.” You furrowed your brows in confusion, sneaking a look at Shachi as he attempted to remain nonchalant while reading a comic in the corner of the room.

“You remember my shirt?” you asked Penguin, puzzled at the attentiveness he took at the encounter. He slowly stepped over to the collection, gently brushing his hands over them before turning back to you.

“I remember a lot of things. The rocks-... they-...” he sucked his lips into his mouth, stifling what he wanted to truly say. Shaking his head, he returned his hat-shrouded eyes to you and offered you a smile, “...They tell stories. They help me remember. Wolf, Law, even this stupid asshole.” His thumb gestured to Shachi with his thumb, who crudely elevated his middle finger in return without removing his eyes from the pages.

“Oh?” you ask in response, smiling and raising your hand up to the cabinet, placing your weight coyly on your forearm. Further puzzlement overtook you as you peered at the expanded array of rocks, gems, golds and pebbles. “Pen, there’s quite a few here, honey. Surely you don’t have a story behind each rock you’ve stolen, you kleptomaniac.”

He chuckled at your accusation, turning away from the shelf and rummaging around in his draws. The soft rustle had you confused, attempting to peer over his shoulder while he blocked your sight with the curve of his ass and broad shoulders.

“Our first date, the time we spent in Sabaody Archipelago together, the beach incident where you pushed me into the water-,” he listed off, prompting you to interject with your rebuttal.

“-I did no such thing! You fell, I laughed, and you pulled me in!” you defended yourself, moving away from the cabinet and approaching him just as he stood, “You tried to drown me.”

“I did not,” he gasped, feigning shock and clutching both hands to his heart, “You were flailing about and I was trying to hold you still.” He chuckled at you, watching as your lips fell into a cute pout.

“You ruined my pants by drenching them in salt water-,” you spoke, falling short when he leaned down and pressed his nose against yours. Gently rubbing the pointed tip of his nose against yours, he cooed down in response.

“-Your blue pants,” he whispered, removing his nose from dancing with yours and nodding his head back towards the cabinet, “Aquamarine from the bottom of the sea where we were swimming. Had to go back later and dive for it, I’d hope you know. Hard to do that in the dark.”

He removed himself from your embrace and cradled something small against his chest.

“And what have you got there, Pen? Quartz from the first time we put on our Heart Pirate uniforms together?” you teased him, scrunching your nose and softly cradling his cheeks in both of your palms. He chuckled at you, reaching up to remove his hat and place it on your own head while cradling the object against his chest with his other hand.

“Pirate uniforms, no. Heart, yes,” he whispered intimately, withdrawing his head from yours and gazing his crystalline blue eyes deeply into your own orbs. Withdrawing his hand from his chest, he presented you with a small rectangular box lined in painted gold. Atop a small cushion lying in the center, a band of woven gold with a small, unpolished stone lying on the top.

“This was from the moment I knew my heart belonged to you,” the softness from his confession was depicted in the deep baritone, his stature slowly sinking onto his knees, “I collected all of these rocks in the hopes of finding the perfect moment to give you this one. It’s-.”

“-Is this amethyst, Pen?” you fawned over the rock, studying its shape with your lips parted and brows triangulating up to the center of your forehead. Tears swelled in your eyes as you watched his own glaze over with a soft mist of joy.

“From when we got separated from the crew, you sprained your ankle, and then argued with me when I tried to look after you,” he nodded in confirmation, his smile drawing up his face the longer he reminded you, “We slept in the cave, the whole thing covered in amethyst stalactites, and you let me hold you against me.”

“But Pen...” you bit back a sob, gently reaching down and cupping his cheek in your palm, “We weren’t even together at that point-.”

“-But that’s the moment I knew my heart would always belong to you,” he darted his eyes between yours while softly nuzzling against your palm, “What would you say? If I were to give this to you as an extension of myself? To promise to love and care for you always, to be by your side as your husband? Would you-...? Will you-...?” He choked on his words, attempting to gage your reaction by holding his eyes to your own.

You nod your head at first slowly, before your enthusiasm took over. Bobbing your head, you slink to your knees in front of him and throw yourself into his arms. Lips colliding in a messy clatter of teeth and tongues, you whimper against him as tears begin to roll down your cheeks in heavy waves.

“So, I take that’s a yes, then?” A lazy voice called from the other side of the room, prompting you and Penguin to laugh into the kiss before breaking away from it. You called over to Shachi, without tearing your eyes away from Penguin’s.

“It’s definitely a yes,” you nod. He hastily grabs for your left hand, removing the ring from the pillow and nodding at you to gain consent before dragging it over your unity finger to the knuckle.

Several bangs drew you away from this moment of solitude, Shachi’s balled fist colliding against the metal wall of the submarine while shouting: “It’s a yes-!” at the top of his lungs.

Cheers reverberated in the hallway, prompting you to shake your head at the reaction from the entirety of the members aboard the Polar Tang. You gaze down at your hand, admiring the way the metal shone over your skin and danced the lights from the crystal throughout the room. Penguin couldn’t take his eyes off you: noticing the way you beamed down at his ring and wore his most prized rock with pride.

He’ll work up the courage to tell you how much trouble it was to learn how to cast gold, welt the settings, and how he had to humble himself in front of Eustass Kid and Massacre Soldier Killer to learn how to do it properly. But that story, and its correlating, stolen, bismuth paper weight, would be for another time. For now, all he wanted to do was scoop you up, hold you close, and gush to everyone he knew how much he was in love with his beautiful fiance.

And you would do the same.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

#one piece #x reader #ask snail #snail answers #♡♡ anon #op penguin #one piece penguin #penguin x reader #op penguin x reader #x gn!reader #one piece fluff #one piece x reader

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lin-dian · 2 months ago

Text

注意：橱柜只制作了正面的，其他部位未删除但并没有做模型和贴图。

Note: Only the front cabinet has been made. Other parts have not been deleted but have not been modeled or textured.

#ts4cc #the sims 4 #the sims 4 cc #sims 4 #sims download #sim4 #ts4 download

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mothandpidgeon · 3 months ago

Text

Making Out to Pablo Honey (virgin!Dieter Bravo x f!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

pairing: virgin!Dieter Bravo x f!reader

rating: E MDNI

summary: Dieter’s always tried to be cool. The thing about being cool, though, the more he tries, the less it works. You, on the other hand, you’re cool.

contents: virgin!Dieter, young!Dieter, lots of 90s references, cannabis, mentions of masturbation, fingering, premature ejaculating, one ferris bueller reference, reader is able bodied and not described physically moth never uses y/n.

This fic is about horny teens doing horny teen things. It's not too late to not read this if that's not ok with you.

wc: 2.5k

a/n: I'm thinking of this as a Dieter origin story. I really enjoyed thinking about him before he was the DIETER BRAVO. Anyway, this was kind of healing I wish I knew him back when I was in high school. Thanks @moonlitbirdie and @whocaresstillthelouvre for betaing and cheering me on!

“Sweet or salty?” you ask. Your head is buried in one of the kitchen cabinets, rummaging through a selection of snacks.

Dieter sits on the counter opposite, watching you with a lazy smile.

“Sweet,” he says. “No, wait. Salty.”

You look at him over your shoulder, your eyes bloodshot under heavy lids.

“You’re so stoned,” you giggle.

Dieter blushes. Despite the fact that he coughs after every hit, getting high with you after school has become his favorite past time. You never tease him for it, just put the joint between your lips while Dieter wonders if you can feel the warmth from his there. You’re both well and truly blazed at this point after smoking up in the dugout of the school's baseball field.

Dieter gazes over your body as you stand on tip toe, reaching for the top shelf. It’s like he can’t control his eyes from wandering to you when he’s like this. Sometimes you notice.

“What?” you’ll say. “You’re staring at me.”

“You’re paranoid,” he’ll lie.

He wishes he was brave enough to tell you that he’s staring because he thinks you’re beautiful.

It’s hard to believe that the two of you are actually friends now. He still remembers when you were assigned as his lab partner, a girl that he was equally drawn to and intimidated by.

Now he’s in your house after school almost every day.

“Honey?” your mother’s voice calls from the front door.

“Shit.” Dieter hops onto the floor before she enters the kitchen in a smart business outfit.

“Oh, hi, Dieter,” she says, smoothing the bottom of her hair.

“Hello, ma’am,” Dieter says.

You stifle a laugh.

“Dieter, you don’t have to call me ma’am,” your mother says.

“Um okay,” he replies. He can’t remember her first name. She’s told him before. Does he seem stoned? Oh, god, he definitely does.

She scrunches her nose.

“What’s that smell?” she asks.

Dieter’s stomach plummets. The two of you must reek of pot. He’s grown to like the scent– an earthy tang that now reminds him of you. He braces himself, trying to clear his foggy mind for a moment so he can’t act sober.

“Somebody must’ve run over a skunk,” you say. “What’re you doing home so early?”

You change the subject so seamlessly. Of course. Nothing ever seems to scare you.

“I’ve got a meeting with the Vermont people but I left the damn file here,” she says, picking a folder up from the kitchen table. “I’ll be back late if we close the deal.”

“Good luck,” you say.

Dieter bursts with laughter as your mother goes out the front door. You join him, nearly doubling over with your giggles.

“I was freaking out!” he tells you. “A skunk! I can’t believe she bought that.”

“I know, right? She’s clueless,” you chuckle. “Look.”

You hold up your creation— a plate bursting with flavor and texture. It’s organized into little piles of treats— potato chips, Oreos, a handful of glistening strawberries. Chocolate covered pretzels rest beside dried cranberries and several ropes of licorice separate honey roasted peanuts from fun sized Kit Kats in glossy red wrappers. It’s a feast, every bite he could ever want just when he wants it the most.

“Fuck,” he whispers as he takes in this offering.

Maybe it’s the pot buzzing around in his head but he can feel himself falling head over heels for you. He wants to kiss you but what if you don’t want to be kissed? What if you reject him? He could play it off as a joke like the one he told in the biology lab that got you to notice him for the first time. Humiliation he can handle but he’s not sure he could take that heartbreak.

The cookies are calling his name so he abandons any dreams of filling his mouth with your tongue in favor of a Nutter Butter.

There’s a big, L shaped couch in the basement that Dieter sprawls out on while he munches on the fruit. They might be the best strawberries he’s ever eaten. Everything tastes so good when he’s high. He wonders what you taste like.

“Do you like Radiohead?” you ask sorting through a pile of cassettes.

“Yeah. I love them,” he says. He’s only heard one of their songs on the radio but if you like them, he wants to like them, too.

Dieter’s always tried to be cool. He has a lot working against him— built like a string bean, a goofy personality. His own fucking name has betrayed him. He got the same haircut as Leonardo DiCaprio, he saved up to buy a pair of fancy sneakers, he spends hours in the mirror carefully choosing his outfits. The thing about being cool, though, the more he tries, the less it works.

You, on the other hand, you’re cool. Effortlessly so in your black boots and chipped nail polish. It’s not just the music you listen to or the clothes you wear. There’s something in your attitude, an aloof confidence that he’s never been able to replicate.

Despite his anxieties, you never make him feel judged. It seems like you enjoy introducing him to new things. You offered to make him a mixtape and it sent his heart fluttering. He’s shared a thing or two with you, too— leading you through the aisles of the local video store handing you his favorite obscure movies. Sometimes you laugh at his enthusiasm but it’s never mean spirited.

You pop the tape in and climb up onto the sofa as rough guitar strums seep through the speakers. There’s something psychedelic in the music that has Dieter sinking deeper into his seat.

Although there’s plenty of space, you sit alongside him, propping your feet up on the chaise beside his. Dieter’s pulse picks up. He’s so aware of you so close to him, each move of your muscles as you get comfortable. He can smell the pot tangled up in your hair and the fresh scent of cotton that always lingers on your clothes.

“I like being high,” Dieter sighs.

You laugh. He fucking loves the sound of it, wants to be a little clown to keep you giggling away.

“Give me a Kit Kat,” you say.

The snack plate is balanced on Dieter’s lap so when you fish through it for the candy, he can feel the pressure of your touch right on his dick. He stifles a groan, trying to focus his attention on the crinkle of the wrapper in your hands.

He’s touched himself to the thought of you more times than he’d like to admit. There was an incident when you unexpectedly brushed your ass against him at your locker and he popped a boner. He had to take care of it in the bathroom, one hand cupping the tip of his cock as he came so he didn’t make a mess.

“Dieter,” you say. His name sounds so sweet when you say it softly like that.

“Yeah,” he replies.

Some time in the last fifteen minutes, his mind wandered away and he got lost in the haze of his high. He can’t remember what he was thinking about before you got his attention or how long he’s been out of it. There’s just a warm feeling in his head and every once in a while he remembers that you’re sitting right next to him and he smiles to himself and then he floats away again.

“You’re staring at me,” you say.

You’re close, laying on the same couch cushion, your face just inches from his own. You have pretty eyes. Maybe that’s what he’s been looking at. Or your hair. He likes your hair.

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. There’s no denying it this time.

Your lips curl into a smile and your eyes dance over his features. He feels himself leaning towards you like his head is too heavy to fight your magnetic pull.

Your noses brush, that’s when he realizes that you’re moving towards him, too. Both of you hesitate there, an acknowledgement of this point of no return— your friendship will never be the same.

You kiss him. At first it’s a cautious meeting of lips and, suddenly, a crash of passion and excitement. It’s sloppy and unchoreographed but the two of you find a rhythm. He can taste the chocolate in your kiss.

You climb onto his lap, sliding your hands beneath his shirt. Having all of you there, straddling him like he’s in his own wet dream, is overwhelming. Blood rushes to his cock. There’s so much of you to explore— soft places to touch and hold and taste. He wants all of you all at once and you seem just as eager.

Your mouth roams his neck and teeth rake against his earlobe as you rock over the bulge in his jeans. He’s so sensitive from the weed, he can practically feel the hot drag of your pussy even through the layers between you.

Dieter fumbles with the clasp of your bra and you knock his hands away to do it for him, then unbutton your pants and do the same for him. He keeps his mouth on yours as you pull off his shirt with eager kisses.

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. He’s met with the slick lips of your pussy giving him a delicious shiver. You gasp and sink your teeth into his bottom lip.

Now your hand finds him, coating his length with precum and tugging.

“Oh god,” he chokes. He wills himself not to finish right there in your hand.

Dieter presses a finger into your entrance, slow and cautious, watching your expression for any signs of discomfort. You’re so tight, he can’t imagine the crush of it around him. The strokes on his cock stutter and slow as he thrusts deeper until eventually your limp hand simply holds him. He doesn’t care. The feeling of you is addicting, all slippery and inviting.

“Ow,” you complain.

“Is this ok?” Dieter asks.

“Don’t just finger me,” you complain.

He blanches, unsure of how to correct himself. If you want more, he’s more than willing to give it to you but it has nerves churning in his belly.

“I’ve never done it,” Dieter says.

He immediately wishes he could take the words and swallow them back down. His neck burns with embarrassment. The coolest girl he’s ever met is letting him in her pants and he just spoiled it all by admitting he’s a virgin.

You stare at him with big, round eyes, your lips swollen from kissing. Your adam’s apple bobs in your throat.

“Me either,” you tell him.

It’s Dieter’s turn to stare. He’s shocked. It seems like you’ve done everything already. At least, everything a high school senior would aspire to do.

If you were embarrassed to tell him that, you don’t let it linger for long. “That wasn’t what I meant,” you say. “It just— I don't think I can come that way.”

Dieter nods in awe. This isn’t the first time he’s gone to third base but he hadn’t felt very sure of his technique during those few encounters. You look a little nervous, maybe for the first time ever, but he’s so impressed you’re confident enough to tell him what you want, to even know. He wants to give you exactly what you need.

“Show me,” he says. “Show me what you like.”

Your pupils blow out and Dieter’s not sure which one of you is more aroused. Eventually you regain yourself, nodding quickly and climbing off of his lap so you can shimmy your pants all the way off.

Dieter can’t help but stare at all the parts of you that are exposed. You’re so pretty he can hardly believe he gets to touch you. His cock throbs at the sight and he fists himself before realizing that he’d better stop if he wants to last more than half a minute.

You lay back on the couch, parting your bent legs for Dieter. He sits up for a good view as you explain the secrets of the universe. You take his hand and guide his fingers to your pussy, carefully sliding them along the side of your clit. It’s velvety soft and warm and slick and you take in a sharp breath. His cock jumps. Again, a wet stroke over you. You set a pace, your hand around his as he makes you melt.

“Woah,” he whispers to himself as he watches your body respond.

He’s not sure where to look; at the glistening lips of your pussy, a rare glimpse at the opposite sex in real life or at your face, eyes closed and brow knit as you float in ecstasy. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

He forgets the throbbing between his own legs, entranced by your pleasure. Your grip around his hand slackens and Dieter experiments with slightly faster strokes, kissing your neck. Your pulse thrums under his lips, your whines vibrating.

As he gathers more slick from your entrance, you grind your clit into the heel of his hand. Your hips lift from the wet patch that’s growing beneath you. Dieter keeps his hand planted on you, giving you all the friction you need.

He tries to find a way to tell you to use him, to take what you need, but he’s speechless. Watching a girl get off on him, and not just any girl but you, feels like witnessing a miracle.

Your muscles tighten, every single tendon in your body wrapped up like a rubber band about to snap. He can’t help himself. Dieter slides a finger inside of you. It feels even better than before, now that your walls are coated in that sweet release.

That’s when it crashes over you. You lock up, your arms and thighs straining. He can feel your core tensing around him desperately and he thinks he might cum just from the sight of you like this. It’s not like he’s seen in porn. You’re quiet, focused, somewhere else and he wants to go there, wherever that planet of pleasure might be.

He wants to kiss you, to taste your release and bury his face in your tits but he doesn’t dare move and ruin this exquisite moment for you. So he keeps moving with the same steady tempo as you flutter around him.

You groan out his name, long and slow and it sounds like music.

Dieter feels his hips jerk and, oh fuck, he’s cumming. He tears his hand away from you to squeeze it over his spasming cock. It’s too late and the wet press of you coated on his fingers doesn’t help. He paints his torso with his own warm, sticky spend.

You stare, eyes wildly surveying the mess on his belly, still dazed as you come down.

He should be mortified that he just blew his load all over himself the very first time he’s gotten physical with you but his veins are coursing with bliss. His head falls back, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

“I really like you,” he says.

Your face breaks out in a smile and you bashfully bite your lip. He feels your fingers intertwine with his own.

“Yeah. I like you too,” you say.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and my asks are always open!

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #young!dieter bravo #dieter bravo fic #virgin!dieter bravo

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bacchuschucklefuck · 3 months ago

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Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.