#they have ravaged every and all communities

[black-fist-order]

On today's episode of "Fuck Around And Find Out..."

**Oklahomans: Take notes. Because when the next F-4/F-5 roars through your neighborhood, you’re all well and truly fucked**

When the skies opened over Arkansas on March 14–15, 2025, the damage was swift and unforgiving. Fourteen confirmed tornadoes ripped across the state. Three people died. Homes were reduced to splinters. Communities lost power, shelter, and safety. By the time the winds died down, the devastation covered ten counties and left over $110 million in damages.

And then the second disaster struck.

Donald Trump said no.

Despite a formal request from Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders for a major disaster declaration, the Trump administration denied Arkansas the federal aid it desperately needed. The official FEMA justification? The damage wasn’t severe enough to overwhelm state and local resources.

Let that sink in: Entire neighborhoods leveled, lives lost, and the federal government—led by the man Arkansas helped elect twice—walked away.

No Explanation. No Empathy. No Aid.

Governor Sanders, who once called Trump “the most effective president of our lifetime,” now finds herself in a new position: publicly begging for help. In her own words:

“The sheer magnitude of this event resulted in overwhelming amounts of debris, widespread destruction to homes and businesses, the tragic loss of three lives, and injuries to many others.”

Even her appeal letter couldn't sway Trump’s FEMA. And while the denial may look like bureaucratic indifference, we’ve seen this movie before. In Trump’s world, disaster relief is not about need. It’s about loyalty. Political calculation. Retribution.

When California burned, Trump mocked the state’s forest management and threatened to withhold aid. When Hurricane Maria flattened Puerto Rico, he delayed help, slandered local officials, and threw paper towels while people died. When COVID ravaged blue states, he floated holding back ventilators and aid based on which governors showed him enough "appreciation."

This is not fiscal policy. It’s punishment.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders, Meet the

Trump Doctrine:

Governor Sanders served as Trump’s press secretary, spinning his every lie, excusing his every cruelty. She carried water for the man who now leaves her state to rot. She learned the hard way what many have come to realize too late: Trump doesn’t have allies. He has tools. And when he’s done using you, he discards you.

This should be a moment of reckoning—for Sanders, yes, but for every Republican who has treated Trump like an untouchable demigod while he’s turned the federal government into a weapon of political revenge.

Even Arkansas isn’t safe.

Local Officials Are Begging for Relief:

In Wynne, AR, one of the towns hit hardest, Mayor Jennifer Hobbs put it bluntly:

“We are still cleaning up debris. We are still trying to help our residents find housing. We need help. We can’t do this alone.”

But alone they remain.

Senators Tom Cotton and John Boozman, alongside Arkansas’s congressional delegation, have all urged the administration to reconsider. And yet, silence. No revised offer. No second look. No acknowledgment from the president they helped return to power.

What kind of leader punishes his own voters when they’re buried under rubble?

Disaster Relief Is Not a Loyalty Test:

Arkansas wasn’t asking for special treatment. The March 2025 Tornado Outbreak qualifies by every standard FEMA has used in past disasters. Similar levels of damage in other states—often blue ones—have triggered federal assistance almost immediately.

The difference now is not the storm. It’s the man in power.

And under Trump’s second term, the message is clear: if your state doesn’t flatter him, it suffers. If your local officials don’t kiss the ring, your town doesn’t get help. If your governor isn’t useful anymore, your people become collateral damage.

The Message to America Is Chilling:

This is bigger than Arkansas. This is about whether any of us—anywhere—can count on our government to show up when it matters. Because if the answer depends on who’s in office and whether you praised them enough on Fox News, we’re not a republic anymore.

We’re hostages.

The Storm Has Passed, But the

Warning Remains:

This is the future Trump offers: loyalty above law, cruelty above care, power above people. He’s not just refusing aid—he’s making an example.

And Arkansas, loyal as ever, is learning what loyalty gets you when the man in charge has no soul.

The tornadoes were natural disasters. What Trump did afterward was deliberate.

*Written by Tony Pentimalli

@tonywriteshere.bsky.social

[moonlitmedarda]

ׄᐧ✧ if you dare ✧ׂᐧ

Melvika Week - Day 1

prompt: Kisses (@melvikaweek2025)

word count: 3k

Sevika has done her best to develop patience since beginning her time as a Councilor. She wants to do right by her people, to do right by the community she’s fought to protect since she was old enough to walk. 

However, focusing on creating new trade routes to Zaun and advocating for the recovering citizens was virtually impossible when a literal goddess was standing before her day in and day out. 

Mel Medarda was a mystery.  

They see each other nearly every day since the war's end, yet Sevika only knows surface-level details.

She knew of the woman through the years while working under Silco, as Mel was— in a way— one of the most prominent faces of the Council. It was wise to keep tabs on the perfect Piltover princess leading the council into the luxurious future (and far away from the dirty Undercity). 

But Sevika also knows Mel had a hand in ending the war, that her own mother led the charge, and that through feats Sevika wasn’t sure she’d be able to complete, Mel assisted in saving them all. The grief that clings to her like a shroud is testimony enough. Some days it lessens, but on others it seemed to choke her where she stands, and it is plain as day on her pretty face. The older woman looks at Mel with respect and gratitude. The longer she looks, the harder she falls.

And that is a serious problem. There simply isn't enough time for these kinds of feelings to blind Sevika. She has a job to do, a responsibility to the people of Zaun. They fought hard to get even an inkling of recognition. This wasn’t the time to lose focus. But her eyes refused to get the memo. 

During every meeting, they wander over to the woman and trail over her lithe form with a wholesome admiration unfamiliar to Sevika. She studied from the golden freckles that dusted Mel's high cheekbones down to the consistent gold paint donning her nails.

Something about the woman draws Sevika to her like a moth to a flame. 

On a rainy afternoon, after a particularly mundane and unproductive meeting, Mel pulls her aside. Just as Sevika is stomping out of the chambers, head downturned as defeat begins to take over, a glimmer of sunlight pulls her from the inevitable spiral. 

“Sevika, walk with me?” Mel requests, her voice soft as she leans just the slightest bit forward. 

Sevika nods and lets the woman lead her out of the chambers and into the courtyard for some fresh air. They stroll through the small gardens and out into the unfamiliar breeze.

The war left Piltover ravaged, but a few months removed, the new Council made strides in turning the city into a new kind of beauty. But none of it compares to Mel.

As she guides Sevika through the gardens, the sun's rays cascade down onto her soft, dark skin. She is ethereal. Even the plants seem to reach out to touch her. 

“How have you been finding your new apartment? Do you need anything?” Mel questions. Her hands are clasped behind her straight back. Even in her heels, she has to look the slightest bit up at Sevika. The sight thrills her. 

“Oh yeah, the place is nice. It’s still weird…being topside so consistently. I appreciate how close it is to the chambers, makes my life a hell of a lot easier. The stipend for the furniture is a little extreme, though. I still have leftovers, and they refuse to take them back.” Sevika complains, the luxury of this position continues to make her uncomfortable.

Even moving into Piltover was a big adjustment, one she still isn't certain about. It feels ike something too close to betrayal of the roots that made her. 

“Well, I’ll have to be the judge of that. If you still have money left over, you’re doing it wrong. You deserve to have a space with the proper accommodations and conditions that make it a home to you. Or at least a comfortable home away from home.” Mel says, her voice almost chastising, but the softness of her honeyed voice relays her genuine concern. 

She is a light Sevika has never seen before. She wants to look into it—into her—all the time.

“I’ll take your word for it, princess. I have more important things to do than shop— like resist the urge to chase down Shoola.” Sevika starts, letting Mel lead her into advice with a playful roll of her eyes at the petty situation. They devolve into a conversation about Shoola's last-minute decision to back out of a proposal, and Mel listens as Sevika briefly rants.

This has become a habit since Sevika joined the council. It was the highlight of her day, finding moments with Mel to learn about this new world and watch her navigate issues with poised ease. Watching her use her brilliant mind to create the solutions they so desperately needed. 

It would be hard to see her leave. Sevika was well aware that Mel had responsibilities to attend to in Noxus. She’d upended her family line and needed to settle the unrest. But her impending absence made the feelings Sevika felt blooming within her even more pressing. 

The walk leads them out of the chambers and into the city. Sevika has nothing to do until the evening, so she happily follows Mel the short distance to her apartment. 

“Are you just going to stare at me all day, or are you going to answer my question?” Mel teases, nudging Sevika's shoulder with her slim, gold-laden shoulder. 

“Huh?” Sevika clumsily replies, her mind stuttering to a halt as she tries to catch up in the conversation. Mel watches with a lifted eyebrow and a smirk. “Sorry, I’m running on low sleep. Mind’s not where it should be.” 

“Clearly.” Mel teases even further. “Are you free this afternoon? I have a few proposals I think you’ll find quite useful, and I would like to adjust your most recent one. Hopefully, things won't take too long, and you can get back to rest. My apartment isn’t far.” She offers, and despite the rush of fear, Sevika blindly agrees. 

The pair enters Mel’s apartment less than 15 minutes later, and Sevika tenses at the new, sleek environment. In all their time getting to know each other as colleagues, both inside the council chambers and out, Sevika had never seen the inside of Mel’s home. It was luxurious, in an understated way. The tasteful decor and beautiful furniture, combined with the beautiful art, made the space feel like the kind of place Sevika should not be.

Once upon a time, she would have robbed a place like this. But today she was watching her colleague pull out her notes and a decanter of fine wine. Life can change in the blink of an eye…or in this case, over the course of several excruciating few decades. 

The pair sits in Mel’s study, the desk cluttered with an array of paperwork and half-finished proposals they will be going over... at some point. A few plates of dessert sit on the desk, out of the way of the papers and beside the glasses of wine. Sevika’s stomach threatens to rumble. 

“You’ve been working hard over the past few weeks, I thought a few treats might make the work a bit more relaxing.” The woman offers with a smile that borders on sheepish, and the sweet way she fiddles with the sleeve of her robe makes Sevika’s heart sore.

She feels herself loosen. The tension melts from Sevika's frame as she allows Mel to guide her into one of the chairs. 

They make easy small talk about the recent developments in medical buildings, air quality improvements, and housing regarding Zaun as they settle in. The talk pulls Sevika’s mind back into focus. 

She isn’t here for fun, despite how much she enjoys Mel’s quick wit and surprisingly hard-to-resist humor.

The wine is what snaps the last threads of control. It’s good shit that actually tastes nice. Nothing less is expected when Mel Medarda presents a wine pairing. It’s this lush, dark berry flavor with a hint of something chocolatey that makes her drink it fast. 

“This is one of my favorite Noxian wines. It’s usually served with a little dark chocolate truffle, but the closest I could get here was this cake. I’ll try harder to get one for us the next time we have to do something like this.” She says offhandedly, her hazel eyes gleaming with excitement and sorrow as she pairs the sip with a bite of cake.

“Isn’t the goal for me to not need your help anymore?” Sevika questions with a snort, mirroring Mel and pairing a sip of wine with the dark chocolate cake. 

Her eyes slip shut, and the moan that escapes her lips should be a source of embarrassment, but the delicious tastes blind Sevika for a few moments. So much so that she completely misses the heated look Mel gives her as she makes her pleasure with the flavor vocal. 

“Janna, you weren’t kidding. I could have this for dessert every day.” Sevika groans, taking another sip of wine to experience the dark berry flavors washing over her tongue again. 

“I did for a few years. It was a great homesickness remedy for a while. But that’s beside the point. The true goal of these meetings is for you to have so many opportunities for Zaun that you’ll need to have me on retainer at all times.” Mel jokes, earning a surprised chuckle from Sevika. 

“So you like slumming with the council's underdog, huh?” Sevika rumbles with a smirk.

“I like spending time with the protector of Zaun, a woman who fights tirelessly for the liberation and respect of her community. I happen to think she’s quite interesting.” Mel comes back softly, gazing down into the nearly empty glass in her hands. 

She speaks as if she’s confessing for the first time why she makes time for Sevika in such a capacity. But Sevika isn’t sure how to respond. She's nearly 50 years old, and she still struggles to express her emotions to this woman.

Vulnerability is not her strong suit. The thought of vocalizing the feelings swirling behind her sternum makes her nauseous. But maybe a few more glasses of this wine might give her the courage.

Before long, the work is abandoned, and the women are just enjoying wine and snacks that Mel ordered on a whim. 

They get along well. Better than Sevika expects. Mel is witty, funny, and at times shy in a way that surprises her. She was such a socialite, but in the quiet comfort of this apartment, she is so soft. At times, she looks up at Sevika with such vulnerability and softness that the woman regrets coming. Because there is no way that someone like her could handle Mel with care. She was a disaster waiting to happen. Mel deserves better.

When they finish the bottle, another is quickly opened. By this point, they both have let go of the false pretense of work. They made it through a few proposals halfheartedly, but now they are simply trading stories and anecdotes back and forth.

Mel shares the first time she sparred with her Mother, and how quickly the ruthless general withdrew said training when Mel so much as teared up. Sevika shares the story of her first heist and how she'd managed to upset a Piltover storefront's guard dog. The damn thing chased her nearly a mile. Each story brings them one step closer to understanding one another, and the curiosity only grows.

They transfer from the study into the plush living room after the first glass of the second bottle. The sun is just setting below the horizon, casting the most beautiful hues of reds, oranges, and purples across the sky. The wide windows of Mel’s apartment give the perfect view.

It serves as the perfect background to Mel’s unraveling beauty.

Throughout the evening, she’s been progressively letting go of hair adornments, jewelry, and extra clothing layers. She makes no big fuss of it; she simply takes off the accessory and places it on a nearby surface. Almost as if she does not realize the show of trust. All the unnecessary bits of her armor fall away with every story shared, leaving her bare braids falling down the soft material of her dark dress.

The trails of gold tattoos that Sevika wants to caress are out in the open—Janna, it’s been a while since she had a drink. She cut back after a few too many spirals post-war. A few too many glimpses of blue hair and big gold eyes. It’s catching up to her fast.

A low thrum of want curls in her chest the longer she watches Mel, but there is no way this could work. Sevika is not worthy of her. She is an undercity ogre whose only means of communication is violence. She could never be what Mel needed, what she deserved. 

Surges of panic bubble up in her chest, choking her and almost sending the wine back up. She can't do it. The words tumble from Sevika’s mouth before she can stop them.

“We shouldn’t do this anymore.” 

The mood is broken immediately. Regret and guilt fill her as she watches Mel wilt. The woman visibly swallows down the burgeoning embarrassment and bites her lip as she takes in Sevika’s words. She looks like a wet kitten. Deflated and unsure, fuck she should have taken a second to think before blurting out the first thing on her mind. 

“I’m sorry, I—I have overstepped. I apologize. You are free to leave at any time, and if you’re concerned about your sobriety, I’ll have El—I’ll have a car called for you.” The other woman rambles, tears slowly filling her eyes as she spirals. Sevika can see it behind her hazel eyes, and she’s quick to reach over and comfort her. She grasps Mel’s hands in her own, in a tight grip, and looks down at her. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I just…I panicked for a second and said the first thing that came to my mind. I just meant that…I’m starting to develop unprofessional feelings for you. I know this wine is not helping, but I don’t want to run the risk of making you uncomfortable or——

“—Sevika,” Mel gently interrupts. “You do realize that you are perfectly capable of completing these proposals and passing new aid on your own, right? You were the right hand of Zaun’s most notorious Chembaron—you were practically a Councilor yourself, though with a different ruleset. I’ve inserted myself because I’ve found such peace in our time together…and I have been feeling rather unprofessional things myself.” She confesses quietly, every word carefully placed as if ensuring her message is received. 

And it is, though Sevika can’t believe this is truly happening. “You….you aren’t just saying that, are you? You don’t have to let me down easy, I—

Mel interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a graceful lean forward to press her lips to Sevika’s. It is an innocent peck full of promise. Her soft, wine-stained lips still taste of chocolate and her lipstick's underlying sweetness. 

“I have wanted to kiss you for months. I felt so guilty…holding so much grief, needing to focus on so much responsibility...and still wanting to be close to you. Still wanting to hold you.” Mel confesses in a haunted whisper that Sevika soothes with another kiss. This one is slightly longer, the heat of their growing desire beginning to spring forth. 

“I've been trying to pour myself into this work day in and day out to help Zaun. I felt guilty, wanting to be near you all the time and still needing to be an advocate for so many... But I'm realizing it's like you said. We’ve been working hard, and we deserve a reward. The warmth and awe I feel when you come near me feels like something we should indulge in… something we should explore.” Sevika confesses softly, giving in to the urge to get closer by pressing her hand to Mel’s face. Holding the golden goddess of a woman in her hands and cherishing every second. 

Mel melts into her touch, her eyes going soft. “I want to…But I need you to know that despite the impending trip, I want this to last. I don’t want this to be one time…” She confesses, and relief floods Sevika as her words. 

“Good. I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go after this…I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to.” Sevika promises, some cracked part of herself falling into place the moment Mel’s composure breaks.

She climbs into Sevika’s lap, full of hunger and desperation. Kisses grow hungrier, more passionate by the second. They move together in an easy rhythm, one that they fall into with no hesitation. But Mel's hips roll in search of friction in the most distracting way.

Sevika soothes her, moving her hand up and down her back, feeling the warmth of her skin. Mel practically squirms under her touch, her kiss becomes more frantic as arousal begins to take over. The slight grinding into Sevika’s abs sends the woman into a tailspin. 

But in the midst of their kiss Mel pulls away briefly. A yawn forces its way out of her, and its so adorable Sevika in her tipsy state wants to coo. She wants to, but refuses.

"I apologize, I forgot the drowsiness that hits after a few glasses of this wine, I still want to--

"--I can make you scream in the morning, princess. I'm feeling a bit sleepy myself." Sevika confesses, grey eyes drooping as she fights sleep.

"A side effect of your age I imagine." Mel teases quietly, letting out a delighted laugh when Sevika wrestles her back onto the couch in retaliation.

"You're the dainty little thing who yawns after a few glasses of wine. Get your pretty ass up and show me where the bedroom is. Big Mama needs a nap."

[rooftops-are-for-towels]

Is the world out there as ill as the world in here? How often are you sick? How often is your family sick, how often are your friends? How often does sickness spread, how easy has it become to be sick- for you, for others? How long are you sick? At times, is it endless?

[orphicmusings]

“give me ten minutes and a pillow for his hips”

18+ | MDNI

its not that viktor didn’t want to devour you. take you in the almost impossible positions he’d widen his eyes at reading about when he got bored in the library, attempting to anatomically sketch it out on a napkin to visualize how it would work hastily before anyone came in and caught him flipping through an erotic novel. and he would, through the pain, it would be so worth it— if not for your gentle consideration. the one thing sexier than your dazed face looking up at him, all heated cheeks and hooded eyes, was how perceptive you were— how well you knew him, how well you saw him. you were attuned to him now, an invisible string between you. a phenomenon he could never sit down and wrap his big head around, just how connected the two of you had become that you barely needed words to communicate sometimes. like, for example, an abrupt whine sneakily covered by the clearing of his throat.

you were both excited and apprehensive when he brought up wanting to be on top tonight. you knew he would be putting pressure on his bad leg and of course you brought it up, but the way his voice dipped in velvet and wrapped around you, the lyrical lilt in his accent becoming hushed and deeper as he detailed how he wanted you under him, he wanted to take you, claim you, devour you with no inhibitions. his silver tongue won against your worried left brain, twice technically, until you heard it— the slightest change of rhythm in the strum of your little connective string.

“viktor?” you lifted your head. “what was that?”

he took a deep breath and buried his head in the crook of your neck. “nothing, darling.” he punctuated his assurance was a distracting suckle on your skin. and god, you almost gave in again, almost, but you gently tilted his head up and looked into his darkened eyes. “didn’t sound like nothing.”

damn you and your perceptive skills. he loves them so much.

another deep breath leaves him, and before he could wave it off, you press him. “it’s your leg, isn’t it?” you ask, already knowing the answer, and he can’t lie to you.

“yes.” he breathed in surrender. “i’m sorry, my love i really wanted to-what are you doing?” he frowned, watching you roll out from under him and grab one of the pillows on his bed.

“armchair, now.” you pointed to the chair across the room, with the plush ottoman in front of it that you gifted him. he couldn’t help but let a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth.

“bossy.” yet, he obeyed and made his way over to you. you gave him the pillow, instructing him to put it under his hip as he sat down, making sure his leg was elevated on the ottoman. once you got him all situated, you didn’t even have time to ask if it felt better before he was grabbing the back of your neck and kissing you like a man starved. you melted into his touch, straddling him but careful not to apply too much pressure. “so fucking sweet.” he pants the praise huskily into your mouth. “too good to me.”

his hands traveled down your body to grip your hips, pulling you flush to him. you started grinding slowly, and he guided you, a shaky breath leaving your mouth before you even got to the main event. every noise from your mouth caused a shiver to run down his spine, striking him with irrational need— he didn’t care that the things he wanted to do to you would make him scream in pain, he felt that he would simply die if he couldn’t fuck you the way he pictured it in his head right now.

but then he looks at you, just as dazed and hungry on top of him as you were under him, and a smile creeps up on him. it doesn’t matter if he were to throw you down and ravage you like a love interest in those books, or if you were softly bouncing on his length, burying your little sighs and whimpers into the crook of his neck, he’s still pleasing you. he’s still enough for you. he exhaled a smirk.

“none of that, darling.” he lifted your jaw to meet his eyes. “wanna see you and hear you. can you do that for me?” you nodded, struggling to keep your head up in the throes of pleasure, but having no trouble letting your mouth run wild with curses and praises and whines and whimpers. and it was all music to his ears. “that’s it, sweet girl.” his voice came ragged as he reached his long fingers to press on your clit. you all but screamed, tugging gently on the curls of the nape of his neck. he whined and threw his head back.

“am i hurting you?” you asked hoarsely, your hand hovering over his hair. he shook his head adamantly, taking your hand and tangling it back in his hair himself. each thrust would earn a tug, and each tug would earn a pretty noise from him, causing another push to each of your edges.

“love you….” he whispered against the skin of your neck, pressing a kiss against it as you both reached your peaks, breathing heavily against each other. “love you so much.”

[rubiehart]

INTRODUCING ONLYFANS!READER…

by the time you’d reached your last resort, you and jj been in a relationship for almost a year, a steady one, full of love, romance and a whole lotta lust. which meant, you two weren’t exactly the worst pair to make an onlyfans account.

there was no doubt in either of your minds that it would flop, with jj’s libido, confidence and a body of a damn greek god, and you, prettiest girl he’d ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on, with your amazing body and matching energy towards the whole ordeal, you were bound to rise.

and that’s exactly what you did once you’d collected a fair amount of subscribers, feeding them almost daily with new content, most of the time where you’d take on a more submissive role, let jj take control and steer the whole thing, let him act like you didn’t brainstorm pretty much all of your video ideas, and outfits.

outfits were your whole motivation for the whole thing, jj didn’t have a damn clue where you’d get all this new lingerie from, almost a new set every damn night for him to gawk at you in, before absolutely ravaging you for the viewers on screen, who no doubt wished they were in jj’s place, or yours. who knows?

you’d make twitter accounts where’d you’d tease new content, do streams where’d you’d interact personally with viewers, even sometimes do special commissions and cameos for anyone who was willing to pay the price. and of course, many were.

so, after a while you became this niche couple that rocked the only fans community, not just having your fifteen minutes of fame and dipping, you kept it up, quality video after quality video and each one left people drooling for more of your dynamic.

each night you’d curl up into his side, placing your phone down on the nightstand after making sure it was silenced, because if not you’d have been kept up at night with notifications. jj’s snoring softly and you smile into his warm embrace, always wondering..

what would they request next?

BLURBS N’ FICS

nothing here yet!

MINI THOUGHTS

✬ only!fans reader and jj’s insta posts…

[dixons-sunshine]

Damn Tease | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: It was an extremely hot day in Alexandria. Luckily, there wasn't much to do, barely anything at all, so you and Daryl decided to do it while everyone else relaxed for a change. However, Daryl soon wished he hadn't offered, because you decided it would be a good idea to get him all worked up—and your tiny shorts and tank top certainly didn't help his mind stay on track.

Genre: Suggestive.

Era: Alexandria, no arc in particular.

Warnings: Swearing, suggestive themes.

Word count: 1.5k.

A/n: For @ghostboneswrites2's writing challenge! It's my first time ever doing one of these so hopefully I did it right lol. I hope you like this! By the way, to my fellow writers, please join if you feel up for it! You can find the post with the prompts and rules here.

The blazing summer sun relentlessly beat down on the world ravaged by the undead. It seemed as if though even the flesh eating monsters that roamed the earth every day had deemed the day too hot to go on their regular cannibalistic ventures, for no rotting corpse could be seen for miles and no loud groan could be heard in the near distance. The Alexandrian occupants had decided that the overly hot day would be spent lounging indoors or on their porches, the tasks of the day luckily not too much and could be left for the next day. However, Daryl had decided earlier that very morning that lounging indoors wasn't an activity that he wanted to partake in, so he went about completing the miniscule amount of tasks around the community. And since you didn't want to spend the day lazing around without him, you decided to join your partner on his stubborn venture.

However, as you brushed past the crossbow-wielding archer to grab one of the crates to bring into the pantry, your behind brushing ever so slightly against his front, Daryl wished you had decided to spend the day like the rest of the community. Although you were helping, and he certainly appreciated your help, you were being a major, hot as hell distraction, and he was two seconds away from dropping the crate of cherries he was carrying, throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you back to your shared house to indulge in the fantasies his mind was conjuring up the longer he stared at you.

Daryl felt like a perfect fool for even thinking of things like that while the two of you were supposed to be working. You barely even acknowledged his presence, too caught up with your own tasks to do so, and there he was, ogling you like an inexperienced school boy with a dumb crush on the popular girl. Admittedly, the outfit you had chosen to wear that day certainly didn't help his problem at all. The shorts you were wearing left just enough covered for his imagination to run wild, and your tank top hugged you in all the right ways, your cleavage covered but also showing just enough skin to have him licking his lips to keep them wet. Whether you had worn that particular outfit just to tease him and punish him for not complying with your request to stay indoors that day, he didn't know. What he did know, was that he desperately wanted to tear that shirt from your body, and work his way down to—

“I was thinking,” your voice rang through the air, effectively snapping the huntsman from his provocative train of thought. You had stepped back into the part of the pantry that temporarily housed the crates the two of you were hoisting and sorting out. “Tomorrow, when we go on that run, we should swing by that store we saw a few weeks ago. You know, the one that had all those kiddie pools? It would be nice to bring a couple of them back for the kids so that they don't have to suffer in this weather.”

“Yeah,” Daryl began, his eyes following you as you bent over to pick up your water bottle, your shorts riding up ever so slightly and driving him mad. He should just shoot himself at that moment and spare himself the misery you were putting him through. He cleared his throat, put the crate of cherries he held in his hands down on the ground and tried to focus back on the conversation at hand. “Yeah, sounds good.”

You smiled at him and took a sip from the water bottle that held some cherry flavoured drink you had made that morning with the same cherries the two of you were busy with in the pantry. You accidentally spilled some of the drink, and the droplets trickled down your chin and onto your chest, soon disappearing down your shirt. Daryl's eyes followed the droplets that trickled down your shirt, inhaling sharply when you tried to brush the wetness away, slightly pulling your shirt down and exposing some of your bra. God, you were driving him completely insane.

You looked up again and locked eyes with Daryl, and you smirked slightly at the sight of him. He was tightly gripping the shelf to his right, his knuckles turning white at the force he was bestowing on them. His breathing was heavier than usual, and he not-so-subtly adjusted his jeans. Good, your plan was working.

“Daryl, are you okay?” you asked him ‘innocently’, walking up to him and barely containing your smirk when you heard him inhale sharply. “You look a little flushed. Maybe you should sit down for a bit.”

Daryl licked his lips as he stared down at you, his vantage point giving him a clear view down your shirt. However, Daryl forced himself not to think like that. “Yeah, m'fine, Sweetheart. Why do ya ask?” he told you, trying to convince both you and himself. “And m'jus' a lil' hot, s'all. Nothin' to worry 'bout.”

“Are you sure?” you asked him while looking up at him through your eyelashes while maintaining your innocent act.

Daryl nodded quickly. “Yeah, m'sure. Ya dun' gotta worry 'bout me. I'll be alrigh'.”

“Okay, if you're sure.” You took a few steps backwards, sending him a mischievous smile. “By the way, you should probably focus more on sorting out these crates than staring at my ass. And my boobs, for that matter.” Daryl's eyes widened at your words. He started stuttering out words of denial, claiming he wasn't staring, but you simply waved him off. “No need to deny it, Daryl. Besides, I'd be offended if you didn't stare. I didn't wear this outfit for Spencer, after all.”

Realization dawned on Daryl. He shook his head and cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner. This was your version of revenge for him deciding not to stay in with you. Under no normal circumstances would you ever wear an outfit like that while doing chores around the community. It all suddenly made perfect sense to the archer.

“Ya did this on purpose?” Daryl asked in an accusing tone, shaking his head when you simply sent him a smug smile. “Yer a damn tease, ya know tha'?”

In a surge of confidence, you dipped down to grab a cherry from the crate Daryl had put on the ground. You stepped forward and looped an arm around Daryl's neck, staring deeply into his ocean coloured eyes as you slowly and sensually bit down into the sweet fruit. A mischievous, teasing smirk rested on your face as you heard Daryl let out a shaky breath, and you pressed your body impossibly closer to your partner's, successfully eliciting a small groan from him when you put just the slightest bit of pressure on his growing erection. “I know,” you whispered in a sultry voice, throwing the stem of the small fruit away to loop your other arm around his neck as well. “That's the whole point. Consider it payback for not staying in with me today. I had so much planned for us today, so many fun activities, but you just had to be your selfless self and do this.”

Daryl gulped and stared down into your eyes, his pupils dilating with each passing second. His hands rested on your hips, his grip tightening at your words. “Wha' activities did ya have in mind?”

Your smirk widened and you leaned up to let your lips hover over his, just barely grazing against his. Daryl's breathing stopped at that action, his eyes following your every movement. “Well,” you began in a seductive whisper, one of your hands trailing down his chest, his stomach and stopping just above the tent that was forming in his jeans. “Let's just say, it's not exactly something people would consider kid-friendly.”

Daryl's heart sped up at your confirmation. He pulled back from you and turned around to pick up the crate he had put down, before looking back at you expectantly. “We have a job to do. Let's get this over and done with, yeah? Then we can go home. The other chores'll have to wait 'till tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened at the pace he had started working at, the smirk on your face ever present. “What? I thought you wanted to get everything done today. Isn't that why you didn't want to stay in with me?”

“Jus' quit smackin' yer red lips and help me, won't ya?”

You giggled and sprung into action, eager to finish up with what you were busy with and to return home with your partner to do something way more exciting than sorting out crates. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” Daryl praised you, sending heat straight down to your core.

Daryl was a selfless man by nature. But just that once, he wanted to indulge in something meant just for him, and that something was the two of you, naked as the day you were born, in bed, limbs tangled together. And Daryl would be damned if he let that opportunity slip between his fingers.

©dixons-sunshine 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified, adapted or translated to any other site or platform without evidence of my given consent.

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

The idea of Heatwave being a Wavewave sparkling but mainly from Soundwave tears me up. So I'll submit you all to my PAIN!!!

The idea of Soundwave growing up in the pits, fighting for his life, becoming a top gladiator but still being seen as the lowest of the lowest, but then, this Sparkling appears in his life. A little red bot who seemingly was abandoned or was not picked when it emerged from the All Spark.

That being their first meeting, Soundwave was not yet the Soundwave we know so he didn't know what to do. His best hope was that the little bot would end just like him, surviving on its own... or just die with no pain. After all, there was no one else but him, just him, and Ravage too ofc but really no one else...

So, imagine how stupid must he have felt as he took the sparkling from the ground and was unable to put it down. Ravage in the background wheezing as she realizes what has happened ¨Oh yea, that's how I adopted you too HAHAHAHAH¨

And things well get hard. Why did he do it? Was it some left kindness on him? Did he lose his mind? or maybe, he just compasioned...?

Time passes, he keeps fighting, Ravage keeps being annoying but is still there for him, and the Sparkling now going by the name Heatwave, was there too looking from afar. Soundwave had decided that the little Bot would not participate in the arena, he would just watch and learn.

Heatwave was amazed at the way his ¨creator¨ fought other bots who were bigger than him and much more robust in comparison. Tho he didn't wish to become a gladiator just like his creator, but he still wanted to show how strong he was helping others.

Time passes, they're a small ¨family¨ for all they can say, but they are very strong and united. In every fight, Soundwave participates in the entertainment of the upper classes, he kept in reserve credits so that one day Heatwave can leave the pits and form a real life outside the misery. It would of course be a slow process, but Soundwave knew that he could do it.

A big surprise was when Heatwave shared with him that he wanted to become a Rescue Bot, a particular job that didn't really fit in any of the class rankings that Cybertron had been using... it was a job that came with intense training that if failed, all the blame would go to the bot who failed and not to the institution who trained them. A job that was more chosen to do for the pure of one spark than the want to win something. Such was that it was known that the High Council would prefer losing 5 Rescue Bot units than one Council member.

The job was clearly going to be a dead sentence, but after a long discussion, there were not many options like the Rescue recruit institutions offered to give a semi-normal life to low-class citizens... at least, for the time Heatwave would be trained he would have a home with basic needs, and once out of training and to the practice, the payment would be enough to even feed Ravage.

Soundwave still didn't want to say yes. to give Heatwave permission, but, Heatwave was just hotheaded, he was promising that with this he would be able to give Soundwave the life he could not grow up with... the life he gave to Heatwave...

Soundwave still saved credits as he kept participating in the arena, just in case.

Time seemed to fly through this change. Heatwave met his assigned team and close friends, Soundwave met new bots too, aspiring and strong allies for both of them. Yet, their ideals seemed to change as their lives grow appart.

They still saw each other, they kept communicating, and Ravage always reminded one or the other to call. But things just can't stay calm forever. The pits and many parts of Cybertron considered for the lower cast were being destroyed, homes and families being displeased so the upper class could take those areas. Slowly, a revolution was being armed with strong bots taking the lead. One in particular, Megatronus, wanted Soundwave as his second in command as he saw potential in him.

Soundwave wanted to decline at first. This could endanger Heatwave in many levels if it was known that they both were family. Megatronus seemed to understand, and it seemed that someone else would take Soundwave's place as SIC... is it wasn't for that one call...

The call that changed forever Soundwave's perspective on life and on his own decisions. It was from the Rescue recruitment system that chose Heatwave informing him of... the red bot dead, with the rest of his team...

Rescue Sigma-17 had been deployed to help another unit very far away, and as it seemed that the job was being completed, the communication began to cut. In short, all signals were lost and no vital was detected. Both units had been gone enough time to be declared deceased...

There was not going to be any effort on further location or send a 3 unit with more equipment to help or to at least know what happened. There was not going to be any effort on finding Heatwave's body for a proper funeral, his stuff as the stuff of his team would be tossed or given to their creators. That being said, Soundwave and Ravage received nothing but a big box full of credits, enough to live a luxurious life in the middle class...

It had a note from Heatwave. Just like Soundwave was saving for an emergency, Heatwave had been doing the same. Probably not eating or working extra to have this amount of credits...

... Soundwave tossed all that in their faces not accepting a damn. As fast as he could he went to Megatronus and began their plan to attack...

...

...

...

At light years far away, after more tragedy had occurred. A small ship floating in the middle of nothing received a message that redirected t it to a planet called Earth.

Landing, four bots from stasis had awakened to see the beauty of an organic planet and to encounter a figure not many would be able to talk to, Optimus Prime.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Heat

Pairing: Hyrule x Reader

Warning(s): smut (mating cycle and all that jazz)

Masterlist

It was hot, so fucking hot that your very bones broiled with an all-encompassing heat, leaving you completely boneless to the whims of your dear husband, his hands gripping your love handles like there was no tomorrow while his hips pistoned tirelessly against your own. Muttered praises spilled from his mouth like a broken faucet, swirling in a cacophony that filled the heated room just as much as the stench of pheromones.

"So good for me," Hyrule's tone was deeper than you'd ever heard it, laced with enough sin to have you wailing from his words alone. Every thrust sent a new jolt of mind-numbing pleasure up your spine, not to mention the absolutely feral screech he tore from you with a savage pinch to your clit. "That's- ah- it—scream for me."

And so you did, moaning when he bent down to suckle your bouncing teat, mouth enveloping your nipple in a sweltering hold. Saliva dripped down the curve of your breast, leaving searing trails across your skin. Hyrule scraped his teeth over the sensitive bud, pace never faltering, and you felt yourself getting close for the how-ever-long-it-had-been time. It was too much and not enough, and the only thought in your head was how the situation was all your fault.

Being partly fae, there were slight differences your husband had from regularly hylians. For one, his control of magic was quite spectacular compared to others, not to mention how using magical items worked ten times better on him. Other notable differences included the fact that he could shrink to the size of a fairy at will... and that, every summer, a phenomenon know as 'heat' ravaged the fairy community in all senses of the word, which is exactly how you ended up with him pushing your legs up and going to town on you. The part about everything being your fault came with the fact that, instead of being supportive of his 'condition', you chose to challenge his half-joking comment about being able to go for days at a time. It became obvious that you were screwed (literally) when he hoisted you over his shoulder, dumped you on the bed, and proceeded to eat you out till you cried, then pushed you into a makeshift mating press that had you seeing stars with every thrust.

"Ah! T-Too—"

"Too much?" Hyrule smirked, unlatching from your breasts to press open-mouthed kisses on the column of your neck, occasionally scraping his elongated canines over trembling flesh. "You can take it," he said, punctuating every word with a particularly harsh thrust. "We're not— mm, leaving until you're full of me inside and out."

Well, if that wasn't the hottest thing you'd heard in your life. The coil in your belly was tighter than ever, leaving your dangling over the precipice. Fortunately, your husband was very familiar with your body's cues by now that he merely jammed his thumb down on your poor, abused clit, slamming in at the same time. You screamed as you came, writhing in his unbreakable hold to escape the merciless pounding that continued into your orgasm. Your hands dragged down his back, leaving deep crimson stripes that only made him fuck you harder.

"S-Stop—" you whimpered, throat beyond sore from all the screaming "I-I can't—"

"You can," was Hyrule's panted response as he drilled into your poor cunt, fucking you even as his own release spurted into your overfilled core. "And you will."

It was when you felt the tips of his canines hovering over the mating mark on your left shoulder did your struggling begin anew. Fae mating was tricky business, especially when a single touch to the mark from him would practically have you creaming. "Wait—"

But Hyrule didn't listen, practically growling as he sunk his teeth into tender flesh. Your body jerked with the intensity of a livewire as a cacophony of moans tore themselves from your throat. "Aahh! Y-You bastard—"

"Only for— mmmh, you," was his response. Another wave of searing cum filled you, and a reprieve finally came in the form of his halted thrusts. You collapsed back on the bed, chest heaving, as your husband took his own break, the both of you panting like dogs. You whimpered pathetically when he pulled his cock from you, drawing a half amused, half exhausted chuckle from your mate. "Regretting something?"

"Go fuck yourself," you hissed playfully, not realizing your mistake until he pulled you close, hardened cock settling between your folds like it belonged there, and sneered in your face.

"Not when I have you here."

2 posts in one day?? I'm on a roll!

[hauntedhokage]

╰┈☆ Spring Fever ☆┈╯

summary: Alex has baby fever 

word count: 3.9k

warnings: breeding, plans for pregnancy, unprotected sex, table sex, fingering, oral(fem recieving) overstimulation, Alex likes to talk, mentions of somno at the end

note: Do I know where this came from? No. But I recently got back on a Stardew kick and my faves have shifted to Alex and Sam rather than Seb and Shane so...here's this.

ao3

You’d talked about children and wanting them soon after the wedding, but your vision was to start trying a couple seasons after being married while Alex’s was clearly just a couple hours after you’d exchanged your vows and ate a bit with the town. Which, after you’d thought about it a week or so later, you were okay with.  

The true high point of your wedding day for you was when Alex had snuck away with you to head home to your farmhouse, barely making it onto your property before he had your dress unzipped and his own pants undone so he could consummate your marriage. The whole time telling you how perfect you were and how lucky he was, how he could only focus on you and how beautiful you looked in your pretty white dress. His pretty girl, pretty wife, and he was going to make you a pretty mother. 

Then came the Flower Dance. What had started as a fertility ritual turned into a more of a tribute event to generations past, but Evelyn had certainly been in your ear regarding the true purpose of the event. She wanted you pregnant just as badly as Alex did, and you knew your tea tasted different when you two went to visit because of the herbs that were supposed to promote fertility (only because Alex was making the same tea for you to drink at bedtime). She’d also been telling Alex more frequently that he had to help more around the farm to keep stress off your body so you could get pregnant easier, even though Alex had already taken over all of the heavy lifting and tending to the livestock so you wouldn’t have to. 

When the day comes, you get ready in the dress that you wore every year, this time without panties on underneath since you knew the additional barrier would just get torn as soon as Alex had a free moment to take you somewhere private. The white fabric with a lace trim reminded Alex of your wedding dress and had him feeling you up like he had when you wore the more formal gown just a few weeks prior. And when his hands slid up your thighs you’d lifted the skirt just enough to show him what he had waiting for him later, not at all caring that you were in the middle of the forest while heading to the dance. 

“I’m ovulating, babe.”

“Why the fuck aren’t we at home then?” The grin on his face was salacious at best, deviant at worst, and you’re confident that if you were still on your property you’d be lying in the grass or held up against a tree as he ravaged you in hopes of finally getting you pregnant. “Honey, we can-“

“Your grandmother wants us at the dance, so we’re going to the dance or else she’ll worry and then walk in on you railing me on the front porch. Besides, a little extra blessing from Yoba never hurts, right?.”

He is only doing this for his grandmother now, since he never wanted her to have to worry about him - or his wife - ever. So he nods, letting you take his hand and lead him through the forest in your pretty white dress that he knows has no panties underneath to block him from what he wanted most in that moment. But he was going to be good, going to socialize and show off his beautiful wife, and perform the Flower Dance like he’d never danced it before. Yoba help him, he was getting you pregnant today.  

His eyes are on you through the whole event, and you feel his predatory gaze as you chat with Robin about future renovations to the farmhouse. Specifically a nursery since you and Alex had been actively trying for a baby now, the news making her light up like the Winter Star tree had been. It was a pretty big deal in a small community, so you’re not surprised when you’ve got Caroline and Jodi also watching with excited smiles as Alex comes up behind you while you’re now chatting with Evelyn. She’s always excited to see how affectionate you and Alex were throughout your whole relationship, turning to George to mention how cute the two of you were. 

“Just like we were, honey. Aren’t they cute?”

“Sure are.” It’s as close as you’ll get to a compliment, but in George’s own way he’s just as excited about your relationship with his grandson as Evelyn is. 

Then the dance starts, you wink from where you’re standing between Maru and Emily while your hands fiddle with the hem of your dress. It’s a reminder that when he gives you a twirl that he’s got to be careful about the fact that you’re not wearing panties - the last thing you wanted was to flash the entire town. But he still puts everything he’s got into performing, excited to have his hands on you again and making sure to caress your sides and stomach whenever he can in his own prayer to Yoba that this works. He needs this to work, he needs to see you pregnant with his child.  

It’s all he can think about. 

Not one of the married couples is surprised when you leave the event early, Alex having had enough of socializing when he could’ve been filling you repeatedly all morning. You only ovulated for a couple days, or at least that’s what he thought, so he had to make the most of the time he did have when you had a greater chance of conceiving. 

“If you rip this dress I will kill you before you meet your child,” you warn as you start up the stairs to your front door. He’s obedient as he picks you up, the scoop effortless with his one arm as he opens the door to carry you in while his mouth seeks yours for the kiss he’s been wanting since the dance. The first available surface was the kitchen table, he’s flipping the skirt of your dress up before setting you down to eliminate the risk of ripping the fabric you apparently cherished. His kiss grows hungrier, eagerly sucking at your tongue as his hands slide up your thighs to where your uncovered mound waited for his fingers. 

“Why’d you like this dress so much?”

“I wear it to the flower dance every year,” you start, biting your lip when his fingers glide up your already dripping slit. “Wore it on our first date, too.”

“I spilled my drink on you, how’s it not-“

“You only drank water back then!” Your laugh is infectious, and he’s grinning at you as his fingers part your folds. “You could honestly just fuck me outright, wanna feel you.”

“Wanna do this right. Wanna make love to you all fuckin’ night and into the morning. And all day tomorrow if we can swing it.”

“Crops.”

“Sprinklers. And I’ll tend to the animals while you take a break.” 

Any response you have is cut off by your moan when two fingers push into your waiting pussy without much resistance. His efforts from the night before had served you well, and he loves the way your mouth falls open as his thick digits explore the warm walls that welcomed them so nicely. One of your hands grips the edge of the table, the other tangling in the hair at the back of his head to pull him in closer. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing against each other and your breathy moans ghost across his lips in the sweetest symphony. Gone were the days that you had to be quiet in his grandparents’ house, now were the days where he could bring all of those beautiful sounds out of you with his fingers. 

“Alex,” you whisper, trying your best to keep your eyes open when his fingers curl just right to have you squeezing around his fingers so tight he can only smirk as his thumb connects with your clit. “A-Alex, please.”

“Gotta make you cum. You’ll let me, right baby?”

You can’t deny him when he looks at you like that, dark irises peeking out through his eyelashes - gaze just as hungry as it was every time he got to have you like this. He made you feel like the only woman in the world, his touches firm but gentle - like one of his grandmother’s figurines that he was terrified to drop but also wouldn’t hold too tightly that it’d break in his grip. Kisses that took your breath away but breathed new life into you, and love equivalent to the way one might worship a goddess. You were his goddess, a blessing upon his life that he thanked Yoba for every single day he woke up with you still tucked into his arms. 

“I’m so in love with you,” you whisper, rubbing the back of his neck and lightly scratching at his hairline. “Take such good care of me.”

“And I will for the rest of our lives. You, our children, nothing is going to go neglected while I’m around.” 

And you know that’s true, the way his fingers fuck into you faster, thumb rolling over your clit in tight circles with more pressure that has your hand holding his neck tighter and nails digging into the skin there as you tried to hold off your orgasm. “C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum on my fingers.”

That familiar feeling is almost overwhelming, the heat in your core and the uncontrollable clenching of your lower body almost painful as you tighten up around his hand. He lets you shut your legs, trapping his hand between your thighs as he tries to help you ride it out but the best he can do is alternate between scissoring his fingers and stroking at your fluttering walls until you finally relax enough that he can withdraw his fingers to bring them to his lips. With his forehead still resting against yours, he’s close enough that you can lean forward a bit to lick at the creamy essence he’d collected from you. You liked it better when he had his cum on his fingers too, but your taste was still close to intoxicating when you could taste his skin with it. 

You miss him immediately when he pulls away from you, the body heat that radiates off of him is gone and makes you feel the slight draft in the kitchen that you hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The way he lowers himself to his knees in front of you tells you exactly what would be coming next; but first he carefully removes the flats you were wearing, taking a moment to massage both of your feet to try and ease the discomfort those particular shoes caused, then places the most delicate of kisses to the inside of your right ankle. 

His eyes close as he kisses along your leg, starting off with chaste pecks that turn into open mouthed kisses mid-way up your calf, then gentle nips are introduced to the inside of your thigh once he reaches your knee. Large hands grip your hips, pulling you to the edge of the table as you’re draping your legs over his broad shoulders. Those eyes open again to meet yours as he licks a long stripe up your slit to your still sensitive clit. His hands keep your body planted in the table, halting the jump that your hips did involuntarily at the contact. He grins up at you, nuzzling his nose against the sensitive nerve bundle and relishing in the whine that leaves you. So cute, but you weren’t going anywhere until you came on his tongue.

Your hand is in his hair the moment his tongue dips between your folds to get a taste of the mess he’d helped you make, grip tightening when he groans at how fucking good you tasted. That’s all the encouragement he needs to bury his face into your core, making out with your dripping cunt while his thumb comes to circle your clit again. His name leaves you in a whine, heels digging into his back before he backs off with a smack of his lips, reading places with his fingers so he can suck on your clit while he pushes three fingers into you. By now you’re sopping wet, giving almost no resistance to his intrusion and making him smile against your skin as you stare down at him. 

“Feelin’ good, baby?”

“Mhm,” is all you can muster, a weak hum that he wouldn’t normally accept but these were special circumstances. Your walls are fluttering around his fingers, feeling so sweet but he wants them around his cock so he needs you to cum. “Fuck, Alex. Feel s’good.”

“I know, pretty girl. Need you to cum for me again.”

And the way you cry when you do sounds wonderful, your hands gripping his hair so tight he’s sure you’d pulled some out so the pain only spurs him on as you ride it out against his face. You were so hot, it’s all he can think about as he looks up at your face to hold your eye contact.

“Can you please come fuck me now?” 

“Anything for you.” 

And he means it. Ever since he’d first kissed you he knew that he’d move mountains for you if you’d asked him to - he’d have to train a lot, but he’d make it happen. 

The way your hands cup his face brings him true comfort, soft and warm and reserved for him. Your thumb grazed his bottom lip to gather the essence that left a pretty shine to his lip, pulling a moan from him when you pushed that digit between his lips so he could taste you on your finger. 

“Sweeter when it’s you,” he mumbles, lining himself up with your waiting entrance but unable to resist dragging his tip between your slick folds to tease your clit some more. 

“Sweeter when it’s you,” is your counter, pulling your thumb from his mouth but replacing it quickly with your own in an open mouthed kiss that has him dizzy as he finally pushes in. Your breathy moan into his mouth only spurs him on, his own noises vibrating around your joined tongues as his hips push themselves flush against yours. 

You were heaven, his own personal heaven was when he was like this with you, eyes on yours as he watched you adjust to his intrusion. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

“Y-yeah?” you ask, looking down to where your bodies are joined only to have to bunch your dress up more so you could actually see it. “Already messy.”

“I like you messy, creaming around my cock already because you’re so turned on - beautiful for me.” He’s pulling back slowly as he speaks, brushing his nose against yours in a bunny kiss as you continue to watch his hips move. “So beautiful, baby. So pretty, so good. I love you.”

You smile, looking up at him again as you murmur, “I love you, too, Alex.” 

A moment that almost felt too sweet for the two of you to have while he was balls deep inside you on the kitchen table, but he’s sure that was what made it all the more sweeter. His wife, the farmer; sweeter than any strawberries you could ever harvest or desserts you could bake using the recipes inherited from his grandmother. Stronger than the iridium used to craft your ax, smarter than someone who’d read all the books in the library combined. The woman who loved him, despite it all. 

“Feel good?”

“S’good,” you breathe, your hands moving to his shoulders before they slide to his biceps. “You can start moving. I’m okay.”

“Sure?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Your nod of approval is all he needs to start moving, carefully easing his length out inch by inch until only his head remains, then pushing back in just as slowly. It was going to drive him crazy, it always did, but he wanted to savor every centimeter of you that he could before he had his way with you. 

“I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing yours with every syllable breathed into your mouth. You nod your understanding and agreement, the words replaced by a moan when he starts to thrust faster. “Feel so good, always so good. You wanna have my baby, yeah? Want me to knock you up and make you a mommy?”

“Please, Alex,” you cry into his neck, squeezing around his cock so perfectly. “Pleasepleaseplease- fuck, please.”

“Give me one more,” he breathes, taking in the flush in your face and knowing it would be hard. But you’d do it. You always gave him one more. “Please, baby, just one.”

You bite into his neck as you nod, your fingers pressing into his biceps hard enough that there should be bruises. You were so good, so good for him as he bullied his cock into your pussy.

His fingers find your clit, hard and extremely sensitive if the way your hips jerk on contact was any indicator. But he continues, rubbing tight circles with his thumb that have your jaw clenching and tears building in those eyes that are struggling to stay open through this. It’s only a moment before you’re throwing your head back, gummy walls clenching around him so snugly that he’s got to show his place as he helped you ride it out or else he’d release too soon. 

“So good, so good for me.” And you are; such a perfect wife and lover - so good to him, for him - he wouldn’t want anyone else. 

You’ve barely recovered by the time he’s feeling that coil in his gut tighten, you’d gotten too warm, too tight, felt too good for him to be able to hold on much longer - but he needed another orgasm for you. You’d told him there were benefits to you both cumming at the same time, and he wanted to make sure he took advantage of those benefits whenever he could. “Yoba, baby, I’m so close. You feel so good, so perfect. Give me one more, yeah? One more?”

“Alex.” Is all you whine, and he marvels at how messy he’s made you. Mascara running down those pretty little flushed cheeks, eyes red, and perfectly styled hair now a mess, lips puffy with gloss smeared from his kisses - still beautiful, still perfect, still his. “I-I can’t.”

“You can. Just one, cumming helps get the sperm to your womb.”

You’d told him that, but that fact goes without a reminder. He’s sure you’re not thinking about much of anything when his thumb finds your clit again, and he’s biting into your neck to try and hold on when your pussy squeezes his cock just right. He wasn’t lasting much longer, all he needed was for you to fall apart just one more time. 

“T-That’s - hah - that’s it.” His hand grips your thigh, angling your hips up a bit that allows him to thrust just that much deeper into you, his tip just barely brushing your cervix in a way that has you tightening around him just that much more. “Feel good?”

His fingers are moving faster against your clit, fingers pressed harder into your skin with his firm grip. His eyes stay on your face, contorted with the mix of pleasure and pain that you were experiencing due to his urging of one more orgasm. 

“I got you,” he whispers, jaw clenching as he continues to fend off his own orgasm. “I got you, honey. Cum for me, okay?”

“A-Alex, baby,” your keening sends shockwaves down his spine, he’s watching in adoration as your head tilts back and your walls clench around him once more as your body goes completely rigid in his arms. He can’t hold off any longer, shooting ropes of his hot cum deep into your pussy while he holds your hips tight in his hands. He’s babbling as he pushes slow thrusts into your hips, trying to make sure he’d hit his target while telling you how pretty you were and how grateful he was that you were going to have his baby. You felt so good and were so good for him, and he’s sure you’d absorbed every word as your body relaxed into his arms. 

He gently kisses your temple, then your cheek, before pressing the gentlest of kisses to your slightly swollen lips. “You okay?” 

“I’m good. Bed, please,” you murmur, voice horse as you rest your head on his shoulder while his fingers delicately undo the zipper at your back. “Need a nap if we’re going all day.”

“Need some water, too. Drink some out here for me then I can take you to bed.”

A nod into his neck, and he had to pull away so that he could get you that water. You were just going to have to be patient, since he was going to kill multiple birds with one stone and fill his massive insulated water bottle with ice water so you could take it to bed with you. Behind him he can hear you pull the dress over your head, and realizes that’s a great idea considering he was still in his suit and it felt like the Ginger Island volcano in the kitchen. But first, your glass of water is handed over so you could do as he instructed and hydrate while he undressed. 

When he’s stripped down his briefs, the half full glass is handed his way with a gentle demand that he get some water too. The pleased hum that leaves you after he’s downed what was left in just a couple large gulps makes his heart feel light, and he can’t help but lean in to hold your cheeks and pepper your face in little kisses that have tired giggles vibrating against his skin before he’s kissing you gently with all the love he has in his heart. 

Then your arms are around his neck; legs locking around his hips as his arm slips sound your waist with a grip tight enough that he wouldn’t drop you. “C’mon, koala bear, let's get you to bed.”

When he’s got you laid down, covered in a throw blanket that wasn’t as warm or heavy as your duvet, he can relax as he slips into bed beside you. As always, you seek his body out before he can pull you into him, smiling as you tuck your face into his neck and leave a kiss there. 

“See you in a couple hours.”

“Yeah, couple hours sounds good. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Do I have your permission to-“

“Yeah, you can put a load in me if I’m still asleep when you wake up. But leave my clit alone for a few hours.”

“We’re for sure getting you pregnant. Gonna look so cute with that little bump.” He can’t help but whisper into your hair, assuring you that he’d be the best husband to you and father to your children. Grateful to you for loving him like you do, for how you always took care of him too. You’ve fallen asleep but he’s still talking, putting his dreams for your future together out into the universe in hopes that his ideal future would manifest. You’d told him that once, that some things could happen if you spoke them into existence - like how affirmations help change mindsets. 

But you were going to have to teach him how to harvest those fickle melons and collect honey while not agitating the bees that worked so hard to make it. You'd be pregnant through the fall and into winter if he got what he wanted. 

[sorchathered]

The Willows Never Stopped Weeping for You

Pairing-Tyler Owens x female OC (Olivia Wright)

Warnings- language, drinking, angst, death, injury, smut

Summary- Olivia let Tyler go to carry out his dreams, but broke his heart in the process. What happens when in the wreckage of a little small town he learns the real reason she left him, and how do they repair it?

A/N- we back at it again on the angst train, third week in a row lol!! I really loved this one, twisters was so good and I am excited to start writing for the fandom! As always, like, comment, reblog anything to let me know what you think!

“We’ve gotta get the hell out of dodge, we can’t sit here any longer Ty!” Dani is panicked, sweat dripping from their brow as they tremble, eyes wild and afraid of what will happen if they don’t make it out.

“I can’t- I can’t leave without her goddamnit and you know it, go ahead of me, you gotta trust me! We will make it out of here, get everyone to safety Dan, I’m serious get the hell out of here!” He yells over the roar of the wind, shoving them towards the rv and as much as it pains the crew, they know Tyler would die in this storm before he ever left Olivia behind. She was his everything, he’d loved her his whole life, and even if things were broken between them he would die a thousand times over to make sure she was safe.

——————————————————————

The crew had been up and down the state the past few weeks, working together with Javi and his crew to test out Kate’s theory and it had been one hell of a ride. They’d mostly been able to help keep the damage to a minimum, but as always with storms like these it was always a risk.

The little town on the outskirts of Enid had been ravaged more than once, but this storm seemed to be hell bent on taking whatever was left of the small community and turning it to rubble. So many injured, and so many homes and businesses destroyed, it seemed like a no-brainer that the government would send aid relief workers to help repair the damage, but what Tyler Owens hadn’t foreseen was the bright green eyes and auburn hair of his first love as he helped people in the aftermath.

Olivia Wright had been his everything since he was fourteen years old, occupied every one of his dirty fantasies and dreams of the future. He’d never been more sure of anyone in his life, until they’d crashed and burned so spectacularly shortly after college. He’d fallen in love with storm chasing, his dreams of working for the NWS had turned into something else entirely as he and the crew of misfits he migrated to became more and more obsessed with the beauty and danger these storms brought.

Liv had their whole future planned, finish college, get married. Ty would work for the NWS and she would become a nurse, fulfilling your passion to help people and getting to be by his side while he pursued his passion for meteorology. The two of them were growing apart, everyone could see it but him, and she knew she’d have to be the one to let go, he was always bigger than the whole sky and Liv couldn’t bear to keep him down. So she broke his heart and her own, and in that time she watched him flourish. His channel and all of his friends, the articles written about his discoveries, she watched it all with rapt attention, he was living out his dreams and Liv couldn’t have been more proud. Eventually she had to decide what was best for her, and watching storms ravage communities just like hers in Arkansas became too much to bear, working in disaster relief and helping to save lives became her passion, she kept her head down and let the work take over, but never lost hope that one day she’d run smack dab into that man that was as wild as the western wind.

It had happened less like a rom com and more like a horror movie, he’d seen her first and lost his cool immediately, ducking under an awning and scrambling to find somewhere, anywhere else to be but near her. Lily, who had been both of their friends in college couldn’t quite figure out what the hell was wrong with him, but it didn’t take long to spot her bright hair and the FEMA t-shirt Liv was sporting as she handed out water to a group not far from theirs.

“Oh my God is that my Livvy?!” She shrieked as she ran for her friend, the two of them erupting in giggles and swaying each other in the midst of the debris-covered road.

“Lily bug!! Oh my goodness what are y’all doing here?! I thought from your last video you guys were over near Lawton!” She said, smacking a hand over her mouth as she realized she’d given herself away already.

“Ooh so you have been watching hmm? Come say hi to everyone cutie pie, it’s been too long and we need to catch up.” She pulled her along but Liv tried to dig her heels in, wild green eyes panicked.

“I can’t intrude Lils, and I don’t want to make Tyler uncomfortable, I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me” she says as she puts both hands up in surrender but Lily is having none of it.

“Nope, you don’t get to pussy out Olivia, life is too short and you know it. Now come on! I want to hear all about your life, and Dani makes some bomb ass burritos so you should try to eat something, it’s gonna be a long day babygirl.

————————————————————-

He somehow manages to avoid her like the plague all day, catching glimpses here and there but mostly staying close to Kate and Javi, much to Lily's frustration if the glares she’s cut at him all afternoon are any indication.

Livvy wasn’t quite sure what to make of it; she had been watching them for so long online that she felt like she knew the crew personally, they were some of the kindest people she’d ever met and it wasn’t lost on her that all of them had been brought together by Ty. He’d made himself a family, it was just another thing that she had missed her chance on and she couldn’t help but feel a little emotional over it.

When Kate had come over to introduce herself later in the evening, it had been obvious to Olivia that she and Tyler had something going on. It was hard to dislike her, she was beautiful and kind, and smart as a whip from what Liv could tell. Definitely perfect for him, so after a while of watching them all interact and being all but ignored by her oldest friend, it got to be too much and she found a way to make her escape, using an early morning as an excuse and holing up in her motel room to lick her wounds and cry.

Lily chases after her with another nasty glare in Tyler’s direction, everyone had questions now and he couldn’t give them, waving them off with a middle finger as he stumbled through the parking lot, a little tipsy and feeling an ache in his chest that he’d thought he’d healed from.

“Liv! Stop damnit, I know this shit is hard but just talk to me honey, tell me.” Lily shouts into the crowded lot and watches her friend's shoulders sag as she turns with tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Oh Lily.” She lets out a ragged breath and lets it all wash over her, everything she’s left unsaid and held deep inside. “I could never deny him happiness, if it’s not with me that’s OK, it’s been a long time and I’ve learned to accept it. If Kate makes him happy then of course I want that for him. I never stopped loving him, so of course I would always want what’s best for him. It wasn’t right back then Lily, that kinda love was unpredictable. We were growing together like two gnarled trees, neither of us were helping the other reach our potential and I had to let him go so we didn’t end up hating each other. “ A shudder runs through her at the declaration, tears are threatening to seep from her eyes but she won’t give them the satisfaction.

“That sounds like horseshit and you know it” Lily says she jabs her finger into Liv’s shoulder, her eyes are full of fire. Liv knows she means well, she’s always been a good man in the storm, someone you want in your corner when things get hard which is why she’s so glad that Tyler has her. Liv lets her shoulders sag and look at Lily full of defeat.

“I can’t change it now, even if I wish I could.”

“Do you wish you could?” She says with raised eyebrow and Olivia gives her a little nod.

“Every day. I miss him every day.” Tears well up in her eyes and she shivers as the wind blows through the camp, but she won’t let the pain overtake her, she made her choice and she can only hope that he’ll be happy.

Olivia doesn’t see it but Lily does, Tyler is half hidden behind the RV, he’s heard it all and she watches as his face goes from grief stricken to angry turning on his heel as he walks off into the dark, the weight of her confession breaking his heart all over again.

—————————————————

He paces the concrete hallway of the motel for what feels like hours, letting the weight of what she said run over him. Had he really been so blind? Olivia hadn’t wanted to let him go, and he’d never thought to question it when she pushed him away. He had been hurt and stubborn, shutting down immediately and saying some of the meanest things he could hurl at her to hurt her back. In hindsight he should have known she was just trying to give him the ability to do what he wanted, but just the fact that she had convinced herself that she was what was holding him back made a fire rage in him. Sure it would have been hard to manage, but they could’ve handled it! They could handle anything together, he’d always told her that, why she would have ever thought otherwise was something he couldn’t reconcile with.

He was at her door before he could stop himself, rapping sharply on the peeling metal and praying that she would listen. The sounds of the lock being undone told him she was still awake, the door swinging open to reveal her puffy tear stained face, hair up in a messy knot on her head and an oversized t shirt full of holes, one that had definitely belonged to him.

“Why are you here Ty? You’d had all day to say something to me, and you waited until midnight?” She said with a sniffle, there was no point in trying to hide what she’d been doing, it was all over her face and his heart clenched in his chest knowing he’d hurt her again.

“You didn’t want us to end, did you?” He said gruffly, he wasn’t leaving until he got his answers, he needed to know the truth.

“What does it matter now? You’re with Kate-“ she said as more tears formed, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as though she was trying to hold herself together.

“I’m not. We tried it, but she’s got her own demons to work out, and we agreed it would be better to be friends. Answer my question baby, I need to hear it. Do you still want me?” He was leaning in close to the door frame now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the beer on his breath. Liv let out a ragged breath and nodded, that was all he needed to push the door the rest of the way open and pull her into his arms, kicking the door shut behind him as he pressed kisses to her cheek and neck while she held on for dear life. Sobs wracked her body as he sat down on the creeky mattress, pulling her into his lap as he rocked her side to side.

“My sweet girl” he murmured into her hair, he let her cry it all out until she relaxed in his grip, tipping her chin up to look at him as he stroked her cheek.

“I never stopped hoping for this, I didn’t want to hold you back but- I can’t stay away anymore. I-I love you Ty, I always will.” She stuttered and he let out a groan as he pressed his mouth to hers, flipping them both so she was on her back and spread out for him, she’d been the star of every fantasy he’d ever had, and nothing would ever be as good as the real thing.

“I never stopped either Livvy girl, can I have you? Please baby I- I need it, need to show you how much I missed you.” He looks wrecked, hair a mess and eyes wild, and she can’t stop herself from pulling him down to her, licking into his mouth and running her hands over his broad shoulders, watching him shiver in her embrace as he grinds down into her.

They make up for all the time lost, re-learning each other's bodies until the early morning, finally coming up for air when Tyler’s phone begins to go off with weather alerts and texts from Boone.

“Looks like there’s another cell coming this way, we need to get these people to safety while we can.” He says with a sigh as he rolls his body off of hers, she’s sated and happy as she stretches her limbs like a cat and moans, he feels himself twitch in his boxers as he watches her. She’s like a siren, calling him back to her and he wants nothing more to than to stay right here between the sheets and ravage her again.

“Stop looking at me like that Owens, or we’ll never get out of here in time” she playfully punches his chest and he lets out a hearty laugh, they’d have plenty of time to talk and catch up, he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight anytime soon.

“Ok, ok sugar, let’s get back out here, storms a comin’ and times a wastin’.”

——————————————————————-

He should have known. He should have known they’d never get that lucky, especially knowing how unpredictable the storms had been this season.

They thought they’d had more time, weather warnings saying the tornado would likely just pass the town, but it had all gone wrong. What had started out as one had turned into two, splitting off and causing maximum damage to what was left of the area. He’d lost Liv and Boone somewhere along the way, Kate and Javi and the rest of the crew were safely out of danger, but somehow the twister had gotten between his truck and yours, and when the dust had settled you and Boone were nowhere to be found.

He was sick, bile crawling up his throat as he trembled, they’d been searching the perimeter when he’d heard Boone screaming for help, tearing through the field of corn to find your upturned truck, mangled and covered in broken glass. Boone had tried his best to pull you from the wreckage, but his shoulder was mangled; most likely dislocated from the crude angle it hung from.

Tyler pulled Olivia’s limp body out and heard a sharp gasp from her, she was alive, that was good. At least that was what he thought until he got her in his arms and saw the jagged shrapnel wedged in her abdomen, blood flowing like a water hose from the wound, way too much to be a minor wound. She kept lolling her head back and forth as she tried to lift her hand to his face, god there was blood everywhere, he couldn’t take the metal out, what if that made it worse? He yelled for Boone to give him his shirt, tears pouring from his eyes as he tried to stop the bleeding, but it just wouldn’t stop coming.

“Livvy, baby look at me ok?” He says with a gentle pat to her cheek, her eyes keep rolling around in her head as she tries to focus on something, anything, but she just can’t seem to get there.

Finally she seems to see him through her unfocused bloodshot eyes, a small victory and he breathes for the first time since he found her.

“Oh god, Ty there’s so much blood! What happened? Are- are you ok? How do we stop it? We need help!” She cries out as her body shakes in his arms, she’s going into shock and bleeding to death but is still selfless to the end, always worried about everyone but herself.

He’s sobbing so hard now he can hardly speak, just kissing whatever skin he can get to as he holds her tightly, still pressing hard into the gaping wound despite knowing it won’t do anything to stop the inevitable. He’s going to lose her, and he just got her back.

A scream comes from somewhere, Tyler jolting awake from the world’s most uncomfortable hospital chair. He’s drenched in sweat, and his neck aches, as he looks around the dimly lit room he realizes the scream came from him. He’s replayed that awful night over and over for the past three days, it ends with Olivia choking on her own blood as she fades away and he can’t seem to make his brain understand that while it definitely happened that way, the end result wasn’t quite so gruesome. She’s alive, unconscious, but alive. How EMS found them in time will consume his thoughts for a good long while. He’d been so sure he’d lost her but the miracles just kept coming because somehow the doctors were able to save her and had assured him that though recovery would be long and hard she would in fact recover.

—————————————————————

Months later he would still be convinced it was all just a dream, the nightmares had ceased but the jagged scar along Olivia’s sternum would always be there to remind him of how close he’d come to losing it all.

He lived for chasing storms, he’d convinced himself it was everything he’d ever need after she’d left, but he’d been so wrong.

She’d never ask him to give it up, but he didn’t know if he could continue to run after something that had nearly taken everything from him. He and Kate took a job consulting with the NWS on her research after Ben’s article got traction, and he left his truck to Boone to continue the legacy and the channel. He wanted to prevent the storms from happening before they started and he knew with Kate’s research and the grants from the government they could really dig in and make a difference.

He asked her to marry him on her birthday, 6 months after the accident and she’d said yes before he could even finish his speech. The future hadn’t been linear like he thought, he didn’t have to accept what he thought he deserved and finally allowed himself to accept what he wanted. Olivia Wright Owens sounded damn good to him, and maybe one day a house full of babies. Yeah he could definitely make that his new dream.

Tagging- @sailor-aviator @goldenseresinretriever @hangmanapologist @roosterforme @trickphotography2 @mynameismckenziemae @seitmai @sebsxphia @im-just-ken @kmc1989 @jessicab1991 @dizzybee03 @nouis-bum @attapullman @bobgasm @floydsglasses @withahappyrefrain

[pizzaapeteer]

enzooo smut!! 😩😩🥹🥹 pls!

@suugarbabe girlie I tried to whip something up for you on this late late evening

Warnings: NSFW18+, straight smut no plot, degrading, a little mean Enzo, swearing, taken from behind, throat grabbing, your his fucktoy.

Your sides dig into the lushness of the velvet couch, sweat clinging to it like honey - a reminder you would need to clean it later. How you ended up bent over a piece of communal furniture is lost deep in the clouded blur that is currently your brain. All you knew was here and now you were Lorenzo Berkshire's fuck toy. 

Head hanging down as he pounds continuously, his fingers digging into your hips, a grip strong enough to break bones to keep you steady. He makes no effort to loosen it, only wanting your legs to widen more so he can sink even further into your soaking pussy.

Your skirt drapes down by your knees along with your panties, shirt half ripped open with your tits spilling out of your bra. Leaning over the couch while you grip the edge clinging as your body rocks in time with his. It's a miracle no one’s walked down into the common room yet.

“Merlin…” A breathless grunt echoes out into the open space. Enzo’s clearly doesn't have a fucking care in the world for how loud the two of you are being, moans falling effortlessly between the both of you. His hot breath scrapes against the shell of your ear and he chuckles low and dark, “fucking hell.. if anyone saw you right now…god the names they would call you.” 

Enzo’s warm chest presses against your back, his words sending a ripple of nerves up it. You were a filthy slut, not a single concern if you were caught, as long as Enzo didn’t stop fucking moving.

A whine spills from your mouth, barely able to think about how good he was making you feel. Buried so deep inside you, his cock stretches, digging further with every thrust if that was even possible. He makes sure you know all the dirty thoughts flooding through his mind, “mind to use aren’t ya…my little slut waiting up for’me.” 

His hips snap furiously at an increasing pace, wrapping his hand around your neck to pull you flushed against him. "yeah..you like the idea of someone walking in seeing you folded, bent just for me- fuck-k feels so fucking good."

His hips rock restlessly, every thrust has his mind exploding in pleasure. He could never get enough of you. The fact you'd let him use you, take you anywhere he wanted, submit just for him. Thrilled him almost more than seeing your dripping core waiting desperately for his touch. 

Relishing in the high moan you make, his lips latch onto your neck, sloppy kisses, bites anything to leave a mark that he was there. “Come on, tell me your mine…a little toy for me to use.” 

A sputter of incoherent words attempts to leave your lips, “Yes fuck..i'm fucking yours...oh god I can’t-” “Can’t what..fucking speak up.” His hand tightens, fingers digging into your throat enough to make you dizzy with the oxygen flow cutting off momentarily. 

Gasping and whimpering, your eyes roll back, leaning further against his shoulder, and he loosens his grip a tad, wanting an answer. “Fucking hell… look at you so fucking drunk on my cock. I fuck you so good, don’t I?” 

His lips ghosting a wicked grin, he turns you leaning down to capture your lips, his tongue penetrating, pushing with dominance to gain entrance into your sweet mouth. It’s all a little too much, the lack of air and overwhelming sensations your body is feeling. Your pussy clenches tight around his cock, absorbing the feeling as you near your climax. 

Deep groans vibrate through the kiss and he pulls back, pushing you back down flat onto the couch. A hand with an iron grip holds, smashing your face against the overly warm velvet, preventing you from moving, while he ravages your body seeking the last moments of pleasure. “Fuck..fuck…gonna cum inside this pretty little hole…fill my needy little slut up…” 

You can't help the whiny needy whimpers you make while you rub your own clit, your orgasm threatening to break as you moan and louder and louder on the edge. “That’s it come on… come on… cum for me baby.” 

Enzo’s hips jerk roughly, grazing that sweet spot with a force that has you falling apart under him, crying out as you cum. Eyes closed, your mind focuses on the force he tugs your hair with while he releases, emptying himself inside you. 

Shallow breathing is heard before a powerful smack lands on your ass, making you whimper and squeal, followed shortly after by a deep laugh. "aw you're just too fun to play with sweetheart. My perfect, needy toy."

[bratbarzal]

On Your Side (NH13) / Chapter Two

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen*

*I say it's an OC, it's just a name and third person POV. I use minor character descriptions because I don’t get on with writing vague reader inserts/YN for long-form, story heavy fics, but I will generally try to avoid including race and body type or really any physical descriptors. I’m always open to feedback on my writing, or how to be more inclusive.

WC: 15k

Chapter Warnings: there is maybe miscommunication?? in the sense that nico thinks poppy wants one thing and is giving her a chronic case of the over-thinkys, cursing, angst kinda?, fluff, harry potter slander (sorry), rangers slander (not sorry), being set up, mentions of controlling parents again, nico being ravaged by a green-eyed monster, nico being clingy, and mopey, and grumpy, luke being somewhat confrontational, there is also maybe something that rhymes with a miss! don't want to miss that!!

Summary: Poppy Jensen’s job with the New Jersey Devils was supposed to be her first big step into adulthood - a way to prove to herself and her overbearing parents that she could make her own way in life. She was never supposed to become involved with any of the players. Becoming best friends with their captain was stupid. Getting her heart broken by him was tragic. Getting knocked up with his child was just plain messy.

Series Masterlist

Previous Part (Chapter One)

A/N: sorry this took a while I honestly hated everything I wrote every day for a solid week lmao buttt things are kicking into gear now the next chapter is one I've drafted while this one I had to wing so hopefully will be out a little quicker. I know these two are mega annoying with their over thinking but it serves a purpose (I know no other way of existing than to overthink)

please please send me any thoughts any opinions I'd love to hear it whatever it may be thank you!!! again I'll try get another chapter out soon!

Poppy

If anyone were to ask Poppy what kind of impact her older brother, Oliver, has had on her life over the years, she would probably tell them very little. Being 4 years and some change apart has meant that any time Poppy has entered a new space in her life, Oliver has just left it. 

When she started her freshman year in high school, he was starting college. When she was starting college, he was in the beginnings of kickstarting his career. And when she started laying the foundations of her own career, he was too far gone for her to ever catch up.

Their childhood was spent in constant competition - Poppy envying Oliver for being their mother’s favourite child and Oliver envying Poppy for being their father’s - the two of them grew up battling it out to make the other look bad.

Oliver never quite grew out of it.

But, to say she hasn’t learned anything from watching him her whole life would be a lie. A lot of who Poppy is as a person, as a daughter, a colleague, a friend, is more often than not based on who Oliver is not - though the lessons he has taught her have been somewhat inadvertent. 

Poppy likes to think she is independent. She’s seen over the years how much her brother has relied on their parents and the rest of their extended family and suffered terribly for it, always facing their judgements for the decisions he makes - securing himself a lifelong residency under their father’s thumb. He has modelled his own life after the man who raised them, constantly seeking his approval, never quite grasping how much scrutiny this would open himself up to. Poppy very quickly learned that if she wants any semblance of peace in life, she has to source it herself - otherwise, it comes with a million strings attached, all of which are constantly being masterfully pulled by the many hands in her family.

That’s how she navigated her education, getting herself into a great communications and media management programme at Fordham - despite coming from a long line of Wharton alumni and donors - and graduating with honours. It’s how she maintains her friendships, surrounding herself with loving, warm-hearted people who genuinely care for others - a complete contrast to the social circles she had grown up in and around. And it’s how she thrives in her career, working her way up in an organisation and foundation in which their sole intent is to do good and give back. If she achieves such things on her own merit, they can’t be used to control her.

He has taught her how to stick up for herself, which comes off the back of her independence. For years she’s watched her parents pick apart Oliver’s life. His grades, his relationships, his career, his house, the way he’s raising his kids, it’s all up for inquiry in the eyes of Priscilla and Philip Jensen. She’s watched as he’s sat there while they dissect and demolish every little thing about his existence - as he’s invited them into his own home, and let them verbally burn it to the ground. Poppy has too much pride to do the same. 

She remembers when she rented her first solo apartment - a major step in her life, something she was so inherently proud of she couldn’t even put it into words - and her parents had come around to, in her mother’s words, assess the investment. 

It’s a little small, Poppy, was met with, I’m only one person living here, Mom and I don’t much care for the location was contended with, It’s a good thing you’re not living here. They’d turned their noses up at her renting in the first place, but buying a property was out of the picture when she still had student loans to pay, and would mean borrowing money from them, and she wasn’t going to throw herself down that well with no way out.

She’s protective over the things she has worked hard for, and she won’t let anyone bring her down.

Oliver has also taught her a lot about forgiveness, and empathy. This comes from all of the above - from witnessing the path he has taken in life, or the one that was chosen for him, and seeing the kind of person that comes out of the other side. Seeing how the nettles that line such a path sting at the bare skin of his legs, causing him to take much more deliberate, and some may say calculated, steps, even if this means casting others to the edge to protect himself. Seeing how the bricks that line it appear to have been perfectly laid out for him, but are deceptive when stepped upon - uneven and jagged, with the sole intention to trip him up. Seeing how the path winds and loops, and no matter how far down it he goes, the end is never in sight.

And so when he and Poppy argue whenever they’re both home, when he makes digs at her life, or tries to put her down in front of everyone else, she sees him for what he is. She understands the deflection of blame and hurt, and she takes it in her stride. She applies this logic to others, as well.

Poppy believes more than anything in forgiveness. In giving others the chance to be better the second time around - Lord knows she wants the same - but with this comes the expectation that someone has to have understood their missteps in order not to follow the same route again.

But therein comes another lesson Oliver has taught her, or tried to teach her, at least. She’s always thought they’re ridiculous sayings, lessons she has rejected for so long but both things she thinks about a lot, especially lately.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Or beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s usually said following a bribe from their parents to get their own way - Oliver would rather take than question what anyone else stands to gain, and Poppy is far too sceptical to usually bend to any other person’s whim.

The thought of questioning the validity of a promise of gold does bite away at her - makes her fiddle with her fingers and chew at the inside of her cheek in contemplation whenever it comes to mind - but who is she to polish at the exterior? Why would she file and buff until all she has is a rock when she could leave something to be sparkling and beautiful?

Especially if that sparkling something is held by Nico, and comes in the form of picking back up their friendship where it had been so abruptly left off - as if it had never been thawed, never been marred by their time apart. As if she hasn’t spent the last 4 months blaming herself, wondering what she did wrong. 

But the part of her that worries about the why of it all is at war with a side that is enjoying the reconciliation too much to care.

She just needs to reject her own nature to question and over analyse a good thing - needs to let herself bask in what she has wanted back for so long. She needs to be patient. She’ll figure him out sooner or later, if he doesn’t explain himself, first.

It has barely taken a day for their dynamic to shift straight back into its rightful place - for them to be in each other’s constant orbit - either in person or texting non stop in the rare hours they spend apart.

Nico had seen Poppy and Nia off in a cab in the early hours of New Years Day, had made sure she texted him when she got home and was safe in bed, and then had showed up later that morning with juices and pastries for the 3 of them to eat together after texting if she was awake. And when Nia had gone back to her own apartment, he’d spent the entire day with Poppy, lounging around on her couch and watching Criminal Minds until they both fell asleep in the late afternoon. They had cooked and eaten dinner together before he left back to his place so he could get up early for practice.

It’s hard not to immediately slip back into a routine with him - when everything feels so familiar. She had never really reached the acceptance stage of her grief, after all. She’d been stuck floating around bargaining and depression, she thinks. She had never truly let him go, and so it felt more appropriate to press play on things, resuming rather than starting over from the beginning. Accepting rather than dwelling on the millions of unanswered questions that float around the forefront of her mind.

And with that, comes Nico making himself at home in her office while she listens in on a virtual meeting on her first day back working her normal job after New Years Day. 

He’d come in without knocking while she was on a call after his morning practice had finished, had attempted to busy himself looking over the pictures that lined her walls in an attempt not to distract her - like he could ever be around and not be distracting - and had thrown himself down on the chair on the other side of her desk. It’s the constant shuffling around that captures her attention, like he can’t get comfortable, and the little huffs and puffs he lets out as it starts to frustrate him. 

She tries not to visibly react - tries not to let her gaze follow him or roll her eyes - and give away to the other participants of her Zoom meeting that anyone is with her, but he’s making it incredibly difficult for her to focus. She’s grateful her contribution to the meeting has already happened, not having much more to offer, or much need to pay too close attention to what’s going on, or she’d be throwing something at him and gesturing off-camera for him to cut it out.

She watches as he sits legs spread, legs crossed, legs pressed together, sits sideways with his legs slung over the arm, and then tries the other way. She barely manages to make out her boss, Elaine, concluding the call before it ends, making sure to mutter out an adequate sign off to the team. 

Poppy makes sure to leave the call after the chorus of goodbyes and thank yous, before slamming her laptop shut, the second monitor going black as the computer goes into sleep mode.

“What on Earth are you doing?” She questions as Nico seems to be wiggling into the seat opposite hers.

“This chair doesn’t feel right,” he grumbles, picking himself up and throwing himself back down into it with another huff, testing another angle or position only to clearly come up short.

“Whatever you say, Goldilocks,” Poppy rolls her eyes, standing from her own chair with the sudden need to stretch her legs. “It’s the same chair I’ve always had in here.”

“It’s like I can feel Jack’s butt imprint in the leather.” 

“Oh so that’s what this is,” she gestures with a hand towards the chair, where there definitely isn’t an imprint of anyone’s butt. “You’re jealous of Jack’s butt.”

“I just think you should stop letting him hang out in here so much, he’s ruining the furniture.” Nico frowns, and Poppy can’t quite tell if he’s serious or not. “I can practically smell him, too.”

“I’ve tried, unfortunately if you feed a stray one time, they just keep coming back for more.” Poppy starts to gather her things while Nico does whatever it is he’s doing. “And my office does not smell like Jack Hughes, I have a diffuser right here, the scent is literally called Happiness.”

“Tell him he can’t sit in my chair next time he’s here,” he suggests, ignoring her other comment, standing alongside Poppy and offering her a hand. She tries not to get too flustered at how quickly he has reclaimed anything in her office as his.

“You tell him,” she argues, handing Nico her empty I Heart NJ mug and small plate she had used when eating her breakfast at her desk this morning - a toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel and some apple slices. “I can leave you in here on your own for a few hours if you want, let you work on imprinting your butt back into the seat?” She checks her bag to make sure she has the necessities, phone, keys, wallet, lip balm, spearmint gum and a mini perfume. “Or, better yet, why not just pee over the threshold of my door, mark your territory.”

“Do you think that would keep him away?” Nico questions, instinctively following Poppy as she starts to head out of her office.

“For some reason I don’t think Jack would abide by the typical rules of the animal kingdom, so no.” She fishes her keys out so she can lock up behind the two of them. 

“It would probably mess with the whole Happiness smell, too, huh?”

“Exactly.” A couple of her colleagues are working from home this week, and anyone else with an office near hers is in a meeting that she had managed to get out of with the whole auctioneer thing, and so she and Nico stand alone outside the room as she realises she doesn’t even know why he’s here. “Did you actually need something or were you just here to insult my furniture?”

She had text him when she woke up this morning, responding to a message he had sent from practice - a video of Jack stumbling coming off the ice that he’d made one of the social media guys send over to him, his laugh echoing in the background. They’d carried on the text conversation throughout the morning, and the part of Poppy’s daily routine dedicated to missing him has very quickly been scribbled over by the need to keep up with his constant attempts to be close to her.

It’s only been a day since New Years, and Nico has been putting in every effort to make up for lost time. They had spent most of yesterday together, and it’s seeming like, even in the midst of a working day, he wants to carry that on.

She can’t think of a solid 5 minutes since their time on the rooftop where they haven’t been in some form of communication, other than the hours she had been asleep. They’d returned to Jack’s apartment to an almost thunderous applause, and for the rest of the party had remained side by side.

Poppy had only slightly worried about her best friend’s reaction, having left her in a room full of mostly unfamiliar people on such a big holiday. But Nia had been fine with it - had actually encouraged her to take her time when Poppy had originally told her the plan to get some air with Nico - and so any guilt had dissipated with the shit-eating grin that took over Nia’s face at the sight of her being ushered back inside with a large hand on the small of her back. 

A hand that had stayed there pretty much all night.

Jack had been just as happy, congratulating the two of them on getting over themselves and offering them shots to ring in the New Year properly. Poppy was just thankful he’d snapped out of his weird are you enjoying yourself time loop and actually started enjoying the party, himself. 

She’d been fielding questions from both of them about it for the past 36 hours, and she was actually relieved that it was Nico who had poked his head into her office and interrupted her meeting rather than Jack.

She doesn’t entirely know how to explain what is going on with her and Nico, and the longer she can avoid answering questions about it in person - where she is unable to hide the flush of her cheeks or the stuttering of her words - the better.

The questions also tend to arouse that morbid curiosity she has been suppressing, the one that makes her skin itch and tongue tingle with the need to ask why?

“Timo’s throwing me a surprise party for my birthday.”

“He’s doing a real good job at the surprise aspect of it, I see.” Poppy had heard about the party before, back in early December, when there were whispers around the team of something being arranged. She’d dwelled a little too long on what excuse she could come up with to get out of going, only for an invitation never to get extended in the first place. 

It hadn’t surprised her, any ties she had to Timo, with him being one of Nico’s closest friends, had pretty much severed with the ones she had to Nico. He had no reason to invite her to the party when he knew as well as she did, Nico wouldn’t want her there.

Nico must know that she wasn’t invited, she thinks, and dread starts to bubble up within her at the conversation they’re about to have. 

She no longer has to make up an excuse or fake plans to get out of going - she has something else secured, something she won’t be able to get out of now, no matter how much she may want to.

“Jesper told me, he knows I hate surprises. It’s gonna be on Sunday.” He says with an expectant smile tugging at his lips. “Will you be there?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“I’m inviting you now.”

“You can’t invite people to a party you’re not supposed to know about.” Poppy quickly decides the best way to go about this is to be casual, and standing outside her office waiting for tensions to rise is anything but. She starts to make her way through to the back of the offices to discard her things in the staff kitchen, Nico falling into step just behind her.

“It’s my birthday, I can do what I want.” He practically whines, his tone carrying an eyre of desperation. “C’mon, are you coming or not?”

“Not,” Poppy cringes as casual somehow sounds curt, pushing the door to the kitchen open with her shoulder, and immediately following up with, “I already have other plans that I can’t cancel.”

“You made plans on my birthday?” He sounds like he’s been kicked in the gut, and guilt starts to creep up Poppy’s spine. 

“Well, for starters, your birthday is Thursday, I’m free then.” She says in the hopes it will lessen the blow. He probably has other plans with other people, but she doesn’t mind doing something with him on the day. “And, again, I wasn’t invited, I didn’t know my plans would clash.”

She knows she isn’t being convincing. Something like this never stays a secret within the confines of the organisation they both work in, especially where their mutual friends are concerned, but she hadn’t intentionally made plans for that day specifically - she hadn’t made the plans, at all.

When she turns to face him with an outstretched hand for the cup and plate he’s holding, he has that pouty, sad puppy look etched into his features, and she wishes she’d stayed facing the other way.

“Who makes plans on a Sunday?”

“Clearly a lot of people.” She loads her things into the dishwasher, closing the door until it’s only just ajar so that it can be fully loaded before it is turned on.

“Is it with Nia? You could bring her along, I’m sure if you let Timo know-,”

“My plans aren’t with Nia, and I can’t invite a plus one to a party that I, for the third time, was not invited to.” 

She really doesn’t mean to keep harping on about it, the memory of dodging conversations about a party she hadn’t been considered for hurting her enough, but it’s the only thing she can think to say to put an end to the conversation. To her, it’s obvious - clear-cut and end-of-story level stuff - but Nico is clearly taking what she’s saying the wrong way. She isn’t trying to hint at an invitation, isn’t trying to make him feel guilty for the fact his best friend had thought he would rather not have her there - she just doesn’t want him to keep probing. She knows it’s naive to think he’ll leave it alone, though.

“I’ll talk to Timo,” Nico decides, his posture straightening.

“Nico-,”

“I doubt he’d mind any of your friends coming.”

“I have a date.”

Poppy sees no use in dancing around it any longer, not with how oblivious and determined he’s being - so insistent on her coming to a party he shouldn’t even know about. She mentally curses Jesper for even telling him about it in the first place. 

She honestly doesn’t know why she hadn’t just said it straight up to begin with, but she has a funny feeling around turning him down.

“You have a date?”

“You don’t have to say it like I’m some sort of gremlin.” Her offence is only partly a joke. She knows he didn’t mean it like that.

“This Sunday?”

“As we have already established.”

“I didn’t know you were dating.”

“You clearly need to check your emails more often, I actually sent out a state-wide memo just last week.” She sarcastically jibes.

“The last time we talked-,” he immediately cuts himself off, clearly thinking better of getting into that discussion right now after having avoided it for the past 2 days. “Who is it?”

“He’s a family friend,” she shrugs, dismissively, not really wanting to have this discussion with him either. She just wants the conversation to end, if she’s being honest. She has a lot to do with her day and the longer they stay in this small kitchenette talking about this, the less time she has to get her actual work done. Her nonchalant tone is an attempt to singe the ends the conversation, leaving no room for it to grow, but obviously this sparks a whole new topic for Nico, who just won’t let her be.

“You let your mom set you up?”

Poppy feels like a part of her has forgotten how much of her life she had shared with Nico, before. All the little nuggets of information sitting out in the ether, caught up in the cracks of their friendship. But, God, does he know her well.

The date had been an unfortunate consequence of her missing out on family Christmas - the only way her mom would forgive her was for her to finally agree to let her set her up. It’s something Poppy has been swerving for years, something she had confided in Nico about in the past - how her mom would always call her at night just to make comments about her relationships, or lack thereof, and always try to elbow her way into setting Poppy up with a well-to-do son of a socialite friend who she’d just ran into at some pointless gala.

She’d shared it all with Nico because she felt safe to do so - felt seen, felt understood.

And then, she had no one to confide in.

Maybe that had contributed to her lowering her guard to her mother’s insistence - not having anyone to vent to about it, no one to talk her down or hype her up, and so her resolve in standing up to her family has slowly but surely whittled way into fine scraps.

“Can’t avoid the inevitable forever.” She shrugs, not quite liking how disappointed in her he sounds, not daring to look over at him to see it plastered across his stupidly-handsome face. “And I’m on my final warning with her after bailing on the holidays, so I can’t get out of it this time.”

“You could bring him to the party,” Nico suggests, “I could rope the guys into helping scare him off, buy you some time until your mom springs another insufferable Wolf of Wall Street type at you in 6 months.”

“Please don’t make me tell you the same thing a fourth time. I can’t do Sunday.” She says with an inarguable finality. Although, she does find it amusing how he automatically assumes she would want him to be scared off. She’s actually resigned herself to the potential of enjoying her date - not that she’d tell Nico that. “But I’ll do whatever you want on Thursday if you have any time spare?” 

“My family are coming over, I don’t know if I’ll be free at any point.” Despite how excited for that reunion she knows he will be, he sounds discouraged. Poppy’s shoulders droop a little too. “What about now? I’m done for the day, we could grab lunch? Get some time in together before I go to DC tomorrow?”

“You say that like you’re going on a 5 week excursion to Antarctica,” she snickers, “Or like we’ve spent 10 minutes apart in the last 24 hours.”

“It may be only 90 minutes on a plane, Poppy, but an away game is an all day thing, you know this. Plus, I have a lot of time to make up for.”

Her stomach twists uncomfortably at the mention of their time apart - like it’s a sordid secret that is supposed to stay unspoken. Bringing it up just reminds her of all the times she’s sat in her office waiting for him to knock, and she doesn’t quite like how casually he manages to invoke the memory.

She knows she told him she was okay with what little explanation he had to offer, but she also knows she let him off easy. She didn’t lie, though - the amount she had missed him had far outweighed the need for answers, especially at a time where she was so unsure about the possibility of settling the tension between them in the first place.

But now, with every time he initiates contact, her mind goes straight to thinking about what had made him cut it before.

She worries about overexposure. Worries about him having time to himself, time to process and time to breathe where he isn’t stressing about keeping up appearances for her.

She wants things to return to normal, wants to spend time with him, but, if this is what had been the problem in the first place, then maybe it’s best to give him that space to cool things off a little.

“So, lunch?”

“I can’t, I have to check out potential auctioneers for this fundraiser” She doesn’t like rejecting him, especially twice within one conversation - doesn’t like the doubt and anxiety that creeps up with a small antithetical voice that warns her, don’t push him away, Poppy, he might not ask again, but she really does have to work.

The fundraiser is in March, and their in-house auctioneer, Keith had decided to enter early retirement in December, having fallen ill and developed some kind of chronic vocal nodule issue. He has already moved out of state, and was no help in offering any sort of replacement. Apparently, Poppy had been told when she called a local agency that specialised in this thing, the auction industry is cut throat - no pun intended to Keith and his nodules - and the guys would rather see their long term, loyal customers suffer than provide any kind of assistance where they had upcoming events in dire need of an auctioneer.

Elaine had thrown the task straight onto the big stack of work Poppy already has to get through for the event, knowing how much she wants to impress her boss and secure further responsibilities and opportunities for the bigger foundation events in the future.

If Poppy had known that taking this on meant trawling around Hudson County sitting in on private auctions, only able to watch, pretty much scoring a bunch of old men on how quickly and how loudly they could yell, she would have delegated it to someone else. Only, she’s run out of good graces and task-trades in the past few months with her many attempts of avoiding working with Nico, so she has to put up and shut up. It’s her own personal version of hell.

“I could come with you?”

“You want to come watch auctions with me?” She asks, in almost-disbelief.

Surely he wouldn’t be so adamant about being around her if he didn’t truly want to - but does he know what he wants?

For as much time as they had spent together before - all the times she’d watched his practices and games, all the times he’d come over to eat lunch in her office, all the events they had done together for the foundation, all the time outside of the Rock they had spent together - he had never done this. Followed her around while she worked excruciatingly mundane tasks, just because.

“Yeah, why not?” He asks, like it’s normal for him to be tagging along. 

“‘Cause you’ll get super bored?” Bored in general or bored of her, she doesn’t quite know.

“Auctions are cool, my grandma used to take me and my brother and sister to them when we were kids.” Poppy barks out an unintentional laugh, eyes narrowing as she pushes herself off where she’s resting against the dishwasher and starts back towards the door. “Why is that funny?”

“I’m just picturing you holding up one of those little paddles and getting into arguments over someone’s coin collection.”

“I was more into trains.” He shrugs, following her as she makes her way toward the stairwell in the back corner of the offices.

“Of course you were.” She chuckles. The two of them walk for a moment in silence, starting down the stairs so she can drop by the PR department - her colleague Josh in possession of a binder of external talent and the locations in which they will be auctioning today. “You don’t have anything better to be doing?” She is genuinely worried that he doesn’t quite understand what he’s signing himself up for - that he thinks this is going to be fun, and is going to end up seriously disappointed and be put off hanging out with her again. 

“Than spending time with you? Never,” That makes her stomach twist in an entirely different way. 

“Charmer,” she rolls her eyes, willing her thoughts to be quieter and her heart to beat back into a steady pace. “Fine, I’m down. You’re driving, though.”

“Of course,” he smiles victoriously, like he seriously has absolutely nothing he would rather do than drive her around for the rest of his day - even when it’s supposed to be her time making up for technically missing his birthday.

“I just have to pick something up from Josh, do you wanna meet downstairs?”

“I’ll wait for you.”

The two of them enter the offices together, and Poppy tries not to acknowledge the conveyer belt of stares as they walk through to find Josh’s desk.

Josh had done the bulk of the work on the agency end of this project, making sure the foundation weren’t aligning themselves with anyone or anything that could blow back on them, and before the holidays, the pair had worked pretty closely to try and stitch up the gaping hole in their in-house talent pool. He’d somehow turned what Poppy considered the stupidest job she had ever been given into something maybe-possibly-fun. They’d worked a couple late nights back in Poppy’s office, Josh pulling up YouTube videos of different auctions and the two of them compiling a scorecard to assess their candidates on. He was one of the few people in the department Poppy didn’t mind spending time with for a project like this.

“Poppy!” Josh’s smile is wide as he stands up from behind his desk in the corner. He rounds the edge and pulls her into his embrace as soon as she is close enough, and the smile doesn’t leave his face for as long as she’s in front of him.

“Hey, Josh,” she smiles back as she pulls away, taking a measured step back so they aren’t standing too close. “I’m just here to steal your talent binder, if that’s alright?”

“Of course!” He rushes back around his desk to his filing cabinet, using a small key on his lanyard to open it and reaching in to retrieve the folder. “The auctioneers are the blue section,” he opens the folder and points to one of the sectioning tabs, “I put them in date order, they have different time slots so you should be able to get through a couple in a day.”

“Oh, that’s so helpful, thank you!” She takes the folder from his grasp and has a quick look through. She’s so used to having to figure out her own systems of working that it’s nice to have someone else put in the effort - especially someone as organised as Josh.

She looks down at his desk, everything neat and optimally placed. She’s always thought herself as a tidy person, but her own desk is cluttered in comparison. Where her pens are haphazardly thrown in the pot, some upside down, ends chewed to oblivion, his are all the right way up, capped with a lid and looking fresh out of the packet. He has no personal items, no picture frames, no Jack Hughes bobblehead that’s starting to get a bald patch from where it’s continuously set off throughout the day. There’s nothing pinned to the walls of his little cubby, but she supposes in his line of work, he doesn’t have kids that draw him stick-figure versions of himself and send them in as a thank you, or pictures from team events. 

“If you don’t find anyone by Friday, I have some time free in the morning, I could come help you?”

“I’ll try keep you posted,” she offers as a hopefully gentle rejection. She likes Josh, doesn’t mind his company, but he’ll most definitely steam-roll her into a decision, and if she’s going to spend her whole week doing this, she wants the end result to be of her own choosing. “But I think I’ll be alright.”

She has completely forgotten who she’d brought into the office with her until she hears a snorting laugh from behind her - a quick puff of air blown from his nose in amusement - and sees Josh’s eyes divert from her figure for the first time since he’d seen her come through.

“Oh! Hello, Nico, I didn’t see you there!”

“Joshua,” is the only thing he says in response, and when Poppy turns her head back to look at him, he wears an uncomfortable, clearly forced smile. His eyes don’t crinkle, cheeks don’t dimple, and his nose is scrunched in something akin to distain. 

She quickly remembers something Luke had once said to her about how much he hated dealing with the PR team, how they make him feel like a puppet and dismiss his autonomy - definitely not the word he had used at the time but she figured that’s what he was trying to get at - and realises Nico must feel the same. In an effort to quickly ease the tension, she takes a step back toward her friend. “We have to go, thanks again, Josh!”

She hears him call a response after her, throwing a wave behind her as she gently nudges Nico back toward the exit. The two of them make it to the parking lot in an almost comfortable silence, Poppy not wanting to call him out on his rude behaviour when she’d been the one to inadvertently force him into an environment that usually only brought him stress. 

If she brings it up, she brings attention to it, and he potentially realises she pushes him out of his comfort zone where it brings him no benefit and he stops wanting to be around her.

The way in which her thoughts so quickly spiral out of control when it comes to him is something that needs to be studied, she thinks.

He opens every door in the building for her, and even when they get to his car, he does the same.

When she’s jumping into the passenger seat, and she realises she doesn’t have to adjust it - already set into the optimal position for her to stretch out her legs - and notices the smiley face air freshener hung from his rear-view, from a multi-coloured multipack she had bought for him forever ago, she takes a deep breath.

She can’t let herself keep doing this - keep thinking and thinking to the point of exhaustion that everything she’s doing is wrong. 

She’s spending too much time with him, and he’s going to get bored of her. She’s not spending enough time with him, and he’s going to stop asking if she rejects him one too many times. The time she is spending with him is doing boring, mundane things and he’d rather be anywhere else.

She has to push her doubts and anxiety to the back of her mind and tell herself those oh-so-annoying words her brother loves so much.

Beggars can’t be choosers, Poppy.

If she wants Nico back in her life, has already promised him her forgiveness and initiated their reconciliation, she can’t be picky about how he goes about acting on it, can she? She just has to embrace the attention in the hopes it doesn’t go away, again. 

Their drive to the first venue hadn't taken long, a stroke of luck with minimal traffic at this time of day. They find a perfect parking space just around the corner from the auction house, and after a short, brisk walk, they step into the welcoming warmth of the building. Nico holds the door open for Poppy, his gesture gentle yet firm, ushering her inside before closing it securely behind her.

“What’s the game plan?” He asks, lowly, his broad shouldered stature towering over hers as he steps up behind her. They hadn’t talked too much on the way over, Nico lining up a playlist that drifted through the speakers of the car and filled the air around them so there was little need for words.

She can’t figure out if she’s thankful for the reprieve in conversation or nervous over what he could possibly be thinking so hard about.

“Didn’t I warn you how dull this would be? There is no game plan.” Poppy peels the gloves from her hands and puts them in a bundle in her pocket, looking around the entrance to assess their situation. She was told by a woman at the agency that her name would be given to the guy who sits in the front of the auction house, but it’s completely empty.

“Surely there’s a way to make it fun,” Nico wonders.

“I’ll leave that to you to figure out,” she chuckles, eyes cast towards the entrance to the auction hall where someone has just come through the doors.

The guy is young, short, gelled blonde hair, thick framed glasses sitting atop a sharp nose, and dressed in a 3-piece navy suit. He fits the exact description she had been given of the guy who would be in the front-of-house. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Hi, are you Mason?” She asks, stepping forward as he approaches.

He startles only slightly, not as if he hadn’t been expecting anyone, but as if Poppy and Nico didn’t quite fit the image of who he had been anticipating. “Polly?” He asks, stepping to the side of the two of them to his desk, he shuffles through some notes scattered across the surface.

“Poppy,” she corrects with an awkward laugh, shuffling the binder she’s carrying between her hands so she has one spare to extend out to him.

“Like the flower,” Nico pipes up from behind her, his tone short and direct, earning him a quick glance back from Poppy.

“What he said,” she chuckles as Mason takes her hand in his, giving it a firm, friendly shake as amusement shines in his eyes. “I was told by Ruth Kennedy I could come sit in on an auction to watch Mr-,” she quickly flicks through her binder for the name, “Byrne?”

“Of course, Ruth said you’d be stopping by, it’s nice to meet you, Poppy.” The smile he offers is charming, maintaining eye contact with her until her cheeks warmed with the depth in which she was being perceived. 

“You too,” she offers a smile, again tucking her binder into the crook of her elbow before gesturing behind her. “This is Nico, we’re here representing the New Jersey Devils, he captains the team.”

Poppy can’t help the instinct to gush about Nico, and it’s only when she sees something flicker across Mason’s face that she realises she’s doing it - a force of habit.

“I know, we’re big hockey fans around here.” Mason stretches his arm toward Nico, and the way their hands clap together as they shake is loud enough to echo in the otherwise empty entryway. 

Nico says nothing as he retracts his arm, crossing them both over his chest and narrowing his eyes at the man in front of them. How he had gone from non-stop yapping back in Poppy’s office to whatever this is, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to think about, through fear she’ll find a way to blame herself - but he’s being standoffish and cold. 

“That’s great,” Poppy glances curiously back at Nico before turning back to Mason, “Is Mr Byrne back there?” She gestures to the doors he had just come through, raising a questioning brow.

“They’re taking a quick recess while some pieces are being brought through, you’re welcome to take a look around before they start back up. There’s a few guests in the gallery at the moment, it’s just through the doors to the right once you get through the entrance.”

“Oh, perfect, thank you!” Poppy offers her quick gratitude before looking back to Nico, checking in that he’s going to follow, and setting off with him through the doors at the back end of the room. 

Nico remains quiet as they make their way through to the back of the building, a complete 180 to his mood from earlier, and Poppy keeps glancing over at him, worrying about what’s caused the shift in his persona until she flat out asks, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, letting his hands sink into the pockets of his jacket as he takes in the art that lines the walls around them. 

“C’mon, Nico, out with it,” she nudges him with her hip.

“I don’t know, I just have bad vibes from this place.”

She knows that’s not what’s gotten him down - he was quiet back at the Rock - but the alternative is that he’s being grumpy because she’s missing his birthday, and she doesn’t want to enter into that conversation again and repeat herself for the umpteenth time. “They’re selling a bunch of dead people’s stuff, of course you have bad vibes.”

“It’s not the stuff,” he mumbles, looking back towards the doors they had just come through as Poppy ventures deeper into the room. The first display case she comes across houses some sort of fine china tea set - a complete collection, it looks like, with the pot, cups and plates all matching. It looks like something her mother would like - would display in her own cabinet, to collect dust and never to be touched - and for a brief moment, she considers what the price might be of winning her affections this way and bailing out on Sunday.

The next display case has a sculpture of some sort, as do most of the others she sees as she walks through the gallery, Nico following her silently, not seeming to take anything in until he hears Poppy let out a soft gasp.

“Nico, look!” She beckons him into her space with an outstretched arm, placing it on his back when he’s close enough and leaning into him slightly. “It’s a model train!”

She watches as his eyes flit over the figure in the case, head tilting as he reads something on the side. “It’s the Hogwarts Express,” he mutters with a reminiscent smile.

“Sounds fancy, is that a good one?”

“Are you kidding me?” Their eyes meet, and he looks down at her in confusion, “Harry Potter, Poppy.”

“Oh, duh!” She takes another look, still not really recognising it. “I never saw the movies.”

“You never-,” Nico takes a short step back, turning to face her fully as her hand falls back to her side. “You’ve never seen Harry Potter?”

“Well, I’ve seen one of them,” she corrects herself, “But they killed the owl and the little hobbit thing, I didn’t wanna watch the rest and get attached.”

“Dobby was a house elf,” he gasps in offence, “How do you only watch the second to last movie?”

“A group of friends went to watch it, I didn’t wanna be left out.” She tells him before realising she has an opportunity to poke fun at him. “Nico Hischier, are you a Harry Potter dork?”

“It’s Potterhead, Poppy.”

“Oh, so you’re a big time Harry Potter dork.” He shoves at her half-heartedly, breaking out into a smile when she giggles at her own taunts. “They even have a name for your level of nerd."

“Don’t act like I’m the weirdo, you’re the one who hasn’t seen one of the single biggest movie franchises ever made. What next, you haven’t heard Thriller?”

“Shut up,” she scoffs, shoving him back. “How can you say it’s bad vibes in here when they have your favourite auction item from your favourite movies? It’s fate!”

“They’re not my favourite movies,” he rolls his eyes, stepping back into her side as he notices other people in the gallery start to make their way through to the auction room. “It is a cool train, though."

She watches his face intently as he admires the train again, angling his head to take a thorough look at it. Her eyes flicker over the warmth of his own eyes, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw, and before she knows what she’s saying, before she can overthink it, she says, “We could watch them together, some time?”

It’s the first time she’s suggested any kind of plans with him, Nico initiating everything they’ve done together so far in the past couple of days, but there’s a remnant of guilt in the forefront of her mind, and she feels the need to make plans that he would enjoy to make up for how she’d disappointed him, earlier. Sharing something he had grown up with, and hoping she might enjoy it, too.

“I’d like that, Mohn,” he gives an easy smile, this time enough for dimples to well in his cheeks. He swings an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in the direction he had seen the others go, and the two of them make their way into the auction room, taking a seat in the back row.

The chairs are close together, close enough that when they sit, their thighs press together, and to avoid his arm getting squished between them, he slings it over the back of her seat.

Poppy opens up the binder she has on her lap, flicking to the blue section and finding the page dedicated to Mr Byrne. 

Works between New York and New Jersey, been in the industry for over 20 years, specialises in the auction of art, artefacts and memorabilia. 

“He looks perfect on paper,” she whispers, Nico craning his head down to hear her better. “Definitely not bad vibes.”

“We’ll see.”

They sit through a round of the auction like school children, whispering and giggling at the back of the classroom. Nico hands Poppy a paddle from the seat beside him, and any time someone throws them a dirty look, she raises it to drive up whatever they bid on. 

It’s a lot more fun than she had anticipated, and she finds herself forgetting why she had been worried about spending time with him in the first place.

The auctioneer is good, too. He’s professional, but has some personality - enough for her not to feel the passing of time like she is counting every tick of a clock, and before she knows it, he’s wrapping up for another recess.

“I think I like him,” she comments, head raising from where it had drooped onto Nico’s shoulder. “Plus, this place is quite nice, he has to be good for them to use him.”

“Hm,” Nico offers back, clearly in disagreement about something. 

“Please don’t tell me he’s bad vibes, I might have to hit you.”

“Not him, the guy at the front,” Nico says, “He’s a Rangers fan, I saw the mug on his desk.”

Poppy snorts out a laugh, shoving lightly at his chest. “Well, as much of a red flag as that may be, we can’t veto the perfect candidate just because someone who happens to work in the same building might have poor taste. Could have been anyone’s mug, could have been an auction item they couldn’t shift.”

“Regardless of where it came from, the man drinks his coffee from filth,” Nico frowns, and Poppy tries her best not to snicker at his theatrics. “What if they’re all Rangers fans, and we invite them into our home for them to fleece us of all our money.”

She reaches to yank his cap off his head and inspects the inner lining, his hair fluffing out onto his forehead as he pouts and tries to get it back. 

“Hey, what the hell?”

“Just checking for tin foil,”

“What does that mean?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she mutters, affectionately, putting the hat back into place atop his head and making sure it’s straight. “We have another auction we could check today, do you think you can behave?”

“I’ll be good.” He promises.

“No more bone crushing handshakes or pouting or judging people’s choice of crockery?”

“Crockery?”

“The mug, Nico,” her lips twist, fondly.

“Ah, we’ll see.” He sighs. “I can’t make any promises when it comes to the Rangers, you know this, Mohn.”

Poppy checks quickly in on Mr Byrne at the other side of the room, he’s talking to Mason from the front-of-house, and she meets his gaze when he gestures over to her. “I need to check something with Mason before we leave, could you wait by the door for me?”

“As long as you wash your hands before you come back.”

She shoves at his arm before setting off away from him to exchange contact information, thankful, despite Nico’s hesitance around the matter, that she has seemingly found the right fit. 

She might just have to have a quick word about his NHL team preferences before confirming anything.

Nico

Nico likes to think of himself as a level-headed person. He takes the time to mentally deliberate over things before he reacts to them, he doesn’t get consumed by annoyance or anger, doesn’t let emotions overwhelm him to the point of lashing out.

And, if he does react, he does so rationally - rarely crosses a line or goes too far over the top that he skews the balance of whatever power within him has caused things to escalate.

It shows in the way he plays - in the way he leads his team in a cool, calm, collected manner - and rarely does he ever make the first hit when it comes to a fight.

It had been something his older brother, Luca, had taught him when he was a kid, fighting in the rink is all well and good, sometimes needs must, just don’t be the dumbass to start something he can’t finish. Not only will it get someone a bad rep throughout the league, and a penalty from the refs, it could get them into serious trouble when it comes to recovery.

Take his injury back in October, for example. He’d taken a pretty gnarly hit to the head in the first period of a game against the Sabres, and, not that he had been able to react much at the time, he hadn’t let his frustrations get the better of him. The refs gave out the appropriate penalty, and as much as it sucked that he was out for almost a month dealing with the repercussions of the illegal check and a further hit in the second period, he had to deal with it and move on. But if he’d have retaliated on the ice, Lord knows how much worse his injury could have been, or how much longer he would have needed to recover.

So, all that to say, when situations arise and his temper flares, he can usually keep his cool.

But this week, or the latter end of the week, at least, something dark has started to swirl within him, and he’s reacting in ways he never usually would. 

Some childish, petulant part of him that is buried under many layers of bravado and strength, is doing its best to push through and rear its ugly head. 

 If he’s honest with himself, he knows where it had started. 

New Years Day he had woken up and his first thought had been of Poppy. He wanted to see her again, wanted to hang out for as long as she’d have him, carry on their conversations that had carried on until the early hours of the morning - and so he had text her pretty much straight away, asked if he could come over with the promise of bringing breakfast.

When he’d gotten into her apartment building, he had taken the stairs, his legs lead by muscle memory to the achingly familiar door, and he had rapped his knuckles in a melodic knock, one he’d hoped she would remember and recognise as his signature.

Only, when the door sprung open, Poppy wasn’t the one behind it. And, thanking all that is holy, Nico was relieved to see it wasn’t her mother, either.

A guy stood before him, dark, short hair, black-rimmed glasses, just a touch taller than Nico, himself, broad shouldered and, Nico could admit, dashingly handsome. He was dressed in gym gear, Lululemon fitted t-shirt stretched across his chest, and pace breaker shorts clinging to muscular thighs.

He wasn’t usually one to check out another guy like this, but the expectation of seeing Poppy and being on the receiving end of this Adonis had him in a state of shock.

She had said she had Nia over, she hadn’t said anyone else would be here.

“Can I help you?” The guy had asked, leaning on the door jamb and looking Nico up and down with an inquisitive stare. 

He had a sickening sense of deja-vu, the last time he had heard those words in this doorway, Poppy had soon come to his rescue, but as he tried to get a look past into the apartment, it didn’t seem like that would happen.

“Is Poppy home?” He couldn’t help but phrase it like a question, never sounding so unsure of himself in his life. If he had thought Poppy’s mother was intimidating, this was like that situation on speed. The thought of another man, a man as fucking gorgeous as this one, being in Poppy’s life - in her apartment, no less - made his throat go a little dry.

“You’re here for Poppy?” The guy asked, looking Nico up and down, eyes lingering on the drinks holder and paper bag in hand. Nico doesn’t entirely know why him saying her name made him feel so much worse. He could only nod in response. “She must not have changed her details on the app,” he shook his head, but it was less in annoyance and more in fond acknowledgement, “She’s upstairs now, 6B, not 5.”

There was a quick flood of relief, ignoring the fact this man thought Nico was a PostMates delivery, he let out a nervous laugh.

“Right, sorry for bothering you.” He went to move back towards the stairs, but was very quickly stopped in his tracks.

“I can take it up for you? I have a dish of hers I need to take up there, anyway.”

The dry feeling returned immediately. 

Who is this guy and why does he have one of Poppy’s dishes? 

Nico had found himself broadening his own shoulders, perfecting his posture as to come across more sure of himself than the other times he had spoke. “You’re good, man, we have breakfast plans.” He lifted the bag as if to give him a hint, “I can take the dish if you want.”

He would rather be loaded up like a pack horse than have Clark Kent stop by later and interrupt his time with Poppy.

“Oh, yeah, man, you’re a lifesaver!” The guy retreated into Poppy’s old apartment and came back out with a clean casserole dish. “I thought you were a delivery guy, I didn’t know she was seeing someone, my bad.”

Nico hadn’t corrected him.

“No worries,” He’d taken the dish from his hands, balancing it in the crook of his elbow. “Have a nice day.”

He’d trudged up to Poppy’s new apartment, knocking on the door with his elbow when he made it - unable to do his usual knock with the amount he was holding.

Nia has been the one to answer the door this time, and Nico’s mood hadn’t lifted until he was ushered into the apartment and saw Poppy in the flesh.

She was still in her pyjamas, always keeping her place warm enough that she could lounge around in loose fitted shorts, and was sat at her kitchen counter typing away on her phone. When she looked up at Nico, any soreness, any tightness or unease had dissipated from his body at the wide smile that broke out across her face.

“Hi!” She had practically leapt up from the stool she was sat on and thrown her arms around him - the warmest greeting he had received from her in recent memory. 

“Hey.” He juggled what was in his hands, stepping around her slightly, still in her embrace, to quickly put the things on the counter so he could hug her back. His large hands took up immediate residence on the small of her back, rubbing comfortingly until she pulled away.

“Missed you,” he muttered as she craned her head up to look at him, and he found himself beaming down at her, cheeks feeling warm when he took in how her own smile lingered.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, lightly shoving him away before turning to see what he had put behind her. She didn’t believe him, but he had planned to keep saying it until she did. 

“Please tell me there’s something bad for me in that bag,” Nia had spoken up from behind him, voice groggy, movements sluggish as she rounded into the kitchen to assess what Nico had brought over with him. 

“Sure, as long as you still like those breakfast wraps from the bagel shop round the corner.” 

“The Spanish one?” Nia had gasped, reaching into the bag and pulling out something foil-wrapped. 

“You might wanna heat it up a little,” he suggested, and before he could finish his sentence, she was crossing over to the stove on the other side of the kitchen. As she clattered around trying to find a pan to fry it off and melt the cheese, Nico turned to Poppy, who was also eyeing the bag.

For as long as he’d known Poppy, she was a light breakfast, hearty lunch kind of girl - and, considering she hadn’t mentioned being hungover, herself, when they had messaged that morning, he didn’t think she would want anything big.

“I got you an apple-cinnamon twist.”

She had given him one of those smiles that made his chest feel tight, an acknowledgement of his efforts in recalling her preferences, and he had gulped down any further words in an attempt to relieve himself of the need to choke.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

He didn’t think he’d ever heard her use that phrase before, and he’d tried to let the weight of her smile and gratitude push down on that creeping feeling of envy and bitterness that was building within him.

The guy downstairs had said the same thing. The guy in Poppy’s old apartment.

“You didn’t tell me you’d moved.”

“Oh, shit, is that why you have my lasagne dish?” She had huffed out a guilty laugh, “Sorry, it was in November, I thought Jack and Luke would have told you, they helped me lug all my stuff up here and still hold it against me.” He watched as she picked out one of the juices and took a sip, “Jesse and I switched, he needed a smaller space ‘cause him and his girlfriend split, and I’d been wanting to upgrade for a while. I should have told you when you text before.”

Jesse. Newly-single, built like a Greek statue, and close enough that Poppy was loaning him cookware, Jesse. The name rings with a sinister tone throughout his inner thoughts.

And Jack and Luke, the traitors, had dedicated probably a whole day of their scarcely-free time to help Poppy move and never so much as mentioned it in front of him. 

If he wasn’t so much of an idiot, he could have helped, too - but it would be pointless to dwell too much on that. He couldn’t turn back time, could only dedicate more of it to showing Poppy he wasn’t going anywhere, again, and she could rely on him from then on.

That had been the first layer of bricks laid in Nico’s ever-building foul mood throughout the week.

The second had been in Poppy’s office the following day. He’d let himself in, just like he used to, and tried to busy himself while Poppy’s attention was on a work call. 

He had perused the walls, eyeing over drawings sent in to the foundation from the kids they helped and worked with - drawings of the Prudential Center, of the Devils logo, little stick figures labelled as Poppy and whichever kid had drawn them, some other drawings - a couple in particular catching his eye of her with other players; one of her with Luke, one of her with Jack, one of her with Dawson and Holtzy, seemingly from development sessions she had hosted or attended with them over the past few months. And then, some actual pictures scattered in the mix. Poppy with Curtis and Dougie, Poppy with Jack at the Christmas Toy Drive, Poppy with Luke, John and Holtzy in full gear, that looked like it was taken at one of the games. 

When he had sat in front of her desk, and the little bobblehead version of Jack was staring smugly back at him, he had started to feel like his bones didn’t fit right in his skin. 

He’d remembered seeing Jack lounging across the exact chair he had thrown himself into, back when he’d stumbled across him and Poppy talking in her office the week before, and he couldn’t shake the thought of his lingering presence in Poppy’s space - Poppy’s space that didn’t have a single trace of Nico’s existence.

Whatever bitterness was starting to brew was only exacerbated by the revelation that Poppy was going to miss his birthday party because she had a date.

Poppy Jensen.

Dating.

On his birthday, no less.

For as long as he had known her, Poppy had never had any serious relationships. There had been dates here, flings there, but she was committed more to herself and her career than anything else, and would especially never take her own mother up on her advances to set her up.

His stomach had started to turn at the thought of it. She’d always been so resolute in her refusal when it came to her mom - had always been strong-willed and defiant, knowing that, even with what she argued were the best intentions, Priscilla Jensen didn’t have the first clue about what kind of person Poppy wanted to, or would suit to, be with.

But what if, after all this time, Poppy’s mom actually did have a clue?

What if she and whatever Page 6, heir-to-a-small-fortune, business-school-graduate son of a socialite-friend of her mother’s hit it off?

She’d have no time for Nico if she started dating someone, surely.

Can’t avoid the inevitable, she had said - and he hadn’t liked it. He’d wished she would have looked at him so she could tell how much he didn’t like it.

Poppy had never believed in the inevitable, before. She forged her own path. It was one of the many things he loved and admired about her.

And, apparently, she’d forged her own path straight down into the PR offices one too many times, because the way Josh had reacted to seeing her when they ventured down - springing out of his seat like an excitable puppy that had caught sight of a tennis ball - made his stomach crawl.

He knew he hated dealing with the PR team for a reason. Josh was giving off major creeper energy, inviting himself along to watch auctions with Poppy as if she wasn’t capable of doing it on her own. And, he had barely even acknowledged Nico was there the whole time, which was rude in and of itself. 

And then, as if the universe hadn’t been cruel enough to him in the past 2 days, he had to watch some leech at the auction house look over Poppy like she was a piece of meat - eyes wandering from head to toe, taking his time to take every part of her in, while Nico stood behind her willing the steam not to blow from his ears.

Bad vibes.

And that judgement was made before he saw the hideous mug on the guy’s desk.

He had felt off for the rest of that day - when he and Poppy had gone to view another auction, only for them to find out Josh had gotten one of the dates wrong, and they’d driven all the way up to North Bergen for nothing. 

He had felt off when he took Poppy out for dinner - the two of them sat facing one another in the cosy corner of an Italian bistro they had found on their way back to Jersey City, sharing breadsticks and conversing over pasta and gelato for dessert - and he tried not to overthink the way the waiter purposely brushed her hand whenever he took the menu back. Had tried to live in the moment of being able to watch the flicker of the candle between them in her irises, and how she so intently listened to whatever he had to say like it was the most important thing in the world.

He had felt off when he dropped Poppy back at the Rock to get her car, splitting with a hug over the centre console just like old times, a quick peck to his forehead and a kiss to her crown, her promising to text him when she got home - and as he watched to make sure she got in her car okay, he had noticed her looking down at her phone and smiling at a message he hadn’t been the one to send.

How he had managed to pull himself together to play the Capitals, to score two goals and for the team to bag a great away win, he doesn’t know.

But the off-feeling returns on the quick flight back to New Jersey.

As he sits on his own, headphones on, distancing himself from the rowdy celebrations of his teammates, he types and un-types too many messages to Poppy.

Will you still be awake in an hour?

Can I come over?

Do you want to come over?

Just saw Harry Potter is on Netflix now.

Can I see you?

Facetime when I’m home?

For some unknown reason, it feels like a matter of urgency that he has to see her, or at least speak to her, tonight, before his entire day tomorrow is taken up by plans with his family.

He has waited for them to make the trip out from Switzerland since seeing them in the summer, but now, when it’s potentially the only time he can celebrate his birthday with Poppy, it’s starting to feel like an inconvenience.

She was the one that had offered to do something, so she should no doubt be down to see him, but it will be late by the time he gets back, and the last thing he wants to do is inconvenience her.

It’s when he has just sent a simple, Hey, and is watching intently for the read receipt and the 3 little bubbles to pop up that Jesper drops into the seat next to him.

“Timo needs you to reply to his texts,” he sighs, running a hand through his light hair. “Something to do with Sunday, says he’s on a time crunch and needs to know something from you.”

“Can’t, I’m ignoring him.” 

“And why would you be ignoring Timo?” Jesper snorts, turning in the chair, intrigued as to why his captain has all of a sudden started behaving like a child.

“He didn’t invite Poppy to my party.” Nico shrugs, eyes remaining on his screen and still waiting. It isn’t that late yet, and Poppy always has her phone on her.

“Right,” he drags out, eyes shifting quickly to glance down at Nico’s screen until it’s tilted away from him. “You weren’t exactly speaking to Poppy when he put the list together, Nico, you can’t blame him for that.” 

Nico knows he can’t blame Timo, but he doesn’t want to blame himself, so he is left with no other choice than to let the resentment bubble toward someone else. 

“And we can just add her now, it’s no big deal, I’ll text him so it’s not obvious you’re asking.”

“She has plans, now.” Nico scowls. It doesn’t matter how much he knows he’s being an idiot about it, he wants Poppy there on Sunday, wants to celebrate his birthday with his best friend, and now he can’t.

“Okay, so what’s the big deal?”

“She wouldn’t have made plans if she were invited in the first place.”

“You’re losing me.”

“She has a date.” He huffs out, bitterly, the word souring on his tongue. A date she might never have agreed to if Timo had asked her to come in the first place. “And she won’t cancel it.” Can’t, won’t, doesn’t want to, it’s all semantics.

“Oh.” Jesper frowns, then follows with another exclamation. “Oh!” Loud enough, this time, to capture the attention of Jack and Luke on the next row over.

“Yeah, oh.” Nico scoffs, “It’s Timo’s fault.”

“Since when does PJ date?” Jack asks, inserting himself into the conversation, him and Luke both leaning over to truly immerse themselves in the discussion. 

Probably since she developed friendships with guys in the PR department who colour code documents to please her, and get wide eyed and bushy tailed at the mere sight of her. Or since she attracted the attention of fancy auction house hosts dressed to the nines with charming smiles and prolonged handshakes. Or maybe since she played house-swap with her gym-buff movie-star looking single-and-clearly-looking-for-love neighbour. Nico thinks, at one point when they were outside walking back to his car after the second auction house had been closed, he’d even seen a flirtatious pigeon make advances towards her.

How is she not supposed to date people when every person she bumps into is putting moves on her?

“I don’t know.” He mutters, checking his phone again only to see a big fat bunch of nothing.

“And you want to date her?” Luke asks, perpetual confusion etched into his features.

“What? No!” He denies before he can even think about it.

“Right,” Jesper drags out again in a way that is starting to get on Nico’s nerves. “So, what’s the problem again?”

“If she starts dating someone, she’s gonna spend all her time with them and not have any time left for me.”

“Oh, so like how you were with Talia?” Nico thought Jack was the unfiltered one in the Hughes family, but with every time he talks to Luke, he is quickly proven wrong. Jack speaks to purposely stir the pot, Luke doesn’t even realise he’s doing it - just calls Nico out like it’s nothing - and he doesn’t know which is worse.

Nico can’t help but grimace, the mention of his behaviour over the past few months serving only to humiliate him and make him feel worse. He doesn’t need to feel worse. “It’s not the same.”

“Because you like her.” 

“Dude,” Jack scoffs at his little brother’s brazenness. Jesper smirks knowingly beside Nico.

“I don’t-,” Nico can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, feeling unknowingly uncomfortable at the thought of flat out shutting that down. “It’s just weird, I’ve known her a lot longer than you have, okay, Poppy doesn’t date.”

“Poppy’s hot,” Luke says it as if he’s saying the sky is blue. Jesper snorts out the sip of his water he had just taken and Jack throws his head into his hands. “Of course she dates.”

“Excuse me?” Nico almost chokes, himself.

“You all have eyes,” Luke scoffs. 

“I don’t use them to look at Poppy, she’s like my sister, which means she’s like your sister.”

“She’s hot, and she’s funny, and she’s cool, and why she wastes her time hanging around any of us, or even caring about any of us in the first place, I don’t know. Whatever guy she’s dating is a lucky fucker, it’s normal to be jealous.”

“Sounds like you like her,” Nico challenges with a hardened jaw, trying to hide the clench of his fists by pressing his hands down either side of his legs. It’s a date, she isn’t dating. The latter end of Luke’s statement doesn’t even register in his subconscious thoughts. 

“Yeah, what exactly are you getting at?” Jack questions his brother, an amused glint in his eye.

“I don’t want to be the person to call his captain an idiot,” Luke sighs, throwing himself back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You think I’m an idiot?” Nico scoffs, unable to gauge the level of offence he wants to take at the younger Hughes’ outburst.

“I think you’re being an idiot, there’s a slight difference.”

“Just so you know, Schao, I take no responsibility for my brother’s stupidity. His opinions are his own.” Jack interrupts, holding his hands up as if surrendering.

“You literally said earlier you think he’s being a dumbass,” Luke argues, more than ready to throw his brother under the bus. If he’s going down, Jack’s coming with him.

“Whoa,” Jack shoots a wide eyed, panicked look over to his captain, “He’s misquoting me, that’s fake news.”

“You think I’m a dumbass?”

“Being a dumbass,” Jack corrects, “Luke’s right, there’s a difference. Using the right words is important, here.”

“You two have a death wish.” Jesper chuckles, reclining in his seat to observe the circus in front of him, happy he isn’t the one to have to call Nico out, for once.

“Please enlighten me, how am I being a dumbass?”

“We’ve just won an away game with 6 goals, two of which you scored. This whole plane has been celebrating the result, and you’ve been sat here with your bottom lip out, pouting over a girl you won’t even admit to yourself that you like.” Jack is the first to speak up, but Luke soon takes over - the two of them laying into Nico like they’ve been rehearsing. 

“All because she has a date.” Luke mimics Nico’s previous whining. “All because the two of you have wasted all those years that you’ve known her longer than I have pretending you aren’t like crazy into each other.”

As the two of them bounce between each other, Nico takes a second to think about what they’re saying - or, specifically, what Luke is saying.

It’s his rookie year. Sure, he’d played a couple games at the end of last season, but he hadn’t really been around to witness Nico and Poppy in the depths of their friendship before the summer. How did he know how long the two of them had wasted pretending not to be into each other?

“She’s into me?” 

“For Christ’s sake,” Luke mutters, rolling his eyes, “I changed my mind, I do think you’re an idiot.”

“Has she said that?”

“Not in those words,”

“Then how do you know?” Nico questions, leaning forward in his seat.

It’s Jesper who counters this time. “C’mon, Nico,” he scoffs, “You can’t be serious, right now.”

“Yeah, Cap, there’s oblivious and then there’s downright brainless.” Jack chimes in. “She was so cut up about you and Talia she turned into a full-blown recluse. Party Poppy didn’t come to any team hang-out for months.”

“And if she did, she’d just sulk in a corner and slip out early. She didn’t even do anything for her birthday, last year. Poppy loves her birthday. Timo was looking forward to weaselling in on her plans.” 

Nico remembers going out for Timo’s birthday - some haphazard, last minute gathering at a bar in Hoboken, just after the season had kicked off. He remembers Talia grumbling to him, wanting to leave to go meet up with some of her friends in New York, and so he had given in and they had dipped out. Timo had said he didn’t mind. Nico had assumed Poppy would have joined the team, later - her and Timo sharing a birthday week - but had never actually checked in the end to see if she had. Had she spent her birthday alone, too? All to avoid having to see him with Talia?

“And even if we’re ignoring the whole Talia thing, back when you two were close, she’d do things with you she’d never do with the rest of us. The first time I ever saw her apartment was when I was helping her move out of it, you were there all the time.”

“I’ve never even seen it,” Jesper adds.

“And she has pictures of you in her apartment, doesn’t have any of me and I’m her favourite teammate.”

Nico doesn’t remember seeing any photos in her apartment - can only remember the ones at work, the ones of everybody but him. 

He thought she’d erased all evidence of his existence in her life - but had she just moved it some place more sacred, more intimate?

“None of us have met her family, either. You’ve met them several times.”

“You don’t really want to meet them, trust me,” he mutters, suppressing a shudder when thinking about all his encounters with the Jensen clan. “Why have you gone quiet all of a sudden?” Nico wants to hear what Luke has to say about it, having a sneaking suspicion that he holds the most damning evidence of all.

Poppy has said something to him. 

He wouldn’t be being as hard on Nico if she hadn’t.

But, if he thinks hard enough about it, he can’t recall seeing them hang out that much. He’s seen her more with Jack, and sure, there were the pictures with Luke in her office, but why would she confide in him of all people? Why not his brother - or, better yet, why would she not just tell Nia and leave anyone from the team out of it?

“I think you need to be speaking to Poppy about this.”

And as if manifesting it on his captain’s behalf, Luke’s words bring forward a brief buzz to the phone now in Nico’s lap.

He looks down at the screen, heartbeat slowly but surely regulating itself as he reads the messages.

Poppy: Hey congrats on the win!!💖

Poppy: I know you’re busy tomorrow but can I see you tonight??

Poppy: Might have a gift for you 👀

Nico: I’ll come to you 😊❤️ 

Maybe Luke is right - he needs to talk to Poppy about it.

Nico takes the steps up to Poppy’s apartment two at a time, tired muscles from playing and travelling be damned, and when he makes it to her floor, he finds her leaning against her already open doorway, waiting for him.

The flight home had dragged despite being so short, the coach back to the Rock seemed to move at the pace of a push bike in low gear, and he had hit every red light on his own drive from the arena - but all that dwindles away into a distant memory when he sees her.

“Did you stalk me on find my friends?” He asks, closing the gap from the stairs to her front door, wondering how she had known when he got here.

“You know me so well,” she jests, opening her arms and stepping into him, wrapping them around his shoulders and squeezing when he embraces her back. 

His arms circle around her waist, and he fights the urge to lift her and spin her around in a demonstration of his own elation.

“I’ve missed you,” he speaks lowly into the top of her head. He thinks he could say it a million times and it won’t be enough. 

“You saw me yesterday,” she mumbles into his chest, stepping back without loosening her grip around him so they waddle through into her apartment together.

“Too long.”

“You’ve been texting me all day.”

“Not enough.”

He manages to softly kick the door closed behind them, hearing the soft click of the automatic lock.

“Are you hungry?” She asks, finally stepping out of his hold and stepping through her apartment towards her kitchen.

He does usually have a snack before settling in for the night after he gets home from an away game, but he doesn’t want to put Poppy out this late, especially knowing she has work in the morning and he has most of the day off.

“I’m good,” he follows her into the kitchen, where she seems to be ignoring him, swinging open the refrigerator and reaching inside for something. She hides whatever she’s taken, closing the door behind him and moving it to the counter, shielding it from his view with her body.

He’s too distracted by the feeling of his chest swelling to try to peak. He notices pictures stuck with magnets to the door - pictures of the two of them, alone and in groups, scattered between different notes like appointment cards and an invitation to a baby shower.

It’s only a slight burst of heat in front of his face that diverts his attention, eyes straining to focus on the small flickering flame of a birthday candle stuck into a blueberry muffin. 

“Happy birthday!” Poppy squeals, holding the small plate in front of him. 

“Is this my gift?” He chuckles, blowing out the candle and taking the plate from her hands.

“Nope, wait here,” she rushes out of the kitchen and he pinches the candle from the muffin, placing it to the side of the plate so he can break off a piece and throw it into his mouth.

He recognises it from the bakery down the street from Poppy’s apartment, a place they’d once frequented together when craving something sweet, and the taste takes him straight back to their little table by the window, so small their knees would knock as they sat beside each other, chatting over mini muffins and coffees.

He rounds the corner of the kitchen island to check out the photo frames on Poppy’s bookshelf that takes up most of the wall connecting to the back rooms of her apartment. 

It’s a new piece of furniture, way too big to have been in her old apartment, and she’s decorated the shelves not filled with books with trinkets, frames, candles and a few small plants.

One shelf has a picture of Poppy with her girlfriends - he only knows Nia, but he recognises the photo as one she’s had a while - another has a picture of Poppy with her family. There’s a photo of the family dogs, Springer Spaniels Mabel and Gus, who Nico had become infatuated with when Poppy had looked after them for a week while her parents were on vacation. 

On the shelf closest to his eye level, Nico spots a photo of him and Poppy taken on Halloween a few years back. Nico dressed as a prisoner, Poppy dressed as Mia from Pulp Fiction, he remembers someone had made a comment how even in polar opposite costumes, they had still turned up colour co-ordinated, and the picture does that justice - giant, smiles, and flushed cheeks coming out bright against their black and white outfits.

Poppy returns with a small box and a card, and a smile just as big as the one in the picture.

Nico takes the box, instinctively rattling it. “Doesn’t sound like the Hogwarts Express model train I wanted,” he speculates, lips pouting into a mocking frown. 

“Don’t get me started on that train,” she swats Nico with the card, “That Rangers loving asshole said it was against house code to reserve an auction item for me.”

“I told you he was bad vibes,” he postulates, heart warming at the thought of her trying to get him such a sentimental gift.

“That thing ended up going for over $6000!”

“Jesus,”

“I love you, but if I’m spending $6000 on anything, it isn’t a dorky Harry Potter train.”

I love you. 

Nico doesn’t even register the rest of her sentence.

He tears carefully into the Devils branded wrapping paper until a plain black box is revealed, and when he lifts the lid, the gold chain inside immediately reflects the soft light coming from the corner of the room. 

“It’s so we can match,” Poppy says, shaking the wrist that adorns the welded chain bracelet - the bracelet that she wears as a symbol of an unbreakable bond with the people she loves the most in this world. “I know you already have a chain, so you don’t have to wear it all the time, I couldn’t really think of anything else so last minute.”

She sounds unsure - insecure, almost, which is abnormal for her.

“Put it on for me?” He asks, holding the box out for her to take the chain out. 

She handles it with care, and when it’s in her hands, he can see that it is the perfect match to the chain on her wrist. Oh, he will be wearing it. All the time.

She unclasps the necklace, and he cranes his head lower so she can bring it around his neck, closing it together at the front and manoeuvring it until the clasp is at the back.

When he lifts his gaze, his eyes catch hers, admiring the glint of gold against his skin until she looks up at him with a soft smile.

It’s that same smile she seems to reserve just for him - where her eyes sparkle like a something out of a cartoon and swirl with so much warmth he feels it spread throughout his body.

He feels so much in the moment, a million words flooding through his brain at the rate of a thousand miles a minute. He has so much he wants to say to her - so much they need to talk about - but as he stands in an apartment only he is allowed to spend time in, with scatterings of his pictures throughout every room he’s been in so far, the link between his brain and his mouth becomes severed.

Fuck talking.

Nico moves quicker than he can comprehend, his brain not processing the actions of dropping the box his chain had been held in, placing his hands on either sides of her face and pulling her in until his lips collide with hers, and she doesn’t pull away. He can barely make out the sound of his birthday card falling from her grasp and sliding across the floor until all sound that isn’t coming from Poppy drowns out.

Her mouth moves with an equal bruising pressure to his, fingers raising to clutch at the shirt stretched across his torso, and he can barely feel the scratch of her nails through the fabric. He uses his grip on her face to angle it until their noses slot beside each other like pieces of a puzzle, and he doesn’t feel the ache in the bridge of his own as it is squished against hers.

After a few measured seconds, he tries his luck with the quick swipe of his tongue against the slight parting of her lips, and she lets him in, sending vibrations through the muscle as her lips close around it and she hums against his mouth. 

Nico can’t think of a time he’s ever kissed someone like this before - with all-consuming passion. 

He’s had half-hearted, means-to-an-end make-out sessions, quick, loveless pecks, sloppy, drunken kisses with fumbling hands and heavy petting.

But this is other-worldly. It’s mind-boggling, soul shattering, earth-moving.

Even when they part, noses smushed together, panting breaths tumbling heavily out into each other’s parted, swollen lips, he feels like his whole body is continuously thrumming. 

He gives into the slight push of her hands against his chest, only when he feels her eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, wanting to see what revelations lay within her eyes.

She blinks slowly, as if in a daze, and a self-satisfied smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Clarity washes over him almost immediately.

He hasn’t been off this week.

Hasn’t been grumpy, mopey, moody, pouty.

Luke was right, earlier.

Nico has been jealous.

He wants to spend all his time with her, wants to tag along to whatever boring work task she has when he’s free, wants to tell any other guy interested that she’s off limits, wants to fill his apartment with pictures of the two of them and wants her to fill her office with the same.

Nico Hischier likes Poppy Jensen.

And, if that kiss and her reaction to it is anything to go off, Poppy likes him back.

The thought fills him with conviction, makes his chest puff out and his back straighten in unabashed confidence, and gives him the courage to make a request that the Nico of barely a day ago wouldn’t have dreamed of asking.

Something else he wants.

“Don’t go on that date, Mohn."

> Next Chapter

taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle @bunbunbl0gs @idgaf-if-youre-here @youflowerr-youfeast @thearchersstuff @bellsdi0r @wonderheartz @jjgsunflower @butterflies35 @kenziepickle (sorry if your tag hasn't worked btw)

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

I've seen many people say it's weird that Onyx was allowed to join JMA because she's an adult and I don't agree. Why? I come from a country that was ravaged by war just a few decades ago. One of the first things I learned in history classes is that once the war ended, community schools were opened everywhere as part of a campaign to improve literacy rate. People of all age were encouraged to join so they can learn how to read, write, do basic maths, etc. But photos taken of classes from that time show that most of the students were adults, not children. Because shocker, they couldn't learn any of those things as kids, hiding in bomb shelters and starving or risking their lives as child soldiers

Compare that to the settings of JMA and Pyrrhia at the start of arc 2 and you'll see lots of similarities. Pyrrhia had just escaped a devastating war that involved every tribe and affected countless lives. JMA was built by the DoD to essentially combat the consequences of the war, not illiteracy exactly, but the hatred and fear that lingered among dragons. With that goal in mind, it would make less sense if they only accept dragonets. Sure there were plenty of child soldiers we saw in arc 1, but so many more were adults who got drafted, and who knows how many of them got drafted as children and spent their entire childhood killing and watching their loved ones being killed

(Honestly if racism wasn't so common and JMA wasn't an intertribal school, it would definitely have more adults willingly joining)

Now obviously, Onyx wasn't one of those dragons, but she was still a victim of the Sandwing Succession war. She was forced to spend nearly all of her life living as a fugitive because her mother wanted to wait till either Burn, Blaze, or Blister take the throne. Unfortunately for both of them, none of the princesses wanted to settle the matter quickly and chose to drag the whole continent into their family drama instead. Then suddenly the war ended, her mother died (hilariously), and a nice little academy made by a bunch of very special dragonets was opened to everyone. Onyx could easily walk up to the front door of JMA and convince the DoD to let her in by going "queen Oasis exiled me and my mom when she was still alive and then the war happened and now my mom is dead and I don't know how to read 🥺". Sunny and Clay would welcome her in a heartbeat. Plus having an adult student in the academy could give them some much needed credibility

.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Olivia Reingold

On October 7, 2024—one year after Hamas invaded Israel, murdering 1,200 people—The New York Times published an episode of its flagship podcast, The Daily. It featured two men on opposite sides of the conflict: an Israeli man who’s moved from hotel to hotel after Hamas destroyed his community, and a father trying to survive in Gaza. 

But while the Israeli man was described in full—as a “liberal” 44-year-old father named Golan Abitbul, born and raised on Kibbutz Be’eri, the Palestinian man’s identity was shrouded in secrecy. The New York Times simply referred to him as “Hussein, a Palestinian man living in Gaza.” The host, Sabrina Tavernise, did not ask Hussein any follow-up questions when he revealed that, unlike most Gazans right now, he has “a good income” and is able to pay about $1,000 a month for rent. And she let him explain—uninterrupted—about why, a year later, the war ravages on.

“I’m surprised that there is humans doing this force,” Hussein said of Israeli soldiers, in broken English. “How could human became this evil, killing others, imposing collective punishment on over two million people with no reason? What are they going to gain? Why they are doing this?”

But what Tavernise did not say is that “Hussein” is Hussein Owda, whose name is listed in the show notes on audio platforms that host the podcast, including Spotify and Apple Podcasts. And what The New York Times does not reveal is that Owda’s background suggests links to Hamas. A simple Google search turns up his LinkedIn page, where he publicly lists an eight-year stretch working for the Municipality of Gaza, which sources told me is controlled by Hamas; a new job at the controversy-riddled United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (also known as UNRWA); and an eight-month stint at Muslim Hands, a nonprofit exposed by the UK’s Telegraph in 2014 for having “close ties to the Muslim Brotherhood.” Hamas was originally established in the 1980s as the local Palestinian branch of the Muslim Brotherhood.Hussein Owda (via LinkedIn)

From September 2015 until August 2023, Owda lists his job as the head of public relations for the Municipality of Gaza. “Every government structure in Gaza was run by Hamas,” Jon Schanzer, a former terrorism analyst at the U.S. Department of the Treasury, told me. “The people that were paying his salary ultimately would’ve gone up the chain to Hamas itself.” Schanzer added that Owda, as the former head of public relations for the Municipality of Gaza, likely was “providing propaganda” to advance the mission of Hamas.

Meanwhile, three on-the-ground sources in Gaza—two of whom were provided through The Center for Peace Communications, which has a network of sources in the region—all confirmed to The Free Press that Owda has links to Hamas. One Gazan man who has met Owda said that “Employment at the municipality requires approval from the internal security, the local mosque’s emir, and Qassam Brigades intelligence,” referring to Al-Qassam Brigades, the militant wing of Hamas behind the group’s October 7 attack. Another Palestinian source in Gaza told The Free Press, “It’s impossible to get a job in the municipality unless you’re with Hamas.” (All sources in Gaza asked to withhold their names to protect them from possible retaliation by the terrorist group.)

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Previous Chapter

A03 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 9.4K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

Nines continued to dwell on the topic. Extensively and despite resistance.

Reed refused to return to his sphere of mental containment. He was no longer a concept—scattered, meandering preoccupations. Instead, he had become a single, disruptive entity. One that wandered through his mind without tolls or boundaries, as the android was forced to endure the torturous drag of every footfall.

It had been the previous night, when he retreated to his orchard in search of respite, that he saw him. A stain on his meticulously constructed sanctuary, grinning smugly as he emerged from the fruit trees:

“Hey, tin can—come here often?”

‘Protocol: Reed’ proved useless in combating the manifestation. With no tangible stimuli to which it could link, persistent annoyances slipped through, producing large, irreparable holes in its net of security. 

The programme would require extensive tuning, so much that Nines reluctantly conceded to retire it. At least until he could devise a more effective system. And so, the simulation stayed—its behaviour mimicking its real-life equivalent with such startling accuracy that it became difficult to discern from reality. 

A dissonance that was not helped as he input the address of a familiar residential district and began making his way towards it. Charging down the sidewalk, each step weighted by the load of pronounced irritation.

As he moved, he considered his options. A task that was easier said than done. While disruptions crashed like waves, ravaging his battered defences, solutions pooled shallowly on the shoreline. Already scorched, drying beneath a punishing sun.

All recent strategies for promoting compliance, such as increased social contact and rapport, now seemed redundant. Nines supposed that some might deem this karmic retribution, given his duplicitous intentions for fostering such a “bond.”

In any case, it left him with little option but to return to default configurations, limiting involvement with Reed to the bare essentials of work.

Regrettably, this did not spare him from contact outside business hours. There were developments in their case, with circumstances demanding they be discussed urgently, in preparation for Monday.

> COMMUNICATION LINK REQUESTED —> HOST RK900 #313 248 317 – 87; DET. G REED

> PERMISSION GRANTED.

> CONNECTION INITIALISING…

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

Detective Reed. I have made a breakthrough in the case. Please let me know when you have received this message so we can discuss further.

Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87 .

Seeing the man was active on his phone, he awaited acknowledgement—then pressed for attention when this did not come:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

I would like to meet in person to discuss this, should you be available. Let me know 

- Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87.

DET. G REED  >> RK900  #313 248 317 – 87

its my day off nines. cant it wait until monday?

also you don't need to sign your messages. i know who you are. jackass

Nines huffed, fleeting amusement piercing the fog of his disillusionment. The text exuded intense annoyance, despite its briefness, and he reasoned it was only fair he might draw some paltry enjoyment from the otherwise miserable situation. 

With an adjustment to his autonomous identification system, he constructed another message:

You will want to hear this. I assure you, I won't take up much of your time.

I am messaging you from my internal hub. I will try deactivating the signature, but I cannot guarantee success.

Reed noted the change immediately, making clear he didn’t appreciate the slight to his intelligence:

DET. G REED  >> RK900  #313 248 317 – 87

those last two messages didnt have signatures.

you know what you're doing. stop fucking with me.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

It would appear I have succeeded. How fortunate .

Nines, feeling pleased with himself, noted the visual evidence of Reed’s struggle to formulate a comeback. He studied the flashing dots at the end of their chat log, flickering perpetually in and out like a buffering search engine. 

This was before they vanished, with satisfaction persisting for as long as it took him to realise they would not be returning.

The status of his partner changed from 'Online' to the time elapsed since his last activity. He waited impatiently for it to switch back, to be provided with a reply. When this did not occur, the pace of his steps began to slow, until he had almost ground to a halt:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To reiterate, my visit will be brief.

I am approximately 7 minutes from your apartment. Please acknowledge.

Any joviality dispersed completely, as Nines firmly reminded himself of the reason for his urgency. 

The information he had gathered was pivotal to their case, but could amount to nothing, should their superior not be convinced. A feat that would be difficult, requiring persuasion, as supporting evidence was nowhere near as airtight as he'd hoped. 

Forensics had submitted their report from the Ravendale crime scene, revealing the same images of the MJ100 that had been uncovered on the forum. While still alarming, this now constituted a case of data breach. Extensive IT investment and funding would be required to track the poster, given the meticulous efforts made to cover their tracks. 

Without the definitive link to their killer—the crux of his argument—it was an effort that would prove difficult to justify. 

All of this had proven vexing enough, troubling the RK900 into the early hours of the morning, but was made significantly worse as he was forced to watch minutes stack on the idle chat log.

Lest Reed slip into the pretence that he wished to engage in superfluous communications, the RK asserted the importance of the situation. The renewed conviction, in turn, corrected his wavering pace, as he sternly marched on.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To answer your question, this cannot wait. It is of pivotal importance to the ongoing success of our investigation that we address this matter immediately. 

Updated ETA: 5 minutes. Be ready to let me in.

The apartment complex came into view ahead of schedule, Nines having found the caveat of being ignored uniquely motivational.

Upon charging up the stairwell with the same single-minded efficiency, he rounded the corner to his partner's fourth-storey home. Even if he’d been unaware of its location, there would have been no mistaking which of the doors belonged to Reed.

He glared at the shamelessly proactive ‘welcome’ mat beneath his feet before surveying the nearby wall for a bell. It did not work, as poorly maintained as seemingly all surrounding amenities. Instead, Nines defaulted to a manual approach, striking the wood with firm taps.

Whilst knocking, he sent another message, calling increased attention to his presence:

I am outside. Open the door. 

There was a brief lull in beats, awaiting a response that never came, before Nines started again. This process repeated for some time, with each ensuing correspondence becoming more insistent:

Detective Reed, this is highly unprofessional. 

Knock. 

The door, which felt worryingly flimsy under the weight of his hand, rattled with a sharp creak. 

I know you're inside, and I'm aware you can hear me. 

Knock. Knock.

The sound carried down the length of the corridor, reverberating against ageing plaster walls.

We will be having this discussion. You are making things needlessly difficult. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

There was still no response, and in exasperation, Nines lowered his arm. A sliver of doubt crept into his mind, burrowing through bad faith cynicism. 

Perhaps there was a chance that Reed hadn't heard him. 

It was a Sunday morning, after all, with the man boasting very little in the way of domestic duties. It was entirely plausible he’d gone back to bed, or intrepidly braved the elements to smoke.  

The latter inspired a clearer picture. Reed, dressed in a baggy night shirt and sweatpants, leant precariously over his balcony. A cigarette in hand, he mocked the persistence of his partner to a flock of nearby pigeons—

Cynicism returned, as Nines was shocked back to reality.

Incensed by his own speculations, he bent forward to steal a glimpse of the living room through the peephole. This proved seldom effective, as he was unable to discern anything but the distorted outline of furniture. 

Nines instead pressed an ear to the door, tuning for increased aural and metabolic sensitivity, searching for traces of life. Instead, a disruption was identified. Dull, continuous rushing—the flow of running water. 

He scowled. Choosing to bathe amid active correspondence proved callous enough; doing so without any form of acknowledgement omitted the most basic of courtesies. 

The android lingered, listening on, stewing in disdain. More productively, he was able to deconstruct the water’s pitch and frequency, determining the precise amount of force needed to reach his partner, without inadvertently destroying the door. 

He then straightened up, his fist raised toward the panel, and prepared to strike. Before he did so, however, a shift of motion caught his attention and he stalled.

As his head snapped around, he was faced with an elderly woman stepping onto the landing. She clutched a bag of groceries to her bony chest, with a larger carrier trolley pulled a few inches behind her.

She looked horrified, bewildered, with sunken eyes darting repeatedly between Nines and the door. He wondered how long she had been watching, despairing at the thought. A rush of humility and self-awareness bristled through him before he pulled away sharply from the apartment. 

With his arms tucked neatly behind his back, he attempted to save face, dissuading any presumptions of unsavoury intent by providing additional context:

“There is no cause for concern, madam—I know the man who occupies this lot. He is my partner.”

The woman continued to squint, her beady eyes lost in crinkled folds of her face. Then her thin lips parted, saggy jowls stretching wide before she released a hum of understanding. 

“Ohhhh, I see, I see...” She smiled, nodding her head before turning on her heel and hobbling away. As she moved, she muttered a series of disjointed pleasantries under her breath. 

“Such a nice man—so polite—I thought he was single, isn't that sweet—”

The words struck like a cold rush of water to the face. This was chased by a sharp surge of biofluid as Nines realised he had been woefully misunderstood. 

His mouth opened to correct her, but it was too late. The woman, surprisingly nimble for her age, had already rounded a nearby corner, the squeaking wheels of the trolley carrying along behind her. 

He stood alone, reeling from humiliation, considering the place he had secured himself in the building’s rumour mill. Then he shook his head, dislodging the trivial concern. There was no sense wasting energy on matters of personal pride—not when this power could be more productively invested in achieving his primary objective:

> ENTER DETECTIVE REED'S APARTMENT. 

The shower continued to rumble distantly, with no signs of stopping. He found it difficult to believe that Reed would prove so diligent in personal hygiene. It seemed more likely that he had become preoccupied with other, less sanitary, activities, or that he had already finished, neglecting to switch off the water. 

Nines had no desire to loiter indefinitely on the doorstep—subjecting himself to the scrutiny of prying neighbours—to find out.

With a direct route of access unavailable, he would have to secure an alternative. Ideally, one that allowed for some degree of discretion. 

Accessing local architectural archives, the android searched until he had uncovered the blueprints for Detective Reed's complex. Constructing a wireframe projection of the building, he then assessed for other access points. 

To his relief, there was a network of fire escapes mounted to the south side of the building. The structure served each home above ground level, connecting them safely to the streets below.

As his attention drifted up, he noted a blank-faced effigy emerging onto one of the balconies. A cigarette was clasped in their fingers, lifted to an absent mouth for a slow, indulgent drag. Ash was then flicked, scattered in the direction of a dispersing flock of birds…

He dismissed the simulation, prompting an update to his physical routing. Once finalised, Nines pivoted on his heel and proceeded to the new destination. 

Whilst moving, he affirmed the justification for this trajectory. In case it required explaining to his superior officer. He hadn’t intended any breach of personal boundaries or privacy. He had simply been acting in the interest of professional diligence, as well as consideration for his partner.

After all, he had failed to secure Reed’s attention following multiple attempts. It was entirely plausible that there was a more serious reason as to why.

A slip, perhaps, when leaving his inordinately long shower.

As Nines reached the back of the building, assessing the network of frames, it became clear that his polished simulation failed to account for some crucial aspects. Principally, the real-life structure was abysmally maintained.

Rusted bolts protruded at odd angles, with attached platforms damaged or missing in several places. The additional weight and pressure on ill-secured joints had caused the entire framework to bow disconcertingly.

It fell so woefully short of Michigan safety codes that it may as well have collapsed completely, left piled in the centre of the pavement. Indeed, he predicted this would be the fate of any misguided individual who attempted to use it. Additional strategy would be required to ensure a safe ascent. 

Nines focused his cognitive output onto pathfinding, assessing optimal routing for both stability and discretion. After several failed calculations, in which he was forced to witness a simulation of himself plummet pitifully to the ground, systems locked into a path that proved feasible. 

He began to climb the escape ladder, tactfully avoiding the loose rungs and evading the unsteady grates that risked collapsing under his weight. Utilising the leverage of a suspended bar, he swung across a narrow gap, only realising mid-momentum how close he had been to a nearby window. 

The android was operating on borrowed time. A concerned resident could contact law enforcement at any moment. The result of which would be an intensely awkward interaction with one of his colleagues.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was infuriated. Deeply resentful at having been forced to degrade himself in such a way. The sum of this frustration, of course, was targeted at the man who had made such measures necessary. 

Stepping onto the balcony, he noted that one of the windows had been left ajar. Just enough that he could confirm there were no further sounds of water—dwindling alibis, stripping Reed of a primary excuse for ignoring him. 

There was no trace of the man as he peered into his kitchen, although Nines was able to detect the metabolic rhythms of another, smaller creature. It was Tiffany, seated off to the side, growling as she stared accusingly into an empty food dish. Nines could feel his frustration fester in solidarity with the animal. All the more incentive to enter the apartment, feeding her himself, should his partner consider self-indulgent idleness a greater priority.

He tapped on the glass, firm and insistent, enough that the frame rattled from the impact. He maintained a close visual on the nearby door, anticipating that the human would be unhappy to see him whenever he decided to grace the RK with his presence. 

This posed no concern. Nines had exerted far too much effort, implicated himself in far too many potential misdemeanours, to back away now. Despite this, he resolved to maintain professionalism and restraint in the impending confrontation. 

The approach was clear: assertive, but brief. Cover the key points, establishing enough cohesion with Reed to ensure he wouldn’t actively impede their meeting with Fowler. Then, he would leave, having successfully limited extraneous contact, in line with their shared interests.

His partner still refused to show himself, having transformed what should have been a straightforward task into an arduous feat of self-discipline. 

It was a fight that Nines risked losing, as his clenched fist came dangerously close to compromising him. ‘Accidentally’ striking the pane with too much force, shattering fragile glass and permitting him passage into the home…

Then, at long last, there was movement and the structural integrity of the window was preserved.

As Reed came bumbling through the doorway, it was clear he was unwell. He sported a bedraggled appearance, strikingly similar to the one he had on the first day of their partnership. It was a sickly kaleidoscope of discolouration—sallow flesh paired with purple rings beneath swollen, bloodshot eyes. 

No doubt, a consequence of overindulgence the night before. The plans Nines had become privy to when catching the man in a slanderous digital rant to Officer Chen.

While enjoyment was undoubtedly drawn from the tragic presentation, it was not the only aspect of his appearance that proved…compelling. An injustice which struck Nines like a blow. By far, the most violent and unyielding that had been levied against his wounded pride.

Prior assessments of the man's physiology proved woefully correct. Reed was in remarkable condition, given his unsavoury lifestyle.

While there had been hints of a well-formed physique beneath the wrinkled folds of clothes, it was indisputable in his current undress. Only his lower half was covered, tucked beneath the fold of a bath towel, with his upper body bare. Comprising well-defined muscles, his chest was lightly dusted with hair, interspersed with scattered scars.

He clutched the side of his temple, head bowed, muttering inaudibly. As the cat across the room yowled in growing impatience, his grumbling grew more incensed. He recoiled, wincing, his torso jutting forward as he did so. 

The overhead light caught on the moist droplets clinging to his skin. His towel shifted, its tie loosening slightly, revealing the top of a sharp V-line that traced the contours of his abdomen.

Nines’ HUD flashed in warning, alerting to a sudden arrhythmia in his pump regulator. His scowl deepened, and his gaze, which had wandered traitorously, was snapped back into proper alignment.

Reed staggered further into the kitchen. Presumably, to serve the pet her belated meal. The effort soon proved too strenuous, however, as he stalled mid-step, visibly dazed and teetering precariously. It took some time to steady himself. Once he had, he redirected swiftly, shifting his course to the overhead cabinets by his sink. 

He swung the first open and proceeded to rifle through its contents. Although visibility was limited, Nines caught glimpses of precariously piled dishes that shook with each ill-coordinated reach. 

It was unclear what the man was looking for, but whatever it was, it was considered to hold great importance. The man grew increasingly frantic the longer he searched, not helped by the fact that he, too, was operating with restricted vision. 

The top of the shelves sat just above his eyeline, to which Nines suppressed a chuckle. He did not wish to compromise his position, at least not yet, whilst flailing arms remained entangled in fragile porcelain. Any damage would be a consequence of Reed's own carelessness, for which the android refused to accept any responsibility. 

He instead waited for a more suitable moment to catch his attention, ensuring he would not be startled. At last, Reed stepped back, his annoyance plateauing before it plummeted into dejected surrender.

Nines seized his opportunity and knocked again. Not as firmly as he had before, just enough to ensure his target became aware of his presence. 

It became clear that he had miscalculated the timing of this address, or the human’s tolerance to sudden noise. His lowered head jerked to attention as Reed looked at him, utterly terrified.

His already puffy eyes bulged to comedic proportions as a sharp curse tumbled from his lips. He stumbled back, a jumbled mess of flailing limbs, before reaching instinctively to his side—no doubt a reflex borne from years on the force.

As his clenched hand gripped at nothing, he was thrown further off balance. The man swayed, directionless, only halting when he clipped the side of a nearby table.

The corner stabbed at exposed skin, and he arched away, hissing like an irate cat. His actual feline sat to one side, having witnessed all this take place but barely reacting. Instead, she pawed at her bowl, the lingering dregs of her patience rapidly dwindling.

Recovering from the fallout of his shock, Reed’s head swung trepidatiously back to the window. Recognition began to settle on his face, loosening the tense lines of panic. 

They returned soon after, with a vengeance, the centre of his brow pinched into a large, unsightly knot. Flames of accusation roared, crackling behind his narrowing gaze, as Reed glared . His attention darted between the android's face and hand, as though daring him to knock again. 

Nines rose to the challenge without hesitation. Following another brisk tap, he used his available hand to gesture towards the balcony door. A request that his partner received but coldly rejected. 

The two were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to yield. Of course, Nines held a substantial advantage, capable of waiting for much longer than his organic counterpart. 

Something that also seemed to be dawning on the human, as cracks began to splinter through his obstinate resolve. One of his eyelids twitched, and his head pulled stiffly to the side, as though he were attempting to remove the RK900 from existence through the power of mental persuasion. 

When the effort was unsuccessful, he grunted bitterly and proceeded towards the door with heavy, reluctant steps. His towel remained pinned to his waist as the android mused on how well it had held through all the commotion.

He had not stepped an inch onto the foot mat when the entrance swung open. It narrowly missed a full-on collision to his face, as the android sidled to avoid it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

The demanding bark omitted any greeting. It was hurled into his face with violent propulsion, chased by a potent waft of alcohol. 

Nines ignored the smell but could not overlook the opportunity to levy a jab at the man. The consequences of his late-night escapades were all the more apparent now he was standing up close. 

"Good afternoon, Detective,” Nines said calmly, inspecting him with an equally manufactured diplomacy. “You're looking well.”

Reed saw through this instantly. He squared his shoulders, appearing to make another attempt at willing him out of existence.

"No, seriously. What are you doing? Because if this is about work, I swear to god, I'm pushing you off the balcony. I already said no, I don't want to—"   

"I never received a 'no,'" the RK interrupted coolly. “You asked if it could wait until Monday. I concluded that it could not and informed you as such. Did you not receive my message?" 

"I stopped reading your messages, dipshit. They were pissing me off.” The retort was delivered with a matter-of-fact finality. As though it differed in any way from the vast sum of their interactions. “Why didn't you knock on my door? Instead of scaling the fire escape like a goddamn lunatic?" 

"I tried the door, but you were not answering." 

"I was in the fucking shower. You could have waited a minute." 

"I waited several minutes."

The vein that pulsed on Reed's temple looked ready to burst. He shifted his stance, feet braced in a stubborn blockade between himself and the apartment.

It seemed increasingly unlikely that Nines would be granted entrance. At least, not without moving the man by force. Instead, he appealed to his better judgment, attempting to incite reason. “Nevertheless, I am here now, so you may as well let me in."

"Are you—" The sentence broke, devolving into a series of indignant splutters. Following his impromptu impersonation of a malfunctioning motor, Reed started again.

"Okay, another ‘Human Tip’, jackass.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. “You can't just show up at somebody's house without permission. For all you know, I might have been busy, like, I dunno, cranking one out. You really want to walk in on that?"

Nines tilted his head, taking a moment to process the strange colloquialism. A cross-check of his internal database revealed a plethora of detailed sources. All of which he would have much rather avoided.

Having already considered this prospect as a reason for the man's tardiness, he informed him as such in a curt rebuttal. “I am perfectly aware of human fondness for self-stimulation. Truthfully, there are less appealing things I can think of seeing." 

Reed baulked, his disgruntled scowl dropping immediately. The pace of his breaths quickened, core body temperature elevating in tow. He seemed suddenly, inexplicably conscious of his undress, where it hadn't bothered him previously. 

His stance was adjusted, his arms crossed tightly over his torso, as though he were attempting to recover some modesty. Paradoxically, there was a dilation of his pupils, indicative of unspoken interest, before his gaze was averted. 

It was only then, with all these elements falling into place, that Nines realised what he had done. 

He cursed his social routing for leading him so wildly astray, propelling him into the second major miscommunication of the day. 

This one proved more troublesome, as he would be forced to endure the fallout. Attempt to recover some degree of professionalism following the inadvertent flirtation. A tactic for behavioural management that had been firmly abandoned, given recent—

"I'll let you in.” A voice interrupted, injecting itself into his spiralling thoughts. It was dry, forcibly stilted, attempting to mask the subtle waver that persisted throughout. 

A stipulation was then added, as though to dispel any speculations that the invitation was cordial. "...but only because I don't want my neighbours to think I'm being robbed." 

One of his arms fell limply from his chest as Reed flung it behind him, ushering Nines inside. He failed to respond, staring at the limb, paralysed by bewilderment. 

Then came a creeping realisation. One that perhaps indicated his interpersonal routing had not been so fatally flawed. Clearly, some dormant part of himself had anticipated this outcome, quietly electing to retain specific processes deemed defunct. A subtle rebalancing of control, adjusting the scale tipped heavily in his partner’s favour.

As the RK900 was led inside, Reed stared fixedly ahead, with such steadfast ferocity that he could have punctured a hole in the nearby wall. Tiffany, noting her owner's return, responded fast. Bouncing to her feet, claws clicking against the tiles, as she intercepted him halfway across the room. 

Her wiry tail, already moving in restless swings, was swept like a duster across the side of his exposed ankles. Reed jolted back, his attention torn from its deadlock with the plaster as he sidestepped the furry hazard. 

He mumbled a half-hearted apology before directing a similarly unenthused acknowledgement towards his partner. As though tacitly barring the RK from advancing further, he gestured vaguely toward his displaced dining table. 

Nines obliged without comment—if only to ensure Tiffany would receive her ‘breakfast’ before sundown. After adjusting the furniture's positioning, he sat in one of the cheap, fold-out chairs and waited. 

Under his silent observance, Reed reached into his pet supply cupboard and pulled out a wet food packet. The wrapping was partially opened, a tear teasing at the edge, before the motion was aborted. 

Reed dropped the sachet, heaving uncontrollably. Clearly, some combination of the smell and texture had deeply offended his current delicate sensibilities.

 It was almost comedic, just how disproportionate the aversion proved. He doubled over, slumping pitifully in the RK's direction, stomach clutched in pained grips. Nines quietly estimated the space between them, determining whether or not he was at risk from any digestive fallout. 

“Are you alright, Detective?” He prepared to sidle his chair to a safer distance, should his calculations prove unfavourable.

“Fuck off,” came a clipped reply. 

Reed stumbled back, and for a moment it seemed as though he might topple over. Pushing past his aversion, Nines prepared to step in. There would have been little point in troubling himself with the visit should the man decide to collapse on the floor, rendering himself unconscious.

“I would be happy to offer my assistance,” he offered, in a slight embellishment of keenness.

As though out of spite, Reed shook off his bout of squeamishness. Standing tall, he fixed Nines with a glare of obstinate defiance. 

“I said ‘fuck off’. ” 

He made a concerted effort to appear unfazed as he resumed his duties. This involved several instances in which he covered his mouth and nose, or anchored his body away to conceal more aggressive signs of repulsion. A long, steeling breath was drawn before the off-kilter man braved a final, perilous descent toward the kitchen tiles, setting down the freshly-stocked dish.

Not fast enough, it seemed, as Tiffany had already lost interest. 

Having abandoned her station by his feet, she skulked around the kitchen in fractious circles. Amber eyes were alight with consideration as she sniffed the floor, searching for any morsels of food that her owner might have callously dropped. It was during this sweep that she noticed the legs protruding beneath the nearby table. 

She pulled away, startled, her ears pinned back trepidatiously. Studying the stranger, he watched the continuous bounce of his knee as he waited impatiently for Reed to compose himself.

A low grumble started to build, rattling in her throat, pulling the android free from his agitated trance. He looked down, to which vibrant eyes locked firmly with his own. 

They stared at each other silently until Nines recalled the warnings he had received on her penchant for territorial hostility. He stilled at once, tension drained from his posture, as he slowed the pace of his blinks and subtly diverted his gaze. The aim was to project as much passive openness as he could, hoping Tiffany would judge him harmless and resume her patrol.

She did not. Instead, the cantankerous feline proved unexpectedly receptive, abandoning aggression and meeting his gesture with placid curiosity. She strolled up to the android, planting herself at the base of his chair before admiring her reflection in the tips of his polished shoes. 

Attention then turned to his ankle, her nose bumped lightly against the pant leg. She stalled, then repeated the motion. This time, incorporating the arch of her neck, adding weight and pressure. 

She was testing for life; tangible feedback to demonstrate her touch was felt. Nines was not surprised that she was unfamiliar with the logistics of androids. He doubted Reed had invited many into his home previously. He helped to mitigate confusion, allowing a slight shift of his heel, just enough for his leg to brush against inky fur. 

It was all the affirmation the cat required, as she settled into a reclined position before curling peacefully into a ball. In turn, the relaxed rise and fall of her breath, visible through her protruding gut, gave Nines the assurance needed to extend appreciation for the trust. 

His hands, clasped primly in his lap, slowly began to unfurl. Fingers outstretched, flexed gently before sinking beneath the chair.  His reach was angled in such a way that Tiffany could anticipate it. Sinking lower until he had ghosted the top of her skull—

" Don't ." Reed, having become aware of what his partner was doing, was quick to interject. “I've already told you, Nines. If you touch her, she'll—”

The warning came too late. Contact was made, with any ongoing protest shrivelling on his tongue. 

Nines began massaging her fur, discovering that the texture matched its lustrous appearance. He worked the delicate bones beneath with expertly applied precision, and soon found the sensitive junction behind her ear. 

Tiffany purred appreciatively, and if Reed were an android, his slackened jaw may have dislodged completely, clattering to the floor beneath him. His bulging eyes would have likely followed, popping from his skull and rolling out of sight beneath the fridge. As it stood, they remained nestled in their sockets, watching on dumbly. 

"It would appear your cat likes me, Detective Reed.” 

Nines had been unable to suppress the pride that carried through this announcement. It rushed his partner, proving enough to snap him back to reality. His mouth clamped shut, curling into a tight, bitter snarl. A low noise rumbled the seal, sounding distinctly like a growl. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he set the still-hovering food bowl harshly to the ground. 

The clattering metal disturbed the peace of his pet. Her head whipped around, slipping loose from the hold that was caressing it. Bounding onto snowy paws, she abruptly trotted away, leaving Nines’ arm suspended in the space she had occupied. 

Reed, delighted that his exercise in petty insecurity had worked, grinned at the android. This was before he shook his head, tutting in ‘commiseration.’

 “That’s cats for you. Fickle bastards.” 

The mockery backfired, justly punished, as the rocking motion appeared to trigger a new wave of dizziness. His body, which had only recently peeled from the nearby counter, collapsed back into it, left draped on the granite like a sickly ragdoll. 

Nines, in his own act of spitefulness, responded with false sympathies to the self-inflicted suffering, "You appear to be in physical distress, Detective. Are you in pain?"

"I'm hungover , dipshit,” the human snarled back, as though the android were incapable of ascertaining this for himself. 

He groaned and writhed, his head turned towards the sink, as it occurred to Nines that this spectacle of self-remorse might endure for an indeterminate period, unless steps were taken to prevent it.

In search of a solution for the man’s distress, Nines remembered the animalistic scavenging observed through the window. It was plausible that Reed had been searching for something to alleviate his discomfort before abandoning the attempt. 

Recalling the footage from his memory archives, he began sifting through it, dissecting each frame. Amongst the precariously stacked plates, Nines noted an unusual number of mugs. It seemed excessive, almost absurd, for a single person to own. 

Some had been used more than others, as evident in chipping and stains, with two of them showing the most wear. The first was adorned with a bizarre statement decrying law enforcement, whilst the second could only be described as a hideous misuse of artistic expression. 

A hand-painted atrocity, adorned with a series of bright, uneven smiley faces. It seemed unusual that Reed would show a preference for it, until Nines studied the near illegible message crammed into the centre:

> NO.1 CAT MOM

The handwriting was familiar. A lopsided scrawl he had seen pasted to his partner's monitor numerous times, in the form of post-it notes:

> SAMPLE MATCH... CONFIRMED.

> OFFICER TINA CHEN. 

As the name displayed confirmed his theory, Nines was struck with a reluctant sense of…charm. It was endearing that his partner showed such sentimental fondness for the gift, despite its questionable execution. 

He tried not to dwell on this long. Instead, moving on to the next still. As his focus shifted further into the cabinet, he noted an obstruction wedged between two stacks of plates. It was a small screw-top bottle, its label faded from wear, but the contents clearly visible:

> ACETYLSALICYLIC ACID (ASPIRIN)

> DRUG CLASSIFICATION: ANTI-INFLAMMATORY

> DOSAGE: 300MG SLOW-RELEASE CAPSULES — UP TO 2.4G PER DAY 

WARNING: DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED DOSE, FOLLOW MANUFACTURER'S INSTRUCTIONS.

By the time Nines had dismissed the memory log, Reed was scarcely upright. His shoulders trembled, quivering arms propped on the side as they struggled to support his weight. 

Undoubtedly, there wasn’t much time before the man would be forced to retire to bed, to which the android directed smoothly to the cupboard above his head. "Painkillers are on the top shelf—behind the mugs."

This sparked an immediate response. In another miracle recovery, fueled purely by shock and misguided pride, Reed snapped to attention: Bolt upright, sights darting sceptically between the android and the cabinet.

"...So what, you got X-ray vision or something?”

“Not as such, merely an observation." 

His partner was unable to comprehend this. He squinted at the sealed door, lips parted and ready to protest, before he was halted by the mounting pain rattling his skull. His expression contorted, cortisol spiking, as he abandoned his desired elaboration in favour of more urgent needs. 

He opened the cupboard with a clumsy jerk and searched its contents a second time. He seemed muddled, almost maddened, when he remained unable to locate the painkillers—as if he’d expected the bottle to bound from its hiding place and slide obediently into his grip. 

Nines felt his lip twitch as he considered putting the man out of his misery. Not with any permanence, but rather, reaching over to secure the item that sat tantalisingly out of reach. He could only imagine the reaction this may inspire, the almighty knee-jerk of wounded masculinity. 

Eventually, fingertips brushed the lid of the painkillers. Stormy eyes brightened with recognition as Reed pressed down, applying pressure to the seal. It was just enough to flick the bottle forward, dislodged from the hold of the plates.

With the item held securely in his palm, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was before the sound lodged in his throat and his attention snapped back to Nines. Scepticism returned to his gaze. This time, edged with a more biting accusation. 

" How did you know this was here?" 

"I noticed them earlier when you were searching your cabinet…” the RK900 began plainly, unable to resist the additional, “I'm surprised you didn't” that slipped from his curled lips.

"Oh, what, when you were creeping through my window? Didn't think 'Peeping Tom' was one of your features."  

The smirk had slipped from Nines’ before it finished forming. While it was true that there had been an element of passive appreciation that had developed when watching the man, it hardly seemed fair to insinuate that any planning was involved. 

He dismissed the notion accordingly, in a brisk defence of his honour.  "Please do not flatter yourself—I would have liked to have made my presence known sooner, but I was seeking to determine an opportune time. I did not wish to frighten you.”

Reed was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had started to busy himself at the nearby sink, a callous snub of his presence. Even without the weight of his glare, tension persisted, held in the clench of his jaw before it was released:

“Well that was a bust, because you scared the shit out of me." 

The mocking, sing-song cadence delivered a final, striking blow, toppling Nines from his pedestal of superiority. Any lingering confidence in his own professionalism promptly crumbled to dust. He had miscalculated—fumbled—at almost every juncture that day. Having floundered gracelessly through the threshold of Reed's apartment, rather than entering with precisioned steps. Two pills were deposited into his palm, and the detective neatly swallowed them. The bicarbonate coating dissolved, allowing bitter powder to fizz on his tongue. He then chased away the taste with a large gulp of water.

With his face flung back, out of view, Nines found that his mind subconsciously filled in the blanks. Summoning echoes from recent data banks, as gentles trickle of water were exchanged for beads of perspiration. Satisfied sighs became gasps of terror, then pain, as Reed retreated, colliding with the edge of the table.

He pondered what the human might have experienced in that instant. The outcome he had foreseen, reaching for his waist, in a reflexive grab for his missing firearm. He had already concluded the intruder posed a lethal threat to his life, based on a single, fleeting glance—

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Shame and self-contempt surged, straining the walls of his skull. He pushed it back, along with all manner of unwanted memories. The agonised howls of cries, screams, rattling like a gale through the rafters of his subconscious. 

He couldn't face them. Not now. Instead, he adjusted his perspective, acknowledging his failures in accepting responsibility for a far less egregious offence. 

“...I apologise.” 

Reed’s head snapped back, recoiling so forcefully that his neck appeared elasticated. Stray droplets dribbled from the overgrown stubble on his chin as he stared at the android blankly. 

Slowly, gears of cognition began to shift behind his stare. A process that was becoming all too familiar, as eyes narrowed into dubious slits, and the sincerity of the remorse was brought into question with a callous tsk. "Sorry to tell you this, Nines, but the 'kicked puppy' look really doesn't work for you—give it a rest; you look constipated.”

The RK900 bristled, but had no chance to defend itself. Reed finished his drink, slamming down the empty glass with a disconcerting clink. 

"Look, as disappointing as this might be for you, towel time is over,” he announced bluntly. Rubbing his palms together, he hunched to protect himself from the cool draft seeping from the nearby doorway. “I'm freezing my balls off; gonna get dressed…While I'm gone, don't touch anything . That includes my cat. You got that?" 

Nines wavered, a bit disheartened by the final stipulation. He agreed nonetheless, nodding stiffly, valuing the proposed physical distance, as it might help him organise his chaotic thoughts into a more rational structure.

As it transpired, he had time to spare. 

The human showed no signs of rushing himself, as Nines was left to sit in the kitchen for an inordinate amount of time. Provided with no direction except to stare at the filthy appliances he had been forbidden from disturbing. The logical assumption in the delay was that the human, too, was appreciating their distance. Although it seemed counterintuitive, to provide the android with prolonged, unsupervised access to a space where he wasn’t trusted. 

Seeking an escape from mind-numbing tedium, as well as ensuring any lingering tension was dispelled quickly upon Reed’s return, Nines sought to connect to an inactive temporal link, dispatching a new transmission:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> RK800 #313 248 317 - 51

I have made a small error in my interpersonal judgment. Your input on how to resolve this matter would be appreciated.

…Of course, no actual input was needed. Nines already knew, with the utmost confidence, what RK800 would say to him. 

He would ‘enlighten’ his counterpart on conclusions he had already drawn. A significant line had been crossed during his forceful invasion of the detective’s home. 

There would be a touch of hypocrisy in the rebuke, which Nines would consider exploiting, reminding his counterpart that he had engaged in a far clearer instance of breaking and entering, targeting Lieutenant Anderson. Nonetheless, he would concede, acknowledging that he was the last individual to pass judgment on matters pre-deviancy...

Time passed slowly as Nines grew disinterested in the fictional dialogue. RK800 hadn’t responded, a rare event, prompting the younger android to conclude he was exceptionally busy or locked in stasis. In either case, any response he could expect would arrive long after the point of relevance. 

In the absence of external support, he began to evaluate his options. 

At this point, his best chance to reduce tension might involve expressing delayed gratitude for Reed’s hospitality. However, his choices would be significantly restricted if he continued to follow the man’s restrictive instructions.

> STAY PUT.

> EXTEND GESTURE OF GRATITUDE TOWARDS DETECTIVE REED.

> ERROR : CONFLICTING INSTRUCTIONS. 

As he scoped his surroundings with renewed intention, Nines found his attention caught on a well-used coffee machine. Specifically, a glass jug, blotched with stains, resting on its base. Its contents were emptied, save for a viscous brown sludge caked to the bottom, betraying just how long it had been sitting.

Inspiration struck, encouraging the android to rise from his chair. Defiance was secured as his systems honed in on their new priority. 

> MAKE DETECTIVE REED COFFEE. 

The dirtied pot was removed and cleaned, with what sparse dish soap was left beside the overfilled sink. Setting it back into position, focus was directed to the cluttered storage above his head. 

The first product Nines encountered was an economy-grade filter blend. Upon checking the brand with online retailers, the reviews were notably poor. He was taken aback that Reed would tolerate such subpar quality, even with his financial strains, given his frequent and vocal complaints about the coffee served at their workplace.

It seemed unlikely that such a mediocre product could serve as a proper peace offering. Frowning, Nines continued to rummage through the disorganised shelves, eventually discovering something more promising, hidden beneath a pile of crumpled noodle packets:

> BRAND: BLACK HOLLOW RESERVE  

> PRODUCT: PREMIUM DARK ROAST BLEND  

> RETAIL PRICE: USD 18.99 / 12 OZ  

> CONSUMER FEEDBACK SUMMARY: POSITIVE  

> RATING AVERAGE: 4.8 / 5.0 (SOURCE: 3,842 REVIEWS)  

The packaging was new, unused, with residual glue on one corner where a price tag had been removed. It stood out against the low-budget offerings in the cupboard, leading Nines to deduce it had been a gift. After measuring the grounds into the filter basket, he activated the machine. It whirred to life, hot water cycling in slow, rhythmic pulses. Drips of ember liquid began to gather in the jug, growing steadily in volume. Satisfied, the android turned away, heading off to retrieve a mug from Reed’s plentiful stock.

The selected mug was set aside, its entourage of asymmetrical grins beaming approvingly at the coffee. The RK shared in the appreciation as warm wisps of steam began to fill the air around him, meeting his olfactory sensors with a pleasant, smoky scent.

It drifted beyond the confines of the room into the neighbouring living space. As though drawn to the aroma by some imperceptible, magnetic pull, Reed finally emerged from hiding. With a steady creak of the door and the hurried thud of footsteps, the man crossed the tiny apartment, arriving back in the kitchen just in time. The brew had finished, and Nines had started to prepare his drink.

"...What part of 'don't touch anything' did you not understand?" The question was caught between a hiss and a sigh, pushed through gritted teeth. It was the sort of response comparable to a parent uncovering their child’s botched attempt at breakfast.

Nines ignored this, having already traversed past the point of no return, and reasoning that there was little else that could make his partner more upset. "I realise that my intrusion today was somewhat callous…” He held up the beverage, extended towards Reed in a cordial offering. The man’s spite was redirected to the cheerfully decorated mug, as though the blotched faces had betrayed him personally. 

“Given your fondness for caffeinated drinks, I thought making one might show appreciation. For the fact that you didn't turn me away." 

The words had barely escaped his lips before Reed began to pick them apart. 

"Last week, you would have fed me to lions if it got you a lead—and now you're making me coffee.” He seemed to take pride in the unwavering cynicism. Eyebrow raised, arms folded over the faded graphics of his t-shirt. “Either you’re Antisocial Asshole protocol is on the blink, or Connor’s been giving you more kiss-ass lessons." 

The android stiffened, his grip on the handle tightening, threatening to shatter the fragile ceramic. His attention darted back to his internal communication network—and the message that remained unanswered. Of course, the detective could not know , nor have any concrete evidence, that he had sought guidance from his predecessor. He was simply taunting him, based on a spiteful, albeit accurate, assumption. 

In response, the android offered a half-truth. Not denying the hypothesis, but withholding the satisfaction that could be drawn from confirming it outright, "...While I was given enhanced abilities in deduction and combat, RK800 has a more sophisticated social protocol. I’ve made it clear to him that I'm not interested in significantly altering my behaviour. Nevertheless, in the past, he has provided guidance on how I may improve my working relationships." 

Reed scoffed, unsatisfied with the response. He appeared keen to press for details, but as his flared nostrils caught the pleasing earthiness emanating from the mug, he stalled. 

He tilted his head, registering the difference from his usual blend—a curiosity which rolled organically into temptation. Ultimately, he gave in to primal urges and reached out to seize the drink.

Acknowledging the gesture of goodwill and stepping back from their argument, he did so with the stipulation that he would have the last word:

"Provided this coffee doesn't taste like shit, you can tell him it's working."

Their ensuing conversation was moved to the table. Reed sat opposite him, elbows propped casually on the table, the lax weight of his head supported by an open palm. He gestured loosely with his free hand, demanding the android proceed with his findings before he changed his mind. 

"Okay, tin can, you've kept me in suspense long enough—so, what is this massive breakthrough that couldn't wait until tomorrow morning?" 

A snide retort gnawed at Nines’ lips, informing his partner that he would have relayed this ‘breakthrough’ significantly faster, had he not taken so long dressing. He bit his tongue, instead pulling a stack of neatly folded papers from his jacket pocket. They contained an overview of screenshots from ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’ forum—prepared in a physical format, for ease of review by his partner.

“Do you recall when I scanned Mr Scott's phone? Back at the electronics store?" He set the sheets on the table, smoothing them out courteously.

"I remember you caught him watching porn.” 

His fingers stilled as the android cast a withering look at his partner. Of course, this would be the ‘pivotal intelligence’ Reed retained from their visit.

"I wouldn't have said the material constituted pornography. It appeared to be a compilation of women in bikinis.” Refusing to entertain further semantics, he firmly tapped the sheets, ensuring the discussion did not veer off course. “This was not the only thing I discovered…my scan revealed Mr Scott had been engaging in several suspicious or troubling online activities. After further research, I have collated the following examples."  Reed perked up from his semi-reclined position. Curiosity piqued, he reached across the table, retrieving the first of the papers. As he scanned the contents, a perplexed knot formed in his brow, and the intrigued spark in his eyes started to fizzle away, returning to dull indifference. 

"...Look…I'm not saying this shit is nice, but it isn't that bad, really.” He abandoned the printout in favour of blowing on the rim of the cup. Cutting through the steam with restless puffs, eager to take a sip of the beverage. “Besides, I don’t really see what it's got to do with the case."  Nines, ascertaining there was little he could communicate that would be achieved more effectively than a visual representation, solemnly directed back to the evidence. 

"Turn the page."  There was something in his tone that enraptured his partner. Perhaps it was the graveness, the stern urgency that spoke to all manner of grim truths, that made Reed understand just how serious this was. 

There was no more fidgeting or snide comebacks, as suddenly, he had the man's undivided attention. The coffee was abandoned in favour of studying the android and his disconcertingly blank expression.

Sightlessly, Reed turned the page, only looking away as his head lowered to inspect it. 

It was as though he had been petrified. Locking sights with a creature of ancient European folklore. He was bright, alert, but devoid of any joy or pleasure. There was nothing but grave dissonance, as though his mind were struggling to process the vicious brutality on display, whilst simultaneously understanding that the victims he was examining were not human .

Despite this, Nines saw something —a glimpse —beyond detached intrigue. A genuine condolence, sadness, as he stared at their mangled bodies. Lifeless faces, blotched with tears. As though he could… see . 

See them. Their pain, fear. Unable to wave it away or coldly deny it. 

The revelation passed as soon as it emerged. He looked away, swallowing thickly before stabbing his finger against a specific item of interest. "This one is ours—the MJ100.” 

"They're all ours, Detective."

Nines allowed Reed a moment to process the gravity of this. Watching as he shuddered, sucking air sharply through his teeth, before nodding in numb understanding, prompting the android to continue.

"The HR400 is featured too, as well as all other crimes that could be linked with our investigation.” 

He looked down at the page, not that he needed to. The images were already burned permanently into his processor—an unsightly fissure, carved seamlessly into existing formations. 

“This is more than just an innocuous hate forum—it is an organised group, operating outside of Detroit. Most, if not all, of these pictures depict locally based crimes. There are also discussions alluding to local meet-ups and events." 

With reluctance, Reed followed his gaze. Scanning the evidence repeatedly before shaking his head in surrender. "I don't see anything like that…"

“It seems posts are routinely deleted. No doubt for security reasons. Some crucial details remain, however. Look closer—"

Under the RK900’s direction, their focus was pulled to a discussion thread. The one that had most avidly captured his attention, upon initially discovering the forum:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth.

It didn't take long for Reed to understand. As he did, his jaw hardened in scarcely repressed fury.

>> What did they want?

“Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J…” 

He muttered the sequence under his breath a number of times. Labouring on each letter, curling them against his tongue as though reciting a ritualistic chant. He was exhausting a mental checklist of possible interpretations.

Nines, having already decrypted the sequence before arriving, spared him the effort. "Meet at CLHQ. SL C—It is a code within a code. Arrangements to meet in person." 

" Son of a bitch ” The detective gripped the sides of the page, pressing them together until the paper had been reduced to a crumpled wad. "Were you able to find any private chat logs? Or trace where these messages came from?" 

"Unfortunately, no. The forum operates on an anonymous basis. Private chats are unavailable, and while usernames can be edited, most appear procedurally generated. 

Whoever this individual is, they have been careful to cover their tracks. I was unable to pinpoint their location." 

"That fucker Mikey has a lot to answer for. I say we head back there and beat it out of him." 

Nines hummed, indulging in the cathartic mental projections this inspired. This was before logic won out, and he offered a more practical suggestion. 

"Tempting as that may be, I suggest we discuss matters with Captain Fowler first. Mr Scott is hiding something, and I believe a private interrogation may prove invaluable." 

"Gotta admit Nines, you didn't disappoint. This is a solid lead.”

The RK felt a small swell of pride at this. It was the most receptive his partner had proven in their investigation thus far. All the more astonishing, given his compromised state. 

He grew optimistic that this might allow for an ongoing dialogue. While he had discerned the purpose of communication between Scott and his affiliate, specifics remained undiscussed. Namely, the location represented by ‘CLHQ. SL C’ and how uncovering it might be supported by their existing findings. 

The android had a theory, one that he hoped to run by his partner—

He never got a chance, however, as the human abruptly tensed. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach with a prolonged whine. 

It seemed the painkillers were not reacting well to the already rampant volatility in his gut. The force of his moans appeared to dislodge remnants of his poor decisions, propelled unceremoniously up the length of his oesophagus. He attempted to swallow it back, to push through the nausea, but to little avail. His words became laboured and clipped, sentences failing to form.

“Nice—uh—”

His eyes filled with glum resignation. Acceptance of the inevitable, as he hurriedly lurched to his feet, chair screeching in shared urgency. 

"—I'm gonna hurl." 

With the climax to the man's nausea drawing increasingly near—and a renewed, more immediate risk that Nines might bear witness to the consequences, he stood as well.

Further discussion would have to wait. During the interim, he would deliberate on the best approach to their meeting with Captain Fowler and forward it in a brief for Reed's consideration. One that he hoped the man would review after he had expelled the contents of his stomach.

"I'll see myself out.” He smoothed the creases in his jacket, preparing to leave the home in a decidedly more dignified manner than he had entered it. “Thank you for your time, Detective—I trust you will be well enough to join me tomorrow." He received no response, as in a blur of movement, Reed was gone. Charging towards his bathroom, all but slinging himself across the couch that dared impede his passage. Having reached his destination, miraculously uninjured, he slammed the door behind him.  

[feralghostteeningotham]

For those of you waiting for Apomimnískoma: having learnt of oneself, I promise I've been working on the next fic. I have a cute snippet to hold you over with some world-building lore. We will get to see Jason enjoy his first Truce with Danny.

Finally, trumpets blared, and the excited chatter tampered off as what could only be described as an eyeball blob ghost in robes appeared on a balcony overlooking the gardens. “Presenting, the High King of the Infinite Realms, Ancient of Space, Eternal Now, King of Stars, the Door Between Realms, the Northern Star of the Dead, and the True Protector. His Royal Majesty, High King Daniel Phantom of the Infinite Realms, accompanied by Sir Jason Phoenix, the King of Iolcos Reborn.”

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Phantom and Jason appeared on the balcony. Batman noted that his son looked mildly uncomfortable being before so many beings, but Phantom raised his hand to kiss his knuckles which easily knocked the discomfort away as Jason focused on Phantom. There were even more cheers as Jason’s frozen skin seemed to take on a green blush. Phantom smiled before turning to the crowd and raising a hand, silence falling through the crowd like a wave.

“Greetings and welcome all!” Phantom announced, voice full of command and authority but still underlined with kindness and care. “We gather here today to celebrate another year come and passed on this night of Truce. I am sure many of you would rather enjoy the party rather than listen to me speak, but lend your attention while we take a moment to look back on the past and then turn our gaze towards the future. Let us, for a moment, remember the past. Long before the Realms designated the first of many High Kings, when the Infinite Realms were still lost to tyranny and disorder. Of the war and blood shed that led to Christophanes and Mas to toss aside their reigning kings' orders of endless violence and shattering in order to save their homes and communities. How, when rulers of their regions poured every effort into tearing the two communities apart, the two leaders of their shared-haunts stood side by side and withstood the onslaught. How they gained allies in withstanding the two kings. And upon this night, almost one hundred orbits around the Core of the Realms, Christophanes and Mas sat with the kings to reach a Truce, bringing about the end to the endless shattering of their people.

“This is a story most of us have heard many times but it reminds us of the things we might accomplish when we are united. We can and have achieved many things working together. Over this past year we have welcomed 42 billion new Deathborn and 39 billion Deathless to our ever growing community. Not only that, but this past year has seen the completion of phase one of the Infinite Realm’s first realm wide transport system, something that has been in the works for the past six years. We rebuilt six regions ravaged in the Nekrotic Flame disaster. Treatments for 81 different diseases have entered clinical trials and another 27 treatments are set to be publicly available within the next few months. The first comprehensive guide to all the Realms has begun production with over three billion volunteers and counting providing pieces. There is so much more that deserves recognition but as much as I would love to, there is just not enough time to recognize all of it.

“But do not let my lack of recognition on this night stop the amazing things that are set to come. From the grandest of projects to the smallest of kindnesses, I love hearing of it all. So, while we remember the past, let us also think of the future. Just as Christophanes and Mas left the Truce meeting with a brighter future in store for the realms, let us celebrate tonight of our past achievements and look to a brighter future. As the sun sets here in the Distant Nebulae region, the time for speeches comes to an end and the time for festivities and fun begins. So with that, we welcome everyone to Truce!”

As if waiting for the High King to finish, the sun dipped out of view and the sky lit up with swirling clouds of differing colors and more stars than any of the humans attending could count. The crowd roared before breaking off into groups and music started up from somewhere. The king turned to his partner, whispering a few things. The partner gave a small nod, though his eyes were focused on the sky, taking in the millions of stars. The king gently started to lead the other away from the balcony, taking him from the view of the humans in the crowd.