#after ONE MONTH without posting. I'm back!!

[very-merry-birthday]

Gluttony

Lust Gluttony Envy Sloth Greed Pride Wrath

Summary: You help the brothers out of tricky situation, and Dean thanks you the best way he knows how.

Warnings: Smut (car sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms)

A/N: Yes, this has been a seven deadly sins series all along!

You picked at your fries lazily as you relaxed against the grimy booth of the diner, watching the place carefully. You'd been following the same man for two days after a string of murders had landed you in a town not far from home. You saw as he began to stand up, making his way to leave.

Your phone began to buzz in your pocket, a number you didn't recognize. Normally you wouldn't answer calls like that, but you were waiting for some information, and wanted to end this hunt as quickly as possible.

"This is a prepaid call from "Hey Sweetheart", at the Washington County correctional facility, all phone calls are subject to recording and monitoring, to accept this call press one now."

You could instantly tell it was Dean, his voice just as deep over the phone as in person. You pressed #1 as you wedged your phone between your ear and your shoulder, standing to follow the man as you gathered up your belongings.

"Hey darlin', you picked up!" He seemed almost surprised on the other end, but kept his cool.

"What's going on, I'm in a rush." You pushed the door open, following him from a distance.

"Awe- I just thought a booty call might be fun right now?" His voice was laced in sarcasm.

"I'm being serious, Dean, what do you need?"

He sucked his breath in through his teeth, "Ya see sweetheart, we might have found ourselves in a bit of trouble over here and... well we need someone to come bail us out."

"I'm busy..." You sighed, finally grabbing the phone again in your hand.

"We'll see you soon!"

The line clicked, going dead as he hung up. You wanted to leave him there, teach him a lesson, but you knew you just had to see him. You looked over at the man walking away, letting out a deep sigh before turning on your heel, returning the way you came.

-

You pulled up around the corner from the tiny jail- more just a police station- checking your face again in the mirror before climbing out of the car, your heels clicking against the sidewalk. It wasn't often that you dressed professionally, the tight button up and skirt feeling claustrophobic against your body, but you knew it would work far better than your usual jeans and flannels.

You made your way in, the afternoon just starting to break into evening as a chill hit the air, and walked to the front desk, a young cop on the other side barely making note of you.

"I'm here for the brothers."

"You posting bail or you their lawyer?" He didn't look up from the screen in front of him.

"Their lawyer."

He nodded, "Take a seat, someone will come get you in a minute."

You did as he said, sitting down as you took in the room. You swallowed hard, you lied for a living, that bit was easy, but having to see Dean after three months without him- that would be slightly harder.

After what felt like too long you saw a cop approaching you, reaching out his hand to shake it, "You here for those boys?"

He was an older guy, barely any hair left on his head, a small coffee stain on his shirt that looked fresh. You weighed up your approach in your mind. Seductive felt odd, this guy was old enough to be your father, possibly even grandfather, and he wasn't trying to hide it. Relentless seemed wrong too, he clearly had a knowledge of the job and you knew clamping down on him would only cause him to fight back. So instead you stood, shaking his hand with a warm smile spread across your face. The friendly approach.

"I am indeed, sir."

"Names Officer Branning, I'm gonna get you to follow me."

He led you down a series of florescent flooded hallways until you were stood outside and interrogation room. You'd seen your fair few before, but normally you were in the same position as the boys. The officer pushed open the door and Dean looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw you walk in.

"You should've told us you called your lawyer, son." The officer moved to sit opposite him, taking a sip of his coffee.

You saw Sam shift in his seat, looking between you and his brother, clearly confused.

"And can I ask what exactly my clients have been arrested for?" You took your own seat next to Dean, you could tell he was still gawking at you out of the corner of your eye.

"Well your boys here have been convicted of section A1 of the Burglary Statute. A house downtown, we get a phone call about suspicious activity and who do we find when we turn up, these two, both in possession of guns, which I don't have to tell you is of course a felony."

You turned to look at them properly for the first time, both of them shifting awkwardly in their seats. You knew that Sam would have already tried every trick in the lawyer book- and at least he had the Harvard experience compared to your Breaking Bad and Law and Order qualifications. He turned back towards the officer, not wanting to seem suspicious. Dean, however, couldn't care less, his eyes raking your body.

He'd never seen you dressed like this: all office siren, your hair pulled back, heels on. He had to admit he liked it, almost as much as he enjoyed you in your hunting gear, covered in grime and blood and sweat... Almost.

You turned back away, his gaze sending heat to the back of your neck. The officer looked behind the three of you, another sip of coffee, he was clearly already checked out for the day, his eyes on the clock above your heads. Sam might have the knowledge, the actual lawyer skills, but you were starting to think your pop culture education might be more likely to get you all out of here.

"Look I'm not gonna sit here and say these two men haven't been foolish, of course they have." You glanced over at them, Sam's eyes going wider, Dean clearly not listening as he watched the way your lips moved, "Entering a dwelling that doesn't belong to them, sure, that looks bad, I'm not denying that. But I do think it's important to note that they didn't use their guns, no one here got hurt, right? And is that not the most important thing?"

The officer nodded slowly. Sam looked between you and him, unable to understand how this actually seemed to be working.

"No one killed, no one injured, gosh not even a paper cut! Secondly, burglary, sir-" you chuckled lightly, "Do you have any proof of that? That they were actually intending to steal anything? Do we even have proof that they broke into the property? As far as I can tell these idiots most likely walked into a house that didn't belong to them, merely out of confusion!"

"I'm not sure-"

"Officer Branning, was it?" You smiled at him warmly, trying to put forth your least threatening expression, "You and I both know the perils of this system. A day in court, those uncomfortable seats they'll make you sit in as you wait to speak, only for what, all of five minutes!?"

He chuckled lightly at your apparent exasperation, "Less than that!"

"Less! A whole day wasted just because these two idjits don't know their own address! And I'm sure the jury will see that- just look at them they couldn't organize a back yard grill let alone a burglary!"

Sam put on his best puppy dog pout and Dean grinned from ear to ear as the officer looked at them both.

"I really don't want to waste your time, and I don't think you want to waste mine either. These are good boys, good god-fearing folk, they've just made a mistake. Surely a slap on the wrist and we can both go home happy?"

"These boys committed a crime-" he looked above your head again, eyeing the clock.

"Who've you got at home, Officer Branning?" You leant back in your seat, smiling at him.

"I'm not sure how that's important?" He questioned, his face flushing with confusion.

"You keep looking at the clock, sir, you got someone worth rushing off for?"

He smiled back, looking down at his coffee, "My wife. It's our anniversary, I was supposed to be home three hours ago but got stuck sat with these two-"

"How many years?" You leant forward. Dean eyed you carefully. He liked seeing you confident like this. He thought back to the last time he'd seen you, the church, your mouth pressed against his ear speaking sin. You'd finished that hunt only a few days later, Sam finally relenting in the knowledge there was no way he'd be able to keep you apart. But that was three months ago, and he hadn't expected to see you this soon. And yet, looking a you now, he realized just how much he'd missed you. He watched as your mouth curled into another warm smile. It made his stomach flip as he tried to suppress the thought.

"Forty-four." He sighed, taking another sip of coffee, "Feels like yesterday we got married, not that I'd ever tell her that."

You reached out to his hand, holding it gently, "Officer, I know it's been a real long day, and I'd hate for it to become an even longer night. I'm sure she deserves you home by now?"

He swallowed hard, looking between the three of you. "What the hell, fine!"

Sam almost fell out of his seat in shock. Dean had to hold himself back from kissing you there and then.

--

Dean's arm was wrapped around your waist before you'd even left the station. You knew he didn't care about who saw, but you also knew you had to get out of there before anyone stopped you.

You all skipped out, keeping your heads down, a smile plastered on all of your faces. Once you were far enough away Dean finally broke, loud laughter coming from his lips.

Sam shook his head with a smirk, "How the hell did you manage that?"

Dean pulled you in closer, lazily kissing your shoulder as you and Sam spoke.

"What, Harvard boy can't understand what an expert lawyer looks like?" You laughed. You knew ignoring Dean's advances was only riling him up more.

"Thought you were only coming to bail us out?" Sam shook his head again.

"If you think I'm spending a dime on you two you're more stupid than I thought." You started to walk back to your car, "Come on, both of you, let me give you a lift."

Dean broke away from you, looking over to his brother, "Go for a walk, Sam."

"Dean it's-"

"Go for a walk." His face turned stern.

Sam rolled his eyes, giving you another baffled smirk before walking away again, his hands sliding into his pockets. Dean pulled you into him again, his mouth attacking your neck. You dragged him towards your car, your hand combing through his hair.

You lifted his face up to look at you as you pouted, "That was mean..."

"He knew the deal the second you walked in wearing that get up." His hand reached down to your ass, inelegantly squeezing it.

"You still shouldn't leave him out in the cold like this."

"Be quiet sweetheart," he kissed you jaw heavily, "just let me show you how thankful I am."

He pushed you against the side of your car, his hands wandering over your body as you scrambled for your keys. You broke your face away from him for a moment as you put your key in the lock, your eyes looking into your own car through the window.

You hadn't really thought about the fact he'd be here, climbing into your car. Even if his mouth wasn't fixed to your neck, you'd still offered him a lift, he'd have seen it one way or another, but it still felt weirdly intimate. Car sex- that was normal. More normal for you two than sex in a bed. But it was always the Impala, a car you had to admit oozed seduction. It had space to move around, to stretch out on the plush vinyl seats. Your car was small, beaten up, only just big enough for you to sleep in on cold nights when all the motels were full. And yet here you were, welcoming him into a space normally reserved only for you.

He didn't seem to care, though, as he guided you into the back seat, pressing himself against your body as he moved to lay above you. You shifted awkwardly, trying to fit your bodies into the small space, a blanket stuffed under your back, old takeout containers on the floor next to you.

He kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth as you softened into the shape of his body. He tugged at your clothes, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt up to your hips. You were suddenly very thankful for the dark descending outside.

You pushed your body up slightly as he continued his movements down, his fingers finally pressing against the middle of your underwear, "Tsk- thought I'd get another pleasant surprise."

He gently circled your clit through the fabric, sending gentle warmth through you, "I got you out of there, didn't I?"

He smiled, "Oh yeah, I was showing my gratitude wasn't I?" He kissed the inside of your thigh, "What's our record, sweetheart?"

"Three..."

He shook his head with a smile.

This had long been a point of contention between you. He insisted that since he'd been able to make you come five times in one day, your record should be five. You contended that since you'd split between a session first thing in the morning and another one in the evening, where he'd made you come three times, your record should be three. Of course, he'd also promised you if he had a full day, and an actual bed, he'd make you come so many times you would pass out.

But he wasn't in the mood to argue.

He hooked his fingers around the sides of your underwear, dragging it down your legs as he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fixed on you.

He pressed his tongue against your clit without any warning, your hand reaching out to grab hold of his hair as you steadied your breathing.

"Fuck darlin, you always taste incredible."

He spit hard, using his saliva as lube as he dove back in, his tongue lapping you up. You rolled your hips into him, needy for his friction. No one knew you quite like him, knew just where to touch you to bring you to the brink.

He pressed his mouth against you, alternating between pushing his tongue inside you and circling your clit in a steady rhythm. You could barely breath as you felt his tongue glide through your folds, savouring your wetness, his mouth curling into an amused smile as he listened to your gasps.

Right when he felt you tensing up he focused all his attention onto your clit, sending you over the edge as you gripped onto his hair, rolling your head back in a pornographic moan. He kept his movements quick as you came, your body shaking as he kept up the stimulation.

Your body sunk back against the seat, your head pressed against the inside of your cardoor as you tried to shed the pounding in your ears. He pulled away, kissing along your leg.

"You got a pen anywhere in here sweetheart?" He looked around, you were suddenly aware once again of the state of your car.

You leant down, rustling your hand on the floor without looking until you landed on the marker you knew you'd left there, handing it to him.

He held the lid between his teeth, popping it open and drawing a short line on your inner thigh, "That's one."

You bit your lip as you looked down at him marking your skin, taking you as his own.

He began to kiss up your leg again, making his way back towards your core.

You let your hand comb through his sweat ridden hair, breathing hard, "Just give me a minute, yeah?"

"What, and ruin this gorgeous high you've got going on? No chance, darlin'." He pressed his tongue against you again, slower this time, gently stroking it through your wetness.

You groaned, rolling your head back as he sucked lightly at your swollen clit. He knew how sensitive you got after you came, and he fully intended to use it to his advantage.

He teased the tip of his finger at your entrance, feeling as your pussy pulsed around him. He moaned against you, sending the vibrations through your body. Pushing his finger into you, you bit your bottom lip again, swallowing down any other noises.

He began thrusting into you slowly, even one finger filling you as his tongue sped up its movements. You arched your back into him, a second orgasm rising quickly. He pushed another finger into you, stretching you out, your breath shaking as you shut your eyes again.

He sucked on your clit again, pushing another desperate wave of pleasure through you. You reached out, seeking stability on the seats around you as you felt your body clench again. And then release. He slowed his movements, only just, as you came again on his tongue, your legs tightening up around him.

"Dean- fuck-" you couldn't stop your sounds, your body quaking.

You guided his face away from you as you let your body relax again into the seat, his movements almost to much to bare as he gently pulled his fingers out of you, sticking them in his mouth to continue savouring your taste.

Without a word, he reached down for the marker he'd thrown to one side, wetting his lips as he drew another line next to the first, "That's two."

He went to press his mouth against you again but you stopped him, cupping his cheek to get him to look at you, "Really, baby, can't take much more."

Baby wasn't a nickname you used. Not for him, not ever. But as your mind stayed fogged from your pleasure you didn't even realize you'd said it. And he didn't mind- his face tingling with secret enjoyment.

He lifted himself off of you, pushing the marker behind his ear as he moved quickly, his hands wrapping around your waist as he moved to sit, pulling you on top of him in a straddle. You slumped against him, your body exhausted, your forehead pressed against his.

"We'll never break our record with that attitude, sweetheart."

"It's just your tongue, Dean, i's'too much-" you kissed him lightly, his lips plump against yours.

"Well why don't we go at your pace then, darlin'?" He held your hips, lowering you down onto his leg. You bit your lip as you felt you pussy come into contact with the jeans on his thigh, rough against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He pushed your hips gently, getting you to rut against him. You held his shoulders to keep yourself steady as you began moving, harsh pleasure hitting you instantly.

"Dean- fuck- it's too-"

He kissed you, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your hips, "That's it, nice and slow, keep yourself steady for me."

You focused on his voice as he guided you through it, grinding against his thigh with your breath held.

"Good girl, that's it." He moved one hand to your stomach, commanding your movements, "You're doing so well for me, darlin', that feel good?"

You collapsed your body into him, your head leaning against his shoulder, "Oomf- fuck- yes-"

"Good girl, good girl, keep moving, keep your pussy on me. Fuck- I can feel how wet you are even through my jeans-" he chuckled lightly, kissing the top of your head, "You look so good grinding on me- gonna get you to do this every time if you're not careful."

You gripped your hand around his bicep, your fingers pressed into him as you felt another orgasm rising inside you.

"Keep yourself steady, sweetheart- focus on your body. You feel that? Feel that sweet spot- you're screaming out for more, I can tell- let it fill you up, that excess, darlin', let it consume you. Keep moving, there's a good girl, you want to come again, don't y'? You wanna come on my thigh?"

You nodded into his shoulder, a small whimper falling out of your lips in desperation.

"Be a good girl for me, sweetheart, be good." He spoke softer as he pressed his lips against your skin, "Come for me."

You did as he commanded, your body quaking as you rutted against him, your fingers digging into him, letting out a loud cry, another orgasm taking control as your body quaked. Your movements began to slow but he kept his hands tight on you, keeping your grinding steady as you rode it out.

He pressed his mouth into your neck, soft kisses as you lifted yourself off his thigh, straddling him properly again, your body still shaking slightly as you tried to come back to reality, blinking hard. He leant back, carefully checking your face for confirmation you were okay, before kissing you again.

He pushed you backwards slightly to give himself better access as he took the pen from behind his ear, once again pulling off it's cap with his teeth and placing it between your legs, drawing another small line, "That's three, darlin'."

"Jesus, Dean, you'll be the death of me!" You sighed, coming to your senses.

You looked down, watching as he carefully palmed the bulge growing in his pants, "You think you can take one more?"

You nodded slowly, however spent you felt, you still wanted his cock buried inside you.

You watched as he quickly undid his belt with one hand, pulling at the top of his pants as his other hand gripped your hip tight again. His cock sprung free, solid and throbbing, watching you come so many times already pushing him to the edge. He guided you above him, lining himself up with you, before gently lowering you down, his cock sinking into your already sensitive opening.

He held your hips still as he began to thrust into you from below, watching you carefully. He pressed his mouth into your neck, small kisses across your skin as you moaned into him, your body shaking with pleasure.

Once his pace was steady he began moving his hands over you, ghosting your curves with the pads of his fingers, gentle movements, his digits hot against you, sending soft tingles all over your body. He let one hand slide under your shirt, brushing over your breast, his thumb grazing your nipple only slightly.

"You feel so good, sweetheart." He sped up his thrusting, his own heartbeat stuck in his throat as he felt your pussy tight around him.

You began to roll your own hips in time with him, pushing him deeper until he was completely filling you, your sensitive clit colliding with him on every pound. You moved your hands to his chest, steadying yourself as you both moved, the small car filled with hot breath.

He groaned, desperate, his fingers dancing over your nipples, sending shivers through you. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours, "You close?"

You bit your lip, nodding in response as you felt another orgasm rise in you, his cock stretching you out.

"That's it, keep going, wanna feel you coming on my cock, darlin'."

His words send another spike of pleasure through you as you continued to roll your hip, his thrusting from below only becoming harder. You screwed up your hands in the fabric of his shirt, the tension filling you once again. You couldn't focus on anything but your dam about to burst.

"Dean, I'm gonna-"

He pressed his lips against yours as you came, a moan escaping your lips flowing into his mouth as he pushed into you, hard, your pussy contracting around his cock. Stars danced behind your eyes as you continued to move your body, your climax skewering the coil in your stomach.

The moment he felt your movements falter, Dean pulled out, his own orgasm spilling out of him without warning, his cum plastering your thigh. He let out a groan as your hand reached down instinctively, stroking him through his completion, your thumb pressed against his tip.

You both sat panting, your bodies covered in sweat and each other, as your movements slowed, both of you twitching in relief. After a moment you rolled off of him, taking your seat next to him as you pulled your blanket up to wipe his cum off of your leg. He watched you carefully before reaching back out to you, pen in hand, and drawing the final tally mark on your leg.

"That's four, new record." He smiled at you, hooking his finger under your chin for a kiss.

You shook your head, smiling as your bliss started to slump again, "You shouldn't have called, Dean, I was busy..."

"Oh yeah, hot date?" He pushed his cock back into his pants, beginning to buckle them back up as he chuckled.

"Yeah, smoking hot, tall dark and handsome." You watched as his expression faltered slightly, doubt creeping in. "A murderous demon with an appetite for murder, what's not to love!"

He relaxed again, lowering his shoulders and swallowing hard.

You waited a beat before opening up your door again, climbing out as you pulled your skirt back down. He followed your lead, stepping out into the cold night air, trying to pull himself together as he watched you do the same. Both of you were messy, clearly sexed out, the pen tally, although now hidden, still burning into your thigh, a small patch on his jeans from where you'd ridden him.

You slid back into the driver's seat, letting him clamber into the passenger side, a position neither of you were used to when around each other.

"Come on," you sighed, "let's go find your brother."

"He'll've reached the motel by now, sweetheart, we weren't exactly quick." He eyed you carefully, "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Let's get burgers."

"What, just us?"

"C'mon sweetheart, my treat, give you a proper thank-you."

[yothatshitgas]

The Dress

Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.2k

Note: Work of fiction. This was meant to be a quick one shot, but it went beyond the length I expected. So I'm splitting it into two parts. Song is The Dress by Dijon. AU of Paige never recruiting Azzi to UConn.

Part 2

__

“Well, it's official,” Nika said without looking up from her phone, “we just got the best damn shooter in the country.”

Paige turned her head slowly toward Nika, who tilted her phone just enough for her to see the screen. It was an Instagram post, bold UConn Blue letters across the top: Committed. Behind the text was a photo of a girl with curly hair styled in two french braids, she donned a Blue University of Connecticut varsity jacket over the program’s uniform. She wore a bright smile with two dimples accompanying. Azzi Fudd. Her transfer announcement had gone live, nearly a month after she’d blown up the internet by entering the portal, just a week after UCLA’s Elite Eight loss. 

“You played with her before, right?” Nika asked, chewing her gum as she leaned back against the wall. They were both sitting cross legged on the training room floor, their post practice routine.

Paige nodded, a slow smirk forming on her lips. She couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, it felt like everything was finally aligning. The team was healthy again, anchored by three of the most dangerous juniors in the country. And Paige was right at the center of it. Now? They were adding her, the same player Steph Curry once called an ‘automatic bucket.’ They were going to bring the championship back to Storrs, a feat that the program has been chasing for over five years now.

Although, if Paige was being honest, it wasn’t the championship that had her grinning like a fool in her seat. It was Azzi. 

They’d played together for two summers on Team USA, their chemistry unmistakable and from the moment she met Azzi that first summer, she’d had a crush. Immediate. Electric. It was the way Azzi moved, fluid and fearless, every shot slipping through the net like it belonged there. She made it look effortless, like her body was made for basketball. Paige couldn’t look away, she was impressed. Maybe even addicted, not that she’d ever admit it out loud. 

And then there was the smile. God, the smile. Bright and dangerous, framed by dimples so deep they looked carved into her cheeks by some mischievous higher power, as if they were invitations for Paige she wasn’t so sure she should take. She’d never known desire to take shape of something as deceptively innocent as a smile, but with Azzi, it was right there in the curl of her lips and the light in her eyes.

Paige tried to flirt. Or, well, her awkward approximation of flirting. She teased. She poked. She pressed buttons she had no business touching, all under the guise of playful annoyance. But Azzi never flinched. She didn’t shy away or shut it down. If anything, she leaned in. Snapped back with her own witty jabs, turning every interaction into a game of verbal tug of war. There was a rhythm to it, a cadence only they seemed to understand. Push, pull. Give, take. 

They never said they wanted more. But the signs were there, quiet and consistent. The way Paige’s hand would linger on Azzi’s shoulder during a huddle, her thumb brushing lightly along the seam of her jersey. The way Azzi would find her way to Paige’s room on nights when the rest of the girls gathered in the hotel lobby, chasing gossip and late night snacks. Yet, it was fleeting. Always understood to be temporary, wrapped in the golden haze of summer. When the final buzzer of their last game sounded and Team USA disbanded for the year, they returned to their regular lives. Back to high school, back to expectations, back to reality.

They followed each other on social media, of course. Swapped numbers. Left the door cracked open, just enough to peek through from time to time. A like there. An emoji reaction there. A birthday message. A ‘Merry Christmas’ that never turned into more. It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that never asked for anything, never dared to define what they’d shared.

And then came their second year on Team USA.

Whatever simple, harmless crush Paige thought she’d had the summer before had evolved into something far less manageable. Azzi had changed. In all the right, most unfair way. She still had that same soft smile, still flashed those killer dimples like they were jokes only Paige got to understand. But now she was taller. Leaner. Stronger. More confident, both grounded and untouchable. And she had gotten better on the court, it was like watching magic refined into muscle memory. Her shots weren’t just good, they were lethal. And Paige, elite as she was, found herself staring more than she should have.

Just like that, all the fleeting, fluttering feelings Paige thought she’d neatly boxed up and shelved from the year before came crashing back with the subtlety of a freight train. No warning. No mercy.

Paige was obsessed.

And this time, she knew it. She couldn’t hide it, didn’t even try, to be honest. Not when Azzi laughed in that low, breathy way that made Paige’s chest tighten. Not when she pulled her hair back into a puff and wiped sweat off her brow mid-practice, looking entirely unbothered by the way the blonde stared at the other side of the court. Not when she threw an arm around Paige’s shoulder like it meant nothing and everything all at once.

Lines were crossed on their last night of the world cup. 

One minute, they were just talking, curled up in the dim hush of Paige’s hotel room. The glow of a single bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The air between them had been warm with something unspoken, humming with the energy of everything they refused to name. They talked about everything and nothing at all - inside jokes, music, the future, what home even meant when you were always on the move. In between their words, there was laughter. The kind that couldn’t exist anywhere else but inside those four walls.

Paige’s hand brushed against Azzi’s, just the slightest graze. Azzi, true to herself, didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away, instead her fingers stayed right there, resting against Paige’s like she’d been waiting for that exact moment to happen. So Paige took it. She laced their fingers together slowly, and without thinking too hard, Paige leaned in and kissed Azzi.

Quick. Gentle. Barely more than a breath.

But it was real. 

And by cruel design of the universe, they flew home the very next day. One moment, they were curled up in the safety of each other’s silence, hands still remembering the weight of that first kiss. And the next, they were separated by thousands of miles and the divergent paths of two girls chasing greatness. Their lives, so full of promise, were equally full of obligations. Training schedules, family responsibilities and looming seasons, all conspiring to keep them apart.

But they tried. This time, they really tried.

Late night calls that stretched until one of them drifted off mid-sentence, the quiet hum of breath on the line more comforting than any lullaby. Text messages layered with longing, little confessions wrapped in emojis and inside jokes. Wish you were here sent from gyms and bedrooms, from the backseats of carpools and early morning flights. For a while, it was enough. For a while, it felt like they were still tethered by that final night.

Fall came and with it, the return to school and structure. Paige threw herself into her senior year, laser focused on getting her team their first state championship. Azzi, on the other hand, was already a legend in her own right. She led her squad to dominate the DMV circuit, her name whispered across courts and hallways with equal reverence. Their training regimens didn’t align. Their free time evaporated. Slowly, inevitably, the tether stretched thin.

Hour long conversations became missed calls. Quick replies turned into half read messages, then long gaps followed by apologetic explanations: sorry, been slammed with practice. Didn’t mean to ghost, just tired. And even though neither of them said it, both could feel the shift. A subtle, aching distance growing between them like a bruise they didn’t want to press on.

But how could they be upset? They hadn’t labeled what they were. No promises. No commitments. Just a summer and a kiss and a lingering thread of connection that neither of them had the language to define. They were temporary constants, steady for a while then they faded, slowly. Like sunlight slipping out of a room.

By the time the new year came, they’d had the conversation. It made sense, they told themselves. Best to focus on the year ahead. College, basketball, the future. There was no big heartbreak. No blowout fight. Just a quiet understanding that they were living parallel lives that couldn’t quite overlap.

Paige graduated that spring and slipped into a UConn jersey like she was born to wear it. She dove headfirst into a new world of expectation and cameras and team dynamics. Meanwhile, Azzi earned her spot on the USA U18 team for a third year, one again disappearing into the blur of red, white and blue.

They became what ifs in lives that had no choice but to embrace what is.

And Paige came to terms with it. She didn’t reach out. Didn’t push, she offered her support the only way she knew how: from a distance. She liked Azzi’s posts, watched her interviews. Caught clips of her games when she could, always with a small, private smile tugging at her lips. Azzi was thriving, just like everyone knew she would. She only grew brighter with every passing season.

It hadn’t come as a surprise when Azzi announced her commitment to UCLA for her 18th birthday. It was expected. She’d spoked about being a Bruin for as long as they’ve known each other, her dream school etched into her like gospel. The announcement had felt more like a formality than news - the rest of the world finally catching up to what Azzi had always known. She belonged out west and she made sure the entire country knew. Within weeks of stepping on campus, Azzi had the Big Ten on notice. Her name already being whispered in the same breath as legends.

Meanwhile, Paige was learning how quickly everything you love can be taken away.

The injury happened during an early pre-season game. One awkward step, one wrong pivot and her world shifted. A torn ACL. Just like that. It was cruel in its simplicity, the way her body betrayed her before her sophomore season even began. Surgery followed. Then the slow, grueling climb of recovery. She became a permanent fixture on the bench, forced to watch her teammates chase a season she couldn’t be part of.

She tried to be supportive. She cheered, clapped, smiled for the cameras. But there were nights she’d go home and cry into her pillow, the pain in her knee dull compared to the ache in her chest. She was used to leading from the court, not the sidelines. By the time she finally cleared - after months of rehab, doctor visits and mental battles - UConn’s season was already winding down. They’d fought hard. Won regionals. Took home the Big East Championship. But the goal had never been just conference titles, it had always been the Final Four and they hadn’t made it. Their battle cut short at the Sweet 16.

Now, Paige sat shoulder to shoulder with Nika on the training room floor, backs pressed to the cool wall, a silence settling between them that felt more like recovery than rest. It had only been a couple months since their season ended in heartbreak, an early exit no one had seen coming, especially not a program like UConn and yet, somehow, despite all the disappointment, all the bruised egos and quiet tears behind closed doors, they’d managed to pull off a miracle.

Paige let out a quiet huff, still a little dazed, “I honestly don’t know how we pulled that off,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Nika glanced over, arching a brow, “I’m telling you, it’s Geno and CD, voodoo magic. Mind tricks.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, shaking her head, “that, or we’ve just gotten really good at begging.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m quite the charmer,” Nika shot back, popping her gum with a grin, “but really, she’s coming. Two weeks.”

Paige didn’t hesitate, her smirk returning, “ready as I’ll ever be.”

__

Azzi’s arrival on campus was the calm before the storm. 

One minute, the whole team was crowding into her new room, helping her unpack boxes and making jokes about who would steal her snacks first. The next, they were back in the gym, running full-speed scrimmages with brand new plays. Sets tailored for a starting lineup that now included one of the most dangerous scorers in the country.

There was no easing into it. No breathers. Not when every single girl on that court knew exactly what was at stake. This season wasn’t just about redemption, it was about destiny. Everyone could feel it in their bones. But destiny didn’t come without sweat. Without bruises, arguments, late night film sessions and early morning lifts. That was the plan, grind now, win later. Work until their body ached and their chemistry became second nature. Until everything led to one singular moment: holding up that trophy, giving Geno his twelfth national title.

And giving themselves their first.

There hadn’t been a quiet moment for Paige and Azzi to officially acknowledge their reunion. No catching up beyond polite smiles and half-spoken words in between drills. They were cordial, professional, even. But the court told a different story. Their chemistry ignited the second the ball hit the hardwood. Every movement flowed like muscle memory. Every pass, every glance, every instinctive pivot fell into place with the kind of synchronicity that couldn't be taught. 

One play, in particular, turned heads.

It started with Paige dribbling near the left wing, her eyes scanning the floor like time had slowed specifically for that moment. Azzi lingered near the baseline, then took off on a sharp, lightning fast cut up the lane. The timing was perfect. Nika and Aaliyah closed in to set an elevator screen at the free throw line, bodies colliding like doors slamming shut behind her. Azzi squeezed through the seam just as Paige shifted her weight and fired a crisp chest pass to the top of the key.

Azzi caught it in rhythm, feet set and shoulders squared.

Splash.

Three points. Nothing but net. Textbook shooting form, a quick release and an arch even Steph Curry would be jealous of.

The gym erupted, not in chaos but in that stunned, respectful silence that happens when everyone recognizes perfection in motion. Even the practice players look rattled, exchanging glances like they’d just seen something unfair. 

Geno blew his whistle, but not to stop the drill. Just to nod.

“Run it again,” he barked, barely masking the satisfaction in his tone.

__

“Finally caught you,” Paige called out, her voice echoing through the mostly empty gym as she stepped inside, hair damp from a shower. Her sneakers squeaked lightly against the hardwood as she walked in, “you know we don’t hand out gold stars for being the last one in the gym, right?”

Azzi glanced over from the free throw line, her expression unreadable at first until that familiar smile crept across her face. The same one that had lived in the back of Paige’s mind far longer than she’d like to admit. “You’re acting like I’ve been hiding.”

“You have,” Paige said easily, striding toward her without breaking eye contact. On her way, she snagged a loose ball that had rolled toward the baseline and gave it a sharp bounce pass back to Azzi, “I tried to give you a ride to practice this morning and you practically dragged Caroline out of the room with the way you rushed her.”

Azzi caught the ball, but didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. She turned back toward the line, dribbled twice, bounced the ball with a spin that landed it back in her hands and planted her feet. The gym fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and rhythmic creak of the old backboard as her shot sailed through the air and dropped clean the net. No rim. No hesitation. 

Swish.

Paige walked beneath the hoop, casually plucking the ball as it came down through the net. She didn’t say anything right away. Just held the ball in her hands, then bounced it back to Azzi with a soft thud that echoed in the silence between them. 

“Same routine,” Paige said, softer now.

Azzi caught the ball, effortlessly but didn’t lift it for another shot. Instead, she stood at the line, cradling it against her hip, her thumbs slowly brushing the textured grooves. Her gaze dipped toward the floor, then traced a path back up to Paige, lingering a second too long.

“How’s your knee?” she asked softly, then her eyes dropped again, trailing down Paige’s legs, “did you stick to the recovery regimen? No shortcuts?”

Paige smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, “yes, mom.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but it didn’t hide the flicker of concern behind them.

“I’m serious,” she said, her tone firmer now, “people cut corners all the time. Especially when they’re trying to get back to something that matters.”

Paige leaned against the padded base of the basket, arms crossed loosely over her chest, “I didn’t cheat the process, Az,” she said, drifting at the nickname that she’d used from the moment they’d met, “not once.”

They stood in silence for a beat, then Paige pushed herself off the padded base, each step toward Azzi slow and deliberate. She didn’t leave much space for the unspoken. Didn’t want to. When she reached her, she let her fingers gently trail along Azzi’s arm until they reached her hand. She let them linger there, light but present. 

“Why did you transfer, Az?” Paige asked, her voice low and quiet, she was trying to protect the moment from the rest of the world, “you were doing so good in Cali. It's not your parents, they’d fly to the other side of the world just to see you play. So what is it?”

A pause.

“Is it me?”

Azzi turned her head just slightly, “you’re giving yourself way too much credit, Paige,” she said, her voice playful.

“Want to play for the truth?” Paige asked, jerking her chin toward the hoop, her tone dipped flirtatiously, like she already knew the answer, “horse?”

Azzi quirked a brow, intrigued, “that your idea of an interrogation tactic now?”

“No,” Paige replied, already walking back toward the top of the key, “its my idea of foreplay.”

Azzi let out a laugh, but she followed, slowly walking to the free throw line, “fine,” she said, looking over at Paige with narrowed eyes and a teasing grin, “every missed shot a is a letter and a question, don’t want to answer? Another letter.”

Paige grinned, “game on.”

[reignpage]

“Nanami Kento had another encounter with the nameless mermaid. Many such, in fact. Some of these encounters are details in letters he sent letters to Professor Yaga. They detailed his recent discoveries and confirmation of months of his research building up to his posting in Gibraltar.

Excited, he told him everything, barring the budding romantic feelings he knew he should not have encouraged for fear that the respected professor would question his priorities and admonish him. While waiting for a reply, the student dedicated the remaining day since he recorded his first late-night meeting with the specimen to overcoming the issue to do with his incapability to swim.

In his rush, one can only assume, he made no record of what spell or device he had discovered and used, though there are many theories to be had. This remains a great tragedy.

Later in the day, he took to the sea in a rush and agreed with the mermaid to go somewhere secluded, where they would not be seen by another in broad daylight, and decided upon a nearby cave accessible only by boat or strong swimmers.

Part of the meeting was recorded by the student via Pluma Memoria and the transcripts were recovered some time later alongside contextual notes made by him.

As we all know, the Inter-dimensional Research Committee and St. Eden's Board of Administration's issued formal requests for the exiled student to relinquish all of his possessions related to his research, including information on how to enter the underwater kingdom, their weaponry, their political system, and just as importantly, the specimen.

These requests were denied.

It is unclear why.

In today's class, we still study the excerpt, focusing especially on the historical and cultural significance of Nanami Kento's rebellion and asking ourselves the question:

Did he regret it?”

Nameless Specimen: I've been watching you.

Kento: I thought you might have. Somehow, I felt you, I think. Something was encouraging me, urging me forward. It was odd but...comforting.

Nameless Specimen: I understand…I was not supposed to want you to find me. My pod have tasked me with ensuring people like you never find our home. And indeed, I worked tirelessly to lead others astray, leaving what they thought were clues so they would search in circles and grow frustrated. But just an afternoon spent following you revealed a truth I cannot verify: you are different. You are not like the others who have come before you.

Kento: I'm not?

Nameless Specimen: No…they were fuelled by greed, by a desire to reap all the wealth off our land. They trample over the wildlife, made no effort to connect with the villagers, choosing arrogance over community, and relied solely on their spells and potions. It was the kind of laziness and irreverence that confirmed the decision our ancestors made a long time ago — keep the gates to Atlantis closed.

Kento: And no one has ever been successful?

She held my hands and swam us around the jagged floor of the sea, tickling the bellies of fish as she went. I was growing more and more accustomed to her anatomy, to the point that the agility of her scaled tail did not surprise me anymore, though the captivating colour of them never waned in my eyes.

Nameless Specimen: Only once. Two men. Students just like you. One was closed off but polite, the other friendly but deceitful. My ancestors welcomed them in, nursed them back to health after their ship hit the rocks and capsized, and even shared our air so that they may tour our home. Back then, my people had not known the cruelty and gluttony of others. They were simply excited to learn about the outside world and to exchange wisdom.

I kept quiet. She was sharing knowledge I would have killed to hear just weeks ago. Now, I was grimacing, much too aware of man's potential for destruction. History lessons were not without constant warnings for the new generations to do better. To be better.

Nameless Specimen: The polite one, records say, was truly interested to learn, to be a part of our community. He was energetic and enthusiastic. It did not take very long for him to be seen as one of us…And the other…had his eyes on our gold, our pearls, and our scales. During their stay, people went missing. Even our young. It was a slow, eventual development. At least, that is how it is explained to us. I believe our Elders simply do not wish to confront the fact that our people were just naive. They knew the truth of that visitor from another land and chose to trust in the kindness of one another than aggrieve their guests with accusations...until it was too late.

Kento: ...what happened?

Nameless Specimen: He must have developed some sort of contraption. It is hard to say exactly what happened...the devastation was far and wide. To this day, we mourn our loss and feel the echoes of the tragedy. Whatever he had found or received caused death on a scale unfathomable to our young… The Elders do not like to talk about this part but whispers among my peers claim that one morning, our people awoke and could not see through the thick cloud of blood thickening the water.

I gasped. A deep pit formed in my stomach and it has not left since. I do not think it will ever. There was a sad smile on her lips, like she pitied her ancestors and resented the innocence of her people at the same time, though, ultimately, she could not blame them.

Nameless Specimen: That day…they released more bodies into the field of lights than they ever had prior. Generations lost. Bloodlines ended. Dignity stolen. The dead were stripped of their scales, fins, hearts and eyes. Sold, I can only imagine, to the highest bidder. The hardest part of it all was identifying who was who. There remains to this day a large section of the field housing the bodies of those who were never claimed.

I was speechless. No words could ever be uttered to begin to apologise for the crimes that were committed, for the injustice, for the murder of so many. I know them not, but I hold them in my heart. The sins of the past will be brought to life. I will be sure of it.

Kento: I am so sorry. That should never have happened. W-we have laws, regulations, a-an honour code to abide by. I'll tell my school, my professor. Everyone. We will advocate for reparations, a galaxy-wide apology—

Nameless Specimen: That is not necessary. We grieve in our own way. And in any case, we know not everyone is bad. That's why I'm here. Why the two of us can be together like this…We do not want to stay closed off forever. There is a whole world out there that my people deserve to see. We do not want to live in fear for eternity. There might even come a time where we must rely on the help of others for the future of our pod. It is therefore up to my generation to prepare for that. To change and innovate. We will soon welcome others like you…Never again will we be exploited like that. We have learnt. Adapted. Survived. That is the way of my people.

She swam around me, grazing her tail against my legs. Her lips brushed my cheek.

Nameless Specimen: In the meantime, I hope this is enough for you.

Kento: It is. You are.

She laughed, bubbles escaping.

Nameless Specimen: Thank you for listening. I have never shared this before. We don’t get visitors at all. There are not even others like us…as far as we know.

Kento: No, thank you for sharing. I learnt so much. For this, I will forever be indebted to you.

Nameless Specimen: I learnt much from you too. While I watched you fumble about on the surface, you spoke on and on about interesting facts about your world. Spells you were frustrated by. Potions you wanted to perfect. Professors you disliked and classes you missed. It was all so entertaining. You are an interesting man.

I was awestruck by her beauty and the tender warmth with which she spoke to me. The sound of her voice, the melodic bliss it elicits, the comfort…I feel as though I am still in the cave with her — weightless and free.

Kento: You're the first person to have ever said that to me…Most people find me annoying. Even my best friend. Though I rather think that is because I remind him of a lecturer, which he has naturally learnt to tune out automatically.

Nameless Specimen: That is unfortunate. A smart man like you must be heard, no? That is how we function in my pod; everything worth saying must be heard in an assembly. Every voice is equal to begin with, but the brighter minds deserve a special respect. You are one such.

Her revelation made me blush. It was embarrassing but she only smiled patiently. Of course, I have heard my fair share of compliments — winning as many awards as I have would warrant that. But, when those flatteries leave her lips, I felt inclined to shy away from such niceties.

Kento: You barely know me…

Shaking her head, she pulled herself closer to me until we were flushed together. To that, I did not shy away from. Not when it felt right.

Nameless Specimen: I feel as though I have lived a lifetime with you.

Kento: I do too...I feel as if I...loved you in a past life. And in the next.

She smiled again and placed a hand on my cheek. I was surprised to find the flexibility in her joints, webbed as they are. Her thumb adjusted my glasses which were threatening to float away from me.

Nameless Specimen: It is odd, is it not? For two souls to have just collided and feel this way...it seems as if we have been veering off course, heading straight for each other.

I don't know what expression I held. But something about it made her eyes soften, not in pity but something akin to sadness. For herself and for me. Like she thought it a universe's worth of regret to have met so late. Like she knew, since having met her, I've realised that all my life I have only ever known loneliness. Like she felt the same way.

Then, she reached out and met my lips.

I feel no shame in admitting much of the time we spent together is dedicated to talking about things which held no special importance, and to kissing. There was much more to be learned from her lips and her body than words, I believe. It is because of her that I became privy to the secrets of the universe and beyond all while tethered to the only home I felt bound to.

Her kisses spoke of promises. They breathed life into me. Urged me to desire for more than shallow trophies and meaningless discoveries.

We joined together like we've done it many times before.

These moments filled me with a new sense of purpose.

They were moments to protect, to cultivate, to watch grow.

They were moments I would cherish till my last breath...

[mel-loly]

–I am back!!!✨

ANDDD since the majority voted “yes” in the last poll I did, I’m going to do a dtiys! Which will be this one:

Oh, and the rules and explanation of tdiys are in the text below (click for 'more' ↓)! Good luck to the participants, I love you all so much!!❤️

Explanation:

DTIYS stands for “Draw This In Your Style”. It's a popular art challenge where artists redraw a piece of art in their own style. DTIYS challenges are often used by artists on Instagram to celebrate milestones or to support other artists [which, in this case, I am celebrating my “return”].

How it works:

An artist chooses a piece of art to redraw.

The artist sets instructions for the challenge, such as the medium to use or the overall aesthetic.

Other artists create their own version of the piece and post it with the specified hashtag.

The artist selects the winners and announces them.

Now that you guys know a little about how it works, I will tell you some simple and “already expected” rules:

You can't steal or do it the same way as me, you have to do it YOUR style (because that's the challenge).

The redraw must have the same characteristics as the original drawing. For example, the colors must be similar or the same.

You can add and change things, but don’t “stray” too far from the original design and features.

Don't forget to tag me AND use the hashtag '#melloly dtiys'! Or if you don't want to post, just send me a private chat or ask! (and if you don't want me to say your name if you "win", please let me know and I'll make the drawing's artist anonymous!)

About the winners and the end date of the competition:

The competition will end on 03/23/25. There will be 3 winners, however, I will only draw (their own) OCs!

An art of your OC in my normal and detailed style (example (↓).

An art of your OC in my normal but simple style (example (↓).

A art of your OC in my chibi style (example (↓).

Thank you very much for reading and, again, good luck to the participants!!! (and if you still have any questions, just call dm and ask!!)💛

-Melissa, Designer.

[spotaus]

Late Night quick thing (New Age Sillies)

Bad news: That joke post about including Reset + Orchid is definitely not canon. (I legit got sad thinking about Reset being in a universe where Orchid isn't- because their stories are so so intertwined- but Nightmare 100% would NOT risk the whole twins exploding Error's soul thing.)

Good news: This means I COULD include Kane (Reset's older brother who usually dies in timelines where Reset is born) and use it to develope his character a bit more! Also! Perhaps a Blue × Dream kiddo is finally in the stars for me to design?

[guinevereslancelot]

why is my ex boyfriend who dumped me suddenly helping me find cheap skis and inviting me to vermont and talking about taking a job where i work what is going on 😭. i know we're still friends but is he stupid 😭

[atlxolotl]

Transcript and links to Reddit under the Read more:

I miss my husband so goddamn much

February 27th, 2025

I (35M) divorced my husband (36M) three years ago. And God, I miss him. I asked for a divorce for a few reasons, most of which being that his depression got exponentially worse day after day and he refused to seek treatment. Sometimes he wouldn't even go into work and ended up getting fired from his job. I stayed with him for so fucking long, praying that one day he would start trying to get better. It was all I ever wanted, but that day didn't come. I sobbed the entire time signing those papers, and when I handed them to him and asked for a divorce, he just gave me the emptiest, deadest look and signed them without a word. My heart felt like it had been shattered with a hammer, anger and sadness and fear tied together in the world's tightest, ugliest knot and inset deep into my chest.

I put on a brave face for my friends, tried to frame it as shackles coming off and a new beginning, but it was a lie. It just hurt, and it keeps hurting, and it will never stop hurting. He was my soulmate. I'll never love anyone like I loved him. He used to be so sweet and loving, so passionate and happy and every other wonderful thing a man could want from another.

They say each day gets easier, but it isn't for me. It's been three years and I'm still reaching over to the other side of the bed in the morning to pull him close, and it always stings when my hands touch fabric and not his skin. It's been three years and I'm still expecting to see his car in the driveway when I get home from work. It's been three years and my heart isn't any less broken than the day he left.

I've been stalking his socials, I'll admit. He's been getting back to the gym, started meds, and I see him smiling so genuinely in these photos. He looks so incredible. Maybe if I had just waited, he would have changed his mind and went to a doctor like he is now? Or was it me that held him down? Was I making it worse?

I hope not. I wanna go over to his place and just fall into his arms and beg him to take me back. Maybe he's wishing the same thing about me. If there's even a chance I could have my boy back I feel like I should try. I'll never know otherwise.

EDIT: One: I am a homosexual man. My husband is a homosexual man. I am not a woman. Yes, I know I'm effeminate and kind of emotional. Get creative.

Two: my husband was a binge drinker. He refused treatment no matter how much I begged. We got antidepressants but he wouldn't take them. I know he's started meds now because he's posted about them and his 2 yrs sober chip that he got last month.

Three: I never stopped loving him. I never loved him any less. Near the end of our marriage, I started drinking to cope. The second I realized I was, I realized he was dragging me down with him, and I couldn't help him anymore. I didn't dip the second it got hard. Many of you are being kind of rude. I'll accept that I wasn't the perfect husband, nobody is. But claims that I never loved him are just wrong and make me feel sick to my stomach.

EDIT 2: No, I am not the catalyst for this. His depression started when his young brother died terribly and unexpectedly. It's not because he just hated me so much. We were childhood sweethearts and had been together for years when this happened.

[UPDATE] I met my husband that I divorced 3 years ago

March 2nd, 2025

Well, with Reddit's advice, I did it. A few days ago, I called my (35M) ex-husband (36M) whom I divorced after 6 years when he refused to seek treatment for his depression.

I called him later in the evening. It was the first time we'd spoken since a bit of trouble he'd had while he was still drinking 2 1/2 years ago. He picked up on the second ring. Our conversation was a little stilted at first, as to be expected, but he said he was really glad to hear from me. We ended up meeting up for coffee yesterday as so many of you suggested. I'll admit: it was kind of hard to see him, but in a good way? He looked so much better than the last time I had seen him, but he looked exactly like the man I married. He had put off a ton of weight (he gained like 75ish pounds during his struggle with depression, and before some dick says so, I didn't leave him because of his weight gain), he looked way healthier and very put together. I'll just say it: he looked incredibly hot. What made it hard was that I couldn't kiss him hello like I used to. But God, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me, I barely needed to.

We got our coffee and sat, and he updated me a little on his life in the last 3 years.

What really turned his life around was in part the divorce but moreso a DUI (nobody was hurt, he was caught a few blocks from his apartment). He's since gone to rehab and AA, gotten his license back, and had to use a breathalyzer whenever he started his car for a while. He hasn't had a drop of alcohol since and I told him I was so fucking proud of him. He's also started antidepressants, and made a point of telling me that they're not SSRIs, but when I asked what that meant he got embarrassed and told me nevermind (???). Bottom line is that they've been helping him, he's back to being a gym rat, and he's almost completely turned his life around. This was around the point I started tearing up. It just felt so good knowing he was okay. Better than okay, he was *good*.

I also apologized to him for not sticking by him. He cut me off and said I had nothing to apologize for. He was a wreck, and I was being dragged down with him. That also felt good to hear. I apologized for not contacting him much during the last 3 years. That apology, he accepted.

He was dating someone for a few months, too. He broke up with him once he tried to get him to drink on New Year's. He seemed dismissive of the guy. Guess it wasn't too serious.

We got up and went on a walk after a few hours, and I think we both realized it felt like a first date. I had to stop myself from trying to hold his hand at a few points, I'll admit. We ended up sitting on a bench in a nearby park, and I confessed.

I told him I missed him more than anything, how I never stopped loving him, and how if he wanted to, I'd love to try again from the beginning this time. We'd go to couples' therapy, keep our heads above the water, and take it slow. He was quiet for a minute before he told me something. He said he was doing better now, but there may be a time where he sunk low again. Depression isn't easily cured, and he was far from cured. He still had bad days, but he said there would be one difference: he promised he would never stop trying to improve. He was never going to give up like he did before, and refused to neglect me like he used to. If I was willing to accept that truth, he was willing to try again. I agreed, and he pulled me into an embrace and snuck a kiss to my temple. You know when it's the first warm day of spring after a cold, harsh winter, and the soft breeze and basking sun hit your skin at the same time? It felt something like that, to the 1000th degree. After a while he walked me back to my car and squeezed my hand goodbye, and the second I got inside I started sobbing like a baby. Happy tears, though.

I'm currently sitting in bed, kicking my feet like a teenage girl, texting him back and forth to schedule an actual date. He said he'd plan everything, and try his best to make up for the birthdays and anniversaries he missed. He said it would "knock my socks off." What a dork. I love being in love. Not gonna lie, this is gonna be a bit hard to explain to my friends and family. Not looking forward to those conversations, but right now I don't care. My man loves me.

Thank you to everyone who had kind words to say, and all the people that messaged me with sympathy and advice. I hope we all find happiness, and love if we want it. I never would have made the leap if y'all hadn't encouraged me. Best of luck to all of you, and sorry for the overly flowery language <3

EDIT: we've scheduled a date for tomorrow evening. I'll let people know how it went two days from now in my final (unless something big happens) update.

EDIT 2: at his place presently. Shame me not, reddit.

[FINAL UPDATE] I went on a date with my ex-husband last night

March 5th, 2025

My (35M) ex-husband (36M) and I recently reconnected. I won't go over the details of why we split or our reconciliation since I'm sure the average redditor can click buttons and most likely read. He was the one taking me out, and promised that it would, in his words, "knock my socks off" to make up for his neglect of me. He sure as hell delivered.

A little backstory, we've been together since we were 15 and 16 respectively, and have never moved out of our hometown. This year would have been our 20th anniversary (of getting together, not marriage). We were dating secretly for about five years before our parents caught us one day during summer break. The fallout from finding out their son was gay actually made his parents split. His dad wanted to send him away to conversion therapy. He's seen his father maybe once per year on average, and every time he's incredibly cold towards me. Would never refer to me as his son-in-law, only my husband's "pal." I wonder why. Anyway, not what you're here to read. I'll get on with the lore.

He picked me up from the house and wouldn't tell me where we were going, but told me to dress warmly. He ended up taking me to the place where we met: a run down ice skating rink in our town. He used to do hockey, and I spent some time trying to learn figure skating until people started beating me up for it. Both sports would practice at the same time and I remember barely being able to keep my eyes off him. We went skating, I tried to pull off a few of the moves I remembered (he only had to catch me from falling on my ass once or twice, and I won't complain about an attractive man that I love hooking his arm around my waist), and we spent an hour or so there until our feet hurt. At one point I said that my face was getting cold, so he skated around in front of me and placed his gloved hands on my cheeks to warm me up. I just about burned a hole in the ice from how hard I was blushing, I swear to God.

He wasn't done then. We left and went to dinner, specifically the restaurant where we had our first date. It's a cheap hole-in-the-wall place, seeing as we were poor teenagers when we first met. We chatted and ate food that probably took 5 years off our lives, he was an incorrigible flirt, and even held my hand underneath the table like he did all those years ago. I know I said I never stopped loving him, and I stand by that, but I think I somehow fell in love with him a thousand times over again during that meal.

At the end of dinner, he asked if I had energy for one more simple thing, to which I agreed. He took me a while out of town to a dark sky zone park, specifically the one where he proposed to me ten years ago. He set out a blanket to sit on and another to cuddle under, and we went stargazing all bundled up together. You never know how much you miss the sound of someone's heartbeat until you haven't heard it for so long. We shared a bottle of sparkling grape juice in plastic champagne flutes and dumb, giggly kisses. It felt so similar yet so different. He told me in a moment of quiet that he loved me, and oh, God. It took everything I had not to cry. I barely hesitated before asking if he wanted to change venues. He seemed surprised, but eagerly accepted.

I ended up at his place, as some of you may have seen from my edit on my second post yesterday. I wanted to take it slower than this, but it was so hard to. I was so starved of affection and hadn't been intimate with anyone for just about six years. I'm gonna keep what happened at his between us, but all I'll say is that his medication was no issue and all of you should be jealous. I woke up in his bed this morning, reached over for him, and pulled him close just like I used to do. I haven't been this happy in a long time. We had a sleepy discussion and decided to get back together, but we're not using the term boyfriends. It just feels weird after all this time. So he's my partner, or my lover. He's mine.

Thank you, reddit. Wouldn't have done it without a little push from the internet. Let's see where all this goes.

[swaggy-skeletons]

honestly my DREAM sims 4 dlc (yet highly unrealistic) would be one with a bunch of new worlds. like even if all of them were empty lots i'd be glad to have new worlds. i mean, there's SO MANY worlds representing and southern united states, where's the representation for like, a lot of other people?! As far as I can tell, there's recent non-US worlds have been pretty fire so id love to see some more! also some less represented US places (I NEED more rural worlds!) It makes it pretty difficult to accurately represent stories when you can't even set them in the right place!

[shithowdy]

this is your periodic reminder that for all the artifacts and errors and "tells" one could possibly list, the only reliable way to actually determine if an image is ai generated is to investigate the source. it is becoming increasingly common for "fake classical paintings" to circulate around curative aesthetic blogs, and everyone should be using this as an opportunity to not only exercise their investigative skills but also appreciate art more in general. you're all checking out the artists you reblog, right? 🫣

so what are some signs to look for? let's use this very good example.

what a lovely late-impressionist piece blended with evocative leyendecker-esque themes! why haven't you ever heard of this artist before? surely tumblr would be all over an artist like this. who is justin brown?

your two options from here are to do a search for the name, or a reverse image search. i prefer reverse image searching, particularly when it comes to a common name like "justin brown". so what does that net?

Immediately, without looking at any text, something is wrong: it barely exists. an actual historical piece would turn up numerous results from websites individually discussing the piece, but no such discussions are taking place. Looking at the text, though, does show the source-- and at least in this case, the creator was honest about their medium.

But let's also look at the "exact matches", in case a source doesn't make itself apparent in the initial sidebar results like this.

This section will often tell you post dates of images, and here it can be seen that the very first iteration of the image was posted 15 days ago. It did not exist online prior to that.

Seeing how long an unsourced image has been floating around is a skill applicable to more than just generative images! See a cool image of an artifact or other intriguing item with a vivid caption? Reverse search it! If all the results are paired with that caption and only go back a few months, you might just have viral facebook spam.

Sometimes generative creators are dishonest about their medium and do not tag it like in the example, so that's when establishing "jpeg provenance" becomes important. While it can be a little trickier to determine if someone is using generative images and not admitting to it if they aren't trying to pass it off as a classic, something to consider is the age of their account and the frequency with which they post. Here are some account red flags:

-Did they only start posting art after 2022, or if they did before, did their style/skill level WILDLY change? Not gradual improvement-- I'm talking amateur graphite portraits straight into complex digital renders. Everyone starts somewhere, newness is not a red flag alone; it's newness combined with existing in a vacuum away from any community.

-Do they post fully-finished paintings several times a week? -Do many of these paintings seem iterative of a similar theme or subject matter ("three well-dressed young men face each other under shade and dappled sunlight")?

-Does their style change in inconsistent ways? An artist that can swap between painting like Drew Struzan and Hokusai should be pretty well known, right? Why is no one hyping this guy?!

-Do they have social media besides the source instagram? If so, what are they posting about? Are there any WIPs? Doodles? Interactions with other artists? Gallery dates? 3am self-doubt posts? Or is it all self-promo? Crypto? Seemingly nothing art-related at all for someone pushing out 3 weekly paintings?

Basically, if it's important to you to omit this stuff when you curate, please don't just smash reblog if the source doesn't seem to be the OP themselves. Seeking out sources was important even before this became an issue, now it is more than ever.

peace n love

[nightplvmes]

pregnancy cravings (fluff)

sylus one shot (love and deepspace) sylus would spoil his wife, even if she weren't pregnant with twins⋆｡° | pairing : sylus x fem!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 1.5k (1,500) ⋆｡° | fluff, pregnant reader, husband sylus, twin pregnancy ⋆｡° | autor note: hi, i wrote this a long time ago and honestly i feel sylus would just take the damn car (spoiler) to not worry his wife and that's it, but i wrote this months ago and i didn't want to not post it, especially with all the time it takes me to write, edit and translate, so… you can read it with that in mind just as entertainment :) likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you carefully slid to the other side of the bed. Sylus had fallen asleep again while reading, or so you thought because his glasses were still on the bridge of his nose.

"Sy…" you murmured softly but he continued sleeping. you knew your voice hadn't been audible enough to wake him anyway. "Sylus!" you touched his shoulder this time and although you had raised your voice slightly it had perhaps been too much.

Sylus opened his eyes immediately. he turned to look at you almost without blinking and quickly straightened up. it had all happened in a matter of seconds, was it just his reflexes that were stupidly fast? "what's wrong? is it the baby?" you pressed your lips together and nodded, somewhat embarrassed. "what happened? we're going to the hospital. get up."

"what? no! I'm fine." you shook your head, settling back down on the bed. "I'm just hungry."

Sylus raised an eyebrow in confusion and stood still. it took him a couple of seconds to understand what was happening around him and that his wife was not about to give birth. "you woke me up because you were hungry?" you nodded. it wasn't that Sylus would mind but he had gotten scared. "why didn't you just go to the kitchen?"

Sylus put one of his arms around your hips and gently pulled you towards him. you looked at your baby belly where their twins were growing. it seemed like yesterday the pregnancy test had come out positive and now you could give birth at any moment.

"remember that cafe that's open 24 hours and sells desserts?" Sylus nodded, his face buried in your neck, smelling his wife's scent. "well… I'm craving that amazing red velvet cake." you felt your mouth water just thinking about it.

Sylus sighed and lifted his face. he would fulfill any craving his wife had even if she wasn't pregnant. he had told you that you were doing enough carrying their twins.

"okay, I'll get your cake." he sighed, rubbing his eyes. he was still a little sleepy, although he had to admit that hearing his wife wake him up made him think you were about to go into labor, and that scare had helped wake him up.

Sylus moved around the room, grabbing something to protect himself from the cold while his wife watched his every move. it was cold, and more than once you had made it clear that he needed to stay warm; you didn't want him to get sick.

"where's my helmet?" he asked, looking around the room.

"your helmet? will you use your bike?" you quickly sat down on the bed and pulled the covers off you. your face was now utterly worried, and Sylus quickly noticed.

"I'll go faster that way," he nodded. he knew you hated when he used the bike. ever since you found out you were pregnant, you'd practically forced him to stay off his motorcycle unless absolutely necessary and to use a car like a normal person. you were afraid something might happen to him, especially since they were expecting twins. Sylus had seen how worried you were that he'd agreed.

"Sy…" you got up quickly, and he smiled at you. you were wearing one of his favorite sweatshirts that you'd stolen from his closet, but he loved seeing your baby bump even when the sweatshirt was too big for you. "you said you wouldn't do it anymore."

"I'll be okay. I'll be right back," he murmured, letting you wrap your arms around him. he closed his eyes for a few seconds, thinking that after all, you didn't need that cake so badly and could survive one more night.

"I don't want the cake anymore. you don't have to go."

Sylus laughed, knowing you were lying, especially because you loved that cake. "you don't know how to lie." he placed a kiss on your forehead and finally pulled away. he felt a little guilty about leaving you worried like that, but he knew it wouldn't take long.

you followed him through the house, down the stairs, and to the front door, following his every step like a duckling.

"you still have time to change your mind and go by car. there's no traffic at this hour." Sylus stopped when he heard her words, turned to look at her, smiled, and then shook his head.

"it'll take less than ten minutes." you nodded, still unsure. your eyes drifted to the helmet in his hand. you didn't know when you'd become so paranoid, maybe the moment you'd realized you were actually in love with him.

"be careful, okay? you can't leave me alone with two twins!" Sylus nodded, though he tried to hide the fact that it hurt him to think of leaving you alone. He would never leave you alone.

he leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead, his fingers brushing your belly as a silent farewell. he turned to walk to the door and glanced over his shoulder one last time before leaving.

you started counting the seconds the moment Sylus stepped outside the house. why were you so nervous? he'd been riding his bike for many years and wasn't a beginner; nothing bad was going to happen to him.

you sighed and headed to the kitchen, trying to distract yourself. you began to make some tea in silence while your thoughts wandered, and you made a short mental list of things you had to do.

you needed to go to the doctor to make sure everything was in order with the twins. you needed to buy more clothes. you needed to prepare the bag you would take to the hospital on the day of delivery. there was still a crib to be assembled, but Sylus said he would take care of that himself.

you smiled as you remembered how you had tried to get the pieces out of one of the cribs, but it hadn't been more than five minutes before Sylus entered the room and forced you to stop. he hadn't let you do much of anything since you found out you were pregnant.

when you came out of your thoughts, several minutes had passed, and you were holding a cup of hot tea. you looked at the clock on one of the walls and felt your heart sink when you noticed that almost 20 minutes had passed. the cafe was close; it usually didn't take more than ten minutes, what was happening?

you felt a lump in your throat as you walked to the living room. you looked out the window hoping to see some light in the distance from Sylus' bike, but everything was too quiet. too quiet.

you walked back to the bedroom and rummaged through the pillows, looking for your phone. when you found it, you looked for your husband's number and pressed "call" but your hopes crumbled when you heard Sylus' phone ringing in the room. you sighed, trying to calm down. you was too paranoid, and the doctor had already told you a million times that you needed to relax.

but… what if something had happened to him? what if you were right? you sank down onto the bed and suddenly felt short of breath and like crying. you couldn't raise twins alone. the only reason you were calm now was because Sylus was by your side. he had taken it upon himself to reassure you when they found out their babies were twins.

one of each, he'd said. you covered your face as a sad smile formed on your lips. what would you do without the father of your babies? most importantly… what would you do without the love of your life? the only person you'd ever felt comfortable with, the only person who—

"sweetie?" you quickly looked up and rubbed one of your eyes to wipe away the tears that had begun to form. your whole body relaxed when you saw him standing in front of you with a box in one hand and a bag in the other. had you been so lost in your thoughts that you hadn't even heard him come in?

"Sy…" he quickly put everything aside and sat down next to you. he let you wrap her arms around him, and you were soon clinging to him. you'd been overthinking again. "it took you longer than ten minutes."

"I stopped by to get you some things you like," he murmured, kissing your head. he'd accidentally gotten too distracted, and now his pregnant wife was on the verge of a mental breakdown; he'd noticed it because of the way your eyes were watering. "I'm sorry."

you shook your head; you couldn't be bothered when he'd woken up to get your favorite cake and had stopped by to buy some of your favorite things.

"was there still cake?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

"I bought two." he nodded looking at your slightly red nose. you smiled excitedly and kissed his cheek; you'd have enough cake leftover for a while longer.

Sylus couldn't sleep again the rest of the night but that wasn't new to him, seeing his pregnant wife happy eating her cake was better than anything.

[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[sceletaflores]

GIVE IT TO HER LIKE A MAN!

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

｡𖦹°‧➵ pair: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ wc: 5.1k

｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[mcmansionhell]

new jersey "19th century" "eclecticism"

It's always funny to me when new wealth tries to imitate old wealth, but in a very specific way: by trying to reproduce old ways of building that are no longer viable via mass produced building materials and contractors who are better than average but still not quite in the legion of the bespoke. It's rarely the case that houses are fully "custom" these days -- the amalgamation of all the different parts in a new formation is the "customization" at work. As we can see in this example, this is a truth that is often covered up by excessive decorating.

This 5 bedroom, 6.5 bathroom house, built in 1997 (shocker) will run you an extremely reasonable $3.5 million big ones, but I say extremely reasonable because it wants to be a $10 million house but doesn't quite get there - after all, it's made with drywall. The architectural style is not really anything in particular -- though the front entrance would like to recall the Tudors. Really it is trying to emulate an existing pastiche style, namely the eclecticism of the 19th century. It also doesn't do this well.

No stately manor is complete without dueling staircases. Also, I don't know how to explain it, but every room in this house longs to be a bathroom. Or a powder room. A really big one. It's probably the floor, and the wallpaper. This is just the appetizer for the main attraction:

Jules Verne larping is so rare in McMansion Hell that you have to commend them for trying. I'm kind of obsessed.

This room is so important to me. It's like if an Olin Mills (dating myself here) set was an entire room. A sense of watching someone in one's own house, performing "dinner." Also I would slay as the swan knight, I have to say, so I get it.

What happened to baskets hanging from the ceiling and powder blue walls and porcelain lined up on the picture rail?

I have seen columns terminating into soffits that would make Scamozzi cry.

In Big America bathing and lavishing is a spectator sport.

Ok, again, the palette of this house is basically The Polar Express mixed with a very bizarre hotel lobby.

The chimney hole is sending me because that does appear to be a working chimney. Like, can you see the smoke come out? Who knows!

Anyway, happy Thanksgiving to everyone, and I'm especially thankful to the folks who sponsor me on Patreon! If you want to see more scenes from this house, that's the place to do it!

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar! Student loans just started back up!

[stylesispunk]

"I don't want to look at anything else but you"

post outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

summary: You and Joel had found peace in the quiet life you had built together in Jackson. Despite him hurting from the growing distance between him and Ellie, he knows he has you and you have his back.

wc: 6,4k.

warnings: a bit of angst for joel but is mostly fluff. Age gap but not specified. Remember English is not my first language and i'm lazy when it comes to checking.

a/n: okay. I didn't write a lot of blind faith during this week and I'm giving you this other joel fic as a sorry and because i'm already grieving Joel. I hope you like it 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Ever since you and Joel had settled into a normal, quiet life in Jackson. The dynamic between the two of you changed. The cold mornings spent outdoors turned into mornings wrapped in sheets. Just the two of you, your head on his chest and his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible. The first taste of normalcy Joel had experienced since the world had ended that September, back at more than twenty-three years ago.

It hadn't been the easiest path, not for you, nor for him. Years ago, when your paths connected, everything was just a form of ashes and violence; the QZ had been nothing more than a temporary shelter with concrete walls and a rot at its core. But somehow, in that rotten place disguised as the safe, you had found Joel. Or perhaps he had found you. Either way, you clung to each other ever since.

He was older than you, weathered by loss no human could even bear, hard edges above the walls he had built around himself, walls that didn’t crumble easily. And you, well, you were younger, yes, but you’d also seen enough to understand him without needing him to utter a word. You both learnt the secrecy of a language driven by gestures and glances. That's exactly what got him first. The way you looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with a kind of love that had grown as a rose after a long winter.

You were his constant, the thing he always saw beyond the horizon. The light at the end of the alley was where everything seemed to be driven by madness. He had never told you just how much that meant, how many nights he lost sleep, awake beside you in that worn-out mattress you both shared at QZ, eyes tracing the ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve someone like you. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. But you stayed anyway. Even when the Fireflies spread lies about change. Even when the world outside called to you both with the promise of something more deserving of a life.

And then came Ellie. The girl who turned everything upside down. The moment Joel took her in, you followed without hesitation, without question. Because you never questioned, you followed your heart, and your heart was him. You were the only one who never questioned him. Not even when he made the choice that changed everything. You didn't utter the truth of your mind, but instead you just held his secret like your own, wore the burden of it in silence. And when the truth finally tore open the fragile thread between Joel and Ellie, you were the one caught in the middle, because you had learnt to love them both in different ways.

And what was love in days like these? A tool that could give you strength or weaken your strength. A tool, still, after all.

Ellie had barely spoken to Joel in months now, but you still caught her glancing toward your porch sometimes, like she missed him but couldn’t quite forgive what he did, what he had taken from her. You didn’t push. You gave her space, the same way you gave Joel comfort when he needed it. Even when he didn’t say it, you could feel the guilt radiating off him in waves crashing into his charade.

But he still came home to you. Always. His hands shook slightly when he poured whiskey into a glass at night, the ghosts of the past flickering behind his tired eyes. And you would press your fingers to the side of his face and whisper that he was not the man he used to be. That maybe, finally, after all this time, he deserved peace.

The quiet life he was used to before the world ended.

He didn’t say much in response. Joel wasn’t one for poetry or pretty words, but his love was there in the way he kissed your forehead in the mornings before you even opened your eyes. It was in the way he made sure the firewood was stacked high so you’d never get cold. It was in every silent glance across a crowded dining hall, in every soft murmur against your temple when the nightmares woke him.

Joel had built a warm home for you. A place where both of you would end up dying after cherishing all the love you had shared for each other. After a fulfilled life, a happy life.

He became a fundamental part of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, and not just by you. While Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson.

And when you rode out past the gates on patrol, he stood on that porch, arms crossed, waiting for your silhouette to disappear into the trees. He never said “be careful,” never asked you to stay. Because he knew you wouldn’t. But he always waited for you to come back home to him.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter what came between him and the world, he knew one thing:

You were the one thing he had never wanted to live without. He would rather die before seeing life leave your body in a lifeless frame.

Joel had become a fundamental part of the heart of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, but not just by you.

And while Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson, bringing people in, making sure the community was at peace.

Today was one of those freezing days of winter when snow covered all paths. Winter had hit the streets, and each minute outside seemed to threaten to take one of your fingers away.

You'd been riding with Rick for nearly two hours in silence, save for the sound of snow crunching under your horses’ hooves and the occasional radio crackle from the patrol team. The morning was cold, but sunlight still broke through the trees in patches, casting gold across the frostbitten forest. You were glad for the silence. Patrols were always easier when you didn’t have to think too hard or talk too much.

But Rick was fidgeting, and that was making you nervous.

You noticed it as you dismounted to check the broken fence line on the north perimeter. He stayed unusually close behind you, clearing his throat every few seconds like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

You finally turned to him with a raised brow, snowflakes sticking to your lashes.

“Spit it out, Rick. You’re twitchier than those clickers.”

He looked at you, flushed already from the cold but turning visibly redder. “Okay, so, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Like… ever. But if I don’t, I think I’m gonna explode."

You leaned on the fence and blinked. “That sounds pretty dramatic.”

“It is. I’m being dramatic,” he admitted, letting out a nervous laugh. “Look, I know you’re with Joel. Everybody knows you’re with Joel. Joel definitely knows you’re with Joel. And he could probably kill me with, like, just with a stare. But… I....I kinda like you. I have for a while.”

You stared at him, not sure if you’d misheard him or if he’d actually just said that. “Rick.”

“I know! I know. It’s not cool. It’s kind of stupid. But I figured maybe if I just said it out loud just once, I could move on and stop acting like a dumbass teeneager every time you’re around.” He ran a hand over his face, half laughing, half mortified. “Jesus, you’re gonna tell Joel and he’s gonna bury me under the tomato garden, huh?”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed. Hard. Rick blinked at you like he wasn’t sure whether he’d just been spared or sentenced.

“I’m not gonna tell Joel,” You said, still chuckling as you shook your head. “Unless I need an excuse to make him do the dishes.”

Rick exhaled loudly, shoulders slumping in relief. “God, please don’t do that.”

“Hey, I might. That’s great blackmail material,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow before getting back to work on the fence. “Look, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. It’s weird, but kinda sweet, in a ‘high school crush’ kind of way.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “I’ll take it.”

“But Rick,” you added, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice gentler now, “Joel’s it for me. I love him. He is my husband, law or no law. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “Hell, everyone does. Just needed to clear my chest.”

“Well, chest cleared,” you said, patting him once on the shoulder. “Now let’s go back to our work or something. You’re not gonna make me do all the work just because you embarrassed yourself, are you?”

He laughed, finally relaxing. “Nah, I’ll take point. You just hang back.”

“Perfect,” you muttered, smirking as you mounted your horse.

As the two of you rode off, the moment settled behind you like footprints in snow. Something a little strange, a little uncomfortable, but harmless in a weirdly comforting sense. You knew Rick wouldn’t cross any lines. He wasn’t that kind of guy. And besides, by the time the sun dipped low and Jackson came into view again, your thoughts were already back at home.

To the porch where Joel would be waiting, arms crossed, pretending he was there spending time instead of waiting for you.

The way his jaw would twitch the moment he saw you, trying and failing to hide the relief in his eyes. To the warmth of his hand on the small of your back when he pulled you close and muttered a “Took you long enough.”

Because no matter what happened outside those walls, you always came back to him. You always would. Until the end of your life.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time you and Rick made it back to Jackson. The patrol had been uneventful after the confession, thank God, and Rick had thankfully returned to his usual self, cracking a dumb joke or two to break the tension. You left him at the stables with a casual wave, brushing the snow off your coat as you handed off the reins.

As you stepped out into the chilly late afternoon, your breath puffed white in the air. The lanterns strung along Jackson's paths were starting to flicker on, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered streets. You shoved your gloved hands into your pockets and turned toward home.

And then you saw Joel walking your way, just down the path near the greenhouse, shoulders relaxed in that slow way of his, with the glasses still perched low on his nose that made you pause and smile like a fool. He rarely kept them outside. Said they made him look too damn old. But there they were, catching the glow of the lanterns as he walked, reviewing something in a worn notebook.

He looked up as if sensing you before he even saw you.

The second his eyes found yours, his entire face shifted, like watching ice melt under a flame. His mouth tugged into a lopsided smile, soft and real and just for you. And God, it still got you. After all this time. After all the hell, the healing, the hurt, he still looked at you like that.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and warm as he closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” you replied, unable to keep the grin off your face.

He huffed. “Didn’t mean to. Just got caught up in the numbers. Didn’t wanna strain my eyes again.”

You stepped closer, heart easing in your chest the way it always did when he was near. “You look good.”

Joel gave you a look, tilting his head. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arms around his middle.  “I mean it. There’s something kind of... sexy librarian about you.”

He let out a dry laugh, hand coming up to tug the glasses off and hook them into the collar of his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know, but you love it, though.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze shifted a little more serious, a little softer. “Everything went alright out there?”

You nodded, leaning your shoulder into his chest. “Yeah. Nothing we couldn’t handle. Rick confessed his love for me, though.”

Joel stopped mid-step. “He what?”

You burst out laughing at his expression. “It was harmless. Kind of awkward. I think he mostly just needed to say it to get it off his chest.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, but there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his face, just amused disbelief. “Poor boy.”

“Right?” you said, still grinning. “He looked like he was about to faint. Said you’d probably bury him under the tomato garden.”

Joel gave a thoughtful nod. “Not a bad idea.”

You swatted his arm as he slipped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close against him. His body was warm, solid, familiar.

“You know I only love one grumpy man in this town,” you murmured, tucking your hand into the space between his coat and flannel.

He looked down at you, something tender and unspoken in his eyes. “I know.”

Your steps slowed, gravel crunching gently beneath your boots as the space between the two of you closed even more. You turned to face him, chin tilted up, your hands sliding into the open edges of his coat to rest against his chest.

Joel's brows lifted just a bit, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You leaned up and kissed him softly, just enough to make him pause and breathe you in. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always made you feel like you were something rare. Something precious under his stare.

The kiss lingered, unhurried because you had all the time in your hands now.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “Tell me about your day,” you whispered.

Joel hummed low in his chest, his nose brushing against yours. “Not as exciting as yours, apparently,” he muttered, and you could hear the faint smirk in his voice.

You grinned. “Still wanna hear about it.”

He sighed, but it was soft. Content. “Well, I argued with Tommy about expanding the southeast fence. Again. He’s still convinced we need to pull it in tighter. I told him he’s just scared of dealing with the extra patrols.”

You chuckled. “He is scared of extra patrols.”

“Damn right,” Joel muttered, clearly pleased you agreed. “Helped Maria sort through some of the winter inventory. Got roped into fixing a leaky pipe in the clinic because somebody thought I was the only one with ‘good hands.’”

You looked up at him with a grin. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

That made him laugh again, the sound low and rough and good. “Are you flirting with me, darling?”

“Maybe.”

“After all these years?”

“Especially after all these years.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a beat. “You keep that up and I’m gonna have to warm you up properly once we get inside.”

You raised a brow. “Promise?”

Joel groaned and gave a playful shake of his head. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you said again, smiling as you slipped your hand into his and started walking toward home, where the hearth was probably still warm and the bed even warmer.

And God, you really did love this life. This normal, beautiful, quiet life with him.

As you reached your home, Joel’s hand squeezed yours gently before slipping away. He paused on the porch, his eyes drawn toward the garage across the yard. A faint flicker of light glowed from the crack beneath the door, soft, irregular, probably from that old lamp Ellie refused to replace. You followed his gaze, the air suddenly still around the two of you.

“She’s in there,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now. Not tense, exactly, but something sad, almost wary. You knew that tone. He’d been using it a lot when it came to her lately.

You nodded, shrugging off your coat. “Yeah, she seems to spend a lot of time in there.”

Joel lingered, eyes fixed on the garage like he could see right through the wall and into her thoughts. “Do you know if she’s going to the New Year’s thing tonight?”

You turned to look at him, reaching out to take his gloves from him as he pulled them off. “She didn’t say a lot to me this morning.”

Joel nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked older when he worried, shoulders heavier, jaw tighter. “I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn´t.”

“Things are different now,” you said softly, brushing a bit of snow off his shoulder. “She’s still figuring out how to be... okay with everything. With you, okay. With both of us.”

“I don’t blame her,” he said after a moment. “I just… I hate not knowing how to make it better.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand against his chest. “Maybe it’s not the right time. You’re still here, waiting, still being there for her.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He looked at the garage one more time, eyes soft with regret and longing, something like hope, but worn thin.

Then he turned back to you, lips brushing your forehead as he let out a long breath. “Come on," he said quietly. “Let’s get inside before you freeze that smart mouth off.”

You smiled and nudged the door open. “Too bad. I had plans to use it tonight.”

Joel laughed under his breath as he followed you inside, letting the door close gently behind you.

The world felt warm and still when you opened your eyes.

That fuzzy kind of stillness where the light was soft and golden through the curtains, and your limbs were heavy in the best way, boneless and relaxed under the weight of a thick blanket. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the calm, to the scent of pine still lingering from the firewood and Joel’s flannel shirt close by.

Your head was resting on his lap. Joel sat slouched back against the couch cushions, legs stretched out, a book open in one hand, his glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t noticed you waking yet. Or maybe he had, and just didn’t say anything.

The fingers of his free hand combed lazily through your hair, tracing slow, thoughtful paths over your scalp and down to the nape of your neck. Over and over again, like it was as natural to him now as breathing. That kind of tenderness that wasn’t loud or showy, just there, anchoring and steady.

You smiled, sleep still in your voice. “You’re gonna put me right back to sleep doing that.”

Joel’s eyes flicked down from the page to meet yours, and a slow smile spread across his face. “And that's a bad thing?”

“No,” you murmured, shifting just slightly to curl closer into his thigh. “It’s a really, really good thing.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, low and warm. His thumb brushed along your temple in a soft arc. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You were out cold.”

“Blame your lap. It’s cozy for this kind of weather.”

He chuckled, eyes returning briefly to his book. “Didn’t think you’d fall asleep halfway through telling me about how Rick nearly dropped his gun while trying to impress you.”

“He did!” you laughed, eyes closing again. “It slipped right outta the holster when he tried to be all cool and stretch like nothing hurt. I nearly fell off the damn horse.”

Joel shook his head, the quiet amusement clear in his face. “That man is a disaster.”

“Mmm, but at least a harmless one,” you yawned.

Another beat passed, quiet except for the sound of pages turning and the fireplace crackling low in the background. His fingers never stopped moving in your hair.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure where the question had come from. “Before here. All the chaos we used to live in. The constant movement. The adrenaline. Sleeping on the dirt, perhaps?"

Joel’s hand slowed, just slightly. You felt the pause. Then the steady rhythm picked up again, gentler.

“Sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Not the danger, but the feeling of having to keep going. No room to think too hard. Now Ellie doesn’t talk to me.

You nodded, eyes still closed. “That will be temporary, you know.”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, more thoughtful. “But I’d trade a hundred years of running for one of these. You and I like this.

That made you laugh again, and his hand cradled the back of your head as you shifted to look up at him.

“You’re getting soft in at your old age, Miller.”

He looked down at you over the rim of his glasses, brow raised. “Say that again and see if I let you keep using my lap as a pillow.”

You smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“I would,” he said quietly, and just like that, the teasing faded into something real.

You smiled at him, “I should start getting ready for the party tonight.”

“You look perfect just like this.”

“How romantic, Joel Miller, but I probably smell bad.”

Joel snorted softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he closed the book and set it aside. “Darling, we’ve both smelled worse. Remember when we reached Bill’s house?”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face into his thigh. “Don’t remind me. That was not my best moment.”

“I didn’t mind it then either,” he said, his fingers grazing down your jaw, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could be covered in mud and I’d still think you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by how easily he could say something like that now. It hadn’t always been like this. It used to come out in actions, his silence, his worry, the way he stood between you and anything that even looked like a threat. But now he let himself say it. He let himself mean it.

And you never took that lightly.

“I’ll take the compliment,” you murmured, sitting up slowly and stretching under the blanket. Joel helped you out of it without a word, and you lingered just a second longer to brush your lips over his before standing.

He watched you, content and quiet, as you moved toward the bedroom. “Do you want me to wear that sweater you like?” you asked over your shoulder.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “The one with the buttons?”

You nodded, already pulling your hair back into a messy bun.

“Hell yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “That one drives me crazy.”

You laughed as you disappeared around the corner, the sound making Joel lean his head back against the couch with a quiet, contented sigh. His hand drifted absentmindedly to the spot where your head had been resting only moments ago, like some part of him still needed to hold on.

From the window, he noticed the light in the garage had gone dark. Maybe Ellie was getting ready too. Maybe tonight would be a little bit closer to feeling whole again.

You stepped out of the bedroom a few minutes later, brushing the last bit of lint off the front of your sweater, the one with the buttons Joel never shut up about. It was a little snug at the waist, hugged you just enough to make you stand out. Paired with the jeans he said made your legs look dangerously good, you were banking on at least a solid double-take.

Joel looked up from the couch, still lazily sprawled across the cushions, glasses sliding down his nose.

And damn if you didn’t get more than a double-take.

His hand went straight to his chest like he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, then closed again like he forgot how to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, sitting up straighter, eyes trailing slowly from your boots to your eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You grinned, one hand resting on your hip as you posed, just a little. “What, this old thing?”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You look…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “I don’t even get a word for it. Beautiful doesn’t do it justice.”

“You’re such a liar,” you teased gently, though your cheeks were already warm.

“I’m not,” he said, still staring. “You walk into that party looking like that, I’m gonna have to fight half the town.”

You walked over and stood between his knees, his hands naturally coming to rest at your waist, thumbs sliding along the hem of your sweater.

“Don’t worry,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair with deliberate slowness. “I’m only going with one man tonight.”

His eyes met yours, serious under all the teasing now. “You’re mine,” he said lowly, not like a warning, but like a vow you would say at a wedding.

“I always have been,” you whispered back.

And for a second, it didn’t matter where you were going or who’d be at the party. There was only this, his hands steady on you, your breath soft against his, and the quiet thrum of a life you’d built together piece by piece.

“Come on, Miller,” you said, pulling back with a smile. “Get dressed. Can’t show up to a New Year’s party looking like you just came in from the stables.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I was gonna wear the flannel you like, but now I’m reconsidering.”

You leaned down and kissed him slowly, “Wear the flannel. Then you lose it later.”

Joel groaned into your mouth. “You’re evil.”

You smirked. “You love it.”

He planted a kiss on your lips before standing up from the couch.

.......

The lights in the main hall of Jackson’s community center glowed warm and low, casting golden halos over strings of mismatched decorations, handmade banners, old Christmas lights, paper stars that crinkled every time the door opened and let in the wind. Music played softly from an old radio in the corner, laughter and voices mingling with the hum of people pouring in, already loosening up with drinks and stories.

You stood near the back wall, a glass of something vaguely sweet in your free hand, the other laced tightly with Joel’s. His thumb brushed slow circles over your knuckles as you chatted with Maria, who was animatedly retelling something Tommy had done earlier that day involving a runaway chicken and a very confused patrol dog.

You were half-listening, smiling and nodding along, but you felt it more than saw it, that Joel wasn’t really paying attention. His body was here, steady beside you, but his focus had shifted.

You followed the subtle line of his gaze, and there she was, Ellie.

She was standing on the edge of a table, watching Dina dance in the middle of the place. Her hair was surprisingly neat. She wore one of the jackets Joel had patched for her last winter, and she looked better. Not completely at ease, but not avoiding people either. Laughing at how Dina enjoyed herself, her face lit up in that rare, open way that used to be more common. That Joel hadn’t seen in too long.

Your fingers squeezed around his, gently tugging his attention back to you. He blinked, then looked down, sheepish.

“She showed up,” you said quietly, so only he could hear.

Joel nodded, but didn’t speak at first. His jaw worked slightly, like there was something caught there that he couldn’t quite get out. “Didn’t think she would,” he murmured eventually.

You leaned your head into his shoulder, your hand still holding his like it anchored you both. “She’s trying,” you said softly. “Just like you are.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Ellie for another long moment. His face unreadable, but you could feel the storm behind it, the guilt and the love and the endless what ifs he carried like extra weight on his worn-out back.

“She still wears that jacket,” he said finally, voice a little rough.

“She still loves you,” you said, just as sure.

Joel looked down at you then, the depth in his eyes something that stole your breath a little. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was?”

You turned slightly to face him, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist. “No,” you said honestly. “But maybe it’ll become something new eventually.”

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to believe it. Maybe tonight helped.

The minutes had stretched into hours, in a few ones. A new year would come into your lives and you were enjoying the hope that brought to all people in the community. Yes, you were enjoying the party, until something completely shifted the ambiance.

When Ellie’s voice came.

Loud. Angry. Hurt.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

You froze. The room quieted, just a little. Just enough for you to react to it.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You watched his face, how it closed off, his expression almost neutral except for the way his jaw clenched. There was something like shame in his eyes. Like he’d overstepped. Like he knew this was coming after him.

He turned. Not fast. Just quietly stepped back, like every inch he put between himself and Ellie was one he’d deserved. He didn’t look at you. Just walked toward the door of the hall, shoulders tight, hands in his pockets, and disappeared outside.

You turned slowly, your gaze falling on Ellie.

She was still standing there. Chest rising and falling like she'd just finished running. Dina was beside her, wide-eyed, unsure whether to step in or stay back. The room had started to move again around them, but you stayed where you were, heart sinking.

Ellie looked at you. And you didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown or shake your head. Just stare at her.

There was disappointment in your eyes—yes. A flicker of sadness too, not just for Joel, but for her. For the pain stitched between them. For the ways she still didn’t understand that Joel didn’t defend her to take control, or because he thought she was weak, but because he loved her.

Because she was still his. And whether she was ready to admit it or not, he would always be hers.

Ellie looked away first. Back to her shoes. Her jaw tensed like she was biting back words. But she didn’t say anything else.

You waited another beat, then gently set your glass down, excused yourself from the people at your table with a small nod, and went after Joel.

The cold had settled deep by the time you made it back home.

The porch light cast a soft glow across the wooden steps, and there he was sitting in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, guitar in his lap, hands quiet on the strings. He wasn’t playing. Just holding it, his fingers curled around the neck like they used to when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

His glasses were off, resting on the side table next to him. The soft creak of the porch boards under your steps made his head lift, and his eyes met yours.

You smiled gently. “Hey, cowboy.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, just gave you the ghost of a smile before looking down at the guitar again.

You crossed the porch and crouched in front of him, resting your hand on his knee. “She didn’t mean it.”

He let out a breath, slow and tight. “Yeah, she did. Maybe not in the way she thinks. But she did.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you just leaned your head against his leg, wrapping your arms around his knee. “Come inside,” you murmured. “It’s freezing.”

“I like the cold,” he said quietly.

“You’re getting old,” you teased, tilting your face up toward him with a smile. “Your bones can’t handle it anymore.”

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. “You keep talking like that, and you’re getting a snowball to the face next time it drops.”

“Promises, promises.”

You stood up and reached out a hand to him. He hesitated for a moment before placing the guitar gently against the wall. His hand slid into yours, warm and rough and steady, and you led him inside.

The house welcomed you with its familiar warmth, soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp. You tugged him into the living room and stopped, turning to face him, fingers still wrapped around his.

“You remember how to dance, Joel?”

He raised a brow. “Now?”

You nodded. “Now. Just us.”

There was no music, just the sound of the wind outside and the hum of life still buzzing faintly in town. But you stepped closer, placing your other hand on his chest as he found your waist, and you started to sway slowly, like there was a song only the two of you could hear.

You looked up at him, voice soft. “You know there’s no life for me after you, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching. Quiet.

You swallowed. “Not just no one else… No life. I’m not made for this world without you in it.”

His jaw tensed, his hand tightening slightly on your hip.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I even thought I could love anyone."

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you saw the fight in him, the weight of it all, the doubt, the guilt. But you also saw the way his heart ached for you. How much he wanted to believe he deserved it.

“You’re all I have,” he said finally. “You and her. And I keep messing it up.”

You shook your head and pulled him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t mess anything up tonight. You stood up for her. That’s what love looks like, even if she doesn’t know how to take it right now.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “Always.”

And with his arms wrapped around you in the middle of that quiet living room, Joel let himself hold on.

You kept swaying with him, barely moving, your arms snug around his broad frame like you were afraid he might drift away if you let go.

The firelight from the hearth flickered softly across his face, casting shadows that danced along the lines etched into his skin. You lifted your gaze, taking him in, really taking him in.

His hair was more silver than brown now, especially at the temples, and his beard had followed suit, peppered with white that hadn’t been there when you first met him back in the QZ. The creases around his eyes were deeper, more permanent, carved by years of worry, loss, and that rare, secretive laughter you’d always tried to pull from him like a prize you needed to win. His hands, still strong, still steady, were rougher too, scarred by more than just time. And his eyes, God, those eyes. Still the same deep brown, still full of everything he never said out loud, but they were heavier now, more tired.

But even in all of it, in every reminder that time had passed, that the world had taken its toll on him, he had never looked more beautiful to you than this.

This was the man who had survived when others hadn’t. The man who had chosen you when he could’ve kept his walls up forever. The man who still held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Your fingers slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel before curling lightly at the collar. You rose up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering there. Then another, along the edge of his jaw. One at his temple. His brow.

Joel's hand tightened on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head now, and his breath caught when your lips found the corner of his mouth.

You pulled back just an inch and whispered, “I love all of it. All of you. Then. Now. Always.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face.

And then you kissed him, soft, deep, like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. His lips moved against yours with that familiar tenderness, that unspoken hunger that had never gone away, no matter how many years passed. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slowly marked by the safety that glued you together.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm on your lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You shook your head gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Joel let out a quiet, broken laugh and kissed you again, softer this time, like a thank you.

You leaned in again, drawn to him like the tide to the moon. Your lips brushed over his once more, slower this time, tender and unrushed. A kiss that said everything without needing words. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, your noses still touching, you smiled against his mouth. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

He exhaled softly, his breath warm as his eyes opened to meet yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart full. “This is to us,” you whispered, “to spend more years like this. Together.”

Something flickered in his gaze, quiet, reverent, a little disbelieving, like the weight of your love still knocked the air out of him every time. His thumb stroked along your jaw, rough and careful all at once.

“Until the end, darling,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, resting your head against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. And there, in the soft quiet of your living room, with the muffled echo of tiny fireworks somewhere in the distance and his arms holding you like a vow, you knew there was no one else you’d ever need.

Joel held you there for a long, quiet beat—his hand resting at the small of your back, the other curled at your nape, cradling you gently like the world might crumble if he let go.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes finding yours again under the soft glow of the fire. There was something raw in them now, unguarded, soft in that way only you ever got to see properly.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, voice low, gravelly, full of something deep and real. “To more years. However, we’re lucky enough to get.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words catching in your chest. But then he said it, firm, steady, like it had lived in him for years.

“I love you,” you said at the same time, putting a smile on both of your faces.

Your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the slight stubble there. His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into the warmth.

This was your beginning. Again, and again. Every year. Every moment. Joel was your home. You were his. As long as the world allows you.

[whos-the-seme]

Shen Yuan is actually a cuddle bug. Had a ton of Luo Binghe body pillows back home not just for the merch reasons but because he needs something in his bed to squeeze when he's sleeping.

Since he started having weekly planning (boozing and bitching) sessions with Shang Qinghua, he sometimes accidentally sleeps over. After he's finished his paperwork and started on some of Qinghua's, sometimes the wine gets to him and he's just so sleepy. Or, sometimes, Shang Qinghua will let the other read some of the short stories he had written early on in his transmigration when fighting to not lose his mind. Shen Yuan would critique them, before harassing him to publish them anonymously.

("Oh, so you are capable of writing more than papapa trash."

"Aw, you like it?" "...it's good." 🙄)

But by the time he finished them, it would be so late, and it didn't make much sense to leave when a bed was right there. And Shang Qinghua had custom ordered goose feather pillows and blankets, which was so unlike his porcelain pillows, and Shang Qinghua himself is right there. Therefore. The man himself becomes his new object of comfort when asleep.

At first, Shang Qinghua used to just wave it off. Then he started to playfully complain and tease about how clingy Shen Yuan was in his sleep, and Shen Yuan would grumble and turn bright red and turn his back on him... only for them to wake up with Shen Yuan basically curled around the other like an octopus in the morning. And then it just became normal because, of course, they really only had each other, so like why not? It brought them both comfort and two people could totally cuddle platonically.

Before long, more than half the week, Shen Yuan was spending the night over, and some rare times, Shang Qinghua goes to the bamboo house. Shang Qinghua learns when to give up his piles of paperwork when his friend starts getting tired and to get more fucking rest himself. Otherwise, Shen Yuan will just walk in, curl up on his lap with his head resting on Shang Qinghua's shoulder, and fall asleep there.

("Really? I ordered those extra stuffed pillows for you, you know. Go to bed, I'll be done in a minute."

"Ugh, shut up, sleeping isn't the same when you're out here ordering new fighting posts for Bai Zhan Peak for the 5th time this month. I'll just wait here for you to finish."

"In my lap...? That's kinda gay--" 😏

"Qinghua."

"Shutting up and finishing the work." )

Those of An Ding Peak, being the peak that was basically the backbone of the entire sect and kept it running through sweat, blood, and some other bodily fluids, knew how to keep secrets from other peaks. You don't become a disciple there without knowing how to keep your mouth shut when outsiders are around. But between each other, whispers abound.

"I don't think Shen-shibo has left in two days," one disciple murmurs to another when they see Shen Qingqiu flouncing around yet again, ordering one of the disciples to bring some two small meals to their Shifu's rooms for a late dinner.

"Do you think they're... you know?" Another asks quietly after delivering some new contracts to their Shifu. The door to his bedroom had been slightly ajar, and through the cracks, green leaf-pattern outer robes were on the ground.

("I'm not sleeping in these, okay! You should have written in pajamas while you were busy adding in chocolate, and whatever else doesn't exist in Ancient China, to PIDW!" 😒

"Oh my god, just sleep in your inner robes, then! Better yet, borrow some of my clothes. But you're sure as fuck not sleeping naked on my silk sheets, bro!")

The disciples on Qing Jing Peak certainly notice when the bamboo hut isn't occupied for the night. At first, they just thought that their Shizun was extra silent in his house now, but once, Ming Fan had to go to Shizun for a small issue late in the evening, and he wasn't there. Nor was he there the next night, or the next. They're not sure where he is, or what he's doing, but he's always there in the morning, so they don't worry too much.

On the fourth night, Shizun was home, but Shang-shishu was also there. And... stayed there. The lights went out, and the disciples who were sent out to spy came back and reported that Shang-shishu had never left.

("He... is Shang-shishu still in there?"

"I think so. M-maybe he stayed in the extra bedroom?"

"..." 👀

"..." 👀)

The disciples eye each other and simultaneously agree to never let those outside the peak know about this. When crossing paths with A Ding disciples, there are discreet looks and nods of understanding, and they pass each other by with not a word.

(Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua?)

----

One bright and sunny morning, Liu Qingge slams his way into Shang Qinghua's office. He is followed by Mu Qingfang, and Yue Qingyuan, all needing to speak with Shang Qingqua to figure out Shen Qingqiu's whereabouts. He wasn't in his bamboo hut this morning, nor was he anywhere else that he typically frequented.

Mu Qingfang because it was time for his bimonthly check-up to ensure that his treatments with Liu Qingge were progressing as they should. Yue Qingyuan due to peak matters (though, technically, he could do it on his own, but if he got to see Xiao Jiu--). Liu Qingge because the beast that he had dropped on his doorstep yesterday afternoon had yet to be removed, which was odd. And also, he had ordered new fighting posts a week ago, and usually they would have been delivered by now, which was also odd.

Wei Qingwei and Qi Qingqi also follow along because they could smell drama. And also they were a tiny bit worried about their shixiong. Whenever he disappeared for too long, it was likely that he had gotten kidnapped or poisoned. Again.

Shang Qinghua scrambles out of his bed chambers with hastily thrown-on outer robes, blurry-eyed, screaming "Whoosit!?" He barely has time to open his mouth before he is instantly bombarded with several requests, most of them pertaining to the apparent missing peak lord. Liu Qingge also asks about his fighting posts, which Shang Qinghua pretends not to hear.

"We've not seen him in a few days," Mu Qingfang says to him over the noise, with an apologetic smile for waking up his overworked shixiong. "I know you two are somewhat friends, so if you see him soon, please tell him he really needs to come to Qian Cao for his next physical."

"Wait, who's missing? Ah, please don't touch that." The last part is directed at Qi Qingqi, who is combing through his shelves. "Shen Qingqiu is apparently missing, according to this bunch," Qi Qingqi says, smirking at him. She pokes the figurine he told her not to touch. Oh well, she'll realize why he told her not to touch it soon enough.

"Shen Qingqiu? What do you mean, he's--" Shang Qinghua instantly closes his mouth, hoping that no one heard that. "I-I mean, yeah, I'll let you guys know if he stops by! No problem, will absolutely send him your way--" "What was that?" Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at him. "You were about to say something. You know where he is. Tell me."

Shang Qinghua begins to sweat immediately. "Whaaat? No, you must have heard wrong. Seriously, I'll let you guys know if I catch him. Now, if you guys can be on your way--" He starts trying to herd people out.

Unbeknownst to him, his bedroom door cracks open and a figure, eyes barely open, shuffles out and heads towards him. Wei Qingwei, idling in the office, is the first to notice the person wearing another set of An Ding Blue outer robes over soft Qing Jing Green inner ones. His jaw drops.

"Qinghua?" A soft, sleepy voice murmurs in his ear, arms circling around his waist and a head laying on his shoulder from behind. "It's too early, come back to bed." A small yawn.

Shang Qinghua can feel himself freeze with a nervous smile on his face.

Shit.

[kalims]

⭒ㅤwhose (not) random kid

premise. crash landing from the future is apparently your kid, not that you know that anyway... in the form of a mixture between you, and your... supposed counterpart, clues are bound to pile up as to whose child this is.

parts. rosehearts, kingscholar, ashengrotto, al asim, schoenheit, shroud, draconia

cont. gender neutral reader, use of 'mada' which is just 'mama' and 'dada' cut in half for our resident shrimp (aka yuu), a yummy 5.8k words that I did not expect to get this long lol

note. I only have a rough outline of what's going to be included with the others parts after the names of the kids lol. I'll probably write leona's as usual after this but I can't promise I'll release one more part after his this month, the rest will probably come next month considering I'm bombarded sadge. paper defense, then final exams next month save me

also hello! my unnofficial: I'll try to post more

late edit: comment if you want to get tagged <3

riddle

when you slid a foot over the portal to heartslabyul there’s some sort of a strange–inexplicable air that surrounds it. usually the dimension is light to be in, unlike the tingling feelings of being in octavinelle or the eeriness of ignihyde. all dormitories had their own particular sensation that weighs on you depending on where you were.

you squinted, deciding to shrug it off. there was no way you had a sixth sense for feeling in the literal air!

barely a foot in though, was something you could only explain as an army of card… soldiers trudging from the other end of the sidewalk to the next. dumbly, you stopped right in front the shimmering portal that settles into a smooth sheen of silver behind you as they just kept coming.

they seemed to be looking for something–or whatever but you don’t really want to know what so you slowly inched to the side, hoping to sneak past them even if you had to go into one of the confusing mazes (which was a struggle considering you’re trying not to laugh as one of them trips).

must be ace’s wretchedness rubbing off of you.

the real question was, where in the seven were your resident idiots? you’d already sent a text over for your impromptu visit to the chat consisting of you three and figured they had seen it like they usually do then waited for you with feigned begrudging-ness that does not fit well with them showing up in the first place. 

you fish for your sad excuse for a phone in your pocket, cater’s words not yours. you’re more busy trying to merge your backside as you shuffle and pull up the chat to notice the ever nearing edge of the hedge wall that makes you stand out in comparison to the lighter shade of green brushing against your uniform.

not deuce: you guys ever notice the card soldiers infestation near ur mirror portal…?

not ace: you nedea to RNR RUN RN!!

not yuu: what???

there’s not much time to ponder about the cryptic, seemingly panicked expression of deuce’s message as you looked up from your phone, feeling a slight chill crawl up to your spine like you attracted some sort of unwarranted trouble that is also unwanted.

disclaimer: you (uu) did

“over here!” an unfamiliar voice yells, freezing you in your tracks just when you were about to make the sneak of the century. without a moment’s hesitation you darted deeper into the maze and shoved your device within the confines of your pockets as you held in a mortified scream at the sudden mob upon your tail as you ran.

WHY WAS THERE SO MANY? you yelled in your mind. number one rule in horror games don’t look back. don’t look back. don’t look back–

oh sevens you’re looking back.

the decision immediately fills you with regret when you spot the diabolical amount of card soldiers trailing after you like you just slaughtered their queen in front of whatever kingdom they came from! was this someone’s unique magic? there was no way riddle would let this sort of thing go rampant on his dorm!

you almost keel over in shock when the pointy end of a heart on the end of a pole sticks right on the patch of grass you just barely managed to trudge across with increasingly heavier steps. maybe you should actually take jack’s offer to join track and field–your stamina is horrible–you’re gonna get stabbed.

goodbye world. you thought warmly with a chorus of pants.

a deeper voice bellowed from the crowd from your behind. “three of hearts! are you thin-headed? do not harm the majesty!” the steps behind you stop almost abruptly, and you don’t stop running even as the voices fade. idiots for choosing to chastise their idiotic comrade but you’re not complaining as long as you get away from this horrid situation.

your majesty what now?

you don’t know how far you ran by sticking to all left turns until you flop down on the entrance of the maze, the archway barely offering you any relief as you took deep breaths and fought the urge to lay down on the grass and hope it camouflages your grey uniform.

that won’t work but you’re coping at this point.

not deuce: HELLO  I ALMOST GOT SKEWERED BY LITERAL CARDS?

not yuu: that’s a humiliating way to go down from

not ace: don’t be insensitive ace! are you ok?!

not deuce: NO? WHAT IS GOING ON

not yuu: riddle got dethroned and i'm not even happy

not yuu: it's the absolute WORST AT THE DORM!

not yuu: you better turn back rn and get away from ‘labyul coz it’s getting run by a kid

not deuce: BACK INTO THAT DEATH MOB? no thanks

not ace: yuu brace up, cater texted that the new boss is on his way to you

not yuu: F for yuu

not ace: F

not deuce: F u

what you expect to be the final boss of your life, you guess from the approaching pairs of footsteps nearing your defeated form sprawled across the flecks of grass and still heaving comes in a surprising form of softness, and youth.

“mada.” 

the blueness of the sky is shadowed by a tiny little head peering over your head. you’re startled by the tuff of red hair, and familiar pair of eyes which was strange, considering you have never seen this kid in your life. this was the new queen of heartlsabyul? you thought incredulously, since when were kids allowed in nrc…?

the thought was a breeding ground to raise the most evil person on the planet, considering the equally as evil people in night raven.

out of habit from the familiar chubby, round face you blurted: “riddle?”

the child blinked before they shook your head. “I am not papa.” their lips twitched into a small smile directed to you. if taken a closure look, this child’s resemblance with riddle really is uncanny. from the hair, even to a small golden crown sitting primly on the middle of their head. “mada, I am glad I found you. I have not seen papa yet.”

was this season 5 of stranger things?

they straightened. attention straying from you as you glanced to the other pairs of legs, whom you put a face to quickly. trey and cater both cast you a look of exasperation and pity.

then done like a true riddle–their face does a complete 360 and curls into anger as they stared off inside the maze. “all of you!” the tiny child rages with a concerning… change of color around their cute face, fingers pointed accusingly. how can a child be so horrifyingly scary?

the two third years do not mirror your confusion as you sat up, following the kid’s gaze to the archway where a myriad of thundering footsteps almost have you scampering away if not for them laying a small hand on your shoulder and somehow managing to ground you to stay still.

whose kid is this? you looked to cater who shakes his head uselessly

then to trey who wore a resigned smile.

the child’s brow twitches when the card soldiers lined up obediently. “I thought I had made it clear you not hurt mada.” they seethed, voice tilting in clear threat and a I demand you! sort of way. the card solider, three of hearts who had scared the living soul out of you trembled less subtle compared to the other guards.

of course this child had to get more terrifying by being observant, they caught the shiver of one soldier and narrowed their eyes. “ah, found the culprit. three of–”

trey shuffles forward with an awkward laugh that belies his usual laid back with–on his face is a twinge of concern as he raises his palms in a placating gesture. he steps forward three more times, sliding between the child and the line of soldiers but keeping the distance warily. “hey, kid. maybe we can discuss this with some tarts, and some tea?” he tries. children love sweets, right?

they keep their head level despite the astounding height difference. “I told you, uncle trey! being called ‘kid’ is disorderly! It's alice!” still, despite the brief protest their eyes sparkled with interest at the notion, even if they seemed a bit embarrassed to admit it. “i’m not supposed to eat sweets on mondays.” 

“huh.” cater mumbled before the thin line of his lips rose into a familiar grin. “as in, rule 102 of the queen?” he queries with a nervous slide of his fingers through his hair. he’s not so obvious to directly state that he’s tiptoeing around… alice but a bit of months knowing him, you can tell.

alice nods along. they no longer look as bothered as before, the card soldiers all slump their tense shoulders a little when alice shifts their piercing gaze from the three of hearts before settling onto cater, who they offer a brief nod of agreement before returning back to trey.

well, a kid is a kid. 

“but i can eat sweets on tuesdays.” they added hastily. like they don’t want the notion of trey’s treats slipping from their fingers but that would be strange, if the look of confusion you three share with each other you would have thought trey had initially baked for alice based off the tone of wistfulness in their tone.

trey smiles at them. “tomorrow it is.” reassured by their sheepish innocence he stops in front of them and grasps their shoulders, turning them away from the stiff soldiers. alice spares a brief glance at them. “what about these rule breakers?”

you stood up fully. “uh, don’t worry, they didn’t do anything wrong. i ran for too long.” you supplied in defense. if anything , a resemblance to riddle of all people meant that they could have the head offing in their blood. you did not want to stick around to find out, neither did cater.

alice considers you for a moment with a small sparkle in their eyes, with a wave of the small wand that maternalized in their hand, the soldiers fade into glittering spots of gold. only then do they let trey lead them back to the main pathway towards the dormitory of heartslabyul.

you fall into step behind cater who probably sees the question in your eyes so he lowers his voice discreetly, glancing at the back of trey who keeps the child’s bay attention so they don’t notice you two slowing down a little. nonetheless, still walking.

“that was little alice’s unique magic.” he says to you with a shrug, sighing after a glance at the former’s small, regal form. “pretty overpowered… kind of like my split card but less cute, and more dangerous.”

he winked, you frowned.

in front of you two, alice seems tame in comparison to the subtle bribing of trey questioning about their favorite sweets as you all finally reached the nearing entrance of the main dormitory

“where’s riddle?” you questioned.

he pursed his lips, navigating though the fountain in front of the dorm. “last i know, he went out early to campus cause of a meeting with his club for the upcoming NRC tour festival…” 

oh, right. I have not found papa. alice’s voice echoes in your mind, so you echo the question that appears in your mind right after the memory. “alice called riddle ‘papa’ which i’m pretty sure is a term for a parent…” you trailed off. riddle seemed to be the least likely person to have a secret love child of some sorts, he seemed like he had most of his life planned out.

if riddle bent over backwards for his rules then he wouldn’t stray from the path he had set.

there’s a flash of interest in cater’s eyes, it was already there before, just dwindled. you watch it spark to life. akin to lighting some sort of fire within the guy, a gossipmonger at heart as he leaned in eagerly just as you both trudged up the stairs to the front doors who opened politely, and closed behind you as you walked in the main hall of heartslabyul.

“they look, and act like riddle!” he chuckles. “imagine our shock when alice popped up straight out of nowhere with an army at their beck and call.” cater clutched onto his arms, and shivered. you leaned away when he reaches his arms out to you in a teasing manner.

he adds. not at all offended by the way you scrunch your face at his ‘affections’. “they seem to listen to you though. like someone.”

you only regard him with an impassive raise of your brows. “i don't think so. riddle doesn’t listen to anyone. much less me.” befuddled by the mere idea, you scoffed. in all your magic-less glory, the best thing you might have achieved here in this other dimension was having the ability to wake leona kingscholar up from one of his power naps.

cater doesn’t seem to agree. only sighing at you from what it seems to be an of course. “only you can be so oblivious to the chaos you leave behind.” he says in response, making an exaggerated show of peering behind your shoulder and widening his eyes in feigned shock.

you humor him as you turned your head. the scene of the main entrance of the dormitory was the only answer to your eyes as you both walked into the living room–where little alice sits alone. you caught a glimpse of trey’s dark hair as he disappeared into the kitchen, most likely going off to make her a treat.

vaguely unsure if the male had heard him, cater calls out a “make us some too!”

“not my fault the students here are so… unstable.” you remarked with a roll of your eyes. remembering the overblots to be the most plausible reference to the chaos cater was talking about as you begrudgingly sat down on the couch and reeled in any other remarks for the child in the room.

who was now shuffling closer to your seated frame even if they thought they were being subtle in the movement.

what was two seats in the space between you and alice eventually became none at all, as they settled beside you and peered up with innocent eyes.

you tilted your head at them, alice copies the movement.

then to the other side.

they mirror the lull of your head.

“besides those.” cater cleared his throat after a bewildered glance at the child. “what’s more impressive is that you’re still here, yuu-yuu. night raven is like… a pack of wolves trying to run you off crying, and you? you’re a very weird sheep.”

still a bit enraptured on this child, you replied without your stare wavering from the roundness of alice’s cheek as you reached up to pinch it. to yours, and cater’s surprise. their previous cute ferociousness is not present at all as they leaned against the warmth as though instinctive. “i didn’t do anything.”

you don’t entertain the accusing look in cater’s eyes.

“if that was you not trying to beast tame the school then i don’t know what’ll happen if you put in the effort.”

you both lapse into silence as cater–who seemed to sense the finality of the conversation lets it slip fully and instead, busies himself with the entertainments his phone provided. you redirect your full attention onto the elusive red-headed alice.

“so,” you started. “how did you end up here? must be a great feat if you were able to go past the barriers.”

alice curls their fingers within the fabric of your blazer, inspecting it as they reply softly. “i’m not sure, mada. i was just sleeping, and woke up in a garden. the hedgehogs showed me the way after i offered them a caterpillar.” they do not mention a bleary moment in their sleep where they curiously wondered how you and riddle came to be as they drifted off. “as pertaining by rule 210… if you are lost in a maze, give the hedgehogs an offering and they shall show you the way.”

you can’t help but let your mind drift over to riddle, who echoes the rules to be followed when mentioned.

your lips twitch into a smile, much to the delight of alice. “strange indeed. must have been scary.”

their eyes squinted. “i’m not scared.”

you chuckled and pinched their cheek. they pout.

“where are you from?” you ask instead, wanting to know more about the.. figurative alice from nowhere. 

alice looks at you strangely.

“from the queendom of roses…” could they simply be a relative of riddle’s? you thought mindlessly. drawing your fingers through the surprising soft red locks who seemingly part eagerly for your touch. “with my mada, and my papa. sometimes my uncles visit.”

unsure of how to reply, you merely nod along. parting their hair by half and twisting it into a braid. “you called me mada.” you hummed.

“because you are my mada.”

she says like it’s the only thing that makes sense in her small world, not relinquishing her grip on your blazer but instead tugging at the wrists to expose the small slither of skin and hold onto it. clingy. you thought, deciding not to question it.

… was this your freaking kid?

the smell of strawberries wafts over the space of the living room alongside the ticking of the oven–momentarily taking both alice, and cater’s attention. the latter stretches before standing to stride over to the source of the smell, no doubt requesting trey to change the taste once more.

alice’s eyes, like yours slid to your own. a bit shy in their demeanor as they clutched onto the skin of your wrist. “can i eat some of uncle’s tarts?” they queried under your breath, only meant for you alone. you felt a bit confused but nodded nonetheless. 

their lips twitched into an eager smile before it settles into a more controlled look of impassiveness.

that was adorable. you thought, unable to resist leaning down to scoop them into your arms as you stood. alice makes a sound of brief surprise before their arms loop around your neck. they sat pliantly still as you walked over to follow cater inside the kitchen, catching a glimpse of your scent that they sought for, so alice nuzzles their face into the warm pulse on your neck.

trey glances up from the animated retelling of cater about the crazy day. “new responsibility?” he wore a humored smile, apron long discarded and folded over the handle of the oven for the meantime.

if riddle saw this, he would not believe it no matter how intelligent he was. trey deduced.

he gestures to the tray set on the counter. “there’s frosted strawberries, blueberry cornmeal, and the good old mont blanc since i got left over ingredients from the last unbirthday party.” 

alice feels the shift of your head as you glanced down at them, they don’t remove their head from the crevice of your neck for a moment and meets your eyes with a raise of their own. “frosted strawberries, please.”

“good choice, little alice.” cater comments.

“careful, it’s hot.” trey chided gently as he watched you pick up one of them, drawing it near alice’s waiting hunger as they tilted their head up from your shoulder. they took a small bite at the corners of the tart, smiling at the taste and only wider when you wiped remnants of crumbs around the edges of their mouth.

alice chews, and swallows before they spoke again. their eyes gleaming with admiration as they stared at trey. “it’s always the yummiest when it’s fresh out the oven.” they recited.

trey blinks.

“you’re a bright one.” he remarked, ruffling their hair when he drew near. “don’t tell anyone about the wicked secret ‘round the kitchen, all right?”

they nodded vigorously. “thank you, uncle..” they spewed politely, but evidently genuine.

cater munches from the other end of the counter. “we gotta protect alice,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling as he pointed his phone to you, tapping to snap a picture of the scene despite your warning stare. “too nice for the vultures we call students here.” 

“you might be right.” trey shook his head, and you nodded mutely. more absorbed into letting them take bite by bite into the tart until it was about finished halfway. only then do you lay it back on the tray. how much sweets was ideal for a child to take anyway? regardless of you deeming it as enough, alice stays quiet and does not complain.

if they wanted more, you wouldn’t know.

“later.” you promised, leaning back when you were satisfied with their prim appearance. a pat of their hair to smooth down trey’s earlier disruption.

“later..” alice echoed. 

a resident third year enters the kitchen. only to pause in their tracks and back away.

“domesticity is really the enemy of the students here.” cater sniffed, earning a chuckle from trey who found the comment funny. “imagine being happy, being broody and emotional are the real requirements to get admitted.”

cater finishes his snack with a pleased hum, and a grateful nod to trey. “by the way i messaged adeuce, sent them to stall dorm leader from going back as long as the dorm was… kind of in a wre–predicament.” he cleared his throat, casting a brief glance at alice to spot if they had taken offence to his almost uttered word.

“so now they’re en-route?” trey guessed, transferring the leftover tarts to a glass bowl. leaving the tray in the sink to wash for later. cater nods in response, typing on his phone with one hand. likely in cahoots with the two right now. “told them the coast was clear! no more trampling soldiers scampering around.”

trey eyed him. “what about the–”

just then, whatever trey was going to comment in rebuttal of cater’s easy reassurance was promptly interrupted by new individuals peeking inside. ace, and deuce poked their heads from the corner. as if trying to ascertain the danger level of whatever may be inside.

ace rougly nudges deuce when he spots you with a child in arms. for two people insisting on their unique, varying selfs. they mirror each other’s look of bewilderment as though their brain cells crackled and connected into a singular one. “what the seven?” ace mouthed.

you all do not notice the look of familiarity on alice’s face.

nor the brightening when riddle strides in with a petulant huff,

if riddle thought strangely, or disapproved of the two’s behavior then he wouldn’t have had the chance to comment on it before he was leveling trey with a sharp, inquisitive stare. “i would like a very good explanation as to why my hedges have been mangled to the ground.” his eye twitches with the effort of containing irritation. “three hours i’ve been gone. three! and when i enter heartslabyul the first thing i see is devastation upon my gardens!”

perhaps emotionally, riddle cried out in the last sentence.

even though such an expression should have frightened a child to some degree, alice relaxes in your arms but their face clouds in shame at his voice.

riddle whirls back to the other two lingering by the doorway who both flinches imperceptibly–cater tries to intercept with a nervous chuckle but is only met with a steely don’t even start! “ace, and deuce have me running around the school. saying something about yuu getting kidnapped by those.. vermin excuses of… students from octavinelle!" riddle seethed, breathing still a bit labored as favor of his statement about running around.

“dorm leader!” ace stood straight stiffly.

oh, did he just come from a frantic search in octavinelle?

“i even had to threaten collaring azul who i thought was lying about yuu.” with a deep intake of air, riddle breathes out and pinches the bridge of his nose, collecting his temper. much to the chagrin of deuce.

“we apologize.” deuce added sadly.

cater feigns ignorance by looking away but it’s trey’s look that has him adding to the defense of the two, rather than using the opportunity to scamper away with his head in tact. “ahem… we had these two keep you busy. so don’t be too harsh on them, riddle. us upperclassmen will take responsibility.”

a nod of agreement from trey gets riddle quiet.

the former tilts his chin to you. “yuu is fine, they’re right here.”

like he hadn’t even noticed before (he really didn’t), riddle’s head snaps to you immediately. his eyes would have been stuck to you, prodding for a valid explanation to your ignorance to his angry calls but instead, settles on the bundle in your arms.

“who…” a blink. “why in the world do you have a child! they are not welcome on school grounds! especially this time in the school year–.” riddle sputtered, instinctively sauntering over to take a closer look at alice who only stared without an inch of fear.

“papa.” they mumbled, voice measured but still echoing in the now quiet kitchen.

ace leapt up to your side. “that’s not right!” he gasped, squinting dangerously at riddle. any traces of earlier mortification gave way to whatever emotion he’s got on his face. “how could you sully yuu! they’re not a babysitter for your kid!” 

“what?” riddle seethed, head flicking from ace, to you, then to alice.

despite a look of great reluctance, deuce nods from the doorway still. mumbling to himself. “dorm… dorm leader has a child…”

you vaguely remember trey offering the dazed guy a glass of water.

“unconfirmed earlier, confirmed now.” cater adds unhelpfully to the blazing fire of riddle’s rising anger.

riddle’s teeth grind together, jaw clenching as his fingers tightened into a fist. it was more of one his attempts at calming down rather than preparation for a physical alteration. “I did no such–!”

“don’t be mad at mada.” alice reaches for him, tugging at his blazer which surprisingly, quells the reddening of his face. now, he just looks a bit confused.

alice turns their head slightly. “mada, you can calm down papa.”

deuce paused before dropping to the ground.

“AH! he’s dead. this is why you don’t betray us by keeping secrets, yuu!” 

“uh oh… trey help me with deuce… wait, should we just leave him? i mean, he’ll be just fine here, right?”

“... just take the other arm, cater.”

all the way back to the living room, riddle’s face remained tinged with warmth. alice, while reluctant to part with your embrace, seemed wholly pleased to stay by the other red-heads' side. insisting you sit next to him when you moved to sit by your two friends.

you obliged them despite riddle’s interest with the carpet.

the couch dipped at the weight of another. even so, the non-verbal conversation between alice, and riddle continued. the former pressed their lips together thinly, seemingly assessing the… youthfulness of the latter. they aren’t so used to this kind of look from him.

cater flinched, and look away from the flash of his phone. he elbows a dazed deuce.

“so,” ace cleared his throat, blinking his still wide eyes. “who the heck is this kid?!”

“language.” riddle chided sharply. though softened from its usual end even he isn’t so sure why it is from the mere presence of alice alone. 

“rule 13, always present yourself with appropriate language.”

“always present yourself with appropriate language.” alice repeated.

riddle squinted at a relaxed alice, who tilts their head as if to ask ‘what?’.

“genetics is crazy. what’s next, the kid beheads us too?” ace points between the two. 

alice shrugged. “only if you break the rules.”

“i do not have a child!” riddle protested.

“i am your child.” replied alice.

“apparently this one’s our kid.” you agreed begrudgingly.

riddle stares at you with a mixture of disbelief, and confusion.

darting between you and the kid like they're gonna start collating him in all his glory! sure, alice had red hair like him but quite a lot of people in the island have it too besides his relatives. the idea of… of him and you is just so out of this world that he can't wrap his head around it.

you? you who he hadn't paid attention to when you arrived at the ceremony? the very first person in that event that broke the rules? you, the very fading into the background student whom he believed to be a bad influence to his students ace, and deuce? 

you he had almost hurt beyond repair at the bursting of his control so tightly held in his hands?

the brief skip of his heart when your eyes meet over the head of alice is enough to send blood rushing to his head, coloring it with his signature red whose warmth doesn't feel like the usual simmering anger he struggles to keep submerged. if anything, this feeling is practically leaping out the water and baring his face to everyone. 

riddle does not look away. managing a look of what he tries to name as conviction but easily crumbles to fluster.

then the idea wasn't so bad considering this young child has proved to be raised dutifully, correctly without any worries of what he used to be burdened with as a child.

it gives way to curiosity. 

despite his incredulously, riddle queries. “the gardens.” he starts with a measured narrow to his eyes, not too intense to possibly upset this.. future child of his whose eyes are strikingly familiar enough to halt the normal circulation of his heart once more for half a second. “were you responsible for the destruction of some hedges I've come across?”

alice shrinks into themselves. “i'm sorry papa.” they pursed their lips, voice genuine by the lower tilt. “i thought i could use my card soldiers to look for you, and mada. you told me about this place called heartslabyul before?”

“i have?” riddle blinks. the idea isn't too bizarre, it's only natural to think back on such things.

they nodded. “yes, papa. you talk about it a lot on our friday’s. about how it looked, how you were as it's dorm leader…” alice peeks a glance at you. “and your parties with mada.”

“unbirthday parties.” trey corrects. “sometimes birthday parties if it really is someone's birthday.”

ace perks up. “let me tell you then! from first hand experience!” he blanched. like opening light about his own struggles in heartlsabyul magically meant the truth to riddle’s own kid. “labyul is really strict on rules. you know on my first day, I ate a tart and—”

deuce stirred slightly.

at riddle’s glare, ace visibly wilts to which cater snaps a picture with snickers. “I mean… the tart was really good, made by riddle and all…” he sweatdropped.

“you shouldn't eat a tart that is not made by you.” alice replied thoughtfully. riddle can't resist a light smile at her words, feeling a sense of accomplishment as he nodded along. his hand hovers for a moment before it pats down on their hair. “that's right. I must have taught you well.”

you absentmindedly patted their head, taking turns with riddle to do so while  expertly avoiding his gaze. “you said friday though, why?”

“on friday’s we don’t go out.” alice says.

“that isn’t a rule by the queen of hearts.” riddle points out.

“you made that rule papa.” they replied innocently. “in our home, so we get to spend time together as a family.”

silence reigns.

“wow.” you cough. sparing riddle an approving glance. that… sounded nice… domestic, and nice. you supposed even as an adult riddle would still have some sort of grip on rules, considering he grew up with them, it helped him live.

and now rules he shaped helped him live with alice, and you apparently. 

tick.

tock.

tick.

tock.

alice peers down at the watch they pull out from under their little adorable coat, oblivious to the stunned silence they left behind. hesitantly, they place a hand on your knee, legs swinging as they rest the other on riddle’s. “mada.” they smiled, this time widely. “papa. I gotta go.”

“what?” riddle's eyes widened. “you haven't finished your tart yet.”

“it's okay. I already ate a tart earlier, papa.”

“you can eat another, just this time. if you want.” he insisted, strangely worried.

cater raises his hand. “can I?”

riddle disagrees immediately. “no.”

muttering something about favoritism, cater looked away with a long sigh.

riddle's eyes lingered on the roundness of alice's face. from the shape, to the more detailed parts of their features. eyes, your eyes. the lushness of their hair, the soft curve of their lips tilted with innocence sends an unexpected grip in his heart, like it's heart stopping.

gosh. his heart just stopped. would he really have his own alice? his eyes darted to you. with you?

alice huffed lightly, skin glimmering lightly as their shade slowly grew transculent and faded with each blink of your eyes. “I can always eat papa's tarts. they're so delicious.” 

“don't use too much magic.” riddle scolded with a crease in his brows.

you add. “don't anger riddle too much.”

“please eat his tarts.” ace encouraged.

trey shot him a look. “don't teach alice bad things.” he sighed, glancing at said child with a smile. “I'll teach you how to make your own tarts, ask uh… future me?”

cater, not wanting to be outdone quickly perked up. “as a future magicam star, I'll make you one too. little alice!” he added, self assured of his future fame.

when it all settles, all that remains is a space between you and riddle that feels too little than vast. and a remainder of your future.

“atleast we know what name we'll choose.” you can't resist but tease. riddle does not blow up like you would have thought from your remark, only sparing you a look of feigned annoyance with warming ears that doesn't support the idea of his irritation.

he resigns to a small nod. “I am assured they are taught well.”

ace glances between you, and riddle. “I miss alice already. riddle seemed a lot more lenient with them around. you think they got embarrassing stories from the future?” he comments off-handedly, leaning back against the couch and blowing on the fringe over his forehead. “when are you guys gonna make an alice? please make one now.”

cater whistles out of there.

trey shakes his head.

deuce–still passed out is thankfully considered by trey, who dragged his limp body with a nod of goodluck to ace.

you waved at ace. F indeed.

wait! don't leave me, upperclassman! ace cried in his mind, feeling the panic splinter his state of mind.

“ACE!” riddle gritted his teeth. “i'll hand down my sentence, the verdict comes afterwards–”

ace paled.

“off with your head–!”

trivia

alice’s name is very much inspired by alice from the one and only: “alice in wonderland”.

their unique magic is called: under my decree which is simply being able to summon card soldiers, and command them at their will! (in this case, after being sent to a maze and finding their way out thanks to the hedgehog. alice was able to discern that this was heartlsabyul, and figured they might be able to find their parents here, hence, why they used their magic.)

alice is written to be a well-behaved 8 year old.

the watch is a nod to my previous commissioned work who also dealt with the concept of time travelling and related to going back (ha, ha).

alice woke up by the sound of a clock ticking, and knew that hearing it again meant that their time was up.

the entire thing happened due to alice helping untangle a fae who happened to get stuck in their gardens at the backyard while they were looking for a hedgehog that had not yet eaten (spoiler: hedgehog was hiding in a small crack under the tree) the same fae visited them at night whilst sleeping and granted them a dream of whatever they wanted to wish. alice, feeling swayed by the magic despite being not aware made a wish to fulfill it.

boom! baby rosehearts in your faces!

alice woke up and immediately said young riddle was funnily shy to yuu. much to the confusion of actual current riddle!

their favorite tart is: anything with strawberries, like riddle.

rule 13, and rule 102 are entirely fictional and made up by me… for plot purposes…

not deuce = is actually yuu

not yuu = is actually ace

not ace = is actually deuce

deuce been sleeping for the entire time lol.

ace got roped into fixing the gardens with the collar on  #thatswhatyouget

riddle invites you to study for the nearing quiz season the following day.