#battered kitchen tables

[mumblelard]

ruth acting out or fresh everything bagels sitting on the counter top waiting to be toasted

on friday, i went to a baseball game with finn and fall, and i drank a beer, and we ate hot dogs, and we watched the fireworks after the game like it was two thousand and twelve or something. it was a really nice night

we ran into one of their oldest friends at the game, someone they have known so long, i don't know if they can even remember meeting. i accidentally talked to her boyfriend as though he spoke my own language and it i guess it scrambled his brain for a bit, but i think he'll be alright

my dad usually takes me to a baseball game around my birthday, but a few days before the date of this year's game, i mentioned that i was looking forward to it, and he seemed confused. then he said, 'oh, that fell through,' and that was the end of that

this week has been full of unexpected, dark developments in the lives of people on the edges of my life. my usual experience of the world lives somewhere on the scale of tired sadness to hopeful joy, but this whole last week was stained by the lurking potential for tragedy

last night i dreamed about swimming through the crystal clear waters of a drowned city and massive waves would lift me up twenty stories in a moment and then drag me down into the depths. i dreamt about eating a package of ramen that tasted like a fried chicken sandwich with dill pickle chips, and i dreamt about finding a nest full of baby squirrels waiting to be fed

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you. part 2

If you enjoyed this, check this post out too!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ sylus

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when a small, warm weight landed on your stomach. You let out a soft groan, blinking sleep from your eyes as a tiny giggle filled the air.

“Mama! Wake up!”

A little girl with curly white hair and big red eyes beamed down at you, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. Your daughter, Elena, was already full of energy despite the early hour.

You reached out, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s too early… come cuddle with us instead.” You said as you hugged your daughter to your chest and laid on your side, using her like a small warm plushie to hold

Elena pouted, but before she could argue, a deep, gravelly voice interrupted.

“Excuse me, little one,” Sylus drawled from behind you, his arm tightening possessively around your waist. “I believe your mother is mine in the mornings.”

Elena huffed, climbing over you to plant herself between the two of you, effectively shoving Sylus away. “No! Mama is mine today.”

Sylus narrowed his dark red eyes, feigning insult. “Oh? And what am I supposed to do, hmm? Spend the morning alone?” He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his white, tousled hair. “How tragic.”

You smothered a laugh as Elena folded her arms, her tiny frame full of defiance. “You have all day with Mama. It’s my turn now! Get out of bed dada”

Sylus turned to you, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Sweetheart, tell our dear daughter that monopolizing her mother isn’t allowed.”

You stretched with a soft yawn, brushing your fingers through Elena’s soft curls before placing a hand on Sylus’ chest. “Sorry, love, but she does have a point.”

Sylus let out an exaggerated groan, flopping onto his back. “Betrayed. By my own wife and child.”

Elena giggled and latched onto your arm. “Come on, Mama! Let’s go make pancakes!”

Before you could even respond, she was already tugging you out of bed. You barely had time to throw on a robe before being dragged toward the kitchen.

Sylus followed at a much slower pace, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you. His lips twitched in amusement as Elena enthusiastically handed you ingredients, most of which you didn’t even need.

“Flour, eggs, milk,” you listed off, cracking an egg into the bowl.

“And chocolate chips!” Elena added excitedly.

“That wasn’t part of the original plan,” you teased, ruffling her hair.

“But Mama, chocolate makes everything better,” she argued.

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Chocolate it is.”

Elena cheered as you mixed the batter, and soon enough, the scent of warm pancakes filled the kitchen. You plated them neatly, setting them on the table, but before you could sit down, Sylus was already pulling you into his lap.

“Alright, little one,” he said, smirking at Elena. “I was patient. Now it’s my turn.”

Elena gasped. “No fair! You get Mama all the time!”

Sylus held you close, his lips brushing against your temple. “Exactly. Which is why I should get the first bite.”

Elena narrowed her eyes before suddenly grabbing a piece of pancake and stuffing it into your mouth. “Mama gets first bite!”

You nearly choked, laughing as Sylus sighed in mock defeat.

The morning continued like this, the two of them constantly bickering over who got more of your attention. If Sylus wrapped an arm around you, Elena would climb onto your lap. If Elena got you to braid her hair, Sylus would find a way to pull you into a slow, lingering kiss—only for Elena to dramatically cover her eyes and shout, “Eww, Papa!”

It was an endless tug-of-war, but one thing was clear: you were deeply, endlessly loved.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Caleb

The day had been long. Between running errands, cleaning up after a particularly chaotic dinner, and making sure your 4-year-old son had actually bathed instead of just splashing water everywhere, all you wanted was to crawl into bed and melt into your pillows.

But, of course, fate—or rather, the two most stubborn males in your life—had other plans.

Just as you pulled back the covers, ready to slide under the sheets, a little whirlwind of energy burst into the room. Your son, Noah, padded in with a determined expression, his favorite stuffed apple plush clutched in one arm.

“I’m sleeping with Mama tonight!” he declared, climbing onto the bed as if he owned it.

You sighed, already sensing the inevitable battle brewing.

“Noah,” you started patiently, “you have your own bed, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want my own bed,” he pouted, scooting closer. “I wanna sleep here with you.”

Before you could formulate a response, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and in walked Caleb, still in his colonel uniform, just back from the fleet, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on the intruder in his domain.

“Noah,” Caleb said, voice edged with authority. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Noah puffed out his little chest, glaring up at his father. “I’m sleeping with Mama.”

Caleb raised a brow. “No, you’re not. I sleep with Mama.”

“Well, not tonight.”

“Yes, tonight.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Are you two seriously about to argue over this?”

Neither of them responded. Instead, they were locked in a silent battle of wills, Caleb towering over Noah, while Noah, unafraid, jutted his chin out defiantly.

“I got here first,” Noah announced.

“I’ve been here for years,” Caleb countered, placing a knee on the bed as if preparing for battle.

Noah tightened his grip on his stuffed apple plush. “Mama likes cuddling with me more!”

“Excuse me?” Caleb scoffed. “I am a very good cuddler. The best.”

“No, you’re too big! You take up all the space!”

“I do not—”

“You do! And you snore!”

Caleb looked personally offended. “I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do,” you cut in, unable to hold back your smirk.

Caleb’s mouth fell open, betrayal clear on his face. “Sweetheart—”

“It’s true, Daddy,” Noah added smugly. “You sound like a big grumpy bear.”

Caleb scowled. “I am a big grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a tiny bed hog.”

Noah gasped dramatically. “I am not a bed hog!”

You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. watching the two go on and on “Alright, enough.”

Both of them snapped their heads toward you, watching as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“You two fight over me every single night. And honestly?” You sighed, dragging yourself out of bed. “I’m sick of it.”

Caleb and Noah blinked.

“What?” Noah asked innocently.

You grabbed two pillows from the bed, shoving one into Caleb’s hands and the other into Noah’s tiny arms.

“You two can take this argument somewhere else.” You gestured toward the door. “Both of you—out.”

Noah’s jaw dropped. “But—”

Caleb furrowed his brows. “You’re kicking me out, too?”

“Yes. Out. Both of you.”

“But Mama—”

“No buts! I am going to sleep alone, in peace, without a four-year-old climbing all over me or a six-foot colonel trying to wrap himself around me like an octopus.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Go fight over who gets the couch.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

Noah smirked. “Guess I’ll get the couch, then.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Caleb shot back.

You sighed and physically pushed both of them toward the door. “Out.”

Noah whimpered. “Mama, wait—”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead before turning to Caleb. “And you—” You gave him a pointed glare. “Good. Night.”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased with the outcome. “This is mutiny.”

“Call it whatever you want, Colonel, but it’s happening.”

With that, you shut the door in their faces.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“This is your fault,” Caleb muttered.

“I still get the couch,” Noah replied smugly.

You grinned, sinking into your blissfully empty bed, enjoying the first real night of uninterrupted sleep in weeks.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Rafayel

Life with Rafayel was never dull. Being married to one of the most renowned artists in the world came with its own set of challenges—his erratic work schedule, his bursts of inspiration at ungodly hours, and, of course, the ever-looming threat of someone discovering his biggest secret.

Rafayel wasn’t just a celebrated painter, sculptor, and occasional recluse. he was also a Lemurian—a species of deep-sea mermen that most humans believed to be myths. Lemurians were creatures of the ocean, rarely venturing into the human world.

But Rafayel had. He had chosen to leave behind the waves, to live among humans, to build a life with you. And together, you had a daughter—little Seraphina—who had inherited his everything. His attitude, his stupidly handsome face shape, his genes left nothing for yours to take root in seraphina.

And now, the two of them were bickering. Again.

You rubbed your temples, exhaling deeply. “Can you two please stop fighting over me for five minutes?”

Rafayel, ever the dramatic artist, was sprawled on the couch with a faux-wounded expression, his purple hair draped over his face. “I cannot believe this betrayal,” he murmured. “I, your devoted husband, have been abandoned.”

Seraphina, all four years of attitude and tiny hands on her hips, stood her ground. “You had Mama all day! It’s my turn!”

Rafayel gasped, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, little guppy, but I believe it is always my turn.”

Seraphina pouted, her violet eyes—exactly like her father���s—narrowing. “Mama played with me first.”

“Mama kissed me first this morning.”

“Well—Mama let me sit on their lap while we ate breakfast.”

“Mama lets me sleep in the bed next to them.”

You groaned. “Rafayel, she’s four.”

“And?” He arched a perfect brow. “She must learn that a wife’s love belongs to her husband first.”

Seraphina huffed, turning to you with pleading eyes. “Mama, tell Daddy he’s being mean.”

You sighed, knowing full well that no answer would satisfy either of them.

Rafayel rolled onto his side, reaching a hand toward you as if on his deathbed. “My love, tell our traitorous offspring that no one can replace me in your heart.”

“I am not a traitor!” Seraphina stomped a tiny foot. “Mama loves me so much! Even more than you!”

Rafayel sat up instantly. “Oh, now that’s where you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right!”

“You wish, little one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering how your life had come to this—caught between two extremely possessive, competitive merfolk.

Seraphina suddenly latched onto your leg, wrapping herself around it like a tiny octopus. “Mine,” she declared.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Seraphina stuck her tongue out at him.

Rafayel smirked. “Well then.” He cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

In one swift motion, he scooped Seraphina up, ignoring her protests as he carried her toward the glass doors leading to the backyard’s infinity pool—built deep enough to accommodate his real form.

Seraphina’s eyes widened. “Wait—WAIT! What are you doing?!”

Rafayel grinned mischievously. “Throwing you back into the sea where you belong, little guppy.”

“NOOO!”

You laughed, watching as Seraphina clung to her father’s arm, suddenly realizing her fight for dominance might have backfired.

“Say it,” Rafayel teased, holding her above the water. “Say I win.”

Seraphina squirmed. “Never!”

Rafayel raised a brow. “Alright then—”

“MAMA HELP!”

You folded your arms, amused. “This seems like a father-daughter matter.”

Seraphina gasped at your betrayal. “Mama, no!”

Rafayel gave you a smug look. “Oh, so now you need me, hmm?”

Seraphina groaned dramatically before finally giving in. “Fiiiiiine. You win.”

Rafayel set her back on the ground, ruffling her purple hair. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed but then immediately clung to your side again. “But Mama still loves me more.”

Rafayel scoffed. “Dream on, little guppy.”

You sighed, shaking your head. This was your life now.

[kashverse]

it started with a simple trip to the store. nanami had one goal: groceries. necessities. adult things. things that did not include stepping foot into the toy aisle, where capitalism lurked, waiting for fathers like him to make poor financial decisions. but then, there was yuuji. yuuji, who had stopped dead in his tiny tracks in front of the lego shelf, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted in a soft gasp like he was witnessing true beauty. "papa." his little voice trembled with reverence. "they have… wobbots."

nanami made the grievous mistake of looking down at him. yuuji’s big, pleading eyes were practically shimmering, tiny hands clutching at his pant leg like he was a desperate protagonist in a drama. "papa," yuuji repeated, voice hushed as if he were revealing a grand prophecy. "i need it."

and nanami—tired, overworked, victim to puppy eyes and the relentless machine of consumerism—sighed and grabbed the box.

"papa, i lub you."

capitalism had won.

at first, things were fine. yuuji had never been so focused, hunched over the coffee table, tongue poking out as he assembled what was supposed to be a spaceship but slowly turned into an unholy amalgamation of a car, a dinosaur, and a mech suit with one wing. "it's a dinosaur spaceship with turbo boostahs," yuuji explained, proudly slamming a lego figure into the cockpit. nanami had nodded, sipping his coffee, unaware that his peaceful life was over. because soon, the legos were everywhere.

in the kitchen? yes. in his shoes? unfortunately. inside his mixing bowl while making brownies? horrifyingly, yes. nanami had blinked down at the little black lego head staring ominously from the batter.

"yuuji."

yuuji, standing at the counter with a suspiciously guilty look, gasped. "oh! batman in brownies! he is a surpwise."

"he is not a surprise, yuuji. he is a contamination."

yuuji giggled. “but now he's chocolate man.” nanami sighed deeply, fished out lego batman’s disembodied head, and handed it back. "batman does not belong in baked goods."

"okay, papa. but maybe next time, superman—"

"no."

but the worst was what was dubbed as “torture expressway.” it was yuuji’s pride and joy - a meticulously arranged, near-invisible minefield of loose legos, laid across the hallway with the precision of a military strategist. the first time you stepped on one, you nearly saw your life flash before your eyes. the second time, you did.

"mama!" yuuji gasped as you dramatically collapsed onto the couch. "you defeatyated my trap! you win da pwize!"

the prize was a singular lego brick.

nanami, from the kitchen, merely sighed. "you need to stop setting booby traps, yuuji."

"but it's a game, papa! i caw it…" he raised his little arms dramatically, "torture 'spressway!"

"accurate," you wheezed.

the final straw for nanami came when he got up at five in the morning, half-asleep, walked toward the bathroom… and stepped on something small and sharp. the sheer agony that shot up his foot nearly had him crumbling. he clutched the doorframe, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he whispered, voice tight with pain—

"… lego."

from his bedroom, yuuji sleepily called out, "you step on da fire bwock, papa?"

"yes, yuuji. i steppy on the fire block."

"dat means you gotta fight da boss now."

nanami closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and swore to himself that the next time they went shopping, he was buying a vacuum.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

rafe having no boundaries and grabbing his girlfriend's ass in front of family during a family trip

A little Rafe and Sarah being siblings

—

‘’Can you not do that here?’’ Sarah grimaced after Rafe wandered in and smacked your ass on his way to the fridge. ‘’We’re cooking. That’s gross.’’ 

You and Sarah had woken up earlier than everyone else and decided to whip some pancake batter. They were coming along nicely, slowly piling up on a plate.

Rafe rolled his eyes in response and leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘’Chill out, Sarah. I’m just saying ‘good morning’ to my girl.’’

Sarah scoffed, giving him a glare as you flipped out the pancake in the pan. ‘’Well, keep your 'good mornings' to yourself until after breakfast and when I’m not around, alright? I’ve seen and heard enough things I didn’t want to.’’ 

Your cheeks turned red and you kept your eyes on the pan, embarrassed as memories of Sarah catching you topless in their pool and all the times she heard you through the walls of Tannyhill before Rafe got his own place. You’ll never apologize to her enough. 

‘’Stop acting like a prude. I’ve heard you on the phone with that pogue you’re seeing. Ahh, John B., I wish your fingers were inside me. I’m so close, I need to—’’ 

Sarah grabbed a blueberry and threw it at her brother, her face burning hot at his mockery. If eyes could kill, Rafe would be a dead man. She looked murderous. 

Rafe smirked, unfazed by the blueberry that was thrown his way. He crossed his arms crossed over his broad chest, and his blue eyes flickered with amusement. ‘’These walls are old. Did you think I couldn’t hear you?’’ 

To avoid a Sarah vs Rafe duel from happening, you asked Rafe if he wanted chocolate chips or blueberries in his pancakes. You already knew the answer, but you needed to defuse the bomb before it would explode. 

‘’Blueberries. You know how I like my pancakes, baby,’’ he said, pushing himself off the counter and closing the distance between you and him in a few strides. 

Sarah shot a glare in his direction, her eyes narrowing, but Rafe chose to ignore her and kiss your shoulder, standing right behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his chest against your back and resting his chin above your shoulder.

‘’Rafe, you’re distracting me,’’ you warned, pouring batter in the pan and adding some blueberries. 

Rafe laughed lowly, his chest rumbling against your back as his arms wrapped tighter around your waist. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear, his lips lingering on your skin for a few seconds. ‘’These look good. Think we can take the pancakes to bed after you’re done?’’ 

Breakfast in bed, away from everyone else, sounded tempting. You've had breakfast with the Camerons since you arrived, sticking to the polite routine. You missed being alone with Rafe in the morning, taking it slow and engaging in non-PG activities.  

Before you answered, Sarah cleared her throat beside you, a disapproving look on her face. Rafe thought he was subtle and sleek when he had his hand wander under your robe. 

He lifted his head and gave her a cocky grin. ''What?'' 

‘’In case you forgot, I’m still here,'' the blonde recalled, taking a few plates from the cupboards and deciding to set the table. ‘’And Wheezie and Dad and Rose are gonna come down soon.’’ 

‘’I know,'' Rafe replied, stepping back and letting you finish the pancakes. ''If you had not been here, I would have her bent over the counter already.’’ 

His words should have shocked you, but you were used to his bluntness by now. Rafe never held back, always saying exactly what was on his mind, no matter how outrageous. No matter the audience. You thought he would behave and tone it down with Wheezie in the house, but he didn’t. 

Thankfully, her young ears were not around.

You looked over your shoulder, failing at hiding the smirk that tugged at the corners of your lip.

—

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[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ explicit sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking.

He expected to find you distracted. 

You didn’t text or call after breakfast, or your usual lunch time, but he was too bogged down with work to get off base to physically check in, lay eyes on you, make sure you’re alright. If you’re distracted enough you forgot to text, he’s worried it means you’ve lost track of the day completely, forgotten to eat or drink something other than coffee. Your little blue icon on the map tells him you’re definitely at work, but that’s all he has until he’s able to get away. 

When he does, and he slips through the back door of the bakery into the kitchen, he finds a scene he did not expect- 

and immediately knows the rules you broke today won’t result in a punishment. 

At least, not tonight. 

You’re standing at your work table, the rectangular butcher’s block that nearly stretches the span of the room, hands covering your face, hyperventilating. You’re covered in flour and there’s dried batter on your elbows, your neck, your clothes, a chaotic mess strewn across the tabletop.  

He calls your name softly and you turn with wide, wet eyes, a trembling lower lip. 

“What-” you nearly trip over yourself to get to him, falling into his arms, your tear stained face pressing against his chest, your own heaving. “Shhh, you’re okay, you're okay.” The front door swings open and Mara is there, pointing at the table, you, before making a motion with her hand like she’s cutting air in front of neck with a grim expression. Whatever it was, or is, it’s derailed the day completely, left you in tatters. He wishes you would have just called him, followed your rules so he could have helped, been here for you, with you, supported you. He nods at her, and cups your face, tries to tilt it up into his as you sob. "Okay, shhh, I've got you, I'm here. Let me look at you baby, let me see your eyes." They're laden with tears, broken with stress and anxiety, everything in you shaking and sparking like a live wire.

“I b-b-broke the ov-oven this morning,” you cry, clinging to his shirt, “I tried to- t-tried to fix it but... and I broke m-my rules..” His heart chips a little bit at the raw distress in your voice, the way your chest heaves like you’ve just run a marathon. He has to fix it, soothe it, bring you back and take care of you, of everything, properly.

“Okay sweetheart, you're alright,” Your face turns, ear pressing over where his heart thumps in his chest, and he automatically covers the other one with his palm, blocking out the world around you but continuing to murmur softly so you can feel the vibration of his words as he rubs your back. “You’re alright baby, everything’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, m-my rules-"  

“We’re not going to worry about the rules or what happened with them right now. We're going to get you home and taken care of, and we’ll talk about the rules when you’re feeling better. Do you understand?” You shake your head, still struggling to take a deep breath. “What is your number one rule baby, tell me.” 

“Listen to daddy.” 

“Good girl. I will tell you when it’s time to think about what happened today with your rules. Do you understand me?” You sniffle, but nod. 

“Yes daddy.” 

“Left arm.” One of the reasons he bought this house over the other ones is the tub. It’s massive, jacuzzi style with jets, perfect for a soak, or a scrub, which is what’s happening now. He turns your fingers up, runs the washcloth across them until the flour beneath is gone, soaping you all the way up to your shoulders, your collarbone that’s half hidden by bubbles. 

“Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. 

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, sleepy girl.” Once he got you out of your dirty clothes and into the bath you calmed considerably, exhaustion quickly setting in once you hit the hot water. 

“You’re welcome daddy.” A small mischievous smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and he chuckles. Sass.

He trails the washcloth across your chest and you arch your back a little bit, turning into the fabric as it brushes your nipples. 

“Alright?” This is not the moment to push you. Emotionally off balance and vulnerable, it would do more harm than good to test your limits. 

“Yeah,” your teeth find your bottom lip, and he moves downward, across your belly to your mons. You moan, hips flexing, looking for more between your legs and he rubs your cheek. 

“Do you want daddy to make you feel good sweet girl?” 

“Yes please.” He lets the washcloth sink to the bottom of the tub. 

“Open your knees f’me, like that, good girl.” He takes it slow. He’d ask you to get out if he thought you’d be comfortable, but he doesn’t want to move you, disturb how relaxed you are. When he slides down your pussy to your hole, he’s relieved to find you’re very wet, and there will be enough to last until the water in the tub starts to dissolve it, though he’ll have to be quick. You whine, wiggling as he thumbs your clit, middle finger of the same hand carefully pressing inside you to the first knuckle, the surprised gasp on your lips swallowed by his own. You’re already clenching down around him, trying to bring his finger deeper. So bloody tight.

“Ah-” He works up to his second knuckle, watching your expression, the crease of your eyebrows, the flutter of your lashes. Your grip tightens to the side of the tub, walls squeezing him as he slides all the way, circling your clit and angling upward inside you, dragging along your walls like he’s motioning for you to come here, all of his touch flexing in tandem. Your face is twisting, almost like you’re trying to resist, mentally digging your heels in. You’re getting in your own head, trying to shove your orgasm away, running from it. Punishing yourself.

He knows what you need.

“You had such a hard day didn’t you baby,” you whimper, "you worked so hard today, and daddy’s girl deserves to feel good after having such a bad day.” He passes over your clit in a faster rhythm, again and again as he strokes in and out of your pussy, bringing you to the edge. 

 “I-” 

“It’s okay sweetheart, you can come. Show daddy how good you are and come on my hand.” A lever is pulled, a dam released.

“Oh- oh, fuck,” your feet kick, water sloshes, and your face is like heaven, expressive and euphoric, just for him. “I’m coming, I’m…” your muscles tense and he stays with you, wringing every drop of your pleasure free until you go limp, chest heaving. 

After a while, he finds the washcloth. He methodically picks up where he left off, starting between your thighs, and then soaping the rest of you, making sure he gets all the remnants of the day cleaned off.  You smile, a little loopy, eyelids heavy. Time to get out. “No sleeping in the tub, c’mon.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. Up.” You pout. It’s adorable, and he’s a sucker, but the risk of you falling asleep is too great. “I’ll let you stay in until you’re all wrinkled next time, but you can barely hold your head up right now. Come on.”

He gets you dried off and into some clothes, pajama bottoms and one of his t-shirts before settling you in bed with a cup of tea, bare feet sticking out from the blankets so he can rub them, trying to knead away some of the tension in your arches. 

“You need better shoes.” 

“Mmmh, I know.” You had turned your switch on, but it sits abandoned now as you drain your chamomile just before snuggling down into the pillows, slowly losing your battle to sleep. “Daddy...” 

“”I’m here baby.” You sigh and reach blindly, looking for him with closed eyes. 

“Can you hold me?” It’s not even a question, you own him.

“Of course.” He slides in behind you and you turn, nestling your nose against his neck. A whole world, right here. An entire life, his, curled up in his arms, the safest place you'll ever be.

“Night.” Half yawn, half sigh, completely exhausted. He brushes his lips across your forehead. 

“Goodnight sweet girl.” 

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 3)

This chapter is mainly Baby (Beom) oriented!) THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT! I think this ones a little longer!(my tag list IS closed but you can follow the post in order to receive updates on when i make edits!! So sorry!)

Part 1 Part 2

To Y/N’s surprise, the Saja Boys were actually a talented bunch. Although, she wasn’t sure how much of it was raw talent or made by demonic power. 

The tired girl had finished up the lyrics, allowing Baby and Romance to write with her. She had ingrained into them that, if they used their fake charm on her, she would withdraw her offer and leave them to rot. Y/N despised flattery, it was a candy trail for those, foolish enough to pick up a piece of poisoned candy.

‘Huh, you really make it obvious. “Gotta drink every drop.”? I might as well tell them I'm a demon.’ Jinu sneered, with his hand over one headphone as he listened to the demo Y/N had drafted. His words, however sharp, bounced off Y/N as she noticed a small detail in Jinu’s behaviour.

‘Your shoulders are dancing.’ Y/N grinned cheekily, her chin resting on her balled fist.

‘I didn’t say it was bad.’ Jinu grumped, bopping his head to the beat. ‘Abel was right, you do have talent.’

‘Why thank you Jinu.’

‘Y/N?’ A voice called out, ‘For the rap, can you help me with some of my lyrics?’ Baby grasped Y/N’s hand delicately, as if unsure.

‘Hm? Yeah.’ Y/N slipped out of her chair, inconspicuously removing her fingers from Baby’s grip. She wasn’t sure how much of him was actually shy, and the other just a sarcastic mock of the industry’s infantilisation of idols.

‘Let me know if you want anything changed, Jinu.’ Y/N patted the older man on the shoulder quickly before moving over to sit with the youngest of the bunch. 

Jinu watched on with a familiar feeling in his chest.

Envy.

Greed.

Jinu blinked, quickly jerking his gaze away from Y/N and his youngest friend. Was he jealous? What for? His eyes narrowed, sneaking a glance at the pair again.

Y/N and Baby, were leaned over Y/N’s notebook, chattering animatedly. Baby, actually seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

‘Hey, wait, these are actually really good, kid!’ Y/N laughed, ruffling the hair of the youngest. The boy in return grumbled, red cheeked, battering Y/N’s hand away.

‘I’m over two hundred years old.’ He slumped over, laying his head on the cool marble table.

‘Huh, y’know sometimes I forget.’ She mused, looking at Baby’s now messy hair. 

‘Is this actually you writing or you guys using your powers.’

‘I was a poet before I took a deal with Gwi-ma. My name was Beom.’ He hummed, looking at the notebook, tapping the pen on his cheek.

‘I see! It really shows. You have really good flow as well.’ Y/N smiled, leaning back, forgetting that the stool had no backing.

‘Watch it.’ Jinu’s arm wrapped around her waist securely. His gaze was… conflicted? When did he move from the set up to the kitchen table?

Jinu was stuck between wanting her to fall and wanting to wrap her up to keep her safe. He could feel the heat of her skin through her thin shirt.

‘Holy crap, thanks Jinu. I forgot about these chairs. I don’t usually sit here, I don’t really have people over a lot.’ Y/N’s sentence drifted off, as she realised how sad that sentence sounded.

‘I mean, you’ll be stuck with us for a while.’ Beom smiled nervously, looking at the girl with hopeful eyes.

‘Yeah, this song will take me less than three days. I mean, look at your writing! It’s been less than two hours and you’re already almost done with your lyrics!’ Y/N praised, forgetting for a split moment that she was talking to a demon.

‘Thanks Y/N.’ Beom beamed, standing up and gathering his notes. ‘I’m going to go practice with the music!’

‘Alrighty kid, let me know if you need anything.’ Y/N called, watching the man’s blue hair bounce slightly as he ran over to join Romance, Mystery, and Abel.

‘Why are you pretending to be nice to them?’ Jinu sounded irritated, his voice was filled with aggression. 

‘Huh? I’m not pretending to be nice. In fact, I actively claim to be a rude and disagreeable person.’ Y/N crossed her arms, at his accusatory tone. Why was he being so rude to her? He was at least somewhat nice to Rumi in the movie. Maybe, even kind.

‘Yeah well, I can see that.’ Jinu bit back, staring at her with a similar stance.

‘Look Jinu, I don’t know what your problem is, but I'm helping you at the moment so the least you can do is be nice to me. Or in the least, be agreeable.’ She spun around, picking up her note book and standing. ‘I get that I’m not pretty like the rest of Huntr/x but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad when you treat me differently.’

‘Who said I thought you weren’t pretty?’ He frowned, looking confused. ‘I’m an asshole, not blind.’ 

Y/N  waved him off, seemingly seeing through his lie.

‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere. I’m not stupid Jinu. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to hate me.’

‘But I-’ 

‘Let's go over the lyrics. Is there anything you want me to change? Do you want line distribution done by you or by me?’ Y/N picked up a pen, changing the topic so quickly it almost gave Jinu whiplash.

‘Uh…’

‘Well, Jinu was a singer before we became like this. He should have the most lines.’ Abel hummed, leaning over Y/N’s shoulder. 

‘I think we can take care of line distribution. Did you wanna change anything?’ Abel smiled as he continued. ‘I think we’re ready to record!’

Y/N nodded at the taller man before turning to look back at Jinu.

‘Is there anything you wanted me to look at Jinu? Or did you wanna start recording?’ Y/N tilted her head, a habit she had picked up from leaning to listen to Bobby ramble during loud Huntr/x concerts.

‘No, they look good. Let's start recording.’ Jinu looked at the hand that Abel had placed on the small of Y/N’s back, guiding her towards her set up. Why did he feel heat spreading through his chest? An uncomfortable burning that set him aflame with this... resentment. 

--

The recording lasted only two other hours, but the mixing and mastering lasted the rest of the night. Y/N ended up with eyebags and heavy eyelids as she finished up using her pitch corrector and adjusting the mixer levels to be within industry standards. She slumped down the back of her chair as she pressed export, sending it to be downloaded onto her desktop.

‘ ‘m done.’ She mumbled, closing her eyes as she slid off her noise cancelling headphones. The boys had decided to stay in her apartment to figure out the choreography. Of course, being demons meant they didn’t have to sleep so they actually could spend hours upon hours doing whatever suited them.

Honestly though, Y/N was surprised that they actually came up with their own choreography. She had thought it was just some spell the demons had cast to make it easier. 

‘Wow, that was fast!’ Romance commented.

‘Can we hear it?’ Mystery asked, leaning to rest his forearms on Y/N’s seat from above.

‘Mm.’ Y/N mumbled laying her head on her crossed arms and ignored the boys. She was getting too old for these all-nighters. She could feel the youth drain out of her body as she closed her eyes. 

‘Oh oh! Me first!’ She could hear the boys squabbling over who got to hear the finalised version first. The voices began to drown out, as Y/N drifted into a silent sleep. Blocking out the noise from the conscious world. Whenever she overworked, she tended to pass out completely rendering her useless to the rest of the world. Not even alarm clocks would wake her up. Several times, Bobby had to come into her apartment and rouse her from sleep. It was why he had a spare key card. He wanted to make sure Y/N was alive during the weeks where they were preparing for a new album.

‘Be quiet.’ Jinu hushed the group, looking at Y/N, hearing her slowed, steady breaths. 

‘She’s asleep. Y/N’s been working on this the whole night.’ He said slowly, eyes tracing over her slowly rising shoulders.

‘Right. Should we leave her here or?’ Beom kneeled down to look up at Y/N’s sleeping face. He made a mental note of how Y/N’s eyelashes fluttered when her eyes moved behind her closed lids.

‘I’ll carry her back to her room. Keep practicing the choreo, just make sure you’re quiet.’  Jinu kneeled, delicately slipping his hands under Y/N’s knees and wrapping a protective arm around her neck. He stood with little effort, his demon strength aiding him in carrying Y/N.

He nudged a door open, decorated with sound proofing foam with his foot, peeking around to see if it were her room. He hummed in amusement, spotting pages of writing on the floor, scattered in a semi readable pattern.

‘So you’re a work-aholic, huh?’ He whispered, laying Y/N down on her back. The room was relatively clean despite the lyric sheets scattered on the floor. It looked like she spent more time in her set up than in her room.

Y/N groaned, as she rolled over in the bed, hunching over.

‘Cold?’ Jinu mumbled, shifting Y/N’s legs so he could grab the comforter and lay it over the sleeping girl. He watched as Y/N’s face smoothed, relaxing under the light pressure of her blanket. 

A rush of warmth.

What? Since when did he feel anything but rage and shame. He had feelings, but none of them ever felt so…

So tranquil, as if it were lulling him into a gentle embrace.

No.

He didn’t have time for that. Jinu needed his memories gone so he could move on with his life. He was sure that he could find a way to leave Gwi-ma’s hold, he just had to get past his first hurdle. 

‘Who cares if you’re pretty or not. I’m not shallow enough to think that’s what matters.’ He muttered, turning around before pausing. 

‘And I never said you weren’t pretty.’ He added, before stepping quietly out of the room. Jinu returned to the living room after closing Y/N’s door, watching his friends practice their new choreography.

‘Is she asleep?’ Mystery asked, pausing the music as he spotted Jinu stalking back towards them with a sour face.

‘Yeah, let’s get to work.’ Jinu nodded, taking his position in the formation. ‘Abel did you figure out the entire dance?’

‘That's right.’ Abel looked proud, his thumb pointing toward his chest. ‘Y’think Y/N will like it?’ 

‘She doesn’t have to like it. It’s about whether or not the people will. We’re stealing the fans.’

‘I think it would be nice if Y/N also liked the dance.’ Beom rolled his eyes, sassing the leader.

‘She isn’t important. We’re just using her to make sure we can steal Huntr/x’s fans and get Gwi-ma his souls.’ Jinu stated firmly, As if trying to convince himself of his own statement. He pressed play, resuming the music on the computer.

‘There's no need to be mean about it.’ The purple haired man hummed, before falling into position with the rest of the group.

‘Enough. We have two days left to have this choreo down. Let's start rehearsing.’

A soft melody of whistling, and popfunk synth filled the night, accompanied by shuffling footsteps and quiet singing. Y/N remained fast asleep as the boys practiced well into the morning, each man making sure to be as quiet as possible to keep from waking their new producer and writer. 

-

Y/N winced as she stretched her complaining joints, creaking in protest. She sat up, rubbing her sleep filled eyes, looking around at the new scenery. Huh, she was in her room. Last she remembered, she was laying her head down on her desk after finishing Soda Pop. The tired girl roused herself from the bed, shrugged on a random jumper and opened her door.

A soft whump as the boys landed on their feet into their ending pose.

‘Huh, that's lookin’ good!’ Y/N cocked her head, an approving smile lighting up her face. ‘Wanna show me the number from the top?’ 

Pressing play, Y/N watched the boys easily slide into their beginning poses and begin their song from the top. It was extremely impressive, the way Jinu’s voice was almost an exact one to one of the recording. His stage presence was evident, even in her very own living room. Mystery had an incredibly sweet voice, whilst Romance had a round, upbeat one. Coupled with Beom’s deep voice and Abel’s boyish charm, the group meshed into a force to be reckoned with.

Huntr/x really did have some competition. But Y/N was sure that she would be able to figure out a way to stop Gwi-ma from slipping through the Honmoon. 

She’d find a way.

‘Thoughts?’ Jinu grinned, his chest heaving from exertion. 

‘If you guys weren’t trying to take over the world, I’d actually consider taking you on as personal clients.’ Y/N smirked, turning around to switch off the music. 

‘A couple more times and I think you guys have it down to perfection.’ She laughed, turning her chair to open up her browser.

‘Watcha doing?’ Beom walked over, dragging another gaming chair with him. Y/N kept several of those for whenever she had HUntr/x over.

‘I’m gonna send you guys the file so you can upload it. That way you can also have it in your respective phones.’ Y/N hummed, logging into her email.

‘What's your email?’ 

A pause.

‘Do you guys even have phones?’ Y/N blinked, turning back to face the boys.

‘Yeah, here I’ll give you mine, Beom nodded enthusiastically, putting his phone on the table in front of Y/N. 

‘Alrighty Beom, I’ll send it over to you. After this, I’m going to get breakfast. Are you guys gonna go home?’ Y/N clicked away on her screen, typing in the details of Beom’s email.

‘We’ll get breakfast for you.’ Mystery called out, already walking away towards the elevator. The rest of the boys besides Beom walked towards the door.

‘Beom will stay here with you.’ Jinu clarified, walking towards the door that led to the stairs.

‘Hey Abel, do you think you could out run me on the stairs while I took the elevator?’ Jinu struck up a challenge in a prodding tone.

A challenge that Abel jumped on.

‘Oh, you’re on.’ Abel flung open the door and rushed down the stairs. The pattering off feet on stairs diminished slowly, echoing off the stairwell.

Jinu however, strolled leisurely back to the elevator door and pushed the button. He met Y/N’s confused stare with a confident smile and said, 

‘He's the biggest one and I wanted more space. Y’know how it goes.’ He walked into the elevator doors as they opened, whilst Romance and Mystery gave small chuckles, shaking their heads.

‘We’ll see you soon Y/N.’ Romance waved as the doors closed.

The girl slowly side-eye'd Beom and pressed send on the email she had written.

‘So, is there anything else you wanted me to do?’ Y/N spun around in her chair lazily, allowing the inertia of her spinning chair to keep her entertained.

‘No not really. Although, I do want to say that, I saw another song in your notebook.’ Beom’s eyes followed Y/N’s spinning figure.

‘Wait what?’ Y/N slammed her hands on the table, grasping at her notebook.

‘Did you write that for us?’ Beom’s tone was inquisitive.

And there it was. The back bone of ‘Your Idol’ written out in the notebook. When had she written this?

‘I… It’s not finished.’ She gazed into the book, as if in a trance. 

‘It looks pretty cool! I hope that I can hear it one day.’ Beom shrugged, leaning back on his chair.

‘So, a poet huh? What made you choose that path?’ Y/N closed her notebook, setting it aside. She wanted to change the subject, and fast. ‘Your Idol’ wasn’t meant to be written already and if she were being honest, she wanted to avoid the story plot advancing to that stage.

‘Yeah, my father was a court official in the palace. They wanted me to become a scholar and follow his footsteps.’ His eyes were glazed over, staring out the glass window.

‘Yet, all I wanted to do was write. I wanted to make words flow into a beautiful stream, to be read and understood by all.’ He continued, smiling slightly before his eyes came back into focus.

‘But my father disapproved.’ Beom's gaze hardened and his jaw was set.

‘He wanted me to be just like him. A cunning, snivelling leach who kissed the feet of the emperor. So I took a deal with Gwi-ma. That I’d give him my soul and in return, I would be a well known writer, famous enough to sustain myself and my mother.’ Beom’s hands were clutched in tight fists.

‘And so?’ Y/N prompted cautiously, leaning over, elbows on her knees, resting her head on her open palms.

‘It was amazing at first. People paid to hear my poems, they came from all over the country. But then the patterns started. And they kept spreading until Gwi-ma took me into the underworld.’ Beom’s patterns flashed, his form glitching for a split second into his true image.

‘He took you?’ 

‘Yes. Just like he took Jinu and the rest of the boys. I guess he wanted to use us somehow. Gwi-ma always takes back the favours he’s owed. It’s part of the reason we’re here.’ Beom sighed, shaking his head as if to clear away thoughts, clouding his mind.

‘But even here, we can still hear him. Telling us we aren’t enough. That we deserve nothing and that without him, we’d be rotting in the dirt.’ Beom smiled bitterly, looking up at Y/N through his lashes.

‘Well that's simply untrue.’ Y/N laughed, sliding her chair closer to Beom’s side.

‘I think you would have been successful, even if you didn’t take that deal. I mean look at your own writing! I’m a harsh critic, trust me. But you wrote these lyrics in such little time and they’re actually good!’ Y/N gently placed a hand over Beom’s shoulder, in a comforting motion. 

A spark. 

Just like before.

A jolt of white blue electricity, emanating from her fingertips into Beom’s skin, Illuminating his patterns. Y/N slowly took her hand away, watching the boy’s patterns rippled, amalgamating with the white blue light.

‘How did you…’ Beom stood abruptly, splaying his hands, flexing his fingers. ‘My patterns, they… You made them shine.’ He looked utterly stunned.

‘Um… I don’t know?-’

‘My head!’ Beom raised a shaky hand toward his forehead. ‘I can’t hear him. I can’t hear Gwi-ma. How is that possible?’ His eyes snapped to Y/N, yet there was not an ounce of malice in his gaze.

‘I’m still me, but I can’t hear him! Do you think he could still call me back? Does he still have control over me? I have GOT to tell the others.’ Beom hurriedly pulled out his phone, typing away a message possibly to a groupchat of the Saja Boys.

‘No, wait. Don’t’ Y/N grasped at Beom’s wrist. ‘You can’t tell them. If Jinu finds out, he won’t be happy.’ She reasoned, whilst lowering Beom’s hand.

‘That's true… He still wants his memories erased. You’re right.’ Beom nodded, sitting back down, placing his phone back in his pocket.

‘But how did you do it? Is it permanent?!’ He rambled on eagerly, like a puppy that had just found a new toy.

‘I’m not sure honestly. I mean, I was meant to be a hunter but… I can’t manifest a weapon. Maybe it has something to do with that?’ Y/N raised one eyebrow, turning her hands to splay her palms. She scrutinized each line on her palm, wondering if she could control whatever it was.

‘Well whatever, I’ll keep your secret Y/N.’ Beom softly wrapped his hands around Y/N’s and lifted her left hand. ‘Just promise me you won’t think too badly about Jinu?’

Y/N looked up, bewildered at the sudden mention of Jinu.

‘He’s not actually a bad person. He just… He wants to forget his mistakes. I know it seems selfish but it’s been four hundred years. Jinu barely talks to us about it. I think that's what’s slowly eating away at him.’ Beom explained, releasing Y/N’s hand and leaning back on his chair.

‘I think he just has to accept his actions. But it’s easier said than done. His mistake cost him his family. The rest of us didn’t actually leave anything behind, so we don’t understand how he feels.’ Beom continued, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t help that he hears Gwi-ma the most. He’s been with Gwi-ma the longest so Jinu’s already so heavily under that old man's influence.’ 

‘I see.’ Y/N let out a short snort. ‘But I don’t think he’s going to talk about it with me to be honest. He very clearly hates me.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Beom looked floored, as if this were a new revelation.

‘Um, hello? He insults me whenever he sees an opportunity? He never smiles around me and lets not mention that he accused me of being fake.’ Y/N rolled her eyes, slumping down in her chair.

‘Jinu’s just like that. He’s blunt and prickly, but that's how he protects himself, and us. But, Y/N I think, he doesn’t hate you. He genuinely thinks you're talented! And, he was the first one by your side when you collapsed last night on the street.’

‘Huh..’ 

‘Yep! Jinu doesn’t hate you.’

Y/N was about to retort as the elevator dinged happily, the doors revealing three of the boys, the same ones as before.

‘Huh, where’s-’

‘AH HAH.’ Abel cried out, flinging the stairwell door open. ‘See? I can make it up the stairs at the same time. I'M A BEAST.’ 

‘Oh honey…’ Y/N stifled a chuckle behind her fist.

Part 4

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[beloveds-embrace]

the fae animals ask made me kinda have some confidence of the fae boys being able to appreciate and care about even readers soft and more human qualities.

I hope the boys become desperately obsessed with both her strong more far likeness but also have a crisis realizing that they like her softness. I think some panicking is deserved on the boys part. I am still partial to our boys

also I think reader need some others in her corner and the fae animals are such lovely supports.

masterlist || cw: neglect and angst but it’s getting better trust me

It started, as most catastrophes do; with something terribly, innocently mortal.

A scarf, of all things.

It was nothing of note- no glamour woven into the threads, no whispering enchantments stitched along its hem. Just wool, soft and worn, hand-dyed in a shade of pale lavender that clashed horribly with the obsidian and ivy of your usual wardrobe. But you wore it regardless, looped twice around your neck as you wandered barefoot through the frost-touched gardens, your breath blooming into the mist.

Simon saw you first; he’d stepped from one of the doors, summoned by a courtier’s sniveling request, only to stop dead beneath the frostglass archway. The trees were alive with quiet, with fireflies and will-o-wisps watching from between the thorns- but none moved as you crumbled honeyed bread in your palm, scattering it over moss and stone.

He did not expect the birds that came for you.

Iridescent and shimmer-feathered, their glassy eyes gleamed like dew-wet gems. Birds that usually only sang for moonblood offerings or circled above dying kings- Simon remembers seeing them when Queen Mother publicly slaughtered the late King- came when you called, soothed by your voice as you hummed something heartbreakingly human.

And now, you scolded one when it snapped too eagerly at another. “Mind your manners! There’s enough for everyone!”

Simon nearly groaned aloud. Not from annoyance- but from the pressure building in his chest. Like a curse long slumbering. He needed to pull you close, squeeze your soft safe between his hands- ugh.

You were not cloaked in fae glamour. You did not drip moonlight from your lashes or speak in riddles.

And yet… all the old trees leaned subtly toward you; he didn’t tell the others of that, nor of this occasion, and instead cradled in the space between his ribs just for himself.

But things like you- tender, strange, human- don’t stay hidden long. Not when you were the Queen.

The next week, Johnny found you curled into the window seat of the great hall. Sunset painted molten gold across the high walls, catching in the floating motes of pollen-dust that always drifted lazily through the wings of the palace, especially in spring. You were barefoot again, your legs tucked beneath you like a child’s, nose buried in a battered mortal book whose cover had long since faded.

You were snorting with laughter- head tossed back, a hand slapping your knee like you couldn’t help it. The crown you’d worn that morning, spiked with garnets and bone, lay forgotten on a nearby table, half-buried under a folded shawl of spider-silk.

Johnny was halfway across the hall before he realized he was moving. He stopped only when your laughter faded and you turned, eyes crinkled and warm, still in the cozy world within your book.

He fled.

And sulked about it for the rest of the day. He was a creature of battle, of storms and songs sung in blood. A King’s advisor. He was not supposed to be enchanted by the softness of your laugh, the little crinkles in your eyes. Yet it was all he could see whenever he closed his eyes for the new hours.

It got worse when Kyle caught you in the kitchens; the palace’s heart at night was strange- lamplit with flame-flowers that opened only after sundown, their petals flickering like winking eyes. Everything pulsed with magic, every door could lead to a dream or a trap. Yet there you were, barefoot again (why were you always barefoot? Did you maids not ensure your comfort?) sneaking across tiled mosaics made from the bones of long-dead sea beasts, clutching a slice of chocolate cake like it was sacred.

Kyle froze. The moth that lived in your sleeve- the little beast could change its size- blinked sleepily at him. You looked up, wide-eyed, and your sheepish grin dimmed but you still held on and raised your chin.

“… You won’t tell?”

He gave you another piece.

Then sat outside your door later that night, staring up at the star-swallowed sky, and didn’t sleep a wink. Glowy and Thrain kept him company by glowing and growling at him, respectively.

John, then, watched you handle the court with a precision that could slice a man in half. You were everything they’d hoped a human queen wouldn’t be- poised, unreadable, willing to he adorned in thorns and black petals that whispered curses in dead languages, not making enough mistakes for them to consider throwing you back to the human kingdom. The fae bent for you, even when they didn’t want to. Because you were a good Queen- and you were slowly gathering supporters.

And then he found you, days later, curled in an oversized dress by the fireplace in your study.

You weren’t weeping. But your eyes were red, and Thrain, your antlered beast, had curled around you like a fortress, one massive antler tipped toward the fire. Your giant moth rested across your shoulders, wings twitching dreamily as it glowed soft golden light.

You looked up at him and said, in the voice of someone who had not spoken all day- who had no one to speak to all day:

“I didn’t think it would end that way.”

You said no more after that, but it was just enough to crack open the hollowed, ancient stone of his heart.

They all began to spiral after that, unsurprisingly. Curse you and your frustrating, beloved humanity.

Johnny wouldn’t wear anything you hadn’t touched, and even better if it held the scent of your soaps and perfumes. Kyle started leaving small gifts on your desk- tiny, enchanted things, but useful, and he smiled when he saw you using the little quill that liked to dance across parchment. Simon wouldn’t let anyone stand within a breath of you if they weren’t announced, glaring from behind like death incarnate- as if Thrain wasn’t enough.

And Price began to carry your scarf.

Not visibly, never that. But in the inside pocket of his coat, tucked like a relic he didn’t dare speak of. He’d raise it occasionally, when he was left alone-

And simply kiss its soft wool, and imagine to himself it was your forehead. It woukd suffice until he fixed this terrible mistake they’d made in their treatment and seclusion of you.

[bi-writes]

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

[universefcb]

can u do a lando x reader where she gets along well this his family and he cant help admire her and think about marriage and stuff like that. thank youu <3

WHAT IF IT WAS 4EVER?,LANDO NORRIS.

→ Summary: You went to spend a lazy Sunday at his parents' house with his family.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff. Romance.

→ Author's note: Please make me more requests from him! I love writing about him.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

The Norris house smelled of lavender, fresh coffee, and baking banana bread. It was one of those lazy, overcast Sundays when everyone wore sweatshirts and spoke softly so as not to break the spell of comfortable silence.

Lando sat on the edge of the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, watching a scene that had been repeating itself for a few weeks, but it seemed like the kind of routine he wanted to have forever.

She.

In the kitchen with her mother, laughing easily as she cut fruit, grabbed too many cups at once, and stole spoonfuls of raw cake batter. She got along so well with everyone—as if she had grown up there, as if she already knew the exact places for the cutlery, the favorite smell of his sister's tea, his father's silly jokes.

“Do you think she’ll accept?” Flo’s quiet voice brought him back to reality. She was standing next to him, drinking a cappuccino.

“Accept what?”

“You.” Flo raised an eyebrow. “With that silly look on your face, you’re going to propose to her tomorrow.”

Lando let out a muffled laugh, but inside… she was right.

He looked again.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was warm, she was light. She was “stay in bed for five more minutes”; she was the kind of hug that could calm any storm. She had a way of smiling that made people stop talking just to keep looking.

And the scariest thing?

She liked his family. She really did. It wasn't an effort, it wasn't out of politeness. It was genuine.

When his mother mentioned the old dress from her youth, she asked to see it. When his father mentioned old cars, she asked. When Cisca teased Lando, she laughed knowingly. Everything with her was natural. Nothing forced.

Later, when lunch was over and everyone was sprawled on the couch with dessert plates on their laps, she laid her head on Lando's shoulder and began to play with his fingers.

“Your family is wonderful,” she said softly, so that only he could hear.

Lando swallowed hard. His heart was beating faster than on a starting grid.

“You are wonderful,” he replied.

She smiled against his skin. But then she straightened up, sitting back down.

“You seem strange. Are you okay?”

“Okay.” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m just… trying to figure out how I ended up here. On this couch. With you. Feeling like… this is it.”

“What is this?”

He looked into her eyes, and even though he was afraid of appearing too intense, he didn't hold back.

“That’s it. Me, you, my family. The sound of the rain outside. You making tea for my mother, playing with my sister. Me wanting time to stop. That’s it.”

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. But she took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

“I feel it too. And if it comforts you, it also scares you a little.”

Lando smiled, a shy smile, different from the ones he gave to photographers or on podiums. It was that smile that only she knew. The real one.

“It’s not fear of failure,” he confessed. “It’s fear of not being enough. You…you are so many things.”

She laughed, looking at him with that sparkle in her eyes that made everything seem easy.

“So we do it together. And you’ll see: what you take from life... is this.”

When everyone went to sleep and only the two of them were left in the room with the movie paused and the lights dimmed, she dozed off with her legs over his. Lando didn't have the heart to wake her up. He stayed there, running his hand through her hair, watching her serene and sleepy expression.

And it was in that moment — simple, calm, without anything extraordinary — that he knew for sure.

It wasn't the highest podium he wanted to reach.

It was her.

That was it.

It was all that.

And if he ever had the courage, he would tell her that he thought about asking for her hand right there, with her hair spread out on his lap and the muffled sound of the rain through the window.

But for now, Lando was content to kiss her forehead and promise, with all his heart:

“I will make you happy. Every Sunday. Forever, if you let me.”

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[mumblelard]

else or i had a dream within a dream dream last night and i wish i could throw my hands up, exasperated by the bogmonster's relentlessly cryptic babbling, but i have a good idea what they are on about, and we are nearing swallowed by a great fish time if i don't do something about it

the punks came over last night and we drank homemade four lokos and some assorted dollar bucket nonsense. we ate one unexpectedly good pizza and one unexpectedly bad pizza and talked about emo nights, diurnally promiscuous beavers, chipmunk kittens, trail's ends, trials, tribulations, and planned trips, dirt days, lost keys, pain thresholds, and the language of bureaucracy. it was a good night

[sai-int]

Explore more on rts Simon and their marriage!

(Kids? Bc he said don’t take anymore plan b??? A big wedding? Small wedding? Elopement??)

— just gonna talk about the wedding, will talk about kids in another installment!

you start looking at rings without even realizing you’re doing it. absentminded stares in storefront windows, lingering a little too long on a stranger’s hand, your fingers brushing his one evening and murmuring something like, “do you think gold would suit me?”

and simon clocks it immediately. not in a shit, she’s being clingy way. more like fuck, she wants forever.

and he wants that too. more than he knows what to do with.

but he’s also a ghost. a man with no government name, no paper trail, no heartbeat in the system. the people who know him don’t use his name. hell, most don’t even know it. and you? you’re the only person alive who gets to call him simon.

so he sits you down one night, quiet and heavy. his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “there’s something y’should know,” he says, voice thick. “i'm not exactly... on record.”

you blink. “like…?”

“like... legally dead. gone. don’t exist.” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like being a ghost is just another item on the to-do list. 

“what i do, where i go, who i was before—all of it had to disappear. no court would touch me. no ceremony would hold. y’can't marry someone who don’t exist.”

your heart squeezes, but not in the way he expects.

“i don’t care,” you whisper. “if it’s just us. if it’s just this. that’s enough.”

and the look on his face? relief. bone-deep and reverent. like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to say that.

a few weeks later, he gets down on one knee.

no fancy speech. no crowd. just him, in the dim light of the kitchen, holding out the exact ring you’d once admired in a quiet shop in town.

“y’still want forever, sweet’art?”

you’re crying before he even finishes the sentence.

“you’re all i’ve ever wanted.”

you don’t have a wedding. there’s no paperwork. no license. no champagne or vows.

what you do have is a battered farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a bed he built by hand, and a morning after where he tugs you back under the covers, presses his mouth to your shoulder, and whispers, “y’mine now. proper.”

he calls you “wife” under his breath sometimes, like he doesn’t want to jinx it.

and for a month, that’s that. quiet love. deep trust. no one else in the world but the two of you.

until the day he comes home and finds your passport on the table.

he flips it open, casual—until he sees it.

Riley.

his heart stops. literally skips. his fingers tighten on the paper. “...what the fuck?”

you grin from the kitchen, biting your lip. “did it while you were gone.”

“how—?”

“legal name change. said it was for... personal reasons."

he just stares at you. like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

then he's moving, fast—pulling you in, arms crushing you to his chest, face buried in your neck.

“y’fuckin’ mad, y’know that?”

“mad for you.”

and he laughs—rare and hoarse and beautiful—because he knows it's true.

and for the first time in years, simon riley feels real. not a ghost. not a weapon. just a man, with a home, and a wife who chose his name.

[sunshineangel0]

-baking, because murder is wrong. ✩‧

pairing- lee felix x reader summary- After a frustrating day, you show up at Felix’s apartment in the middle of the night, demanding a baking session before you do something illegal. genre- fluff, comedy, best friends to lovers word count- 1.6k warnings- mentions of stress/frustration (but no heavy angst), excessive fluff and best friends-to-lovers tension (your heart may combust), mild swearing (a few curses here and there), lots of playful banter and teasing ! not proof read (sorry for spelling mistakes etc.)

2:03 AM – Felix’s Apartment

Felix was enveloped in a deep, restful slumber when his phone began to vibrate aggressively against the wooden surface of his nightstand. At first, he ignored it, burrowing deeper under his blanket. Then it buzzed again. And again. And again. With a groggy sigh, he finally reached for it, squinting at the screen.

Y/N🦋: I’m outside.

Y/N🦋: Open the door before I commit arson.

With a resigned sigh, Felix dragged himself out of bed. The clock on his nightstand blinked 2:17 AM in glaring red digits. Of course. This wasn’t the first time you'd turned up at his doorstep in the dead of night, exuding an unmistakable air of barely contained chaos.

Felix shuffled to the door, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. As he unlocked it, he was greeted by the sight of you, swathed in an oversized hoodie that dwarfed your frame, your hair tousled as if you’d run a marathon through a windstorm. In your arms, you clutched a bag of flour with the intensity of someone holding a weapon, ready for battle.

“…Do I even want to ask?” he muttered, his voice a mix of amusement and resignation.

You pushed past him, your footsteps echoing off the wooden floor as you marched into the apartment. "I need to bake before I do something illegal," you declared, your tone a storm cloud ready to burst.

Felix just shook his head, closing the door with a soft click. He was completely unfazed, accustomed to your nocturnal baking escapades as an antidote to whatever madness the world had thrown your way.

Felix leaned casually against the kitchen counter, his eyes following your every move as you aggressively swept ingredients from the cupboard and plunked them onto the table with a loud clatter. "So," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement, "who's got you all riled up this time?"

You slammed a hefty bag of sugar onto the counter, sending a small cloud of white dust into the air. "My boss is an idiot," you snapped, the frustration evident in the sharpness of your voice.

Felix nodded slowly, his expression one of feigned seriousness. "Mhm."

"And my coworkers are absolutely useless," you continued, grabbing a carton of eggs and placing it beside the flour with a thud.

"Right," Felix said, his tone encouraging you to vent more.

You threw your hands up in exasperation, your voice rising with each word. "And I swear, if one more person tells me to 'just calm down,' I'm going to start throwing hands."

Felix couldn't suppress his grin any longer and reached for a mixing bowl, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Alright. Let’s rage bake," he said, ready to join in the therapeutic chaos.

It started innocently enough, with the kitchen bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Felix stood at the counter, meticulously measuring flour with a slight furrow of concentration on his brow. Meanwhile, you were beside him, whisking the batter with a fierce determination, your movements a blur of energy.

Then—

“You know you’re supposed to gently fold in the butter, right?” Felix teased, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he glanced over at you.

You shot him a glare, eyebrows raised in defiance. “Do I look like I care about technique right now?” you retorted, the whisk still clutched tightly in your hand.

Felix snorted, a chuckle escaping as he shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re dangerous,” he remarked, feigning a look of mock terror.

Then, before he could react—

You scooped up a handful of flour and flicked it at him, watching as a cloud of white powder puffed into the air, settling on his shirt.

Felix froze, his eyes wide with surprise as he processed the sudden attack. You broke into a wide grin, feeling a rush of triumph.

“…Oh, you’re done for,” he murmured, a playful threat in his voice.

With that, he grabbed a fistful of flour and launched it at you, a burst of powdery chaos swirling around you both. You gasped, ducking and weaving just in time to avoid the white storm. “You little—” you began, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

Chaos erupted in the small kitchen. Flour flew through the air like snow in a blizzard, sugar spilled across the countertop, and Felix danced around your attacks with surprising agility, a grin never leaving his face. You were mid-throw, about to hurl another handful, when Felix lunged forward. With a swift motion, he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you momentarily off the ground and spinning you away from the counter.

The two of you crashed gently against the fridge, laughter ringing out as you both tried to catch your breath, the world around you dusted in white. Felix’s face was only inches from yours, his eyes locked onto yours, a soft smile playing on his lips.

And suddenly—

You weren’t thinking about your boss, whose endless demands had been weighing on you. You weren’t thinking about your awful day, filled with stress and frustration. You were just thinking about him, the warmth of his presence and the laughter you shared, and nothing else seemed to matter.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed reminded you of the sun peeking through clouds on a dreary day. His hands lingered on your waist, warm and reassuring, as if they belonged there. His smile softened, just slightly, as he looked at you, the corners of his lips curling gently upward. Your heart skipped a beat, a fluttering sensation that you couldn't quite control.

And before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out of your mouth—"…You look good like this."

Felix blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes, before a playful smirk spread across his face. "Covered in flour?" he teased, gesturing to the white dusting on his shirt.

You laughed, a light, airy sound that filled the kitchen, and nudged his chest with the back of your hand. “No, I mean—” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor as you tried to gather the courage that seemed to have slipped away.

Felix tilted his head, his eyes gentle and encouraging. Then, in a quieter voice, he urged, “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This was dangerous territory, a line you had both been dancing around for months. But maybe, just maybe, you were tired of pretending. So you exhaled, your voice barely above a whisper, the words escaping your lips—"…I mean, I like you, dumbass."

Felix froze, his expression momentarily unreadable. Your stomach plummeted like a stone in a pond. Oh. Oh no. What if you had ruined everything between you?

But then, Felix's lips curved into a genuine grin, not teasing or smug, but soft and sincere, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. Without a trace of hesitation, he said, “I like you too.”

Your breath caught in your throat, hope bubbling up inside you. “Yeah?” you asked, barely daring to believe it.

Felix chuckled, a deep, rich sound, and reached up to gently brush a smudge of flour from your cheek. “Yeah,” he confirmed, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

And then, slowly, sweetly, he leaned in and kissed you. It was a kiss that enveloped you like a warm embrace, tender and unhurried. It felt like all those late-night baking sessions had finally revealed their true purpose, like this was more than just a distraction. It felt like he was exactly where he wanted to be, and so were you.

You perched on the edge of the marble counter, your legs swinging idly back and forth, while Felix meticulously swept up the scattered flour that covered the kitchen like a fresh layer of snow. The remnants of your late-night baking escapade were everywhere—flour dusted the floor, bits of dough clung to the edges of the wooden table, and a sweet aroma lingered in the air.

“…So, technically, I still never got my revenge,” you mused, watching Felix’s careful movements as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Felix paused, glancing up at you with an exasperated yet amused look. “I think you had enough fun throwing flour at me,” he retorted, brushing some lingering white powder from his dark hair.

You flashed a mischievous grin, the memory of your playful battle fresh in your mind. “Maybe.”

Then, as the moment softened, your voice did too, turning almost contemplative. “But I feel better.”

Felix’s stern expression melted away, replaced by a gentle warmth. He reached out, his fingers lightly tapping your knee, a silent acknowledgment of the bond you shared. “That’s why I let you wake me up at 2 AM,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that made your heart skip a beat.

You rolled your eyes playfully, feeling the flutter of your pulse quicken, and hopped off the counter, landing softly on the cool tile floor. “Come on,” you said, tugging at the sleeve of his floured shirt with a gentle insistence. “Cookies are done.”

Felix grinned widely, his eyes sparkling with a mix of affection and amusement, and allowed you to lead him toward the oven. Together, you both sank onto the floor, the warmth from the freshly baked cookies seeping through the plates in your hands. Sharing the sweet treats and exchanging shy, stolen glances, you couldn’t help but think—

Maybe baking really was better than murder. Especially when it meant discovering a love that felt as warm and comforting as the cookies you shared.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

[slutzforbueckers]

Hi!! Omg I love your writing so much and I was wondering if you could please write soft paige x reader maybe were their married or dating and are cooking in there house together and then maybe soft smut 🙂‍↕️ I just feel like it would be so cute 😩🫶

morning light- p.b x fem!reader

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: fluff & smut

synopsis: a glimpse of what it’s like being married to paige.

a/n: thank you mllll <3333

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you had heard her before you saw her, a soft shuffle of socks sliding lazily across the hardwood floor, followed by a gentle creak of the hallway as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. there was something familiar—almost rhythmic—about the way paige moved in the mornings, like she was still half-dreaming, existing in that warm, in-between space of sleep and wakefulness.

you didn’t need to turn around to know the look on her face. you could picture it perfectly: eyelids still heavy with sleep, hair messily piled on top of her head, and a sleepy pout tugging at her lips, the kind she wore when she wasn’t quite ready to join the world yet. she always emerged like that on sundays—untouched by alarms, schedules, or the outside world, wearing whatever hoodie had ended up closest to her side of the bed.

“good morning.” she mumbled, voice low and raspy. her arms snaked around your waist from behind, her body pressing gently against your back as her chin rested on your shoulder. the heat of her skin seeped through the soft cotton of the hoodie, her warmth wrapping around you in a way that made your shoulders relax, the kind of comfort you could never quite explain to anyone but her.

you smiled to yourself, continuing to stir the pancake batter in the ceramic bowl in front of you. “morning, honey. sleep okay?”

“i would’ve slept longer if the bed wasn’t cold,” she replied, lips brushing your shoulder. “why do you wake up so early?”

“some of us enjoy being productive,” you teased, glancing at her over your shoulder. her eyes were still only half-open, and her cheeks were flushed in that endearing way they always were right after she woke up.

“and some of us don’t believe in suffering,” she yawned dramatically, then gave you a half-smirk. “you’re lucky you’re cute or I’d report this level of morning energy as a crime.”

you chuckled, leaning your weight into her a little. “you say that, but you always find your way into the kitchen the second you smell pancakes.”

“because you put drugs in them. love drugs. secret wife drugs,” she muttered, letting go of your waist only to snatch a peeled banana from the counter. “you cook like someone who’s trying to trap me.”

you raised an eyebrow and turned to face her. “you literally proposed to me.”

she shrugged, her smile widening. “you wore that dress that day. you know the one. i had no choice.”

“unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, biting down a grin. “go make yourself useful and set the table or something.”

but instead of moving, she took a big bite of banana and hopped onto the counter, legs swinging gently. “nope. i’m just here for moral support and affection.”

you shook your head, laughing softly. it was always like this—easy and calm. being married to paige didn’t feel like some milestone or huge lifestyle shift, it felt like coming home. every day. in moments like this, with music playing low from your phone on the counter, the sizzle of bacon beginning behind you, and her leaning toward you like she couldn’t physically stay away, you realized how much peace she brought to your life.

she watched you stir the batter with narrowed eyes, like she was analyzing your every move, and then tilted her head. “can I flip the pancakes this time?”

you hesitated. “you burnt them the last time.”

her jaw dropped in mock offense. “that’s slander. i was trying a new technique.”

“you literally walked away mid-flip to answer a facetime from kk.”

“that was an emergency,” she defended, crossing her arms, and you raised your eyebrows as you waited to hear what she came up with. “she wanted to know which sneakers to wear.”

you could only shake your head as you handed her the spatula with an amused sigh. “fine, you can flip. i want golden brown, not charcoal art.”

“yes ma'am,” she saluted dramatically, hopping down and taking position in front of the stove like she was about to enter the culinary olympics. you let her have her moment. she hovered over the pan with intense focus, biting her lip as she waited for the right moment. when she finally flipped the pancake, it landed perfectly, and she turned toward you, triumphant. “boom. pancake goddess unlocked.”

“you flip one pancake and suddenly you’re martha stewart?” you teased.

“better,” she said, leaning toward you, proud grin in full effect. “i’m paige bueckers, wife of the year, pancake flipper extraordinaire.”

you walked up to her, wrapping your arms around her waist, and kissed her lips. “you’re also dramatic.”

she leaned into your embrace without hesitation, resting her hands on your waist. her body melted against you, and for a moment, the playfulness gave way to quiet. there was something sacred about how she stilled in your arms, how her breath slowed like she felt safest right there. she turned her face slightly toward yours and spoke softly, “i love this. you and me.”

you kissed her cheek, gently. “me too.”

once breakfast was fully underway, the kitchen was alive with the smells of sizzling bacon and the rich aroma of coffee lingering in the air. paige, having declared herself a master chef after her pancake win, insisted on cracking the eggs, and you watched her do so with intense concentration—tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth in the most endearing way.

“you’re staring,” she said without looking up, carefully dropping the yolk into the bowl.

“you’re cute,” you said simply. she paused to glance at you, cheeks flushing slightly despite her usual confidence.

“you’re obsessed with me.”

“guilty,” you agreed. she grinned and turned back to the eggs, but her shoulders were a little more relaxed now, and you noticed her humming under her breath—a soft rnb melody that drifted lazily between you like smoke curling in the sunlight. she moved around the kitchen barefoot, and there was something painfully beautiful about the image.

you plated the food together in quiet harmony, bumping hips a few times as you navigated the small space. at one point, she wrapped an arm around your waist and just held you there for a second while you reached up to grab two mugs from the cabinet. her touch wasn’t rushed or even particularly purposeful—it was just hers. warm. steady. like she couldn’t not be touching you.

you ate outside on the small patio table, birds chirping from somewhere in the trees beyond your fence. paige sat across from you with her legs pulled up in the chair, one hand holding her fork, the other stretched toward yours across the table. she kept stealing bites off your plate, smiling innocently every time you glared at her. there was a smear of syrup at the corner of her mouth, and you leaned over to wipe it away with your thumb, only for her to catch your wrist and kiss the pad of your finger, eyes locked with yours the whole time.

conversation came easy, as it always did. she talked about off-season training ideas, about how much she missed the girls, about wanting to visit your families together next weekend. you told her about a book you were reading, about a funny video you saw, about how you’d dreamed of mornings like this when you were younger—before you even knew her name.

after breakfast, she helped you rinse the dishes, her hip bumping yours playfully. she sang loudly and off-key as she dried the plates, and you joined her, laughing until your stomach hurt. she danced around the kitchen with a dishrag like it was a microphone, then twirled you into her arms like it was the middle of a wedding. she dipped you dramatically, nearly dropping you in the process, but the laughter between you made it worth the stumble.

and when the kitchen was clean, and the sun had risen higher in the sky, and the rest of the world started to buzz awake, the two of you curled up on the couch under the same throw blanket, her head resting on your shoulder and your fingers gently tracing circles on her thigh. no words were needed. no plans. just this. just her. she turned her face toward you, eyes soft, and murmured, “i’d do this with you every morning for the rest of my life.”

you looked down at her, heart aching in the best way, and smiled. “good thing you married me, then.”

her lips found yours again, slow and sure, and you knew in that moment that you’d never stop choosing her. paige's hands roamed under your shirt, her palms laying flat on your skin as she guided you onto your back.

"can I show you how much i love you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. you nodded, breathless, and she kissed you again. you lifted up slightly so she could pull your shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your panties. her lips trailed down your neck as she moved lower, settling between your legs. the feeling of her lips against your skin was electric, but still slow—slow enough to make you shiver, slow enough that you could feel every brush of her lips, every tender touch, as though it was the first time.

with each kiss she placed on your body, you felt more and more like you were melting into her, becoming one with the softness of her love. her hands were gentle as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your thighs until you were able to kick them off. there was nothing harsh or rushed about it—just her, loving you in the most tender way.

paige placed a soft kiss to your thigh, then to your clit. you were already soaked and she had barely touched you. it didn't matter how many times you did this, it still felt like something new with her every time. you tangled your fingers in her hair, your heart racing as she continued, her touch as delicate as ever, taking the time to explore you without any sense of urgency.

her mouth worked at your clit, gentle sucks that had your eyes fluttering shut. she brought her fingers up and gathered your slick before pressing them in, two at a time because she knew you could take it. you gasped her name, back arching slightly, and you could already feel yourself teetering on the edge.

your breath hitched slightly, looking down to see paige already studying you. your eyes met, soft and unguarded. it wasn’t long before your hips were jerking forward, chasing the pleasure. a strangled breath left your lips, your fingers gripping her hair like it was the only thing keeping you on earth. you whined out her name as everything came to a head, the knot in your stomach unraveling.

paige worked you through it and when she finally pulled back, her eyes met yours again, full of adoration. she moved up your body and rested her forehead against yours. "you’re everything to me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

you smiled, tracing her jawline with your thumb, and tilted your head, brushing your lips against hers. "and you’re everything to me, paige."

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, afab!reader, kidnapping, captivity, semi-public sex, and wildly unbalanced power dynamics.

Valentine's Day is Satoru's favorite.

Suguru likes Halloween more (albeit, mostly the part where they dress you up in a slutty costume and fuck you with a B-rated horror movie playing in the background), but he's got a soft spot for anything that makes Satoru happy. You think something about the shamelessness of it all appeals to him - pale pink stuffed animals tall enough to reach your waist, boxes of sickeningly sweet chocolate that you'll never get around to finishing, gifts that serve no other purpose than to affirm your love for him. Of course, you can't actually get either of them much of anything, not with so many locks on the apartment door, but he and Suguru still do their best to make the day special.

Your morning starts early. Suguru sweeps you out of bed while Satoru sleeps in, holding his hand over your mouth as he explains exactly what'll happen if you ruin his little surprise. Predictably, it involves lingerie - all pink silk and red lace and unnecessary frills. He gives you a white teddy bear before taking you back to the bedroom, a heart-shaped pillow embroidered with a cursive 'Be Mine' cradled in its plush arms.

A few minutes later, he'll guide your hips as you grind against its expressionless face, Satoru's cock lodged halfway down your throat.

If you're lucky, they'll get called away shortly after the first round - to tend to their students or to handle some curse, you aren't picky when it comes to what gets them away from them. If you're not lucky, Suguru will suck love-bites into your chest while Satoru makes breakfast, occasionally calling you into the kitchen to try pancake batter or grimace while he licks whip-cream directly off of your cheek. You aren't allowed to hold cutlery, not after trying to gauge out Satoru's eyes with a butter knife shortly after your abduction, so they'll take turns feeding you before leaving for the day, Satoru pressing kisses into your cheeks and promising he'll be back soon while Suguru laughs and shakes his head.

While they're gone, you'll wander aimlessly, picking at your meager list of chores (vacuuming, laundry, etc. - enough to keep you sane, but not enough to stave off the restlessness) and generally lamenting your pitiful existence. When you find the teddy bear thrown haphazardly into a corner of their bedroom, you'll consider trying to wash it before tearing its seams open with a pair of safety scissors and hiding its disparate pieces in different places around the apartment for lack of a better way to get rid of them. You'll try to sleep the time away, but you won't be able to.

It's dark by the time they get home. Suguru made reservations months ago that you're already running late for, so you'll be allowed to dress yourself for the first time in as long as you can remember. Going out is treated like a privilege, something you ought to be thankful for, but it's hard to be appreciative with Satoru's arm wrapped so snugly around your waist, with Suguru hovering behind you, occasionally resting a hand on the back of your neck whenever you gaze lingers a little too long on any one thing. Satoru slips the hostess a bill that might've made your mouth water a little over a year ago, and you're seated at a table on the outskirts of the dining area, well hidden from prying eyes. They'll make conversation that you try and fail not to join in on, and after ordering dessert, Satoru's hand will slip under the hem of your dress. You'll ask to leave before the food reaches the table, but Suguru will insist on staying until he's gotten his money's worth and you've cum on Satoru's fingers more times than you'd care to count. When you're red-faced and teary-eyed, the waiter will ask if you're alright, and Satoru will pull you into his side while Suguru tells him that you've always been a little nervous in public.

You won't make it home before things boil over. Suguru will park somewhere seclusive as Satoru eats you out, knee deep in the backseat. When Suguru joins you, you'll finally get your present - double-penetration, both holes stuffed while they take turns filling your mouth with their tongues. You'll sob and scream and beg them to stop, say that it's too much, that you're already overstimulated, but they'll insist on making sure you get everything they have to give you. They've been looking forward to this all year, after all. It'd be a shame not to let you enjoy such a thoughtful gift to the fullest.

Exhausted and humiliated, you'll fade in and out of consciousness as Satoru carries you upstairs and Suguru runs a bath, shyly admitting that their present might've been a little self-serving. It's only after they get you tucked into bed, Satoru already excitedly telling Suguru all of his many, many plans for a quickly approaching White Day, that you'll fade into the mercy of a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

The grand life

Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warnings: 18+

Word count: 3,443 words 19,394 characters

Sunday mornings at the Miller house were sacred.

There were no alarms, no obligations just the smell of bacon popping in the skillet, the warm sun slanting through the blinds, and the sound of Joel’s heavy boots trudging into the kitchen like a grumpy bear.

You didn’t even look up from the pancake batter as he came in.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

Joel grunted, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter, watching you. “You make breakfast just to fatten me up?”

You turned with the whisk still in hand, raising a brow. “You’re the one who asked me yesterday if I’d make pancakes. You begged, if I recall.”

“Didn’t beg. I said I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”

You smiled, flipping a piece of bacon. “You said, and I quote, ‘Baby, you know I can’t live without your pancakes, please make them, I’ll die otherwise.’”

Joel grumbled something under his breath and took a long sip of coffee, watching you move around the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and sleep shorts. His eyes softened.

“Still grumpy?” you teased, brushing past him and patting his stomach playfully.

“Not grumpy. Just hungry,” he mumbled, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

“You’re always hungry lately.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice low in your ear.

You were about to respond maybe something flirty, maybe something sarcastic but your phone vibrated on the counter.

Sarah: “Important family meeting. 6pm at Mom and Dad’s. No excuses. I’ll bring dessert.”

Joel read over your shoulder. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Very.”

By 6:00, the house was full of noise again your favorite kind of chaos.

Joel Jr. came in first, tall and broad like his dad, kicking off his boots at the door. “You guys dying or something? Sarah was being dramatic in the group chat.”

“Watch it,” you warned, giving him a playful swat with the dishtowel. “We could be dying. You don’t know.”

“Guess I better stay for dinner just in case.”

Monica entered next, already scrolling through her phone. “If this is another intervention because Ellie says I talk too loud on speakerphone, I swear”

“I never said that,” Ellie snapped, walking in behind her. “I said you sound like a drunk squirrel when you laugh.”

“I do not!”

You were about to tell them all to quiet down when Sarah finally walked in, holding a bakery box and looking well, glowing.

“Hey, everyone.” She was smiling nervously.

Joel perked up, sensing something.

You watched as she placed the box on the coffee table and said, “Before we eat, I need to tell you something.”

Everyone went still. Even Ellie stopped chewing her gum.

Sarah opened the box, revealing a neat row of cupcakes half pink, half blue with tiny plastic booties on top.

Joel Jr. blinked. “Wait. Are those baby cupcakes?”

“Yeah,” Monica whispered. “Those are baby cupcakes.”

Sarah looked up at her siblings, then at you and Joel.

“I’m pregnant.”

It was like the air left the room.

Joel sat down hard on the couch, eyes wide. You stood frozen, hand over your mouth.

Then came the chaos.

Monica screamed, Ellie dropped her phone, Joel Jr. muttered something like “I thought this was about Dad’s cholesterol”, and you walked over to Sarah and pulled her into a hug, tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, honey. Oh my God. Really?”

Sarah nodded, laughing through her own tears. “Yeah. I found out last week. I wanted you all to be the first to know.”

Joel was still silent, holding a tiny cupcake in his calloused hand like it might bite him.

“Joel?” you asked gently, eyes searching his.

He looked up, jaw tight. His voice cracked.

“You’re… you’re havin’ a baby?”

Sarah smiled. “I am, Daddy.”

He stood slowly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t say anything else. Just held her, tight and quiet, like the weight of the years was finally settling in.

After the kids had left still shouting across the driveway, Monica already planning the nursery you and Joel stood in the kitchen, the leftovers cooling on the stove, the house quiet again.

You turned to him, resting your arms around his neck. “You okay, old man?”

He looked down at you, his eyes warm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I watched her take her first steps in this damn kitchen,” he said softly. “Now she’s havin’ a baby of her own.”

You kissed his chest. “I know.”

Joel leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “She’s gonna be a hell of a mom. Just like you were. Just like you are.”

Your fingers slid under the hem of his flannel. “You know what I was thinking?”

“What?”

“That we’re alone now. The kids are gone. House is quiet…”

He raised an eyebrow. “You makin’ a move on me, darlin’?”

“Joel, I just watched you cry over baby cupcakes. I’ve never been more in love with you in my life.”

That was all it took.

He hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, kissing you like it was the first time, his hands rough but reverent as they skimmed up your sides. The cool tile beneath you only made his body feel hotter, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, your breath catching when he murmured against your skin.

“You gave me her, y’know,” he whispered. “And now she’s givin’ us another piece of her.”

Your hands found the edge of his shirt, lifting it as you whispered, “I gave you four pieces, Joel Miller. Don’t forget the twins and Ellie.”

He laughed really laughed and kissed you hard.

The moment your hands slipped under Joel’s flannel, his breath hitched.

The kitchen was warm from the oven, the scent of bacon still lingering in the air, but nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.

Joel leaned in, his nose brushing your cheek, his voice rough and low.

“You got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Hm?” he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw as he slid your oversized T-shirt up, revealing soft skin and a pair of cotton panties that made his groan audible.

“You’ve been walking around in my shirt all damn day, legs bare, ass peeking out just enough to drive me crazy.”

You bit your lip, watching his pupils darken as he settled between your legs on the kitchen counter. His hands gripped your thighs possessively.

“Joel…”

“You think I don’t notice the way you sway your hips when I walk in? That you ain’t doin’ it on purpose?”

“I wasn’t”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, biting your earlobe. “You wanted me like this. Wanted me desperate.”

Your breath hitched as he ground his hips into you, the hard outline of his arousal unmistakable beneath his jeans. His lips crashed into yours hungry, claiming while his hands pulled your panties aside with practiced ease.

“You know what I was thinkin’ all through dinner?” he rasped between kisses. “While the kids were talkin’ ‘bout baby names and nursery colors? I was thinkin’ about how wet you were gettin’ just from watchin’ me be a good dad.”

You whined, arching into his touch as his fingers found you. He swiped once through your folds, groaning when he felt just how ready you were.

“Goddamn, baby. Already soaked for me.”

“I love you like this,” you gasped. “All rough and sweet.”

He smiled against your neck. “Yeah? Love when I talk to you like this, don’t you? When I remind you you’re mine?”

You nodded desperately as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his thumb worked your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

“You gave me a whole family,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “You gave me a home. You made me a father. And now you’re makin’ me a fuckin’ grandfather.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, making him curse.

“You still tight for me after all these years. Still my favorite thing in this whole damn world.”

“Joel, I..I need you”

“I got you, baby,” he promised, pulling away just long enough to shove his jeans down and line himself up. “I always got you.”

He entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you gasping at the contact. The stretch, the fullness, the way his hips snapped into yours with aching precision it felt like the first time all over again.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips as he thrust slow and deep. “This pussy’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

You moaned loudly, nails digging into his back, your body trembling with each stroke.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this writhin’ for me, beggin’ for it. My wife. My girl. Mother of my kids. And now…”

He leaned close, kissing you softly this time, voice cracking.

“…soon to be Grandma.”

You laughed breathlessly against his lips, clutching him tighter.

“I’ll be a hot grandma.”

He grinned. “You’ll be the hottest fuckin’ grandma Texas has ever seen.”

And he kept moving worshiping you, unraveling you until you came apart around him with a strangled cry, dragging him over the edge with you. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he emptied himself inside you with a low, possessive growl.

He held you there for a long while, panting, pressed forehead to forehead.

“Still got it,” you whispered, dazed.

Joel kissed your shoulder. “Damn right we do.”

That night, you didn’t just celebrate Sarah’s announcement. You celebrated every moment that led to it. Every diaper, every sleepless night, every scraped knee and school play and long road trip in a beat-up car full of kids and Goldfish crackers.

You celebrated the life you built.

Together.

And just before drifting off to sleep, Joel rolled over and mumbled, “We need to baby-proof the house again.”

You groaned. “Not again.”

He chuckled. “Worth it.”

9 months later, Joel was walking around the living room holding a fussy baby girl in his arms like she was made of glass.

“Why’s she makin’ that face?” he asked, peering down at her. “Is that her poopin’ face? Jesus, she looks like Ellie when she’s constipated.”

You laughed from the couch, bottle in hand. “You’re so dramatic. She’s just hungry.”

Joel huffed, gently handing over your granddaughter. “She’s so small. Smaller than Sarah was.”

“She’s healthy. She’s perfect.”

He watched you feed her, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through your leggings.

After she finished and was snuggled up on your chest, asleep, Joel whispered, “Never thought I’d see the day. You, rockin’ a baby to sleep again. Me, worried I’d break her just by holdin’ her.”

You looked up at him, heart full.

“I think we did alright, huh?”

He nodded, eyes damp.

“Yeah, darlin’. We sure as hell did.”

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as ever.

“Still want you. Still love you. Always will.”

The living room was a battlefield of soft pastel blankets.

Joel stood dead center, brows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration as he stared down at his wriggling granddaughter on the couch. The baby blinked up at him with innocent confusion, one chubby arm escaping the sad excuse for a swaddle he’d attempted three times.

“Alright, you little Houdini,” Joel muttered, grabbing the blanket again and trying to fold it like that video Sarah made him watch on YouTube.

From the recliner, you were dying of silent laughter, watching your husband argue with a seven-pound infant like she was an Army recruit who wouldn’t take orders.

Joel gently rolled her tiny body to the side. “Stay still now, sunshine. We ain’t got all day.”

The baby cooed, kicked her legs, and proceeded to stick her entire fist in her mouth.

Joel, visibly sweating, made another attempt tucking one corner under her bottom, folding another across her chest but somehow she ended up looking like a lumpy Chipotle burrito with one arm sticking out and one sock missing.

“I swear to God,” Joel whispered like he was defusing a bomb. “If Ellie saw this, she’d never let me live it down.”

“I’m right here, and I’m not letting you live it down,” came Sarah’s voice from the front door.

Joel jumped like he’d been caught with a Playboy.

Sarah strode into the room, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a smirk in the other.

“Jesus, Dad,” she laughed. “She’s not a camping tent. You don’t need to roll her up like a sleeping bag.”

“She moved,” Joel defended, stepping aside like he was trying to preserve his dignity. “I almost had it.”

You cleared your throat behind your mug of tea. “You also said that last night with the IKEA shelf.”

Joel turned to you with an offended grunt. “That was different. The instructions were in Swedish.”

Sarah sat beside you, gently picking up her daughter and expertly re-swaddling her in less than twenty seconds.

Joel blinked.

“See?” she said, winking at him. “You just gotta make her feel like a little sushi roll. Tight, but not too tight.”

“She’s my granddaughter,” Joel muttered. “Not a damn California roll.”

Sarah laughed, kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky she already loves you. Even if you do swaddle like Frankenstein.”

Joel rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “I raised you, didn’t I? You turned out fine.”

“Yeah, despite the burrito trauma,” she teased.

The baby gave a little yawn, content in her now-perfect swaddle. Joel stared down at her, one hand resting protectively on her back.

“…She looks like you when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Same sleepy little mouth.”

Sarah softened. “She’s got your grumpy brow.”

He chuckled, eyes a little misty now. “Poor kid.”

You stood, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s got the best parts of all of us.”

And for once, Joel didn’t argue. He just nodded, kissing the crown of Sarah’s head, then yours.

The front door slammed open with the sound of sneakers and sarcasm.

“Alright, what did Dad break this time?” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “Was it the baby? Please tell me it wasn’t the baby.”

“In here!” you called, cradling the now-swaddled baby while Sarah handed Joel a burp cloth like he was a new recruit on the first day of bootcamp.

Monica and Joel Jr. barreled in behind Ellie, the twins already arguing over who got to hold their new niece next.

“Okay, but I brought the diapers and that organic baby butt cream,” Monica said, hands on her hips.

Joel Jr. rolled his eyes. “She poops. She doesn’t need luxury.”

“She’s a lady, you absolute troll”

“Kids,” Joel barked gently. “Calm down. You’re gonna stress her out.”

Ellie flopped onto the couch, cracking open a soda.

“Stress her out?” she snorted. “You almost wrapped her like a Quesarito thirty minutes ago.”

Joel stood tall, adjusting his flannel like he was at the podium for a presidential address.

“Y’all better show some respect,” he said, voice full Texas. “Because Big Poppa is in the building.”

There was a silence.

Then

“I’m sorry.. what?” Ellie sputtered mid-sip, coughing violently.

“Big Poppa?” Joel Jr. gasped. “Like… like the Notorious B.I.G. song?”

Monica doubled over, wheezing. “Oh my god, please stop. I’m begging you.”

Joel smirked smugly, arms crossed over his chest. “What? It’s got a ring to it. Better than ‘Grandpa Joel.’ I ain’t ready to sound like I wear orthopedic shoes and play bridge.”

You choked on your laugh from across the room, rocking the baby gently.

Sarah blinked. “You literally wore compression socks on the plane to Colorado.”

“That was for circulation,” he snapped defensively.

“Sure, Big Poppa,” Ellie teased, kicking her feet onto the coffee table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be dropping a mixtape called Burps & Bottles.”

Joel gave her the flattest look he could manage. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Ellie grinned. “I’m putting you in my phone as Big Poppa starting now.”

Joel Jr. was already typing furiously. “Group chat rename incoming.”

Monica added, “Oooooh! Can I be Lil G-Ma? Mom, say yes.”

You just groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “I regret all of you.”

Joel walked over to you and leaned down to kiss your temple, grinning as he whispered, “Still got it.”

You murmured back, “God help me, you really do.”

And as the living room filled with laughter, bickering, and the soft, sleepy sounds of your first grandchild sighing in her swaddle, Joel Big Poppa himself wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered in your ear:

“House might be full again, baby. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The front door shut with a soft click, with a heavy sigh and a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we survived.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the worn cotton of his flannel. “Barely. You almost got jumped for that ‘Big Poppa’ nonsense.”

Joel smirked, chin dipped down so your noses brushed. “You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You bit your lip.”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

Joel leaned in, his voice husky, low. “Could’ve sworn you were lookin’ at me like you used to… back when the house got real quiet at night. After the girls went to sleep.”

You raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” He backed you slowly toward the kitchen island, his hands already roaming, finding every familiar dip and curve. “Back when you’d pull me by my belt loops and whisper that I was handsome when I was grumpy.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, pinning you gently against the counter. “But now you’re a grandma when you do it. Real filthy of you.”

You gasped, pretending to swat him. “Joel Miller!”

“Don’t act shocked, darlin’. You know I like it when you get a little bad.”

His lips met your neck, slow and warm, trailing down just behind your ear where he knew it drove you wild. You tilted your head back with a soft gasp as his fingers teased beneath your blouse.

“You cooked me breakfast this mornin’,” Joel murmured. “Fed our whole family. Rocked our granddaughter to sleep. And now…” He pressed against you, unmistakably hard. “Now I wanna ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

He lifted you with ease onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, crowding you in. “Let me have this,” he said. “Let me remind you you’re still mine. Every perfect inch of you.”

You curled your fingers in his hair. “Door’s locked?”

Joel grinned. “Sweetheart, I deadbolted it the second they backed outta the driveway.”

He was unhurried with you tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like you were something precious. He whispered filthy things against your collarbone how good you smelled, how soft you felt, how no one had ever made him lose his mind the way you still could with just one look.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as his hand slid down your thigh, callused thumb teasing where you ached for him most.

“You’re soaked already?” he murmured, voice gone low and gritty. “Fuck, baby. That for me?”

Your nails dug into his back, breathless.

“Been wantin’ to touch you like this all day,” Joel growled. “All through dinner, all through dessert… watchin’ you with her. You’re so damn beautiful. Gonna have to take my time with you.”

And he did. Right there on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, with your hands clutching his shoulders and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worshipped you like the woman who gave him everything a home, a family, a forever.

When it was over, he held you close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Still think I’m grumpy?” he murmured, teasing.

You smiled, lazily running your fingers through his silvered curls. “Mmhmm. But you’re my grump.”

He chuckled, lifting you off the counter and carrying you toward the bedroom like it was second nature.

“C’mon, Big Poppa’s got one more round in him.”

“Joel!”