#broken unicorn

[puppetmaster13u]

So I've seen some MLP DP crossovers but hear me out-

Danny's ghost form as a Changeling. Changeling-esque ghosts.

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

Saw someone pointing it out and went to look myself to see if there's more and yes, we're so getting Ch85 animated! Cloudia mention in the anime, here we come!!!

(The screenshots are from the Behind the Scenes video with Director Kenjiro Okada!)

[worldclassmenageriie]

i've got you, okay? everything's going to be fine. ((Roz @ Unicorn))

Heavy, panicked breaths fogged in the cold early air. It had stormed the night before and she knew that but she hadn't known the tree she was beside was rotted inside---till it fell.

Now she was pinned, one of her legs trapped beneath the branches of the tree where she'd almost jumped clear. Her whole haunch screamed with agony---pain not entirely unfamiliar but still new to her. She'd never been trapped like this before!

Eyes didnt show her fear--despite how her voice pitched and keened with fear and pain. "I-i think its broken! I-I can't move, Roz I cannot move"

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

You have been working at Playtime CO for some years now, you worked as the head department of psychology but most of your work consisted on providing profiles of the children in the lower levels or as your coworker called them, experiments.

Over the years of working with them and knowing what they are being turned into, you've learned to work with them pre and post experimentation. Another thing you've learned through time was to deal with the partner you were assigned for the project. Harley sawyer.

What is there to say about that man. He is the head scientist in the project but he is absolutely horrible at dealing with them, or with anyone. That's how you were assigned to work along side him . He made the experiments and you maintained them under control.

Initially the ones who needed to be under control where you two because of your crashing personalities. While he was a serious control freak and borderline antisocial you one the contrary seemed to not take things seriously, constantly taunting him and the other stuff and with a permanent sarcastic tone in your voice voice.

Of course at first he didn't like you much, and to be fair you didn't make it easy. Everything he said refering to the experiments was refuted by your obsession to keep a mildly stable mental health in the subject.

Dr Harley sighed heavily looking your way with an annoyed look- What now?- he asked

If you keep treating the subjects like that your are going to break them.-you said in the observation room with him while you were both supervising experiment 1355, a young girl turned into a smiley unicorn.

They're toys, they can be fixed easily- he responded as if he had repeated you that phrase for the 11th time (he did)

You know what I mean Sawyer, they are of no use if their minds break-you explained with a calm smile- or have you forgotten what kind of problems an unstable subject could bring?- your asked him, your question mocking him.

It turned out well with Yarnaby or have you forgotten Dr (Y/L/N)?- he said imitating your question

You laughed slowly- ah yes the kid you isolated as your pet, great example Dr-

Harley Sawyer was well known for working alone, he didn't like others company and whenever he got an assistant or a guard, he scared them off by being authoritarian or exposing them to dangerous situation. You were the only one at the company who actually could keep up with him.

In the interviews with the children you would lead the conversation while Harley observed and took notes. In the laboratory you were more of an assistant, helping the Dr with whatever tool he needed or just preparing the chemicals.

Even though he hated to admit it, his experiments have been more controlable and causing less troubles since you started working together.

You would be unbothered by the kids, showing enough compassion for them to not recognise you as a threat, but showing not an ounce of regret in your eyes while seeing how Harley turned them into toys.

Do I have to remind you that compassion is useless in this job?- Sawyer said while closing a wound he had made on the experiment while operating

You haven't realised how much time have passed since your prior conversation have ended. It was strange for the doctor to initiate them, usually preferring silence but you weren't complaining.

Compassion can make a person go through great lengths- you said- But I understand that in this line of work it's nothing but a limit, a wall that needs to be broken in order to obtain results.-

For once in a long time both you and Harley agreed on something.

He finally stopped sewing the toys fresh wound and started reading the inform you had redacted about the psychological profile of the child before the operation- you should do another one once she wakes up (Y/L/N)- he reminded you while reading the little notes and highlights you left about her.

You always reserved a space the paper work to express your personal opinions on the experiment and Harley always read them. It's another thing he started doing, considering your opinions and advice as something worth of noticing.

-Doc...-

-Sawyer...-

-Sawyer??...-

-HARLEY!!-

He looked at you not noticing how he had spaced out of his mind for a moment while reading your report.

What is it?- he asked actually surprised that he was actually distracted enough to not hear you.

I was asking you about the experiment 1322, Doey. How are the three conscience developing? are they getting used to they're new body?-you asked. Doey was your favourite experiment so far, it was the one you have showed more interest in and your involvement with him was way bigger than with others. Sawyer didn't understood your fascination with Doey.

Since you both started developing the project, you had shown special interest in the idea of three people combined in a toy. In fact, the reason you had starting working more time with the doctor was because of your eagerness to see how the experiment would turn out.

You have become much more comfortable with one another, even after years of coexisting with each other in the lower levels of Playtime.

Sometimes he would catch himself looking at you while you were with the kids in the interviews. He observed your calm demeanor through the crystal of the observation room. He could see how the children grew more confortable with you while you were joking.

The cognitive abilities of the toys were improving each day thanks to your work so of course the bosses permitted you both to perform as many experiments as needed.

Another thing Harley noticed about the last week's was how you would spend most of your time testing and conversing with 1322. He had grown so used to your presence that it was getting harder to work without you present.

He would never admit that he missed your sarcastic comments about the designs of the toys or how he missed to call you a germ, his germ, whenever you were getting to annoying.

Sometimes when you went to the cafeteria upstairs to get some coffee or a sandwich to eat, you would get him something too.

You haven't brought anything recently and that was because of your new obsession.

He finally finished the last transformation successfully, now the only thing left was for the experiment to wake up and for you to examine them.

Harley wandered through the corridors searching for the one room he knew you would be in, this time, he was the one bringing you a coffee.

He watched you through the crystal of the observation room. You always insisted on talking face to face with Doey. The mass of doe seemed calmer with you around. The two more peaceful personalities of Doey talked to you, voicing their regrets and fears. Though the violent part of the creature always seemed reluctant to talk to you. Not responding what was asked of him or simply not responding at all.

Dr ( Y/L/N), your presence is required in the observation room number 29- Sawyer interrupted your conversation. Doey seemed afraid for a moment only to turn his expression into an angry one. With a gesture of your hand you calmed him down and signaled silently for Harley to turn on the ice so the doe wouldn't scape.

You exited the room to find your coworker handing you a cup of coffee. You looked at him with a raised brow but accepted it either way.

Well, look who it is.-you said with satisfied grin- I thought you were supervising Yarnaby?- you commented

Yes I was, are you aware of how much time you spend with that... Mass?- he said with contempt- what's so fascinating about him anyways? He's only been trouble.

You're only trouble as far as I'm aware- he rolled his eyes you sipped again- he's a time bomb and I want to be there to see it explode- you finally responded- I want to be the germ that makes him mutate.

Germ... It's a fitting name for you- he laughed with a smooth voice.-

You both stayed silent in the middle of the room, he looked at you calmly while you ended your coffee. He was looking at you trough his glasses without blinking, with his tired eyes.

You looked back at him and when you realised he had his fist raised at you, brushing with his tumb the remaining coffee right next to your upper lip.

Neither of you realised how close you where, the dim light of the room illuminated both of your bodies. Yours against the door and his right in front of you, your external layers of clothing touching lightly.

He got even closer, feeling his breath against your own. His thumb caressing your cheek

He thought about everything that had happened recently. How Pierre and the ones closer to him had started to go against you both in the semanal meeting with the executives regarding the experiments. Pierre's demands being met by your indifference, claiming that you will keep securing the experiments as much as possible.

The doctor remembered how you, just as him, were completely devoted to the project. He had became paranoic for the past months. More irritable, unwilling to socialise with someone who wasn't you or the toys

He got even closer to you, he though he heard you whisper his name. You closed the gap between the both of you. Hands on his shoulders

Lip against lip, his hand still in your face. You felt that Harley was the only human you could trust down here. No one understood you like he did. Your desperation to contribute to humanity, your desire of achieving a more lasting body. One that could endure more.

If you ever shared this with anyone else, you'll probably be in trouble.

Your closeness with Harley and his with you was out of understanding, a feeling of trust and comfortability that had just materialised thought he kiss you were sharing with each other.

He slowly pulled apart, his breathing uneven and one of his locks of hair misplaced a slight smile on his face. His forehead touched yours and he whispered just above your lips- My germ~

Only if you knew... That exact same week Harley Sawyer would be reduce no nothing more than a system, a screen, a conscience.

At the mercy of playtimes desires while you... Well ... Your whereabouts were unknown, even though they knew you didn't get out of the building.

Somewhere... hiding between wires and toy corpses...

I'm in love with the voice of the doctor AKA Harley Sawyer.

My drawing of Harley Sawyer:

[babyleostuff]

― BROKEN CAMERAS

𝜗𝜚 THEME: fluff, domestic vibes, absolutely whipped kim mingyu 𝜗𝜚 PAIRING: dad!mingyu x mom!reader 𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT: 1.2k

⦗💌 ⦘in which your little girl wants to take a picture of you and mingyu but drops the camera she stole from him in the process

„i was thinking,” mingyu murmured into your hair and turned the volume of the tv down, „that we could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. since i don’t have any schedules, y’know.” 

you peeled your eyes from the screen and looked up at your husband from where your head was resting on his chest and nodded immediately, as if you’d ever say no to a day out with him and your daughter. „sounds perfect,” you sighed happily and fixed the blanket that mingyu wrapped you in some time ago. „maybe we’ll manage to find some vintage frames to match those in the living room.” 

he hummed and brushed his nose against your cheek. „just… this time we have to avoid the section where they keep the plushies.” 

ah yes, the plushies. 

your little girl’s current hyperfixation and your husband’s cause of nightmares. not that you minded, there was something endearing in a 6 foot something man sitting in a circle of bears and unicorns drinking tea from a miniature teacup. 

you smirked and lifted your head. „but she’ll be devastated, honey,” you fake-pouted.

she wouldn’t though, not really. your little girl has had her dad wrapped around her little finger since day one and she was a very smart kid, so figuring out how to get her dad to do anything for her wasn’t that difficult. she’s had the puppy-eyes technique figured out for a long time now, which… she used a lot to her advantage. 

mingyu groaned and lowered his head, bumping it against your shoulder. „there’s literally no room left in her bedroom. last night, when i was kissing her goodnight, i tripped over at least three of them!” he whined.  

that was very much true. you spent fifteen minutes this morning trying to find one of her shoes amongst the mess of unicorns of all shapes and sizes, and all you found in the end was a sock that you had been looking for for the past month. it didn’t help that soonyoug bought her tiger plushies every other week, not to mention seungcheol who loved spending his money on your daughter for some reason. 

but you couldn't help but throw your head back and laugh at your husband wholeheartedly. „gyu, you’re capable of tripping over air, it doesn’t count in your case,” you giggled and ran your fingers through his messy hair, pushing back the few curly strands that fell over his eyes. “besides, she’ll find a way to get those plushies either way. it’s not like you’ll ever say no to her.”  

you could feel your husband’s pouty lips against your collarbone as he said, “you’re right. but it’s unfair that mr.unicorn gets all the cuddles now. even that ugly monkey that looks like it had been through a car crash and a bad lip injection is more loved than i am.” 

heavens, sometimes you wondered who the real baby in your family was. 

“gyu, listen to me,” you took his face in your hands and peeled him away from you, “stop overreacting-,”. 

“but what if she’s all grown up now and won’t-,”. 

“she’s three, kim mingyu. besides, she loves you, you dumbass,” you ran your thumb over his cheek, though that didn’t seem to convince him. “she’s a daddy’s girl, okay? trust me, i am the one who should be complaining about the lack of cuddles,” you said and smoothed the crease between his brows.

“if you say so,” he sighed, and nuzzled his cheek into your hand. “but-,”. 

suddenly, out of nowhere, you heard a loud bang behind you, like something fell and... glass broke? mingyu being mingyu, almost fell off the couch, but you were quick to turn around to inspect where the sound came from. 

and your heart almost broke when you saw what, or rather who, was standing behind the couch.

"oh, honey," you cooed.

your little girl was standing in the middle of the room, clad in her pink nightgown mingyu had bought her on one of his trips abroad, only instead of the bright smile that always graced her face, there were tears in her gorgeous, brown eyes.

"what the?" your husband murmured next to you. “is that my camera?” 

your daughter’s eyes widened in panic as she looked at him. “‘m sorry, daddy,” her voice wobbled in the most heartbreaking way possible. the little girl’s tiny hands were clutching onto the neck strap that was supposed to be connected to the camera. “didn’ mean,” she sniffled, “to break it,” she said and the first tears started rolling down her puffy cheeks. 

you quickly untangled your limbs from the blanket but before you could get up, mingyu put his hand on your thigh. “no, no, no,” he almost tripped from how fast he got up from the couch. “it wasn’t your fault, princess.” 

you thanked whatever grace that your daughter was smart enough not to move because the floor around her was litreed in small glass shards and you weren’t sure what you and mingyu would do if anything happened to her. 

not even a second later, he was at her side, picking up her small body and engulfing her in his big arms. 

“don’ be angry, daddy,” your baby cried into mingyu's shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck. 

mingyu shook his head and turned around to face you with a heartbreakingly sad expression. “i’m not angry, baby. i was just scared,” he murmured. “daddy thought you hurt yourself.” 

you waved for them to come over to where you were sitting and muttered a quiet “come here”.  

your husband placed your daughter on his lap, her head pressed against his chest, on the same spot where yours was just a minute ago. her tiny fists were pressed against his naked tummy as she continued to sniffle quietly. 

wiping every tear that escaped her eyes you started to hum one of the lullababies mingyu used to sing to her when she was a newborn, something you still did when she was upset. your husband was stroking her hair the whole time, rocking her back and forth, as you continued to hum quietly.

“why did you take my camera, sweetheart?” mingyu asked after a while, when her breathing calmed down a bit. 

“i woke up,” she said, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. “and i saw you n’ mommy sittin’ and i wan’ to take picture. like you always take of me n’ mommy.” 

mingyu’s own eyes welled up with tears and he quickly tucked her head back to his chest so she wouldn’t see him upset. 

“oh, baby,” you whispered quietly, though you weren’t sure who needed more comforting at that point. “that’s so sweet, but next time ask me or daddy for help, okay? you could’ve seriously injured yourself.” 

your baby girl nodded and she scrambled off mingyu’s lap to throw herself in your embrace instead. well, it was nice to know that the unicorns and your husband hadn’t replaced you completely yet.  

“what do you say we go and grab a camera together, hm?” he asked. “and we can do a whole photoshoot, we can even make a white background with the sheets.” 

“pink. pink sheets,” she said and clapped her hands. it seemed that you and mingyu breathed a sigh of relief that your daughter was back to her normal, bubbly self.  

taglist (if you want to be added, check my masterlist): @jeonghansshitester @weird-bookworm @sea-moon-star @hanniehaee @wonwooz1 @byprettymar @edgaralienpoe @staranghae @itza-meee @eightlightstar @immabecreepin @whatsgyud @hyneyedfiz @honestlydopetree @vicehectic @dkswife @uniq-tastic @marisblogg @aaniag @daegutowns @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @embrace-themagic @ohmyhuenings @nidda13 @hrts4hanniehae @k-drama-adict @isabellah29 @f4iryjjosh @bangantokchy @mrswonwooo @bangtancultsposts @lllucere @athanasiasakura @onlyyjeonghan @haecien @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @hannahhbahng @valgracia @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @mirxzii @hhusbuds @wonranghaeee @rosiesauriostuff @gyuguys @tomodachiii @veryfabday @lilmochiandsuga @asasilentreader @mrsnervous @bewoyewo @sharonxdevi @wondipity @gyuguys @raginghellfire @treehouse-mouse @waldau @wonootnoot @hellodefthings @dokyeomkyeom @sourkimchi @bbysnw @hoichi02 @aaa-sia @haneulparadx @minvrsev @zozojella @wonootnoot @kimingyuslover @wntrei @honglynights @jihoonsbbygirl @uhdrienne @bloodcanbehot  @iamawkwardandshy  @icyminghao @heeseungthel0ml @goyangiiwonu @bath1lda @ruurooozz @ny0sang @luuxian @onerubii  @hurrican3-insert-nam3 @mekuiikore @luvseungcheol @thenotoriousegg @yuuyeonie @soffiyuhh @svtficsarchive @hyperdramas @huen1ngk41 @lesuneczka @oc3anfloor @gyuguys @fr-freak @bewoyewo

[bluehoodiewoozi]

Paper Rings

Lee Seokmin (DK) x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: food mention.

[Kindergarten Teachers AU] Fearing that their two favourite teachers might break up, the kids decide to take your romance into their own tiny hands.

Big thank you to my beloved @haoboutyou for giving me the idea and helping me defeat writer's block (even if just for a day)! idk what I'd do without you, girl

“You know what? Fine! Have it your way!”

The car door was slammed closed with far too much force. A dog froze in the middle of passing by, eyeing you two with caution before continuing on his morning walk with his elderly owner mumbling words of concern under her breath.

“Well, have a good day.” Seokmin sighed and held the gate open for you, ever the gentleman even when he was annoyed and upset. “Please don’t skip lunch today.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, you turned on your heel to glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

The sound he let out was something of a groan mixed into a wail of despair. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and strolled past him with purpose. There was not a single glance spared his way until you were both well inside the building, surrounded by curious little children who looked like they had heard your argument just fine. One of them looked positively ready to start crying at the sight of you.

Sitting at your desk, you sighed. “What is it, kids?”

“Are you and Mister Minnie breaking up?” a wavering little voice dared to ask. Various noises of protest filled the room before you could even take a breath to prepare to answer the question. 

Sparing a quick look at your boyfriend, who was organising the toy shelves and deep in a conversation with one of the more shy kids, you shook your head. “No, we’re not.”

The children let out a collective breath of relief. Some high-fived and cheered in joy. A bitter part of you thought they might just be more invested in your relationship than your boyfriend was. You tried to wave the thought away as fast as it came.

“Because they’re already broken up!” a little boy suddenly declared, standing up and pointing fingers as if he’d been personally betrayed. He was all accusations and none of the ability to listen. You suspected he’d make a great – or at least popular – politician one day. 

“We are not,” you argued with all the patience only a kindergarten teacher could possibly muster. “We’re just… having a bad day.”

To your surprise and joy, no more questions were asked. Only curious glances remained. Still you thought it was the end of it. Another crisis averted, another day saved.

Behind your back, the kids exchanged looks of mischief and worry – they had a plan brewing.

Little Misoo toiled away at her desk, hands covered in charcoal smudges and ink. She had tried a big girl pen for the first time, having wanted to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, but quickly realised it was harder to wield than it looked, and so she had resorted back to her trusty coloured pencils to write the invitations. She had just ten more to go.

“I don’t understand why we’re doing this,” Jaemin finally voiced his concerns between clumsily peeling and sticking heart-shaped stickers on every piece of paper. “Everybody already knows. Why do they need invitations?”

Misoo gave him a scathing look. “You can’t have a wedding without invitations! Everybody knows that!”

Jaemin pouted. “Then should we make invitations for Mister Minnie and Miss (Y/n) as well?”

“No.” She looked at him like he’d just suggested unicorns and dragons could be best friends (they obviously couldn’t because all unicorns are vegans and dragons famously hate vegans). “They’re the bride and the groom! They don’t need invitations!”

“But do they even know they’re getting married?” 

“They will.” Misoo suspected she had the most patience any woman had ever possessed. She glanced towards the ceiling as if to challenge god for putting her in this situation and then gave Jaemin another glare. “Stop asking stupid questions and get back to work.”

A mysterious chocolate bar had found its way onto your desk. Even more mysteriously it was your favourite brand and flavour. Your boyfriend sat in a circle with the kids, reading their pre-nap fairytale, and snuck glances at you as if he was expecting something. 

You fought back a smile and grabbed a sticky note. 

When he returned to his seat after getting the kids to sleep, he found the pink piece of paper stuck on his laptop. On it, a little heart and two words: ‘You’re forgiven.’ He almost screamed of joy before remembering that he had to be quiet. He wore a dumb lovestruck smile for the rest of the hour.

Mingyu knew something was wrong the moment the kids stepped into the art room. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it but he just knew. And if the wide-eyed look Minghao gave him was anything to go by, he felt it too. 

It was only about 10 minutes in that he realised the problem: the kids were moving like they had a purpose. This was rare. This never happened on free art Fridays – usually the kids would spend the first twenty minutes trying to come up with an idea to execute. Today it took them less than twenty seconds.

Cautiously, he approached tiny Sohyun and Yunho – the first sharpening pencils at a furious pace and the other sorting through the unsharpened ones under her command. It was abundantly clear that Sohyun was working the boy like it was the military. One had to admire her leadership abilities, even if they were a little rough and loud around the edges. 

“So what’s today’s project?” he asked, trying his best not to wince when the pencil’s tip snapped in the sharpener.

Sohyun sighed in frustration before skillfully removing the graphite from between the blades and restarting the sharpening process. “Pencil confetti.”

Mingyu blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Pencil. Confetti.” She repeated it slowly as if fearing he was dumb and wouldn’t get it otherwise. 

He tried not to take offense. “For…?”

“For the wedding,” she explained like it was obvious before gasping and turning to Misoo. “You need to give him an invitation!”

The other girl facepalmed theatrically before rushing over to him with a surprisingly neatly folded paper card. Before he could ask her about it, she was rushing to the other side of the classroom to hand an identical one to Minghao. 

‘INVITAISION’ it read in big bold multicolour letters, a large pink heart-shaped sticker sitting right under the word. 

Mingyu opened the card and his jaw just about dropped (granted, it took him about two minutes to decipher the writing and make sense of it; he couldn’t complain because he hadn’t expected any kindergarten kids to know how to write anything at all). 

“Seokmin and (Y/n) are getting married?!” He made eye contact with Minghao who gave him an equally shocked look. 

“We’re throwing them a marriage!” Hyesoo declared happily and held out a little string tied into a circle. “I’m making rings!”

Mingyu fought a smile. “So, pencil confetti and string rings?”

“We wanted to make flower rings but it’s too early to go outside yet,” Jaemin informed him with a pout. 

“And flower confetti,” Sohyun sighed and continued working the pencil sharpener like it was her day job and she was getting paid per shaving.

“... Want me to get you guys some real flowers?” Mingyu asked after a moment of thought. It wasn’t every day that the kids planned a wedding, after all. 

The kids’ faces lit up with joy like little Christmas trees. If he hadn’t wanted to do this, he would’ve felt compelled now. 

“And we could make them paper rings,” Minghao suggested with a little smile. “They would last longer than flowers.”

The kids screamed in excitement.

You leaned closer to your boyfriend, eyeing the kids suspiciously as you did so. “They’re being weird.”

Too busy to even look up —Seokmin was neck-deep in his emails—, he hummed. “Weird how?”

“Like … quiet weird.”

His attention was fully on you now. ��Oh, that’s no good.”

“Look at them!” you whispered and nodded towards where the kids were supposed to be playing on the carpet. 

Instead of messing around with little trucks and dolls and teddy bears, they were braiding ribbons into each others’ hair and handing out cards and whispering secrets. You felt like you’d entered an alternate dimension. 

Seokmin raised a single brow and nodded. “Okay, this is scary.”

“Should we—” you hesitated, “—do something?”

He shrugged. “But what if we do something and they get noisy and crazy again?”

“Good point.”

The big hour was growing nearer. The kids were buzzing with excitement, ready to see their plan in action. In half an hour, it would be time to go outside to play games and throw the biggest party of their lives. 

“Okay, do we have everything?” Minsoo asked, standing in the middle of the circle on the carpet. She glanced towards the teachers’ desks – the married-couple-to-be were still unaware of their plans and working on something on their computer. She was happy with the sight, for now, and turned back to her co-conspirators. “Invitations?”

“All given out,” Jaemin replied.

“Confetti?”

“Pencil or rose petal?” Sohyun wondered. She received no answer. “Well, I have both.”

“Perfect,” Minsoo approved and continued checking her mental wedding list. “Rings?”

Bomin – universally recognised as the resident expert in paper crafts – held two rings out on his palm. The other kids made noises of approval. 

“Music?” 

Eunji nodded and hummed in confirmation. She was the only kid in the group to have a phone, even if it did only let her call her mom, listen to about fifteen songs and play Candy Crush. By all accounts, she was the coolest kid in town.

“Priest?” 

Silence. The kids turned to look at Yunho who let out a whine and slumped backwards until he was lying on the ground. “Why do I have to be the priest?”

“Because it’s a boring people job,” Sohyun told him with utter seriousness and all he could do was sigh in defeat.

Mina held up her hand and asked, “Shouldn’t we get Miss (Y/n) a wedding dress?”

“No, because she’s already pretty,” was the general consensus. 

Minsoo looked at her friends, her companions, her co-conspirators, her little minions. She nodded in approval. “People, we have a wedding to do.”

“Kids, don’t wander too far off,” you reminded them gently as they rushed outside in a single file. Somehow it felt like they were even more enthusiastic about playing outside than usual. 

Odd, you thought and pushed the thought out of your head. It had, after all, been an overall strange day. Then again, the weather was lovely and you suspected you would’ve been similarly excited if you were in their shoes. 

Still, it was weird that they were all heading in the same direction as if led by an invisible tour guide.

Seokmin nudged your side. “You’re right. They are being weird today.”

“Right?” Your brows furrowed. “What is up with them?”

“You know, I think they might have heard our fight this morning.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Honey, they asked me if we were breaking up as soon as I got to the room. I am sure they heard us.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re so weird,” he concluded with a click of his tongue before turning to you. “I’m glad you forgave me though. I’m sorry for being so dumb.”

A sigh forced its way out of your body. “You’re not dumb. You’re just … less hesitant than me.” Your fingers brushed against yours. “You know I want a future with you, I just— It hasn’t been all that long.”

“It’s been two years and eight months,” he supplied with a quiet chuckle but there was no malice behind those words. He leaned forward to kiss your cheek. “But who’s counting? Not me.”

“Right,” you deadpanned and jabbed him in the ribs with all the force of a bumblebee crashing into a human body. Your fingers wrapped around his and gave them a squeeze. “Just give me some time, okay? Soon, but not yet.”

“Soon, but not yet,” he parroted with a smile that said he was more than willing to wait.

The padding of feet pulled you out of the moment. In front of you stood Jaemin, hands politely behind his back, cheeks flushed red from the spring chill. He cleared his throat. 

“You need to come with me,” he declared and didn’t bother to wait for an answer before heading right back where he came from.

You shared a look with your boyfriend. “Did he mean the both of us?”

“I think so,” he said and shrugged before following after the boy. You sighed and did the same. 

The world came to a standstill for just a moment when you reached the old tree in the middle of the yard. It seemed that all of the kids had gathered exactly there, forming two neat groups with a little path between them leading to Yunho wearing glasses that were certainly not his own and a top hat. Mingyu and Minghao stood on either side of him with wide mischievous grins, in on a scheme that had clearly been created under your nose without you ever suspecting a thing. 

“What is this?” you asked no one in particular. 

“Your wedding!” Minsoo declared as Jaemin all but dragged your boyfriend to the other end of the makeshift path. 

Seokmin wore a puzzled smile as Mingyu started dusting his jacket and fixing his hair like a fuzzy mother. “Our what?”

“Wedding,” the kids repeated in unison like it was the most obvious thing. When you still stared at them with nothing but confusion in your eyes, they let out a collection of little sighs. 

Sohyun called out, “You’re getting married!”

“We are?” 

“Yes!” 

“Why?” Seokmin wondered while dodging Mingyu’s attempts to straighten his collar. “How come?”

“Because you had a fight and then Miss (Y/n) said you two were having a bad day,” Minsoo explained to you like you two were the five-year-old ones and they were the much more experienced adults. “And my mom always says she was the happiest on her wedding day, so now you are getting married so your day can be happy too.”

No one could argue with logic. You admitted defeat and let the girls adjust your clothes and put a little flower into your hair.

When they were done, like the woman on a mission that she was, Minsoo handed you a single red rose – a real one, you noted in astonishment – and held out her hand for you to take. Hesitantly, you did as expected. 

The moment your fingers touched hers, you almost burst out laughing when you heard the beginning notes of ‘Love Is an Open Door’. 

With a proud grin on her face, she led you down the aisle towards the old tree – towards your boyfriend. You really did start laughing when the kids began throwing flower petals onto your path. 

“You guys put a lot of thought into this, huh?” you asked.

She only smiled and led you to the make-shift altar made of an old tree log. You stood next to Seokmin who offered you a matching amused smile and took your hand from hers, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“We’re getting married,” he whispered as if he couldn’t believe it.

Frankly, you couldn’t either. Especially when just this morning you had been arguing over this very thing. Funny how the universe works, you thought and stepped closer to his side. “We’re getting married.”

“Ladies and gentlemans,” Yunho began in a faux-official tone as soon as the song ended, holding a notebook up like he could read, “we are here to marry Miss (Y/n) and Mister Minnie. Does anybody object?”

Silence filled the yard. You glanced back to find the kids giving each other glares as if to dare the other to make even a squeak. One could rest assured violence would erupt if the smallest sound was heard. 

Yunho seemed to breathe out in relief before continuing, “Do you, Mister Minnie, take Miss (Y/n) as your wife?”

“I do,” Seokmin told him, not even bothering to fight his giggles. 

“Stop laughing! This is a serious matter!” Sohyun scolded him from the first row. 

Seokmin schooled his expression and cleared his throat, standing up straighter as if he was a mere soldier that had just received an order from his commanding officer. With all the seriousness he could muster, he repeated, “I do.”

“Good,” Yunho approved and turned to you. “Do you, Miss (Y/n), take Mister Minnie as your husband?”

You nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Perfect! Then I announce you–”

“The vows! Don’t forget the vows!” Bomin called out from the crowd.

Jaemin gasped. “And the rings!”

Yunho seemed a little overwhelmed by the demands of the many but quickly gathered himself. “Right. Mister Minnie, do you have any vows?”

Seokmin’s lips twitched. “Sure.”

“You do?” you gasped and turned to him. “Well, come on then.”

“Do you not have vows for me then?” He pressed his free hand to his chest, feigning a wound. 

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t realise I would be getting married today, so…”

“Then you’d better think quick because these kids are ruthless,” Mingyu leaned over to tell you.

Seokmin chuckled and cleared his throat once more. He took your other hand in his as well. “My (Y/n), my beloved, my moon, my stars, my sunshine–”

“This was a mistake,” you heard one of the kids mumble in the crowd, clearly disgusted by the amount of honorifics your boyfriend had decided to bestow upon you. Maybe she wasn’t the romantic type. 

“–I love you and I adore you. I didn’t expect to marry you today but, well, here we are, getting married, today, right here. They say that if you find the one you love, you feel like you can live forever. I am glad you’ve chosen me to spend your forever with.”

The kids cooed and awwed and squealed in delight. You would’ve joined them if you didn’t feel so suspiciously close to crying. 

“It’s your turn,” Yunho whispered to you after a moment of silence. 

You blinked back to reality and squeezed Seokmin’s hands. “Alright, well, I didn’t have anything prepared but… I can’t imagine a life without you in it, Seokmin. I can’t imagine waking up to anything other than your attempts at coffee. I can’t imagine coming to work to the sound of anything other than your singing. You mean everything to me. This wedding came as a surprise but I am so glad it did because it means I can marry the man of my dreams.”

The children erupted into cheers as Minghao held out two rings for you to take. Seokmin slipped one around your ring finger with gentle, nervous grace. You did the same for him and smiled wide when he leaned forward to kiss your lips. 

Boys fought grimaces of disgust while girls giggled and squealed in delight. ‘Love Is an Open Door’ commenced playing once again as Yunho ushered you back down the aisle to be showered in flower confetti.

“Not at all what I thought they were planning,” Seokmin leaned towards you to whisper. “I did not expect this.”

“Is it weird that I’m not mad about it?” you asked and rested your head against his shoulder. “I know I said I wasn’t ready for marriage this morning but–”

“As far as I care, this marriage is all that counts,” he told you with a giddy smile and pressed another kiss to your lips. He held his left hand out for you to see, wriggling his fingers to show off his new paper jewellery. “I have a ring to prove it now.”

[mvnscloud]

tough love?

in a world that expected silence, joshua gave his son softness.

pairing: joshua hong x reader warnings: boy dad!joshua, parents au, teeth rotting fluff, domestic asf word count: 1.2k a/n: i seem to only be able to write about joshua lately so here u go 🤓 + im actually sobbing at this baby shua pic im crying

𖤓

most people say joshua would be the perfect girl dad.

the quiet warmth in his eyes, the softness in his voice, he just looked like someone meant to raise a daughter. you could just picture him tying pink ribbons into pigtails, learning how to braid hair through youtube tutorials, walking around with sparkly stickers on his cheeks because “my daughter said I’m a unicorn today.”

and you understood why. he’d be wonderful at that — raising a little girl with tender care, the kind so many women grew up needing but never quite received.

however, you thought otherwise. in your heart, he was a boy dad. it was like he was made to raise a son, your son.

you could see it in how he held him close like a secret he’d waited his whole life to be told. how he loved him in a way that rewrote everything the world ever said about what fathers and sons should be.

because while the world expected fathers to be stern and boys to be strong, joshua gave your son something else entirely — the space to be soft. to feel deeply. to cry without shame, to reach for comfort without apology, to be both gentle and enough.

you saw it the moment your son was born.

they placed him on your chest first, and you watched joshua’s hand shake as he reached out, touched the tiniest part of your baby’s arm, and whispered, “hi, buddy.”

he was crying before the baby was.

not from fear. not from shock. not from the weight of it. but from the kind of overwhelming love that settles into your bones.

“he’s perfect,” he said, voice trembling. “i’m gonna love him so well.”

and he did.

joshua carried your son everywhere those first few months. in wraps, in slings, tucked against his chest like he never wanted to let go. he hummed lullabies into his hair, traced soft circles on his back, and spoke to him even when he couldn’t understand the words yet.

“you’re safe,” he’d whisper. “always safe with me.”

the baby didn’t know what those words meant yet.
but he felt it. and you did, too.

your son’s first real tantrum happened over a broken crayon.

he was three. overtired and overstimulated. crumpled on the floor in tears, fists balled up, face red and frustrated.

you were about to kneel beside him when joshua gently touched your arm.

“i’ve got him,” he said.

then he sat down the floor sitting across his son, letting him cry. he didn’t flinch, didn’t correct. he just waited. letting him express his feelings while also letting him know that he was there.

“hey. that was your favorite crayon, huh?” he asks softly.

he receives a tiny nod through hiccups.

“it’s okay to be sad about that. i get sad about things too.”

the crying didn’t stop right away. but your son crawled into joshua’s lap minutes later. not because he was told to, but because he wanted to. and joshua wrapped his arms around him like he had all the time in the world.

that was the moment your son learned he never had to be alone in his feelings.

sometimes, the world got louder than joshua could control.

like the day your son came home from daycare with red-rimmed eyes and stiff shoulders. he wasn’t crying anymore, not visibly, but you could see it in the way he avoided joshua’s gaze, how his small hands stayed balled in his lap during dinner, barely touching his food.

joshua knelt in front of him, “did something happen today, bud?”

your son hesitated, “i cried when i missed you. and some of the boys saw.”

joshua’s hands stilled.

“they all laughed at me,” your son continued. “said boys don’t cry. that i was acting like a baby. like a girl.”

each word came with less confidence than the last, like he wasn’t sure anymore what was okay to feel. like he was repeating a rule he didn’t understand but was suddenly supposed to follow.

joshua didn’t scold. nor did he try to explain it away. he just opened his arms and asked gently, “can i show you something?”

he climbed into joshua’s lap, pressing his face into the curve of his shoulder.

and there in the middle of the playroom, he let a single tear fall.

your son pulled back, wide-eyed. “daddy… are you crying?”

joshua nodded. “yeah, i am.”

“why?”

“i cry when i feel big things. like love. or sadness. or when i hear you say something that makes my heart heavy.”

your son looked at him with sad eyes.

“and today, hearing that they laughed at you, that made my heart hurt a lot.”

your son looked confused for a second. then his little arms went around joshua’s neck.

“sorry, daddy.”

“no need to be sorry,” joshua whispered. “it’s good to feel things. you’re allowed.”

and that was the moment your son learned his softness would never make him less.

they had a language all their own.

not in words, but in the way your son instinctively reached for joshua’s hand when he was unsure. how he laid his head on his dad’s shoulder when he was sleepy. how he never hesitated to say, “i love you, dad,” because he heard it so often, it just lived in his chest.

joshua was the kind of father who kissed his son’s forehead when he dropped him off at school. who packed handwritten notes in his lunchbox.

he wore matching pajamas with him on movie nights.
let him fall asleep against his side during bedtime stories. held him during fevers, nightmares, scraped knees, never once rushing the hug.

people still said joshua gave girl dad energy.

but if they could see what you saw, if they witnessed the way joshua raised your son with open hands and open arms, they’d understand.

this wasn’t about pink or blue, softness or strength.

this was about a boy who grew up knowing he never had to earn his father’s affection.

that love wasn’t conditional. that tenderness wasn’t weakness. that he could be everything he felt and still be whole.

joshua didn’t just raise a son.

he gave him the gift of belonging in every hug, in every gentle word, in every time he held him a little longer than the world said was “necessary.”

and one day, when your son is grown, you hope he remembers all of it.

the warmth. the softness. the safety.

that his father never made him feel like love had to be tough to be true.

[ilovejb]

| Second Chance |

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x female!wife!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds comes home broken—and now he has to earn his place in the family he almost lost.

Warnings: Substance abuse (meth/alcohol),Angst & yelling, Mentions of relapse/recovery, Parenting struggles, fluffy ending

Authors note: requested by @horrormovielover2000

The warmth of your daughter’s small body is tucked against your side, her cheek pressed to your arm as she watches the pages of the storybook flutter with each turn. You’re halfway through The Paper Bag Princess, and her lashes are already getting heavy.

“Then the dragon flew around the world… twice…” you say softly, dragging your voice like honey across the words, “…and was so tired, he couldn’t even move.”

Your daughter giggles, muffled and sleepy. “He flew too much,” she says, fingers brushing her tiny unicorn plushie.

“Mhm,” you hum, smiling despite the quiet ache in your chest. “That’s why you shouldn’t show off when you’re tired.”

You’re trying. Really trying. Holding onto the rituals—bedtime stories, warm baths, tucking her in just right—as if they’ll keep the world from crashing in.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You glance at it. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a read receipt.

Where the hell are you, Bob?

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. Not anymore. But caring is like breathing with him—you can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts.

“I want Daddy to finish the story tomorrow,” your daughter mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

You hesitate, brushing hair back from her face. “He’ll try, baby.”

“Okay…” she sighs. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Are dragons real?”

You pause. “Only the kind we carry in our hearts.”

That seems to satisfy her. You keep reading until her breathing slows, her hand slipping from your arm. The book hangs loosely in your lap. The room is warm and quiet. For a moment, just a moment, it feels like you’re safe here.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You jump so hard the book falls. Your heart slams into your throat. The pounding is aggressive, loud, demanding. Someone’s at the door—no, slamming at it. Your daughter shoots up in bed. “Daddy!” she squeals, awake instantly.

“Wait—wait, baby, no—” but she’s already out of bed, bare feet pattering down the hallway.

You scramble after her. “Sweetheart, slow down—!”

She reaches the front door before you do, fumbling with the handle, too short to open it completely. You get there just as it swings wide.

And there he is.

Bob.

No—what’s left of him.

His blonde hair is a mess, matted with sweat. His eyes are wide and glassy, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. The stench hits you first—alcohol, piss, something sharper and acrid clinging to his clothes. “Hi babyyyy,” he drawls, voice thick and slow like molasses. “Didja miss your old man?”

Your daughter giggles, throws herself at him without hesitation. He lifts her, almost stumbles back from the weight. She clings to his neck like nothing’s wrong.

You stand there, frozen. Your stomach twists.

“Bob,” you say sharply, but not loud. Not yet. “Put her down.”

“Aww, come on,” he slurs. “She missed me. Didn’tcha, honeybee?”

Your daughter beams. “You smell weird, Daddy.”

He barks a laugh, wobbly and too loud. “That’s just… bein’ a man, baby.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Put. Her. Down.”

He finally does, sort of dropping her onto her feet. She stumbles, giggles, doesn’t notice your white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Bob sways. His eyes meet yours. And for one fleeting second, something clear flickers behind them—recognition, maybe shame—but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“Hey, baby,” he grins at you. “Miss me?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare at him, your mouth dry, your hands shaking, your daughter beside you tugging his hand and asking if he brought her a present.

And the smell. God, the smell—like whiskey and sweat and something chemical and burnt, crawling on his skin. The man in front of you is not the hero. Not the husband. Not even close.

Just the storm you’ve been waiting for.

Bob stumbles over the threshold like a man who’s forgotten what home means.

His boots leave muddy prints across the wood floor. His jacket slips from one shoulder, crumpling at his side like a discarded thought. You say nothing as he makes his way in—wobbly, slow, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath.

Your daughter is stuck to his hip, chattering happily about her day. “We made dragons at school today, Daddy! And Mommy read the dragon story! It was sooo funny.” She’s beaming, absolutely glowing, like her daddy hasn’t just shown up looking like a man pulled from a wreckage.

Bob nods, eyes too wide. “Dragons, huh? S’a good story. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I fought one?”

She gasps. “Noooo. You really did?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins, staggering toward the living room. “Biggest thing you ever saw. Breath like fire, teeth like knives. Mean son of a bitch.” He leans down, whispering theatrically, “But I kicked his ass.”

She squeals with laughter.

You’re still by the front door. Frozen.

Watching.

Counting.

One bottle of whiskey. A crushed cigarette. Meth. Definitely meth. You can see it in the twitch of his fingers. The way his jaw keeps locking and unlocking. His eyes aren’t just red; they’re wrong. Dilated. Staring through you.

It hits you again, how he can be so full of love and still dangerous like this. Your daughter clutches his leg. “Tell me more, Daddy.”

You finally speak, throat raw. “Sweetheart, it’s bedtime.”

“Aw, come on,” Bob groans, flopping onto the couch. “Let her stay up. Story time with Dad. It’s a special occasion.”

You move fast, crossing the room and crouching beside her. “No, baby. It’s late, and Daddy needs to rest.”

“But—”

“Now,” you say, more firmly, smoothing her hair. “Go pick another book. I’ll be right there.”

She hesitates, clearly torn. But she nods, pouting as she heads back toward her room. You don’t relax until she’s out of sight.

Then you stand.

And face him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper.

He laughs, as if you told a joke. “Babe, chill. I’m home, aren’t I?”

“You’re high.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re high, Bob.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just a little. Needed to take the edge off.”

“The edge off what?” you hiss. “You vanished for three days. You missed her parent-teacher meeting. You said you’d help with her reading log. You said you were getting better. And now you come in here reeking like a goddamn meth lab and want to play bedtime hero?”

He flinches. But then that grin returns—ugly now, cracked at the edges.

“I was working.”

“Bullshit.”

“Saving people, baby. That’s what I do.”

“No. Not tonight. Tonight you got high and drank yourself stupid and wandered home like a stray dog.”

He sways to his feet, stumbling slightly. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some junkie.”

“What would you call this?”

He gestures wildly, arms spread. “This? This is me surviving, okay? You think I can sleep with what’s in my head? You think I can just tuck in at nine like everything’s fine when there’s a void in there scratching behind my eyes?”

You go still.

His chest heaves. The room is too quiet now.

There it is again.

The thing no one likes to name.

The Void.

The god inside him. Or the monster. Or both. You don’t know anymore. You just know that when Bob says he’s using to keep it quiet, it means he’s slipping further away from all of you.

“I didn’t ask to be this,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Your voice is quieter now. Dangerous. “But you asked to be a father. You asked to be a husband. You chose this family. And every time you walk through that door like this, you tell me we were a mistake.”

He looks like you slapped him.

For one second—just one—he looks like Bob again. The real one. The one who held your hand in the hospital and whispered that he’d protect this baby with his life. The one who rocked your daughter to sleep on his chest, and cried when she said “Dada” for the first time.

Then he blinks. And he’s gone again.

A shadow of himself.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he mumbles, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter—half-empty tequila from a week ago.

You move fast.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He lifts the bottle anyway.

You yank it from his hand and slam it down into the sink so hard it shatters.

The sound explodes in the room. Glass everywhere.

Bob stares. Stunned. “Jesus, what the hell?”

“I will not let you drink yourself into the ground in front of our daughter.”

“She didn’t see shit.”

“She sees everything, Bob! Every damn time you stumble in here like this, she looks at me and asks if you’re okay. She draws pictures of dragons with black eyes, and calls them ‘Daddy monsters.’ I am begging you to understand what you’re doing to her.”

He doesn’t move.

He just breathes.

Heavy.

You realize your hands are shaking. You push past him and grab a broom. Start sweeping.

Because you need to do something.

You need the sound. The motion. The distraction.

Bob sinks back onto the couch like all the air’s been taken out of him. “I’m not a monster,” he whispers.

You don’t look at him.

“I never said you were.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his face. “She loves me.”

“She worships you. And that’s the problem. She thinks this is normal.”

You glance down the hallway, heart aching.

“She still waits at the door every night.”

He says nothing.

“I’m pregnant, Bob.”

The words come out without planning.

He freezes.

Looks up.

“What?”

You finally meet his eyes.

“I was gonna tell you when you were clean. When you were… you. But it’s been weeks, and I don’t even know if I’ll get that version of you again.”

A long silence.

Then—he laughs.

Not out of joy.

It’s hollow. Disbelieving. A little broken.

“You’re kidding.”

You shake your head.

He rubs a hand over his face again, blinking hard. “A baby. Another baby. God.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I’m not—” He stands suddenly, pacing now. “I’m just—it’s a lot, okay? I’m not even keeping it together as-is and now you’re telling me there’s another kid coming?”

You stare at him.

“Do you want us, Bob? Do you even want to be a part of this family?”

He turns slowly, eyes red.

“I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m asking for present.”

You leave the room before he can answer.

Back down the hallway. Into your daughter’s room, where she’s already curled up with her second book of the night, waiting patiently.

“Mommy,” she whispers, “is Daddy staying home now?”

You press your lips together.

Tuck her in gently.

And lie.

“Yeah, baby. He’s staying.”

Your daughter falls asleep quickly, thumb curled near her mouth, the dragon story still open beside her on the bed. Her little chest rises and falls, steady, safe—for now.

You stay there a few moments longer than necessary. Just watching her.

Trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

Trying to remember the version of Bob she deserves.

The one who used to fall asleep on the nursery floor because she wouldn’t let go of his pinky. The one who took her to the park and convinced her he was the strongest man alive because he lifted her with one arm. The one who used to whisper, “I’ll always come back,” like a promise carved in gold.

But now—

Now he comes back empty.

Reeking of pain and piss and substances you can’t even name anymore.

You close her bedroom door softly behind you.

The light in the hallway flickers—needs replacing. Just like everything else. The kitchen clock stopped last week. The front door sticks when it rains. You haven’t fixed the broken nightlight she asked for because every time you get close to doing something normal, you’re reminded that nothing about this life is.

Bob is still in the living room.

Sitting on the floor now.

He’s not moving. Just staring at the shattered glass in the sink. Like it’s some divine message he can’t decipher.

His hands are limp in his lap.

His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He’s not crying. But it’s worse somehow. He looks quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after too many storms, when the ship’s already sinking.

You speak first.

“Do you even remember what day it is?”

He flinches, looks up.

“…Tuesday?”

“It’s Friday, Bob.”

He blinks. You don’t think he even believes you.

You walk past him and pick up his jacket—drenched in sweat, smoke, something chemical. You hold it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“Is this meth, or did you find something new?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” you snap, tossing the jacket toward the laundry basket and wiping your hands on your thighs. “Help me understand, Bob, because I’m out here every day trying to raise your daughter and keep this house from falling apart while you disappear and come home looking like a fucking ghost.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You promised,” you whisper.

“I know,” he finally growls. “I fucking know. You think I like this?”

“I don’t know what you like anymore,” you shoot back, your voice cracking. “You said you were getting clean. You swore. You looked me in the eye and said it was over.”

“I meant it.”

You scoff, bitter. “So what changed?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then, in a voice so raw it scrapes the air: “I did.”

You want to scream. Cry. Run. Anything but this.

“Don’t give me that tragic hero bullshit,” you snap, pacing now. “You had help. You had us. We were there. Every time. I sat with you through every crash. Every mood swing. Every nightmare. And you still chose the high.”

His face twists.

“I didn’t choose this,” he snaps, standing. “You think I wake up and want to burn everything down? You think I look at her and feel nothing?”

You stop.

Let the silence settle between you.

He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “I love her. I love you. But this thing in me—it’s loud. And when I don’t quiet it, it eats me alive.”

You’re crying now.

Tears hot and fast and silent.

“Then let it eat you, Bob. Not us. Not her.”

His expression cracks.

For a second, he steps forward, like he’s going to reach for you. But he stops himself. Just stares.

“You’re pregnant,” he says again, softer now. Like it just hit him.

You nod, wiping your cheeks.

“How far along?”

“Seven weeks.”

A beat.

“Is it mine?”

That breaks you.

It slices through your chest like a blade.

You laugh. One sharp, humorless breath. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

He grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it, I know. Just like you didn’t mean to disappear. Or relapse. Or scare the shit out of our daughter tonight. But you did. And I’m the one who has to patch it all up every single time.”

Bob slumps back down onto the couch. Puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start by apologizing.”

He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For tonight. For everything.”

You nod slowly. “And then what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kneel in front of him.

“I need you to hear this, and really hear me, Bob. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t raise two kids in a house where love feels like walking through landmines.”

He’s trembling now. You don’t think he realizes it.

“I want the man who brought home flowers just because I said I missed spring. I want the man who cried when she was born and held her like she was made of stars. Not this…” you trail off, gesturing at him. “Not this ruin.”

He blinks hard.

Looks at you.

And then—he shatters.

Breaks open.

The tears come fast and brutal. He folds in on himself, sobbing like it’s the first time he’s let it out. He clutches your wrist, not to hurt, just to hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why I can’t stop—”

You wrap your arms around him, even though it hurts.

Even though you know this moment won’t fix anything.

Because this is still Bob.

Even if he’s buried under the weight of everything he’s become.

“I know,” you whisper, holding him as tightly as you can. “But something has to change. Or this ends here.”

His fingers dig into your back.

Like he knows you mean it this time.

Like he’s terrified you really will walk.

And the worst part is—

So are you.

The house is quiet when you wake up.

Your daughter is curled up against you on the couch, one arm thrown over your belly like she’s guarding something. You kiss her forehead and gently shift her off your lap, your lower back aching from a night of sleeping half upright.

You can smell him before you hear him.

Cigarettes. Cheap beer. Sweat.

You stiffen.

Bob’s in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table with his head in his hands like he’s the one who needs comforting. There’s a trail of dirt and god-knows-what from his boots to the back door, and the sink’s still full of glass shards from last night’s meltdown.

You don’t speak right away. You just stand there, watching him.

He doesn’t look up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask softly. Not because you’re trying to be calm—but because if you raise your voice, you’ll scream.

“I live here,” he mumbles, still not looking at you.

“Do you?”

He finally lifts his head.

His eyes are bloodshot. His face is pale. You’re not sure how long it’s been since he slept, but it sure as hell wasn’t last night.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

You almost laugh. It’s not funny, but it’s so familiar—the way he always defaults to sorry when he’s got nothing else left to say.

You move to the sink and start picking out the bigger shards of glass from the mess he made. Carefully. Wordlessly.

He watches.

“Let me help.”

“You’ve helped enough,” you say coldly.

That shuts him up.

When you finally turn to face him, you’re exhausted in every possible way. Your body hurts, your heart hurts, your soul hurts.

“I meant it,” he says after a beat. “What I said last night. I want to be better.”

You stare at him. “You were high, Bob. You said a lot of things.”

“I meant them.”

“Even the part where you asked if the baby was yours?”

His face falls.

You shake your head. “You don’t get to play the hero after that.”

He stands slowly. “I was out of my mind. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You haven’t known what you were saying for months.”

Silence.

You press your palms into the counter. Your voice comes quieter now, shakier. “She woke up this morning asking where her dragon drawing went. You scared the hell out of her last night. Again.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I know. I fucked up.”

You laugh bitterly. “Fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover it, Bob.”

He looks at you like he wants to fall apart again. But you’re not giving him that out this time. Not another emotional collapse for you to clean up.

“Do you want to be a father?” you ask, blunt.

He stiffens. “Of course I do.”

“Then act like it. Because this version of you? He’s not a dad. He’s a fucking disaster.”

He flinches.

Good.

“Go get help,” you say. “Real help.”

He nods immediately. “I will. I want to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you? Or do you just want me to think you will so I won’t throw you out?”

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that the last time.”

His shoulders fall.

And for a moment, he looks small.

“You want a gold star for showing up at rock bottom?” you ask, shaking your head. “No. You want this family? You fight for it. Because I’m done dragging you to the finish line.”

He nods again, slower this time. “I’ll go. Tomorrow. I’ll find a place. I just need—”

“No,” you cut in. “Today. Before you change your mind. Before you convince yourself this wasn’t that bad. Pack a bag. Get out. And don’t come back until you’re clean.”

He swallows hard. “Will you wait for me?”

You don’t answer at first.

You look past him, toward the hallway. Where your daughter still sleeps. Where the nursery’s half-painted. Where the version of your life that you wanted is falling apart at the seams.

“I’ll do what’s best for the kids,” you say. “But waiting for you? No. I’ve done enough of that.”

You leave the kitchen before he can say anything else.

You don’t want more promises.

You want proof.

That night, he’s gone.

Just like that.

No grand goodbye. No dramatic tears. Just a packed duffel bag, an apology muttered in the doorway, and the weight of your daughter’s drawing tucked into his jacket.

You don’t cry.

You don’t feel relieved, either.

Just… empty.

Like this was always coming, and now that it’s here, you’re too numb to mourn it.

You lay in bed with your daughter curled beside you and a hand on your stomach, wondering what kind of father this baby will have.

And whether it’s better to hope for his return—

—or to pray he never comes back.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Bob left.

The house is quieter, but not in the peaceful way. It’s the kind of quiet that gets under your skin, presses against your chest. Like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for the next storm.

You’ve stopped expecting to find his boots by the door. You’ve stopped waiting for his voice in the hallway. But the ache hasn’t dulled—not really. It just settled in a different place. Lower. Heavier.

You’re tired. All the time.

And not just from the pregnancy.

There’s something about carrying a child and holding a whole family together at the same time that feels impossible.

But you do it.

You get up.

You feed your daughter.

You fold tiny onesies and pack a hospital bag, just in case.

And when she asks why Daddy’s not home, you smile and say, “He’s on a trip, baby. He’s working really hard to come back better.”

You don’t say what kind of work.

You don’t say that some nights, you cry into his old hoodie and hope to God this baby never knows the version of Bob you had to survive.

He texts once.

Day 9.

I’m in. It’s hard. I miss you both so much. I swear I’m doing it right this time.

You stare at the message for a full ten minutes.

Then you lock your phone and leave it unanswered.

One morning, you wake up and realize you haven’t said his name out loud in days.

That feels like progress.

But then you find your daughter in the hallway with her backpack on.

“Where are you going?” you ask, heart skipping.

“To go find Daddy.”

Your breath catches.

She looks up at you, so hopeful, so sure.

“I drew him a new dragon,” she says softly. “The old one was too scary.”

You kneel in front of her, stomach twisting.

“Sweetheart, you can’t go find Daddy. He’s still… away.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s learning how to be safe. How to be the kind of daddy you deserve.”

Her face crumples. “But what if he forgets about us?”

Your heart breaks clean in half.

You pull her into your arms and whisper, “He won’t. I won’t let him.”

That night, you write him a letter.

You don’t send it.

You don’t even plan to.

But you need to say the things you can’t say with your voice yet:

*I’m angry. You should know that. I don’t believe you yet. You’ve said you’d change before. You said it while high. You said it while bleeding. You said it while looking our daughter in the eye. You lied every time.

But I still want you to try.

Not for me. Not for us.

For her. For this baby.

Because if you come back the same man who left, I won’t let you through the door again.

I mean that.*

You fold it.

Tuck it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.

And you leave it there like a secret waiting to rot.

Week three.

The nausea is back.

You blame stress. Not just from Bob, but from everything. Doctor visits. Finances. Being the only parent at story time in the library. Carrying a child while carrying this much emotional weight—it’s no wonder your body is starting to fight back.

You sit in the bathtub that night, lights off, candles flickering, trying to breathe through the tension building in your ribs. The house feels lonelier than ever.

And that’s when the phone rings.

Not Bob.

The clinic.

“Just a routine check-in,” the nurse says gently. “He asked us to let you know he’s still clean. Still on track.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“He did?” you ask, voice brittle.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s working hard. Every day. He said he’d understand if you didn’t want to hear from him directly. But he wanted you to know he’s still trying.”

Your throat tightens.

You thank her.

You hang up.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself cry—not from anger, but from something closer to grief. Or maybe even hope.

But you still don’t text him back.

Not yet.

Day 26.

You go into early labor.

It’s a false alarm, but it scares the hell out of you.

You’re in the hospital for nine hours. Hooked up to monitors. Breathing through contractions that fade, then return, then fade again. Your daughter’s with your sister. You’re alone in a cold room with fluorescent lights and too many questions.

And you don’t call Bob.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t trust him yet—not even with this.

When the doctor finally tells you it’s Braxton Hicks, you exhale so hard it feels like your lungs collapse.

Back home, you sit in the nursery and rub your belly.

“I got us,” you whisper. “Even if he doesn’t.”

Day 30.

Bob writes a letter.

This time, he doesn’t send it.

But you’ll read it soon.

And when you do, it will hurt like hell.

Because he’ll finally admit the full truth.

The stuff he never said. The things you didn’t even know. The darkest parts he buried under the booze and the high. And for the first time… you’ll understand why he left before you could push him out.

But that’s still coming.

Right now?

You’re just trying to breathe.

Bob’s POV

There’s no mirror in the bathroom. You guess that’s intentional. Too many guys in here already hate what they see. No need to make it worse.

You splash cold water on your face. Your hands are shaking again — not like the first few days, but enough to remind you that the chemicals aren’t out of your bones yet. Not really. Not even after three weeks.

You’ve been clean for 26 days.

Feels like a lie to say it out loud. Like you’re just borrowing someone else’s life until yours gets good enough to take back.

You stare at the tiled wall and whisper, “Stay clean today.”

Not forever. Not even tomorrow.

Just today.

That’s all you’ve got.

Group therapy is at 9 a.m. sharp.

You hate it.

Everyone talks like they’re starring in some sad movie, and you can’t tell if it’s real or rehearsed.

But today, a guy named Jeremy talks about how he lost his daughter.

Not to death — to the system. Foster care. She was three.

He cries when he says her name.

And for the first time since you checked in, you want to cry, too.

Not for Jeremy.

For yourself.

For your daughter.

For the baby you haven’t even met yet.

Because you know what it’s like to wreck something beautiful with your own hands.

And you’re so fucking scared it’s too late to put any of it back together.

That night, you write a letter.

You don’t plan to send it.

But it’s the only way to say what needs saying.

I don’t know how to be the man you married.

I don’t know how to be a good father.

I only know how to survive things. And then destroy them.

I wish I could blame it on the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or my dad. But I think I was broken before any of that. I think I was born with a hole in me that never filled.

Until you.

Until her.

Until this new baby.

And the second I got scared I’d lose it, I torched it.

Because if I burn it myself, at least I’m not surprised when it’s gone.

That’s the kind of man I am.

The kind who’d rather blow up a house than admit he’s terrified of being inside it.

I remember the way you looked at me that night I came home high.

Like I was a stranger.

Like I was already dead.

And I think part of me was.

But I’m trying.

Every goddamn day, I’m trying.

I’ve been clean almost a month. I go to therapy. I talk about the way my hands shake when I think about holding our baby. I write down the names of the people I hurt. I say I’m sorry even when no one’s listening.

And I’m writing this not because I want forgiveness.

But because I need you to know — I remember.

I remember your voice reading bedtime stories.

I remember her little dragon drawing taped to the fridge.

I remember the sound of your laugh in the kitchen at 2 a.m.

I remember it all.

And it’s killing me to be away from it.

But I’ll stay away as long as it takes.

Until you don’t flinch when you hear my name.

Until our daughter stops waiting by the window.

Until I know I can walk through the door without making everything worse.

I don’t expect anything.

Not even another chance.

But I swear on my life, if I ever do come home…

It’ll be as a man you can trust.

Not a perfect man.

Just one who won’t leave you to carry all of this alone.

You fold the paper slowly.

You don’t sign it.

If she ever reads it, she’ll know it’s from you.

Day 30.

You hear someone in the hallway scream into a pillow. They’re shaking. Withdrawal still kicking the shit out of them.

You remember when you were that guy.

Sweating through the sheets.

Throwing up bile.

Hallucinating voices in the walls.

You almost left that first night.

But you stayed.

Because of her.

Because of the baby.

Because of the tiny hands that used to tug on your hoodie and say, “Daddy, watch me.” You don’t know if she ever will again. But that’s not why you’re staying clean now. You’re doing it because you should’ve done it a long time ago.

Later that day, a counselor named Rae pulls you aside.

She’s kind. Firm. A little too good at reading you. She sits across from you in a quiet room and says, “Tell me about your wife.”

You hesitate. “We’re not married anymore.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

You shrug. “I think I burned that bridge.”

“People survive fire.”

“Not if you leave them in it.”

She leans back. “Do you want to be with her?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

“Then you better figure out why you blew everything up.”

That night, you lie awake and think about the sound of your daughter’s laugh.

The one that hiccups in the middle.

Like your laugh.

Like your mother’s.

You remember your mom crying in the bathroom when your dad came home angry.

You remember the beer bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.

You remember the screaming. The smashing.

And the silence that followed.

And now?

Now you’ve got your own version of that memory playing out in someone else’s house.

And you swear — swear — you’re going to break the pattern.

Or die trying.

Day 33.

You pick up your pen.

You start a new letter.

This time, you’re going to send it.

Not to win her back.

Just to let her know:

You’re not gone.

You’re fighting.

And this time — you’re not running.

Your POV

It comes in the mail on a Wednesday.

You almost miss it.

You’re balancing groceries on your hip, your daughter tugging at your hand, when you see the envelope. No return address. Just your name — in handwriting you haven’t seen in a long time. The letters are a little shaky. Like he had to hold the pen too tight to keep from falling apart.

You know it’s him.

Even before you open it.

You press it to your chest for a second. Just to feel something.

Then you hide it in the drawer under the kitchen sink.

Because if you read it too fast, you might break.

And you’ve got too much to do to shatter today.

You wait until your daughter is asleep.

Her little arms wrapped around her stuffed lion, dragon drawings covering the wall like wallpaper. You smooth her hair. Kiss her forehead. Whisper I love you like it’s a prayer and a promise.

Then you go downstairs.

Turn off the lights.

And open the letter.

I told myself I wouldn’t write.

That if I really respected your space, I’d stay quiet. Let you breathe. Let you heal.

But I miss you.

I miss her.

I miss the baby I haven’t even met yet.

And I know missing you isn’t enough.

I know I don’t deserve anything from you.

But I’m still here. Still clean. Thirty-three days.

I go to group. I cry like hell. I talk about things I never wanted to say out loud.

Like the night I came home and scared you both.

I remember it.

I remember your eyes when I opened that door — full of fear, and fire, and heartbreak. And how our daughter ran to me like I hadn’t been gone inside my own head for months.

I hated myself in that moment.

Not because I got caught. But because I finally saw what I’d done to the people who loved me.

I’m not asking you to forgive me.

I don’t want a clean slate.

I want to earn every second of your trust.

Even if it takes years.

Even if it means you never love me again.

Because what matters now is her. And the baby.

They deserve a father who doesn’t flinch when it gets hard. Who doesn’t reach for a bottle or a needle when the silence gets loud.

They deserve someone better than who I’ve been.

So I’m trying.

Not to win you back. But to become the kind of man who never needed to be forgiven in the first place.

If you let me in again someday — I’ll be ready.

But if you don’t? I’ll still be better.

Because you taught me how.

And I’ll never stop being grateful.

You cry.

Not in the movie way — not graceful or quiet.

You cry like it’s leaving you.

Like every moment of holding it together finally cracked open and spilled out in messy sobs.

You grip the letter so tight it crinkles in your fists.

Then you fold it.

Tuck it under your pillow.

And just… breathe.

The next morning, you call your sister.

You ask her if she can watch your daughter that afternoon.

You don’t tell her why.

You just need a few hours.

Alone.

To think.

To feel.

To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the version of Bob who finally seems like he’s trying.

You sit on the porch with a cup of tea that goes cold.

Your hands drift to your stomach.

The baby kicks.

Not hard — just a nudge. Like a reminder.

You think about the way Bob used to talk to the bump before he got bad.

“Hi baby,” he’d whisper, “this is your daddy. I promise, I’m gonna get it right.”

And back then, you believed him.

Now?

Now you want to believe again.

But wanting isn’t enough.

You write your own letter.

Just a few lines.

No promises.

Just honesty.

I got your letter.

It hurt. But it also helped.

I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know if I can trust you yet.

But I’m glad you’re trying.

And I’m proud of you for staying.

Keep going.

Our daughter still draws you dragons.

And I still sleep on your side of the bed.

You seal it.

Mail it the next day.

And for the first time in over a month, you feel a little lighter.

Later that night, your daughter asks,

“Mommy, is Daddy still learning how to be safe?”

You pause.

Then you smile, soft and true.

“Yeah, baby. He is.”

“Can we send him a picture of my dragons?”

You nod.

“Yeah. I think he’d love that.”

The dragon drawing arrives in the mail with a letter taped to it in your daughter’s handwriting — big, looping, backward letters. You help her spell most of the words, but she insists on writing “I love you sooooooooooo much” all by herself.

You don’t think twice about sending it.

Not anymore.

Bob’s letters haven’t stopped.

One every week.

No begging. No pressure. Just steady check-ins. Tiny pieces of him — raw and cleaned up.

You keep them in a shoebox under your bed.

Sometimes you reread them when you can’t sleep. Especially the one where he says he watches the sunrise every morning and thinks about how it used to hit your kitchen floor.

You hadn’t even realized he noticed things like that.

One Sunday afternoon, your phone buzzes.

An unknown number.

Your heart jumps. You answer.

“Hey,” he says softly.

His voice is deeper. Slower. Like he’s scared you might hang up.

You don’t.

You just… breathe.

“Hi.”

“Um,” he clears his throat. “They let me have a phone. Only one call today. I wanted it to be you.”

There’s a pause. You hear birds behind him. Maybe he’s outside. Maybe he’s walking in circles with a knot in his stomach, same as you.

“She sent me dragons,” he says, his voice cracking. “I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest.

“She misses you.”

“I miss her. You. All of it.”

Another pause.

“You look okay?” he asks gently. “I mean—safe? Resting? Eating enough?”

“I’m okay.”

He nods. “Good.”

And then, softly, “I’ll let you go. I just needed to hear your voice.”

You cry after.

Not because he said anything romantic.

But because he didn’t.

Because he respected your space.

Because he just wanted to hear you.

And suddenly, it hits you — how starved you were for the version of him who actually sees you.

A week later, your daughter gets a FaceTime call.

It’s him.

She shrieks when she sees his face, running to the screen, clutching her dragon plushie like a lifeline.

“Daddy!”

His face lights up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “Look at you. You’ve gotten so big.”

She spins in a circle, holding her shirt up to show him the baby bump on you.

“She kicks Mommy a lot! But not me. She likes me better.”

You laugh softly off-screen. “She’s not kicking anyone. Yet.”

Bob’s eyes flick up to you just for a second.

You see everything in them.

Guilt. Love. Ache.

Gratitude.

He doesn’t say anything else about you. He just lets your daughter talk.

Lets her show him her dragon drawings, her new pink sneakers, the little scar she got falling off the couch.

He listens.

He smiles.

And when she tells him she loves him, his voice breaks when he answers.

“I love you more, baby girl. Always.”

That night, you get another letter.

You didn’t have to let me call.

You didn’t have to hold the phone so she could show me her sneakers. Or wave at me before you hung up.

But you did.

And I swear to God, I won’t forget it.

I know I still haven’t earned your trust.

But I’m building something. Every day.

A version of me who isn’t dangerous. Who doesn’t disappear.

I know now that sobriety isn’t a cure.

It’s just the start.

But you gave me that start. And I’m not wasting it.

Thank you for letting her see me.

Even if I’m not home yet, you made me feel like I’m not completely gone.

You cry.

Again.

But this time it’s quiet.

A little softer.

Another week passes.

The FaceTime calls become regular — just on Sundays.

Not long. Never longer than 20 minutes. He talks mostly to your daughter. You sit in the corner of the frame, quietly observing, nodding when she asks you something. Sometimes he glances at you like he wants to say more — but never pushes it.

He’s waiting.

And you notice things.

He looks… clearer.

His eyes don’t dart around like they’re chasing invisible demons. His voice is steadier. And there’s this calm to him now, something you haven’t seen in years — maybe ever.

It terrifies you.

Because if he’s really changing…

You might have to open the door again.

One afternoon, you finally ask:

“Are you scared to come home?”

He blinks at you through the screen.

“Yes,” he says. And then, “But not for me. For you. And them. Because I don’t want to be a tornado that touches down just to wreck things.”

You stare at him.

That’s what you were waiting to hear.

Not promises.

Not grand speeches.

Just awareness.

You nod.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

He nods back.

“Okay.”

And somehow, it feels like a peace treaty.

Not the end.

Not the beginning.

Just a truce.

You go to sleep that night with your hand on your belly.

The baby kicks again.

And this time?

You smile.

Because for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re surviving.

It feels like something you might actually live through.

You go into nesting mode.

Not the Pinterest kind — no cozy blankets or baby showers or color-coded drawers.

It’s more like scrubbing the kitchen floor at midnight because you can’t sleep.

Folding the baby’s onesies three times over.

Holding your breath every time the doorbell rings.

Your daughter is beside herself.

“Is Daddy coming home before the baby comes?”

You pause.

You don’t want to lie.

But you don’t want to promise something you can’t control.

So you say, “Maybe.”

And she hugs your belly, like she’s shielding both of you.

“He’s trying,” she whispers.

You nod.

Yeah. He is.

You start writing Bob more.

Short texts at first.

Pictures of your daughter. Updates from the OB. A photo of the baby’s empty crib with the caption: “Getting ready. Still not sure for what.”

He never pushes.

Never asks “when can I come back?”

He just replies with care.

“Tell the baby I’m already proud of her.”

“How’s your back? Need me to Venmo you for a massage?”

“The crib looks perfect. You did that. All of it.”

You don’t realize how much you missed having someone to check in — even in the smallest ways.

On a rainy Friday afternoon, your daughter draws a picture of all four of you.

Stick figures. You’re smiling. So is she. There’s a baby with sparkles on her head. And then there’s Bob. Holding flowers. She holds it up to your belly.

“This is for the baby. So she knows who we are.”

You almost cry.

Because that little drawing? It feels like hope.

Like she’s already forgiven him.

Like she never stopped loving him.

And maybe — maybe that means you don’t have to pretend to hate him anymore either.

Later that night, you call him.

Not a FaceTime.

Just voice.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo. “Are you still… going to group? Still sober?”

“Seventy-one days,” he says, almost breathless.

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

Then you hear him crying.

Not loud.

Just quiet breaths, like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

“I don’t want to miss her birth,” he says.

You close your eyes.

You don’t want him to either.

But you also don’t know if you’re ready to let him back in that deep.

So you say the only thing that feels right:

“If you keep doing the work — really doing it — we can talk about that. Soon.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll keep going.”

That night you pull the shoebox of letters from under your bed and start reading them again.

All of them.

Start to finish.

You see the change in his words.

The difference between the early ones — full of regret and begging — and the recent ones — calm, quiet, full of real effort.

He’s not perfect.

You don’t expect him to be.

But he’s trying.

And maybe that’s worth something.

Two days later, you call him again.

This time, your voice is steadier.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

“About what?”

“If it happens fast… the birth, I mean. If I go into labor early, or something happens— I want you close. Not in the house. But maybe… maybe nearby.”

Silence.

Then: “Okay. Yeah. Yes. Anything. I’ll book a place today.”

You exhale.

“You can come over Sunday. Just for an hour. So she can see you in person. I’ll stay nearby. But it’s her time. Not ours.”

He swallows hard.

“Thank you.”

Sunday comes and the weather’s warm.

You dress your daughter in her favorite dragon shirt and braid her hair just the way she likes it.

She’s bouncing around the living room when there’s a knock on the door.

You freeze.

For a second, you’re back in that night — the slam of the door, the smell of alcohol, the panic.

But then you hear his voice through the door, calm and clear.

“It’s me. Just me.”

You open it.

And there he is.

Clean-shaven. Eyes tired but kind. Holding a small bouquet of flowers — daisies, your daughter’s favorite.

She screams and tackles him.

He kneels to catch her, burying his face in her hair.

“Hi, baby girl.”

She’s crying.

He’s crying.

You’re crying.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not fixed.

But it’s real.

And for now, that’s enough.

They sit on the floor playing with her dragon plushies while you sit quietly on the couch, sipping tea and watching.

He doesn’t try to talk to you.

He knows this moment isn’t about you two.

It’s about her.

And when she finally gets tired and curls up in his lap, eyes fluttering closed, he looks up at you — and mouths, Thank you.

You nod.

Just once.

Because even if you haven’t said it out loud yet…

Maybe, just maybe, you’re getting close to letting him come home.

You wake up at 3:27 a.m. with a sharp, wet pop and a gasp.

It takes a second to register.

Then the pain hits.

Hard.

Low.

Real.

You barely have time to grab your phone before another wave crashes over you. You double over, gripping the bedframe, trying to breathe through it.

Your daughter is asleep down the hall.

The hospital bag is packed.

Your heart is pounding.

You pick up your phone and do something you didn’t think you’d do — not like this, not this fast.

You call Bob.

He picks up on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Y/N?”

“It’s happening,” you say, your voice tight and high and full of fear. “The baby’s coming. It’s early.”

He’s instantly awake.

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I need to get to the hospital, but I can’t wake her up and leave her here alone—”

“I’m on my way. Five minutes. Don’t do it alone. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, holding your belly, rocking slightly.

And for the first time since the test turned positive, you aren’t scared to have him by your side.

Four minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

Gentle. Steady.

You open it and he’s already reaching for your hospital bag, his free hand bracing your back when you double over again.

“Breathe, babe,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You believe him.

Your daughter stirs on the couch just as you’re getting ready to leave.

Bob kneels beside her.

“Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s here. Mommy’s gonna go have the baby now, okay? I’m gonna stay with you.”

She blinks blearily. “You promise?”

He kisses her forehead.

“I promise.”

She nods, then looks at you. “Be brave, Mommy.”

You almost cry.

Labor is a blur.

But he’s there.

Every contraction. Every scream. Every breath.

He holds your hand, wipes your forehead, tells you you’re doing so, so good. There’s panic in his eyes — fear, even — but he never leaves. Not once.

And when the doctor says, “She’s here,”

you both fall silent.

And then the baby cries.

And so do you.

And so does he.

He cuts the cord with shaking hands.

They place her on your chest — this tiny, perfect, pink thing — and for a second, the world stops.

Everything else falls away.

Just you, her, and the man beside you who’s looking at the two of you like you’re everything he thought he’d never deserve again.

Later, when the nurses take the baby for her first bath, he helps you sit up in bed, adjusting your pillows and brushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

You stare at him.

“You stayed.”

He meets your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to miss this. Not again. Not ever.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t have to—”

He shakes his head. “No. But I wanted to. I needed to.”

Silence.

Then softly:

“You can come home. If you still want to.”

His eyes widen.

“Are you sure?”

You nod.

“You’ve earned it.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But I’ll keep showing up.”

You nod again. “That’s all I ask.”

Two days later, he carries you and the baby through the front door.

Your daughter runs to you, screaming with joy.

And just like that… your little family isn’t broken anymore.

It’s just starting over.

From scratch.

With love.

With choice.

That night, Bob makes dinner while your daughter plays with her dragons and you feed the baby on the couch.

He keeps glancing over at you — soft eyes, hands still moving — like he can’t believe he’s really here.

Like he’s terrified to blink in case it disappears.

When the baby falls asleep on your chest, he sits beside you, resting a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.

You don’t say anything.

You just lean into him.

And for the first time in forever?

It feels like home again.

It’s a quiet morning.

Your newborn is asleep on your chest. Your daughter’s building a fort out of couch cushions and glitter glue. And Bob? Bob’s in the kitchen, wearing a baby-pink apron with “#1 DILF” in cursive and burning pancakes because he keeps staring at you like he still can’t believe he got this life back.

And then the doorbell rings.

Bob freezes.

You glance at him.

He sighs, mutters, “I forgot,” and walks toward the door like a man headed to war.

Because he is.

The Thunderbolts have arrived

Yelena is the first one inside — sunglasses, combat boots, and a bag of overpriced vegan baby snacks.

“I don’t like babies,” she announces. “But yours is tolerable.”

Ghost (Ava) slips in silently behind her, already kneeling by your daughter’s dragon fort with curious eyes.

Bucky comes in last, holding a plush wolf toy and looking like he definitely didn’t ask to be here but secretly wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Red Guardian is outside arguing with a neighbor about driveway etiquette.

Bob sighs again. “Be gentle,” he mumbles to you as he opens the door fully.

And the chaos begins.

The baby stays asleep for five whole minutes — a record — until Red Guardian accidentally knocks over a lamp while performing a dramatic monologue about Soviet diaper efficiency.

“She must grow strong! Like Russian baby! Built from frozen milk and shame!”

Yelena rolls her eyes and steals a waffle off your plate.

Bob tries to referee.

It’s a mess.

But it’s a good one.

Yelena sits beside you, sipping cold coffee like it’s vodka.

“So. You let him back in.”

You glance toward Bob, who’s letting your daughter paint his nails in glittery pink while he bottle-feeds the baby in his lap.

“Yeah,” you say. “I did.”

She studies you.

Then nods once.

“Good,” she says. “If he screws it up again, I’ll shoot him in the knee.”

You laugh.

Bob looks up like he heard that but knows better than to argue. Bucky eventually ends up on the floor, holding your daughter upside down like a sack of potatoes while she screams with delight.

He looks up at you.

“She’s fearless.”

“She gets it from her dad.”

He raises an eyebrow at Bob. “…Are we sure?”

You grin. “He got there.”

Bucky shrugs. “Good. Everyone deserves a second chance. Even walking hydrogen bombs.” Bob mouths thank you across the room. Bucky just nods.

Later, when the team finally starts winding down — Ghost curled up with the baby in her lap, Red Guardian asleep in your recliner, and Yelena pretending not to be emotionally attached to your daughter’s new nickname for her (“Auntie Knife”) — you and Bob steal a moment on the back porch.

The house glows warm behind you. Your family — all kinds of family — is inside. Bob leans into you, arms around your waist.”They still think I’m unstable,” he murmurs.

“You are unstable.”

He laughs quietly. “But you kept me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “I didn’t keep you. You earned it. And you’re still earning it.”

He nods. “I’m okay with that.”

Before the team leaves, your daughter insists on taking a picture of all of you — Thunderbolts and all — squeezed into the living room like the world’s weirdest sitcom cast.

Red Guardian flexes. Yelena wears a fake scowl. Bucky holds the baby with terrifying tenderness.

Bob stands behind you, arms wrapped around your shoulders, a hand resting gently on your belly. (Because surprise — you might be pregnant again, and yeah, this time you’re happy about it.)

The flash goes off.

The photo is chaotic.

Blurry, loud, off-center.

But it’s perfect.

That night, once the kids are asleep and the house is quiet again, Bob climbs into bed beside you.

His hands are calloused but careful as he rubs your back.

“You ever think about what this looked like… before?”

You nod. “Yeah. But I like what it looks like now better.”

He brushes a kiss to your shoulder.

“You make it better.”

You turn to face him, resting your forehead against his.

“So do you, Bob Reynolds. Even with glitter in your beard.”

He chuckles. “I’m a reformed man. A glittery, diaper-changing, emotionally vulnerable ex-superweapon.”

You grin.

“God, I love you.”

He holds you tighter.

“I love you more.”

[j3lly-fish]

Well, about time I stop teasing and actually post these, right? 🤣 I decided to post the horns individually and have the accessories come out in batches later, gonna be better for my mental health LMFAO. I made these in hopes to have some variety for my unicorns in my story, which turned this whole project into a massive set, so I hope you enjoy them!

This was a pretty big project, so let me know if there's any issues I may have missed!

Unisex

All LODS

10 New Meshes

Teen to Elder

Polys: Azazel (382), Orpheus (298), Poseidon (586), Lyre (586), Cyclone (634), Chrysalis (690), Scythe (418), Mini (298), Broken (148), Fragment (524)

Found in Occult Details, Skin Details and Hats

Disallowed for Random (At least im 99% sure I fixed that)

50 swatches each (They all use the same texture!)

Known issues: These horns use a small portion of the Hat texture slot, meaning hats will most likely not be compatible with this. If you can't find some of my cc in your game, its likely you'll need CAS Unlocks for it (like occult detail slots).

You can recolor and edit my meshes, but please just link back to my original post! ♡

DON’T reupload, claim as your own or put behind a paywall

You can tag me so I can see what you do with my cc!

✦ DOWNLOAD (SFS) ✦ DOWNLOAD (PATREON) ✦

[lexiputellas]

Secondhand Lies from the broken vows series

Alexia was already leaning against her car when you pulled into the lot, parked just behind hers. She looked up from her phone the moment your headlights dimmed, slipping it into her back pocket like she hadn’t just been checking to see if you’d show. You stepped out, tugging your sleeves down. The air still held some late afternoon warmth.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft. “Thanks for coming.”

You nodded. No smile, no hug. She didn’t try, which helped.

The bike shop was brighter than it had any right to be—sunlight poured through the high windows, catching on rows of glossy pastel bikes and glitter-dusted helmets. It smelled like rubber, fresh plastic, and something faintly metallic. The guy working the floor had a lazy ponytail and a grin like this was the best part of his day.

“She’s eight,” Alexia told him as he approached. “Been asking for gears for months.”

You stayed back, trailing your fingers along a row of kid-sized helmets, one shaped like a unicorn. It had a chipped horn. Nora would’ve loved it.

“Do you remember when she tried riding in the hallway?” Alexia called over her shoulder. “Slammed into the cabinet and screamed like we’d broken her.”

You smiled a little. Couldn’t help it. “She still says the cabinet jumped at her.”

Alexia grinned—one of those easy, unguarded ones she used to give you on soft days. “That bruise looked exactly like a doorframe.”

Ponytail Guy returned with a few options, rambling about frame weight and handlebar grips. Alexia crouched beside each one like she was choosing a spaceship. You watched from a few steps back, arms crossed, nostalgia pressing into your chest in that cold, deceptive way it does—familiar but never gentle.

“This one’s good, no?” she asked, brushing her hand over a mint green model. “Not too heavy. Pretty color.”

You tilted your head. “It’s cute.”

“She’s going to lose her mind,” Alexia murmured. “She’ll love it.”

They brought the bike out to the lot. It didn’t fit in her trunk, of course, but she tried anyway—muttering in Spanish as she twisted the frame, then sighing in loud, dramatic frustration.

“I’ll take it in mine,” you said, already unlocking your car.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We can hide it in the garage until Saturday.”

She looked at you like she wanted to say something else. But all she said was, “Vale.”

The next stop wasn’t far. You parked nearby and walked the rest of the way—past a few boutiques and a small dress shop where Alexia paused in front of the window.

“You’d look good in that one,” she said, voice low, unreadable.

You didn’t answer.

Nora’s favorite art store sat nestled between a wine shop and a bakery. Inside, it smelled like wood shavings and pigment. You moved through the aisles with quiet precision. The birthday list was specific—metallic watercolor pens, oil pastels, proper sketch paper. She was eight, but she’d long outgrown the kiddie sets.

You didn’t speak much. Just corrected Alexia gently when she reached for the wrong markers. She paid. You took the bag.

Outside, the city had slipped into that soft, dusky calm—storefronts glowing amber, people moving slow, the hush of evening setting in. You stood at the curb, bag in hand, your body already angling toward your car.

Alexia didn’t follow.

“You know that restaurant you liked,” she said casually, like it wasn’t planned. “The one with the blue awning? It’s just around the corner.”

You turned toward her, slow. She met your gaze steadily.

“We could go,” she said. “If you’re hungry. I know I am.”

You hesitated. The pause hung between you—cool, uncertain.

“I don’t know, Alexia…”

“It’s just dinner.” Her tone was even. “Nothing more.”

You hated that she still knew how to say things like that—calm, clean, deliberate. Like she wasn’t asking for something. Like she didn’t care if you said yes.

She stepped closer, but not too close. “One hour. You’ll be home before Dolores even thinks about calling.”

Your mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something in your chest shifted.

“Fine,” you said, like it cost you.

She didn’t gloat. Just nodded, a flicker of something soft at the corner of her mouth. She turned, expecting you to follow.

And somehow, you did.

The restaurant was, warm the night lights spilled from the windows. Inside, small round tables flickered with candles. Alexia held the door open. She didn’t touch your back, didn’t lean in. But her presence was close—constant, magnetic, annoyingly familiar.

It smelled like garlic and wine and butter. Jazz played low over hidden speakers. The hostess led you to a small corner table, just secluded enough to feel like a memory.

You slid into your seat. She sat across from you, coat draped behind her, sleeves pushed to her elbows like she belonged here.

Like this wasn’t strange.

“It’s weird being back,” she said, glancing around. “Do you remember that night after Madrid? When we ordered every dessert?”

“I remember you flirting with the waiter for free champagne.”

Alexia laughed, easy and warm. “He was into me.”

���He was not.”

“I tipped him like he was.”

You huffed, against your will. She smiled at the sound, then picked up her menu.

You ordered quickly—pasta, something safe. She chose seafood. No questions. No push to get wine. That quiet restraint hit harder than it should’ve.

For a while, neither of you said much.

Then, gently: “So… how are you? Really?”

You stared at her “I don’t know what answer you’re hoping for.”

“The real one.”

You exhaled. “I’m figuring things out.”

She nodded, waiting.

“It’s not easy,” you said. “Being around you. Not knowing if this—any of this—means anything. Or if it’s just another memory we’re pretending still fits.”

Her face shifted, faint and brief. “I know I fucked up.”

“You say that. But I don’t think you understand what it did to me.”

“I’m trying,” she said. “Maybe not perfectly. But I am.”

“I need more than that,” you said, voice quiet. “I need to believe you actually respect me. Respect what we had.”

Her hand inched forward on the table—closer, but not touching. She didn’t reach for you. Didn’t promise anything. Just watched you like she wanted to, but wasn’t sure if she had the right.

The food came. You ate in silence.

It wasn’t until your second glass of water that you noticed the waitress. She set it down without looking at either of you. Her shoulders stiff. Her mouth tight. She didn’t meet your eyes.

Alexia stared straight ahead.

You didn’t understand the tension in your chest until later, when you excused yourself and walked to the bathroom. Just to fix your makeup. Just to breathe.

You didn’t hear the door open behind you until it shut again.

The waitress stood by the sink. She checked the stalls, then paused.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quiet. “I don’t mean to make this worse.”

You turned. “What?”

”She’s your girlfriend?”

You blinked. “Wife.”

Her face changed. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

You waited. A slow, cold ache began in your stomach.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said quickly. “But then I saw you. And… you deserve to know.”

“Know what?”

“I hooked up with her. A few weeks ago. She didn’t mention you. She didn’t mention anyone.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just… couldn’t pretend.”

You didn’t answer. Just left.

Alexia stood the second she saw your face.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t feel well.”

“Wait—do you want me to—”

“No.”

She stepped back. “Can I call you later?”

You didn’t answer.

Outside, the air had turned sharp. Your fingers trembled as you unlocked the car. You sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the wheel, until the tears came—sharp, bitter, unstoppable.

Because it wasn’t fair.

You should’ve known better.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

[oppoison-art]

Woe, stobotnik pones be upon ye.

A friend requested this over on Instagram and it took over my brain for a few weeks. In my au unicorn Robotnik becomes an alicorn with the power of the master emerald and after he’s defeated by sonic and friends his horn is broken. Leaving him a Pegasus and as a result he has to rely more heavily on his machines, and his syco friend ofc 🥚🪨

[lovemni]

꒰ 승민 ꒱ ── “i love you, but if you move another inch..” ✧

KIM SEUNGMIN! ⓘ painting your boyfriend's nails.. (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ )

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑏f!ksm ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! I3OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ Yᗩᑎi's ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. j/threats , nicknames? ┆ 🪷 ⋮ an original drabble .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note! 𐔌❤︎ ͡꒱ was rewatching the skzsauna ep. and you know i had to make it into a fic. >< didn't like this toooo much though, it didn't turn out as i wished it would TT.

the air cooler hummed softly in the corner, filling the room with a gentle chill that contrasted with the warmth of their bodies as they sat cross-legged on the couch.

y/n was perched on a cushion, knees drawn up, fully immersed in her masterpiece. seungmin, on the other hand, had resigned himself to his fate, his long fingers resting limply in her lap as she bent over them with utter determination.

the scent of vanilla and lingering traces of her shampoo filled the space between them, a sweet contrast to the sharp, chemical smell of nail polish.

she was wearing a tee—one that probably belonged to him—and a pair of cotton shorts, her legs tucked under her comfortably.

seungmin, in his usual loose sweatpants and a faded hoodie, sat in a lazy sprawl, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other trapped in her artistic clutches. his gaze flickered from her furrowed brows to the way her lips pursed in concentration, eyes dark and focused like she was performing life-saving surgery instead of slathering his nails in layers of glitter.

he didn’t have the heart to tell her it looked like a unicorn had combusted in her hands.

“y/n.”

“shut up.”

seungmin sighed dramatically, shifting ever so slightly, and immediately, her grip on his wrist tightened. her fingers were small but firm, skin cool against his own. she had the habit of holding him with just enough force to make him stay put—not demanding, but unyielding.

he loved it. (...kinky ksm????? im sorry this is a joke)

seungmin huffed. “i just said your name.”

“and that’s where you went wrong.”

he rolled his eyes, but she caught the movement, finally glancing up at him. a knowing smirk tugged at her lips, and his heart did something weird in his chest. she had that effect on him—could make him feel exasperated and ridiculously in love at the same time.

“stay. still!”

“i am still.”

“then why is your hand shaking?”

seungmin squinted at her. “oh i don't know, probably because my insanely-artistic girlfriend is threatening me while holding a tiny, very untrustworthy brush?”

y/n barely acknowledged his suffering, her head tilting slightly as she carefully dabbed a broken star-shaped glitter speck onto his pinky.

the brush was small but looked dangerously close to stabbing him every time she got impatient. she tapped it against her lower lip as she gave him a pointed look, before returning to her masterpiece. the glitter paint reflected against the dim lighting, tiny specks clinging to her fingers as she worked. seungmin could feel the slight coolness of the polish drying on his nails, the contrast to her warm fingertips as she pressed down lightly to steady his hand.

he stared at her profile—the gentle curve of her cheek, the way her lashes fanned against her skin, the tiny crease between her brows. she looked beautiful like this, completely lost in whatever chaotic, weird idea had taken root in her pretty mind.

“you take that back.”

seungmin just raised an eyebrow. “not when my hand looks like it got attacked by a five-year-old with a paint obsession.”

she went back to her task, her fingers absently tracing his wrist as she worked. “you wish you looked this good.”

“babe, there is pink glitter everywhere.”

“it’s called style.”

“it’s called a mess.”

she lifted his hand, examining it thoughtfully. “actually, that’s kind of true—”

“i hate this.”

she smirked, leaning in slightly. “no, you don’t.”

she scooted even closer, their knees brushing now. her warmth seeped through the fabric of his hoodie, and seungmin found himself distracted by the scent of her shampoo. the citrus-vanilla mix was comforting—familiar in a way that had nothing to do with the room they were in, and everything to do with her.

seungmin sighed dramatically, tilting his head back against the couch. his dark hair was slightly tousled from how many times he had run his fingers through it in frustration. “i love my girlfriend, i love my girlfriend, i love my g—”

his girlfriend in question, beamed. “aww, you do?”

he deadpanned. “i have to remind myself because of my girlfriend.”

she rolled her eyes and flicked a little more glitter onto his hand, giggling when he groaned in defeat.

just as seungmin opened his mouth to protest, the front door swung open.

“we’re home!— what in the..?”

the cool air from the hallway rushed in, momentarily breaking the warmth of their little space. the sudden noise made seungmin instinctively flinch, his freshly painted nails catching the light as he lifted his hand slightly. y/n, still holding onto him, turned her head slowly—like a criminal caught red-handed.

the blonde mop was the first to enter, pausing mid-step as he took in the scene before him. the soft hum of the air cooler did little to silence the growing laughter that followed.

a kiwi head, right behind him, audibly gasped, eyes darting from her mischievous grin to seungmin’s thoroughly violated nails.

jisung cackled, nearly doubling over, as the guy beside him raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms in amusement.

meanwhile, the others exchanged looks before bursting into laughter, their bags slipping off their shoulders as they stumbled into the living room.

the paint was still slightly wet, and she could feel the tacky texture of it against her skin as she held his hand. seungmin gave her a blank look, letting her press his fingers to her chest in her dramatic display of defense.

the laughter of their friends filled the room, echoing against the walls, mixing with the lingering scent of paint and the faintest trace of dinner being cooked in a nearby unit.

seungmin simply sighed, lifting his hand slightly. the glitter caught the light, sparkling mockingly. “before any of you say anything—”

jisung pointed. “what did she do to you?”

felix wheezed. “oh my god—”

y/n gasped, hugging seungmin’s hand to her chest. the scent of vanilla lotion and nail polish swirled in the air. “he looks beautiful. like the diva he is.”

hyunjin covered his mouth. “is that.. is that glitter?”

jisung squinted. “are those tiny stars?”

“they are!” she nodded like a kid, “got these babies off of the tiny shop next to the museum, they're having a sale too!”

minho smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “kim seungmin. blink twice if you need help.”

seungmin closed his eyes. “i hate all of you.”

felix collapsed onto the couch beside them, still dying.

minho moved closer, examining seungmin’s hand. “wow. this is… so bad.”

she gasped, scandalized. “excuse me?”

minho looked at her again. “y/n. it looks like a unicorn got sick on his hands.”

she huffed. “you guys are just uncultured.”

“or maybe you just suck at art.”

seungmin nodded aggressively. “thank you.”

she smacked his arm. “you traitor.”

felix wiped a tear from his eye. “no, but really, seungmin, how do you feel?”

seungmin leaned back against the couch, lifting his glitter-covered hand with a sigh. “i feel like my manly dignity has been obliterated.”

“please, like you had any with that twink-energy in the first pl-” jisung began, only to be shoved to his side by seungmin, obviously.

“rest in peace.”

“on the bright side, at least you have sparkly hands for the funeral.”

“that’s so tragic.”

“you guys are just mad that you don’t have style.”

felix grinned. “i think i’m just glad i still have eyes after looking at that.”

she dramatically turned to seungmin. “baby, defend me.”

seungmin sighed. “i would, but i’m too busy planning my revenge.”

she narrowed her eyes. “that’s terrifying.”

felix clapped his hands together. “okay, but like, dinner?”

hyunjin grinned. “seungmin, you better not touch anything with those hands.”

seungmin groaned. “i hate this friend group.”

jisung smirked. “liar, you enjoy this on a daily basis.”

she kissed his cheek. “i love you too!”

“wait, can you give my nails a makeover too? they're looking super crusty..” jisung cringed, immediately sitting beside her and picking out the colors of the glitter and paints.

“wait me too, please,”

mastertag @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos — send in an ask, message or reply, to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading love, hope you liked it <3