#so it's three spaces in one tiny room

[i-believe-in-l4d3]

.

[tonycries]

Welcome To The Itadori's! - C.K.

Synopsis. Three times Choso really, really wanted to hold you without his family barging in, and the one time he actually does. 

Pairing. Best friend! Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, childhood best friends to lovers, slowburn, cameos from the Itadori’s (Yuji, Jin, grandpa, SUKUNA), smút only when they’re adults, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, marking, rough, Choso’s a bit mean in bed, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.0k

A/N. The unc-kuna brainrot got me here, Yuji’s family tree is HILARIOUS.

“You’ve never what?”  

“I mean, yeah? So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Whatever the answer was, Choso could only pray that no one walked into your apartment right now.

---

Choso swears his family is well and fully intent on ruining every waking moment with you. 

He’s convinced even, at this point. Because in the 13 long years of being inseparable from you - ever since you were both whiney, snot-faced brats - Choso’s racked up more interruptions than he’s seen on those k-dramas that his grandfather swears he doesn’t watch.

It was like some cosmic joke, really. All he wanted was a moment with just the two of you…and maybe a second or two to confess his undying love. But that didn’t seem too realistic when the Itadori’s were a bit of a packaged deal, unfortunately.  

Alas, Choso’s resigned himself to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe - this was the universe’s way of telling him that his pretty best friend was indeed too good for him. Something he’s suspected ever since the both of you were eight.

The realization had hit him like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact. And a whole zoo of animals afterward.

Of course, it’s not like that was any secret. He always thought you were perfect from the second you’d moved in - that new family next door he’d been eagerly waiting ages to arrive. And Choso, being the dutiful oldest son, was the one to deliver welcome cookies to your doorstep. Stumbling, and carefully trying to reach for the doorbell without dropping any. 

“Um, welcome to-”

“Your hair’s funny.”

Now, Choso’s never greeted neighbors before, but it surely wasn’t supposed to go like this. Why was he being insulted by some little girl - you were missing a few teeth, and his had just grown back in so obviously he was much older and wiser. All unapologetic smiles and twinkling eyes as you blink up curiously at his space buns. Pretty, even when you were tearing his heart out because hey, he thought this hairstyle was cool, okay?

Which is what had him huffing and puffing back home, running straight into the arms of his dad while he tried not to cry. That is, until you came knocking at his door with your parents. Very much bawling and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug with wet mumbles of “M’sorry, meant your hair’s very cool. Wanna match-”

And, if his cheeks burned just a bit, well, Choso blamed the tears. 

After a disaster like that, of course you’d grow to be best friends within the day. 

But what that didn’t explain was when - after hours of bickering over whether to play tag or house - you were all tuckered out and sat beside him in a corner of his room, too exhausted to talk his ear off. Head lolling once. Twice. Falling softly onto his shoulder.

Oh. 

Now, Choso might just be having the first epiphany of his entire, grueling eight years in this world - that you were very, very pretty fast asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

Why? Why were you here barging into his life and turning it upside down? Calling him your “new best friend” and dragging him along wherever you went. It made his poor head absolutely spin, not daring to move a muscle so that you didn’t wake up and see this tiny predicament.

He didn’t know why. But what he did know was that he found himself subconsciously reaching for your hand, a strange little part of himself wanting to see how much smaller they were than his. They looked so soft and warm and-

“I WANNA PLAY T- Oh.”

Oh indeed. He hastily lurches away from you like it burned, hands raised like he was caught red-handed. Feeling slightly sorry when he sees you blinking away the sleep to take in your surroundings, eyes bouncing off of a very excited Yuji and resting on the clock.

“Oh no. Mommy’s gonna be mad.” you gasp, hastily getting up. And he feels a weird pang as you quickly dust down your dress, running out the door with a laughed out, “Bye, Yuji! See ya later, Cho~!”

“Bye, crybaby.”

And then it’s quiet. Only Choso still staring after you, and Yuji staring at his older brother, somewhat awestruck and wondering only one thing-

“Big bro, why are you so red?”

Choso doesn’t think he’s gotten a moment alone with you since that first initial meeting. 

Fourteen was definitely the worst, in his opinion.

“Hey, Cho, y’know the girl sitting next to me in math said she had her first kiss today.”

“Oh.” It’s all Choso can manage to get out, paying more attention than he should to the gravel beneath him as he tries not to trip over air beside you. Hot under his uniform collar at the sudden shift in conversation from the usual after-school banter. 

Looping your arm with his, you heave out a playful sigh, “I wonder what that feels like. Have you ever thought about it?” 

No, but Choso has never thought that he’d be here - face burning at your body pressed up against his. Just knowing that his ancestors above are laughing at what a loser he is, barely able to stammer out an answer to your question. 

Okay, maybe he was being dramatic. Because it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about kissing before - it’s just that whenever it popped into his mind, you were usually accompanying him. Along with those strange thoughts of whether your lips are as soft as they looked? Or would your heartbeat be as fast as-

“Man, are you even listening?” 

Shit. 

Your hand waving in front of Choso’s face brings him back to reality. Blinking hastily, he tries to gather his thoughts, mumbling out a quick, “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought.” averting his gaze as he feels the heat rise to his cheeks at your intense gaze.

Your smile only widens, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you nudge his side. “Thinking so hard about kissing, huh? Cho, you lecher!” 

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Who were you imagining it with, huh? Gonna give ‘em a big smooch tomorrow?”

God, you were going to be the death of him. “N-no! I haven’t even- shut up, crybaby, it’s not like-” he sputters out useless protests over your laughter - his favorite song, even when you were teasing the hell out of him. But ah how you relish in his embarrassment, tittering out little giggles all the way until you’re steering him onto your lane. 

Choso, on the other hand, keeps wishing the ground would swallow him up more and more with each step towards his porch. He’d have broken into a sprint right then if he hadn’t known you and the way you’d race him there instead.

“Alright.” you declare once you’re stood at his front door, jolting Choso out of his reverie. And he’s barely opening his mouth to register your words before you plowing on confidently. “We’ll just have to practice our first kisses with each other.”

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. 

The final nail on his coffin. You might as well have planted a bombshell right in the middle of his already-chaotic world with the way he was reeling in- shock? Fear? Anticipation?

“Practice.” Choso whispers, more to himself than you. Yet you nod anyway, eyes locked with his like you were studying his reaction. “For…practice.”

Doubt starts to creep into your pretty features, “Well, we don’t have to if you do-”

“No no no no, I want- ahem.” he cringes at the pathetic desperation in his voice. Desperately trying to scramble back some semblance of sanity as he clears his throat, “I want to. Just-” Choso urgently looks around for- ah, there it is. 

Dragging over the brick from the side of his porch because goddammit he might be 14 but he sure hadn’t hit that growth spurt yet. “Practice, right?”

You nod with a fiery determination that, later on, would make Choso chuckle with fondness. Muttering out a firm, “Practice.” Letting the boy in front of you nervously leans closer, breath fanning your face. And shit if you were nervous then you didn’t show it, but Choso felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. 

Brows furrowing in concentration, eyes only squinting ever-so-slightly as he takes peaks at how pretty you looked. Close enough that he could count every lash as your pretty eyes closed shut, lips glistening with that strawberry chapstick you loved, puckering adorably. Only inching closer and-

Click! 

“You two are so cute! But um- dear, how do you mute this thing?”

You spring apart so fast that Choso wouldn’t be surprised if you’d teleported. He doesn’t even know what’s happening before, from the safety of about three meters away from him, you’re muttering out an embarrassed little, “Hi there, Mr. Itadori. The gardenia are coming along nicely.”

His dad smiles like he hadn’t just starred in what was likely Choso’s villain origin story. Waving happily, “Aww, thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you two go back to doing your lil’ thing and I can ah- practice my photography.”

“Dad, I’m running away.”

That practice kiss never happens. And, well, if there was a proudly framed photo down the hallway of the two of you - with Choso absolutely bright red and standing comically on a brick to meet your height, faces nervously scrunching towards each other - well, neither of you ever mention it. Jin Itadori does, though - every time you come over, in fact. 

It’s only when you’re both eighteen, when Choso’s a lot deeper in his feelings - and only slightly less embarrassed about it - that he thinks that maybe not all family interruptions were that bad. 

Graduation was…something. Not exactly something that he’s sure if he’ll ever want to relive with the sheer amount of awkward photos and tears that his dad lets out. God if he has to shuffle into another-

“You alright, Cho?”

Ah. 

Traitorously, a smile makes its way onto his face, peering down at your beaming face. Both of you having made it way past the awkward early teens. Well, at least you certainly have - Choso still feels like the same awkward little boy with an even more awkward crush. “Hm? Yeah, m’great.” 

“Are ya sure? Because you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm any second now.” you raise a brow teasingly. Ah, how gorgeous you were - even when you’re picking him apart. 

“Yeah. Great. Only had this smile plastered on for the last five hours.”

“Aww, but you look so pretty smiling.” you shrug, with the audacity of someone that didn’t just have Choso’s knees dangerously weak. “Anyway- A bunch of us are gonna try to convince ol’ Yaga to let us take photos with his shades, you wanna come?”

“You think m’pretty?” he muses, embarrassingly late.

“Cho.”

“Yaga. Shades. Got it.” Choso mock salutes, drinking in the little laugh it startles out of you, eyes sparkling with mischief and looking right into his soul. Beautiful. You were always beautiful. 

And Choso can’t just stand around and do nothing about it.

“Crybaby, look, I-” Fists clenching, he takes a steadying breath. The heat only rising to his cheeks at your awaiting gaze, “I…”

“HEY, GRANDPA HELPED STEAL YAGA’S SHADES LET’S TAKE A PIC-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ITADORI. YOU’RE RUINING A MOMENT, LET THEM HAVE THEIR MOMENT.”

“I don’t know either of you two.”

It would be a miracle for a moment not to be ruined with two overly-energetic first-years (and a very reluctant Fushiguro) pushing their way into your little bubble. Choso bites back a groan as you’re immediately swarmed by a bickering Kugisaki and Yuji, one apologizing for “ruining your k-drama moment” and the other trying to get you to put on some sunglasses. Well, at least he could empathize with the black-haired boy, who gave him an apologetic nod. 

He’s only halfway through waving off the interruption before a voice speaks up from his side. “Why didn’t you say it?”

Whirling around, Choso comes face-to-face with the disappointed look on his grandfather’s face. Already having some idea of what you mean, “Wha-”

“I may be old but m’not deaf, yet, boy. Why didn’t ya tell her?” he sighs, tilting his head to where you were wearing those shades and taking ridiculous pictures with two animated first-years. 

“I don’t know what you-”

“M’not blind, either. Quite frankly I’m insulted.”

And, well, if there’s anyone that he can’t hide from - it would be his grandfather. So he heaves out a defeated sigh, touselling his hair while muttering out a pathetic little, “M’not- Ugh, she’s too fuckin’ perfect and I…I chickened out.”

Choso doesn’t know what he expected in response but it definitely wasn’t for his grandfather to laugh. Full, and raspy - loud enough that even you stop to stare. “Thought so, idiot boy.” he chuckles, drawing indignant protests. “Did she tell you?”

Raising a brow, “What?”

“Did she tell you that you weren’t good ‘nough for her?”

“No, but-” Whatever protest on the tip of Choso’s tongue is cut off by a rough hand smacking his back in what he thinks is reassurance, but felt more like a punishment for being such a pussy around you all these years. 

“Then go. Ya might just be surprised. After all, you’re my grandson, and all the ladies at bingo love me.”

Shaking with both adrenaline and the effort to keep that image out of his mind, he makes his way towards you. Purposeful. Pointedly ignoring the matching smirks flashed his way. 

“You really think they’ll finally get together today?” Fushiguro deadpans from where he’d snuck up beside the old man, in an attempt to escape the public nuisances he calls ‘friends’. 

Choso’s grandfather hums thoughtfully, watching the scene play out before him - Choso flushed such a delicate shade of pink as you playfully put Yaga’s sunglasses on him. Settling on a gruff, “I’ll give it a few months more. He’s my grandson, after all.”

“That’s generous. I’d give it a couple years more.”

“Wanna bet, brat?”

“...”

Safe to say, his second button ended up safely in your hands that day. But Fushiguro would be the one to really win the bet. 

Because it was only 2 years, 4 months and 3 weeks after this little incident that Choso finally had you exactly where he wanted - with no interruptions. All for him. 

Freshly twenty one, splayed out on your apartment bedroom and having a conversation that he never in a million years would’ve even dared to imagine he’d have - with you of all people. All because of that stupid R-rated film you’d put on for movie night. 

“You’ve never what?” you gape, turning down the volume to those painfully fake moans coming from the tv.

Oh, how gorgeous you looked - all shocked and batting your lashes up at him in surprise. Choso almost swoons inwardly (and outwardly) before he realizes that shit you were probably waiting for an answer.

“I mean, yeah?” he sputters out, cheeks heating up as you lean in closer to hear him. Close. “So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Goddammit, some strange, carnal part of himself twinges dangerously at the little smirk that curls your lips. One that he quickly - and embarrassingly - realizes has the blood rushing straight to his cock. Humming a low, “Maybe. Maybe not.” The mattress dips slightly as you shift closer, lips ghosting his ear. “Want me to help you find out?”

Which is, well, how Choso found himself shoved against the armrest. Blanket thrown on the floor now, swollen cock leaking furiously through his pants as your pretty lil’ cunt hovers above his mouth. So wet that if he stuck his tongue out he could have you dripping all onto him. 

“Y-you sure about this, sweetheart?” he hisses despite his hands looping around your thighs, bringing you closer to him.

You raise a brow, “Are you sure, Cho?”

He should say no. He should laugh this all off as a bad joke. He shouldn’t ruin this friendship - but oh how badly he wants just a taste of your dripping pussy - see if she’s as sweet as the rest of you is. So, throwing caution to the wind, Choso nods slowly. “Yes. Want it s’bad.”

Grinning wickedly, you whisper, “Thought so.” And then he’s pulling you onto his mouth, hot and urgent.

“Oh fuck-” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the first taste of your sweet sweet juices. “Shit shit shit.” So sloppily licking up your swollen folds - barely moving with any method or patience, just that he’s drunk on your pussy and wants more more more-

“Hngh- f-fuck. You sure this is your hah- first time, Cho?” you gasp breathlessly. And oh your best friend was so fucking beautiful. Dark hair untied and tousled, eyes half-hooded, your slick already smearing across the bottom half of his face and trickling down his jaw because shit he was so messy. So addicted to that desperate expression on your face that he just can’t help but tease you a little bit. 

“Mhm?” he smirks, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Purposefully missing right where you wanted him the most because shit he loved those cute lil’ whines spilling out of you. 

You let out a huff, hips trying pathetically to inch him closer - but Choso wasn’t budging. Holding you so firmly by the hips that you’re sure he leaves bruises, licking all over your cunt except for your clit. “Cho.” you warn. Brows furrowing in frustration at the way he bats his long lashes up at you so deceivingly innocently, “What?”

“You know…”

“I don’t.” he titters teasingly into your pussy. 

“Choso.”

Now, Choso’s known and seen everything there is to do with you - but never like this. Spread open shamefully and pouting so adorably on top of him, so needy for him. It made his head spin to think of just how much the dynamics had shifted. 

Shit, he really should’ve watched that godforsaken movie with you sooner. “Tell me what you want, crybaby.”

And oh how his cock twitches at the way you manage to get out an embarrassed little, “Wan’ you to ngh- tonguefuck me properly. Wanna cum on your pretty face, Cho.”

And that’s all that’s said before he’s surging forward, glossy lips wrapping around your pulsing clit to suck harshly. Rolling his soft tongue over and over-

“Wanted this for so long.” Choso mutters, muffled as he buries himself deeper into your pretty pussy. The vibrations sending white-hot pleasure running down your spine. “You have absolutely no idea, pretty.”

And you barely even have the time to register his little confession before Choso’s moving down to bully his tongue past your folds. Nose pressing against your throbbing clit as he dips into your sloppy hole. 

“Oh shit. Jus’ like that.” For a beginner, your best friend really knew what he was doing. Eating you out like his favorite meal, tongue squeezing into your snug pussy to thrust in and out, swipe against your walls, stretching you out right to his will. Over and over-

“Use me.”

Your eyes snap down to meet the pure adoration in his eyes as he makes out filthily with your cunt. Choking out a little, “What?”

“Use me.”

There it was again - that strained little mantra. And as if to prove his point, Choso reaches out to deftly place your hands on his head, bucking into you touch. 

And, well, how could you say no to that?

Because before you know it, you’re bunching Choso’s soft strands in your fists. Angling him just right to ride his pretty face. “C’mon, Cho. Ngh- H-harder, jus’ a bit- Oh!” he just devours the way your mouth drops into an adorable little oh! as his tongue curls deftly against that one spot. Again and again. Letting himself be so used, dragging your dripping cunt harder on his mouth. 

And he likes it. Hell, he loves it even - because you’re so sweet n’ pretty on his mouth. Better than everything he’s ever been dreaming of for the past few years. And always in his dreams, you’d be clenching so deliciously around his tongue when you were close - just like right now. 

So he speeds up his movements, breathing you in maddeningly. A hand snaking down from it’s favorite place on your hips to draw quick, frenzied little circles on your poor, ravaged clit. Jaw almost aching with how filthily he was dripping in and out of your entrance - be he did give a shit. Only wanting to have you breathless and creaming all over his face.

You jerk violently on top of him, “Hah! S’too much, Cho. M’so close- gonna cum- gonna-”

And then you’re cumming. Fast, and hard. 

Plushy walls clamping down on Choso’s tongue, hips stuttering on his face as he laps up all your juices, an arm around your waist helping you ride his face through your high. 

“S’sweet. Could get used to that.” he slurs into your cunt. Tipping his head back as far as it’d go to let the last of your juices slide down his throat. “Better than I imagined.”

The words ring in your ears as you blink back your vision. Deliriously whirling down to look down at Choso - still beneath you and looking more smug and content than you’d ever seen him. “Imagination? S’that why you’re so good.”

“No.”

You’re being flipped before you know it. Manhandled so easily by your best friend as he lays you on your back, sinking into the cushion while he looms above you. “S’jus’ that…” grunting as he flings his shirt off, “Been dreaming of your pretty cunt on m’tongue for years.”

Okay, now his confession hits - more than it did when he was tonguefucking you into insanity, anyway. 

“Years, huh?” you breathe out, eyes roaming all over his sculpted torso. Taking in every dip and curve of Choso’s toned abs - all the way from his broad shoulders to the rock-hard cock straining against his pants. As if in a trance, your hand reaches out to cup his leaking erection, “S’that all you’ve been dreaming of?”

“You little minx.” he lets out a low hiss. 

Before you can even react, Choso’s fumbling with that belt - cursing because shit, he’d have worn sweatpants instead if he knew they’d end up on your floor. 

And you’re not any better, fingers popping open his buttons and tugging impatiently and oh- You always thought that your best friend would have a big dick - but this?  He was so intimidatingly long - and thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. Fat tip flushed such a pretty shade of pink to match his cheeks, leaking down down down, all the way to his heavy balls. 

You’re only jolted out of your little reverie by Choso spitting a steady stream of spit onto your quivering cunt, spreading it lazily across your pussy with his thumb. A ringed fist pumping his cock slowly, as he drags his tip across your folds, pooling your sweet juices. Muttering out a raspy, “I’ll be gentle.”

“You better not be, now jus’ fuck me-”

Well, you didn’t have to ask Choso twice. Because you’ve barely gotten the words out before he’s bullying massive cock into your tight cunt. Pressing in inch by fucking inch as you gasp and buck underneath him. 

“Shhh, s’okay, crybaby. This is what you wanted, right?” he mumbles, with all the audacity of someone that wasn’t fucking into you in rapid, mindless little jabs to fit inside your snug lil’ pussy. Struggling to hold back at this point. “Wanted to be split apart on m’cock?”

You were so full of him. Even more so when he throws your legs over his shoulders, bending all the way down and folding you in half so easily beneath him. 

He drinks in the barely-lucid squeal that leaves your swollen lips. Kissing your forehead gently, whispering against the skin, “Because I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

And then it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, maybe the restraint that Choso’s been holding back for too long. Because immediately he’s plunging his throbbing cock into you - all the way till his balls, all angry and squeezing so painfully, smacks against your ass. 

“Wanted this.” he rasps into your open mouth. His hips were out of control now, thrusting you in shallow, desperate rams. Pounding into you like a man possessed, and running his mouth just as much. He laces his fingers on top of your head, pushing you down even deeper into his relentless cock - as if the bastard wasn’t fucking you dumb already. “Fuckin’ needed this needed this. Shit- so bad.”

“Ch-Choso- fuck hah-” you plead as his mouth clashes with yours. All sloppy with teeth and spit and his profanities - and it felt so damn good. 

“Yeah? Who’s fucking you silly, now?” he’s going harder now, tip hitting your poor cervix over and over. And you’d be sobbing at the burn and the stretch but all you can think of is shit this is Choso - the kid you used to play hide and seek with. And now he seems fully intent on breaking you. “Say m’name.”

A rough thumb starts toying with your clit, in time with the cute lil’ whines of his name that escape your mouth like a prayer. “Shit. Y’look so pretty like this.” he babbles. “Gonna cry, pretty girl?” smirking down at the way you were too cockdrunk to even snap back, only looking up at him with delirious, teary eyes. “Be a crybaby for my cock?”

You’re tugging on his hair, thighs shaky and bucking upwards. “Cho-”

“Mhm?”

“W-wanna cum. Need you to fill m’up till I can’t take it anymore.”

Oh if Choso was any lesser man he’d have cum right then and there. Instead settling for a guttural groan, drunk off the way you were milking his cock so hard as if to prove your point. It almost made him want to stay like this forever. But no - not right now. 

“Oh yeah?” Hips becoming sloppy now, “Need it? Shit- m’so close.” Each word slurred, punctuated by a harsh thrust, strokes long and frenzied. Using your heavenly pussy like his personal fucktoy. So hard that he’s sure you’d have embarrassing matching bruises tomorrow - his balls on your ass, your nails raking down his shoulders.

“Me too- fuck fuck fuck-” you mewl into his neck, as Choso buried his face into yours. 

“Cum f’me, my girl.”

My girl. 

And then you are - and he is. And you don’t know who cums first, just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes and Choso’s teeth digging into your neck as he thrusts once. Twice. Before cumming and cumming so hard he might as well have seen the pearly gates of heaven. And you were an angel.

Thick, hot ropes of cum that paint your walls white, so much that it gushes out of your poor overfilled pussy. Dripping down your legs and pooling into a sinful, creamy ring at his base. 

“Mm- shit. Choso.” you moan, barely audible over the lewd squelches from below. 

“M’here, my girl.” he grits out, voice shot. And it seems that that was his new favorite nickname, because Choso keeps murmuring it over and over as he keeps fucking his seed into you. Not even thinking about it at this point - just mindless, shallow grinds of his hips. 

In the haze of your orgasm, you think you hear his quiet voice, strained with exhaustion and something that you weren’t in the right state of mind to decipher right now. 

“Shhh, m’here. “Can’t believe I waited so fuckin’ long.” Whispering against your lips, “Love this. Love this pretty cunt.” Kissing softly, “Love the way y’take me. Fuckin’ made f’me.” And maybe even a soft little, “Love you.”

And maybe - just maybe, you whisper the same into his. Kissing him softly, exactly the way you’d wanted to all these years. 

Neither of you speak after that. Not when Choso’s hips stall, body sticky and collapsing onto yours. Nor do you speak when he pulls away with a playful nip to your lower lip - a promise. Searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe yourselves clean with. 

It’s only when he settles back under the covers beside you, looking at you with such dark, hazy eyes - whirling with too many emotions to name - that the silence is broken. 

“Crybaby.”

“Cho.”

“Corny.”

“You started it.”

Chuckling, Choso pulls your body close to his. Not even a hair’s breadth between you two because shit now that he’s got you, he doesn’t think he ever wants to let you go. 

“Y’know…” he starts, “I think we should- I mean- if you want…” nervous now more than he was even after all that just transpired. Cheeks flaring as he meets your amused gaze, just daring him to go on - because you saw through him. You always did. “I lov-”

“Am I late for the mov- WHAT THE FUCK I ALWAYS KNEW BRATS WEREN’T JUST FRIENDS-”

---

Itadori Family Groupchat + Two More

Dad: Hey, all. I can’t seem to get a hold of Choso to confirm tomorrow’s dinner plans. Can anyone else let me know if he’s ok? XX

-Jin.

Yuji <3: He’s probs at rhat “best friend movie night” still 

Dad: Hello, Yuji. What is a “probs”? XX

-Jin.

Kugisaki: He’s suspiciously quiet, though… Y’all think that “best friend movie night” is codeword for something else? 

Yuji <3: Better not be cuz Sukuna stole my sparw key sayin something ab crashing it idk

Kugisaki: *spare

And you just LET him?

Yuji <3: HE THREATENED TO BURN MY MEGAN THEE STALLION POSTER 

…

AND DID IT ANYWAY

Kugisaki: L

Fushiguro: L

Gramps: L

Sukuna (do not answer): DID Y’ALL KNOW THOSE TWO WERE FUCKIN????

*Fushiguro has left the chat*

Dad: :0

-Jin.

A/N. Spiritually, this is a crackfic idk.

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, i.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. smut. breeding kink. anal sex. top Soap. bottom Ghost. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

Eventually, they convince you.

It is impossible to tell who your daughter’s father is for two reasons:

One, when she opens her tiny eyes, one is blue, and one is brown. Complete heterochromia, unlikely to change.

And two—with every passing day, she looks more and more like you.

Four years old; roly-poly with baby fat, little legs and arms she doesn’t quite know what to do with yet. She fills the spaces in your plural household that you did not know were empty until she found them, with her curiosity, her laughter, her boundless appetite for each minute of every day.

She’s smart. Very smart, quick not only to learn but to apply her lessons to new contexts. She sleeps through the night almost every night since the three of you brought her home, turns her nose up at nothing you offer her to eat, never wanders far from you or her fathers at the park or the store.

She’s perfect—even though she has not yet uttered a single word.

Your baby. Your Lizzie.

And actually, it’s Soap’s idea.

His eldest sister’s middle child is turning six, so the three of you pile into his car on a warm Saturday morning to make the drive to the suburbs. The MacTavish-Donnelly household overflows with children in party hats and benevolently bored parents when Ghost pulls the old Jeep up to the curb, boxing some unfortunate van in the driveway, and your trepidation is visible the moment your shoes hit the pavement.

Being your partner has uncovered a new layer of perception for Soap and Ghost; they see and hear things they previously would have ignored, because with the way you move through the world you can ignore nothing.

You described it once having a live wire for every nerve ending; everything, everywhere, screams at you all the time.

So when you pause on the sidewalk when you see a trike in the front yard, and a few adults holding punch cups on the stoop chatting, Soap knows why he hears the wrapping paper around the present in your hands crinkle, your grip tightening.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and brings his lips to your ear. “You got your wee earplugs, aye, Ducky?”

“Yes,” you whisper nervously.

You sway into him at his touch—it’s grounding, you’ve explained. It keeps you from floating away, expanding outward to try to figure out everything happening around you. Nothing beyond the sphere he and Ghost make matters so much.

He kisses the soft spot of your jaw. Ghost comes up to your other side and pulls your hand up into the crook of his arm. “We can set the place on fire, if need be.”

“Don’t burn my sister’s house down, please, LT.”

“Sink fire. Set off the alarms, that’s all.”

You give a little sniff of laughter, and, thus fortified, the three of you advance.

There’s Twister in the living room next to a table piled high with a rainbow of gifts, children tumbling around each other on the mat and laughing while music plays on the telly. Pastel streamers and balloons festoon everything (the middle child being celebrated should grow up without any proverbial complexes, Soap thinks), and confetti is abundant on the carpeted floor like a piñata molted on its way through.

There are the usual stares as they walk through the house. Soap is used to it—likes to flaunt it even, sometimes—and Ghost has never given a shit what anyone thinks. But you seem to shrink even further between them as you feel watched, curious eyes wondering if the mousy little thing between them really arrived with two men.

Luckily, they find Mary in the kitchen, and even despite how obviously harried she is, wisps of hair flying around a lopsided ponytail, Soap’s sister brightens when she sees them.

“Johnny!” she exclaims, swooping him into a hug he’ll never get too big to fall into. “And Simon and Duck! Thank goodness, we’re about to cut the cake and we might need crowd control.”

“Mary,” grunts Ghost.

“Hello Mary,” you say.

Mary releases Soap and smiles very kindly at you. Out of all his siblings, she’s been the most fond of you from the start—probably, he thinks, because she sees something to nurture in you.

At that moment, two of Mary’s children and three of Soap’s nieces and nephews, including the birthday boy, rush in to glom around Soap’s legs, and after the choruses of “Uncle Johnny!” collide with him, they backwash toward Ghost, who always has candy in the many pockets of his utility pants for them to scavenge.

Soap’s family has accommodated you well, though—they flow around you like water, barely touching, and you take the opportunity to give Mary your own hug.

“We’re doing crafts in the backyard, Duck, I thought you might like that,” his sister says, patting your back.

You pull away and give her a smile. It’s one of Soap’s favorites; small and mysterious, and completely genuine. The one that means you’re very pleased, and you don’t feel pressured to show it.

“Yes,” you say, and you vanish outside to sit with the quiet ones.

Ghost allows himself to be dragged off by the rowdier kids, leaving Soap to lean against the kitchen counter and smile at his sister; when when she lifts a cup to sip at some punch, he taps her belly with two fingers.

He’d felt it when she hugged him. A little firmness, hidden by the weight she’s never managed to lose after three pregnancies, and the loose shirt she’s likely wearing to hide the growing bump.

“Number four,” he murmurs.

Jealousy, a thin, sharp garrote, tightens in a spool around his stomach, but it’s an old feeling—one he’s learned how to ignore, until it stops aching.

(Compromise—sacrifice. It’s how a relationship between three people sustains itself. Everyone in his plurality has given something up, or learned to live with something else, or adopted new practices they might otherwise have never picked up. It’s a solid, even foundation, and the last thing Soap wants to do is take a hammer to it.)

His sister’s face softens with warmth. The glow of it suffuses the stiff lines of her posture, gentling the anxiety that has fizzed in the way she stands.

“Our last one,” she says quietly. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Planned?”

“No. God! Could you imagine? Mum and Dad are crazy enough.”

Soap smiles. “We turned out alright.”

Mary runs her hand over her stomach, quick but loving. “Yeah, we did. Remember me though? Swore I’d never become her, and look at me now.”

A house full of toys shoved into every corner; sippy cups in a wire drain basket by the sink. The long hem of her tunic shirt creased by tugging hands. The jamb of one door anointed with three different colors of sharpie, hatch marks measuring years of rapid growth.

Light, and warmth, and color.

“You’re happy, though,” he says.

“I am.” She aims a little grin into her cup—an expression he’s seen her make more often with every consecutive pregnancy.

A secretive curve of her lips. Tranquil, with the familiarity of some hidden insight, as if Mary can see facets of happiness that—to Johnny—remain a mystery.

“I always thought this would be you, you know,” she says. “If you married a girl, I mean. Then you and Simon got together, and I figured not, but…”

Soap settles his crossed arms lightly on his chest, sucking one cheek between his teeth. He sets his gaze on the rainbow of letter magnets on her fridge, spelling out the names of her children. “You know her. It wouldnae—wouldnae be a good idea.”

Mary nods. “And she doesn’t want any?”

“No. Neither of ‘em do.”

He feels his sister’s eyes on him. Probing, in only the way a mother of three’s can be—though even before having children, she’s always been able to see through him in a way no one else ever has.

“I dunno abou’ that,” she says eventually.

When he looks up at her, her gaze is angled elsewhere—toward the sliding glass of the back door, where a table piled high with cheap craft paints and canvas board and grubby jars of water are attended by the clan introverts. You’re the only adult sitting with them, happy not to be bothered—

But a little one comes shyly up to you, a messy painting clutched between two paint-smeared hands.

It’s Mary’s youngest, Angus—and her shyest. He comes to stand beside you with his shoulders hunched, eyes big and trepidatious as he waits for you to catch sight of him.

Soap watches you greet the lad when you notice him. The expression on your face doesn’t change; you always speak to the children the same way you speak to adults, no exaggeration, no upward pitch. Angus stretches his arms out to present his creation.

You look at the canvas when it’s offered to you, and then in a smooth motion you slide out of your chair to crouch down to the boy’s level. As Soap watches, you cross you legs and invite him to sit in your lap, and then, with as serious an expression as you might have at a gallery showing, you begin pointing at different places on the painting. One arm is wrapped loosely around little Angus’ belly, holding the child to you like a stuffed toy.

One side of the canvas is in Angus’ hand; the other is in yours.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, as he watches your mouth move, but Angus positively glows with the obvious praise you’re giving him. When he turns to look up at you, you give him your mysterious little smile—

Something hot blooms in Soap’s chest.

Then there’s a shriek of laughter in the living room, and when Soap turns to look, he sees Ghost on the Twister mat, huge body set in an arch, feet on green, hands on red.

He’s going to bitch later about his back or his knees, Soap can already hear it ringing in his ears—but right now Ghost holds position as kids crawl underneath him or do their best to clamber over him like climbing a mountain. Then, suddenly, Ghost collapses with one of their nephews worming over his belly, throwing his arms around the kid and hauling him over his shoulder.

“Bloody mountain goats, I look like a jungle gym to you?” he barks, baring his teeth in a mock-snarl. Though at home he’ll have it on as often as not, he never wears his mask around the children.

Ghost surges up to spin the boy around, and the other kids crow with laughter and demands for a turn of their own.

“Watch the lamps!” Mary cries out, undercutting her warning with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the wee ones, Simon!”

The heat in his chest billows. St. Elmo’s fire catches in his alveoli, flash-burns the lining of his lungs inward to cloak his heart in a white blaze. Heat sears his neck upward to flood across his face.

He thinks of you, belly round, breasts heavy. Ghost with a baby in his arms, a tiny thing made tinier by the bulk of his huge frame. A toddler clinging to your leg, face tipped up to look at you with adoring eyes, or napping at midday, thumb in mouth, on Soap’s chest.

It takes his breath away. The kitchen sways around him, the earth’s center of gravity shifting. A fissure crack the casket of his want.

Mary catches his eye with a knowing grin.

He starts with Ghost.

You’re going to be the harder sell. Early in the relationship, the three of you had sat down to discuss this, and you had been unequivocal—no kids. You did not want children, and you did not want to be pregnant.

It was a sensory nightmare, you’d explained. The thought of sticky hands reaching out constantly to touch you, and shrill, high voices shouting and screaming, with no knob to turn down the volume, made you shudder with fear. Piles of toys to trip over, when your balance is medium on a good day, and no moment to sit down in silence without the risk of it being interrupted by some little goblin’s insatiable demands.

Put that way, Soap could see your point. He remembers his parents’ most exhausted days, dealing with no less than five children in the house and seven for birthdays and holidays. That kind of exhaustion would weigh on anyone, but for you, it would be a different beast entirely.

And Ghost was in accord—both for your sake, and his own. By then, he had told you and Soap about the Sonoran desert, Sparks and Washington, burning down his own house with four bodies still warm inside it—one smaller than the pool of blood it lay in.

He did not want to bring something into the world so easily taken out of it.

Soap could see that too. Certain moments in the field live permanently now in the folds of his brain, bloody and ugly and grisly in the way most people only encounter through fiction. Too real to him now not to look at his nieces and nephews sometimes with dread tearing up his gut.

Soap was outvoted. Moreover, he was convinced. So he kept his desires to himself.

But that evening after the party, he can’t stop thinking about it. A little bundle with his eyes, and your mouth, and Simon’s nose. Little hands curling around his fingers. A high chair at their dinner table, right next to his place. Bedtime stories. Halloween costumes. Friday night movies, like his Dad used to set up for him and his brother and sisters, popcorn fights during action scenes and falling asleep in piles on the floor.

Soap has always wanted children. Always. He thought he could give that up, being with you and Ghost—what’s between the three of you is rare, precious, more than worth having even by itself. He loves the life he has with his little family, and he wouldn’t change it.

But expansion isn’t exactly change, is it?

The more he thinks about it, the more right it feels. The more he can already feel the weight of his child in his arms. And he knows it would make the two of you happy, even despite the trepidation you and Ghost share. Neither he nor you grew up in happy homes overflowing with love—it’s natural that neither of you can see the potential of it.

But Soap did. Soap can.

He doesn’t mind being the visionary. He’s more than willing to lead the charge. He can do the work of opening his partners’ eyes—

And he’s not above fighting dirty to do it.

It starts with getting Ghost on his back. You’re out one night teaching an evening class (bento dinner in hand, an extra square of chocolate Soap snuck in at the last moment), so the next few hours are just for them, and Soap takes possession of every minute.

It’s always a sight. Ghost is the biggest man Soap has ever been with—and to have that huge body below him, fatty muscle red and quivering, hips rolling with a needy cant as Soap slowly drags his cock in and out of him, is something that never fails to take his breath away.

He massages his hands up and down Ghost’s chest, cupping his heavy pecs and thumbing his nipples as the big man’s eyes sink closed and his bitten mouth drops open. Between them, his cock, blustery red and standing straight up, twitches every time Soap pushes in, dripping clear and messy all over his stomach.

Ghost’s hands are vice-tight on Soap’s hips, but he doesn’t urge him to speed up, doesn’t snarl at him to get on with it, like he usually might. No—Soap set the mood just right, backing Ghost into the bedroom with soft kisses up his neck and softer hands wandering up his shirt. It’s honey-sweet and slow as dripping molasses, with Ghost hot and tight around him, their groaning breaths mingling as they hang there together in the moment.

Watching Ghost’s belly jump with pleasure, Soap says—breathlessly, as if letting it slip out—“I wanna get her pregnant, Simon.”

It’s only supposed to test the waters. Take Ghost’s temperature, see where his head’s at. Soap is ready for anything—for Simon to freeze, to glare at him, even to shove him away.

But instead—

“Fffffuck,” Ghost growls, chest expanding, stomach going concave as he heaves a deep breath in.

His brows screw together, upper lip curling, and he draws so tight around Soap that he has the delirious notion that Ghost is going to pull his cock clean off. If Ghost had been blushing before, he’s positively blazing now, red blooming bright across his face and chest and all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Soap knows immediately what’s happening—Ghost is on the razor’s edge of coming.

And all it took were those six little words.

“Yeah?” he presses, blending the long thrusts he’s kept steady until now into a few short, quick ones. “Yeah? You like that idea? Her all big with our baby, Si, something we put in her? Us?”

Ghost pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, throwing his head back. “Fuck—Johnny—” he snarls.

“Did y’see her with the wee ones?” Johnny croons, pressing the heels of his hands into Ghost’s stomach. “She’d be so good with a baby, Ghost, I know it. Our baby.”

Ghost starts panting, hard, grunting like an animal with every exhale. He’s never especially talkative during sex, unless it’s to give instruction or bark an order, but now it seems that language has completely abandoned him, as he tries to get Johnny to fuck him faster with the roll of his hips, trying to thrust his cock into the open air.

As if you’re already there, already taking him, and Ghost is trying to get himself as deep inside you as he can.

Johnny wraps one hand around it, sliding his fist loosely up and down. He can practically feel Ghost’s heartbeat plunging through every raised vein. If Johnny had the flexibility, he’d bend down right now just to get it in his mouth, but as it is he contents himself with getting Ghost’s precum all over his palm and licking it off with his tongue.

“Probably take a few tries,” says Soap, closing his hand back around Ghost’s cock. “Though with two of us, probably not long. Not if we go one right after the other, every time we can, aye?”

He pauses to spit on the red, exposed crown, circled round by thumb and fingers, so he can lube up his grip. Ghost’s dense, heavy thighs shake around his hips, as Soap thrusts his cock as deep as he can and slides his hand down to Ghost’s base. He mimics the squeeze of Ghost’s ass around him—the tightness of your cunt swallowing him up—as he jacks him off, up and down at the same time he pulls in and out.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathes, “Johnny, you—Johnny—”

“Sounds good, doesnae?” Soap says. “Gettin’ her between us, not stoppin’ ‘til somethin’ takes.”

“Fuck!” Ghost shouts, and then he’s gone, balls drawing up, a stream of white jetting out so hard it lands on his chest, right in the valley of his swelling pecs. Soap fucks him through it with his hand, and slams his hips hard against Ghost’s as as he chases his own end—

“Just—like—this,” Soap growls, tether snapping, and he empties himself as deep as he can into Ghost, cock pulsing as ecstasy pours up and down his stomach. He swears he can feel every drop of cum leaving him, and worries wildly that there won’t be enough left for you later, as the intensity of his orgasm seems to empty his balls of every last reserve.

He holds himself still for a moment after, still buried in his partner, nerves alight with an ecstasy so bright and so fervent that it’s sharp enough to cut him to the bone.

He feels very present. Anchored and secure in this place and time. At home, Soap struggles often with the feeling of being tugged in a hundred different directions, all at once, myriad urges to see, do, and act all clamoring at him for attention. It’s something that keeps him alive in the field—that keeps him thriving on deployment, really—but constantly on his toes when he’s home, all safe and sound.

Always searching, it feels like. Always looking for something he needs, and almost never finding it. The feeling quietens when Ghost curls his hand around the back of his neck, or you lean your head in close to his to kiss him or to speak.

Now—it’s silent.

A father. He’s going to be a father.

Panting heavily, Ghost finds his voice—at least, enough of it to start laughing.

“Spoiled brat, you are,” he chuckles in his steel-edged tenor. “You know that? Spoiled.”

Soap grins at him, caressing one thigh. “Your fault.”

“Mm,” Ghost hums, having long known that he’ll give Soap whatever he wants. The hard cut of his mouth is pulled into a wry smile. “She ain’t gonna fold so easy, Johnny.”

Soap pulls out of his partner, and crawls up to lay next to him. “I know. S’what I like abou’ her, after all.”

Ghost hums again. He lifts one arm to wrap around Soap’s shoulders, drawing him close, idly tapping his fingers on his tricep.

“You’re gonna have to get a desk job,” he says.

His tone is thoughtful, but Soap knows the words to be absolute.

Once you’d agreed to be theirs, Ghost had retired. It had surprised Soap and you both, but Ghost treated it as the most natural thing in the world. And it didn’t take very long, after the dust settled, for Soap to see why—you needed care, more than Soap had realized, and for Ghost, that need superseded any of his desire to remain in the field.

And Ghost was good at caring for you. It seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing: remembering what you liked to eat, helping you with your stretches, using the special brushes you had to wake your nerves up every morning. Putting together a schedule and keeping you on it, making sure you got to work on time and bringing you home at the end of every day.

And as you began to flourish in receiving his care, so too did Ghost flourish in giving it.

The hard edges of him softened. The sharp tones of his voice blunted. Soap saw Ghost become a steadier version of himself than he’d ever seen before—and he saw you blossom with a happiness that, at the inception of their odd relationship, had only begun to bud.

“Lookin’ after her is one thing,” continues Ghost. “I’m alright bein’ the hardass, ‘cause you make up for where I’m shit. But a kid’s different, Johnny. You don’t get to come and go as you like with a kid. It’s all, or nothin.’”

And Soap has to be honest with himself—a corner of his stomach clenches. There is a clarity in the smell of oil and gun smoke that he’s failed to find anywhere else.

But it does not dim the sunlight shining in his chest.

He knew it would happen someday, to old age if not a bullet. So to a baby?

Better than he really could have hoped.

He swings one leg over Ghost’s hips, and pushes himself up to straddle his partner. Ghost smirks beneath him, hands rounding the curves of his waist, sliding backward to palm Soap’s ass before traveling further down to squeeze his thighs.

“Gonna be fun, LT,” Soap agrees, grinning. “I hear pregnancy makes you horny as hell.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Soap,” Ghost snorts, lifting up to one elbow and dragging him down by the neck for a kiss.

next chapter early access

author's notes: y'all wore me down. I'm writing baby fic. What has the world come to

[dakusan]

S K Z R e a c t i n g t o a P o s i t i v e P r e g n a n c y T e s t

stray kids ot8 x reader | two pink lines, eight breakdowns, one very lucky uterus.

🍼 synopsis: You didn’t plan this. Not the moment, not the timing, not the trembling plastic test that changed your life in a heartbeat. But one by one, you tell them. One by one, you hold out that tiny white stick with two pink lines. And one by one—each of them breaks open. Sometimes, two lines is all it takes to rewrite everything. And sometimes, everything sounds a lot like: “You’re having my baby?”

💌 a/n: To the anon who sent this prompt: I HOPE YOUR PILLOWS ARE COLD AND YOUR WIFI NEVER LAGS. You gave me eight men and said “make them react to a pregnancy test 🥺👉👈” and I said BET. AND THEN THEY DID. THEY REACTED. THEY BROKE DOWN. THEY GOT ON THEIR KNEES. THEY CRIED ON BATHROOM FLOORS. THEY STARTED PRENATAL POWER SNACK PREP. this was so cute you now owe me therapy. p.s. reblog for clear skin and an emotionally available babydaddy. p.p.s. if Chan on his knees didn’t ruin you emotionally, you’re lying. p.p.p.s. somebody please make fanart of Dori in a bib that says “Hyung.”

���credits: @cafekitsune , @thecutestgrotto for the dividers

🎧 » Hug Me — I.N « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:00 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

You didn’t plan to tell him like this.

You had wanted to wait. Set up something quiet and sweet. A note, maybe. Or a mug with #1 Appa written on it. Something he could hold in his hands while you stood across the room, heart pounding.

But life has never followed your plans when it comes to Bang Chan. It has always moved faster, deeper, louder.

Like tonight. When you called his name from the bathroom with something trembling in your fingers. A white stick. A faint second line. And all the blood draining from your face.

Chan enters the room in sleep pants and a hoodie, half-damp hair from the shower. He blinks at you—then the test in your hand—and in a moment, all air disappears from his lungs.

“What…?”

You pass it to him wordlessly, heart in your throat.

His fingers shake as he takes it. Looks down.

Silence.

You try to prepare for anything. Shock. Denial. Fear.

But what you get is breathless awe.

“…It’s real?”

You nod. You think.

“I mean—I took another one. And I’ll take more. I don’t know how accurate they are this early—”

But Chan’s already across the space between you, wrapping his arms around you so tight, so careful, so anchored you forget how to speak.

“You’re really having my baby,” he breathes into your hair. “You’re really—” He laughs, and the sound cracks. Then again, softer. Wet. “I love you. I love you so much. I swear I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna take such good care of both of you.”

He drops to his knees. Presses his cheek to your stomach even though there’s nothing to see yet.

Just skin. Just potential. Just a future that’s suddenly real.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “It’s Appa. We haven’t met yet, but you’re gonna be so loved, okay? We’ve got you.”

You run your fingers through his curls and feel him kiss you gently—reverently—through the fabric of your shirt. Everything around you fades, every fear fades, except him.

Because this man? He was born to love like this.

Lee Minho

It’s 8:17 PM on a Sunday.

Minho is sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a wrinkled shirt he’s been wearing since last night, a half-finished plate of tteokbokki on the coffee table, and three cats currently fighting for ownership of his chest. Soonie’s curled up against his ribs. Doongie’s nestled by his knee. Dori is actively trying to sit on his face.

It’s domestic bliss in its purest form—until you walk in holding a tiny plastic stick with two pink lines.

“Babe?” you say softly.

He looks up, squinting. Dori meows, offended at being jostled.

Minho blinks once. Then again. “What’s that?”

You bite your lip and hold it out. “I think… we’re gonna need more than three bowls soon.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Soonie sneezes. Doongie flops over dramatically. Minho doesn’t move.

Then—

“…No way.”

His voice is low. Disbelieving. He slowly sits up, cats scattering. He takes the test like it might dissolve in his hands.

“Wait, wait—two lines means…”

You nod. He stares.

“You’re pregnant.”

Another nod. You’re suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.

Minho exhales. Long. Sharp. Then he turns and stares at the cats. “You three are about to be older siblings,” he tells them. Dori blinks. Then he looks at you again. His eyes are wide, but soft. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Like really serious.”

“Yes, Minho.”

He crosses the room and pulls you into his arms without another word. Just wraps you up, tight and warm, chin tucked over your shoulder. You can feel how fast his heart is beating.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mumbles.

“You’ll be amazing,” you whisper back. “You take care of all of us already.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your stomach. “You’ve been feeding me double portions all week. You were preparing.”

You laugh through the tears. “You think I planned this?”

“No,” he says, grinning now. “But I’m glad it’s you. And me. And—”

His hand brushes gently over your lower belly. “And whoever you are in there.”

Behind you, there’s a crash. You both turn to find Doongie knocking over the tteokbokki, Soonie sniffing it, and Dori sitting proudly in the bowl.

Minho sighs. “We need to teach them boundaries before the baby gets here.”

You’re still laughing when he kisses your temple.

Seo Changbin

You don’t plan some Pinterest-worthy reveal. No onesies in gift boxes. No custom cookies that say ‘bun in the oven.’

You just... panic-laugh and blurt it out at the worst possible moment. Which, in this case, is: right as Changbin is taking the world’s biggest bite of a protein bar post-leg day.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

He chokes. Literally. Gags, coughs, eyes watering as he grabs a water bottle and downs half of it in three seconds. You reach out to thump his back, but he waves you off—one hand in the air like he needs to process the universe first.

“Wait,” he rasps. “Wait. What?”

You just hold up the test.

His jaw drops. Like, drops.

“THAT’S A PREGNANCY TEST.”

You nod.

“AND IT’S—TWO LINES—TWO—” He counts them out on his fingers just to be sure. “That means positive, right? POSITIVE like YES, not positive like ‘good vibes’ positive?”

You nod again, nearly in tears now from how panicked and adorable he looks.

Then there’s a beat. A shift. His entire face changes.

“…You’re really having my baby?” Soft. Quiet. Disbelieving. He steps forward slowly, like you might vanish.

You nod again, biting your lip. “Yeah. I am.”

And then he just—melts.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, dazed. “I’m gonna be a DAD. Like—little shoes. Little clothes. Little you. With like—tiny arms. And maybe your nose. Oh my god.”

You blink, and he’s hugging you like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. Then pulling back, both hands cupping your cheeks.

“I’m so fucking happy,” he breathes. “Like, terrified—but also really happy. Are you okay? Do you need water? Snacks? Protein? Oh my god, you need protein. You’re literally building a person.”

You laugh. “I don’t think the baby needs whey powder, Binnie.”

“You never know!” he yells toward the kitchen. “Fetus needs gains!”

Then he runs off to make a “power snack” for you and your microscopic baby, while mumbling, “I need to call my mom—no, wait, I need to learn how to swaddle—what the hell is swaddling—”

You lean against the wall, stomach fluttering, and smile so wide your cheeks ache. You’re about to have a baby. And that baby’s father? Is Seo Changbin.

Loud, loyal, chaotic, golden-hearted Seo Changbin. And that means everything’s going to be okay.

Hwang Hyunjin

It happens on a quiet morning.

The sun is creeping in through the curtains, golden and warm. You’re in one of his oversized shirts, curled on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest. The test sits on the coffee table, face-up. Positive. Blunt and unreal.

Hyunjin is in the kitchen humming something, probably working on a smoothie with way too much honey.

You don't say anything. You just… Wait. And when he wanders in with the drink, barefaced and sleepy-eyed, he sees you staring at the test. Then follows your gaze.

Then—stops breathing. “What… is that?”

You blink up at him. “Baby,” you say. “I think I’m pregnant.”

The smoothie hits the floor. He doesn't even flinch. Just stares at the test like it's glowing. “No way,” he whispers. Then again, like he’s in a dream: “No way.”

You nod. Careful. Soft.

He drops to his knees in front of you. Grabs both your hands. “You’re not kidding?” he asks. “You’re not—like, this isn’t a dream or some surreal performance art you’ve constructed to test my emotional range?”

You giggle through the nerves. “It’s real, Jinnie.”

And then—oh, the eyes. Big and glassy and full of awe. He gently presses his hands to your stomach, even though there’s nothing visible yet.

“You’re carrying something made of us?” he says, like he’s tasting every word.

You nod. And he starts to cry. Not loud or messy. Just that beautiful, quiet unravelling he does when his heart gets too full. His forehead presses to your belly. His voice breaks. “I already love them so much,” he whispers. “And you. You—God, you’re going to be the most beautiful mother. I’m going to paint you. Every day. You’ll hate it, but I’ll do it anyway.”

You laugh and pull him close. “I’m scared,” you admit softly.

“I know,” he says, cupping your face, brushing his thumb under your eye. “Me too. But we’ll make something beautiful. We already are.”

Behind him, the smoothie seeps into the floorboards. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy falling in love all over again.

Han JIsung

You make the mistake of showing him the pregnancy test in the middle of a Mario Kart match.

You were trying to wait until the end. But you couldn’t. The plastic stick in your hoodie pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your skin. So you pause the game. Turn to him on the couch. And say: “Ji… I’m pregnant.”

His character flies off Rainbow Road. He doesn’t even flinch.

You hold out the test. He squints at it like you’ve handed him alien technology. Then looks at you. Then back at the test. “…Wait,” he says. “Waitwaitwaitwait. WAIT. Like—pregnant pregnant?? Like—not the fake TikTok prank kind? Not the 'ha-ha, gotcha,’ kind???”

“Pregnant pregnant,” you say gently. “No ha-ha.”

Silence.

Then: Han Jisung.exe has stopped working. He sits completely still. Eyes wide. Hands frozen in place.

You can see the thoughts ping-ponging through his brain at lightning speed. Baby? Dad? Bottles? Diapers? Are we ready? Oh my god—tiny socks—oh my god—do babies even like me—Then—

“I NEED TO CALL MY MOM.”

You grab his arm. “Ji—”

“No no no wait, I need to call your mom too. I need to call the hospital. Do we need to buy a crib? I need a book. I need—”

“Ji—breathe.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. And you watch the panic melt into something quieter. More real. “You’re serious?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah. I took three tests. All the same.”

He just… folds. Lets out the softest, shakiest breath. “I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, almost reverently. “I’m gonna have a little person who’s half you. Who might have your nose. Or your laugh. Or your attitude—God help me—”

You snort, already teary-eyed. “We’re doomed.”

But then he’s holding you. Pulling you close. Rocking gently on the couch with his face buried in your neck. “I’m so happy,” he mumbles. “So fucking happy. I just—I don’t know if I’ll be good at it, but I’m gonna try so hard. Like, Olympic-level try. Like, gold medal in dad-ing.”

You smile into his hair. “You’ll be the best,” you whisper. “Because it’s you.”

And while the softness surrounds both of you, his poor Mario Kart character is still falling off Rainbow Road.

Lee Felix

He’s lying in bed next to you, all warm freckles and sleepy smiles, arms slung lazily over your waist while some random YouTube video plays in the background.

You’ve been quiet for the last ten minutes. Too quiet.

He shifts. “You okay, angel?”

You glance down at the white stick hidden in the blanket fold between you. Your fingers tremble. Then you blurt it out. “Lix. I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinks. Then blinks again.

“Like… right now?”

You nod.

“Right now now?”

You nod again and hold out the test.

He stares.

“…That’s the kind with the lines, right? Like the ones in movies?”

You laugh. It sounds watery.

“Two lines means yes,” you whisper. “It means we’re—”

Before you can finish the sentence, he’s already sitting up. Fully. Completely. Alert like someone just hit a giant red “you’re about to be a father” button in his brain. “There’s a baby… in there?” He looks down at your belly with eyes so wide they practically sparkle. “Right now? Like—ours?”

You nod again, tearful now.

And he immediately buries his face against your stomach and starts whispering in that low, raspy voice of his. “Hi, little bean. It’s Appa. Or Daddy. We haven’t figured that out yet. But I love you. So much. I haven’t even seen you, and I love you more than anything.”

You start crying for real then. Because of course you do.

Felix pulls himself up to kiss you—everywhere. Forehead, cheeks, lips, nose. All of it soft and gentle, like you’re made of something sacred now. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs. “You’re magic. You’re literally building a person, babe. Like, with your body. That’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “What if I get weird cravings turn into a hormonal mess?”

“I will feed you whatever you want,” he promises. “Even if it’s pickles dipped in chocolate and shame. I will oil your belly every night. I will write bedtime songs for the baby starting tonight.”

And then, softer, reverent: “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You melt into him, into this freckled sunshine that keeps holding your belly like something sacred. And at the same time, all you can think about is that this baby will grow up wrapped in sunshine.

Kim Seungmin

You find him in the kitchen making coffee.

He’s in his weekend hoodie, hair messy, muttering under his breath about how someone (you) finished the oat milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge. Classic Seungmin domesticity.

You hesitate in the doorway. Then: “Hey. I need to tell you something.”

He turns, brow raised. “If it’s about the milk—”

You pull the test out of your pocket and hold it up.

He goes quiet. Completely still. “…What’s that?”

You bite your lip. “It’s… a pregnancy test. It’s positive.”

Seungmin blinks. Twice. His eyes flick from your face to the stick and back again. Then: “Okay,” he says.

Just that. No gasp. No dropped mug. No dramatic reaction.

You stare at him. “Okay?”

He crosses the room. Slowly. Carefully and takes the test from your hand, studies it in total silence. You expect a thousand things. A lecture. A long pause. Maybe even dry sarcasm to ease the tension.

But what you don’t expect… Is the way his voice breaks.

“Is this real?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod, tearfully. “Yeah. It’s real.”

He just stands there, the weight of it sinking in. Then he looks up at you with glassy eyes, and your heart cracks wide open. “I didn’t know I could love anything more than I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “But I think I already do.” That’s when he pulls you into him. Not tight—careful. Like you’re suddenly made of something priceless. One hand ghosts over your stomach. The other wraps around your back.

“I’m gonna be so annoying,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m gonna track every symptom. I’m gonna argue with every doctor. I’m gonna ask a thousand questions until I know exactly how to keep you safe.”

You laugh through your tears. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m not even sorry,” he mutters. “You’re mine. So is the baby. I don’t take chances with the things I love.”

And then he says it. For the first time, out loud. With a quiet breath of wonder: “We’re going to be parents.”

Yang Jeongin

You don’t even mean to tell him today.

You were going to wait. Let it sink in first. Get a doctor’s confirmation. Maybe wrap a tiny baby onesie in a box and watch him open it on camera so you could save the reaction forever.

But he comes home early.

And finds you on the bathroom floor, holding the test in your hand, eyes puffy like you’ve already cried yourself through six different emotional stages.

“Babe?”

You jump. Try to shove the test behind your back like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Too late.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping in, voice instantly soft. Concerned. “Are you sick? Did something happen—?”

You don’t answer. Just… hand him the stick with shaking fingers. He takes it. Looks at it. And then freezes. Like actually freezes. Like, cartoon buffering wheel spinning behind his eyes.

“…This is… is this what I think it is?” he asks.

You nod.

He blinks. “…Are you—?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“…Like, really really?”

You sniffle. “Yeah, Innie. Really really.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then—

He sits down on the floor beside you. Cross-legged. Like you’re on a picnic instead of in a panic.

And he lets out a breath that sounds like everything.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I have no idea what I’m doing. Like, actually zero. I’ve never held a baby. I don’t know how to burp them. I’ve never even changed a diaper. I’m scared out of my mind.”

You nod, already crying again.

“But,” he continues, looking at you now—eyes wide and watery and so full of love—“I want this. I want to learn. I want to do it with you. I want to hold their hand the first time they walk. And cry like a loser when they call me Appa. And panic over every little fever and then call my hyungs crying in the group chat. I want to do it all—with you.”

He cups your face in both hands, gentle and grounding.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he says. “And I’m gonna be annoying and awkward and scared but I’m gonna love you both so much you’ll get sick of me.”

You laugh, hiccuping. “Never.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

Then he kisses you. Sweet, gentle, shaky. His hands tremble a little against your cheeks. When you finally pull apart, he grins, eyes still wet.

“Guess I'm not the maknae anymore,” he says softly, resting his hand on your stomach. “Someone’s coming for my crown.”

[satellite-evans]

in his eyes

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: it doesn't matter what people say on the internet, because Lando loves you.

Word count: 3.3k+

Warnings: giving birth, angst, fluff, insecurity, nasty people on the internet

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The room was still and peaceful. After hours of pain and screaming, it was finally quiet. You could hear the faint beeping of the heart monitor in the background, but it was as if everything else had faded away. In that sacred silence, your heart felt fuller than it ever had before.

Lando’s voice broke through the quiet again, but this time, it was a little more hesitant, as if he were trying to put words to the flood of emotions swirling in his chest. “I always dreamed of this moment... but seeing her here, in my arms... it’s so much more than I imagined.”

Your heart swelled at his words. You had always known how much he longed for this day—how much he dreamed of becoming a father. But to witness it, to see him holding their daughter with such reverence, was beyond anything you could have ever expected.

“She’s so tiny,” you whispered, leaning in a little closer to get a better look at the little girl in Lando’s arms. "It’s hard to believe she’s ours."

Lando nodded, his thumb gently stroking the baby’s tiny hand, his gaze never leaving her face. “I just want to protect her. I want to give her everything. She’s going to have the best life.”

You smiled, feeling tears well up in your eyes again. You had always known Lando was capable of deep love, but seeing him like this, seeing him so vulnerable, made you fall even deeper in love with him.

“I have no doubt, Lando,” you said softly. “She’s going to have everything she needs... and more.”

Lando turned his head toward you for the first time since he’d been holding their daughter, his eyes glistening with emotion. He smiled, a soft, loving smile that melted your heart. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner. I can't believe she's mine as much as I can't believe I'm yours. We’re in this together.”

You reached out to gently stroke the side of his face, your thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. His words meant everything to you. There was no one else you’d rather share this moment, this journey, with. "I feel the same. You're going to be the best dad, Lando."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ll try my best. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she’s happy.”

The quiet room filled with the sound of a small yawn from your daughter, followed by the soft rustling of blankets. Lando chuckled softly, clearly enchanted by the tiny noise. “She’s already got her own little personality, huh?”

You both laughed quietly, and the sound felt like music, the kind of sound that made everything else in the world feel right. “I think she’s definitely going to keep us on our toes.”

Lando nodded, but his eyes were still soft and full of awe. "I'm ready for that. As long as we’re together... we can handle anything."

Your heart fluttered as you looked at him, this man who had been your partner, your best friend, and now, the father of your child. There were no words to fully capture the depth of what you felt in that moment. All that mattered was that you were here, together, in this perfect little bubble of love with your daughter.

“She’s going to love you so much, Lando,” you whispered, your voice full of certainty.

He smiled at you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes as he gazed at their daughter again. “I already love her more than I ever thought possible.”

As the moments passed, the three of you simply existed in this space, letting the world outside the hospital room fade away. There was no rush, no need for anything other than this precious time you had together, letting the quiet joy of the moment fill every corner of your hearts.

Lando's voice was low and full of affection as he spoke again, almost as if to himself. “This... this is everything I’ve ever wanted. You, her... us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "And we're just getting started."

The first few weeks after giving birth were a whirlwind of emotions, adjustments, and challenges. Your body was healing, and there were days when you felt overwhelmed by the exhaustion. Physical recovery was tough, and mentally, you wondered if you were doing enough. The sleepless nights, the constant feeding, the emotional rollercoaster—it was all a lot to process. But through it all, Lando was there.

You often found him hovering around you like a quiet guardian, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. The first night you came home from the hospital, Lando insisted on taking the baby for a few hours to give you some rest. You were still recovering from the birth, and the thought of trying to breastfeed, soothe the baby, and manage the pain seemed overwhelming. But Lando stepped in without hesitation.

"I’ve got her, Y/N. You rest," he said, his voice soothing and steady as he gently took their daughter into his arms. You had to fight the urge to stay up, but you trusted him. You allowed yourself to close your eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you slept soundly for a few hours, knowing your baby was safe and loved.

When you woke up, the sight that greeted you made your heart swell. Lando was sitting on the couch, holding the baby against his bare chest. His face, usually so focused and intense, was softened in a way you had never seen before. He gazed at her with such love and tenderness, whispering sweet words to her as she napped peacefully in his arms.

" I know I said it like a hundred times already but, she’s perfect, Y/N. Absolutely perfect," Lando had said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid to disturb the serenity of the moment.

He made sure you didn’t feel the weight of the housework either. Whenever the dishes piled up, Lando was the one to wash them, even when he had been working on the simulator for hours or when the demands of his racing career were overwhelming. "I’ve got it. You just relax. You’ve done enough," he’d tell you. He even took on the responsibility of cooking, though you could tell his meals weren’t quite as delicious as when you were in charge. But it didn’t matter—what mattered was the effort, the care, the thoughtfulness he put into everything.

Lando was constantly reassuring you when you doubted yourself. He saw the way your shoulders would slump after a long day of caring for the baby, how the sleepless nights began to take their toll, and he’d be there to remind you that you were doing an amazing job. When you expressed how hard it was to adjust to motherhood and how difficult it felt to bounce back physically, Lando was quick to reassure you.

“You’re incredible. You brought life into the world, Y/N. That’s something amazing. You are enough,” he said with conviction, never once faltering in his support.

There were nights when the baby would cry, and Lando would take the lead, waking up to comfort her before you had even opened your eyes. He’d hold her, rock her gently, and whisper soft lullabies to her, making sure she felt safe and loved while you caught a few more hours of sleep. His patience was endless.

Sometimes, when you’d express that you didn’t feel like yourself, that you didn’t look like yourself, Lando would gently take your face in his hands, his eyes filled with love. “You’re the same Y/N I fell in love with. You’ll always be her. Nothing about you has changed, except maybe... you’re even more beautiful now,” he’d say with a warm, playful smile, easing the weight of your worries with his words.

Lando’s support wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, too. He never let you feel alone in this new chapter of your life. When you cried from the frustration of sleepless nights or the pressure of balancing it all, Lando would simply pull you into his arms. “I’m here, Y/N. We’re in this together,” he’d say, as you let the tears fall.

Even when you doubted whether you could be the kind of mother you imagined yourself to be, Lando believed in you completely. "I’ve never seen anyone do what you do with as much strength and love as you have. We’re a team," he’d remind you over and over again.

And he was right. He never let you feel like you were doing it alone. When you struggled, he didn’t hesitate to pick up the slack. Whether it was handling late-night feedings or changing diapers, he did it all with a quiet grace that made you admire him more than ever.

In those early weeks, as you both navigated the unfamiliar waters of parenthood, it became clear to you just how deeply Lando cared—not just for you, but for your little family. He did everything with the thought of making your life a little easier, even when he was running on empty himself.

"You’ve given me the greatest gift, Y/N," he told you one evening, after putting the baby to sleep. “And I’m so thankful for both of you.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

Lando smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’ll never have to,” he promised. "I’m always going to be here."

And in that moment, you knew—you were never alone.

One sunny afternoon, you felt like you had enough energy to step outside. The last few weeks had been a blur of late nights, feedings, and tender moments with Lando and your baby. You loved every second of it, but you also needed a break, a small taste of normalcy. You had always enjoyed little walks and small outings with Lando, and today, you wanted to do something nice for him. He’d been so incredible, taking on the lion’s share of the care and support, and you wanted to return the favor.

So, you decided to walk to your favorite bakery. The idea was simple: get a couple of your favorite pastries as a treat for both of you. It would give you some fresh air and a little exercise, and you couldn’t wait to surprise Lando with something sweet. You’d always shared a love for pastries, and there was something comforting about going there alone, just to clear your mind for a while.

As you strolled down the street, the air felt crisp and refreshing. Your body was still adjusting, but with each step, you felt a bit more like yourself. It was the first time in a while that you didn’t feel overwhelmed, and you even caught yourself smiling at the thought of Lando, who was back at home taking care of the baby.

When you arrived at the bakery, you paused for a moment to take in the familiar, cozy atmosphere. The warm, inviting smell of freshly baked goods hit you, and you felt comforted by the thought of how much Lando would appreciate this little gesture. As you stood in line, your fingers fiddled with your phone, glancing at the screen before it was your turn to order.

“Hi, I’ll have two of the almond croissants and one of the chocolate eclairs, please,” you said, giving the cashier a friendly smile.

But then, as you stood there waiting for your order, you heard the sound of giggles behind you. You barely registered it at first, but then it came again—a group of girls, no older than your mid-twenties, talking and laughing loudly.

“You know, I saw Y/N out in public the other day…” one of them said, her voice dripping with that judgmental tone. “She’s huge now. Like, I know she had a baby, but how can she just let herself go like that?”

The other girls snickered in agreement. “Lando deserves someone better than her,” one of them added. “I mean, he could have anyone, right? Why stay with someone who just let themselves go like that?”

The words felt like a sharp slap to the chest, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to blur. You didn’t know whether to cry, shout, or just run out of the bakery. They weren’t whispering or trying to hide it—they were speaking loudly, thinking you wouldn’t hear. But you did. Every word stung.

You wanted to turn around and say something, to defend yourself, but instead, you kept your eyes on the counter, trying to hold it together as the cashier bagged your pastries. You could feel the heat rise to your face, the tears pricking at the back of your eyes. It had been so long since you’d felt self-conscious, and yet, their words dug up insecurities you had worked so hard to bury.

You paid for the pastries with a forced smile, muttering a polite “Thank you,” before quickly exiting the bakery. You had to get home. You needed to get away from the cruel laughter that still echoed in your ears.

Once you were back home, the door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there for a moment, taking in the quiet of the house. You set the pastries down on the kitchen counter, the warm scent of fresh-baked goods filling the air, but it did little to lift the weight that had settled in your chest. You could still hear the words from the bakery echoing in your mind, the sting of the comments, and the cruel judgments of people who didn’t know you or what you’d been through.

With a sigh, you rubbed your eyes, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Your heart was heavy, and it felt like everything was crashing down around you. Lando had been so caring, so supportive, and you didn’t want to burden him with this—it wasn’t fair to him. He had done so much to make you feel loved and beautiful, and here you were, doubting it all because of a few words from strangers.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. You didn’t want to ruin this moment—this quiet, peaceful time at home with your family. So instead of seeking out Lando, you slipped quietly into the living room, phone in hand, and tried to lose yourself in something else.

You knew scrolling through social media wasn’t healthy—especially right now—but it felt like a distraction, something to fill the empty space in your mind. But the moment you unlocked your phone, it all came crashing in. The familiar blue light illuminated the room, but instead of calming you, it brought a flood of negativity.

The comments began to pour in, one after another, and with each notification, your chest tightened. The words were sharp, cruel.

"She’s disgusting." "Lando should dump her and find someone who takes care of themselves."

The comments continued to pile on, each one worse than the last. "Fat," "ugly," "why does she think she’s still worthy of him?" They cut through you like daggers, tearing into every insecurity, every vulnerability you’d tried so hard to hide. The words hit you harder than you could have imagined, and it felt like the air was being sucked out of your lungs. Your heart ached as your eyes filled with tears.

Before you knew it, the tears were flowing, and there was nothing you could do to stop them. The hurtful words from the bakery combined with the hateful comments made everything feel too overwhelming. You wiped your face quickly, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

It wasn’t long before you heard footsteps upstairs. Lando had gone up to check on the baby, and now, his soft footsteps echoed down the stairs as he walked back into the living room. When his eyes found you, his expression immediately shifted from calm to concern. His gaze locked onto your red, tear-streaked face, and he froze, clearly taken aback by the sight.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice full of worry as he rushed over to where you sat. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitated for a moment, trying to hide the phone in your lap, but he could see the pain in your eyes. He knelt down in front of you, gently taking the phone from your hand. You didn’t have the strength to say anything, so you simply let him read what was on the screen.

His face darkened immediately as he scanned the words. The anger was evident in the tightening of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. “What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice sharp and protective. His fingers clenched the phone as his eyes lifted to meet yours, filled with disbelief and fury.

“These people… they don’t know anything about you. About us,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. The softness in his expression faltered as he took in the full weight of your hurt. He sat down beside you, his arm wrapping around you and pulling you gently into his chest.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice soft but full of conviction. “Listen to me. You are amazing. You gave me our beautiful daughter, and your body—your beautiful, strong body—did something incredible. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Inside and out.”

The words melted your heart, but it was still hard to fight the weight of the hurt. You sniffled, resting your face against his chest, your voice breaking. “But the comments… they’re right. I don’t look like I used to. I don’t—”

Lando pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’ve never looked more beautiful to me. Not once, not ever. You’re the woman I love. These people? They can say whatever they want, but they don’t get to decide how I see you.”

His words washed over you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the tight knot in your chest began to loosen. He cupped your face gently in his hands, his eyes full of love as he whispered, “If all the women in the world gathered together and shouted it, they couldn’t ever suppress your whisper. You’re perfect, Y/N.”

A fresh wave of tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness this time—they were from the overwhelming love you felt in this moment. Lando leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual.

“I’ll always see you for who you truly are,” he murmured, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “And if they don’t see it… that’s their problem. But as for me? I’m right here, loving you more every day.”

You laughed softly through your tears, feeling the tension in your chest dissolve. Lando’s playful tone lifted your spirits even more. "And let’s be honest," he added with a cheeky grin, "even if all of them did shout, I’d still be right here. Loving you. And no one can change that."

The gentle teasing helped lighten your heart, and for the first time in hours, you felt a small flicker of hope. Lando was right. His love for you wasn’t based on anything as fleeting as looks. It was about who you were, what you’d been through together, and the life you’d created. No one could take that away.

Lando pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips—gentle and reassuring, as if to seal the promise of his words. And for the first time since you left the bakery, you allowed yourself to believe it. You were enough. You were perfect, just as you were.

And you were loved, more than you could ever imagine.

[ccupcakeyss]

༝     .   MAMA SANDWICH ! .  ✿

SUMMARY: after a long day, cuddling is just what you need from your husband toji. or... your child megumi? both? oh great. here comes war.

WC: 852

NOTES: I HAVE BEEN ON THE BIGGEST TOJI BRAINROT so incoming; toji fics are on its way

Evening in the Fushiguro household was always a soft sort of chaos.

Dinner had been eaten. Megumi’s tiny face had been wiped clean (after much squirming and pouting). Pajamas were on, teeth brushed—though Toji insisted, “The kid’s only got like three teeth, what’s there to brush?”—and now it was finally time for the best part of the day.

Cuddle Time.

You were curled up on the couch, warm and cozy under a big blanket, reading a book and half-listening to the quiet hum of the night. You’d barely blinked when a familiar weight crashed beside you.

“‘Kay, move over.”

Toji’s gravelly voice. Grumpy, low, but unmistakably pouty in that way he tried to hide.

You shifted just enough to make room as he flopped beside you with a groan, throwing one arm around your waist and pulling you in with that effortless strength of his.

“Rough day?” you asked, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Always,” he muttered, burying his face into your neck like a heat-seeking missile. “Missed you.”

You smiled softly, fingers carding through his dark hair. “I’m right here.”

You should’ve expected what came next.

Tiny, stompy feet. The quiet pat-pat-pat of your son’s determined little march.

Megumi waddled into the living room, wearing his favorite wolf-print pajama pants and dragging his own little blanket like a warrior preparing for battle.

He stopped in front of the couch. Squinted.

Frowned.

“…Papa, move.”

Toji peeked one eye open. “No.”

“I wanna cuddle Mama.”

“Too bad. I got here first.”

“Not fair!” Megumi huffed, cheeks puffed out, hands balling into tiny fists. “She’s my mama!”

Toji didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

“She’s my wife.”

“But—!”

Megumi stomped once more, then—with all the dramatic flair of a bedtime soap opera—climbed on top of you, shoving his way between your chest and Toji’s arm like a chubby little wedge.

“Toji—” you started, laughing as the blanket slipped down your shoulder.

“No. Nope. He’s not allowed in here.”

“He’s your son,” you reminded, trying to wrangle the squirmy toddler now making himself at home in your arms.

“He’s a traitor.”

Megumi smirked triumphantly, curling into your chest and patting your collarbone like he’d just conquered a new kingdom. “My Mama.”

Toji let out a dramatic sigh, glaring at Megumi like he’d just been dethroned. “You get her all day. I get her at night. That’s the rule.”

Megumi looked up at you. “Is that true?”

You blinked. “There’s a rule?”

Toji grunted. “There should be.”

But Megumi wasn’t budging. He threw one leg over your stomach and settled in like a cat, kicking Toji’s side lightly in the process.

You were wheezing from trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay—stop. You both can cuddle me.”

“No.” They said it at the same time.

Toji tugged you closer, trying to reclaim his space. Megumi clung tighter, glaring up at him with wide, watery eyes.

“She loves me more,” the kid mumbled.

Toji’s eyebrow twitched. “Wanna bet?”

Before you knew it, Toji had hooked one arm around Megumi and the other under your knees—and in one smooth, annoyingly strong motion, he hoisted both of you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

Now you were in the middle. Megumi pressed to your chest. Toji wrapped around your back, legs caging you both in.

“Aha,” he muttered smugly. “Cuddle sandwich. I win.”

“This is not winning,” you said, laughing. “This is kidnapping.”

Megumi was too busy snuggling into your hoodie, mumbling something about how warm you were and how he wanted you all to himself. Toji kept his arm slung heavy around both of you, his big hand on your thigh, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” you warned.

“That’s the plan,” he muttered, eyes already half-lidded.

You could feel Megumi relaxing, his breathing slowing. And Toji—despite all his grumbling—was gently running his fingers up and down your side in soft, rhythmic strokes.

“…Love you, Mama,” Megumi whispered, voice already heavy with sleep.

Toji grunted softly, his mouth brushing your neck. “Tch. Love you too.”

“Who are you saying that to?” you asked, smiling.

“…Both of you.”

Your heart ached in the best possible way.

Toji—fierce and dangerous and built for anything but softness—was now the anchor of this small, sleepy pile of warmth and love. His son clung to you like you were the sun, and he held you both like you were his whole damn world.

Which, honestly, you were.

Later that night, when you were half-asleep and Megumi had long since started drooling on your chest, you felt Toji whisper into your hair.

“I used to think I was gonna die alone,” he murmured. “Now I’ve got you two, and I’m fighting a four-year-old over cuddles.”

You smiled, eyes closed, hand resting over his on your waist.

“You lost, by the way.”

Toji snorted quietly. “Nah. Still got you in my arms, didn’t I?”

And just like that, the house fell into peaceful silence—wrapped in blankets, love, and the kind of warmth Toji Fushiguro never believed he’d ever deserve.

But now?

He wouldn’t give it up for the world.

[dollfacefantasy]

dig your claws right into me ♡

logan howlett x fem!reader

logan hurts you when he has a nightmare. now you both have to deal with the fallout.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, descriptions of nightmare, injury, and blood

a/n: reader is a mutant but i didn't specify her powers so you can imagine what you want. just some sickly sweet intimacy cause that's what i was feeling tonight <3

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words come out whispered as Logan's lips press against the three tiny bumps of developing scar tissue on your abdomen.

"I already told you that you don't have to be sorry," you say. Your voice drifts into the space between the two of you as soft as the movements of your fingers running through his hair.

"Well I am, bub. You should want me to be."

Each one of his hands rests upon either side of your waist. His fingers squish against your flesh while his eyes stare at the scars on your belly. He gazes at them like the small marks, all equidistant from one another, could be willed away by his harsh look. He hated the fact that they were there at all. Even worse, that he was the one who gave them to you.

"But it was an accident," you respond, giving one of the tufts of his hair a gentle tug.

His dark pupils flit up to look at your face. "Doesn't matter. It being an accident doesn't change the fact that you're gonna have these marks forever. I wouldn't care that it was accidental if I'd killed you."

He remembers the night it happened that seemed like a real possibility.

His light sleep had been interrupted by a nightmare. Over the time that had passed between then and now, it'd become indistinct from all the others he experiences regularly. The only difference between that one and the ones he'd had since he'd started sleeping next to you each night was the intensity. That night had been rough. Normally when he slept in your room, he seemed to be able to tone it down. Almost as if his brain knew to not act up while your relationship was still starting to blossom.

But two weeks ago, his mind didn't care. It flash-banged him with the usual images of himself in that tank. The searing, splitting pain of the adamantium attaching itself to his bones.

Usually, if he had a nightmare beside you, he'd grunt and twitch, maybe shift around a little. That night though, you got to see the whole performance. The tossing and turning, sweating and moaning, tense limbs and scrunched up face.

Poor, sweet, innocent you thought that you could just wake him up. Your hands nudged at his bicep and shoulder as you gently cooed "Logan. It's just a dream."

In the end, your tenderness didn't matter. When he actually came to, your anguished cry was all that registered. And then he felt the sharp heat between his knuckles that meant the claws were out. His heart dropped and his vision nearly blacked out. He couldn't have.

He retracted them as quickly as they'd appeared and pulled back to look at you. Crimson flooded the gray t-shirt you'd worn to bed. The three little spots spread into large blooms of scarlet. Your hands flew to the spot to clutch at it, but they did nothing to stop the warm liquid from spilling out.

"No, no, no, fuck," he'd whispered frantically as his mind raced for a solution.

Your cries morphed into whimpers. Soft and vulnerable. Like a prey animal that'd been fatally wounded but not put out of its misery. Blood seeped out onto your bedding, and it was then that he rocketed off the mattress and scooped you up into his arms.

Fortunately, Scott, Jean, and Storm were already outside the door in the hall, having heard the scream. A gathering of students lingered behind them as well. Shame coursed through his veins, albeit dulled by the panic. He remembered thinking it was stupid, but after the adrenaline left his system, it was the dominant emotion he was left with. Ashamed was the only word that could describe holding the knowledge that everyone here now saw he was capable of hurting the woman he loves. Maybe he was no better than an animal.

In truth, shame was all he felt now. So much relief settled over him since you'd made it out alive. Thanks to the enhanced physical capabilities from your mutation and Jean's adequate medical skills, these scars would be the only lasting effect of the wounds.

He'd rushed you down to the infirmary faster than he'd ever moved in a non-combat situation. His feet thundered down the stairs, a part of him withering to ash with each little whimper you let out as the motion jostled your body around.

"I'm sorry, bub. Almost there. We're almost there. You're gonna be ok," he'd mumbled out thoughtlessly, saying anything he could that would bring you even a shred of comfort.

He kept your hand in his the entire time you were down there on the cold examination table. His grip stayed firm. He wouldn't let the anxiety over your well being consume him. This was his fault, and now you needed him. He didn't get to be worried or upset or anything that wasn't in support of you.

When you howled in pain, he winced as if he was the one being treated. You cried for him, choking out "Logan" through tears over and over. It tore him apart inside. All he could do to soothe you was stroke your cheek and murmur reassurances in your ear.

"Shh, shh, shh. You're doing so good, baby. My strong girl. Being so brave."

He usually reserved affection for private moments, but in those painful seconds, it felt like you two were the only ones in the room.

These thoughts running through his head display across his face. The way his cheek squishes against your tummy and his eyes vacantly stare at the wall opposite his bed. You told him the next day that everything transformed into a blur in your mind. You remembered the feeling of being stabbed and the sight of him panicking, but beyond that nothing specific stayed. You knew he held you and talked to you even though you couldn't recall an individual thing he said or did.

That was fine with him. He listened to you tell the story from your perspective. You spoke with your normal cadence, the usual happy glow in your eyes, and the same animated gestures coming from your hands. His eyes lingered on your torso though. The bandages peeking out from underneath your clean camisole he'd changed you into.

Every last detail of the incident was etched into the deepest part of his psyche. Most likely stored away as material for future nightmares. As much as he hated it, he figured that's the way it should be. He didn't deserve the peace that comes with forgetting.

For the first week after it'd happened, he wouldn't sleep with you. He'd stay with you, cuddled against your body, until you drifted off. Then he'd get up and skulk back to his own room, leaving you cold and alone on your bed.

Eventually after a few more days, you got him to try it out again, but he'd only do it in his own room. It was hard for him to be in yours. New sheets covered your foamy mattress now since the blood wouldn't wash out of the old set. Each brush of the novel material against his skin was just a rose-printed reminder of what he'd done to you.

He's snapped out of his recollection when your voice returns to the original conversation.

"None of that stuff happened though. You didn't kill me, and you're not going to. I'll be more careful next time," you break the silence with a gentle reassurance.

Next time. That's what hurts the worst. You knew this would happen again. You'd promised that when it did you wouldn't try to wake him. Wouldn't touch him or do anything that could set him off. Just give him his space and let him work through it.

"I don't even want you worrying about being careful when you're trying to sleep," he grumbles.

Your nails scrape over his scalp, making his eyes flutter. A deep sigh leaves him. As much as he hated himself for all of this, he could never help easing up under your touch.

"You're worth it."

Three words you said so often. He never believed them, but that didn't stop you from repeating them like a slogan. Instead of arguing with you over the validity of the statement, he stays silent. Replaces any verbal response with a physical one by nuzzling into the warmth of your stomach and laying kisses around your navel.

You watch the affectionate gesture and trail your fingers down to the nape of his neck, massaging the tender skin there.

"You are," you whisper, "One mistake doesn't define you. Doesn't change how I see you."

"It's not just a simple mistake-" he starts.

"Yes it is," you interject, trying to nip his self doubt in the bud.

"It's not. It's not like I forgot your birthday or left my wallet behind when taking you out."

"It's still an accident. The severity doesn't change the intention. Would you hate me if my powers acted up and hurt you?"

God, you could be just as stubborn as him. It grated on his already frayed nerves. He shifts to look up at you fully. And some of that building tension dissolves upon seeing the earnest look on your face.

"It's not the same. Anything you did to me, I would heal," he says.

"I'm healing too. I'm just not as fast as you," you respond. You actually smile as if this is some lighthearted matter. Of course you knew it wasn't the same. You presented no danger to him whereas if he'd nicked you an inch to the left, he might be talking to your headstone right now instead of you. That wasn't the point though.

He shakes his head. "It's different, bub. But I'm not even saying you should hate me..." 

In truth, he didn't know what he was saying. If he wanted you to hate him or stay away from him, he could be the one to break things off. But he was still right here, arms wrapped around you and head hovering inches away from your body.

"I just think you should be more cautious than you're being," he finishes, "I don't want you to think you have to put up with this."

You frown and pet his hair. "I don't think that."

"I'm not trying to lecture you, baby," he sighs, "I just don't want to hurt you again."

He could certainly flaunt a pair of puppy eyes when he wanted to. The way he was looking up at you now made him seem so sad and wounded. Like a dog who can't control when he bites but gets kicked aside for it all the same.

"You're not going to. We'll be careful. It was an accident," you say, tone almost pleading, "You're still my Logan."

To go along with your words, you pull on one of his arms, beckoning him closer. He complies with your request and scales your body so that the two of you are aligned. You stare up into his eyes and the whirlpools of emotion within them. Your hand lands on his cheek, your thumb stroking back and forth in small swipes.

"I'm not gonna let you pull away cause of this," you whisper, "It wasn't your fault. You don't choose to have those dreams."

You can tell he wants to argue, but he struggles to find the words. Indirectly cutting him off, you guide his head closer to yours. His face slots against the crook of your neck, and yours does the same in his. You nuzzle him there, breathing in the rich, musky scent of him.

"You're not wrong for wanting to be happy. You don't deserve to be alone," you say and kiss below his ear.

The words make him ache from within. His metal bones vibrate with the weight of possibility of that being true while his heartbeat feels as though it stutters between his ribs. He wants to huff and say that he knows, that he doesn't need you psychoanalyzing him, thank you very much. But none of that will come out. So instead he chuckles. He tries to make it sound smooth; although, the awkwardness is apparent in each bit.

He pulls back a little and smirks down at you. "So you think I'm cut out for being gentle? Is that it?"

You know what he's doing. As closed off as he tries to be, you don't need telepathy to sense what he's feeling. You let him play it off with a joke though. If he's joking, he's not drowning in self-pity, which is all you want.

"Mhm, I know you are," you say and nose at his cheek, kissing the spot on it without facial hair, "You may have claws, but you purr like a kitten when I have my hands on you."

His eyes roll when you say that. He leans down and begins to return some of your loving gestures.

"Don't go telling people that. It's only for you," he murmurs.

"Of course, of course," you say with the same subtle playfulness.

Words die out in favor of using your mouths for better things. The kisses are lazy, built more off of love and adoration rather than lust and passion. One of your arms loops over his shoulders to keep him close while your other rubs at his side. The tip of his nose brushes your earlobe as he lowers to kiss down your throat.

His lips meet your pulse point and the divots in your neck that make you shudder when touched. He's familiar with all your secret spots by now. He plays you better than any instrument. His breath fans over your skin as his teeth scrape against the same flesh. His hands work below, squeezing your waist, fingertips leaving little bumps in their wake.

The hand of yours that had been on his side drifts further down and wiggles its way between your two bodies. Your digits stroke his pelvis above the area his cock would soon begin to harden.

A groan reverberates through his chest as his shaft rises to attention. From this angle, the pads of your fingers can reach the tip. You rub on it with light pressure, up and down. That gets him to repeat the groan, only this time the undertone of need is more prominent.

His lips latch onto your neck to work a little mark onto your skin while he pushes the waistband of his sweatpants down his thighs. You were only wearing a cropped t-shirt and panties, already easily accessible.

He nudges your thighs apart further and grinds his bulge over your mound. The heat from both your aching centers grows hotter with the friction. Arching your back off the bed, you whimper softly for further satisfaction. He presses you back down using his larger stature.

"Patience, sweetheart. Being gentle, remember?"

He only teases you with a few more grinds of his hips before his boxers vanish too and his heavy cock rests against the soft fabric of your panties. You feel the familiar thickness at first. Then his fingers swoop down and pull your panties to the side so he can slot the drippy tip against your folds. Precum smears against your slick, velvety skin.

Seconds later he splits you open. He bites his lip while you whine, his fat cock pushing further into your wanting hole. You squeeze around him. Your walls clamp and contract on his length. It doesn't push him out, merely sucks him further in. He chokes out a low moan from how tight you get.

So tight and so wet. Arousal oozes from you in no short supply. It didn't take much to get you going for Logan. A few touches alone had you leaking like a broken faucet. You whimper as he bottoms out, hips jerking as the head taps your cervix. He always gets so deep it's nearly unbearable. Even when he's going slow like he is now, he's all you can think of. He fills you up down there and occupies all the space in your head.

"Feel good, baby?" he asks.

You nod, unable to respond verbally as you adjust to the intrusion. 

He doesn't give you a prolonged period of time to adapt right now. Normally he would, but most other times, he'd be going much faster than he plans to at this moment. Typically, he'd let you get comfy with the stretch before drawing his hips back and then pumping them forward again. He'd slam in and out of you. It'd be loud with the sound of skin clapping combined with your moans and his growls. It'd be rough and quick. The bed would shake and bobble around with the force of him.

But tonight, none of that happens. He barely even pulls out to thrust. He stays nice and deep, grinding his hips rather than fucking himself in and out of you. You whine in sweet stretches of sound. He sighs and grunts against your neck. Neither of you sound like feral animals going into heat.

You loved when you fucked like that, but right now, both of you needed this. Each roll of his hips felt like a stroke of heaven brushing your insides. Your limbs curl around him tighter to keep him close. Your arms guard his neck while your legs dig into his hips. He's so lost in the feeling of you, he can't even tell where he ends and you begin.

"Tell me how it feels. Need to hear you. Wanna know I'm doing it how you need," he mumbles.

"Feels perfect," you whimper in return, "So fuckin' deep."

"Good. I only ever wanna make you feel good."

You nod, knowing it's the truth. "Anyone can hurt me, but only you know how to make me feel like this."

His eyes scrunch up at your words. He just feels lucky he has his face buried against your skin so you can't see. It had been just what he needed to hear. Boosting himself onto his knees a bit more to gain some leverage, he grips your hips and ruts against you with the slightest bit more force.

You whine at the soothing rhythm in which your bodies rock. The sense of satisfaction brought on from this took root in the deepest pit of your belly. You weren't gonna explode like you often did. Probably wouldn't scream or scratch up his back. But you could tell you were gonna cum hard.

Without saying it, he communicates he feels the same. His lack of usual dirty talk tells you everything you need to know. His cock stays nestled deep inside your pussy as he works you both to the edge. His face remains flush against your neck.

You cum first, and he follows right behind. You tighten up, toes curling and a high mewl echoing out of your throat. Your body shivers. He spills his release inside of you, his energy leaving with the sticky ropes of cum that fire.

He goes boneless on top of you, still cherishing the feeling of your skin on his. His breaths feel cool against your sweating skin.

"My baby," he sighs. His eyes flutter shut. He knows he has to pull out before he knocks out for a while, but he can do that in a second. He just needs a few more minutes of this.

You press a few kisses to the side of his head and rub his back. His hand slides between both your abdomen to touch the scars, reminding himself what he's capable of despite his current tenderness.

After a few moments, he pulls out and slumps to the side of you. You peck his lips and take the acquisition of space as a way to cool off. His eyes are drooping already. It feels good seeing him so relaxed. You kiss the space between his brows, then the bridge of his knows, and end on his lips.

"Sweet dreams," you whisper, wishing that would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. At least for tonight.

[moluvies]

in your orbit ꔛ armin arlert x reader

a/n: made the banner in 2 seconds on picsart myb 🫡👍 i usually dont fw the modern/college au for aot but nerdmin has so much potential :3 read part two here !!

words: 5.9k

cw: nerd!armin, college au, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy for reader, somewhat inexperienced armin #idk, armin is actually a nice person in this au, frat boy eren makes an appearance (obvi), armin gets drunk, reader gets drunk, SMUT!!, so drunk sex, mutual attraction, blowjobs, p in v sex, doggystyle, dirty talk, he whines and whimpers 😦‼️, MDNI !!

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

The rec center was lively, as it usually was this time of day. You checked your phone to look at the time—3:56 P.M. Would it be weird to go in 4 minutes early? You wondered to yourself, anxiety getting the best of you. Especially when you couldn't hear even the smallest sound come from the small study room, though you told yourself maybe it was a soundproof design.

Armin Arlert, one of your classmates and now a member of the group project you had been assigned, was the one to set this meeting up. The group project from your astronomy class was a semester-long task, given to you during syllabus week and not to be turned in until finals. Half of the semester had passed and you hadn't even really met the rest of your group members—aside from Armin.

The two of you hadn't really talked, though. You followed each other on Instagram now and you sat at the same table as him in class (along with a few other people you didn't really know). Aside from that, the guy was practically a stranger to you. But you couldn't deny how you admired him. He always raised his hand in class, never sounding too full of himself or annoying like other people typically sounded to you in lecture. He was also helpful if you ever had a question, especially because you hated going to office hours with professors you hardly knew.

Armin had texted the group chat he made with all the group members a week ago asking if everyone had availability that Friday. A couple people said yes while others just put a thumbs up emoji to react to his message. He didn't mind if they didn't show to the first meeting, really. It was individually graded and if they didn't have availability to meet Friday they could have said so.

You took a deep breath, trying your best to compose yourself before you knocked once and then entered the tiny study room. It contained one table with 6 chairs around it, a TV you could connect your laptop to, and a trash can off in the corner.

And it also contained only one person—Armin.

"Hey," you greeted with a smile, shutting the door behind you and seating yourself down in a chair across from him.

"Hi, you made it," Armin smiled, looking up from his laptop as you entered. "I was just setting things up so we all have access to the slides, just in case anyone wants to make changes."

You nodded, putting your bag on the chair next to you and taking out your notebook and your own laptop. Armin turned his screen slightly so you could see the Google Slides presentation he'd already started.

“So,” he began, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “the project is basically split into three parts. We each pick a topic from the syllabus—we're focusing on one planetary system or celestial phenomenon—and then tie it back to a central question or theme. I thought we could go with, like… how different environments in space might support life? It leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”

“That actually sounds really cool,” you said, surprised by how easily the conversation was flowing. Armin was easy to talk to—calm, thoughtful, never pushing too hard. “I was kind of thinking about Europa. Like, that moon of Jupiter? There’s been speculation that it could have an ocean under the ice.”

Armin’s eyes lit up. “That would be perfect for your section. I was thinking of doing something about Titan, Saturn’s moon. We could compare how the chemical compositions of each moon might influence the potential for life—or even just how scientists are studying them.”

The hour passed quicker than you expected. Armin’s presence, though quiet, was reassuring. The two of you bounced ideas back and forth, shared articles, and even got a little distracted googling strange facts about different moons. At one point, Armin laughed quietly at a meme someone had edited into one of Titan's photos, and you felt your shoulders finally relax.

“No one else showing up kinda worked out,” you said as you started packing up your things.

“Yeah,” Armin replied, unplugging his laptop from the monitor. “Honestly, I don’t mind. We got a lot done. I’ll just post our outline in the chat and if they don’t contribute by the next meeting, I’ll talk to the professor. He said we could document that stuff.”

You both walked out into the early evening sunlight, your backpacks slung over your shoulders as the automatic doors of the rec center whooshed open.

As you and Armin stepped outside, the soft warmth of the sun casting long shadows on the pavement, he glanced over at you with a relaxed expression.

“Got any plans this weekend?” he asked, shifting his backpack on his shoulder.

You sighed, a little amused. “My friend’s been begging me to go to this frat party Saturday night. I haven't been to one since my first week of freshman year."

Armin raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “At Delta Sig?”

You blinked in surprise. “Yeah. Are you in that frat?”

He laughed—soft, a little disbelieving. “God, no. Not even close. But my friend Eren is. Our friend Mikasa and I usually end up at those parties to keep him from doing something insane.”

You tilted your head curiously. “So… you do go sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Armin admitted, his tone casual. “Delta Sig almost got shut down, actually. They had, like, a ton of hazing violations documented over the past decade. I tried convincing Eren not to rush, but he did anyway. Even after I showed him an article about it online.”

You laughed. “Wow. That makes me feel so great about possibly going.”

He smiled, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “If you do end up there, try to find me, alright?”

“Yeah?” you asked, a little surprised by the offer.

“I’m not a big drinker or anything,” Armin said with a small shrug, “but I’ll probably be hanging around Eren and Mikasa, keeping them out of trouble. If you go, say hi.”

You nodded, a little smile growing on your face and a flutter in your heart at the idea. “Okay. I will.”

ꔛ

"I look like an idiot," you whined, eyeing yourself in the mirror as you looked over your outfit. As a freshman, you might've worn something like this to these types of parties, but now you weren't sure anyone should wear this kind of outfit. The top was so low cut and the jeans were just simply not it, you weren't sure if you were going for slutty or casual.

"Come on, you look great," your friend, Hitch, said. Her dirty blonde hair was neatly styled and she wore an outfit combination similar to yours—tiny top with jeans.

"We look like we're matching," you replied, but with no malice. That could be cute, you thought.

"Ugh, you're right. Be right back."

You glared at the back of her head as she turned to presumably go get changed. Your hair looked nice, and so did your makeup. The outfit felt dumb but it wasn't terrible. So why did you feel like throwing up?

"Armin really said to come find you?" Hitch asked when she returned with a grin and different outfit, bringing up the conversation you had in her car when she picked you up. Hitch seemed to be a frequent partygoer to this specific frat, and had met Armin a few times at these functions. When you brought it up in the car, she confirmed that Armin hardly ever drank and mostly stayed near Eren and Mikasa.

"Yeah. He's really sweet, so I didn't expect him to even go to these," you replied honestly, applying more lip gloss. "It wasn't a surprise when he said he doesn't drink, though."

"I'm sure you guys will really hit it off then. You even turned down my 'getting ready shots'."

You rolled your eyes, and soon you were on your way, taking the short walk towards Greek row where the party was presumably already in full swing—Hitch insisting on being late so you two didn't look lame waiting for people to show up.

ꔛ

Armin was a mess.

He didn't know why, or how, but in the hours leading up to the party he convinced himself he was awkward and weird for telling you to come see him. He even went to Jean and Eren and begged for advice.

He had so much trouble reading you, but he knew you were kind. And pretty. What he didn't really know was—well, everything else. Did you drink? What kind of clothes would you wear? Would you care that he didn't like dancing?

None of the questions made sense, but neithed did anything in his mind. Why was he this stressed over a party? He was practically the babysitter when attending, and it's not like he personally invited you. He just said you should come see him. God, was that even more weird?

Somehow, some way, Jean and Eren convinced Armin to take some shots. Three shots, actually. To "ease his mind" and to "calm his nerves" apparently.

Now, there Armin was in the back of Eren's car, finding the way the streetlights passed the window and the bass of the music electrifying. Everything was warm and fuzzy, and he felt his head spin the entire drive.

ꔛ

The music hit you before anything else—thick, throbbing bass that vibrated through the concrete steps leading up to the frat house. Red cups were already scattered across the yard, and the dim porch light revealed clusters of people smoking and laughing.

"This is going to be fun," Hitch said, linking her arm through yours. "Come on, let's find your astronomy boy."

You felt heat rise to your face at the nickname. "He's not my—"

"Yeah, yeah," Hitch interrupted with a knowing smile.

As you squeezed your way through the packed living room, the scent of cheap beer and cologne made your nose scrunch. Bodies were pressed together everywhere, dancing and swaying to music that was way too loud for any actual conversation. You were starting to regret coming when Hitch suddenly squealed and pointed toward the kitchen.

"There he is! Armin's over there with Eren and Jean."

You followed her gaze, and sure enough, there was Armin—but not the Armin you expected. His normally neat blond hair was slightly mussed, cheeks flushed pink, and he was... laughing? Not the reserved, thoughtful chuckle you'd heard in the study room, but a full, uninhibited laugh that made his whole face light up.

"Is he..." you trailed off, not quite believing what you were seeing.

Hitch's eyes widened with delight. "Oh my god, I think he's drunk! This is amazing. I've literally never seen Armin anything but sober."

You made your way over to the kitchen, Hitch practically dragging you. Armin was leaning against the counter, talking animatedly with two guys you assumed were Eren and Jean. He was gesturing with his hands, something about... constellations? It was hard to hear over the music.

When he spotted you, his eyes widened almost comically.

"You came!" Armin said with such genuine excitement that it made your heart do a strange flip. He pushed himself off the counter—a bit unsteadily—and made his way over. "I wasn't sure if you would. But you did!"

"I said I would," you replied with a smile, surprised by how endearing his enthusiasm was.

"Hey, Armin," Hitch said, giving him a little wave. "Looking good tonight! Where's Marlowe at?"

"Marlowe? Oh! He's out back, I think. By the beer pong tables." Armin seemed to remember his friends then, turning back to the two guys watching with amused expressions. "Oh! This is (Y/N)," he said your name with such care it made your cheeks warm again. "She's in my astronomy group. We're doing Europa and Titan and life possibilities and it's really cool. And she's friends with Hitch."

The shorter of the two guys—brown hair, intense eyes—reached out a hand. "I'm Eren. This is Jean." He nodded toward a guy with an undercut and a smirk.

"Nice to meet you," you said, shaking hands with both of them.

"You're in Armin's class? Good luck with that. He's been talking about space for the past hour," Jean said, but there was affection in his voice.

Hitch was already scanning the room. "I'm going to find Marlowe. You good here?" she asked you.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you assured her, secretly relieved to have an out from being around her boyfriend. Marlowe was nice enough, but he was so serious it made conversations feel like job interviews.

"Don't wait up," she winked, then disappeared into the crowd.

Armin was staring at you with an expression of pure fascination. "Your hair looks really nice," he said, the filter between his thoughts and words clearly compromised. "Like—like starlight. Did you know some stars have different colors? Red giants, blue dwarfs—"

"You're such a nerd," Eren cut him off, but ruffled Armin's hair affectionately. "Even drunk you're giving astronomy lectures."

"How much did you drink?" you asked Armin, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.

"Three shots!" Armin held up only two fingers, then frowned and corrected himself. "Only three. They said it would help with nerves. I don't usually drink." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice but still speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I feel weird. Like my brain is swimming."

Jean snorted. "Lightweight."

Eren reached into a nearby cooler and pulled out a beer, offering it to you. "Want one? Fair warning, I think we've corrupted your study buddy."

You hesitated. You weren't planning on drinking much tonight, but Armin was looking at you with such hopeful eyes.

"Please?" Armin said, swaying slightly. "I feel like an alien right now. Everyone's having fun and I'm just... vibrating on a different frequency."

The way he said it made you laugh. "Okay, fine. One beer. Maybe three, eventually."

Armin's face lit up again as you accepted the beer from Eren. You popped the tab and took a small sip, grimacing at the taste. Cheap beer was still cheap beer.

"Well, now that Armin's in good hands," Eren said with an exaggerated stretch, "Jean and I are gonna go find Mikasa. She texted that she just got here."

"Wait, you're leaving?" Armin asked, a flash of panic crossing his face.

"Relax, we'll be back," Jean said, already backing away. "Besides, you've got your project partner now."

Before Armin could protest further, they disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with a slightly swaying Armin Arlert.

"They always do that," Armin said, leaning back against the counter for stability. "Leave me places."

"Looks like I'm on babysitting duty," you teased, taking another small sip of your beer.

"No, no," Armin protested, reaching out and nearly missing as he tried to touch your arm. "You should have fun too. Not just—just watch me being weird."

"Who says watching you being weird isn't fun?" you replied, finding yourself genuinely enjoying this uninhibited version of him.

Armin stared at you for a moment, then broke into a wide smile. "You're really nice, you know that? And smart. Your Europa idea was so good. I went home and read, like, three papers about it."

"After our meeting? I thought you said you were going to meet Eren and Mikasa."

"I did! But after. I couldn't stop thinking about the project. And..." he trailed off, that flush on his cheeks deepening.

"And what?" you prompted, suddenly curious.

Armin took a sip from his cup—soda, you noticed—and looked around at the party as if gathering courage. "And I was kind of hoping you'd come tonight. I don't know why. I just... wanted to see you outside of class."

Your heart did that strange flip again. "Well, here I am," you said softly, not sure what else to say.

"Here you are," Armin echoed, his eyes meeting yours with surprising clarity despite his intoxication. "Want to go somewhere quieter? I can't hear myself think in here, and I have so many thoughts right now."

You laughed, finding his honesty refreshing. "Lead the way."

Armin grinned and pushed himself off the counter, taking your hand with a boldness you suspected was alcohol-induced, pulling you through the crowded living room toward the staircase.

As you followed him, fingers intertwined with his, you found yourself thinking that this was definitely not how you expected your Friday night to go—but somehow, it was exactly what you needed.

Armin led you up the stairs, his hand still holding yours as you weaved through small clusters of people gathered on the steps. You were glad for his guidance—the house was a maze of narrow hallways, dimly lit and pulsing with the bass from downstairs. Finally, he stopped in front of a door and turned the handle, peeking in before ushering you inside.

"Jean's room," he explained, closing the door behind you both. The music instantly became muffled, a distant thumping rather than the overwhelming roar from downstairs.

The room was surprisingly clean for a frat house bedroom—minimal clutter, a neatly made bed, and even a small bookshelf in the corner. You glanced around, suddenly feeling like you were intruding.

"Should we be in here? I feel bad taking his room," you said, hovering awkwardly near the door.

Armin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "He won't even need it until like 4 AM. Trust me. He's either going to be downstairs until everyone leaves or..." He trailed off, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Got it," you laughed, understanding the implication. You took another sip of your beer, feeling the pleasant warmth spreading through your limbs as you made your way to sit on the edge of the bed.

Armin joined you, leaving a respectful few inches between you. "Better, right? I can actually hear you now."

"Much better," you agreed, finding it easier to relax now that you weren't surrounded by sweaty strangers. "So... you really went home and read scientific papers after our meeting?"

His face lit up immediately. "Yeah! There was this one about the chemical composition of Europa's ocean and how it might compare to Earth's deep-sea hydrothermal vents. Did you know there are organisms on Earth that don't need sunlight at all? They just use chemical energy from the vents."

You watched him as he spoke, his hands gesturing enthusiastically, eyes bright with genuine passion. The alcohol had lowered his usual reserve, but it was still Armin—brilliant, thoughtful Armin—just with his thoughts flowing more freely. You found yourself drawn to this version of him, the slight flush on his cheeks and the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward.

"That's actually fascinating," you said, taking another long sip of your beer. You were starting to feel it now, that pleasant buzz that made everything seem warmer, more immediate. "So you think there could be something like that on Europa?"

"It's possible! That's what makes it so exciting," he said, shifting to face you more directly. "We're just beginning to understand how diverse life can be. The universe is so much stranger than we imagine."

You nodded, feeling a pleasant heaviness in your limbs as you leaned back on your elbows. "I need to catch up to your level of intoxication if we're going to have deep space conversations all night."

Armin laughed, the sound soft and genuine. "Trust me, you don't. I feel like my brain is both racing and moving through molasses at the same time."

"That actually sounds kind of nice right now," you admitted, finishing the last of your beer. The room had taken on a gentle, swaying quality, and you found yourself increasingly aware of how close Armin was sitting.

"Here," he said, reaching over to take your empty can and placing it on Jean's desk. As he moved, his shoulder brushed against yours, and you felt a small jolt at the contact.

When he settled back beside you, he seemed to hesitate for a moment before lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You joined him, both of you lying side by side, shoulders almost touching.

"There are glow-in-the-dark stars up there," Armin pointed out quietly. Sure enough, faint green stars were stuck to the ceiling in no particular pattern. "Jean would die if he knew I told anyone. He says they were there when he moved in."

You laughed softly, still tipsy but feeling more sober now.

The dim glow from the ceiling stars cast a soft, ethereal light over Armin’s face as you lay beside him. The alcohol had settled warmly in your veins, making every sensation just a little more intense—the softness of the bed beneath you, the muffled bass of the music downstairs, the way Armin’s breathing had slowed into something deep and steady beside you.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, studying the delicate slope of his button nose, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he blinked behind his glasses. His cheeks were still flushed pink from the drinks, and his lips—soft, slightly parted—were just inches from yours. His hair, usually so neat, was tousled from the night’s chaos, falling in golden strands across his forehead. You had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it, to see if it was as silky as it looked.

Armin must have noticed you staring, because his eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, the air between you stilled. His gaze was warm, hazy with alcohol but still so Armin, so full of quiet intensity.

Then, without a word, he shifted onto his elbow, leaning over you. His free hand came up, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your pulse jump.

You barely had time to process it before he was kissing you.

His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and tasted faintly of cheap beer and something sweet—maybe the soda he’d been drinking earlier. The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, as if he was still unsure if this was okay. But when you sighed against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, he deepened it with a quiet urgency that sent heat spiraling through your stomach.

His hand slid from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate. You could feel the warmth of his body pressing into yours, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough.

You answered by tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him back down to you. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and suddenly his weight was pressing you into the mattress, his hips slotting between your thighs in a way that made your breath catch.

The kiss turned hotter, messier—his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before settling on your hips. You could feel the heat of his skin through your clothes, the way his fingers flexed against you like he was holding back from touching you everywhere.

Armin’s breath was hot against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, filthy drag that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. You could feel the heat of him pressed against you, the way his body trembled slightly with restraint, like he was holding himself back from just taking what he wanted.

You arched up into him, grinding your hips against his, and he let out a broken groan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he panted, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide with want. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, and his voice was rough when he spoke again. “I—I wanna fuck you. So bad.”

The words sent a jolt of heat straight between your legs. You could feel how hard he was already, the thick line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his jeans.

“Yeah?” you breathed, your own voice shaky.

Armin nodded, biting his lower lip as his hands slid under the hem of your top, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. “Yeah. God, you feel—you feel so good. Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish. Instead, you unzipped your jeans and grabbed his wrist to guide his hand lower, past the waistband of your jeans, letting him feel the damp heat of your panties. His breath hitched, fingers twitching against you.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice wrecked. “You’re—you’re already—”

You cut him off with another kiss, sucking his tongue into your mouth as your own hands wandered lower, palming the hard bulge in his jeans. He jerked against your touch, hips bucking forward with a desperate little noise.

“You too,” you murmured against his lips, squeezing him through the fabric.

Armin shuddered, his forehead dropping against yours as he let out a shaky exhale. “Shit—shit—keep doing that—”

You did, rubbing him slowly, feeling him throb under your fingers. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hips rocking into your hand, chasing the friction.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, biting at his jaw.

Armin whined, his fingers digging into your hips. “Because of you—fuck, I—I wanna fuck you—”

His hand slid back down, slipping beneath your panties this time, fingers brushing through your slick folds. You gasped, arching into his touch, and he groaned against your neck.

Armin’s breath hitched when you suddenly switched positions and pushed him back onto the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you straddled his thighs. His cock strained against his jeans, the fabric damp with pre-cum, and his fingers twitched at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not.

“You—you don’t have to—” he started, voice already wrecked.

You silenced him with a smirk, taking his glasses off which were slightly fogged up and folding them to put on the nearby nightstand, then popping the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down agonizingly slow. His hips jerked up, chasing your touch, and you could see the way his cock twitched under his boxers, desperate for relief.

“I want to,” you murmured, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down just enough to free him.

Armin gasped as the cool air hit his flushed skin, his cock springing free—hard, leaking, and so fucking pretty. You licked your lips, watching the way his stomach clenched as you wrapped your fingers around him, giving him a slow stroke.

“Fuck,” he whined, his head falling back against the pillow.

You didn’t tease him any longer. Leaning down, you dragged your tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty-sweet pre-cum beading at the tip. Armin’s hips jerked, a broken noise tearing from his throat as you took him into your mouth.

It was messy—you were both still a little drunk, your movements sloppy and uncoordinated—but that just made it hotter. You sucked him deep, your tongue swirling around his shaft as you bobbed your head, spit dripping down your chin.

Armin was losing it. His fingers tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life as he whimpered above you. “Oh—oh God—your mouth—fuck—”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and his thighs trembled under you. His cock pulsed against your tongue, and you could tell he was already close—his breath was coming in ragged gasps, his hips twitching like he was trying not to thrust up into your throat.

“I—I’m gonna—” he choked out, his voice high and desperate.

You didn’t let up. Instead, you took him deeper, your nose brushing the coarse blond curls at the base of his cock, and that was all it took.

Armin came with a broken cry, his back arching off the bed as he spilled hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed around him, milking him through it until he was squirming from oversensitivity, his hands weakly tugging at your hair.

“Too much—too much—” he whined, his whole body trembling.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking your lips as you looked up at him. His face was flushed, his lips parted as he panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Armin’s chest heaved as he blinked up at you, dazed and wrecked, his cock still twitching against his stomach. His cheeks burned even redder as he stammered,

“S-Sorry—I didn’t mean to—fuck, I just—”

You cut him off with a kiss, licking into his mouth so he could taste himself on your tongue. He moaned, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmured against his lips, grinding down against his thigh, letting him feel how soaked you still were. “Just fuck me.”

Armin’s breath hitched, his cock already stiffening again at the words. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing greedily as he nodded, his voice rough.

“Yeah—yeah, okay—turn around—”

Armin's hands trembled as he helped you turn around, his breath coming in ragged gasps against the back of your neck. You could feel the heat radiating off his body as he knelt behind you, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

"Fuck," he groaned, dragging the denim down your thighs inch by inch, his voice thick with want. "Look at you—fuck—your ass is so perfect—"

The cool air hit your bare skin as he peeled your jeans off completely, leaving you in just your soaked panties. His fingers traced the curve of your ass, squeezing lightly before sliding between your thighs, rubbing over the damp fabric.

"So wet," he murmured, his voice wrecked. He hooked his fingers into your panties next, pulling them down slowly, his breath hitching as your pussy was finally exposed to him. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard."

His thumbs spread you open, and you could feel his hot gaze raking over every inch of you—your swollen lips, the way you dripped for him, the way your ass arched back, begging for him.

"Hang on, okay?" He said quietly, and you felt the bed shift with his weight. Then you heard the unmistakeable sound of a wrapper being opened. "Don't ask why I know where Jean keeps his condoms. He... likes to brag," Armin said sheepishly, making you giggle as you heard him whimper slightly as he presumably rolled the condom on.

Armin’s fingers dug into your hips as he lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. He hesitated just for a second, his voice shaky with drunken lust and nerves.

“Fuck—I—I might not last, I’m sorry—”

But you barely heard him, because then he was pushing in, slow, that perfect curve of his cock hitting every sweet spot on the way. Your breath stuttered as he filled you, thick and throbbing, and a greedy moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.

“Oh fuck—” Your hands fisted the sheets, your back arching deeper, chest pressing into the mattress. “Yes—just like that, Armin.”

Armin groaned behind you, his hips stuttering as he bottomed out, his grip on you tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good."

You clenched around him, and he whimpered, his cock twitching inside you like he was already fighting not to spill. But you didn’t care—not when he fit this perfectly, not when every ragged breath he took sent sparks through your veins.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, as you rolled your hips back to meet his shallow thrusts. The new angle let you feel him even deeper, and you gasped, your back bowing as a shiver ran down your spine.

Armin choked out a whimper, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as he bottomed out, his thighs trembling against yours. “Y-You feel—fuck—so tight—”

You grinned into the mattress, rolling your hips to take him deeper, and he let out a broken noise, his nails biting into your skin. He was already unraveling, his cock pulsing inside you, and you loved it—the way he couldn’t hold back, the way he was falling apart just for you.

Armin’s hips snapped forward with a desperate, sloppy thrust, his cock sinking deep into your dripping cunt as a broken moan tore from his throat. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider as he watched, his dick glistening with your slick as it disappeared inside you again and again.

“Fuck—look at you—” he panted, his voice wrecked, pupils blown black with lust. “Taking me so good—your pussy’s sucking me in.”

You whimpered, your fingers clawing at the sheets as his cock dragged against your walls, the curve of him hitting that sweet spot with every rough snap of his hips. Your vision blurred, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach as he fucked into you with unsteady, frantic strokes—like he was already on the edge, but needed to make you feel it too.

“You’re—ngh—you’re so tight—” Armin groaned, his hips stuttering as he tried to hold back. His cock twitched inside you, swollen and throbbing, his balls drawing up tight. “Gonna—gonna cum—shit—but I wanna make you feel it first—”

His hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, frantic circles as he fucked you harder. You gasped, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure sparked white-hot under your skin.

“There—right there—” you babbled, your voice shaking. “Armin—fuck—don’t stop—”

He whined, his thrusts turning erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he teetered on the edge. “You—you like that? Like how I fuck you?” he slurred, his words dripping with filthy praise. “God, your pussy’s gripping me—squeezing my cock—fuck, I can’t—can’t—”

His hips jerked, his rhythm faltering as his orgasm ripped through him. He buried himself to the hilt with a choked-off moan, his cum flooding the inside of the condom.

You felt it—every twitch, every throb of his cock as he emptied himself inside you, his fingers still working your clit desperately, like he couldn’t stop even as he came.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, his voice wrecked, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he shuddered through the aftershocks.

You weren’t far behind. The filthy sound of him filling you, the way his cock kept twitching inside you as he panted against your back—it pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around him as you cried out, your thighs shaking, your nails digging into the mattress.

Armin groaned, his hips grinding weakly against your ass as he milked his own pleasure.

“Shit—” he mumbled, dazed, his voice slurred with booze and bliss. “You—you just came on my dick..." He pulled out, discarding the condom into a nearby trashcan.

You laughed breathlessly, your body still thrumming with pleasure as you collapsed onto the mattress beneath you. Armin followed, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into your neck.

“You’re… really good at that,” you murmured, your voice hazy.

Armin huffed a drunken laugh against your skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah," you sighed, grinning as you felt his dick twitch against the skin of your ass.

He kissed your shoulder, his lips soft and sweet despite the filth that had just spilled from them. “...Wanna go again?”

You turned your head just enough to catch his gaze—his flushed cheeks, his messy hair, his stupidly pretty eyes—and grinned.

“Obviously.”

[antinousletmehit]

Apollo and his lover got into an argument which he regrets deeply but reader is very mad at him and won't forgive him easily.The whole Olympus tries to get them together because they're fed up with Apollo's sad love poets and songs.

୨୧┇Apollo x reader

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The great halls of Olympus were rarely silent. Gods bickered, muses sang, and the sound of nectar filled goblets clinking together echoed endlessly. But this particular week had been… different. It wasn’t the usual chorus of divine rivalry that filled the air. Instead, a melancholic voice, rich and golden, reverberated through the celestial mount, dragging everyone down with its relentless woe.

Apollo was heartbroken.

He sat on the steps of his golden temple, his lyre in hand, his head bowed as he sang yet another mournful ballad about his lover. She had refused to speak to him after a bitter argument, one involving—according to Hermes, who’d gleefully eavesdropped—a misunderstanding about Apollo’s ego and her need for space.

“I burn brighter than the sun itself,

But her light I cannot see.

Oh, cruel fates, to steal her love,

And leave her silence haunting me…”

“By the Styx, someone make him stop!” Hera groaned, massaging her temples as Apollo’s lament drifted into the great hall. “He’s been singing that same verse for three days straight.”

“And it’s getting worse,” Ares grumbled, leaning against his spear. “I’m this close to starting a war just to drown him out.”

Hestia, ever the voice of reason, frowned. “We can’t let him continue like this. He’s hurting.”

“And we’re suffering,” Poseidon interrupted, shaking his trident for emphasis. “Even my sea nymphs are complaining about hearing his sobs through the waves. My ocean, for gods’ sake.”

“Alright, everyone,” Athena said, standing up and raising a hand to silence the growing complaints. “Apollo’s our brother. He needs help. Instead of whining, let’s figure out how to fix this.”

“Fix it?” Hermes snorted, lounging on the armrest of her throne. “Good luck. The only thing that will shut him up is making up with his lover, and she won’t even look at him.”

Zeus, seated at the head of the hall, finally spoke. “Then we’ll have to make her listen.”

All eyes turned to him, surprise flickering across their faces. It wasn’t often that the King of the Gods intervened in romantic squabbles, but it was clear that even Zeus couldn’t endure another hour of Apollo’s sob songs.

“Who agrees?” Zeus asked, raising a commanding brow. One by one, every god and goddess in the room nodded. For once in their immortal lives, Olympus was united.

———-

The plan was set into motion that very evening. Each god took on a task, pooling their talents to create an elaborate display of apology that Apollo could deliver to his lover.

Aphrodite crafted a wreath of the finest roses, their petals shimmering like rubies under the starlight. “No mortal or immortal can resist the charm of my flowers,” she said smugly, twirling one between her fingers. Hephaestus forged a delicate necklace of golden threads, inlaid with tiny opals that shimmered with every color of the sky. Hermes wrote a letter, overflowing with poetic charm, and tucked it into a golden envelope. “This will sweep her off her feet,” he said, grinning. “No offense to Apollo, but I’ve got more flair for words.”

Even Dionysus contributed, brewing a wine so sweet and rich that a single sip could soothe the angriest heart. “Pair it with the necklace, and she’ll be wrapped around his finger,” he joked, handing the flask to Hera. Meanwhile, Athena and Artemis tried to coax Apollo into proper behavior. Artemis, his twin sister, stood before him with her arms crossed. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” she said bluntly. “If you want her back, stop singing about how miserable you are and do something about it.”

Apollo looked up from his lyre, his face streaked with golden tears. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me? What if I’ve lost her forever?” Athena placed a hand on his shoulder. “She loves you, Apollo. That doesn’t vanish overnight. But love requires effort, not just poetry. Show her you’re willing.”

For the first time in days, Apollo nodded, determination flickering in his sun bright eyes.

The following day, Apollo, armed with the gifts and a newfound resolve, approached his lover’s dwelling. The other gods watched from afar, peering through enchanted pools and reflective clouds, each silently praying their efforts would end the wailing. Apollo took a deep breath and knocked on the door. When she opened it, her expression was guarded, her gaze flicking to the bouquet, the necklace, and the letter clutched in his trembling hands.

“What do you want, Apollo?” she asked, her voice cool.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” he began, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “I let my pride get in the way, and I hurt you. I’ve spent days singing about how much I miss you, but Athena reminded me that words mean nothing without action. So I’m here.”

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. Back in the halls of Olympus, the gods watched as Apollo disappeared inside her home.

“Do you think it worked?” Hermes asked.

Artemis smirked, her arms crossed. “If it didn’t, he’ll be back here wailing in an hour.”

But the hour passed, and there was no wailing. Then another hour. And another.

At last, Zeus leaned back in his throne, a satisfied grin on his face. “Finally.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, peace returned to Olympus. And while they’d never admit it, the gods secretly congratulated themselves on the success of their rare, united effort.

[spxllcxstxr]

Mornings • S

(Gif not mine)

Request: Hello✨ I would like to ask a morning routine with Silco (head cannons or fanfic or a little bit of both, whatever you’re comfortable with, I don’t mind). Just describe how his routine changed after s/o appeared in his life or someone like this. With the best wishes and patiently waiting for the answer 🌚🫰-- anon

Summary: Silco adjusts to no longer living alone

Warnings: gn!reader raised in the undercity, established relationship though first time living with each other, food/drink mention, reformed bachelor silco doesn't know what breakfast is nor self-care lmao

Word Count: 962

A.N: Wrote this with young silco in mind because, let's be honest here, he's a bit more put together than his older self lmao. I'm also a sucker for longterm love so like, this is the first of many mornings you would experience with him ykwim lmao, first time writing silco! Enjoy!!!

•

The palm of Silco's hand is warm against your skin when your eyes open. It's still dark outside but the murky green hue of his bedroom windows offer you dim light.

Deep snores and faint whimpers emit from the man next to you, dark brows furrowed in his sleep. You dip your head down to kiss his forehead, hand running through his long hair at the same time. The tension eases from his pale face almost instantaneously. You smile at his sleeping form, now finally peaceful.

Moments later you quietly shift the covers from over top your body, placing Silco's hand beside him as well. He shifts at your movement, the mattress springs creaking underneath his bodyweight.

Growing up in the Undercity stressed the importance of rationing and saving food, meaning the three square meals a day the citizens of Piltover were used to were normally cut out altogether. Since then, however, Zaun’s food supply and imports had drastically improved and that along with your decent job wages, meals like breakfast had become important to you.

Cooking for two would be a change, certainly, but a welcomed one.

The chill in the air engulfs you as you move from the bedroom to the kitchen, which causes a slight shiver to move down your spine.

Yawning, you flick the light switch on. The sharpness of the yellow-white overhead light in the kitchen causes you to wince. The contrast of the brightness, or lack thereof, forces you to wake up a bit faster than you wished.

The light reveals a cluttered kitchen—not cluttered with pots and pans, but with various pieces of scrap metal and rusted screws. The counterspace is littered with schematics and maps of both Piltover and the Undercity.

Silco was usually a tidy man, his space at the Last Drop was well organized along with all of the other tiny rooms in the apartment. Clearly, the kitchen was not a space he frequented enough for his attention to be drawn to it.

Cracking your knuckles, you start shifting things over and away from the stovetop. You take everything flamible and place it precariously on an equally messy table.

After rummaging through the icebox, you discover a carton of mostly cracked or broken eggs, which were better than nothing. Getting straight to the point, you bring them over to the counterspace near the stovetop, which you light with one of Silco's lighters. The fire crackles to life, heating the pan above it.

"What in the world are you doing?"

You look behind you, pan still in hand. Silco stands behind you, leaning against the threshold to the little kitchen. His long dark hair hands loosely over his shoulders, fringe dangling messily over his face. Silco yawns, exhaustion still hanging over him.

The simplicity of his figure is a lot more attractive than it realistically should be. A red shirt is tight over his slim frame, causing your face to heat up. You're tempted to forego breakfast altogether in favor for grabbing your boyfriend by the hand and dragging him back to bed. He just looks that good.

But your stomach grumbles and your routine demands to be followed so you push that thought to the back of your mind, determined to act on it later.

His blue eyes take in the sight before him, you, still clad in your sleepwear with a small flame haphazardly lit underneath a small pan he doesn't recognize. Silco's brows are quirked up in confusion.

"Good morning to you too, darling..." You tease, rolling your eyes. Silco smirks, making your heart skip another beat. "And I'm making breakfast. Like a normal person."

"Breakfast? This kitchen hasn't seen the light of day since I've holed up here." His voice is raspy and deeper than usual. Blue eyes quickly scan over the room before landing back on your own. "As you could probably tell."

You nod in agreement, turning back to the task in front of you and the questionable carton of eggs off to the side.

"And I've been eating breakfast for years, so that's going to change now that I'm here."

"Is that so?" His voice is laced with a teasing curiosity that draws him towards you.

Silco stands behind you, breath just barely tickling the back of your neck. You feel his eyes carefully following your hands as they crack eggs on the edge of the pan. Steam rises as they sizzle against the hot surface.

You hum as you watch the whites of the egg turn opaque. It isn't any song in particular, just something you vaguely remember hearing at sone point in your life.

"I'm not used to this, dearest; this...domesticity," Silco mutters in your ear, this tip of his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of the crook of you neck.

"Maybe that's why you're so skinny." You tease, leaning into his touch. Briefly your eyelids flutter shut before returning to the unpredictable stovetop.

"Hm, maybe so." You feel his small smile against your skin. "If we were running on my routine, we'd already be out the door with a lukewarm coffee in hand."

With the eggs finished, you scrape them onto a freshly rinsed plate with a vaguely spatula-shaped item. Shopping for at least some sort of kitchen utensils was something you needed to do in order to make this place livable for someone other than your beloved Silco.

"Well this is your new routine, dear," You reply, placing a kiss to his cheek. "And you will love it."

With one hand placed on his waist and the other holding onto the plate of breakfast, you smile, almost like you're asking for him to challenge you on this. Instead, his eyes settle on your yours, signature smirk growing.

"I'm sure I will."

•

[tender-rosiey]

MOOOOOOREE SUKUNA WITH HIS SHY DAUGHTER🙏🙏🙏🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

lull — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: this idea holds a special place in my heart (also am i back? who knows)

your daughter squirms restlessly in her futon, her tiny hands clutching the edges of her blanket.

she’s been unusually fussy tonight, her soft murmurs rising each time you try to ease her into slumber.

you sit beside her, brushing a hand through her fine hair. “d/n,” you murmur gently, “it’s time to sleep.”

she shakes her head, her lips trembling in that way that precedes a fit of tears. “mama stay,” she whispers, her wide eyes glistening.

you sigh, glancing toward the doorway where sukuna leans, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the room.

his usual scowl is firmly in place, his arms crossed as he watches the scene unfold with thinly veiled impatience.

“she won’t settle,” you say softly, your voice carrying a tinge of exasperation. “it’s been almost an hour.”

sukuna raises an eyebrow, his sharp gaze flicking between you and the tiny, restless figure on the futon. “she’s three,” he grunts. “just tell her to sleep.”

“oh, yes, because commanding a toddler works so well,” you reply dryly, shooting him a look. “why don’t you try?”

his eyes narrow. “me?”

“yes, you.” you stand, brushing off your kimono. “she’s your daughter too, isn’t she?”

sukuna clicks his tongue, clearly displeased, but he doesn’t protest further. he steps into the room, his presence overwhelming the small space.

your daughter freezes, her wide eyes locking onto him as she clutches her blanket tighter. she’s always been shy around him, despite—or perhaps because of—his imposing nature.

you stifle a smile as you watch the scene unfold, stepping back to lean against the doorway.

“go on,” you urge, folding your arms. “show me how the mighty king of curses handles bedtime.”

he glares at you but kneels beside your daughter’s futon.

she stares up at him, her small frame looking even tinier next to his broad shoulders. for a moment, neither of them moves, the silence stretching taut between them.

sukuna finally exhales through his nose, his expression softening—just barely. “d/n,” he says, his deep voice unusually gentle, “it’s time to sleep.”

she blinks at him, her grip on the blanket loosening slightly. “not sleepy,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible.

sukuna frowns, glancing over his shoulder at you.

you shrug, clearly enjoying his discomfort. he turns back to your daughter, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and awkwardness.

“close your eyes,” he tries again, his tone more commanding this time.

her bottom lip wobbles. “no…”

you bite back a laugh, and sukuna shoots you a murderous glare. he sits back on his heels, clearly at a loss. then, as if remembering something, his gaze flicks to you again.

“she likes when you sing to her,” you offer helpfully, knowing full well how he’ll react.

his scowl deepens. “I don’t sing.”

“well, tonight you do,” you reply, your grin widening. “come on, sukuna. you’re her father. she’ll fall asleep in no time.”

he looks like he’d rather fight a dozen curses barehanded than follow your suggestion, but your daughter’s soft, expectant gaze leaves him with little choice.

he sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair before turning back to the little girl.

“what do you want me to sing?” he asks gruffly, his voice low.

she hesitates, her tiny fingers playing with the edge of her blanket. “lullaby?” she whispers, her eyes darting to you for reassurance.

you nod encouragingly at her, then at sukuna. “go on,” you urge. “she’s waiting.”

he grumbles under his breath but clears his throat.

the sound is awkward, hesitant—so unlike the confident and domineering man you know. your daughter watches him intently, her wide eyes filled with curiosity.

he begins, his deep voice rough at first, as if the act of singing is foreign to him. but as he continues, his tone evens out, and the melody flows smoother.

it’s a simple tune, one you’ve hummed countless times to your daughter, but hearing it from sukuna feels different.

your daughter’s eyelids begin to droop, her small body relaxing under the soothing tone of his voice. her hand rests on his knee, gripping it ever so slightly.

you can’t help but smile, your heart swelling at the sight of sukuna—fearsome, unyielding sukuna—softened by the presence of your child.

as the lullaby comes to an end, sukuna’s voice trails off, and the room falls silent. your daughter is fast asleep, her breathing slow and steady.

sukuna watches her for a moment, his crimson eyes unreadable. then, almost hesitantly, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from her face.

“she’s asleep,” he mutters, his voice quiet.

you step forward, kneeling beside him. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

his eyes flit up to yours as he glares at you. “you won’t speak of this ever again, you hear?”

“of course,” you say, though the smile tugging at your lips suggests otherwise.

sukuna rises to his feet, his towering form casting a shadow over the futon.

he looks down at your daughter, his expression softening in a way that you have become used to whenever it involved your daughter.

without a word, he turns and strides toward the door, pausing only to glance back at you. “you coming?” he asks.

you gently pet your daughter’s head before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. you look at him and smile, “yeah.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72 @lulumi1u

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will sneeze in your face

check out my buy me a coffee!

[sushirrrry]

AU PAIR

a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408

summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308

hope you all enjoy <3

----------------------------

The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.

Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.

Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.

“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.

You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.

It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.

As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.

As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.

In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.

The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.

You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.

 There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.

You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.

A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.

It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.

You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.

He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.

His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.

You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.

Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.

He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.

“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”

He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.

You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.

Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.

He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.

“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.

You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”

“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”

There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.

“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.

“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”

Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.

Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.

"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.

You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.

"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."

Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."

You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.

"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.

Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.

The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.

He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.

The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.

You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.

For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.

"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."

His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."

You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.

There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.

"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”

Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.

"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.

"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.

He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.

Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.

There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.

His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.

"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."

You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.

"To another day," he said.

You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."

The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.

Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.

"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."

Your breath caught.

"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.

"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."

But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.

"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."

He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.

Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.

"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."

Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.

"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.

"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."  

Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.

"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."

His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.

"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."

You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."

The air between you went very still.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.

You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.

"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.

You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.

"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.

Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.

The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.

He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.

Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.

Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”

Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.

"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.

He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.

You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.

THE NEXT DAY

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.

The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.

"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."

You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.

The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.

Then, there was that sound. Silence.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.

An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.

Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.

All alone.

Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.

But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.

You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.

Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.

You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.

But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.

Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.

"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."

You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.

You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.

A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.

There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.

Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.

You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.

It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.

Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.

The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.

Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.

You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.

The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.

Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.

You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.

You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.

A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.

You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.

He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.

His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.

The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.

Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.

You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.

"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.

You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.

Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.

Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.

"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.

You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.

When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.

"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.

"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"

"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.

“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."

With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.

You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.

You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.

Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.

He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.

"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.

You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.

And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.

“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”

They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.

Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen

His hand faltered slightly on the box.

He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.

Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.

“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.

“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.

In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.

Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.

“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.

He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”

“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.

You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.

But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.

He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.

Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.

You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”

His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.

Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.

He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.

You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.

From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”

“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.

You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.

Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.

Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.

It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.

“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.

Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.

“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.

Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”

You sat still, carefully quiet.

At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.

He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”

Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”

“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”

The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.

You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.

Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.

“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”

“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.

When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”

You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.

“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”

You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.

“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”

“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.

“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.

He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.

It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.

“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”

Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.

“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”

His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”

“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.

And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.

But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”

You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.

But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.

It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.

Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.

Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.

But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.

You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.

Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.

All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.

And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.

“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.

“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”

Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.

By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.

You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.

You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.

“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.

“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”

The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.

You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.

You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.

You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.

It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.

His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.

You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.

Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.

“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

“Harry—”

“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”

You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”

You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”

He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.

“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.

The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.

You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.

The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”

He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.

“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”

Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”

You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.

“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”

“Easier?” You offered quietly.

He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”

He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.

You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”

He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”

Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”

Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”

Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”

You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.

“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”

That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.

“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”

You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”

The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.

But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.

And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.

When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.

Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”

You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”

He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”

A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.

And so, you did.

The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.

When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.

Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.

But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.

You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.

When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.

Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.

Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.

“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”

“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”

Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.

It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.

And then… you saw them.

Tulips.

A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.

Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.

For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.

“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.

“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.

Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”

“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.

You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.

His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”

You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.

He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.

You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.

And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.

That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.

Fresh flowers, and all.

[gelastocoridae]

*SIGHHHH* I should have known better than to give my finches a nest to play with, unsupervised.

So

I put my finch Parsley in my smaller cage because he was still recovering from his cat attack, needed to regain stamina n strength before going back to aviary.

And because he needed company I put his ornery brother Foxglove in there with him to return the favor from when he had sprained his leg and needed a recovery space.

And I added their auntie (adoptive) Lupine because she was getting her tail feathers plucked bloody and naked so her bullies (I still cannot figure out WHO because Parsley and a random three of his sisters also have plucked butts) had just started plucking her chest as well.

And because an odd bird out would just continue to be bullied, I added one tail-less sister, Snapdragon, because she's the smartest and least likely to get stressed by me constantly checking on Parsley and Lupine's injuries.

And I gave them a nest and hay to have a constructive activity without too much crowding, so they wouldn't get bored and their tails could grow back.

And this was fine. The kids know they're too closely related to breed and Lupine always rejected their dad and wasn't interested in the boys whatsoever. Their tails have grown back, Parsley is fully recovered, and they were so happily snuggling up in their nest at bedtime. I was planning to return them to aviary this week, maybe swap out some tail-less kids to pinpoint the bully.

IT WAS FINE.

EXCEPT SOMEONE DECIDED THEY MIGHT LAY EGGS ANYWAYS AND NOT TELL ME ABOUT IT

HOW DO I FIND OUT??

I come home after a weekend away and a full day of work, and SNAPDRAGON, my brilliant child, randomly SHRIEKS AND CHASES THE OTHERS AWAY FROM THE NEST LIKE A BAT OUTTA HELL. I grab her to see what's wrong - is she hurt or does she need time out?? NO!!

THERE ARE FIVE EGGS IN THE NEST SHE IS GUARDING. FIVE. THEY ONLY LAY ONE PER DAY. THEY HAVE ALL BEEN HIDING EGGS FROM ME FOR AT LEAST FIVE DAYS.

Ok, ok, I say. This is fine. Maybe Snap (and/or Lupine) decided the nest was too good to waste and she really wanted to Brood™ so she laid some eggs on her own. There's no way they're fertilized. They can sit on them until they're bored so they don't lay more. It'll be fine.

EXCEPT IT WONT.

SINCE THERE ARE SO MANY I DECIDE TO CANDLE THE EGGS TO BE SURE THEYRE EMPTY, AND WHAT DO I FIND OUT???

THEY ARE NOT EMPTY!! One has died early but THREE ARE STILL DEVELOPING! AND THAT'S NOT ALL FOLKS!!

NOT ONLY ARE THEY FERTILE, THEY ARE PACKED FULL!! THE FIRST COULD LITERALLY HATCH AT ANY TIME NOW!!!

I LOOK AT MY BIRDS, CAREFULLY CHOSEN. SOMEONE GOT NASTY AND ALL OF THEM HID THE EVIDENCE FOR AT LEAST 13 DAYS. IT ISN'T SNAP BECAUSE HER BROTHERS DISGUST HER. IT ISN'T PARSLEY BECAUSE HE ONLY SINGS TO GET MY ATTENTION.

SO

THE BOY WHO NEVER SHUTS UP, THE ONE WITH THE VOICE CRACK, FOXGLOVE, SHOOK HIS ASS AT LUPINE AND SHE SAID YES??? TO THE ONE BOY WHO LOOKS LIKE HIS DAD FROM WHOM SHE RUNS??? FOR FIVE EGGS?????

AND SNAP IS GETTING POSSESSIVE OVER THEM??????? WHAT DOES SHE KNOW THAT I DONT?!

Lord help me, 4 birds was fine to begin with and then they had 7 babies, and then 11 birds was enough... I can't just toss these eggs, now. What am I gonna do with 14 birds ;;

[karaeilish]

౨ৎ wild mustang; b. eilish

౨ৎ military!billie x wife!reader ౨ৎ angst & fluff & smut ` ౨ৎ warnings; slight daddy kink, strap, oral, breeding kink, manhandling…???

⋆˙⟡ being a military wife is hard, especially when separation forces you to bring another man into your house ౨ৎ wc; 4,5k

one year, three months and two days.

that's how long it's been since you last saw your wife. when you last felt her gentle touch, saw her smile live, felt her skin under your fingertips. exactly one year, three months and two days ago, you woke up in the morning, finding your bed unusually cold and her side empty. too empty, as if she'd been gone for hours.

but that wasn't the main thing when you suddenly hear a quiet mooing in the next room. maternal instincts override curiosity and you slowly stand up, blindly searching for your house slippers with your feet. the cool air envelops your sleepy body and you shiver slightly, wishing you could go back to bed and let the warmth of the comforter warm you up again. but it doesn't matter as soon as you enter the nursery, noticing your five-month-old daughter lying in her crib, fidgeting excitedly.

taking your baby in your arms, you left a gentle kiss on her tiny forehead, and the girl smiled, proudly showing her two baby teeth. holding her against your chest, you finally got rid of the fog of sleep in your eyes, now intent on finding your wife.

the journey down the stairs to the first floor was silent, apart from the adorable yawns your daughter let out as she weakly grasped the strap of your nightie with her fingers.

looking around the house, you feel a strange emptiness in your chest that spreads like poison ivy through your body with each passing moment. as soon as your feet touch the floor, you swallow hard, taking a few more steps to lower your child onto the soft couch in the middle of the spacious living room. biting your lower lip, you glance around the space, which is filled with simple but harmonious furniture, some of which billie made herself. a faint smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

as you continue your wife's 'search' through the small house, you come across the kitchen table where you used to eat, noticing a small piece of paper. wrinkled, already scribbled with a pen; apparently one on which billye had already made notes earlier. your eyes narrow at the increasing paranoid thoughts that immediately fill your mind. you remember that you cleaned up the kitchen last night, and billye wouldn't have left trash on the table. she liked order in her house, where her family lived. you shallow.

as you unfold the note, you notice the small written text. billye's handwriting, only more sprawling, shaky, some of the letters unfinished. she was in a hurry, a great hurry, while writing this. and it didn't bode well, knowing her job and her superiors. knowing her dedication to her duty and her country. it was something no one could ever take away.

your eyes finally focus on the text. but you better damn well never read it, because your heart shatters into a million pieces as soon as you read the first few words.

“i'm sorry, my love. i don't know what happened. i don't know when i'll be back. kiss lily and tell her mommy loves her. i'm so sorry, i love you.”

your eyes ran over the lines dozens, hundreds of times until you finally realized what had happened; she’s not here. but what was scarier? how suddenly and spontaneously she left. had something terrible happened? was she in danger? would

she even be able to come home? the questions swarmed in your head, but none of them could be answered by you or the universe. none of them could, because you were a military wife. because she was involved in covert operations.

“gosh” you whisper to yourself as your thoughts dart from one corner of the room to the other. besides your wife, you have a daughter to worry about. or rather, you should worry about your daughter first, but it's so hard to even take a full breath right now, your chest clenched so tightly it feels like it's been pulled with thick barbed wire.

the seconds seemed like an eternity, until you were gripping the kitchen counter with your hand, trying to stay upright on woozy legs. your head was spinning, and so were your thoughts that you couldn't concentrate on any of them for more than half a second. the world seemed like an abyss into which you were about to fall until you saw her face again. her blue eyes, her plump lips. until you knew she was all right.

but now, when there's a baby lying a few feet away from you, your baby who is completely defenseless without you around him 24 hours a day, you realize that you shouldn't feel sorry for yourself. you have no right to. you knew who you were marrying when you said yes to billie, looking into her eyes with tenderness and promise. you promised that you could survive every moment of separation, no matter how long it lasted. no matter how many lonely days you had to fall asleep in a cold bed. she swore that she would come back. no matter what happened, she would come back to you. with a broken head, without a limb, covered in scars, but she would come back to you. you knew it, you always knew it, it's just that sometimes the waiting is exhausting, it ruins the hopes of coming back, the hopes of a happy life, but no waiting lasts forever.

a month ago lily turned one and a half years old. the little girl already speaks some words, understands basic requests, and with such sadness, like you, looks at the pictures of billye, standing on some shelves in your house, as if she really understands that her mother is not around for a long time, even if she barely remembers her.

but you don't consider yourself a single mother, not since the moment your close friend alex started helping you with lily. and no matter how skeptical you were at first, he really helped you, he was always there for you, supporting both you and your daughter. lily loved him, loved him very much, almost considered him daddy, but when she first called him that, you corrected her, explaining that alex was a friend, that she has a mom, she was just far away now. you didn't wanna think about the fact that billie might not come back and alex would really be your daughter's daddy. you loved him, appreciated him endlessly, and were always grateful to him, but he wasn't lily's parent, and he never would be, no matter how much he wanted to.

darkness creeps up quickly, and you both don't notice the sun hiding behind the horizon and the cool evening setting in. lily stops actively crawling, yawning, mostly staring at one point, or lazily trying to climb into your arms. her little head rests on your chest, her fingers grasping the edge of your silk robe.

"let me put her to bed. you're already tired" alex says quietly so as not to wake your daughter, who apparently passed out in your arms in a matter of minutes, and you, knowing that you are wildly exhausted, decide not to resist, carefully handing the girl into the man's arms. he tells you to go to sleep before disappearing to the second floor.

as soon as you were alone, your thoughts were once again filled with the one person you missed so sincerely and deeply. although you probably miss a very different billie. it's been a year and you've both changed a lot.

as luck would have it, you notice the only unwashed plate from dinner resting on the dining table. your perfectionism doesn't allow you to leave it until tomorrow morning, so you get up, dripping a few drops of detergent on the sponge and scrubbing the frozen mashed potatoes off the ceramic surface in a couple of minutes. you're not as tired, but you can still feel your eyes closing, deciding to go to bed as you'd been advised. until the unexpected ringing of the doorbell interrupts your plans. you sigh heavily, not realizing who could have been brought to your doorstep close to midnight.

without much enthusiasm, you open the front door, and your expression immediately changes and the blood drains from your cheeks. you see your wife in front of you. with a different hairstyle, a different build, a more tired face, but still with the same eyes, the same look. a downpour is roaring outside, and it has a strong effect on her clothes, which are now completely soaked, her hair, part of which was covered by her military cap, although her long curls were drenched. for the first seconds, which seemed like an eternity, you were silent, staring into each other's eyes, until billie finally dared to break the silence.

"can i come in?" she asked quietly, but you notice immediately that her voice has changed; colder, rougher, and hoarser probably from the number of times she's had to shout out her companions. you snap out of your daze, muttering an apology to yourself underneath before stepping aside and letting billie pass, then closing the door behind her.

big boots clang on the floor as she takes a few steps and places the heavy bag of belongings on the wooden floor. her gait has changed too; it has become heavier, weightier, her posture is perfect.

but as soon as she inhales the smell of her home, you can see her shoulders relax and a sigh of relief escapes her plump lips. you still stand by the doorway, looking at your wife with tears pinching your eyes. as if sensing this, billie finally turns around, looking at you, seemingly without a single emotion on her stern face.

"baby…" as soon as the word escapes her lips, you cover your face with your hands, trying to suppress the sobs sitting in your chest. you missed her so much, but now that she's a few meters away from you? you're still left with the same nasty feeling that you're thousands of light years apart.

you can hear how hard she's sighing. not out of annoyance, but out of fear. what if you pushed her away and told her to get the hell out of this house? she was afraid.

"please say something" she takes a hesitant step forward and you can feel her perfume, no, her cologne hit your nose. it was intoxicating.

the silence between you stretches for an eternity before you can speak.

"i thought i'd never see you again" you confess, finally removing your hands from your face to meet her intense gaze filled with longing, regret and melancholy. you didn't need to speak, you just read each other's eyes.

she moves closer to you again until she's close enough for your body to be caged between her body and the wall. a forgotten but so familiar warmth spreads through your veins, making your heart beat again, beat for her.

it's only now that you realize how much she's changed. her hair is cut short, but it still reaches to her shoulder blades. her body has grown larger, even in her military uniform you can see how tight the fabric is around her biceps in some places. the veins in her neck are more prominent, her freckles are clearly bigger, her palms are covered in calluses. you feel it when her hands gently touch your cheeks, gently holding your face.

"i'm so sorry, my love" her nose scratches yours in an affectionate touch, letting you feel each other's breaths on your lips. there was so much you wanted to say, but right now those words were enough to make you remember what it was like to feel loved and desired by a woman again.

"i wanna kiss you so badly" billie whispers as her lips hover millimeters from yours. "i beg you."

you give in forward, finally forcing your lips to touch in a languid long kiss. your hands travel up her body, first clutching her shoulders, then wrapping around her neck, scratching her scalp as you pull her head closer to you. her fingers clutching your waist move further to wrap their arms around your waist, tightly, forcing your body against hers. you let out a quiet whimper against her lips as your bodies sink into each other, being as close as seems impossible.

"god, i missed you so much," she moans against your lips, making you clutch harder into her hair. you're lost in each other until there's not a drop of oxygen left in your lungs. you try to pull away to take a single breath, but billie bites your bottom lip, not letting you move an inch away. when she said she missed you, she meant it; not a day, hour, or minute went by that she didn't think of you, or hum to her companions about what a wonderful wife she had. and she never forgot to mention that you gave her a daughter. the most beautiful, beautiful little girl.

"so you're like a milf?" one of the men suddenly asks billye, distracting her from ranting about you. she smiles, running her tongue over her white teeth. "yeah, i'm a mom" she says proudly, popping the last piece of saltless boiled beef into her mouth; it tasted lame, but she didn't have much choice.

"wife was pregnant? bet she's not that hot anymore" the other man's comment, although joking, billye never, absolutely never let anyone insult you in any form. "shut up, asshole, you're talking about my wife" she leans closer, a mischievous smile playing on her face "and man, she looks like an angel—no, like a goddess. every damn day" she made it clear to everyone without exception how proud she was to have you.

"billie…" her name coming off your lips in a way that made her feel like a moan was about to escape her throat. it was unbearable thinking about you every night, breathing heavily and dreaming of your touch as her hand snaked under the elastic band of her boxers.

as soon as your lips separate, you rest your cheek on her chest as her face burrows into the corner between your neck and shoulder. wet lips touch delicate skin, weightlessly at first, but then it transitions to a trail of kisses down from your jaw to your collarbones. billie's body immediately tenses as she hears a strange man calling your name in her house.

"uh—oh…" alex sighs as he catches the picture in front of him. you'd have to be a fool not to realize what's going on here.

billie frowns, removing her hands from your body to turn to face him, her back almost completely covering your more frail figure. her arms cross over her chest, and you can both notice alex's gaze lowering to her arms. to where her uniform is stretched tightly around her biceps.

"and who are you?" billie asks sternly, and you almost can't understand how she went from loving wife to company commander in a matter of seconds. sexy but amazing.

realizing that alex is a little scared, you step forward to introduce them to each other. "billie, this is alex. my… friend. he's helping me with lily—"

"helped" she snaps, and you both look at her in bewilderment. "what do you mean?" you ask quietly, trying not to stoke the fire further.

"he helped you with lily, and now.." she pauses, opening the front door and clearly showing the man that it's time for him to go home. "we don't need your help anymore."

your mouth opens in silent protest, your gaze running between an equally stunned alex and your obviously disgruntled wife. blinking a few times, you grab billye's hand, not hard, but you need her to pay attention to you "you can't kick him out! most of his stuff—" but billie doesn't listen, only boils harder.

"oh, you don't think i can kick him out?" the question sounds like a challenge, and you know better that she very well could kick him out of your house like a yard dog. your eyes narrow as you look at her, realizing that you have nothing to fight back so he can stay.

about a minute passes in silence between the three of you until alex coughs, realizing how much tension is in the air and that he is clearly interrupting something. and he was very reluctant to leave your house with billie's help.

"you know babe, i think i'm gonna go home" he calls you 'babe' on purpose, and before either of you can process it, he's lurking behind the threshold, closing the massive wooden door behind him on his own.

billie's mouth is ajar as she looks up at you. "baby? did he fucking call you baby?" and before her hand reaches for the doorknob, you intercept it, trying to pull her to you, but it's a harder task considering she's standing still like a goddamn rock. you swallow. not a single one of her muscles tensed.

"just leave him alone!" you have to raise your voice, just slightly, so as not to wake your daughter sleeping on the second floor. billie's fatigue is mixed with frustration and anger at the situation at hand, and she has no choice but to push you against the wall with one hand, causing your back to bang against the ceramic brick. not hard, but enough to assert her dominance at this point.

"let me get one thing straight, princess" she places her hands on either side of your head, enclosing you in a makeshift cage. not that you're trying very hard to get out. "you. are. mine" her voice drips with possessiveness, so sweet and long awaited, making your thighs press against each other slightly harder. "you're my wife, my woman, you're the mother of my child" her intense gaze never leaves your eyes, making your lips flush and your pupils dilate with arousal. the way she said those words with confidence and authority, fuck, it was too much for you and your poor pussy.

"and when i go back to my wife after a year of separation, baby, i don't want to hear a word against mine" and as manipulative as those words sound, you only nod slowly, causing a satisfied smile to slowly spread across her face. predator. "that's my good girl."

a whisper is heard right at your ear, and you let the first whimper slip through your lips. this is exactly what billie wanted. to see his sweet little wife again, looking at her like she was the whole world.

"fuck" she exhales heavily, not wasting another moment and lifting you in her arms as if you weigh nothing. your stomach collides with her shoulder as she takes a measured stride towards your bedroom, shamelessly groping your bare thighs. the silk robe and short pajama shorts didn't help in any way, only encouraging your wife to continue spreading her arms.

once you're on the second floor, billie's footsteps become slower and quieter so that the baby in the next room definitely won't hear how much her mommies missed each other. the thought of having to be quiet sent a wave of frustration through your body.

as soon as your back hits the soft mattress, you relax, letting billie hover over your body, leaving soft, then more passionate kisses until her teeth begin to embed themselves in your skin. dark trails blanket your neck and collarbones. you moan in quiet, sweet, unison. she from the bliss of your taste, you from the feel of her tongue on your pulse point. there was nothing you could ever miss.

"you're like a damn drug, baby" she mooed, moving to rid your body of the extra clothing. in a minute you were completely naked, completely for her hungry gaze while she was fully clothed. you embarrassedly tried to cover your breasts with your hands, but she immediately grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. her one hand was enough to hold both of yours. even if you did try to escape, you wouldn't stand a chance.

"don't make me tie this lovely body up, yeah mamas? you'll be my good girl, won't you?" your body wriggles, your hips rising desperately, wanting to feel even the slightest friction. billie sees it. of course she fucking does. her uniformed body moves closer to you until her knee presses against your bare pussy, which immediately drenches it with your arousal. you try to rub against her, but she lowers her hand, holding your thigh tightly. "answer the question, then you can ride my thigh like the desperate slut you are."

you whined again, again because of how sexy her voice dropped when she talked to you like that. as if you were her goddess and nothing more than a one-night stand. the way she skillfully did it made your legs shake in ecstasy.

"i'll be your good girl, i promise.." you whisper, swallowing hard, knowing she's waiting for the cherished word. "..daddy."

in that same second, your bodies flip so that you find yourself on all fours, supporting your weight on your elbows. billie steps back, starting to fumble through a box lying in the bottom drawer of the dresser. her hands work on the heavy belt buckle, then the zipper of her pants. she doesn't bother to pull down her boxers, attaching the strap right over the thin fabric.

"don't even need lube to stretch this cunt" you feel the tip of her cock graze over your ass, teasing. your arousal started to flow down the inside of your thighs, so she really didn't have to use anything else to slowly plunge the thick nine inches into your tight pussy. "so perfect around my cock."

waiting for your permission, she begins thrusting, slowly at first, watching her length disappear into you, then thrusting sharply into you until she establishes a steady fast rhythm, making sure that with each thrust she enters all the way that she reaches your cervix, causing you to lower your head and bite the sheets to at least somewhat contain the dirty sounds that fly off your lips.

"fuck, so noisy" her left hand goes up to your neck, squeezing and pulling back until your back arches perfectly for her, until you're fully seated on her lap, feeling her cock get in even deeper. her fingers are replaced by her hand, her biceps and brachialis muscle straining around your throat, leaving little room for oxygen to enter. "feel how deep i am, baby? gonna put another baby in you."

her hips moving at an inhuman pace, the headboard of the bed banging against the wall with each thrust. you really had no idea how much more a year in combat had worn down her body, making it steel. but right now all you had in your mind was her cock, buried as deep as it had ever been before.

"will you give me another baby, mama?" she asks, but the question seems rhetorical, given that your mind is completely blank. the way her hand presses against your thigh, leaving bruises under your fingertips. the way her lips hover over your ear, the way her grip on your neck tightens every time she tenses her bicep. it's made your smart head a dumb mess. "can you carry my baby in this perfect body again?"

tears run down your cheeks as you whimper something resembling a 'yes', clutching her hand tightly, resting your head on her shoulder, starting to bounce on her cock on your own as she clutches your body tightly, feeling every shudder. she always knows when you're close.

"come on, my love, cum for me. cum on this cock" her words act as a lever for your body and you unravel on her strap, making no extra sounds only thanks to her other hand covering your mouth as you shake hysterically, stunned by the intense orgasm.

billie slowly lowers you down, back on all fours, her chest pressed against your back as you feel her warm cum filling your pussy, dripping onto the crumpled sheets. your body already seems exhausted while your wife's energy still boils.

"lie on your back, mama, let me see that pretty pussy" she mumbles in your ear, pulling back and slowly pulling out, mesmerized by the way her cum leaks out of you. you move on the bed barely trusting your cotton-wool legs, slowly lowering yourself onto your back, immediately spreading your legs slightly, inviting her in. billie hesitates, positioning herself between your thighs, using both hands to spread them wider, shamelessly gazing at your swollen cunt, covered in her and your own arousal.

she dives in without another word, moaning hoarsely when she feels your sweet taste on her tongue again after all this time, ready to devour you like a starving woman. "fuck, so fucking perfect" she moozes into your flesh, sending electrifying vibrations that make you squirm on the bed, now covering your mouth with your own hand.

"i'd burn the whole world for that pussy, do you hear me?" she pulls back, replacing her tongue with her thumb, rubbing your sensitive clit in slow circles, but it's enough to make your legs shake and your hips rise in search of more friction.

billie bites her lower lip, lifting and pressing your knees against your chest to change the angle, watching your frowning eyebrows for a few more seconds before returning her mouth to your wet folds, licking greedily, plunging the tip into your tight hole, making you shriek, which only encouraged her to push it in deeper.

her tongue worked tirelessly, flattening out in time, circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves as her two fingers slipped into you, pumping at a natural pace as if they were designed to fuck that perfect pussy.

she pushed so deep, curling her thick fingers, hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars. she didn't ask — you didn't speak, coming on her tongue and hand with a strangled moan. her hips flew up, pushing her face further between your legs, and you couldn't hold back a whimper, realizing how sensitive you were right now.

"mm, just like that, that's my girl" she praises, crawling up to hover over your body and leave a deep kiss on your lips, letting. you taste your own release.

after a few seconds she rolls onto the bed next to you, not taking her lips off your neck. "i wanna see our daughter," her melodic voice is muffled against your skin, and you giggle, starting to replay the shared memories in your head until she interrupts them with another nibble on your pulse point.

"and then i wanna fuck that pretty pussy of yours again. and i'm gonna do it every goddamn day, my love."

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write Long-Distance Friendships

⊹ Most of the friendship lives on screens now. And no, that doesn’t make it less real. It’s TikToks at Midnight, blurry selfies captioned “alive I guess,” a random “thinking of you” that hits harder than a Shakespeare monologue. These tiny, chaotic digital crumbs? That’s modern affection, guys.

⊹ Time zones are the actual villain. Like, congrats, your best friend is awake when you’re half-dead. You get really good at leaving messages in little bottles ( I mean, texts) that’ll wash up on their shore eight hours later. It's strangely poetic, if you ignore how annoying it is.

⊹ Calls turn into special events... You plan them like dinner reservations. Reschedule them like flaky exes and when they do happen, it’s either three hours of emotional unpacking or fifteen minutes of “I love you but my soul is leaking out my ears.” Either way, it counts.

⊹ They don’t know you're right now. Not really, they weren’t there for the coworker who ruined your day or the little bakery you fell in love with. So you have to explain everything, but sometimes you don’t. And that weird little space between what they know and what they don’t? That’s amazing, for Storytelling.

⊹ You start summarizing your life like a newsletter. “Still alive. Work sucks. Ate something questionable.” Not because you don’t want to share (you do) but because it’s hard to cram the full play-by-play into a 30-second voice note between meetings. Distance edits you down, that’s just how it works.

⊹ Big stuff hits differently. The good, the bad, the absolutely unhinged... it all feels heavier when you can’t scream-laugh or ugly-cry in the same room. No amount of phone calls makes up for sitting on the floor together eating cereal out of the box and feeling like maybe the world isn’t ending.

⊹ And yet, the love finds ways. It shows up in birthday texts sent in the wrong time zone, in Venmo notes like “for coffee and emotional damage,” And in playlists with suspiciously specific vibes.

⊹ Some don’t survive the distance. That’s just the truth, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t real or important. And the ones that do? the ones that hang on through all the missed calls and delayed replies and half-finished conversations? Those are steel-reinforced, weirdly telepathic, practically immortal friendships. The kind worth writing about.

[callsigns-haze]

Greatest treasure

Summary: Eris, newly crowned High Lord of Autumn, prepares for a grand ball while keeping his wife and their three-year-old son, Azer, a secret from the courts. During the event, Azer accidentally reveals his fire magic, causing panic and leading the Inner Circle to discover his existence. Meanwhile, Eris and Y/N, lost in their own world, share a passionate moment in the rain before returning to find their son distressed.

Warning: Contains alcohol, cursing, teasing, mentions of smut, kissing, court politics, mentions of war, distress.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes

Eris stands by the window of Azer’s nursery, the late-afternoon sun casting a warm golden glow over the room. The space is cozy, filled with soft autumn hues—deep oranges, rich reds, and browns, like the leaves of the season his court embodies. Your three-year-old son, Azer, sits on the plush rug near his bed, his copper hair glinting like flames in the light. His amber eyes, so much like his father’s, are rimmed with unshed tears as he clutches a small wooden fox, one of his favourite toys.

“Mama, Dada,” Azer says, his tiny voice trembling. “Why can’t I come? Wanna come, too!”

You kneel beside him, smoothing back a lock of his fiery hair. “Oh, my little love,” you say gently, your heart breaking at the wobble in his voice. “This ball is for grown-ups. You get to stay here and have fun with Miss Lyra tonight.”

“But I wanna see,” he hiccups, his face crumpling as tears begin to fall. He tries to hold them back, but soon, soft sobs wrack his small body. “I wanna be with you, Mama. With Dada.”

Eris moves from the window, his regal presence as commanding as ever, though his sharp features soften as he crouches beside you. He reaches out, his long fingers tenderly brushing away Azer’s tears. “Little firefox,” he murmurs, his voice rich and soothing, “I know you’re upset. But you’re my biggest treasure, and treasures like you need to be kept safe.”

Azer hiccups again, his small chest heaving as he shakes his head. “Not treasure. Azer!” he cries, his voice breaking. “Wanna go with Mama and Dada!”

Eris chuckles softly, though his eyes glisten with emotion. “Oh, you are most definitely Azer,” he says, his lips quirking into a smile. “But you’re also my treasure. And treasures stay where they’re safe. Do you understand, little firefox?”

Azer clings to your dress, burying his face against your leg, his tiny fingers fisting the fabric. His sobs quiet slightly, though his hiccups continue. “No ball,” he mumbles, still unconvinced.

You exchange a glance with Eris, your heart aching at the sight of your son’s distress. Eris leans forward, lifting Azer into his arms despite the toddler’s reluctance to let go of you. “Come here, little one,” Eris says, his voice soft as he cradles Azer against his chest. “I know it’s hard, but I promise we won’t be gone forever. And while we’re away, you’ll have a grand time with Miss Lyra. She’ll tell you stories, maybe even about foxes.”

Azer sniffles, his arms wrapping tightly around Eris’s neck as he presses his tear-streaked face into his father’s shoulder. “Don’t wanna,” he whispers, though his sobs are slowing.

A knock at the door signals Lyra’s arrival. The young fae woman steps inside, her kind smile unwavering even as she takes in the scene. “Hello, Azer,” she says gently. “I hear we’re going to have an adventure tonight.”

Eris looks at her over Azer’s head, his expression unreadable but his tone laced with quiet authority. “Good luck,” he murmurs.

Lyra nods, her smile unwavering. “We’ll be just fine, my lord.”

Gently, Eris pulls Azer away from his shoulder, holding him so they’re eye to eye. “Be good for Miss Lyra, little firefox,” he says softly. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Azer sniffles but nods reluctantly, his small hand reaching out for you one last time. You kiss his forehead, murmuring reassurances before Eris passes him to Lyra.

As you and Eris leave the nursery, the sound of Azer’s soft hiccups follows you, tugging at your heart. Eris takes your hand in his, squeezing gently. “He’ll be fine,” he says, though you suspect he’s reassuring himself as much as you.

Eris strides down the corridor beside you, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. The grandeur of the Autumn Court is on full display tonight, with servants bustling to and fro, preparing the grand hall for the event of the decade. Despite the meticulous perfection surrounding you—the gleaming floors, the intricate floral arrangements of russet and gold—you can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame.

His jaw is set, his golden eyes narrowed in thought, and his long fingers occasionally twitch at his side, as though yearning for something to grip. You pause mid-step, turning to face him fully.

“Eris,” you say softly, resting a hand on his chest. “We still have two hours before the ball. What’s on your mind?”

He blinks down at you, momentarily startled, before his expression softens. Still, the strain remains etched in his features. “All the High Lords and their families under one roof,” he murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful. “It’s an honour, but also a risk. There’s no telling what alliances may shift tonight—or what grievances may surface.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he leans into your touch for just a moment, closing his eyes. “You’ve worked so hard for this, Eris,” you say, your voice steady and reassuring. “Your father ruled with fear, but you’ve brought peace. Everyone will see that tonight.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile, though his eyes remain shadowed. “Peace is fragile,” he replies, his hand covering yours where it rests on his face. “One misstep, one word out of place, and it can shatter.”

Before you can respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the corridor. You turn just in time to see Lucien rounding the corner, his auburn hair slightly dishevelled as though he’d been in a rush. His russet eye sparkles with mischief, but the golden mechanical one remains as stoic as ever.

“Ah, there you are,” Lucien says, his tone light as he approaches. “And here I thought you might still be in the nursery with Azer. Poor kid looked ready to stage a rebellion when I passed by earlier.”

Eris snorts softly, though the tension in his shoulders eases ever so slightly. “He’s not happy about missing tonight,” he admits, glancing toward the direction of the nursery.

Lucien raises a brow, his trademark smirk firmly in place. “Well, can you blame him? I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to see all the High Lords bickering like children either.”

You laugh, and even Eris’s lips curve into a reluctant smile. “You always know how to lighten the mood, Lucien,” you say, grateful for his timing.

Lucien winks at you, then looks back at his brother. “Don’t let them get to you, Eris. This is your court now. They’re all just guests in your house.”

Eris inclines his head, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. “Wise words,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “For once.”

Lucien feigns offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he quips before straightening. “I’ll see you both later. Just try not to burn the place down before the ball starts.”

As he saunters off, you glance at Eris, catching the way his lips have softened into a true smile. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems lighter, and you take his hand in yours.

“Lucien’s right,” you say quietly. “This is your court. And tonight, they’ll see the ruler you’ve become.”

Eris squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours with a warmth that speaks louder than words. “With you by my side,” he murmurs, “I can face anything.”

Eris’s golden eyes hold yours as the tension in his frame melts away, replaced by something softer, more intimate. Without a word, he steps closer, his hand sliding from your waist to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and presses a feather-light kiss to your lips. It’s tender and unhurried, a quiet moment in the chaos of the day.

When he pulls back, his gaze searches yours, his expression open in a way he allows only for you. “How are you feeling?” he asks softly, his voice low and laced with concern.

You hesitate, glancing down at your joined hands before looking back up at him. “Nervous,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “This is my first ball, Eris. And not just any ball—it’s your ball. Everyone will be watching, judging.”

His brows knit together, and he shakes his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a reassuring smile. “Let them watch,” he says, his tone firm but soothing. “Let them judge. You are my wife, my queen. No opinion matters more than mine, and in my eyes, you are perfection.”

Your chest tightens at his words, emotion welling up inside you. “You make it sound so simple,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He leans down again, his lips brushing your forehead this time, lingering as though to anchor you. “Because it is,” he murmurs against your skin. “They’ll see your strength, your grace, just as I do. You’ve already won them over, my love. They just don’t know it yet.”

His confidence, steady and unwavering, wraps around you like a protective shield. You nod slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing as you draw strength from his presence. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice steadier now.

Eris straightens, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb tracing idle circles on your cheek. “Thank me later,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. “After you’ve dazzled them all.”

A laugh escapes you, soft and light, and you realize how much he’s managed to calm you with just a few words and a single kiss. “I’ll hold you to that,” you reply, your smile widening.

“You always do,” he says with a smirk, his fingers lacing through yours as he leads you further down the hall, his hand a steady, grounding presence in yours.

The grand staircase of the Autumn Court’s palace gleams before you, each step a work of art with intricate carvings of leaves and vines, polished to a mirror-like sheen. You descend slowly, your arm looped through Eris’s, the weight of the evening settling over you with each step. The chandeliers above—crafted from amber and crystal—cast a warm glow that dances across the walls, making the entire space seem alive.

As you step onto the marble floor of the ballroom, you pause, taking in the sheer magnitude of the space. The room stretches farther than you remember, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with autumn leaves that seem to flutter as though caught in a gentle breeze. The rich hues of gold, crimson, and burnt orange dominate the décor, and the air is filled with the soft hum of string instruments warming up in the far corner.

You glance around, your brows furrowing slightly as you take in the grandeur. “Did it… get bigger?” you ask, your voice quiet but tinged with awe.

Eris glances down at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not exactly,” he replies, his tone amused. “Though I did make a few… adjustments.”

“Adjustments?” you repeat, arching a brow as you look back at the ballroom.

He gestures subtly toward the far end of the room, where a raised dais now sits, flanked by towering arrangements of fiery flowers. “The ceiling was enchanted to give the illusion of more space,” he explains, his voice laced with pride. “And the dais was added to ensure everyone has a clear view of their High Lord and Lady tonight.”

You bite back a smile, glancing up at him. “You mean so they can have a clear view of you.”

His golden eyes glint mischievously as he leans in closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice low, “but I suspect they’ll find their gazes drawn to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at his words, but you quickly compose yourself, your gaze sweeping over the ballroom once more. The attention to detail is staggering, from the delicate leaf patterns etched into the marble columns to the soft golden light that seems to bathe everything in warmth. The room hums with anticipation, even though most of the guests have yet to arrive.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you say, your voice soft but sincere.

Eris tilts his head, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “It’s not just for me,” he says quietly. “This is your debut as well. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

Your heart swells at his words, and you squeeze his arm gently, your nerves settling ever so slightly. “It’s perfect,” you assure him, and for the first time that evening, you truly believe it.

As you and Eris walk further into the grand ballroom, the low hum of the musicians tuning their instruments fills the air, mingling with the soft rustle of your gown as it sweeps across the polished marble floor. Despite the grandeur surrounding you, your thoughts drift back to the nursery, to the way Azer clung to you, his little hands trembling as he sobbed.

You stop walking, your steps faltering as a pang of guilt twists in your chest. Eris notices immediately, turning to face you, his golden eyes filled with concern. “What is it?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

You glance around the empty room, ensuring no one is near enough to overhear, before looking back at him. “I feel terrible about leaving Azer,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “He was so upset, Eris. The way he cried, the way he begged to come with us…” Your throat tightens, and you shake your head, willing yourself not to let the guilt overwhelm you.

Eris’s expression softens, and he steps closer, his hand coming to rest against your cheek. “Little firefox is safe,” he says gently. “Lyra will care for him as if he were her own. You know that.”

“I know,” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly. “But it doesn’t make it any easier. He doesn’t understand why we had to leave. All he knows is that we’re not there, and he wanted to be with us.”

Eris sighs softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a soothing gesture. “I feel it too,” he admits, his tone quieter now. “Every time he cries like that, it feels like my heart is being torn apart. But this—tonight—is important. For our court, for our family. He’ll understand one day.”

You look up at him, searching his face for reassurance. “What if he doesn’t, Eris? What if he remembers this as the night we chose the court over him?”

His brows knit together, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “He won’t,” he says firmly. “Because when this ball is over, we’ll go straight back to him. We’ll hold him, kiss him, tell him how much we love him. Azer knows he’s our world—he feels it every day in the way we care for him.”

The conviction in his voice eases some of the tension in your chest, and you close your eyes, drawing strength from his presence. “I just hate seeing him so upset,” you whisper.

Eris tilts your chin up, his golden eyes locking with yours. “So do I,” he says softly. “But Azer is strong, just like his mother. And Lyra is with him. He’s safe, loved, and cared for. That’s what matters most.”

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “You’re right,” you say, though the ache in your chest lingers. “I just needed to say it.”

His lips curve into a small smile, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. “You never need to keep anything from me,” he murmurs. “Not your fears, not your guilt. I’ll carry them with you, always.”

The grand ballroom is serene for a moment, the soft hum of the musicians and the flicker of enchanted autumn leaves overhead creating a tranquil atmosphere. You’ve just started to steady yourself, leaning into Eris’s calming presence, when the sound of frantic footsteps echoes through the halls.

Eris straightens, his golden eyes narrowing as he turns toward the source of the commotion. The double doors at the far end of the ballroom burst open with a resounding thud, and Alev, one of Eris’s younger brothers, comes barrelling in. His crimson hair is wild, his face flushed with exertion. Behind him, Lucien storms into the room, his expression murderous, his mechanical eye glowing ominously.

“You little bastard!” Lucien shouts, his voice reverberating off the marble walls. “I’m going to kill you!”

Alev skids to a stop in the centre of the ballroom, his chest heaving as he glances around wildly. His gaze lands on you and Eris, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Eris! Help! Your psychotic brother’s lost it!”

Lucien’s growl is low and dangerous as he stalks toward Alev, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Lost it? You set my bloody room on fire, you little menace!”

Alev’s eyes widen in mock innocence, his lips twitching as though he’s holding back laughter. “I didn’t set it on fire! I just—enhanced the ambiance! You know, for the ball.”

“Enhanced the ambiance?” Lucien roars, his mechanical eye flaring brighter. “You scorched half my wardrobe!”

Eris pinches the bridge of his nose, a long-suffering sigh escaping him. “For the love of the Cauldron,” he mutters under his breath before stepping forward, his authoritative presence silencing the chaos.

“Alev,” Eris says, his tone calm but laced with warning. “What did you do?”

Alev shifts nervously, the smirk fading slightly under his older brother’s piercing gaze. “It was just a little spell,” he admits, his voice lighter than it should be. “A small spark to set the mood. I may have underestimated how... flammable Lucien’s curtains were.”

Lucien points an accusatory finger at him. “Curtains, rugs, half the bloody furniture—Eris, I swear, if you don’t deal with him, I will.”

Eris raises a hand, silencing Lucien with a single look. “Alev,” he says slowly, his voice like a crackling flame, “do you have any idea how much chaos you’ve caused? Tonight of all nights?”

Alev grins sheepishly. “I was trying to help! You know, add a little Autumn Court flair to his otherwise... bland quarters.”

Lucien lets out an incredulous laugh, clearly seconds away from lunging at his brother. “Bland? You—”

“Enough,” Eris snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. Both brothers freeze, their gazes snapping to him. He exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Alev, go fix what you’ve destroyed. Now. And if I hear so much as a whisper of another incident tonight, you’ll wish it was Lucien dealing with you instead of me.”

Alev blinks, then nods quickly. “Right. Fix it. Got it.” He turns on his heel and bolts for the doors, though not without throwing Lucien a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

Lucien groans, running a hand through his hair as he turns to Eris. “You see what I have to deal with? How have you not strangled him yet?”

Eris smirks faintly, his composure returning. “Patience,” he replies, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “And the knowledge that one day, he’ll slip up enough to give me a good excuse.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, the tension from earlier momentarily lifted. Eris turns to you, his expression softening. “Shall we expect more dramatics tonight, or are you ready to face the ball?”

“With your family?” you tease lightly. “I’d say both are inevitable.”

Eris chuckles, offering you his arm once more. “You’re learning,” he says with a smirk, leading you toward the doors. “Now, let’s see if we can survive the evening without another catastrophe.”

You pause just before the grand ballroom doors, your arm still looped through Eris’s. Your gaze lingers on him, soft and questioning, and he stops in his tracks. He knows that look of yours—he’s learned it all too well. The unspoken request, the subtle tilt of your head, the way your lips press together as though you’re carefully choosing your words.

“You want to go check on him,” Eris says quietly, his voice laced with understanding.

You nod, biting your lip. “I know Lyra is with him, and I know he’s fine, but… this is the longest I’ll have been away from him since he was born. It feels—”

“Strange,” Eris finishes for you, his golden eyes softening as they meet yours. “I know.”

You glance down at the floor, guilt pooling in your chest. “I just… I need to see him, Eris. Just for a moment.”

He gently lifts your chin with his fingers, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “My love,” he says softly, his tone carrying a calm authority, “I understand how you feel. Truly. But Azer is safe. This is good for him. He needs to learn a little independence, and so do you.”

You blink at him, your emotions warring within you. “I just feel like I’m abandoning him,” you whisper.

Eris sighs, his hand slipping to rest on your waist. “You’re not abandoning him. You’re showing him that his mother is more than just his caretaker. That she’s strong, graceful, and capable of leading beside me. And when we go back to him tonight, he’ll see that too.”

You nod slowly, his words sinking in, though the ache in your chest remains. Before you can reply, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes behind you, and you both turn just as Alev comes bounding into the room.

“Alev,” Eris says sharply, his brows furrowing, “what now?”

Alev skids to a stop, his hair still slightly dishevelled, though his grin is as irreverent as ever. “Relax, brother,” he says, holding up his hands. “I just thought I’d let you know—I stopped by the nursery on my way back down.”

You inhale sharply, your attention snapping to him. “And? How was Azer?”

Alev hesitates for half a second, glancing nervously over your shoulder. It’s only then that he sees the warning glare Eris is shooting him—a silent command to tread carefully.

“Oh, uh… he’s fine!” Alev says quickly, his grin widening. “Totally fine. Lyra had him all snuggled up in his favourite blanket. He wasn’t crying or anything. Just… looking at his little fox toy. Happy as can be.”

You exhale a shaky breath, relief washing over you. “Thank you, Alev,” you say sincerely, your shoulders relaxing.

Alev shrugs, his grin turning a little sheepish. “No problem. Figured you’d want to know.”

Behind you, Eris arches a brow, his golden eyes still fixed on his younger brother. “Thank you for your… insightful report,” he says dryly, though his tone carries an unspoken promise of consequences if Alev had dared say anything to upset you.

Alev throws him a mock salute before backing away, his grin still in place. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

As he disappears back into the corridor, Eris sighs and turns to you, his hands sliding to rest on your arms. “See? He’s fine,” he says softly. “And now, so are you. Let’s do this together.”

You nod, leaning into him for a brief moment before squaring your shoulders. “Okay,” you whisper, allowing him to guide you forward.

With Eris by your side, you take the final step into the ballroom, ready to face whatever the evening holds.

-----

The ballroom is alive with music, laughter, and the soft clinking of glasses, but it all feels distant, a blurred backdrop to your rising tension. You sit at one of the ornately carved tables near the edge of the room, the deep burgundy of your wine a sharp contrast to the delicate gold trim of the goblet you hold. You take another sip—no, more like a gulp—your grip on the stem tight enough to make your knuckles ache.

Three hours. Three endless hours. You’ve smiled, curtsied, and exchanged pleasantries with the High Lords of Spring, Dawn, Summer, and Winter. Each interaction had felt like a delicate dance, one misstep away from disaster. Tamlin of Spring had been cordial enough, though his words carried a stiffness that matched the tight line of his jaw. Thesan of Dawn had been polite and warm, his genuine curiosity about your role as Lady of Autumn easing some of your nerves, if only for a moment. The Summer Court’s Tarquin had offered a quiet strength in his presence, his words measured but kind. Kallias of Winter had been formal, his icy demeanour a stark contrast to the fiery warmth of the Autumn Court.

And through it all, you’d managed to maintain the poised, composed exterior that Eris had assured you would command their respect. But now, seated alone at the table, your mask of grace and elegance is beginning to crack.

Your gaze flicks across the room to the Night Court delegation, where Lucien is engaged in animated conversation with Rhysand, Feyre, and their inner circle. Even from this distance, you can see the easy camaraderie between them, the subtle smiles and the occasional laughter that spill from their group. You know Lucien feels more at home with them than he does here, and while you understand, it does little to soothe your unease.

Helion, at least, had been a comforting presence earlier in the evening. You’d known him long before tonight, ever since Eris’s mother, Arlene, had moved into the Day Court after Beron’s death. Helion’s warmth and humour had provided a brief reprieve from the relentless formalities of the evening, but now, with him occupied elsewhere, you feel untethered.

Eris is across the room, locked in conversation with one of his advisors, his expression sharp and unreadable. You know he’s keeping an eye on you, even from afar, but right now, his watchful presence does little to ease the knot of anxiety in your chest.

As you lift your goblet for another sip, a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “You look like you’re plotting someone’s demise,” Alev remarks, his tone laced with amusement as he slides into the seat beside you.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And if I were?”

He grins, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual defiance. “Depends. Is it someone I’d enjoy watching you take down?”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at your lips, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think the only thing keeping me from snapping is this wine,” you admit, swirling the liquid in your goblet. “And even that might not be enough.”

Alev chuckles, his crimson hair catching the golden glow of the chandeliers above. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. You’ve survived half the High Lords already. What’s one more?”

You cast a pointed glance at the Night Court, where Lucien is still deep in conversation. “It’s not just one more,” you say quietly. “It’s Rhysand and his entire inner circle. They’re… intimidating.”

Alev follows your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “They don’t look so scary to me. Lucien seems to be holding his own.”

“Lucien is used to them,” you counter. “I’m not.”

He shrugs, his grin returning. “Well, if they give you any trouble, just sic Eris on them. Or me. I’d be happy to cause a little chaos on your behalf.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “That’s the last thing we need tonight, Alev.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, his tone teasing. “But it’d make for a more entertaining evening, wouldn’t it?”

You can’t help but smile at his antics, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. Alev may be a troublemaker, but in moments like this, his irreverent humour is exactly what you need.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your voice barely audible over the din of the ballroom.

He glances at you, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Anytime,” he says, his voice steady and sincere.

As the night drags on, the noise in the ballroom seems to grow louder, the laughter and chatter blending into an indistinct hum. You glance over at Eris, still engaged in conversation with his advisor, his posture rigid and his expression betraying the strain of the evening.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you see him step away from the group. His stride is slower than usual, his shoulders slightly slumped, and his usually sharp golden eyes seem dimmer, weighed down by the demands of his title.

He spots you immediately, his gaze softening as he makes his way across the room. The exhaustion etched into his features is stark, his mask of courtly perfection slipping now that he’s out of the scrutinizing eyes of the other lords and advisors.

When he reaches your table, he lets out a long, quiet sigh and sits down heavily beside you. His hand brushes over yours briefly before he leans back, rubbing his temples.

“Tired already, my Lord?” you tease lightly, though your voice carries a note of sympathy.

He lets out a dry chuckle, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. “If I hear one more thinly veiled threat disguised as flattery, I might set the whole ballroom on fire.”

You laugh softly and pick up your goblet, extending it toward him without a word. He glances at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he doesn’t hesitate. He takes the wine from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours, and drinks deeply.

When he sets the goblet down, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

“Anytime,” you reply, your lips quirking into a small smile. “Consider it a perk of having me as your wife.”

His golden eyes meet yours, a spark of warmth cutting through his exhaustion. “The best perk,” he says quietly, his hand finding yours under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.

His hand still resting over yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. There’s a spark of something in his eyes now, a lightness that hadn’t been there earlier. He shifts in his seat, straightening slightly, and turns to face you fully.

“Dance with me,” he says softly, his voice low and inviting, though it’s more a request than a command.

You blink at him, momentarily surprised. “Here? Now?”

His lips curve into a faint smirk. “Why not? I’m owed at least one dance tonight, and I’d rather have it with you than anyone else.”

You glance around the bustling ballroom, the glittering gowns and polished boots of the other guests reflecting the glow of the chandeliers above. Before you can voice any hesitation, Eris stands and offers his hand to you, his golden eyes glinting with determination.

“Come,” he murmurs. “I know a better place.”

Intrigued, you slide your hand into his, letting him guide you away from the crowded floor. He leads you toward the grand doors that have been opened to the gardens, where the fresh, crisp scent of rain drifts in on the cool night air. The gardens, transformed into an extended ballroom, glimmer under the soft glow of floating lanterns.

The rain is gentle, a light mist that barely kisses your skin as Eris steps into the open garden, the soft patter against the stone tiles creating a melody of its own. He turns to you, his hair catching the golden light, and extends his hand again.

“Will you dance with me here?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost tender.

You glance up at the misty sky, the droplets shimmering like tiny diamonds as they fall. “It’s raining,” you say, though there’s no protest in your tone.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Eris replies, his lips quirking into a playful smile. “Besides, it’s quieter here. Just us.”

Your heart flutters at the sincerity in his words, and you place your hand in his once more. He pulls you close, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other holds your hand, his grip steady and sure.

As the music from the ballroom drifts faintly into the garden, Eris begins to sway with you, guiding you effortlessly across the rain-slicked tiles. The world feels smaller here, the distant chatter and laughter fading away until it’s just the two of you, moving together under the soft drizzle.

The rain cools your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of Eris’s touch as he holds you close. His gaze never leaves yours, golden and intent, filled with a quiet affection that steals your breath.

“You’ve been incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the gentle patter of rain. “I know how hard this is for you. But you’ve handled it all with grace.”

You shake your head slightly, a small laugh escaping you. “If grace means aggressively sipping wine and hiding from the High Lords, then sure.”

Eris chuckles, his breath warm against your temple as he pulls you even closer. “To me, it means being yourself. Even when it’s hard.”

The sincerity in his words makes your chest ache, and you rest your head against his shoulder, letting him lead you in the quiet dance. The rain falls softly around you, catching in his fiery hair and soaking into the rich fabric of his suit, but neither of you care.

In this moment, with the garden as your ballroom and the rain as your accompaniment, the weight of the evening lifts, leaving only the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of your hearts.

-----

From the balcony overlooking the garden, the Night Court’s inner circle had gathered, drawn by the faint sound of laughter and the soft glow of lanterns spilling into the misty rain. Feyre leaned against the railing, her hand loosely intertwined with Rhysand’s, while Cassian and Azriel stood nearby, their dark wings slightly folded, their gazes sharp. Mor and Amren were seated on a cushioned bench, but even they couldn’t resist peering out into the rain-soaked garden below.

The scene unfolding before them was nothing short of surprising.

“There,” Mor murmured, gesturing with a tilt of her chin.

Eris Vanserra, of all people, was dancing in the rain. But it wasn’t the stiff, performative kind of dance they’d expect from the newly crowned High Lord of Autumn. This was… intimate. Genuine.

He moved with an easy grace, his hands firmly guiding his partner—you, his wife—across the rain-slicked stones. The faint music from the ballroom drifted into the night, but it seemed almost irrelevant. The two of you were lost in your own rhythm, your laughter carrying softly on the cool breeze.

“Is that…?” Cassian began, leaning forward as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“It’s his wife,” Feyre confirmed, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Rhysand said nothing, his violet eyes narrowing as he observed Eris’s expression.

They had seen him many times before: sharp, calculating, cruel. A predator dressed in finery. But now? Now, he looked like someone entirely different.

As the inner circle watched, Eris suddenly dropped to one knee, his fiery hair damp with rain, his hand disappearing beneath the delicate folds of your gown. The motion was quick, fluid, and in an instant, he pulled out a dagger from some hidden sheath at his side.

“What the hell is he doing?” Azriel murmured, his shadows swirling with tension.

But their apprehension faded as Eris took the dagger to the hem of your dress, his movements precise as he carefully cut another slit along the fabric. The silk parted easily beneath the blade, creating a matching slit opposite the one already present. He sheathed the dagger just as quickly, the glint of the blade vanishing into the folds of his coat.

You were laughing, your head thrown back as you leaned against his shoulder, and Eris stood, brushing his fingers along the edge of the fabric to ensure it wouldn’t catch. He whispered something to you, too soft for the onlookers to hear, and then—without warning—he lifted you off the ground.

Your laughter rang out, light and joyful, as he spun you in a circle, his hands steady at your waist. The movement was effortless, as though he had done it a thousand times before. The lantern light caught the droplets of rain clinging to his hair, his suit, and most notably, the smile on his face.

A real smile.

Not the cunning smirk he so often wore, nor the sly grin meant to unsettle his enemies. This was something deeper, something softer, something the inner circle had never seen before.

“Is he… smiling?” Cassian asked, incredulous.

Mor leaned forward, her golden hair glinting in the light. “I think he is,” she said, her voice tinged with equal parts awe and disbelief.

“That’s a first,” Amren muttered, though even her silver eyes softened at the sight.

Feyre glanced at Rhys, her brow slightly raised. “Do you think he’s actually happy?” she asked quietly.

Rhysand didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Eris, watching as he set you back on your feet with a gentleness that seemed impossible for the man they thought they knew. The way his hands lingered at your waist, the way his head tilted down to hear your laugh more clearly—it wasn’t an act.

“I think,” Rhys finally said, his voice low, “we’ve never seen the real Eris Vanserra before.”

Below, Eris leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, his smile lingering as he pulled you closer. The rain continued to fall, unnoticed by either of you, and the inner circle watched in silence, captivated by the unguarded, unexpected display of love from a man they had always considered unfeeling.

For the first time, Eris Vanserra seemed… fae. And it left them with far more questions than answers.

The inner circle remained silent, captivated by the unexpected scene unfolding in the rain-soaked garden below. None of them had ever thought Eris capable of such tenderness, let alone joy. It was a moment so foreign, so incongruous with the man they had come to know, that they could hardly look away.

“Enjoying the show, are we?”

The voice came from behind them, sharp and laced with amusement. They all turned to see Alev Vanserra, Eris’s younger brother, leaning casually against the doorway that led to the balcony. His crimson hair was damp from the rain, and his amber eyes gleamed with a mischievous light.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “You’re surprisingly cheerful for someone who just fled the ballroom with your brother shouting after you.”

Alev smirked, shrugging one shoulder. “Eris is always shouting about something. I’ve learned to tune it out.”

Mor arched a brow, stepping closer. “And what about you? Shouldn’t you be inside, causing chaos?”

“I could,” Alev said with a mock-serious nod. “But then I wouldn’t get to see all of your reactions to this.” He gestured toward the garden, where Eris had just twirled you again, your dress fanning out as you laughed.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around him, his expression unreadable. “What do you want, Alev?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alev said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just thought I’d join the peanut gallery for a moment. Watching Eris act like an actual person is a rare event, after all. Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Feyre tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Alev’s grin softened, just slightly. “Why would I be? He’s always been like this with her. The rest of you just never get to see it.”

That earned a flicker of interest from Rhysand, who regarded Alev with his usual inscrutable expression. “You’re saying this is common?”

“With her? Absolutely,” Alev replied, his gaze drifting back to the garden. “With everyone else? Not so much. She’s… different for him. Special.”

Cassian scoffed, but there was no real malice in it. “Hard to imagine Eris Vanserra being soft for anyone.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Alev shot back, his tone still light but carrying an edge. “You’ve all only ever seen the mask he wears for court. That’s not who he is—not completely.”

Rhys’s violet eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’d defend him, after everything?”

Alev’s smirk faded, and for a moment, his gaze hardened. “I’m not defending him,” he said quietly. “I’m just saying there’s more to him than you know. That’s all.”

The inner circle exchanged glances, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

“And if you’ll excuse me,” Alev added, his usual smirk returning, “I’ve got a drink waiting for me inside. Enjoy the show.”

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving them to mull over his words as they returned their attention to the rain-drenched garden below.

The rain had picked up slightly, but you hardly noticed, lost in the rhythm of Eris’s movements as he twirled you around the garden. The music from the ballroom drifted faintly on the air, but the sound of your laughter drowned it out, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Eris spun you faster this time, his hand firm on yours, the other resting at the small of your back. You let out a surprised laugh, swatting at his arm when the spinning became a little too enthusiastic.

“Eris!” you exclaimed, breathless. “You’re going to make me fall.”

He smirked, the playful glint in his golden eyes shining brighter than the lanterns. “I’d never let you fall, my love,” he replied, his voice smooth and teasing. “But you do look rather adorable when you’re dizzy.”

Before you could retort, he abruptly caught you mid-spin and pulled you close, dipping you dramatically. The world tilted, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, but his grip was unyielding, his strength evident even in the gentlest touch.

“I’ll have to remember that move,” he teased, his fiery hair falling slightly into his eyes as he leaned down. “It keeps you right where I want you.”

Your heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze, at the way the rain clung to his lashes and dampened the sharp lines of his face. “You’re impossible,” you said, though your voice lacked any true heat.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting, tantalizing kiss.

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. “For now.”

He arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Careful, little fox,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he dipped you even lower, his grip unshakable. “You wouldn’t want me to think you’re challenging me.”

The rain fell heavier now, but the warmth of his breath against your skin, the steadiness of his hold, and the fire in his eyes made you forget the chill. Then, without warning, he kissed you again, this time deeper, his lips stealing the last of your breath and leaving you utterly lost in him.

When he finally pulled back, he straightened, bringing you with him as he set you back on your feet. “Admit it,” he said, his voice a mix of smugness and affection. “You’re having fun.”

You rolled your eyes, though your flushed cheeks and lingering smile betrayed you. “You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered, swatting his arm again.

He caught your hand this time, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before spinning you once more, his laughter blending with yours as the rain continued to fall.

Back on the balcony, the inner circle remained transfixed, watching the scene unfold below. Eris’s laughter—actual, genuine laughter—carried faintly through the rain, blending with the sound of your own.

Cassian let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. “I think I’ve seen everything now. Eris Vanserra laughing, smiling, and dancing in the rain? Who knew he had it in him.”

Mor leaned against the railing, her golden hair glinting faintly in the lantern light. “It’s not just the laughing,” she said, her voice quieter, more contemplative. “Look at him. He’s… happy. Like, actually happy.”

“That’s what love will do to you,” Feyre murmured, her lips curving into a small smile as she watched Eris dip you low, your laughter ringing out like a melody.

Amren snorted from her seat, her sharp silver eyes flicking briefly toward the scene. “Or madness. The line between the two is thinner than most think.”

Azriel, standing slightly apart from the group, didn’t respond. His shadows swirled around him, reflecting the tension in his stance, but his gaze remained fixed on Eris. “He’s not who we thought he was,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Rhysand, who had been quiet for some time, rested his hands on the balcony rail, his violet eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No,” he agreed. “He’s not.”

The High Lord’s gaze flicked to Alev’s empty chair, a shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. “His brother wasn’t wrong. We’ve only seen the side of him that benefits his games. This…” He gestured vaguely to the garden below, where Eris had just spun you again, your dress fanning out as you swatted at him, both of you laughing. “This is new. For us, at least.”

“And you’re telling me this,” Cassian said, pointing toward Eris with an incredulous look, “is the same bastard who tried to burn Lucien alive as a kid? The same Eris who—”

“Yes,” Rhys said simply, cutting him off. “But people are more complicated than their worst moments, Cassian. He’s been playing a role for a long time. Maybe too long.”

Cassian grunted, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t argue further.

Mor crossed her arms, her gaze still fixed on the garden. “Do you think he’s changed?”

“Not entirely,” Rhys replied, his tone careful. “But maybe he’s… trying.”

“Or maybe she’s the one who changes him,” Feyre added softly, her eyes warm as she watched you laugh and lean into Eris’s chest.

Amren huffed. “Let’s not start romanticizing the brute just yet. A few dances in the rain don’t erase centuries of cruelty.”

“No,” Feyre agreed, turning her gaze toward Rhys. “But it does mean there’s more to him than we thought. And maybe that’s worth watching.”

As the conversation continued, Eris dipped you once more, pressing a kiss to your lips that left you smiling even as the rain began to drench your hair and dress. The sight of his rare, unguarded happiness lingered in their minds, sparking a quiet, uneasy realization: the man they thought they knew might not be the whole story after all.

The rain, which had started as a light drizzle, suddenly intensified into a downpour. The soft patter turned into a symphony of heavy drops, soaking through your dress and Eris’s fine clothes in seconds.

You let out a startled laugh, trying to shield your face with your hands as the water cascaded down. “Eris!” you exclaimed, blinking against the deluge. “This is no longer romantic—it’s a storm!”

Eris, his fiery hair plastered to his forehead, grinned mischievously. “Didn’t you say you wanted an unforgettable night, little fox?”

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand, tugging you forward with an energy that made your heart race. “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” you called, laughing even as you stumbled after him.

“To the other side of the garden!” he shouted over the roar of the rain, his voice carrying above the chaos.

The two of you darted through the garden, your soaked skirts clinging to your legs and slowing your pace. Eris kept a firm grip on your hand, guiding you expertly around puddles and flowerbeds as you both ran toward the sheltered pavilion on the far side.

The rain lashed harder, drenching every inch of you, but neither of you seemed to care. Your laughter mingled with the storm, and despite the chill, there was a warmth in the way Eris glanced back at you, his golden eyes bright with exhilaration.

Finally, you reached the pavilion, the stone archway offering a reprieve from the downpour. You collapsed against one of the columns, breathless and laughing, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

Eris joined you, his hands braced on either side of the column as he leaned in close, droplets of rain rolling down his sharp jawline. “You’re drenched,” he said, his tone teasing but his gaze soft.

“So are you,” you shot back, flicking a strand of wet hair from your face.

He chuckled, his fingers reaching up to tuck the errant strand behind your ear. “You look beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his words. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, though your smile betrayed your affection.

“And you love me for it,” he replied, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your rain-slicked lips.

For a moment, the world faded—the storm, the ball, the weight of the crown Eris now wore. It was just the two of you, drenched and laughing, hidden away in your own little corner of the garden.

The inner circle remained on the balcony, now huddled beneath the stone awning to avoid the storm's reach. The rain lashed against the marble, a distant echo to the laughter that had accompanied you and Eris as you darted out of sight into the garden. The scene below was empty now, the storm masking all but the faint music from the ballroom.

Lucien approached from the stairwell, his auburn hair slightly damp, his gold and russet eye catching the flickering light of the lanterns. He paused when he saw them, his lips curving into a wry smile.

“You’re all watching him like he’s some sort of rare creature in the wild,” he said, crossing his arms as he joined them at the railing.

Cassian leaned against the stone, smirking. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t worth watching. Your brother, spinning his wife like a lovestruck fool in the middle of a downpour?” He chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Lucien arched a brow, his good eye narrowing slightly. “Careful, Cassian. Eris isn’t as oblivious as you’d like to think. He’s likely aware of every one of you standing here gawking.”

Mor scoffed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He didn’t even glance this way. He was too busy playing prince charming.”

“He didn’t need to,” Lucien said, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Eris always knows his surroundings, especially now. But I suppose none of you would understand how much that crown weighs—on him, on her.”

Rhysand tilted his head slightly, watching Lucien with mild curiosity. “You sound almost… sympathetic, Lucien.”

Lucien shrugged, his gaze drifting toward the rain-soaked garden. “I know what it’s like to have people assume they know you, to reduce you to your worst moments. And I know what it’s like to see someone you care about carry more than they should.”

His words hung in the air, a quiet truth none of them could argue.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter, his voice breaking the silence. “Do you believe he’s changed?”

Lucien hesitated, his jaw tightening as if weighing his words. “I believe he’s trying. For her, for their-... And that’s more than I ever thought possible.”

Feyre studied him, her expression softening. “You’ve seen it firsthand, haven’t you?”

Lucien nodded, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “He’s still Eris—sharp edges and all. But when he’s with her…” His gaze flicked to the garden again, where the rain still fell heavily. “It’s like those edges dull, just a little. He loves her. Fiercely. And I think that scares him as much as it comforts him.”

Cassian snorted, shaking his head. “Fierce or not, he’s still the same arrogant bastard who—”

“Cassian,” Rhys warned, his tone light but carrying enough weight to make the Illyrian warrior pause.

Lucien’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a dangerous gleam in his russet eye as he turned toward Cassian. “He is arrogant,” he agreed smoothly. “And he’s made mistakes. But don’t let your biases blind you to what’s in front of you.”

Mor looked ready to interject, but Rhys raised a hand, silencing her. “That’s enough,” he said, his gaze lingering on Lucien. “We’re not here to pass judgment—yet.”

Lucien inclined his head, though the tension in his frame didn’t ease. “Just remember, Rhysand. Whatever you think of Eris, she chose him. And she seems happy.”

With that, Lucien stepped back, his gaze once again drawn to the stormy garden. His expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face before he turned and walked back into the ballroom, leaving the inner circle to ponder his words in silence.

The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets as Eris led you deeper into the garden, his steps purposeful despite the mud slicking the stone paths. The storm seemed to heighten everything—the cool, wet air against your skin, the pounding of your heart, the way his golden eyes burned with something primal and unrestrained.

Before you could fully process his intent, he stopped abruptly, turning to face you. Without a word, his hands slid to your waist, and in one swift, commanding movement, he pressed you back against the soft grass beneath the open sky.

“Eris,” you murmured, your voice breathless as your hands instinctively reached up to grip the lapels of his soaked coat.

He leaned down, his body caging yours, every line of him sharp and unyielding against the storm’s chaos. “Shh, little fox,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver through you. “You’re mine tonight. All of you.”

His lips descended on yours, fierce and demanding, yet somehow achingly tender. The rain pelted down around you, but you barely felt it, too consumed by the heat of his kiss. His hands roamed your sides, his touch grounding you even as it left you utterly undone.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours with a skill that left you breathless. You arched into him, your fingers threading through his damp hair as his hand slid to the curve of your hip, pulling you impossibly closer.

When he finally broke the kiss, his lips brushed against your jaw, your neck, trailing heat in their wake. “You drive me mad,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and unguarded. “Do you know that?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your voice a trembling whisper as you replied, “You’re one to talk.”

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you as he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze. The storm raged on around you, but in his eyes, there was only fire—fire that promised he’d never let you go.

“You’re mine,” he said again, the words a vow as his lips claimed yours once more, his body sheltering you from the storm even as his kiss consumed you completely.

Eris pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your rain-cooled skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His golden eyes roamed over your face, his expression caught somewhere between reverence and possessiveness, as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You opened your mouth to say something, to tease him or demand another kiss, but he beat you to it. “I should take you back inside,” he murmured, though his hands stayed firm on your hips, pinning you to the soft, rain-drenched earth. “But I can’t seem to let you go.”

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing a soaked strand of his hair away from his face. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His grin was slow and wicked, the kind that always made your pulse race. “Is that so?” he asked, lowering his lips to the hollow of your throat, pressing a kiss there that made you shiver despite the heat pooling in your stomach.

The rain continued to fall, soaking through both your clothes and the soft earth beneath you, but neither of you cared. Eris shifted slightly, his body a solid, grounding weight against yours, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, his thumbs tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

“You’re everything to me, little fox,” he said softly, his voice raw with emotion. “Do you know that? My world begins and ends with you.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, though you weren’t sure if it was from the intensity of his words or the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered. “Eris,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I love you. More than anything.”

His breath hitched at your words, his lips parting as if to respond, but instead, he kissed you again, pouring every ounce of his devotion into it.

The storm raged on, but in that moment, nothing else existed—just you, Eris, and the fire that burned between you, unquenchable even by the rain.

-----

The ballroom carried on in its lively revelry, the swirling gowns and vibrant music disguising the absence of its new High Lord and his lady. Most were too engrossed in their conversations, drinks, or dances to notice that Eris and you had slipped away, though the inner circle, seated near the grand doors, had kept an eye on the evening’s events with quiet curiosity.

Feyre, lounging at the table beside Rhysand, tilted her head toward the doorway, her brows furrowing. “Do you see that?” she murmured, her voice low but sharp enough to catch her companions’ attention.

Cassian, who had been nursing his drink, looked up and followed her gaze. Near the doorway, a small figure stood hesitantly, his auburn hair glinting in the flickering light of the chandeliers. His clothes were finely made but slightly rumpled, as if he’d been running or hiding.

“That’s a child,” Mor said, her tone incredulous. “What in the Mother’s name is a child doing here? This isn’t exactly a family gathering.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter around him as he observed the boy. “He’s too young to be here alone,” he said quietly. “Someone should—”

Before he could finish, Feyre gestured toward Lucien, who was standing nearby. “Lucien,” she called, her voice cutting across the noise. “Come here for a moment.”

Lucien approached, his gaze sharp as he followed their pointed looks toward the boy. The moment he saw him, his body stiffened, his eyes widening in recognition. “Azer?” he muttered under his breath before suddenly striding forward.

The inner circle exchanged puzzled glances as they watched Lucien kneel in front of the boy, his expression softening as he gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Azer,” Lucien said, his tone both firm and kind. “What are you doing here, little one? Where’s your sitter?”

The boy’s wide, teary eyes looked up at him, his lower lip trembling. “There was… a fire in my room,” Azer hiccupped, his voice high and distressed. “She told me to step away.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “A fire?”

Azer nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I—I made a spark, Uncle Lucien,” he confessed, his tiny voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I could do that.”

The revelation hit Lucien hard, but he quickly scooped the boy into his arms, holding him close as Azer began to sob in earnest. “Shh, little fox,” he murmured, trying to calm him. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Where’s Mama? Dada?” Azer cried, his small hands clutching at Lucien’s tunic.

Lucien’s heart clenched at the desperate plea, but his focus remained on soothing the boy. He turned back toward the inner circle, carrying Azer with a protective arm around him.

As he approached, the group’s expressions ranged from confusion to shock. Feyre, in particular, seemed stunned. “That’s—” she started, her gaze darting between Azer and Lucien. “Is he…?”

Lucien didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes,” he said shortly. “This is Azer. Eris and Y/N’s son.”

The table fell silent, the revelation striking like a thunderclap.

Cassian was the first to break the silence. “Wait, Eris has a kid? And no one told us?”

Mor blinked, her mouth opening and closing as if trying to find words. “How… when…?”

Before anyone could press further, Alev appeared, his expression one of mild alarm as he approached the group. “What’s going on?” he asked, his gaze flicking to Azer.

Lucien, his tone sharp, said, “Azer lit a spark in his room. It’s his first time using his powers.”

Alev’s face paled, his hand instinctively running through his hair. “Oh, cauldron,” he muttered. “This might be my fault. I told him a story earlier—about how I accidentally set your curtains on fire. He must’ve…”

Lucien’s glare was deadly. “You what?”

Azer hiccupped, his small body trembling in Lucien’s arms. “I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed, his face buried in Lucien’s shoulder. “I just wanted to see if I could make a spark like Uncle Alev.”

Alev looked stricken, his guilt plain as he reached out to touch Azer’s back. “Little fox, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to try that.”

The inner circle exchanged stunned glances, their earlier judgments of Eris and you now tempered by the sight of the distraught child.

Rhysand, always the calmest, leaned back in his chair and said quietly, “Well, this certainly explains a few things.”

“It explains everything,” Feyre added softly, her gaze lingering on Azer, who clung to Lucien as though his life depended on it.

Cassian let out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “So, not only does Eris have a kid, but he’s been hiding him? Makes you wonder what else he’s keeping secret.”

“More like why he hid him,” Mor added, her voice laced with sharpness. “If he was so proud of his son, why wouldn’t he—”

“Enough,” Lucien snapped, his voice cutting through their remarks like a blade.

The group stilled, turning to face him. Lucien’s expression was uncharacteristically hard, his russet eye blazing with anger while his mechanical one whirred faintly as it focused on each of them. Azer, still clinging to him, hiccupped softly, his tiny hands fisting in Lucien’s tunic.

“You can say what you want about me,” Lucien began, his voice low and fierce. “And you can say what you want about Eris. But you will not speak of Azer like he’s some kind of scandal to be dissected.”

“Lucien—” Feyre started, but he cut her off with a glare.

“No,” he said firmly. “You don’t understand. Azer wasn’t hidden because Eris wasn’t proud of him. He was hidden because he was born during Beron’s rule.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at the mention of Beron, the former High Lord of Autumn whose cruelty was well-known.

“If Beron had known Azer existed,” Lucien continued, his voice shaking with restrained fury, “he wouldn’t have lived to see his first birthday. Eris and Y/N kept him hidden to protect him, not because they were ashamed.”

Mor’s expression softened slightly, but her tone remained skeptical. “I’m not saying they didn’t have reasons, Lucien. But keeping a child secret for years—”

“You don’t get to judge them,” Lucien bit out, his tone sharp. “You have no idea what it was like in this court. What it took to survive, let alone to keep a child safe.” He adjusted Azer in his arms, his hold protective. “Azer is not to be a topic on your tongues. Not now, not ever.”

Azriel, who had been silent until now, leaned forward slightly, his shadows curling tighter around him. “We weren’t trying to judge the child,” he said carefully. “But it’s… surprising. That’s all.”

Lucien’s gaze narrowed, but he nodded curtly. “Surprising or not, Azer is off-limits. I don’t care what you think of me or Eris, but you will leave him out of it. He’s innocent in all of this.”

The inner circle exchanged glances, a mixture of unease and understanding passing between them. Rhysand finally spoke, his tone measured. “Fair enough, Lucien. We’ll respect your wishes.”

Lucien’s shoulders relaxed marginally, but the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. “Good. Because Azer isn’t just Eris’s son. He’s my nephew. And I won’t let anyone treat him like he’s some kind of stain on our family.”

Azer whimpered softly, his little voice breaking through the tense silence. “I want Mama and Dada.”

Lucien’s expression softened immediately, and he pressed a kiss to the boy’s rain-damp hair. “I know, little fox,” he murmured. “We’ll find them soon.”

For the first time, the inner circle seemed to see Azer not as a symbol of Eris’s secrets but as a scared, vulnerable child. And in that moment, no one dared say another word.

Alev came rushing back into the ballroom, his normally composed expression frazzled as his eyes scanned the crowd. His coat was slightly askew, his hair damp from the rain outside.

“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said breathlessly, his voice tight with frustration as he approached Lucien and the inner circle. “I can’t find Eris or Y/N anywhere.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened as he shifted Azer, still rocking the boy gently in his arms. Azer clung to him, his tiny fingers fisting in Lucien’s tunic, his sobs quieter now but no less heart-wrenching.

“Keep your voice down,” Lucien hissed, glancing around to ensure no one else overheard.

“They’re probably somewhere in the gardens,” Alev muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s pouring out there, and they’re not answering any of the usual signals.”

Before Lucien could respond, a soft but firm voice interrupted. “Azer? What are you doing down here?”

Everyone turned to see Lady Arlene, her elegant figure framed by the light from the grand chandeliers. She moved with a regal grace, her auburn hair swept up, her amber eyes sharp but filled with concern. Helion followed closely behind her, his expression curious as his golden gaze flicked to Azer.

“Mother,” Lucien said, his voice heavy with relief.

Arlene’s eyes widened when they fell on her grandson, who was still trembling in Lucien’s arms. Her expression softened instantly as she stepped closer, her skirts brushing the floor. “What happened?” she asked, her voice gentle as she reached out to stroke Azer’s hair.

Lucien sighed, his grip on Azer tightening protectively. “There was a fire in his room,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “He… lit a spark. For the first time.”

Arlene froze, her hand stilling against Azer’s curls. “A fire?” she repeated, her tone laced with both shock and understanding. “Oh, my little firefox.”

Azer sniffled, lifting his tear-streaked face to look at her. “I didn’t mean to, Grandmama,” he whimpered. “I just wanted to try like Uncle Alev said.”

Alev visibly winced, muttering, “I really shouldn’t have told him that story.”

Arlene shot him a pointed look but said nothing, focusing instead on her grandson. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Powers like yours can be tricky at first.”

Helion stepped forward then, his golden armour glinting in the light. His expression was equal parts curiosity and pride as he looked at Azer. “First sparks, hmm?” he said, his voice warm and deep. “A sign of strength, little one. Nothing to fear.”

Azer sniffled again, his big, teary eyes meeting Helion’s. “But I scared my babysitter. And I couldn’t find Mama and Dada.”

Lucien tightened his hold, rocking Azer gently. “They’ll be back soon,” he promised. “You’re safe now.”

Arlene exchanged a glance with Helion, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ll go find them,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Helion nodded, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ll come with you.”

As they turned to leave, Arlene glanced back at Azer, her expression softening once more. “Stay with your uncle, little fox. I’ll bring your parents back to you.”

Azer nodded weakly, his head resting against Lucien’s shoulder. The boy was exhausted, his earlier sobs having worn him out, but the occasional hiccup still shook his small frame.

The inner circle watched the exchange in silence, a mix of emotions flickering across their faces. Feyre’s gaze lingered on Azer, her expression unreadable, while Cassian and Mor exchanged wary looks. Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp as they followed Arlene and Helion’s retreating forms.

Lucien finally broke the silence, his voice low and firm. “Say what you want about Eris and me, but Azer isn’t up for discussion, I said it more than once but I'll say it again. Not tonight, not ever. He’s a child—a good child—and he deserves better than to be the subject of your scrutiny.”

Feyre nodded slowly, her tone soft as she said, “You’re right. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Lucien’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the fire in his gaze didn’t dim. He glanced down at Azer, his voice softening as he murmured, “You’re safe, little fox. Your parents will be here soon.”

As the room settled into a tense quiet, Azer stirred in Lucien’s arms, his hiccups subsiding into soft breaths. He sniffled, his small hands clutching at Lucien’s tunic as he lifted his tear-streaked face. His wide, amber eyes—so much like his father’s—scanned the room, landing on Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand.

Azer blinked, his curiosity breaking through the haze of his earlier tears. “Why do they have wings?” he asked, his voice small but clear as he pointed a tiny finger toward the three Illyrians.

The question caught everyone off guard, and for a moment, the tension in the room softened. Cassian exchanged a glance with Azriel, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We were born with them,” Cassian said, leaning back in his chair and giving his wings an exaggerated stretch. “They’re part of being Illyrian.”

Azer tilted his head, his small brows furrowing in confusion. “What’s an Illyrian?”

“They’re warriors,” Lucien explained gently, his tone patient. “They come from a different part of the Night Court.”

Azer’s eyes grew even wider as he looked back at the three males. “Warriors? Like Dada?”

Azriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though his shadows curled tighter around him. “Something like that,” he said quietly.

Cassian chuckled, his grin widening. “I bet we could teach you a thing or two about being a warrior, little one.”

Lucien shot him a sharp look. “He’s three, Cassian. Let’s not give him ideas.”

Azer ignored the exchange, his attention fixated on Rhysand now. “Can I have wings too?”

Rhysand, who had been watching the interaction with quiet amusement, leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I don’t think wings are something you can grow, little one,” he said, his tone light. “But you don’t need them to be strong. You’ve got fire in your veins, just like your father.”

Azer’s face scrunched up as he considered this, then turned back to Lucien. “But wings would be fun,” he insisted, his small voice earnest.

Lucien sighed, a soft chuckle escaping him despite himself. “You’ll have to make do without them, little fox.”

The inner circle exchanged subtle glances, their earlier wariness giving way to quiet intrigue as they observed the boy’s innocent curiosity. For a moment, the weight of secrets and past grievances seemed to lift, replaced by the simple wonder of a child discovering the world around him.

Azer’s gaze lingered on the Illyrians for a moment longer before he nestled back into Lucien’s shoulder, his tiny voice murmuring, “Maybe one day…”

Lucien smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Maybe one day,” he agreed, his voice filled with quiet affection.

The tension in the room only deepened when Lady Arlene, Helion, and Alev returned, their faces marked with worry. Alev’s hair was even more dishevelled than before, and both Arlene and Helion looked like they had braved the worsening storm outside.

“No sign of them,” Arlene announced, her voice tight as she approached Lucien and Azer. “The gardens are sprawling, and the rain is turning into a storm. They could be anywhere.”

Helion placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, though his own concern was evident. “They’re clever. They’ll be fine. But we should keep searching.”

Azer, still in Lucien’s arms, babbled softly to himself, seemingly unaware of the adults’ growing unease. His little voice carried a mix of words and toddler gibberish, his fingers playing with the collar of Lucien’s tunic. His eyes, though still red-rimmed from crying, were wide with curiosity as he noticed the way Azriel’s shadows danced around him.

“’Shadows,” Azer murmured, his small hand stretching out toward the wisps of darkness that curled and swirled around Azriel like living things. “Wanna play.”

Azriel glanced down at the boy, his expression unreadable. His shadows seemed to hesitate for a moment before one daring tendril crept closer, teasingly twirling around Azer’s outstretched fingers.

Azer giggled softly, the sound tinged with sniffles as he tried to grab at the shadow. “Gotcha!” he exclaimed, his toddler speech slightly garbled. “No… no run!”

Azriel allowed a rare, faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips as his shadow darted away, only to circle back and flick at Azer’s tiny fingers.

Lucien sighed, adjusting Azer in his arms as he watched the interaction. “Don’t encourage him, Azriel,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

“I’m not doing anything,” Azriel replied smoothly, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Azer giggled again, distracted from the earlier upset as he babbled nonsense words to the shadow, his sniffles gradually fading. The storm outside intensified, the sound of rain pounding against the grand windows of the ballroom filling the room.

Arlene stepped closer, her hand brushing over Azer’s curls. “We need to find them,” she said softly, her worry now etched plainly on her face.

Helion nodded, his gaze moving toward the doors. “They can’t have gone far, even with the storm. We’ll keep searching.”

Alev, standing nearby, hesitated before adding, “I’ll check the garden pathways again. Maybe they found cover somewhere.”

As the adults strategized, Azer turned his attention back to Azriel’s shadows, a tiny smile breaking through his lingering tears. His little hand swiped through the air again as he mumbled, “Come back, shadow. No hide!”

The sight of the toddler’s innocent determination seemed to soften even the tension between the inner circle and the Vanserras, at least for a moment. But the storm outside raged on, a reminder that the ones they were all looking for were still nowhere to be found.

-----

The storm had turned the garden into a shimmering maze, the rain coming down in heavy sheets that drenched everything in its path. You ran through it, your laughter ringing out despite the chaos, your hand clasped tightly in Eris’s. The muddy ground squelched beneath your feet, and your gown, once pristine, clung to your body, the fabric soaked through.

Eris, his hair plastered to his forehead, glanced back at you, his golden eyes alight with amusement even as the rain poured down around you both. “You’re going to ruin that dress,” he teased, though his own immaculate attire wasn’t faring much better.

“Better the dress than my ankles!” you shot back, already fumbling to pull off your soaked shoes. The delicate heels were no match for the slippery garden paths, and you nearly tripped as you tugged them free.

Eris caught you before you could fall, his strong hands steadying you as he grinned. “Careful, love. I’d hate for you to twist an ankle before our grand re-entrance.”

You laughed breathlessly, finally kicking the shoes off and tossing them onto the wet grass. “I think it’s a little late for grand, don’t you?”

Eris raised a brow, clearly unbothered by the state of your dishevelled appearance. “You forget who you’re with.” His voice was low, teasing, and entirely too self-assured as he pulled you closer. “I can make anything grand.”

Rolling your eyes, you tugged him forward, your bare feet splashing through puddles as you both ran toward the faint glow of the ballroom ahead. The rain was relentless, but it only added to the thrill of the moment, each step a mix of wild abandon and shared laughter.

As you reached the edge of the gardens, the sound of music from the ballroom grew louder, mingling with the rhythm of the rain. You paused for a moment under the partial cover of a sprawling oak tree, catching your breath as Eris leaned down, his hands braced on his knees.

“You know,” you panted, brushing wet strands of hair from your face, “we probably look ridiculous.”

Eris straightened, his golden eyes gleaming despite the storm. “We look like royalty,” he said smugly, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “Just… slightly soggier than usual.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed his hand again. “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get back inside before they send a search party.”

As you reached the edge of the gardens, the rain pelting down harder than ever, Eris tugged you back beneath the shelter of a sprawling oak tree. His golden eyes glimmered with mischief as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Do we really have to go back inside?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, barely audible over the storm. “The ballroom’s full of people I’d rather avoid… and you’re far more interesting.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours, warm and insistent despite the chill of the rain soaking through both your clothes. His hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your damp hair as he kissed you with a fervour that made you momentarily forget the storm raging around you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven. “Why don’t we just stay out here?” he suggested, his tone teasing but his intent unmistakable. “The rain, the grass… It’s far better than listening to advisors drone on or exchanging pleasantries with people who don’t matter.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though your teeth chattered from the cold. “Eris, it’s freezing, and we’re both covered in muck. Look at us!”

He glanced down, his shirt clinging to his chest and the once-immaculate fabric smeared with dirt. His boots were caked with mud, and your gown was a waterlogged mess. He grinned, utterly unbothered. “We’ve looked worse. And I still think you’re stunning.”

You swatted at his chest, though it lacked any real force. “As flattering as that is, I’m not about to let my teeth chatter out of my skull just to indulge you.”

Eris sighed dramatically, though his grin remained. “You ruin all my fun, you know that?”

You arched a brow, stepping back and tugging him toward the glowing lights of the ballroom. “Come on, High Lord. Let’s go before the muck starts seeping into places it shouldn’t.”

Eris followed reluctantly, though his hand remained firmly clasped in yours. “Fine,” he said, his tone half playful, half resigned. “But don’t think for a second that I’m done with you tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, your heart still pounding from the intensity of his kiss. “You’re insatiable,” you muttered, though the warmth in your chest betrayed how much you loved it.

“And you’re freezing,” he shot back with a smirk. “Let’s get you inside before you catch cold.”

The grand ballroom was alive with music and chatter as you and Eris entered, soaked from the rain and slightly dishevelled. The golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, a stark contrast to the storm still raging outside. Water dripped from the hem of your dress, forming a small trail as you both walked further in. You reached up to smooth your hair, hoping to appear somewhat presentable, but Eris was already scanning the room, his sharp eyes cutting through the crowd.

It was then that his entire demeanour shifted. His gaze landed on Lucien, seated at a table near the far side of the ballroom, cradling a familiar bundle in his arms. Eris froze for a fraction of a second, his shoulders tensing before he took off in a sprint, leaving you to trail behind him, startled.

The inner circle, seated with Lucien and Azer, noticed Eris immediately. Cassian leaned back in his chair, exchanging a look with Rhysand and Feyre. They’d spent the past hour piecing together the puzzle of the little boy, thanks to Lucien’s quiet but firm explanation, but now they were about to witness the truth first-hand.

Eris reached Lucien in moments, his golden eyes darting over Azer’s tear-streaked face. Azer was clutching Lucien’s tunic with trembling fingers, his breaths coming in quick hiccups as his wide amber eyes filled with tears.

���Dada!” Azer cried out, reaching for Eris with both arms. His voice cracked with the effort, his small body shaking as his emotions overwhelmed him.

Eris immediately knelt, his hands steady as he took Azer from Lucien’s arms. “Shh, little firefox,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the storm of worry in his gaze. “I’m here. Dada’s here.”

Azer buried his face in Eris’s soaked chest, sobbing uncontrollably. His little fists clutched at Eris’s tunic, his cries muffled but heart-wrenching. The room seemed to shrink as the High Lord of Autumn cradled his son, his usual composed mask cracking just enough for those closest to see.

Lucien stood, his expression grim as he addressed Eris. “There was a fire,” he explained quietly, his voice laced with both worry and frustration. “The babysitter told him to step away, but… Azer lit the spark. His powers manifested for the first time.”

Eris’s jaw tightened, his pride momentarily overshadowed by the need to comfort his son. “He’s alright?” he asked, his voice steady but low.

“He’s fine,” Lucien assured him. “Just shaken. And terrified.”

Eris closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a kiss to Azer’s curls. “It’s okay, little one,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. You’re so brave.”

Azer tried to speak, but his words came out in broken sobs. “D-Dada… fire… I—”

“Shh,” Eris soothed, rubbing small circles on Azer’s back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just like me, aren’t you? Full of fire.”

The pride in his voice was subtle, carefully masked by his fatherly concern, but those who knew him well could hear it. Cassian and Azriel, who had been quietly observing, exchanged a glance before stepping forward.

“You’ll soak him through,” Azriel said, his voice calm as he shrugged off his jacket. Cassian did the same, handing theirs to Eris.

“Wrap him in these,” Cassian added, his tone unusually soft.

Eris hesitated for a moment, his pride warring with practicality, before taking the jackets and wrapping them around Azer’s trembling form. The little boy clung to him, his cries quieting to soft hiccups as the warmth of the jackets and his father’s presence surrounded him.

The inner circle continued to watch, their expressions ranging from surprise to quiet understanding. This was not the cold, calculating High Lord they had expected. This was a father—protective, proud, and deeply devoted to his son.

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he observed Eris murmuring soft reassurances to Azer. “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said quietly, his voice just loud enough for Feyre to hear.

Feyre glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “There’s more to him than we realized,” she said.

“Clearly,” Rhysand replied, watching as Eris stood, cradling Azer close as if shielding him from the world.

The moment you spotted Eris standing with Azer wrapped in the jackets, your heart clenched. You ran toward them, your bare feet still damp from the rain, your gown dragging slightly behind you. The sight of your little boy nestled against his father, his tear-streaked face peeking out from the folds of fabric, was enough to quicken your pace.

As you reached them, you instinctively placed a hand on Eris’s arm, your gaze immediately falling to Azer. “What happened? Is he okay?” you asked breathlessly, brushing damp curls from your son’s forehead.

“He’s fine,” Eris assured you softly, his golden eyes meeting yours. “Just a little shaken. He—”

Lucien cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I’ll explain later,” he said, his voice low but steady. “He’s alright now, though.”

It was then you noticed the table behind them, where a group of unfamiliar faces watched the interaction with curious and calculating eyes. You quickly straightened, smoothing your sodden dress as best you could.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” you said, addressing the group with a polite smile despite your racing heart. “I’m Y/N, Eris’s wife. Thank you for… for helping with Azer. It means more than you know.”

The High Lady of Night Court—Feyre, you recognized her from Eris’s descriptions—was the first to speak. She stood, her expression warm and welcoming. “It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N,” she said. “You have a beautiful family.”

You smiled, a touch nervously, as the others introduced themselves: Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, and Mor. Their gazes flicked between you, Eris, and Azer, a mix of curiosity and guarded interest in their eyes.

Azer squirmed slightly in Eris’s arms, his small hand reaching out for you. “Mama,” he mumbled, his voice still thick from crying.

You took him gently, cradling him close as he rested his head on your shoulder. His little body relaxed almost immediately in your embrace, though his pout remained firmly in place.

“This is a boring ball,” he mumbled, his tone disgruntled.

The room went silent for a beat before laughter rippled through the group. Even Eris let out a low chuckle, his hand resting on your back as you shook your head, biting back a smile.

“Well,” you said, kissing the top of Azer’s head, “he’s not wrong.”

Cassian grinned, leaning back in his chair. “I like this kid,” he said, earning a glare from Eris that only made him smirk wider.

Azer peeked up from your shoulder, his amber eyes still wet but curious as they scanned the group. He gave a little sniffle, then buried his face back against you with a contented sigh.

“Thank you,” you said again, your voice softer now as you looked at the group. “For everything.”

Feyre smiled warmly. “He’s lucky to have you both.”

You nodded, your heart swelling as you looked down at Azer. Despite the chaos of the night, everything felt a little more steady now with him in your arms.