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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)

EVENT HORIZON: The line crossed beyond which return is impossible.

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!

Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.

The sound was distant, quelled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries slashing through the night, wounded, helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made little, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. It cried, night after night, with the same pitiful wails, like it were fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.

And the mother?

Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big white house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged, but it was polished, the porch steps stayed sturdy, and the windows were wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.

Though it wasn’t warm.

Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside, ever.

No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.

Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

Because he could hear it. And it sounded fucking miserable, and he’d had enough.

When the cries began to get worse in the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind blew at him, biting into his skin, augmenting his edge, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.

But—he hesitated.

There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby, nevertheless, and its struggling mother.

He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, unchanging raps.

A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.

The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.

The poor mother looked like hell.

Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her long hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.

And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer, desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing, thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”

She trailed off as if the words had run out, or she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like the sound had physically struck her. She turned away, pushing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.

And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—

“Let me try.”

Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.

Didn’t stop to think if he had the right or question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened once more, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.

It was beyond audacity or desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now, and with it came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.

Leela's house smelled faintly of old wood, old cotton, dust, and a softness underneath—like sun-warmed linen, the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never once left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were lumbering against the worn floorboards, his breaths crowding in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Nearly six doors on the second floor as far as he could see, but only one was open.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, definitely placed there on purpose, a meagre little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.

Old. The hinges were barely holding together. The wood had whittled away from time, its edges dulled, a possible relic that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the flowery sheets were neatly tucked and arranged properly. Everything was in its place.

This wasn’t neglect.

This was someone trying—failing.

And then the baby. The newborn, should he say. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red against the tanned skin, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It didn’t take a dumbass like him to know it was starving, wasting away with exhaustion.

But goddamn, if that wasn’t one beautiful fucking baby.

Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy, glinting, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, clammy and curling at the ends like downy little question marks. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.

His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until the mother's voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”

He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”

She stopped short, her lips parting. She swallowed down whatever she’d been about to say.

“Girl,” she breathed.

Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.

“You fed her anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—

“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried some water... um... I don't know.”

Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this baby girl—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn, dreadful mother.

“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.

Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”

He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”

She flinched, shoulders jerking.

He barely registered his words drawing blood. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he assumed had died a long time ago.

Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid spine. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail, small thing, light as air, fists still curled, breaths coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between screeching cries.

Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath as uneven as her baby’s, arms wrapped around herself as though she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.

Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the newborn. On how her delicate limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.

He started rubbing gentle, calming circles against her back, one that had been taught to him by a kind nurse in the maternity ward decades ago, and as the calloused warmth of his palm pressed softly but firmly over her fragile bones, he remembered. The old, terrible sentiment stirred in him—buried deep, and it twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. He simply kept stroking, kept murmuring, low, quiet, syllables he wasn’t even aware of.

“Thatta, girl. There you go.”

“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”

“I got you.”

The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—

Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.

Joel exhaled, keeping his touch measured as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.

“See? Just needed a little push,” he mumbled.

Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.

When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.

“She got a name?”

When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s hollow stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.

Joel’s hands closed around an imaginary gun as he frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”

And just like that, it clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything, not a nickname, no endearments. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice as she held herself together, unknowingly accosting a struggle.

“She’s yours, ain’t she? Whole damn town knows.”

Her gaze flickered, a firmness rising. “She is.”

After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.

Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop. Not mine, he assured himself.

He breathed out sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—

“Look,” he muttered, frustration leaching through, “you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do fuck all. Jesus, at least get yourself some help.”

Leela cringed, a barely noticeable flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.

The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing there. Only the empty gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers, all of which dropped an uneasy pebble in his stomach.

He exhaled sharply. “Maria’s coming in tomorrow,” he said, and as he did, he was setting it in stone. “Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do with... the baby.”

That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.

Not just the flawed mother behind the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralysing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.

Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. The baby girl had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with wildness, untamed endurance. But a fragility, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.

Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.

Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”

Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.

But she was looking at him, explicit, plain—eyes wide and glistening, breaths erratic like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—this woman meant it. She was serious.

“You're right,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I might kill her. Just take her away, please.”

A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for a handle to hold onto.

The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against puckered skin. She had gone quiet, her body motionless in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.

His hands twitched at his sides. He knew exactly what he should do. He should take the kid off her hands. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift that baby girl into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.

But Joel didn't move; couldn't bring himself to move.

Because now that he was looking at her, from his conscience, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not the blatant fear of Joel or the fear of what people might say. Fear of herself, as though he own conviction was a luxury.

Leela stood there, arms wrapped tight around her baby, herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, silent now, as if sensing the displacement around her. Her mother's fingers barely touch her, hesitant, weak, the way someone might hold a delicate, jagged piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.

A sharp and molten sense turned in his gut, rising fast—panic, maybe. Or that bone-deep realisation of what would happen.

“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out gruff, unwavering.

Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”

She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against the baby’s blanket, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

Joel had seen this before, known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made that ugly, cruel knot crest back in his chest, and made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, didn’t sit right.

Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment. To hold a second chance, brand new, all his.

"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, spired as arrows, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."

She flinched, as if he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.

Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back; the blood had been drawn.

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But there was something about this strange mother, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.

“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.

And with that, he turned and walked out the door.

The flurries of winter outside were colder than before, or maybe it only seemed that way. Snow scraped beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged pants in the quiet of the night. His knuckles ached from the tight fists he hadn't been able to loosen, his pulse still hammering.

Stupid mother. That poor child. There was truly no rest for the wicked.

He was halfway across the street when that resentment shifted.

His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her threadbare voice, her hands fluttering, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.

He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The big, white house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.

Joel looked up at the home.

The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.

He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.

This time, jaw tight, he turned away.

That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.

Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.

Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.

Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that, hadn’t knocked or hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door or even bothered to lock it after Joel had walked out last night.

He adjusted the rifle on his back and breathed out the concern.

Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part, in fact, more than his part. He had brought help in and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did, it's why the town counted on her to run it.

Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, silent and old, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. He related to that insentient home more than most people. Or the way Leela had stood in that dim nursery, shoulders curled inward, appearing more like a ghost than a person.

He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.

Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering about how he looked like shit.

“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.

By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his gloved hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, ensuring the gears weren't easy to jam, and stopped on the way home to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit. Soon enough, he was lugging a whole bottle home.

He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. It was an expression he repeated to himself, to anchor himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots or the floor beneath.

Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.

Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. “You good?”

Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”

He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. “All set over there?”

“Far from it.” Her voice was edgy, a sure point of contention. “I need your help.”

Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”

But Maria didn’t laugh, or even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.

Joel’s 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall, which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, and a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.

Joel didn’t let himself think about that house too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.

“Well?”

Maria sighed, staring out the window toward the street, and into his neighbour’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.

“She’s not okay, Joel.”

Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”

“No,” Maria said, sharper now. “I mean it.”

She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with a charge heavier than concern. She looked tired—unravelled—in a way that wasn’t merely about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.

Joel exhaled a breath, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.

Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s more disturbed than the last time I saw her a month ago. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “Look, I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, trusting and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”

Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”

“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”

Joel dragged a hand down his beard, letting go of an infuriated sigh. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“Joel, this is serious.”

“You want me to play babysitter to that terrible mom.”

Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his goddamn part here, hadn't he? He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home, a pretty face, and all that space. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. That was the hand she was dealt. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?

But Maria didn’t appear to be giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropped several octaves, and edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel. I know she did not.”

Joel stiffened, every muscle aching. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was implicit significance there, solemn enough that it didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.

She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.

“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”

Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.

Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.

The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, unfamiliar, and that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment at his venomous words, but with resignation.

As if she were handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness coiled around his stomach.

Joel knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.

This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.

Joel exhaled a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fuckin’ mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”

Maria nodded, hearing only what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You’ll figure it out. I’ll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.

Dewy dawn washed over his neighbour's house, alabaster and frigid, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect oversized home once, costing north of at least five mil, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, cavernous porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.

But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the disrepair of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost its vitality.

And the front door was open again.

Joel clenched his jaw.

Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, cautious, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.

Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A life suspended mid-thought. A place inhabited by a mind too consumed to fuss over the details of living.

Against one wall, three blackboards leaned slightly askew, their surfaces dense with math—long, elegant trails of equations and symbols that curled and darted in sharp, decisive strokes, a handwriting that came from obsession, not care. At their base lay a scatter of chalk nubs and crumpled paper, some balled tight, others torn through in places, as if discarded mid-frustration into a wastebasket that stood nearby, perpetually missing its mark.

Shelves lined the walls with quiet precision—solved Rubik’s cubes, notebooks snapped shut with elastic bands, rows of empty pens jammed upright in a clay mug. Everything had a place, yet none of it did—more like artefacts left behind after long stretches of deep work. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.

Joel glared through it all, taking it in.

A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.

He didn’t know what he wished to see when he ascended the stairs, only that everything about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.

He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the sleepless night before; this was more peaceful, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made that knot in his chest tighten before he could push it down.

Carefully, he strode forward, peering into the nursery.

Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been practised, knowing, hers were unsure, a mimicry, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.

She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never having seen the business end of a pair of scissors. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into the shape of a mother.

The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela darted a glance. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.

“Hello, Joel.”

He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, disturbed him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.

The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, recognising him through her childish daze, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.

“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.

Leela caught on. Her fingers fidgeted at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. A small, involuntary movement.

“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… secretion, you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”

Joel nodded. “And?”

Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”

The words made a darkness flicker through him; he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”

Leela hung her head, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.

Joel sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math. Just instinct,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, gingerly, gently. He eased her up, letting her body idle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.

The second she was in his arms, warm, beaming, the fault line inside him splintered.

She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.

Joel swallowed, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow palm over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was everything akin to bedtime and warmth, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.

For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.

The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this, when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, loaded with groceries, with the Texas sun blistering overhead.

A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.

Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.

“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”

Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to call her an idiot again—or she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way he imagined she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.

He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, adjusting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”

Leela didn’t reach for her baby at once.

Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.

But finally, she forced herself to move.

Her hands, sporadic, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, foreign. It was inflexible, too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her close, her arms locked tight, all too unconfident, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.

Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.

She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already veering forward, pushing the baby back toward Joel, who carried her without hesitation.

“No, I can't.”

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, an informed movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.

Leela, however, looked shaken. Her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.

Then, she winced.

Joel’s attention snapped, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down for a bit?”

She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.

Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”

Leela wavered at the suggestion. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty, like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough to let him guide her.

Joel remained prudent, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.

He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.

Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.

“I'm sorry, Joel.”

His brows ticked down. “For what?”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”

There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. A quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.

Joel pressed his lips together.

Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The weariness, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it. No midwife, no warm meals, no one watching over her in those first brutal days. Just her and the baby and that awful, aching silence.

“She came too soon,” Joel murmured, mostly to himself.

Leela turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward him without fully meeting his eyes. “Eight months and seven days,” she said quietly. “That’s not normal, is it? That’s why she’s so small.”

Joel opened his mouth, but nothing came. What could he say to that? To her?

Leela waited a beat—just long enough to hope for something more—then slowly drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, rested her chin on top, and looked past him.

She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

There it was. No frustrations or helplessness. It was her calm, relinquished reality.

Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her little breaths unwavering and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened scarcely.

Leela’s words lodged in his chest like a thick splint. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard those words before, from sleep-deprived parents who hit the wall. Hell, He’d stood in that same darkness, said those same things to Tommy when the world felt like it was slipping past him. But the way she said it—flat, detached, mechanical—like she’d already stopped trying to fix it, the part of her that cared was fading out. And that left a mark.

Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.

Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.

“You could start by giving her a name,” he said, glancing at Leela. “Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name.”

Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realising that, yes, she still had to name the kid.

After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. “Do you want to pick one for her?”

Joel snorted. “Me?”

She nodded, entirely serious.

He shook his head immediately. “I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'”

Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened that apathy in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, “I always liked the name Maya.”

“Maya?” He tested the name on his lips. “I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya.”

Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, her head dipping toward the baby still bowed against Joel’s chest.

And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.

That fondness—subtle, but unmistakable. A faint, aching kind of love that didn’t ask for words. It lived in the way her fingers moved over the baby’s forehead, gentle, mindful, tracing the soft landscape of tiny wrinkles and delicate features. It showed in the subtle curve of her body, how she curled—almost unconsciously—toward her daughter. Even in her exhaustion, some part of her was always reaching, always drawn to protect.

“Maya, Maya, Maya,” she whispered, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.

Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.

He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in later tomorrow, and then walked out that door.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the baby girl. Maya.

He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”

Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math. Theoretician, perhaps.”

Joel couldn't help the roll of his eyes. Math. In a world like this?

People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.

His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?

He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”

“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”

Joel didn’t know what to make of that.

His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.

She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and lots of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it. The Riemann Hypothesis.”

Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.

He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.

He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”

“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.

That number sat wrong with him, irked him. Twenty-nine. Maybe it was the contrast—how, for all her intelligence and clinical detachment, she looked so damn young beneath the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn��t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.

Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could run equations for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.

That was until Maya decided to stir.

A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both heartbreaking, needy and urgent all at once.

Leela straightened instinctively, her hands jolting toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.

Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.

Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.

His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”

“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”

“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”

“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”

Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.

He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.

Joel let out a breath, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.

The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.

He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.

“I’m decent now,” Leela offered.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of her shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.

The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.

“Do you have many children, Joel?” she asked suddenly.

He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.

His fingers curled into his knee, knuckles going white. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but something about hearing it from her—a strange woman he barely knew, cradling a baby no more than a handful of weeks old—cut deeper than it should have.

Did he have many children? No.

But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.

He grunted out, “Not your concern.”

Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.

“I understand,” she murmured.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, simple, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy.

Silence patched their looks, lingering but not uncomfortable.

Joel exhaled slowly and turned his gaze toward the window, where pale morning light bled in through the edges of the curtain. The town was stirring—people rising, stepping into their routines, moving through the simple rhythm of another day. Normal. Predictable. But this—sitting in a quiet, half-empty house with a woman he barely knew and a baby who’d already been asked to survive more than most adults—wasn’t easy. This wasn’t anything close to normal.

Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.

“Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?”

He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she were mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

The question slipped beneath his ribs and pressed, gently but insistently, against an old bruise.

“Never.” The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.

Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—that complete astonishment had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.

That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.

“I wish I felt that way,” she muttered.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t pity—not quite. Leela didn’t strike him as someone who wanted sympathy. No, it was a quiet understanding. The recognition of a loss that ran deeper than words, taken from her before she ever had the chance to claim it.

Joel knew that kind of grief. He’d carried his own version of it. And while this pain wasn’t his, it brushed up against something familiar, something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

So, he did what he could.

“She looks like you,” Joel mused, almost without thinking.

Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You really think so?”

He smirked, nodding toward Maya. “Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl.”

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, that disregard in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. “Mama’s girl,” she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Joel felt a smile in his chest, just a little one.

Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The mood in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt transient, like Maya hadn’t put down roots just yet.

Or maybe she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay in this particular room.

He tipped his chin toward the crib. “Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in.”

Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. “I tried my best. Is it that bad?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head. “It could use a little more work.” He gestured toward the crib. “Fix another one of those.” Then to the bare space near the window. “Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there.” His gaze travelled to the walls. “Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights. Some toys, clothes, blankets.”

Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. “I don’t want to impose.”

He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. “You won't. I like to keep busy.”

Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognise from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. “Are you sure?”

Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. “I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job.” Then he cocked a brow. “And I’m fifty-six, not dead.”

Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You want me to take that crib back down?”

That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.

Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here.”

Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet, but it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.

This time, it sounded like she meant it.

He didn’t say anything, only sat back and watched, letting her find her way.

Seventeen days.

That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.

And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sippy cup gathered dust.

It was gradual. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.

And Joel—well, he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.

The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.

“You don’t have to—” she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.

“I know,” he cut off before she could finish.

He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.

The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.

It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.

Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.

“Pink?” she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.

Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. “What? You don’t like it?”

Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, “I think Maya will like it.”

It was the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.

Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.

She was unraveling.

Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake, legs thrashing in a single jerk, pushing against some imperceptible force near her, like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.

Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.

She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. “I—I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Alright,” he said, pushing the bowl closer. “Eat.”

Leela wavered, nose scrunching. “I’m not—”

Joel shot her a look. “Eat.”

She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.

He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.

So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard. Pretended not to notice when her shoulders trembled just slightly—barely enough to catch, unless you were looking for it. But Joel always saw more than he let on.

And he heard it, too. The way her sobs came muffled through the thin walls at night—quiet at first, like she was trying to bury them in her pillow, then deeper, harsher, like something inside her was breaking open slowly.

Every part of him—every part that still gave a damn—wanted to move. To cross that invisible line, to knock, to say something.

Instead, he stepped outside. Leaned against the doorframe. Let the cold night air scrape against his skin. Stared at nothing.

Leela cried harder.

And then—one night—the floodgates broke. Her sob, raw and sharp, now pronounced, tore itself loose on the way out. It wasn’t just grief anymore. It was wreckage.

Joel stood at the bottom of the stairs, jaw clenched, fists knotted at his sides. He stared up at the dark landing, every muscle in his body pulled taut, as if he just took one more step—

Never mind. He turned away. Walked out onto the porch and sat down on the cold wooden steps, elbows resting on his knees, breath fogging in the night. Let the chill dig into him like punishment. Good. He stayed there, still as stone, while the sounds from inside climbed and fell. That wasn’t his problem.

One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. “Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?”

Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. “Been around.”

Ellie scoffed. “What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big cabin?”

His jaw flexed, and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.

“Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?”

Joel shot her a look. “No.”

“Yes,” Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. “Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting.”

“I ain’t babysitting,” Joel muttered, too quick.

Ellie smirked harder and sang out, “Riiiight.”

Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. “She needed help. That’s all.”

Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. “Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now.”

He cut her a sharp look. “Ellie.”

She grinned, enjoying this way too much. “What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.

“So, uh…” she cleared her throat. “How’s the baby?”

He hesitated.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.

“She’s uh, good,” he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. “Stronger. Sleeps better.”

Ellie studied him. “Bet she likes you.”

Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. “Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep.”

Ellie snorted. “Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy.” And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—“You’re gonna miss her after, huh?”

Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.

And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.

Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?”

Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad.”

“Knock it off.”

But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. “This is rich. Daddy Joel.”

Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.

It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, burrowing into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.

Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.

Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.

And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, watching the light filter through the window, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.

She smiled more, too. At him, all the time. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin, flashing her gums. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.

But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.

Maya knew him. Trusted him.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.

Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.

“You're officially relieved of duty, big brother.”

Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. “Didn’t know I was on duty.”

Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. “Thanks a lot, Joel.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.

He felt Leela before he saw her.

She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.

She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.

Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.

Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. “You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk.”

Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.

And for the first time in seventeen days, he realised—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.

Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.

For seventeen days, he had fallen into something. A tempo. A system. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel routine, Joel realised he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.

He’d let himself care.

[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]

[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]

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takumiraine · 7 months ago

Text

Once Upon A Time Chapter 2

So Danny? 100% has PTSD. I do have a vague plan for this. And most of the next chap written. The Fentons may or may not be terrible parents. You’ll have to wait and see. I do have plans to break everyone’s hearts at least once. Anyways. This is considered my like…. Audience test before Ao3. Things may change. As a reminder all I know about dc is from fandom and wiki and everything I remember about dp is prob poorly remembered.

—

Once upon a time, there had been a young boy who was happy. Once upon a time, there was a young boy who had dreams and a future. Once upon a time, there was a boy who had been alive in every sense of the word. Once upon a time, everything shattered. Once upon a time, there was a man who was filled with anger. Once upon a time, there was a man just as alive as he was dead. Once upon a time, there was a man who was haunted and hunted.

As the stabbed kid shuffled off, leaving Jason baffled, he grabbed the guy who he had slammed into the wall. His head was bleeding but his breathing was steady and Jason huffed. He knew he definitely cracked the guy’s skull, but he had survived worse.

“O, what do we know on this guy?” He asked the woman in his ear. Oracle’s answer would determine whether he took the guy in to the ER or let him roll the dice of fate.

“Rap sheet about a mile long. Pretty basic stuff. Armed robbery, possession with intent, B&Es, assault and battery, the usual.”

Jason shrugged then and dropped the guy against the wall. Rolling the dice it was. He turned away, looking towards where the kid disappeared around the corner “and what about the guy he was mugging?”

“That’s where it gets weird.” Oracle’s typing was coming through loud and clear. “It’s hard to get a clear picture of him. He has some sort of distortion on the feed. Everything else comes out clear but…. He’s a mess of pixels. Voice too. Scrambled. It’ll take time.”

“Think he’s a meta?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, considering he got knifed and just…. Walked off with it. Wonder what his issue with B is though.”

“Couldn’t tell you. Think it might be time to update my armor if I’m being lumped in with people B and the bird brains have pissed off.” Jason took an evidence kit out of his pocket and swiped at the blood on his chest. Old habits and all. “Got a sample of the kid’s blood though.”

“Good thinking. Wonder if he’s in any databases. I’ve got a cleaned up picture now. Enough that it’s pinging in GU’s database. Dan Nightingale, Mechanical engineering major. It says he’s 19, it’s his freshman year and he’s in like every remedial class he can take, high school transcripts are mediocre at best. No other information about him really. Rogue in the making that one.” Oracle reported. Jason groaned, grapneling up to the rooftops to follow where the kid went off to.

“Someone should keep an eye on him. Ugh. This’ll be a conversation for B and the birds won’t it? Kid won’t like having a bunch of birds following him.” Jason flicked through the different visual modes on his visor, finding…. Cold moving through one of the apartment buildings. It was human shaped, but where he expected to find heat…. “Weird…. You seeing this?”

“Very weird,” Barbara agreed, tapping into his visor’s feed. “And hey, you could just…. Not tell him. You wanted a Lit degree right? Go to class, befriend him. Do some recon.” Jason knew Babs always walked the fine line between what Bruce needed to know about the rest of them and what she had to keep secret to keep helping them. He didn’t envy her position. Jason still wanted Bruce to hurt sometimes. Not as much as he used to, something about the sins of the father and all that. He just wanted Bruce to be aware that everything he had ever hoped for his boy to be was… out of both of their reaches forever.

“That sounds annoying.” He was 23. He didn’t have any interest in taking on a degree on top of his full time crime fighting and criminal empire running jobs.

“Yeah, but what other choice do you have? It’s go back to school, tell B, or wait for him to become a rogue.”

“I hate you sometimes.” He muttered, unsure of what made him suddenly so interested in that angry guy.

“Feeling’s mutual Hood,” She replied with what was definitely a fond tone. He grimaced.

—-

In the apartment, Danny was less than thrilled. That was his favorite shirt! Now not only was it covered in blood, it had a huge hole in it. His core still thrummed with the urge to fight, but he tamped it down. Slowly, as he pulled the knife out, he sealed the wound with a layer of ice, pulling his shirt off and throwing it into the bathroom sink. The knife was dropped into the kitchen sink. His keys and phone in his bedroom on the battered nightstand next to the bed.

He returned to the bathroom and turned the water on cold. He let it spray full blast before working on scrubbing the blood from his shirt. He looked up to eye himself critically in the mirror before noticing the waistband of his jeans were saturated with blood too. Damn it. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his pants off, throwing them into the now overfilled sink. The bathtub would probably be a better choice. Turning off the sink and turning on the tub Danny picked up the sopping clothes and dropped them with a wet thump into the basin of the tub. Carefully he lowered himself onto the floor, wincing at the way pain clawed through him.

He would need to actually eat food to heal from this at any reasonable speed. He thought of the two dollars he had, then the emergency stash of….he racked his brain to remember how much of the emergency cash he was left with once he got to Gotham…right. Twenty bucks…. That was all he had in the wall.

He missed the days when Sam would just throw money at him whenever his parents forgot to do things like pay rent or put food in the fridge.

As if agreeing his stomach rumbled loudly, demanding actual food to sate the expense of energy healing his injury would take. He thought about calling Sam. Seeing if she could arrange a prepaid card for him. He knew she would in a heartbeat.

Even cut off from family money she seemed to be doing better than he was. Wracking his brain, Danny thought she was working in Bludhaven as some sort of personal assistant. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion that came from sustaining a human body on nothing but ecto or if he had been too distracted in the moment to pay proper attention, but he couldn’t remember if that was right. Getting the blood out of his clothes he wiped at the remaining blood on his body, getting most of it off. He grabbed the clothes and turned off the water.

Slowly, Danny pushed himself to his feet. He had survived worse, multiple times. But pain never seemed to stop being painful. It lanced through his side and he almost fell back to his knees with the way it stole his breath and doubled him over. He wished he could go back to the Zone and just… wait it out. But in order to do that without drawing attention he’d need a portal. The only ones he knew of were either destroyed or…. Compromised.

Maybe he should call Vlad. Danny shook that thought away almost immediately as he realized how silly it was. Vlad spent most of his teen years antagonizing him. Besides the GIW had probably gotten to Vlad too. If he wasn’t captured he would likely be compromised. Memories of Amity Park flooded in before Danny could stop them. Of asking for help. Over and over. Of the GIW storming in and locking everything down. Of Danny frantically telling his parents, only for their eyes to dart to the kitchen before they could stop it. Of the sound of energy. The smell of his flesh burning. Of pain.

Danny forced himself to take a breath. He focused on the wet clothes in his hands. On the tiles beneath his feet. Of the too harsh fluorescents in the bathroom that buzzed. The sounds of the people above him arguing over bills and needing better jobs.

Slowly he banished the memories back where they belonged. He’d… figure it out. He had to. Somehow. For now, sleep. Danny hung up the wet clothes over the shower bar, made sure there was a towel on the floor and shuffled into the bedroom. Double checking that his alarm was set, even though his class wasn’t until early afternoon, he didn’t want to miss it, he slid into his bed and pulled the pile of blankets up over him.

Almost instantly, he was out.

—-

“B,” Jason said in lieu of a proper greeting as he stepped into the Batcave, hood tucked under his arm.

“Jason,” Bruce looked up and turned the surprised expression into something more fond. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Jason leaned against the rock. Foot braced against the wall. “I know semester’s already started, but something came up. How hard would it be to start at GU?”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment and Jason knew it was his way of trying to figure out what buttons to press. Then he tilted his head and turned back to the computer screen. “Not too hard. It is early yet. Anything I should know?”

“Babs was lonely.” It was an out and out lie, but it seemed to soften things in Bruce further, reminding him of the two children that failed him within months of each other.

“Hm.” Bruce was silent at his computer for a long moment. Convinced that was the end of the conversation, Jason tightened his grip on the helmet he had tucked under his arm. “Either way. It is a good choice. Literature?”

The comment and question rankled Jason, the thing from the pit scratching at his carefully contained emotions. Pushing for any crack. Bruce was trying he reminded himself. Too little too late, but trying.

“Yeah. Going in in the morning.”

“Should I call ahead?”

“No. I can handle it. If not I have no business being there.”

“You will do fine.” The ‘you are a Wayne’ was left unspoken.

Jason snorted. “Right. Good talk.”

“Are you staying the night?” An olive branch. Jason wanted to burn it. He tempered the impulse to a spark.

“I have my own place.”

“Your room is still yours when you want it.”

“Yeah. The room of the worst Robin in history. Pass.” Jason turned and walked stiffly back up the steps. Hearing the soft growl of Batman behind him. The start of an argument.

He considered it a victory that he didn’t run into any of his siblings or Alfred on the way out.

#writing #fanfiction #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #batfam #jason todd #red hood #dp x dc crossover

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sunsherbet · 7 months ago

Text

Got Milk?

In which you ask your neighbor to borrow a glass of milk for a recipe.

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

CW: None

You wish you could say this was a first for you.

That deep down you were some uber-responsible twenty-something who made their grocery list and checked it twice, but you weren’t. This was the third time this week you’d forgotten something from the grocery store and only realized when it was that exact ingredient your recipe depended on.

It wasn’t even like you cooked often. You were a habitual air-fryer indulger whose culinary portfolio consisted of elevated cup ramen and just-add-water pancakes.

But your sister was coming over, and you wanted to surprise her with her favorite chili oil pappardelle pasta. Hence, you needed a few more ingredients than your usual frozen dinners required, one of which was milk—an ingredient you realized, as you looked in your fridge, you were completely out of.

The minute hand ticked loudly, and your head snapped up to glance at the cupcake-shaped clock, which was slowly approaching 8:30—giving you less than an hour to finish your meal.

With time counting down, you had two choices for getting the milk: First, you could run down to the corner store and hope the creepy cashier wasn’t working tonight. That normally wouldn’t have been a massive concern, but it was winter, which meant it was dark outside already. And honestly, your sister's pasta just wasn’t worth the risk of dealing with someone who gave you the shivers. That left you with the second choice: flashing your best smile and begging your neighbors for a cup.

To the right of your apartment were Mrs. Hyde and her wife—two sweet old ladies who smelled like vintage perfume and flabby wine. Unfortunately, they went to bed at 7 p.m., so that was out. On the left were Mikael and his daughter Erin, but you two never quite got along, so that wasn’t an option either. Which left the one who lived across the hallway. He was supposedly a 'charming young chap' (according to the Hydes) and had lived there longer than you, but you’d never seen him.

Six months ago, when you first moved in, you’d baked some muffins and left them at his doorstep, but you’d forgotten to write a note and had been too embarrassed to try another introduction. So, this would be your first encounter with him. But it was an emergency, you swear! Otherwise, you wouldn't be bothering him with your trivial milk problems (even though they weren’t so trivial—after all, you'd already started the noodles and needed the cream base. Fast).

You grab a pair of neon Crocs, their bright contrast to your wine-red dress a jarring reminder of your frantic state, and rush out of your apartment, making sure to turn off the boiling water and secure the lid.

When you reach the door, you’re not sure why your heart is pounding in your chest or why your arms are covered in goosebumps. It’s probably just the nerves of meeting someone new, you decide, shaking yourself a little to readjust.

You curl your fingers to tap against the door, but just before your knuckles rap against the sturdy wood, it swings open. Standing in the frame is a tall guy with wire-frame glasses. He’s got a slimmer frame than his baggy plaid shirt can fill out, and a brown cardigan button-up rests just above his slacks. His bronze-like hair and matching doe eyes give you a not-so-subtle once-over, full of curiosity.

You jump in surprise, balancing yourself on the tacky wallpaper of the hallway. He quirks an eyebrow in a way that’s frankly adorable but you’re just a bit too stunned to fully appreciate just how attractive your neighbor happens to be.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, do you happen to have any milk?”

He quirks his eyebrow again and this time you take note of the way his hair flops in front of it, “Yeah just not like grain or anything.”

You wave a hand in front of your face and shake your head, "Oh don't worry I'm not a hipster or lactose intolerant." The joke is rewarded with a small chuckle and you quickly decide it’s endearing. Dropping your hand from in front of him you stick it out, “Uh I’m your neighbor by the way. Not some random looking for milk handouts.”

“I’m Spencer.” He provides, though he lets your hand hang between the two of you awkwardly, "Did you know the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering? It's actually safer to kiss."

Dropping your hand to your side you pucker your lips dramatically, and tease, “Are you asking for a kiss?”

“W-What? No!” He leans back and you erupt into a giggle, shaking your head at his grimace.

“Well if you don’t want a kiss do you mind if I get that milk?”

“Yeah, of course, I can help you with your..?" He trails off, seemingly not knowing what to call your predicament.

But you certainly know what it should be called, and answer without hesitation, "My life or death dilemma? The reason for my current milk escapades."

Spencer seems to relax a bit more at your rambling, his posture less stiff and more calm, "Hm, seems like it's pretty important." He quirks an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame.

"Well, I did say life or death didn't I.” You look over at his watch and tap a foot impatiently, "Hey um I'm kinda in a rush, my sister is coming over and I'm not even half done with the stupid sauce. Though in my defense, I didn't know she was coming until like a week ago and I'm an avid cereal eater so the likelihood of me even having milk when she came over is slim to none - but I took the risk and now I'm milkless and totally screwed because cooking is hard and god I think I burnt the noodles for this stupid chili oil pappardelle pasta-which by the way I don’t even know how to make."

Spencer is biting his cheek because he can’t laugh. He can’t laugh because it’s rude to laugh at someone he’s only just met, even if you’re blabbering and blushing and wearing adorable chartreuse platform Crocs.

When you moved in across the hallway, Spencer Reid had admittedly looked into you. It wasn’t that he meant to be intrusive—it was just in his nature. He’d always been wary of new people, especially given his line of work. So when the long-vacant apartment finally filled and the scent of Yankee Candles began to waft through the hall, he might have asked Penelope to do a little digging.

Though her extensive report didn’t do justice to the person standing in front of him now.

"Oh my god, you're laughing!" You exclaim, positively mortified at his audacity to laugh at you in this time of need.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He catches his breath after a moment and licks his lips with a flick of his tongue, "Maybe I can make it up to you?"

You smile but your foot is still tapping, "Do tell."

“While I’ve admittedly never made chili oil pappardelle pasta I’m quite quick to pick things up. If you need any help I could-?”

"Oh please thank you!" Letting out a sigh of relief you go to grab his hand, only pulling back when you remember his tangent about germs, "She'll be here in thirty minutes so we have to hurry."

"Okay, let me go get the milk, and uh we can start."

"Thank you, Spencer.”

"Oh ... you're welcome."

You don’t notice the blush.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #meet cute #neighbor #first meetings #criminal minds #bau team #penelope garcia #criminal minds fandom

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mrsmangi · 4 months ago

Text

maroon - luigi mangione

♡ summary: after months apart, luigi shows up at your door seeking refuge. your love for him lingers, remnants of the past, but so does the ache of his absence. ♡ w.c.: 5.7k ♡ a/n: it's been a long time coming. ever since i saw this post by @cherrysolo in january, i knew i had to do something about it. i've been working on this piece for months. hope you guys enjoy + thank you to mads for inspiring me to do this.

—

The knock on your door comes near midnight, sharp and panicked. Three raps, demanding and urgent. You freeze, heartbeat racing as you glance at the clock on the wall. 11:53.

The bitter, freezing cold has been raging on for hours outside. It seeps through the walls, making you curse at the broken thermostat in your apartment. You’re wrapped in a blanket on the couch, trying to focus on the novel in your hands when it happens. Another set of knocks follow after a moment of silence, louder, and your stomach twists with unease.

“(Name), it’s me.”

That voice. You stare at the door, breath catching in your throat. You get up, shivering as your bare feet hit the cold floor. When you open the door, the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

“Luigi?”

He stands there, shoulders hunched against the biting cold, a green hooded jacket hanging open over his disheveled clothes. His face is pale, his dark brown eyes hollow with something you can’t distinguish–fear? Alarm? Exhaustion?

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly.

“What’s going on?” you ask, voice sharper than intended, eyebrows furrowing. He flinches. “You look like sh–”

“(Name),” he begins, but his voice dies in his throat as your eyes meet. He swallows thickly, licking his chapped lips and letting out a deep exhale. “I’m sorry, can I just–” He sighs once more, leaning his hand against the doorway for support. “Can I come in? Please.”

You stare at him for a long moment, hesitation bubbling in your stomach. He stares back, and your frown falters. There’s something about the way he begs you that makes your hesitation crack. Just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough to make you step aside.

“Come in.”

When he shuffles his way inside your apartment, you shut the door behind Luigi. It closes with a soft click. He shrugs off his coat, his movements stiff. You take silent notice of the way his hands tremble slightly, but say nothing as you guide him to the couch. His body sinks into it heavily.

You stand behind your kitchen counter, as if to shield yourself from coming too close to him. You haven’t seen this man in months, then he decides to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. He looks so different, yet still the same.

His flushed cheeks look sunken, dark curly brown locks unkempt and outgrown, and every movement he’s making is jerky and erratic. You reach for the bottle of red wine you had opened earlier, watching him closely as you pour yourself a fresh glass. He remains still, aside from the shaking of his body from the cold.

“What are you doing here, Luigi?”

He doesn’t look up immediately, sighing slowly, sounding strained. When he does meet your eyes, he looks ashamed, or maybe that’s regret. Either way, something uncomfortable stirs within you.

“I needed somewhere to go,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know,” he says, gaze dropping to the floor. His hands fall to his lap and he rubs his palms together. “I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”

“How about home? To your mother who’s been worried sick about you?” you snap at him, words sharp. “You left, Luigi. Months ago. Without a word. No one knew where you were. Your mom called me, your dad, your roommate, your friends. We thought you were dead, and now you’re back, in the middle of the night, looking like you’ve just seen a fucking ghost. You have to give me something more than just that.”

He flinches, lips pressing together. You almost think he might not answer you, but then he sighs again, shoulders slumping further.

“I’ll explain,” he says quietly. “But not yet. Not tonight, (Name).”

Your anger flares within you again, but it’s dampened by the exhaustion written all over his face. He looks so fragile, so lost. You set the glass down and cross your arms instead of demanding more information.

“You don’t just get to show up and ask me to pretend like everything’s fine,” you say, tone softer but no less firm.

“I know,” he mutters, head dropping into his hands again. “I’m sorry.”

You pick up the glass again, your fingers brushing against the cold surface before you take a long, slow sip. He’s here. For better or worse, Luigi is, at last, someplace akin to home, and you can’t ignore the part of you that’s relieved, even in all your annoyance.

“What do you want, Luigi?” you ask. It’s the million dollar question–the one that’s been hanging over your head ever since you let him walk through your door. It hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive, filling every inch of space between you. You grip your wineglass so tightly you almost think it might break, the stem cool and firm against your fingers. It grounds you now when everything feels so precarious.

He doesn’t answer right away. He looks worn to the bone. You hate the part of you that wants nothing more than to cross the room and touch him, smooth down the unruly curls that fall into his face, press your hands to his cheeks just to see if he’s real. It’s all you’ve dreamed of for months since he left, but you don’t move. You stay rooted behind the kitchen counter, observing him.

Eventually, Luigi leans back against the couch, shoulders sagging. His gaze drops to his fidgeting hands, as if he’s trying to work out what to say. When he finally lifts his head, the air in the room shifts. It feels like you’re staring at a stranger, but the only indication that this is your beloved–from all those months ago–are his eyes. Dark, glassy, and haunting, like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. Shame clings to him, evident in the way his gaze flickers to yours and back. Exhaustion is settled in the creases of his brown, etched into his face, giving his already pale complexion a ghostly hue. His mouth opens slightly, as if he’s about to speak, but he says nothing. He presses his lips together again. Looking down, he continues to fidget, fingers curling against the fabric of his jeans. Eventually, he exhales and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“I just need to be here with you.”

Your first instinct is to scoff, but you hold your tongue. The urge to demand more, to yell at him for how little those words give you after everything you’ve been through is overbearing. But something in the way he speaks, in the crack of his voice like he’s unraveling with every syllable spoken, stops you.

He doesn’t look away, either. His eyes hold yours, unflinching and sincere, and it makes you hold your breath. There’s no pleading in his stare, no attempt to coerce or manipulate. He’s stripped himself bare and it unsettles you in his vulnerability. He isn’t asking for forgiveness–he isn’t even asking for understanding. He’s just telling the truth, as insufficient and messy as it is.

Your anger still bubbles at the edges, but beneath it lays an ache you refuse to name. The part of you that was hurt by his disappearance, the part that spent sleepless nights wondering why he left and if it was your fault, wants to lash out. But it’s overtaken by the part of you that aches for him.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to be okay with it,” you say, voice quiet. You know you sound like a broken record, repeating itself over and over again, but you continue anyway. “You can’t just show up, months later, and tell me you need to be here. It’s not enough, Luigi.”

“I know it's not enough,” he murmurs, “but it’s all I have right now.”

His admission takes the fight out of you, leaving you feeling unmoored. You stare at him, chest tightening at the sigh of him so utterly broken. Luigi has always been the one who seemed untouchable in your group of friends. The one who always held himself together, even when things were falling apart. But this man–the one sitting on your couch, trembling as he struggles to hold himself upright–feels like a stranger and someone you’ve always known simultaneously.

You sigh, a sound heavy with resignation, and reach for a second glass. The wine bottle feels cold in your hands as you pour, rich red liquid swirling in the light. You hesitate when your fingers brush the stem of the glass, debating whether or not to even hand it to him. But when you look back at him, your resolve cracks.

Wordlessly, you walk over and set the glass on the coffee table in front of him, careful not to let your hand linger too close to his. “Here,” you say softly, voice losing its edge. “Just for tonight.”

He looks at the glass like it’s a foreign object, fingers twitching before he reaches for it. His grip is cautious, careful, like it might shatter in his hands. “Thank you,” he says. You have to force yourself to look away from him. You retreat to the far end of the couch, keeping the space between you intact, and pick up your own glass. You take a large gulp, the rich red wine burning slightly as it slides down your throat. Your gaze flickers to him from the corner of your eye.

He doesn’t drink right away. Luigi only stares into the glass, his thumb tracing its rim absentmindedly. He keeps his expression tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.

“What happened to you, Lu?” you ask finally, the nickname slips out without you even realizing it. It feels strange in the space between you–something familiar weighted with everything that’s changed. You’ve grown so much through your grief over Luigi the past few months.

The fact that you’ve used the affectionate nickname doesn’t go unnoticed. His grip tightens on the glass, knuckles whitening. His shoulders flinch, a small crack in the wall he’s been holding up since he got here. He still refuses to look at you.

“Not tonight,” he says after a long pause, voice strained. “Please, (Name). Not tonight.”

You want to argue. You want to push him, to demand answers, but the fragility of his figure keeps you quiet. You exhale slowly, taking another large sip of your wine before setting it down with a soft clink. It feels louder than it should in the quiet of your living room.

“Fine,” you say with resignation, but with a lingering edge. “But just to be clear, this doesn’t mean we’re fine.”

He nods, movement small and tired. “I wouldn’t expect it to,” he murmurs. He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a hesitant sip, and for the first time tonight, you see the faintest hint of relief on his face.

Without another word, you push yourself up from the couch. Luigi doesn’t react, doesn’t even look at you as you make your way into the kitchen. The bottle of wine is right where you left it, nearly half-empty on the counter. You grab it by the neck and return to the living room, placing it on the table with a resolute thud.

Luigi looks up at it for a moment, then back up at you, brow faintly creased in question.

“There’s no way I’m doing this shit sober,” you mutter, half to yourself. You keep your voice low, but the edge of humor doesn’t quite hide your weariness.

Luigi’s lips twitch–just barely–into something that almost resembles a smile. It’s the most human he’s looked since walking through your door, but it fades just as quickly as it appears. He looks back down at his glass, silent once again.

You sink back into your spot on the couch, pulling your legs up underneath you. The tension in the room remains thick, but for now, you have wine and Luigi is here. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.

–

Your parents always said stubbornness was not your strong suit. You used to roll your eyes at that, sure that they were wrong, brushing it off as another one of their critiques disguised as wisdom. But lying here now, with your feet comfortably resting in Luigi’s lap, you’re beginning to see how right they were.

You can’t recall the exact moment when your resolve–once so firm–crumbled. Not long ago, you sat stiffly, an arm slung around yourself, forcing yourself to keep a cautious distance. Yet, with each passing sip, Luigi grew more comfortable. Chatty. He began talking more and more, until you found that you couldn’t help but reply.

The thought of letting him this close seemed impossible, but here you are: sinking into the couch while his hand lingers absently on your ankle, his laugh filling the room like it belongs here. Like he belongs here.

He’s talking about something–voice warm and animated, punctuated by the wide gestures that shake your legs with each movement–but you aren’t really listening. It’s not that you don’t want to, you do; it’s just hard. Hard to focus when your mind keeps circling back to how dangerous this is.

The alcohol hums softly in your head, a light buzz that blurs the edges of your thoughts just enough to make everything feel softer, warmer. It’s not unpleasant–if anything, it’s making it easier to let go, to let yourself sink into the ease of this moment. Maybe that’s why Luigi seems different tonight, or maybe it’s not the wine at all. Maybe it’s just him—the real him, more like the person you used to know. Your Luigi.

“...and then I smashed it right against my head. I swear, the entire party lost their minds,” he says, voice breaking through your haze.

You blink, drawn back to the present. “Wait. You smashed what against your head?”

“A beer can,” he says smugly, leaning back into the couch as if he’s just declared himself king of the world.

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it, but you clamp a hand over your mouth anyway. “No way. You didn’t.”

“I did,” he insists, grin widening. “Cracked it open and chugged it right after. Total alpha move.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes, but your lips twitch against your will. “You were such an attention seeker at Penn. I swear, it’s all making sense now.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” he counters, pointing at you. “You’re not exactly innocent, miss ‘let’s bar-hop and turn every table into a dance floor.’”

Your jaw drops. “That’s not fair! I wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” he echoes, feigning shock. “You climbed on top of a table at Bonner’s, in heels, and danced until I had to physically get you down. And what happened? You fell. We both ended up on the floor. Don’t act like you forgot.”

You’re laughing again, and tears prick the corner of your eyes. “Oh, my God. I did forget. How did we even end up on the floor?”

He pauses, brow furrowing in mock thought. Then, he grins. “Cheap-ass vodka, that’s how.”

You chuckle and shake your head, leaning back into the cushions. When you glance back at Luigi, he’s already looking at you, eyes soft and crinkled at the corners, his grin lingering.

“God,” you say, still smiling. “That was such a mess. I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Of course I do,” he says, tone lighter now, almost fond. “You were so drunk you tried to argue with me about how unfair gravity was while we were on the floor.”

Your laughter bubbles up again, shaking your shoulders as you bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says firmly, leaning forward and shifting to make himself more comfortable. “And then you said, ‘You know what? If you were a gentleman, you’d carry me home.’”

You lower your hands just enough to peek at him, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Did you?”

He sighs, shrugging. “What can I say? I’m a gentleman.”

Your smile grows into a grin. You swat at his leg with your foot, but he doesn’t move it, tracing his thumb over your ankle tenderly.

Somewhere in the background, the music shifts, something slower and softer spilling from the speakers, and it takes you a moment to even remember where it’s coming from. Glancing up, you spot the vinyl record spinning on the turntable you had dusted off earlier in the evening. Its needle hums along grooves you’d forgotten existed. You’d put it on after your second glass of wine. The faint, sweet scent of incense drifts through the room, wrapping itself around you. You must have lit it too, though the memory of doing so feels hazy, distant. Its smoke curls lazily in the soft light of the living room. Everything about this moment makes it feels like it exists outside of time.

Luigi glances at you then, his grin fading into something more gentle. His gaze flickers briefly to the record player before coming back to you, eyes warmer than they have any right to be. And then, without a word, he stands. He doesn’t look away from you as he holds out a hand, palm up, inviting and patient.

“Dance with me,” he says.

Your heart stutters, eyes flickering between his face and his hand. For a moment, you hesitate, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. You said it best yourself, Luigi has no right to behave this way after leaving for what feels like so, so long. He left his entire life behind. Left you.

The soft crackle of the vinyl and the faint scent of incense, giving you the courage to take it.

You reach out just enough for your fingers to hover above his, the space between them barely there. The hesitation is instinctive, a reflex that comes without a second thought. You brush against the palm of his hand lightly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t press, but you see the subtle way his fingers shift, like he’s waiting for you.

The moment stretches. You should pull away.

Instead, you take a deep breath and slide your hand into his. He pulls you to your feet gently. The coolness of the hardwood floor stirs you in your drunken haze as he guides you into a slow sway. His hand settles at your waist and the air feels fuller, heavier, though not stifling.

He holds his glass of red wine in his other hand and you do the same. The music swells faintly, slow, and you sway together. The alcohol hums through your veins, loosening the tension in your shoulders as you dance with Luigi. You move in sync with small, subtle steps, his breath slows, matching yours without intention. Then, he moves closer, carefully, cheek brushing against yours. His face rests lightly against yours and you feel the faintest warmth of his skin, the barely-there graze of his stubble as he turns his head slightly, angling into the contact.

Your breath catches and your eyes flutter closed. You allow your head to tilt just enough for your cheek to press more fully against his. The scent of him–faintly woodsy, clean, with a trace of citrus–fills the miniscule space between your bodies, stirring a flood of memories you hadn’t let yourself think of in months. You grip your glass of wine a little tighter.

His glass remains in his other hand, rim brushing lightly against your shoulder as you sway. The subtle clink of glass against glass as your movements bring you closer feels intimate. His thumb brushes over your waist gently, absentmindedly. The warmth of him spreads through you, his cheek flush against yours, his breath soft and even, grazing your temple with each inhale. It’s so wrong, but it feels so right. Everything is as it should be.

Luigi is home. He’s with you.

“Careful,” he murmurs softly, almost teasing, as your glass tips slightly with the sway of your steps. His voice is so close it sends tremors through you, and you can’t help but chuckle quietly. The sound catches somewhere between amusement and relief.

“Don’t let me spill,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice low. Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten. Maybe it is the wine, or the warmth of his figure pressed to yours, or how his voice settles over you like a quiet vow–but for the first time, in a long time, you let yourself believe.

You’ve never realized how much you’ve missed feeling safe, how long you’ve felt like you’ve been carrying the weight of everything on your own. The sense of safety doesn’t come from having walls over your head or keeping people at arm’s length to protect yourself. It’s a different kind of security–one that is unspoken and simply just there. It’s present, it’s solid. Tangible.

Luigi says nothing else, doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances or excuses. He just keeps dancing with you, movements slow and sure, grip never faltering.

You’re not sure how long you stay that way, pressed together in the soft glow of the living room, swaying in rhythm in the music. You allow for your cheek to nestle against his, his warmth seeping into your skin. You wonder if you’ve even realized how much you needed this.

It happens then: your bare foot slips slightly against his, and you stumble. His hand catches yours, but not before his wine tips, splashing into your shirt. It stains your shirt in a sharp contrast against the white fabric, soaking through in an instant.

“Fuck–” you curse, flinching away from him as if you’ve just been burned. The wine is cold against your skin, seeping into the fabric, making it cling to your skin uncomfortably. Your hands instinctively grasp at the ruined shirt, pulling it slightly away from your body. You feel exposed.

“Oh, shit,” Luigi mutters, voice tight with guilt and eyes wide. His gaze flick down to the stain, then back up to you. He moves to set his glass down with a dull clink against the coffee table, hands reaching for you instinctively. “I’m sorry. Here, let me–”

His fingers ghost over the fabric of your ruined shirt, but you flinch away before he can do anything, stepping back, blood rushing to your cheeks. Something in you snaps and the spell is broken.

Everything–the heat of his hands, how you let yourself fall into him, the reckless abandon of letting him touch you again, letting yourself want him again–it all evaporates, as if the wine itself is an alarm jolting you back to reality.

What the fuck were you doing?

Your pulse pounds against your skull as the moment rewinds in your head, over and over–his voice in your ear, his hands on your waist, you nestling into him like he had never gone anywhere. Like he didn’t abandon you.

You stumble back, shaking your head, feeling the cold seep in deeper. “I need to clean up.” Your words come out quick, breathless, barely controlled.

Luigi blinks, brows knitting together. “Hey–”

You don’t wait for him to finish. You turn away, moving fast, not stopping until you’re down the hall, until your hands find the bathroom door and push it open. The moment you’re inside, you shut it behind you. Not slamming it or locking it–but closing it with a finality that should be obvious: Don’t follow me.

Your breath comes in short, uneven bursts.

You tear off your shirt and toss it onto the sink. It hits the counter with a dull thwap, the fabric crumpling in a dark, wine-soaked mess. The air in the bathroom is colder than the rest of the house, the chill biting against your bare skin. Standing in your bra, you grab a towel, dampening it under the faucet, and begin to blot the stain. You squeeze your eyes shut. Your heartbeat feels erratic and there’s a ringing that sounds too loud in your ears. The heat of the water running over your fingers makes you wince, but you focus on the task.

The wine seeped deep into the fibers of your white shirt, blooming like bloodstains. You sigh, shaking your head as you rub harder, feeling your frustration rise. The stubborn stain refuses to fade.

Your reflection catches your attention and your hand stills against the t-shirt. There’s a faint flush on your cheeks. You have a feeling it’s not from the alcohol or the cold–that it’s from something more, but you brush it off, scrubbing at your shirt harder than before.

You try to focus on getting the stain out, but your thoughts keep betraying you, drifting back to the feeling of Luigi’s hands in yours just minutes earlier. You sigh, shaking your head.

This is such bullshit.

The knock at the door makes you jump.

“(Name)?” Luigi’s voice crawls from beneath the crack of your door, pouring into the bathroom.

You swallow, turning off the sink. “I’m fine.”

A beat of silence passes. Then, a soft click and the door opens.

You whip around, heart leaping in your throat. Luigi stands in the doorway. The air in the bathroom suddenly feels tense. The warm fluorescent light buzzes faintly from the bulb above your bathroom mirror. Harsh shadows accentuate the sharp angles of Luigi’s cheekbones and the hollows beneath his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dark and unreadable, nearly eclipsing the warm brown of his irises. His gaze flickers, hesitant, from your face to the curve of your collarbone, then lower, lingering on the wine-stained skin just above the edge of your bra.

His shirt is wrinkled and hangs off him loosely. His hands are in his pockets, silhouette cutting out an imposing figure against the soft lights of the living room behind him.

“Luigi,” you say, intending for his name to leave your lips firmly, but it’s anything but. “What are you doing?” Your voice is soft under the weight of his stare. You cross your arms instinctively, but it does little to hide your bare, exposed skin.

He steps inside, slowly, like he’s giving you the chance to stop him, to push him away. You don’t. He nears, his presence consuming the small space between you.

“Helping,” he says simply, his lips quirk into a faint, humorless smile. His eyes drop again, and the way they trail over you–tauntingly, deliberately–makes your breath hitch. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You ignore the warmth blossoming between your legs, pressing your back against the sink to create distance between you. Towel still in your hand, you clutch the porcelain behind you.

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, but the words come out weak, like a half-hearted protest that not even you, yourself, believe.

“Maybe,” he mutters, taking another step closer. His smile fades, replaced by something darker, eyes falling to linger on your collarbone once more.“You’re beautiful, (Name).”

“Luigi–”

Danger, you hear something that sounds like your voice whisper in your head.

“Let me help,” he says gently, hand reaching out. His long, slender fingers brush yours, warm and rough, as he takes the towel from your slackened grip. He never looks at the towel, though. His focus remains entirely on you. His touch is hesitant, careful, as he dabs at your wine-stained skin. It doesn’t do much, but his hands linger, thumb brushing against the curve of shoulder.

Danger.

“This isn’t helping,” you finally breathe, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Danger.

“No,” he agrees, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His eyes flicker up to meet yours. Your knees feel weak. The towel slips from his hand, forgotten, as his hands slide to your waist, fingers curling against your bare skin. “It’s not.”

Da–

And then his lips are on yours, cutting off your final thought.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate–a collision that leaves you gasping. He pulls you against him with an urgency that sends a shock through your entire body. His large hands grip your waist tightly as though he’s afraid you might slip away. The feeling of his chest pressed against yours sends a jolt of warmth through you.

Your hands move instinctively, one threading into his dark curls, the other tugging at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your mouth, the sound low and guttural, vibrating against your lips. He understands your silent demand, leaning back to lift his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His toned figure is revealed to you, but you barely have time to process it as he captures your lips in his again.

The kiss deepens, growing hungrier and messier, as though the months of silence, pain, longing, are all spilling out. His teeth graze your lower lip, tugging gently before his tongue slides against yours, hot and insistent.

Then, without warning, his hands shift to your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you onto the sink.

You gasp into his mouth, hands clutching his shoulders as he steps between your legs, pressing himself closer. The cool surface of the mirror against your back is a harsh comparison to the heat of his hands, his body, his mouth. His lips leave yours for only a moment, trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive spot beneath it, on your neck. His breath is hot and ragged, and you tilt your head, giving him more access as his lips continue to move lower.

“Luigi,” you breathe, voice trembling once his mouth reaches your collarbone. The wine he had feebly dabbed at earlier still remains. He pauses there, breath ghosting over your skin, warm. Then, he presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, slowly, before he presses his tongue flat against your flesh, licking upward in one long stripe to the curve of your shoulder. You moan, hands falling to wrap around his back, nails digging into his skin.

His tongue is warm and wet, tracing the edge of the stain, unhurriedly. It swipes over your skin with deliberate care, tasting the faint sweetness of wine that lingers there.

“You taste so good, dolcezza,” he moans. The compliment makes your stomach flutter, heat blossoming in your lower abdomen as he tilts his head. He licks the wine off your collarbone until none remains, then bites at the spot where your collarbone curves into your neck. Luigi sucks at your skin gently, teeth indenting into you, leaving their mark. His tongue soothes the spot immediately, lips following with soft, open-mouthed kisses against your neck that make your head spin. His hands on your waist tighten, thumbs brushing over your ribs deliberately, as if he’s attempting to memorize the shape of you.

“I missed you,” he mutters against your skin. His forehead rests briefly in the crook of your neck. He pants softly. “God, I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

The coarseness of his voice cuts through the haze of passion. They tug at the parts of you that have been angry and hurt.

You love him. God help you, you love him.

You want to tell him just how much you’ve missed him, too, how his absence has felt like an open wound ever since he disappeared in September. He chose to leave and you spent months telling yourself you would never be in this position again–that you would never let him ruin you. You could scream at him for the pain he’s caused you, to let him know just how unbearable these days without him have been, how you never want to go back to that time of your life ever again. You could reprimand him for the real, shitty fucking legacy he forsook in his place. But instead, you close the distance between you.

The bathroom still feels too small, the light casting a glow over the tangled mess of emotions between you, but it doesn’t matter now. As Luigi continues to kiss you, pressing his mouth against yours, the anger and questions you’ve carried all these months fade away. For now, the fact that he’s here is enough.

He pulls back abruptly, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with your own. His eyes, dark and searching, meet yours, and there’s something unspoken–it feels like a question and an apology.

“We can’t stay here,” he murmurs to you. A smile creeps onto his face, and a glimmer of the man you knew before the distance and silence shines through. “Unless you really like this sink.”

You laugh gently, arms unhooking from his back to tangle themselves in his hair again. “I must admit, it’s not the most comfortable spot.”

He straightens slightly, his hands sliding to the backs of your thighs. He hoists you in his arms. Your arms loop around his neck instinctively.

“Luigi, your back–”

“I’m okay,” he reassures you, cutting you off with a kiss. “I’m alright.”

His grip is steady, movements careful, and he carries you out of the bathroom, walking to your bedroom. When he reaches the doorway, he pauses, gaze falling to yours, silently waiting for your permission.

You nod and he steps inside. Luigi lowers you onto the bed and you sink into the plush of the mattress. He lingers for a moment, his hands still on your waist. Grabbing his arms, you scoot further up the bed, dragging him with you. He hovers above you, then he leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. His hands trail from your waist to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“You’re sure?” he whispers against your lips. His voice sounds so quiet, it’s almost lost to the silence of your room.

Instead of answering, you only pull him closer, fingers weaving into his hair, tugging him back into a kiss that says everything your words can not. His body presses into yours, the space between you disappearing entirely. His hands never leave your skin, lips continuously tracing paths that leave you breathless. He melts into you, and you into him. That night, he turns your bedroom into a sanctuary, a place of worship.

The incense you burn on your vinyl shelf in the living room is long forgotten.

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fandomsandhappiness · 1 year ago

Text

courtesy of @lunaactias i have now watched the terror. i must concede it was actually pretty good, but there's one thing it's clearly missing

explanation of the deep significance of this scrungy puppet in british culture below

horrible histories was a highly successful series of over sixty humourously educational children's books (1993-2013), still popular today. there have been various spinoffs and adaptations, most notably the 2009-2014 tv show, mostly comprised of sketches, but also including song-and-dance numbers (the charles ii rap is not only catchy as hell, but a very solid introduction to the background of the stuart restoration and the notable events that characterise his reign). the show was hosted by this chap, rattus rattus, who would occasionally pop up during the sketches to reassure you of the authenticity of the scene. although he did not feature in the books, he retains a high degree of recognisability, even popularity, amongst brits approximately under the age of 30.

#the terror #horrible histories

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illyrian-dreamer · 1 year ago

Text

And Then There Were None – Part 1

Azriel/fem!reader

Synopsis: In the lead up to the war, Hybern releases a catastrophic spell that wipes out all humans, sparing just one.

Abandoned in the desolate human lands, you scavenge to survive long enough to find your family.

Reluctantly, you are found by the Shadowsinger as fate intervenes to guide you under his watchful eye.

Part 2>>>

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Death, blood, suggestions of miscarriage

Twigs snapped beneath your boots, your steps heavy with exhaustion as you stumbled through yet another town, as barren and deserted as the last one.

Exhaustion and dehydration weighed heavy, wisps of dust caking your skirts, your boots the only thing to disturb the rubble in days.

There was no concern for a carriage that might pull up behind, or a bossy merchant to yell at you to clear the path. While the ghosts of the life that once flourished echoed in closed shops and abandoned stalls, you stopped looking over your back days ago.

There were no plumes of smoke from chimneys, no distant chatter or laughter or cries. Safe from the occasional grunts or mews of abandoned cattle - there was not a single sign of life, and no human in sight for the past ten days.

A jarring cramp ripped from your abdomen, pulling you from delirium with urgency.

Water, food, bathe and sleep. That was why you were here.

You tried not to think about how quickly resources were depleting, even though you were sure you were the only one using them. Without people to treat water, the stagnant liquid became increasingly dangerous. And you couldn’t farm a vegetable to save your life, and had spent too long journeying to have tended to any crops.

You’d have to go further into the woods soon, find a fresh stream, perhaps hunt too. But you'd need strength for that, and you had just about run out.

At least it was spring, and at least the trees bloomed with fruit as you travelled from town to town, feet blistered and chapped. You cursed you parents for not teaching you formidable survival skills - fighting, hunting, even the ability to ride a gods damned horse would have been an incomparable luxury these past hellish days.

A clang of guilt, and frustration quickly churned to longing. Gods, you hoped they were alive. You would do anything to have them here, to journey this devastating isolation together, the little ones too. You prayed to the Mother for the umpteenth time that day that they were safe and well.

It was not a concern when you woke to an empty house almost a fortnight earlier. Your father was likely at the market, your mother hard at work at the tailor in town. Your siblings were hard to catch at this time of year, with school out of term and the warm spring air, they would spend each waking moment by the river if your parents let them.

It wasn't until you spotted your fathers wheelbarrow through the speckled glass of your kitchen window, held by rotting wood. Empty and unmoved, his tools lay flat on the ground, untouched since the day before. You could have sworn he told you he’d be at the market by dawn.

Scanning the room, your eyes flicked to the doorway where your mothers workbag lay untouched. Needles sat poked in balls of yarn as stray thread sprawled over leather - but an eery stillness sang to you at your parent’s tools.

Names and calls went unanswered, and after a quick search of the home you ran outside, urgent to ask your neighbours where they had gone, your heart fastening with every step.

Too frantic to observe the lack of movement and noise from your own street, you rapped on the door, waiting only a few seconds to push the rattling screen and forcing your way in.

Names went unanswered again, and it was instinct that steered you straight for the nursery. You halted at the sight of new born's empty crib, blankets rippled as if the babe was taken straight from it’s sleep.

Your calls turned frantic as you scoured each room, an upsetting, looming sensation creeping over your skin.

Bursting from the home, you shielded your eyes from the bright sun as you scanned the street with urgency. Your only greeting was a quiet breeze and snort of a horse left abandoned by a cart - as if it had stopped it's journey halfway through.

In a panicked haze, you searched the next home, and the next, and the next. The dizziness found you then.

Clearly there was an emergency of some kind. But you had been abandoned, left to sleep until midday amongst the quiet. The thought pained you.

More calls to anyone who might have stayed behind, yet still no answer. Your heart was a thunder in your ears.

Had the war finally reached you? Had your family fled in the dead of the night? You shook the thought from your head – they would have woken you, would have needed your help to escape with the youngens.

And then you were running – yelling, sprinting through the dusty streets, voice breaking as you dashed from home to home, shop to shop, calling, crying, pleading.

You were utterly alone. You had been left there, alone.

In a swarm of panic, you pressed a palm at your heart, willing yourself to calm. It was a dream, surely. You were not abandoned, only stuck in a nightmare, the kind that often found you as murmurs of Hybern’s army reaching human lands became louder.

In that dizzying thought, you willed yourself awake, forcing your eyes open to the walls of your dark and cramped room, to the noises as your siblings shouting and playing from downstairs, to the whistle of the kettle and the creak of the wood as your father came to wake you.

But the light was blinding, the sun as true as the your abandonment.

Beads of sweat that ran down your neck, a gnawing anxiousness building in your stomach as it heaved and cramped, nausea and panic churning to one.

Something truly terrible had happened.

And in that moment of utter disbelief, a stabbing pain ripped from your stomach, so great it forced a whimper from your throat.

As silent trickles of blood ran from your thighs to your knees, tracing your calves beneath the fabric of your skirt, you found a numbing sort of courage. Pushing your legs forward, you mindlessly heeded the road out of your home town, and on to the next.

People. You needed to find people.

————

Ten days, and still not a single sole in sight. Each home, each tavern, each market and farm left eerily untouched.

The silence was enough to drive you mad, if not besides the aide you so desperately sought. This was not your cycle - although the pains were familiar. You had known what you were, what this was.

Almost a fortnight, yet the blood still came. Slower now, spotting instead of trickles. You had stolen clothing from abandoned shops, food and water too. But you were distraught, moments away from folding into utter madness. And you were weak – very, very weak.

Water, food, a bath and rest. A list you repeated to yourself, your body begging to prioritise sleep with every step as you approached a farm at the town’s edge.

With a weak hand, you pushed past the gate to the yard, large rusty barrels sat open where a cow and her calf now drank. The water was murky with a distinct smell, but it would have to do. Tomorrow, you’d find fresh water tomorrow.

The trembling hand that dipped to the cool water hardly looked like your own. Dirt lay thick under your nails, your skin littered with cuts from the countless times you had shattered windows of stores and traders homes, scouring the stock for preserved goods and weapons.

Bringing the cool liquid to your lips, you ignored the taste of iron as you willed it to soothe your throat - hoarse from the endless calls that went unanswered.

Ears pricking at sudden growl behind you, you jerked at the site of a pack of dogs who approached on stealthy paws. Their eyes were hungry - flicking between you and the calf. Once loyal farming dogs you were sure, now abandoned by owners and left to fend for themselves. They had formed packs - clever things. While you were sure they couldn't kill you, you didn't have the strength to fight an infection if they got close enough to sink their teeth.

From your side, you unsheathed the hunting knife you had looted from a previous town. Swinging it with unpracticed skill, you shouted at the pack, your heart thundering as you waited for them to recline on hindered paws and leap.

They pack seemed to weigh you up, deciding the calf was an easier target. You fled inside the house before you could see it meet it’s end.

The home was neat, and you almost cried at the sight of a loaf of bread sitting atop the kitchen counters. Mould had attacked it’s edges, but you tore at it, fisting mouthfuls of the centre, dry crumbs coating your throat it was an effort not to choke.

Your stomach lurched, unhappy with the quality of the food and water, but you didn't care. You were on step closer to rest.

Another jarring cramp from your stomach, and you faltered, gripping at the wooden table as you trembled to keep yourself upright. This ailment, how much longer would you last? Sleep begged at you, your body moments from giving out. You’d have to forgo the bath, and prayed to the mother you’d find the strength for it in the morning.

Forcing yourself to the bedroom, swaying with each stumbled step, consciousness was already slipping as you collapsed on the bed, clothes and boots in tact.

————

It was a feverish sleep, your body doused in sweat as you stirred often, jolting awake in panics, phantom calls of your family mixed with the flap of wings, and the crunch of stone and rock under heavy boots.

Then a voice, voices – ones you were sure they were part of your slumber.

But as those footsteps got closer, you woke in a startle, your heart fastened as you blinked furiously.

Voices. Humans. People. Alive, well enough to talk.

You leapt from the bed, ignoring the spin of your head as you clambered to the window, peering behind sheer drapes to the street in front.

Your stomach sank. Lurched. Then sank again.

A large, demonic figure stalked for the home. Wings arched behind it’s head, it’s figure blackened by the leathers it bore, sword and knives strapped around.

And, wisps of some kind. Deadly, reaping magic.

Fae.

Fae had come.

Knees buckling, you stumbled back a few steps.

The world around you reeled as adrenaline coursed through. You would have just moments to prepare if you wanted a chance to survive.

Knife. Your hunting knife. Still strewn at your hip.

Grasping it’s hilt tightly with a trembling hand, you scanned the room for the best place to hide.

The cupboard was too obvious, and there was room under the bed - but there’d be not enough to swing your knife, only enough for them to drag you by the ankle…

The gentle click of the front door opening, and it took all you had not to whimper in panic.

Scrambling for the door as quietly as possible, you pressed your palm to your mouth, begging yourself not to cry as you pressed yourself behind the wood.

From what you could hear over the thunder of your heart, the steps of the fae were quiet despite it’s size.

“Anything in there?” a deep voice boomed from the street. You jolted at the volume. More than one, then.

There was no reply from the creature in the home, only the creak of the wood as it made it’s way through.

“Really, Azriel? Are we to check every home?” Female this time, impatience and ignorance laced in the somehow ancient voice.

No response again, instead a footstep, right by the door.

Something tickled your ankles then, and it was beyond you to stifle your compulsive scream.

Black furling wisps coated your boots.

And then the door opened.

The creature made it one step inside before you had aimed your knife for it’s heart.

A prepared, cool hand caught your wrist inches from it’s chest. Your bones crushing in it’s grasp, and you let out a yelp of pain.

It’s face - his face - was one of shock. “S-sorry,” he stuttered, dropping his grip all together.

You blinked back in shock, ignoring at the throb of your wrist as you snatched it back.

For a dumb moment, you stared at each other with equally wide eyes. The male didn't seem to know what to do.

“You’re human? How are you here, where-?"

The males sentence was clipped short as you drove the knife towards his chest again.

Quick as an asp, he caught you by the forearm this time, more gently too.

Hazel eyes scanned you, his features schooling as he called over his shoulder. “I’ve found someone.”

You were sure you looked mad, grunting with the effort to pull your arm from him, breaths ragged, eyes and hair wild. The male studied you as he might a rabid animal.

Behind him appeared an even taller male, his form more terrifying than the one that gripped you.

“Mother above,” the new one whispered, scanning you in the way the first one had.

“L-let go of me,” you rasped, pulling your arm back, tears stinging at the pain of you surely broken wrist began to swell.

It was a odd detail to note, the scars and ripples of the fae’s hand as he gently unfurled your fingers, prying the hunting knife from you before releasing his grip.

“Let me see,” the female’s voice piped from behind, the males struggling to fold their wings further, cramming into the room to let her through.

You faltered back on instinct, legs hitting the edge of the bed.

As the female broke through the males, harsh silver eyes scanned you up and down. She was half their height, a little shorter than you actually, but the depth of her gaze kept your hands by your side.

“Seems the Mother has spared one after all,” she muttered, nose crumpling at your scent.

Your answered with a scowl.

“What is your name?” it demanded.

“Amren,” the taller male warned, his eyes flicking back to you with softness.

You refused to answer. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

Amren sighed, casting her head sideways to the one with rippled hands. “She bleeds.”

“I know,” he answered, hazel eyes not breaking from you. You blushed, furious and humiliated.

He stepped around her then, the movement graceful and soft despite his size.

“You need aide.”

You gulped, unable to process his words. “L-leave me be,” you demanded, voice hoarse as you tried to create more distance between you and it.

He crouched in front of you then, leathers stretching against ripples of muscle. You noticed them then, jewels, saphires, humming from his body as if they were alive.

He followed your eyes curiously, before answering you with a soft smile.

“These are siphons,” he said plainly, giving one a friendly tap.

You snapped your eyes back to him, disgust forming your features. “You are here on behalf of Hybern?”

The female snorted from behind, earning a shove from the larger male beside her, his siphons glowing red.

The one in front of you studied you. “No, absolutely not.”

You scowled, not inclined to believe them.

“We come one behalf of our High Lord Rhysand, and High Lady Feyre. Rulers of the Night Court. Do you know of them?”

Feyre - the human women who had freed the fae from the grasp of their enemy. You knew the story, the heroic tale of a human women who gave her life for the male she loved. Had heard of her triumphs Under the Mountain, that she had been made into fae herself in exchange for her sacrifice.

“The-the curse breaker?”

A small smile cocked on both of the males faces.

“That’s right,” the one crouched in front answered. “She sent us to retrieve you.”

A panic surged within you. “Me?” you spat. Oh the ignorance of the fae, as if you were some pawn to pluck and place elsewhere.

Azriel frowned, eyes dancing as he realised the mistake in his words. “To help you, of course. There has been-"

"No-n-no. My family, they will seek for me-"

Azriel's brow pulled with softness, his tone falling flat. "We will search for them. Meanwhile, you must see a-"

“Where are the others?” Your voice was louder now, eyes dancing in panic, chest rising with fastening breaths. Had they taken them too? “The people, they've left, I don't know-"

“We are searching for others. You are… the first we have found.”

Your mind reeled. How could that be? You had searched by foot - but with those wings, and the strength and power of fae…

“WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE OTHER HUMANS?” the volume of your voice shocked even yourself, that strength, that demand from deep within your chest.

Azriel gave you a pained look, before standing to turn to his counterparts. “Amren, can you heal-?”

“I’m spent,” she cut off the male with a flick of her fingers. “Those canines out back were hardly enough to keep me going until sundown, so forget about healing. Unless you suggest I drink her blood, though I doubt she’d survive.”

Mother above.

You were too hazed to see the glare both of the males cut her.

“Then she will need to see a healer before we can continue.”

“She might refuse,” the larger one countered.

“If she’s smart, she won’t. She won't survive out here on her own,” Amren muttered, cleaning her nails as she leaned one on leg, checking her cat-like claws for flecks of blood.

They continued their mutter without once turning to you.

“There is no option here. I’ll take her to Velaris, and return once she’s safe.”

A shaking, blubbering anger grew within you, the creatures in front of you as ignorant and obnoxious as you had always been told fae are – to discuss your own fate as if you weren't in the room.

A killer instinct flared in you then, and you remembered the second knife you bore, hidden within your corsette. A pocket knife, a tool from your father to help pit and peel the fruit from his farm.

The oak handle was cool in your left hand, the right throbbing and limp. With the last remains of energy, you pushed up from the bed, swinging with all your strength - aiming for the blue-siphoned back.

In a graceful turn, the male caught your arm for the third time. You had to blink at the speed with which he stopped you.

Bracing for cruel, unforgiving anger, you were instead met with sympathetic eyes.

Loathing coiled within you.

“Release me,” you spat.

“I’m sorry to do this,” was all he said, and then pads of those rippled fingers were grasping your jaw, pressing to the pressure points of your neck with precision.

Grunting to fight his grasp, you didn’t struggle long before a ringing in your ear grew to defeating silence and the world tipped to black.

Part 2 >>> AN: HELLLOOO! And welcome to ATTWN - massive shout out to @kindasleepywriter for finding the perfect name for this series! I so so hoped you liked part 1. I edited it like a million times, still not 100% happy with it, but I think I just needed to get it out. Fair warning - this fic won't be light hearted, our reader is going to go through some really heavy stuff. I'll of course put my warnings ahead of each part, but please know I plan to explore some darker themes surrounding mental health etc. If you'd like to join the tag list for this fic, let me know in the comments! Always love hearing your feedback, and thank you so much for reading! <3 Nic

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miueo · 1 year ago

Text

𐙚 my little idol ♥︎．。．:*･° chap ii ✿

ᰔᩚ ︶ྀི debut ; salty & sweet .

summary : you're currently in a new girl group underneath jyp entertainment ! your group is performing well on charts, you have a stable fanbase, and many bops to listen to! you try your best to avoid dating scandals for the sake of your reputation and status but it's all ruined by a very popular group of boys.

pairings : ot8!skz ♡ femidol!reader !

warnings : heavy on smut, sexualization & objectification, perversion, obsession, taboo / dark concepts (for some members, not all !) , mental physical / health issues (depression, anxiety, etc.), coercion, unsolicited pictures, more to be announced.

notes : i am having so much fun writing this and creating ideas for this. you have no fucking idea.

taglist : @p0eticjust1c3 @yunjinswifee @sky00ung @pinkdranks @bloominhos @mi-mi-mu @nasiaisan @kitkat1sstuff @hyunjinhoexxx @theinsanebish

selected song for fic : chapter playlist ✿ !!

the day of 4ura’s debut had finally arrived, a culmination of years of hard work, dreams, and relentless dedication. the air buzzed with excitement as fans gathered, eagerly anticipating the first glimpse of jyp entertainment’s newest girl group. their debut album, “feel,” promised a unique blend of songs that showcased their diverse talents, with the title track “salty & sweet” leading the charge.

the album, a carefully curated collection, included tracks like “nobody knows”, “underwater”, “diorama”, “colouring”, “candy crush”, “bamboleo”, “rewind”, and “perfect 10”. each song was chosen to highlight the group’s vocal prowess, dynamic choreography, and unique charm.

❁

as the lights dimmed and the intro to “salty & sweet” began, y/n, olivia, minjeong, and autumn took their places on stage. the music pulsed through the speakers, and the girls moved with a synchronicity that spoke of countless hours spent perfecting their performance. y/n’s voice soared, carrying the emotional weight of the song, while olivia’s electrifying dance moves captivated the audience. minjeong’s presence was mesmerizing, her visual appeal enhancing the performance, and autumn’s powerful rap delivery added an edge that completed the group’s dynamic sound.

throughout the performance, the emotions were palpable. y/n’s eyes shone with determination and a touch of nervous excitement, while olivia’s energy was infectious, drawing the audience into the performance. minjeong’s grace and confidence radiated, and autumn’s intensity underscored the group’s commitment to making a lasting impression.

as the final notes of “salty & sweet” echoed in the venue, the audience erupted into applause. the girls exchanged relieved and elated glances, the weight of their debut moment lifting as they soaked in the adoration of their new fans. backstage, the atmosphere was electric with celebration and a sense of accomplishment.

❁

while they were catching their breath and reveling in the afterglow of their successful debut, they ran into the members of stray kids. bang chan, the leader of stray kids, approached y/n with a warm smile.

“hey, y/n!! you guys did fucking insane. this is probably one of the best debut stages of our generation..” bang chan said, his voice full of genuine admiration.

y/n, still slightly breathless, smiled back as her cheeks heated up slightly. “thank you so much, chan! it means a lot coming from you.”

bang chan nodded, his eyes reflecting his sincerity. “you all really brought the energy and emotion to the stage. i could tell how much heart you put into it.”

y/n felt a surge of pride and gratitude. “we really wanted to make a strong impression. it’s been a long journey to get here.”

bang chan chuckled. “trust me, i know the feeling. but you guys nailed it. welcome to the family, 4ura.”

with that, the stray kids members offered their congratulations and words of encouragement, further solidifying the camaraderie within the jyp family. as y/n and her groupmates basked in the support of their peers, they knew this was just the beginning of an incredible journey. with their debut performance behind them and the world at their feet, 4ura was ready to take on the k-pop world, one stage at a time.

as the initial excitement of their debut began to settle, y/n found herself lingering on bang chan’s words of encouragement. she had always admired stray kids for their relentless work ethic, musical versatility, and the genuine camaraderie they shared both on and off stage. bang chan, in particular, stood out to her as a figure of leadership and creativity, someone she deeply respected.

as the group continued mingling with the stray kids members, y/n couldn’t help but feel a growing desire to get to know them better. she admired their ability to stay grounded despite their success and often looked to them as role models during her trainee days. now, standing in the same room, she felt an opportunity to bridge the gap between admiration and friendship.

gathering her courage, y/n approached bang chan once more. “chan, i wanted to say again how much your support means to me and the group. i’ve been a huge fan of stray kids since my trainee days. your music and the way you lead the group… it’s really inspiring.”

bang chan smiled, clearly touched by her words. “thank you, y/n. that means a lot. we all started somewhere, and seeing new groups like 4ura debut with such passion is a reminder of why we do what we do.”

feeling a surge of confidence, y/n took a deep breath and continued, “i was wondering, since we’re labelmates and all, if you’d be interested in hanging out sometime? maybe we could grab coffee or something in the building? i’d love to learn more about your experiences and get to know you and the other members better.”

bang chan’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “that sounds great! i’m sure the other guys would love to join too. we could definitely use a break and some good company. how about tomorrow afternoon? there’s a great café in the building that we often hang out at.”

y/n’s heart raced with excitement and relief. “tomorrow afternoon sounds perfect. I’ll let the girls know too. thanks, chan!”

as they wrapped up their conversation, y/n felt a renewed sense of anticipation. the chance to bond with bang chan and the other stray kids members was an unexpected but welcome opportunity. she hoped that these small moments of connection would pave the way for lasting friendships within the jyp family.

with a successful debut and the promise of new friendships on the horizon, y/n felt ready to take on whatever challenges and adventures lay ahead. the support and camaraderie within jyp entertainment were already proving to be invaluable, and she looked forward to growing not just as an artist, but as part of a larger, supportive community.

❁

the next afternoon, the jyp building buzzed with its usual energy, but for y/n, the anticipation of meeting stray kids for coffee added an extra layer of excitement. as she and her groupmates, olivia, minjeong, and autumn, made their way to the café, they chatted about the debut and the positive feedback they had received.

when they arrived, they saw bang chan and a few stray kids members already seated, waving them over with welcoming smiles. y/n’s heart skipped a beat as she spotted chan, his easygoing demeanor putting her at ease.

“hey, guys!” chan greeted them warmly. “glad you could make it. these are han, felix, and changbin.”

after exchanging introductions and settling into their seats, the conversation flowed naturally. they discussed everything from their training days to favorite foods, laughing and sharing stories. as the afternoon progressed, y/n found herself drawn to chan’s infectious energy and genuine interest in their debut experience.

at one point, as the others were engaged in a lively discussion about dance routines, chan turned to y/n. “so, y/n, how are you feeling after the debut? must be quite a whirlwind, huh?”

y/n nodded, her eyes sparkling. “it’s been amazing, but also overwhelming. there’s so much to take in. but having supportive colleagues like you makes it all feel a bit easier.”

chan’s gaze softened. “i’m glad to hear that. You did an incredible job. your vocals were just… wow.”

y/n felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. “thank you, chan. that means a lot coming from you.”

chan leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “you know, i was really impressed with how you handled the stage. it’s not easy to command an audience like that on your first try.”

their eyes locked, and y/n felt a flutter in her stomach. “thanks, chan. i’ve always looked up to you and the guys. your performances are always so captivating.”

a mischievous glint appeared in chan’s eyes. “well, if you ever want some tips or just hang out more, you’re always welcome to drop by my studio. in fact, i was planning to work on some new music later tonight. want to join me?”

y/n’s heart raced at the invitation. “i’d love that. what time?”

chan smiled, a hint of playfulness in his expression. “how about 9 pm? i’ll be there. we can grab some snacks and see where the night takes us.”

“sounds perfect,” y/n replied, her voice steady despite the excitement bubbling within her.

the rest of the coffee meet-up continued with lighthearted banter and shared laughter, but y/n’s thoughts kept drifting to the upcoming studio session. as they parted ways, chan gave her a quick, reassuring wink, solidifying the connection they had made.

❁

later that night, y/n arrived at the studio at 9 PM sharp. the building was quieter now, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by a serene stillness. she knocked softly on the studio door, and it opened to reveal chan, who greeted her with a warm smile.

“hey, y/n. come on in,” he said, stepping aside to let her enter. the studio was cozy, filled with various instruments, sound equipment, and a few personal touches that made it uniquely Chan’s space.

“wow, this place is amazing,” y/n said, looking around in awe.

“thanks,” Chan replied, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “it’s my little creative haven. make yourself comfortable.”

they settled in, and chan began showing y/n some of the tracks he was working on. as they chatted about music and life, the atmosphere grew more relaxed and intimate.

“you know, i’ve always wanted to collaborate with someone as talented as you,” chan said, his tone sincere.

y/n felt a warmth spread through her. “that means a lot, chan. i’ve always admired your work. this feels like a dream.”

“well, let’s make it a reality,” chan replied, his eyes twinkling. “how about we start with some melodies and see where it takes us?”

they spent the next few hours lost in music, their creative energies blending seamlessly. between takes and discussions, their conversations grew more personal, filled with laughter and shared stories.

❁

as the night deepened, the cozy ambiance of chan’s studio, coupled with the soothing melodies they were creating, began to take its toll on y/n. she stifled a yawn, trying to stay focused on the lyrics they were working on. chan noticed and chuckled softly.

“feeling tired?” he asked gently, his voice a comforting murmur.

y/n shook her head slightly, trying to shake off the drowsiness. “a little. it’s been a long day, but i don’t want to stop just yet.”

chan smiled, appreciating her determination. “how about we take a short break? i can make us some coffee.”

“that sounds great,” y/n replied, grateful for the suggestion.

as chan moved to the small kitchenette in the corner of the studio, y/n leaned back on the plush couch, closing her eyes for just a moment. the soft hum of the equipment and the faint melodies still playing lulled her into a state of relaxation.

by the time chan returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, he found y/n fast asleep, her head resting against the back of the couch, her breathing steady and peaceful. he set the mugs down quietly, a soft smile spreading across his face as he watched her.

“guess you really were tired,” he whispered to himself, not wanting to wake her.

❁

in the darkness of the space, y/n fluttered her eyes open, the clock saying 4 am. still feeling drowsy and exhausted from being constantly occupied with her group’s debut, she looked over at chan’s sleeping body and a sudden flare of lust gleamed in her large seraphic eyes.

quietly, y/n slinked at the foot of the couch, biting her bottom lip while pulling down chan’s pants and trunks altogether. the mere view made the y/n’s mouth water as her body shook in anticipation.

with quivering lips, y/n started licking and coating the chan’s length with her saliva, getting themselves excited as well. her eyes peered up as they carefully engulfed chan’s hardening member and started to bob their head slowly.

feeling already wet, y/n started to touch herself, emitting some feeble moans against the shaft. soon out of breath and yearning for something more, y/n panted as quietly as possible with their head resting on chan’s thigh.

“who told you to stop?” y/n, the girl who froze like a deer in headlights and then looked up at chan’s smirking face. “you wanted to ride my cock like a slut, didn't you. you couldn't even wait for me to wake up, huh. or maybe you find my sleeping face hot?”

gulping at chan’s harsh, husky voice, y/n then started licking the tip of the throbbing length. a yelp escaped their lips when the dom suddenly pushed their head down till the shaft reached the back of their throat. “now you finish what you started.”

y/n gagged softly around chan’s cock, pulling away swiftly before stroking his length up and down with her delicate hands.

“ugh.. i need you in me so bad!!” y/n cried out as she got back up, sitting herself down on his lap before pulling her skirt up, moving her cotton white panties aside exposing her soaked cunt.

chan chuckles maliciously, grabbing his phone and hitting the record button on his phone.

“show the people how much of a fucking slut you are. your fans could never imagine how much of a whore you are for attention like this..” he breathes out behind the camera.

y/n slowly sat herself down on his cock. he had the perfect amount of girth and length, it felt so delicious in her little tummy.

chan grabs her body and slams her back against the leather couch, he kept his phone in his hand as he thrusts into her slippery cunt at an animalistic pace.

a little y/n, fucked dumb laid beneath her senior almost like a doll. high pitched screams and whimpers escaped her mouth as she arched her back against the couch; and seeing them as such was pure achievement for chan.

their hips slammed forward consistently, rough thrusts unstopping despite y/n’s state — in fact, the very view only encouraged chan to treat them more belligerently.

chan watched how the female idol’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, almost as if she was lifeless. she was in euphoria. she had been dreaming about this moment.

it was utter entertainment for chan knowing his admirer was too immersed in their pleasure and too dumb to talk back, taking the very opportunity to spit on them and degrade them while filming every moment.

“i can’t wait to see what more you have in that little pretty mind of yours, my little idol.”

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