#my heart is broken in tiny tiny little pieces...

[an3sth3-sia]

Pretty Heart - Kkoktukaksi and the Courtesan’s Son

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ In which, pain is the only thing keeping you alive

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  Romance x Reader  Pairing: Cursed!Saja boys x Cursed!Reader Warning: Betrayal, barely proofread, 2.2k words

A/N: Happy Fourth of July to my fellow Americans! I decided to grind out to complete this as a lil gift as well as a thank you to all of you who hearted my story! With the way I’m writing this series, each of the saja boys will have their own individual story before it sets in the actual movie. I wanted to dive deeper into their background story and how things came to be with the reader. 

When you finish the story, there are some background information that dives into the deeper meaning behind certain things that I wrote. 

If I could choose the person who least deserved you, it would be Lust.

Lust in his purest form was a boy who didn’t know how to love. A boy who only knew how to play pretend. 

And you? You were just part of his final act. 

When Greed left you in the winter. Lust came to you in the spring, like a gentle breeze drifting away what was left of the dandelion fluff that lingered in the palm of your hand. He was just a boy when he met you. A boy whose eyes were tainted by the environment he was forced to grow up in. A boy whose name no longer reflected himself. 

Oh, how tragic it was for you to have met him. 

Now, we're stuck unraveling the story of “Kkoktukaksi and the Courtesan’s Son”.

It’s been 30 years since the arrival of greed.  

Many people left the village as the new era began to prosper. The little village that used to hold forty dwindled to one. The elders no longer tended to their farms, but sometimes you could catch a glimpse of the ghosts they once were. The children no longer played the tiny warriors they used to be, but sometimes you could still hear their relentless chatter. And in the midst of all those changes you were no longer the accompaniment. 

But that is a story for a different time. 

As seasons changed and the years began to tick, your body remained frozen in time. 

“It’s funny,” you mused, 

They say time heals a broken heart, but after 30 years you were still stuck mending the cracks and bruises that he left, one’s so similar to those in the abandoned homes.

The house that used to boom with laughter now held a silence that broke with every creaking floorboard; floorboards that could no longer hold itself under the pressure of your weight. It was the kind of silence that clung onto you, waiting for you to succumb to its suffocating embrace. 

Now, all that was left of this house was the burnt out lantern that no longer welcomed you home. 

Shining above the eave of the dilapidated house, casting shadows of monsters that you once feared, the moon shined brighter than usual. Your thoughts that ran rampant had finally become tranquil and the screams of your anguish no longer echoed in your mind. Peace had found you, but you didn’t know how long it would shelter you. 

In this lonesome quiet night, the sounds of frantic shuffling broke your daze. The steps of padded shoes thumping the ground grew louder as it came closer and closer. The front gates that used to stand tall and strong rattled and shook with every push the stranger made. 

“Please, is somebody in there,” they called out, yanking the door even harder. 

“They’re after me,” he pleads, full of desperation. 

You scrambled to your feet, a little too hasty as your hands broke off a piece of the wooden rails next to you. With the wooden handle bar in your hands, you crept cautiously towards the door. 

“Go away,” you hushed, gritting your teeth as you threw your weight against the force of the door that was slowly coming unlocked. The handlebar was a huge nuisance as it made it harder to stop the door from being opened.  

“Please, I promise I’ll leave right after,” his voice full of distress as he tries shimming his foot between the little gap that appeared from your moment of hesitation. 

“Or, you could just leave right now,” you retorted, fully leaning on the door with your shoulder and knee as your strength began to loosen.

“The nearest village is 20 miles away!” 

“Hey– would you stop it,” he hissed, grabbing the handlebar you were using to jab into his thigh. 

Weaponless, you had no choice but to let him in, he was already half anyway. You threw your body to the side and watched as the door swung open. The stranger fell first down onto the ground, allowing yourself to grab back the weapon you were using to jab him. 

“Quick, close the door” he ushered you, crawling towards the door when you made no move to help.

You watched, taking note of the clothes he wore. His pants and shirt, although subtly, were made of the finest silk that could only be found in places you could ever dream of, yet it was deceptively deceiving under all that dirt and soot. 

Your eyes roaming his body from his muted pink hair to his shoes that have seen better days. Your breath hitching, just slightly, as your gaze fell onto his face.

He was pretty. A type of pretty that made you want to take a second look. It wasn’t a devastating beauty, but it made you want to come closer. 

You diverted your eyes and your hold on your weapon tightened. You watched tensely as the stranger in front of you hid behind a barrel that you didn’t know was still there. His eyes peaked above the top of the lid, face full of weariness as he waved his hand frantically at you, begging you to come and hide. 

He had blocked the door with a wooden plank found somewhere to the side, hoping it would be enough to prevent whoever was after him from coming in. 

You dragged your body reluctantly, squatting far from him but enough to do some damage if he made any sudden moves on you. Your weapon rested on your shoulder, staring at the door he was intently hiding from. 

Soon after, voices of anger flooded the area with intense animosity. 

“Find him” someone ordered, 

“He couldn’t have gone far,” he added, their voices and footsteps fading as the distance between them and you increased. 

You waited a little longer just in case they decided to turn back around. When several minutes passed by with no sign of them returning, you stood up using the handlebar as a cane. You were annoyed and tired, and quite frankly you wanted him gone. 

“That was a close one, huh” he chuckles, dusting off his clothes.

If it weren’t for you caving in he would’ve been dead meat by now. It was a miracle that he was able to even find a place still standing. The other houses around were in complete shambles and while this house didn’t look like it could stand on its own, it did pretty well. 

“Just leave, please” 

You dragged your hands down your face in frustration, but not before tossing the handlebar at him, missing him by a couple of inches.

“R-right, thank you,” he stuttered awkwardly, dodging your handlebar that hopefully wasn’t aimed at him. He pulled himself up from the ground and quickly made his way over to the door, the wooden plank still keeping the door closed as tightly as it could. It was easy to take off, but putting it against the door on the other hand was a whole different thing.

Tossing the plank to the side, he slipped his body between the door and the column that held it. He glanced at you one more time, hesitating to leave you alone to yourself. 

“My name’s Rae-seon.” 

— — — 

He was the courtesan's son.

He saw things that no child should have ever seen. 

Born from a mother that only knew how to serve, he was coveted by not only the woman, but even the men. Their eyes would gloss over him, full of want and obsession like a prey waiting to be hunted. So he did what he did best, he played and he pretended. 

He played the weak, when he was the strong, biding his time waiting for the right moment to strike. He was the tiger in sheep's clothing, someone that you never saw coming.

A pretty face with pretty words that came out of his mouth because how else do you swoop a person with a broken heart? You fill up the cracks with the thing that they solely crave of course. 

He was an actor, that was his dream. He wanted the praise, the envy in people's eyes, but most of all he wanted to get away from the status that bestowed him the moment he was born. 

So when whispers spread far and wide of a lonely maiden always hiding away in the middle of the night in a village that was forgotten, he knew this was his opportunity to test out the gift that Gwi-ma gave. 

— — — 

It was an easy plan, pay a couple of guys to rough him up and chase him so that he could have you save him, but he underestimated the spookiness of the abandoned village. So many run down homes, no lights, just darkness. 

Then in the corner of his eye, he saw the way the moonlight fell upon you through the tiny gap of the wall. It was serene, it kind of made him feel bad for what he was going to do, but that feeling left as quickly as it came and at the end of the night it paid off because you remembered his name.

From that moment forward, he was everywhere. He found ways to bump into you, playing that awkward boy so that you would let your guard down, but it didn’t work. From tripping over his shoes to getting chased by the stray dog in the village, you never looked his way—until the lantern. 

He noticed it, the way you would look at the lanterns that hung above you with sadness in your eyes. The way your fingers would gently trace the lines of the patterns. The more he chased you, the more he noticed how to love you. 

He noticed the way you held yourself together with a certain poise, a strength that he could recognize. He noticed the way your ears would burn when embarrassed, the slight lisp of yours whenever you got too annoyed at him. 

How you didn’t like kimchi on its own, but you loved the pancakes. He saw the way you expressed yourself with your feet whenever you were happy–always dancing. He saw the way you loved the moon, you always carried a sense of tenderness whenever you sat under the light. 

The little frown lines of yours whenever you read something you didn’t like. 

So when you came back to a lantern welcoming you home, burning bright as the sun, he didn’t have to ask why you were crying. 

He knew, and that’s all that mattered. 

Then the voices came, one by one, consuming him. 

“You don’t really love them, do you?” 

“Giving them lanterns, taking them to watch your plays, asking them to marry you?”

— — —

You noticed it. 

You noticed the way he kept you waiting. The empty promises of never leaving you behind, only to be left in the dust as he met with his friends. You noticed the way he stopped initiating the I love you’s. 

You noticed the lingering gazes of his that fell upon another. 

But most of all, you noticed the aching pain that once stopped had slowly begun to hurt. Slowly, but surely, the trickling voices that once were silent soon became like a broken dam. 

You stood there, tears falling one by one as he left you where he first met you. In the dark, under the dim moonlight, all alone to face the monsters that pulled you. 

But, instead of his pleas, it was yours. 

“Please don't leave me,” you cried, clutching his shirt, afraid of letting go.

“I promise I’ll do better, so we can stay together” 

But all he did was watch, smirking at your misery and your desperation for him to love you, to not leave you. It was thrilling, the way he was able to manipulate you, to watch you fall for his act and give all yourself to him. 

You were just a puppet in this play of his.

Made to be used by him, until he no longer needed you.

His final act. 

The final scene of the story of Kkoktukaksi and the Courtesan’s Son.

It was a familiar scene, one that we both knew all too well. A repeat of history. 

One that continues onto the next. 

— — —

What do you do when someone heals your heart, only for them to break it the same way?

Some background information: 

Rae-seon(래선)

Meaning: “Rae” (래) suggests “coming” or “future,” and “Seon” (선) means “goodness” or “virtue.”

Description: Indicates a future guided by goodness and virtue, embodying the ideals of morality and integrity. 

I thought it was fitting to give him the name “Rae-seon” as it contradicts his character. He’s a liar and a manipulator, his integrity is not there. 

Kkoktukaksi and the Courtesan’s Son

“Kkoktukaksi”- Basically means “The puppet wife”

It's derived from Kkoktukaksi nori, a Korean puppet play, named after the wife of the main character. This type of play is commonly performed as a final act by a group of male entertainers, hence why I decided to make Romance be the son of a courtesan. 

This is one big act done by Romance (the puppet master) and you are the “bride” that he plays. 

There’s a couple of hints that reveal some information for the next story! So hopefully you spot that!

[bluehoodiewoozi]

Paper Rings

Lee Seokmin (DK) x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: food mention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fought back a smile and grabbed a sticky note. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mingyu blinked. “I’m sorry?”

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

He tried not to take offense. “For…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kids screamed in excitement.

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

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

“Like … quiet weird.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good point.”

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

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

“All given out,” Jaemin replied.

“Confetti?”

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

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

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

“Music?” 

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

“Priest?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are?” 

“Yes!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Perfect! Then I announce you–”

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

Jaemin gasped. “And the rings!”

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

Seokmin’s lips twitched. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — no tears left to cry . . . softdom!chris

in which . . . you leave the boy who broke your heart and fall into the arms of the one who’s been waiting to love you right.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , creampie , mentions of cheating , mentions of a toxic & manipulative ex , not proofread!

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #9

it had been a long time since you felt like this.

free.

light.

not entirely healed, no, the pieces were still settling back into place. but, you weren’t crumbling anymore. not crying in the bathroom at 2am over texts you shouldn’t have read. not biting your tongue to keep from speaking. not choosing silence just to avoid another argument you’d lose.

your ex hadn’t touched you in months before the breakup. and when he did, it didn’t feel like love. it felt like control. like you were being tolerated.

but chris?

chris touches you like you’re sacred.

when you were in your previous relationship with your ex, you hadn’t meant to fall into his arms. not at first. you hadn’t meant to cheat. chris was just supposed to be your best friend, someone who understood how broken you felt without asking too many questions. someone who didn’t push, didn’t judge, didn’t try to fix you.

he just…stayed.

stayed when your voice cracked. stayed when you showed up crying. stayed when your hands shook and your smile faded and all you could offer was a tired glance and a quiet, “can you just hold me?”

and when your body started craving something more—something warm and real—he gave you that too. slowly. gently. never more than you could handle.

and now?

now your smile has returned.

your eyes aren’t empty anymore.

you’re laughing again. loudly, carelessly, the way you used to. you’re dressing like yourself, speaking like yourself, taking up space like you were meant to. and chris sees it. he’s the reason for it, and he knows it.

“damn,” he says from across the room, arms behind his head on your bed, eyes glued to you as you tug your hoodie off. “you always this hot or am i just noticing ‘cause you’re finally glowing again?”

you shoot him a look, playful and flushed, and toss the hoodie in his direction. it hits his chest, and he grins, catching it before it falls to the floor.

you crawl into his lap with ease. you’ve done this before, but this time it feels different. you’re not crying, you’re not falling apart, and you’re not begging for comfort. you’re just… here. present. and a little bold, hands braced on his chest as you straddle him in your tiny sleep shorts and your favorite tank top.

his breath catches. not because you’re doing anything wild, but because you’re yourself again.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “not a single tear left. just my pretty girl.”

you smile — really smile — and tilt your head, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “you like this version of me better?”

“i love every version of you,” he says instantly. “but this one? the one who knows how fucking perfect she is? the one who doesn’t let anyone dim her light anymore?”

he pauses, voice softer now. “yeah, baby. this one makes me proud.”

your stomach flips, warm and dizzying, and your lips press to his without thinking. he kisses you like he’s been waiting for it. patient but eager, firm but gentle. his hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him harder, deeper, letting your hips shift the tiniest bit.

you moan into his mouth when his thumbs press into your skin, anchoring you there. the tension between you simmers, slow and golden, not rushed. he lets you take the lead — for a second. lets you move how you want, chase what you need.

but then his hand slides up your spine and into your hair, and the kiss turns hungry.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“lay back for me, baby.”

you flip over, on your stomach how he always wants you, heart pounding as you sink into the pillows, and he follows—slow and deliberate—his mouth brushing your jaw, your neck, and your shoulder.

“you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “been dreamin’ about the moment you finally let me love you like this.”

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hands skating up the backs of your thighs before settling on your hips. “look at you.”

his voice is so soft it’s almost ruined. like he can’t believe this is real.

he leans down over you, chest brushing your back, mouth dragging across your shoulder and up to your ear.

his hand slides up your spine again, slow and warm, and you feel him press against you from behind. a slow grind, no rush. just letting it build.

you arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in your ear.

“that’s it. fuck—feels so good already, baby.”

he lifts your hips slightly so he can pull your silk shorts down, giving your ass a soft slap before pulling your panties down as well. he watches as a shade of delicate pink blooms across your skin.

you can hear him pulling his sweats down, along with his boxers. god, you were so ready. you could never enjoy sex with your ex because he was just…awful. it never felt like love. just tolerance.

chris kneads the flesh of your ass gently, fingertips digging into your skin. he spreads your cheeks slightly, admiring you. “god, you’re so perfect…”

he drags the head of his cock through your weeping folds, coating himself in your wetness. he presses his tip to your drooling entrance, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. he wants confirmation. you nod, a little too desperately. he grips your hips slightly tighter.

you whimper a little when he pushes himself in, the stretch hitting deep, slow and steady as he settles fully inside you. his hands grip your hips, not too tight, but grounding.

he stays still for a second, just breathing. letting you feel it. letting himself feel it. how euphorically deep he is inside you. how your walls feel stretched and hugging around him. how connected he feels to you in this moment.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

you nod, flushed cheek pressed to the pillow. “yeah…more than okay.”

he kisses your shoulder again, then starts to move. deep and slow, rolling his hips into yours like he’s trying to learn every inch of you.

you bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whiny moan. your breath’s shaky, but it’s not from nerves. it’s the way he’s touching you. the way he’s talking to you. the way he feels inside you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “so perfect like this. fuck, i missed you like this.”

you let out a soft moan, your hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laces your fingers together instantly and holds it there—his hand wrapped around yours as he keeps thrusting into you, deeper now.

“you’re glowing, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “you know that? haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

you choke out a soft laugh, already breathless. “it’s your fault.”

he grins against your skin. “yeah? good. wanna be the reason you never cry again.”

he fucks you like he means it—slow but purposeful, hitting deep with every thrust. his free hand smooths over your back, your waist, your thigh, anywhere he can touch you.

“you feel so good,” he whispers, over and over. “so good. i’ve got you.”

and he does.

you’re not just getting fucked—you’re being worshipped. every sound you make, every arch of your hips, every shaky breath…he’s soaking it all in like he can’t get enough.

and you?

you finally feel whole again. like you’re not just being held, but chosen.

his hand tightens around yours, the one still laced with your fingers, and he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as his pace starts to build—just a little. enough to make your breath catch. enough to make the heat curl tighter in your stomach.

“you’re takin’ me so well,” he murmurs, forehead resting against your back for a second like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. “so fuckin’ perfect, baby. like you were made for me.”

you moan into the pillow, trying to stay quiet, but you know better. chris loves hearing you. his free hand slips beneath your body, palm splayed against your stomach, pulling you back into him with every slow, deep thrust. your hips lift slightly, the moderate angle change immediately affecting you.

your thighs start to tremble, and he notices immediately.

“yeah? that’s it. right there, baby,” he praises, voice low and warm in your ear. “you feel that? been holding back for me, huh?”

you nod, breath hitching when he pushes in a little deeper this time, angle hitting something that makes your whole body jolt. chris splays his hand over the evident bulge in your stomach proudly, which encourages him.

“chris—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he groans softly, hips stuttering like he’s barely holding himself together. “fuck, you sound so good… i’m not gonna last if you keep saying my name like that.”

you turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—his flushed face, his damp curls, the way he’s looking at you like he’s completely gone. completely in it.

the tip of his cock kisses the sweet spot inside of you relentlessly, causing ropes of pleasure to curl in your lower stomach, right where his hand is splayed.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice shaky. “please. don’t stop.”

he doesn’t.

his rhythm stays steady but more intense now, deep enough to make your toes curl, to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. well, not exactly silent. the sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, quiet and messy and desperate. and all the while, chris is talking to you.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying, like a mantra. “you’re mine. so good for me. so fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

his hand dips lower again, brushing your clit, slow and purposeful, and your hips jerk at the touch, making chris groan.

“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he asks softly, like it’s something sacred. like he’s asking permission to watch you fall apart.

you nod quickly, the pressure building fast, overwhelming. chris feels your walls pulsing around him. he already knows the answer. “close,” you breathe. “i—so close, chris…”

“then let go, baby. shit—cum for me.”

oh, you do.

your whole body arches, face buried in the pillow as the climax hits, fast and hard, ripping the breath from your lungs. your fingers squeeze his hand so tight he almost whimpers, and his pace stutters when he feels your velvety walls flutter around him.

“shit—fuck, baby, that’s it,” he growls, voice breaking. “so good for me. i can’t—”

he doesn’t pull out.

he buries himself deep, a few more ragged thrusts before he’s right there with you—low groans pressed against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to your back, trying to catch his breath, his hands still running down your sides even though you’re both shaking.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

just kisses the space between your shoulder blades again. and again. and again.

“you okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and careful.

you nod, still breathless. “yeah. that was…”

he hums. “yeah.”

a quiet beat passes, and then he slowly pulls out, murmuring soft apologies when you flinch at the sensitivity. he leaves for a second—just enough time to grab a warm towel and a glass of water—then comes right back, slipping into bed beside you. god, he’s such a sweetheart.

“here,” he says gently, handing you the water and helping you flip over and sit up enough to drink. “take a few sips, baby.”

you do. his hand stays on your lower back the whole time.

once you’re done, he tosses the glass aside and tugs you into his chest like it’s second nature. like this is just what he does now. his fingers stroke your hair. his nose brushes your temple. his lips graze your cheek.

“you were perfect,” he whispers.

you smile, still dazed. “i feel like myself again.”

“you are yourself, baby,” he says. “i just reminded you.”

“you always do,” you say, voice quiet.

he nods, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i’m always gonna take care of you, y’know that?”

you curl into him even more, nose pressed to his neck. “yeah. i know.”

and he smiles—soft and sleepy—and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

“good.”

and with his arms around you, his voice in your ear, and his warmth still lingering between your legs, there’s nothing left to ache over—no heartbreak, no fear, no tears left to cry. just him. just you. just peace.

author’s note . . . sorry this is a lil late! this is one of my favs so far :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[nizhspo]

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

synopsis: he comes home late, hair windblown, uniform dusty, cologne half-faded, and finds you at the sink, waiting. it’s the night they say itadori’s dead.

content: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-mission gojo, canon timeline, established relationship.

your apartment always smelled like him when he came home late.

a whiff of something sharp and piney—the cologne he wore when he actually remembered to wear it, and something underneath it, like electricity, ozone, the feeling right before lightning strikes. it lingered in the air even when he’d already kicked off his boots by the door, already dropped his blindfold somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen. today it landed on the counter. next to your glass of tea.

you’re rinsing dishes in the sink when you feel him behind you. not just feel, but sense. the air shifts. pressure dips. and then his arms snake around your waist, long and loose at first, like he’s just stretching, but then he tugs you back into his chest, holding you snug.

“mm,” he hums, voice lazy and warm against the shell of your ear. “told ya i’d be back in one piece.”

you smile a little, setting the plate aside. “you said that last time and came back with a broken rib.”

“technically, that was two ribs.” he grins, shameless, resting his chin on your shoulder. “but they healed quick. you were too busy scolding me to notice.”

his hair’s still wind-mussed, icy white strands falling messily over his forehead, soft and silken when they brush against your cheek. the corners of his mouth are upturned, but there’s a little weight behind it tonight. the kind that settles just behind his lashes. like he’s tired. not physically, because satoru gojo never looks tired—but somewhere deep in that too-big, too-complicated heart of his.

“long day?” you ask, even though you already know.

he exhales, arms tightening around your middle. “the longest.”

his uniform’s still half-buttoned. you can feel the fabric of it, stiff, structured, a little dusty from wherever he’s been. but he smells like fresh air and sugar too. probably stopped for dessert on the way home. probably didn’t even eat it.

“my student are… dealing,” he says, after a beat. “yuji’s… well. was. it’s complicated.”

you pause your rinsing. glance back at him.

his eyes are visible, bright, glacier-blue and impossibly deep. they flicker with something you can’t place. sadness, maybe. frustration. disbelief. but beneath all of it, there’s this tiny flicker of hope. like he knows the story isn’t over yet. like he’s already seen the next page.

“everyone’s acting like it’s final,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “like he’s gone. but i don’t know. i just—i don’t feel like he is. not really.”

you turn around in his arms slowly, wiping your hands on a dish towel, and reach up to brush his bangs from his eyes. his lashes are unfairly long. his jaw’s smooth tonight, clean-shaven, maybe for the first time in a few days, and the curve of his mouth is tugging downward, even if he’s trying to pretend it isn’t.

“then trust yourself,” you tell him, gentle but firm. “if you don’t think he’s gone, then he’s not. you’re satoru gojo, remember? strongest sorcerer in the world? senses sharper than anyone else?”

he snorts, the sound muffled in your hair as he leans in and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “you sound like my hype man.”

“i’m your girlfriend,” you correct, tipping your head back so he kisses your forehead too. “same thing.”

a real smile breaks through then, slow, boyish, crooked in a way that makes your chest ache. “god, you’re so perfect it’s annoying.”

“i try.”

“and i mean—” he pauses to tug you closer, nuzzling into your neck now like a giant, clingy golden retriever. “what did i do to deserve you?”

you laugh, letting your arms loop up around his neck. he’s so tall it’s almost comical, leaning down into your touch like this, bending to fit in the space between your arms. and yet he feels right. like this was always how he was meant to come home—messy hair, aching heart, face buried in your shoulder and hands tangled at your back like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

“you saved the world a few times,” you tease. “i figured i owed you.”

“hmm.” his smile softens. “then i guess i’ll keep saving it. just to come home to you.”

and that’s the thing with satoru, under all the power, the teasing, the sunglasses and blindfold and swagger and indestructible reputation: he just wants to be loved. completely. without question. and tonight, you give him that.

no conditions. no expectations. just you, a kitchen sink, and arms that never let go.

[hazelira]

craving comfort

Heeseung’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, as he gently bounced his squirming baby girl in his arms. His heart ached, knowing how much he’d been away recently. The relentless demands of idol life had kept him from moments like these—simple, precious moments with his daughter. Yet here he was now, home at last, determined to make up for lost time while you rested in the other room, pregnant with their second child.

The baby’s pouty lips trembled as she squirmed harder, her little fists pushing against his chest. “Mama,” she whimpered, the word breaking Heeseung’s heart into pieces.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Heeseung murmured, brushing her soft hair away from her flushed face. “Mama’s just resting, baby. You’ve got me, though. Dada’s here.”

But the reassurance fell on deaf ears. She wriggled again, turning her head toward the door as if sensing you on the other side. Her chubby hands clumsily batted at Heeseung’s jaw in protest, and she let out a frustrated wail.

He sighed, adjusting her in his arms and kissing her damp cheeks. “Come on, love, don’t cry. You’re breaking Dada’s heart here.”

She wasn’t buying it.

Heeseung carried her over to her bouncy seat, gently placing her down. He shook one of the attached rattles, the soft jingle momentarily catching her attention. “Look, isn’t this fun?” he said, his voice high and playful, trying to coax a smile.

But her lower lip wobbled dangerously, and a fat tear slipped down her cheek. She reached out for him, her tiny body tensing with the beginnings of another wail.

“Okay, okay!” Heeseung scooped her up again, cradling her close. “You don’t like that. Noted.” He grabbed Mr. Flopsy, her favourite stuffed bunny, and held it before her. “Look who’s here! It’s Mr. Flopsy!”

Her chubby hand grasped the bunny’s floppy ear for a second, but her teary eyes again darted toward the bedroom door. “Mama,” she hiccupped, her voice thick with longing.

Heeseung’s shoulders slumped. He pressed his lips to her temple, his voice soft and melodic as he began humming a random tune. The notes spilled from his lips, forming an improvised lullaby, gentle and soothing. “You’re my little bunny…my sweet baby girl…”

Her cries quieted just a bit, though her sniffles lingered. She curled into his chest, burying her head in the crook of his neck. He could feel the dampness of her tears soaking into his shirt, and it made his chest tighten.

“I’m trying, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I know you miss Mama. I miss her too.”

He rocked her slowly, swaying back and forth as he continued to hum. Every now and then, her little hands gripped his shirt, curling into the fabric as if anchoring herself to him.

When she let out another quiet whimper, Heeseung grabbed her teething toy and offered it to her. She gnawed on it momentarily before tossing it aside with a dissatisfied grunt.

“Mr. Flopsy’s better, huh?” Heeseung said, trying to keep his tone light despite the heaviness in his chest. He handed her the bunny again, and she hugged it to her chest this time.

But then, just as he thought she might settle, her tiny head tilted up to look at him with watery eyes. “Mama,” she whispered again, her voice so small and broken that it shattered him completely.

Heeseung closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know, baby. I know,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And when her quiet cries turned into a full-blown sob, he sank onto the couch, holding her tight and rocking her desperately.

The door creaked open, and you appeared, your face glowing with the softness of motherhood. “What’s going on here?” you asked gently, calming the room.

Your daughter’s head snapped up, and she let out a delighted cry, reaching for you with her pudgy arms. “Mama!”

Heeseung let out a breathy laugh, his eyes misty as he handed her to you. “She’s all yours,” he said softly, a tinge of defeat.

As your daughter nestled into your arms, her cries became soft hiccups. She clung to you like a lifeline, her little body finally relaxing.

Heeseung watched the two of you with a bittersweet smile. “Guess I still need to earn back my ‘Dada’ title,” he joked weakly.

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re doing amazing, Hee,” you whispered. “She just misses me. But she loves you—you’re her world, too.”

And as Heeseung watched his little girl settle into your arms, he made a silent promise to himself: no matter how busy life got, he’d always make time for moments like these, even if it hurt sometimes. Because for his family, he’d do anything.

Heeseung leaned back on the couch, his head resting against the cushions as he watched you sway gently with your daughter in your arms. The tension in her little body had melted away entirely, replaced by the comfort only a mother could give. It was a sight that tugged at his heartstrings in ways he couldn’t quite describe.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low but weighted with emotion.

You glanced over at him, your brows knitting together. “Sorry for what, Hee?”

“For being gone so much. For missing out on moments like this. I don’t want her to feel like I’m just some guy who shows up when it’s convenient.”

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice. You walked over to the couch, sinking beside him with your daughter still snuggled against your chest. Her eyelids were fluttering, sleep beginning to claim her.

“Hee,” you said softly, reaching to take his hand. “You’re not just ‘some guy.’ You’re her dad. And she knows you love her. Even if you can’t always be here physically, she feels it. I know she does.”

Heeseung released a shaky sigh, squeezing your hand as his gaze dropped to your daughter. Her tiny fingers were clutching the fabric of your shirt now, her breaths evening out as she drifted off.

“I just hate seeing her cry like that,” he admitted, his voice thick. “It makes me feel like I’m failing her.”

“You’re not failing her,” you reassured him firmly. “She’s just at that age where she’s clingy with me. It’s normal. But she adores you, Hee. You should’ve seen her excitement when you walked through the door today. Her whole face lit up.”

A small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re her Dada. Her hero. And you’ll always have a special place in her heart, no matter how often you must be away.”

Heeseung exhaled slowly, his chest feeling a little lighter. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you and your sleeping daughter closer.

“I’ll try harder,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper. “To be here more. To make time. For both of you.”

“We know you’re doing your best,” you said, tilting your head to look at him. “But, Hee…you’re allowed to have bad days. You’re allowed to feel like this. Just don’t ever forget that we love you, okay?”

Heeseung swallowed hard, nodding as he kissed the top of your head. “I love you too,” he murmured. “Both of you.”

The room was quiet for a while, filled only with the soft sounds of your daughter’s breathing and the faint hum of the heater. Heeseung let himself soak in the moment, his heart swelling with love and longing.

“Do you think she’ll be okay with me putting her to bed tonight?” he asked after a while, his voice tentative.

You smiled, glancing down at your daughter’s peaceful face. “She’ll be more than okay. She’ll love it. You’ve just got to keep trying, Hee.”

“I will,” he said, determination lacing his tone.

As the two of you sat there, cocooned in the warmth of your little family, Heeseung realized that while being a dad might not always be easy, it was the most rewarding role he’d ever had. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Dinner was a quiet but cozy affair. The scent of your home-cooked meal wafted through the air, mingling with the warmth of being together as a family. Your daughter sat snugly in her high chair, secured with her little bib, her chubby legs kicking softly beneath the tray. She was positioned perfectly between you and Heeseung, her wide eyes darting between you as if deciding who to focus on.

You were slowly eating your food, occasionally glancing over at the baby. Her meal—a bowl of pureed carrots and sweet potatoes—was warming up on the counter alongside her milky bottle. Heeseung, seated on her other side, was shovelling spoonfuls of food into his mouth, stealing glances at his daughter between bites.

“Alright, bunny,” Heeseung said softly, setting his chopsticks down and wiping his hands with a napkin. “Let’s see if you’re ready to eat, hmm?”

Her attention immediately shifted to him as he grabbed her food and bottle. She cooed softly, a bubbly sound that made Heeseung chuckle.

“Hang on, hang on. Dada’s getting it,” he murmured, quickly testing the temperature of her meal on his wrist before sitting back down.

He scooped up a tiny spoonful of the pureed food, his movements slow and gentle. “Okay, open up, sweetheart. Like this—ahh,” he demonstrated, opening his mouth wide exaggeratedly.

Your daughter blinked at him, then turned her head toward you with a curious little noise as if checking to see if you were watching.

You smirked, taking a sip of water. “Looks like she’s waiting for my approval.”

Heeseung groaned playfully, holding the spoon closer to her mouth. “Don’t be like this, bunny. Dada’s trying here.”

She finally turned back to him, her tiny lips parting slightly. Heeseung seized the moment, quickly sliding the spoon into her mouth. She blinked in surprise but didn’t spit it out, her little face scrunching up as she adjusted to the taste.

“There we go!” Heeseung cheered softly, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

You chuckled, watching as he scooped up another spoonful. “You’re a natural, Hee. She’s warming up to you again.”

Heeseung’s grin widened, his confidence growing as he offered her another bite. But this time, instead of taking the food immediately, she let out a happy little coo and turned back to you, her arms reaching out as if trying to climb across the tray.

“Mama,” she babbled, her voice filled with excitement.

“Oh, come on,” Heeseung groaned dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “I’m right here! Feeding you!”

You laughed, setting your fork down. “She’s just saying hi, Hee. Let her have her moment.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but the playful glint in his gaze gave him away. “Hi? It's more like rubbing it in my face. Aren’t you, bunny?”

Your daughter cooed again as if agreeing. But this time, she turned back to Heeseung, her tiny hands slapping the tray excitedly.

“See? She’s still got Dada love in her,” you teased, taking another bite of your food.

Heeseung smiled softly, his eyes warm as he offered her another spoonful. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She’s just making me work for it.”

You watched as she leaned forward slightly, taking the food from him without hesitation this time. Her chubby cheeks wobbled as she chewed, her little noises of satisfaction making Heeseung’s smile stretch even more expansive.

“She’s a handful,” he said, glancing at you. “But she’s worth every second.”

You reached over, squeezing his free hand gently. “We both are,” you reminded him softly.

Heeseung looked at you, his expression filled with so much love it made your chest tighten. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “You both are.”

As the three of you sat together, sharing this simple but meaningful moment, Heeseung felt a sense of peace settle over him. This was his family—his home. And no matter how chaotic life got, this was the love he would always return to.

As Heeseung placed the spoon back into the bowl, he noticed the familiar signs. His daughter’s little hand started to bat at the empty tray, her face scrunching as a soft whine escaped her lips.

"Uh-oh," he muttered softly, his heart immediately going into overdrive. “You finished already, huh? Just a little more, baby…”

But she wasn’t having it. The whining grew into a louder fuss, her tiny legs kicking in protest as she squirmed in her high chair, her hands urgently reaching him.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Heeseung chuckled nervously, glancing at you for reassurance. “She’s ready for her bottle. You’re growing too fast, bunny.”

You gave him a knowing smile, wiping your mouth as you leaned back. “I think she’s done with her dinner. Time for milky.”

Heeseung didn’t need to be told twice. He quickly unbuckled her from the high chair, easily scooping her up. She nestled her head against his shoulder, her face scrunching into a tiny pout as she continued to fuss, clearly tired but craving the comfort of her bottle.

“Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” Heeseung cooed softly, cradling her against his chest. His hands gently cupped the back of her head, rocking her as he made his way to the living room.

You watched the scene unfold, your heart softening at the sight of Heeseung looking so natural with his daughter in his arms. Moments like these reminded you of how deeply he loved her, even if he had his own moments of self-doubt.

Heeseung settled onto the couch, carefully adjusting your daughter in his arms. He grabbed her bottle from the coffee table with practiced hands, ensuring the milk was at the right temperature.

“Here we go, bunny,” he murmured, gently guiding the bottle to her mouth.

Your daughter’s eyes fluttered closed as she lazily latched onto the bottle, her little fingers grasping at the soft fabric of his shirt. She was still fussy, but the comfort of being held by her father and the warm bottle quickly soothed her.

“Mm…” she hummed softly, her fussing slowly fading as she began drinking. Heeseung smiled, a deep sense of relief washing over him. His eyes softened as he gazed down at her, the light from the lamps casting a warm glow over her peaceful face.

“That’s it, little one,” he whispered. “Just relax now.”

You stood from the table, walking over to sit next to him. Your hand gently brushed through his hair as you smiled at the sight. “She’s finally calming down. You’re good at this, you know?”

Heeseung chuckled, glancing over at you with a tired but content smile. “I just don’t want to mess up,” he confessed quietly. “I don’t want her to feel like she’s not important, not enough.”

You softened, your heart aching for him. “She knows she’s important, Hee. You’re her world. She’s just a little fussy sometimes. It’s normal for babies, right?”

“Yeah…” Heeseung breathed out, his gaze flickering back down to their daughter. “It’s just so hard when she’s upset. I don’t want her to feel that way around me.”

“She won’t,” you said softly, reaching out to gently rub his back. “She trusts you, Hee. You’re the one she turns to when she needs comfort.”

Heeseung sighed deeply, watching as your daughter’s little body relaxed further in his arms, the soft sounds of her sucking filling the space.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I just want to do everything I can for her.”

“She knows you’re doing your best,” you reassured him. “We all do.”

As you both sat there, watching her drift off into a peaceful slumber, the bond between father and daughter seemed to fill the room, quiet but undeniable. Heeseung may have been struggling with the weight of his responsibilities, but in that moment, as he held his baby girl in his arms, everything felt right.

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “She’ll always need you, Hee. You’re the best Dada she could have.”

Heeseung’s eyes met yours; his voice was soft and full of love. “And you’re the best mama.”

With a content sigh, he rested his head against the back of the couch, allowing the peaceful silence to wrap around the three of you. The soft sound of your daughter’s breathing filled the room, and for the first time in a while, Heeseung allowed himself to relax fully, knowing that this—this was everything.

The night had settled in, the soft hum of the house filling the silence as Heeseung carefully cradled his daughter in his arms. She had finished her bottle, her little belly full, and she seemed to be drifting off into a peaceful sleep, her small, warm body nestled against his chest. Heeseung smiled, feeling the weight of the day lift as he held her, the rhythmic sound of her breathing soothing him more than he expected.

Still, the task remained: putting her down for the night.

He hesitated momentarily, watching her delicate face, soft with sleep. Knowing how much she craved his warmth, his heart ached, but he also knew she needed to rest in her crib. He gently adjusted her in his arms, careful not to jostle her too much, and slowly made his way to her nursery.

As he reached the crib and carefully lowered her, her little face scrunched up instantly. Her tiny hands reached out, gripping at his shirt desperately as she whimpered softly, a frown pulling at her lips.

“No, no, baby, it’s okay,” Heeseung murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You need to sleep in your crib, okay? Dada’s right here…”

But his reassurances didn’t seem to work. The moment he pulled away, her tiny body tensed, her face scrunching as she let out a pitiful cry. Her little hands stretched out to him, her eyes filled with frustration and confusion.

Heeseung felt his chest tighten at the sound. He couldn’t bear to see her upset.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered to himself, his voice soft but firm as he scooped her back into his arms, holding her close. “I’ll let you sleep with me for a little longer. But you’ve got to sleep, okay, bunny?”

Immediately, her cries quieted as she was lifted back into his embrace. Her small, warm body melted back against his chest, her face instinctively snuggling into the crook of his neck.

“You just want your Dada, huh?” Heeseung whispered, his heart racing as he carefully rocked her back and forth. Her soft, even breaths against his skin told him all he needed to know. She was calm now, content with the warmth of his chest and his heartbeat's steady rhythm.

Heeseung’s heart swelled, knowing how much she craved the comfort only he could provide. He wasn’t sure if it was his warmth or the familiarity of his scent, but she always seemed to seek him out in those moments of need.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, brushing his nose against her soft hair. “I’ll stay right here. You’re safe with me.”

He walked around the room slowly, letting her snuggle deeper into him. His own body felt the pull of exhaustion, the weight of his daughter in his arms grounding him to the present.

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll try again,” he whispered, his voice soft and affectionate. “But for tonight… you, mama, and me, okay? Just us.”

She cooed, her tiny hands curling around the fabric of his shirt as she snuggled deeper, her face hidden against him. The smell of milk and baby lotion lingered on her skin, and Heeseung closed his eyes for a moment, letting the peacefulness of the moment wash over him.

As he gently rocked her, his thoughts drifted back to the chaos of his idol life, the long hours and the never-ending demands. But at that moment, with his daughter tucked safely in his arms, Heeseung couldn’t imagine a perfect place to be.

He sat on the rocking chair in the nursery, his daughter still nestled against him, and allowed himself to relax fully. This was his world now. And no matter how busy life got, he knew that the feel of her tiny body in his arms and her breath's softness against his chest was worth every second.

As she slowly drifted off to sleep, her tiny body curled against his warmth, Heeseung realized he would never take these moments for granted. Even when the world felt overwhelming, this little family—his family—was the home he had always craved.

As Heeseung gently rocked her in his arms, a sudden, soft sound interrupted the quiet of the nursery.

💨

His eyebrows shot up, and his lips twitched as he tried to suppress a laugh.

Another one followed.

💨 💨

“Oh, no…” Heeseung muttered under his breath, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “You’re relaxed now, huh, bunny?”

His daughter let out a content sigh, utterly unaware of the symphony of sleepy farts escaping her. She snuggled deeper into his chest, her tiny hand gripping his shirt as if to say, I’m not done using you as a pillow yet, Dada.

💨 💨 💨

Heeseung blinked, now fully laughing under his breath. “Okay, that was a loud one,” he said softly, glancing down at her with wide eyes. “You went all in, didn’t you?”

She stirred slightly, letting out a small, sleepy whimper, but quickly settled again as he patted her back.

“Don’t worry, bunny,” Heeseung whispered, his voice laced with amusement. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if you’re out here clearing the room.”

The telltale smell started to waft up, and Heeseung winced, his nose crinkling as he realized what he was in for.

“Oh, I knew it,” he groaned quietly, though his heart softened as he looked down at her. “You didn’t just fall asleep; you went all the way, huh? Dada’s got a full cleanup waiting for him now.”

He sat there momentarily, contemplating whether to wake her to change her diaper or wait until she was in a deeper sleep. But when she shifted in his arms, letting out one final 💨 and settling again peacefully, Heeseung sighed too, shaking his head.

“Alright, bunny,” he murmured. “We’ll wait a few more minutes. I’m letting you rest but after this? You and I are taking a trip to the changing table.”

He leaned back in the rocking chair, letting her stay snuggled against him for a bit longer. Despite the impending diaper duty, he couldn’t help but smile. These moments—messy, funny, and heartwarming—made it all worthwhile.

As she let out another soft sigh against his chest, Heeseung closed his eyes, enjoying the calm before the (diaper) storm.

Heeseung carefully laid her down on the changing table, his hands moving with practiced ease as he reached for the supplies—a clean diaper, baby wipes, and a fresh onesie.

“Alright, bunny,” he whispered, brushing her hair away from her forehead as she let out a tiny, sleepy coo. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re going to feel so much better after this.”

She blinked at him, her eyes fluttering open momentarily before she let out a little sigh, completely trusting her dada to take care of her.

As Heeseung undid her soiled diaper, she squirmed slightly, her chubby arms stretching upward to remind him, Hey, I’m still here.

“I know, I know,” he chuckled, grabbing a baby wipe and getting to work. “Just hang in there, princess. Dada’s almost done.”

She let out another soft coo, her lips puckering as if she were trying to protest but was too sleepy to commit to it.

Once her bottom was clean, Heeseung swiftly placed the fresh diaper under her, securing it snugly around her waist.

“There we go,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her tummy. “Nice and fresh. Just one more step, bunny—your onesie.”

He grabbed the soft, pastel-coloured onesie with little bunnies printed on it—her favourite, or so he liked to believe. He gently slid it under her, guiding her arms into the sleeves without much trouble. But the moment he reached for her chunky legs, the real challenge began.

She kicked out, her legs moving like tiny pistons as he tried to guide them into the leg sleeves.

“Whoa, okay, I get it!” Heeseung said, laughing under his breath. “You’re not a fan of bedtime fashion, huh?”

But she wasn’t listening. Her little legs continued to kick, her toes wiggling defiantly as if she were making it her mission to keep him from completing his task.

“Alright, little ninja,” he muttered, gently but firmly grabbing one of her legs. “You’ve left me no choice.”

He managed to slip one chubby leg into the sleeve, grinning triumphantly. “Gotcha! One down, one to go.”

But as he reached for her other leg, she wiggled even more, letting out a determined squeal that made him laugh even harder.

“You’re not making this easy, bunny,” Heeseung said, shaking his head as he caught her other leg. “But Dada always wins. Remember that.”

With one swift motion, he guided her second leg into the sleeve, finally zipping up the onesie and securing it. He sat back with a dramatic sigh, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead.

“There,” he said, looking down at her with a playful grin. “All done. You fought hard, but I’m still undefeated.”

She stared up at him, her big, sleepy eyes wide with curiosity. And then, as if to reward him for his efforts, she let out a soft, gurgling giggle, her tiny hands reaching up toward his face.

“Oh, now you’re laughing?” Heeseung teased, scooping her into his arms and pressing a flurry of kisses to her chubby cheeks. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

She let out another happy coo, snuggling into his chest as her little body relaxed again.

“Time for bed, bunny,” he whispered, swaying gently as he carried her back toward the rocking chair. “No more kicking, okay? Dada needs a break.”

As he settled back into the chair, her soft breaths began to slow, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. Heeseung let out a content sigh, feeling the day's weight fade away as she drifted off in his arms again.

And even though his body was tired and his mind was worn, he couldn’t help but smile. Because in moments like this, with his baby girl tucked safely against him, everything felt exactly as it should be.

Heeseung stood in front of her crib, swaying gently with her in his arms. His mind was already weighing the risks of another attempt to lay her down. She was so peaceful now, her little face pressed into his chest, her tiny breaths warm against his neck. He could feel the slight rise and fall of her belly and hear her soft sighs as she snuggled closer.

“Alright, bunny,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was barely audible. “This is the last try, okay? You’ve got to sleep in your bed tonight. Dada needs some rest, too.”

With painstaking care, he began lowering her toward the crib. He had it all planned: gently settle her down, pull away slowly, and tiptoe out like a stealth ninja. But the moment her back touched the mattress, her tiny body tensed.

Her eyes didn’t even open; instead, she let out a whimper and immediately clutched at his shirt, her little fingers curling into the fabric with surprising strength. Her face scrunched up in protest, her lip quivering, and Heeseung froze.

“Bunny…” he started, but it was too late. A soft, pitiful cry escaped her, her tiny fists tightening their grip on his shirt as if to say, You’re not leaving me, Dada.

Heeseung sighed, defeated, gently pulling her back into his arms. Her cries stopped instantly, and she melted into him like butter, her little head tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck.

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh?” he murmured, kissing her soft hair. “You just want to stay glued to Dada all night.”

She responded with a sleepy coo, her tiny hand patting his chest to reassure him, Yes, exactly that.

Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head as he walked toward your shared bedroom. “Looks like I’m out of options. Oh well, bunny. Hope mama has some space for you in the bed.”

He nudged the door quietly, finding you sprawled out on your side, fast asleep. The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the room in a warm light, and Heeseung smiled at the sight of you, your peaceful expression a stark contrast to the chaos he’d been juggling all evening.

He approached the bed carefully, cradling your velcro baby in one arm while pulling back the blanket with the other. He climbed in slowly, settling beside you as he adjusted the baby between you.

“Alright, bunny,” he whispered, stroking her back as she snuggled closer to his chest. “Looks like it’s a family sleepover tonight.”

She let out a soft sigh, her tiny hand curling around his thumb as she finally fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Heeseung looked over at you, watching how your chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and he felt a wave of calm wash over him. It didn’t matter how exhausting or unpredictable the day had been—this was his happiness.

As his eyelids grew heavy, he leaned over to kiss your forehead gently, then one to the top of his baby girl’s head.

“Goodnight, my girls,” he whispered, letting himself finally relax, the weight of his world safely nestled on either side of him.

And with that, the three of you drifted off into the kind of sleep only a family wrapped in love could find.

Heeseung waited a little longer, his arm cradling her securely as her tiny body grew heavier and heavier with sleep. Her breathing slowed to that soft, rhythmic hum that told him she was finally in a deep slumber. Her little hand, which had been clutching his shirt moments ago, now lay limp against his chest.

“Okay, bunny,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Let’s try this one last time.”

With careful precision, he shifted her in his arms, her head resting against his palm as he gently leaned over to place her in the baby bassinet cushion crib nestled between you two. He kept his movements slow as if the slightest noise or jolt might undo all the effort it had taken to get her to this peaceful state.

Finally, she settled into the soft bedding, her tiny body curling slightly as he adjusted her position for comfort. Heeseung crouched beside her momentarily, watching to see if she would stir, but she didn’t. Instead, her mouth opened slightly, as it always did when wholly relaxed.

He smiled softly, reaching for her pacifier on the bedside table. He gently slipped it into her mouth, watching as she instinctively began to suckle, the motion soothing even in her sleep.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tender voice almost cracked.

Next, he grabbed her little blankie—the one she always needed to sleep with—and tucked it snugly around her, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. Her favourite stuffed bunny, Mr. Flopsy, was placed right next to her, its floppy ears brushing her tiny hand.

“There you go, bunny,” Heeseung whispered, brushing a finger lightly over her soft cheek. “All warm and cozy now. Sweet dreams.”

Satisfied, he eased himself back into bed, careful not to make sudden movements. He glanced at you, still fast asleep, and sighed a sigh of relief.

Finally, as he lay on his back, his head sinking into the pillow, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. The sight of your baby girl, peaceful and safe in her little bassinet between you, made all the day's exhaustion disappear.

He reached over to lightly brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek for a moment before he whispered, “She’s finally asleep. You’ve got some competition, though—she might love my chest more than you.”

He chuckled softly before closing his eyes, his hand resting protectively near the bassinet. As the three of you shared the quiet, serene night, Heeseung drifted off with a smile and a whole heart.

The room was still and quiet, save for the gentle hum of the nightlight and the soft, rhythmic breaths coming from your baby girl. Heeseung’s arm instinctively stretched out to rest near her bassinet, like a protection barrier in his half-asleep state.

Minutes passed, and the peacefulness lulled him into a light sleep. But just as he began to drift deeper, a tiny sound pulled him back—a soft, muffled whimper.

His eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head toward the bassinet. Your baby had shifted slightly in her sleep, her pacifier slipping from her mouth. Her tiny face scrunched up, her lips forming the beginnings of a cry.

Heeseung sighed, already moving before the first sound could escape.

“Shhh, bunny, it’s okay,” he whispered, leaning over and gently popping the pacifier back in place. Her face relaxed almost immediately, and she let out a small, contented sigh.

Heeseung smiled tiredly, his hand resting lightly on her belly to reassure her. “You’ve got Dada wrapped around your little finger, you know that?” he murmured.

Settling back down, Heeseung cast a glance at you. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake, your exhaustion keeping you in a deep sleep. He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he looked back at his daughter.

“Just you and me again, huh?” he said under his breath, though his words were warm. “I guess you’re my alarm clock for the night.”

He lay back down but kept his eyes on her for a while longer, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her little hand clutched Mr. Flopsy even in her sleep.

And then, almost as if she could sense his gaze, she let out another tiny, sleepy coo, her head turning slightly toward his side of the bed.

Heeseung couldn’t help but smile, the kind of smile from the deepest part of his heart. He leaned over one last time, kissing her forehead softly.

“Goodnight, bunny,” he whispered. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

This time, when he lay back, sleep came easier. And as the quiet night stretched on, the three of you rested together—ideally in sync, perfectly complete.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stirred awake slowly, the cozy quiet of the morning wrapping around you like a blanket. Blinking a few times, you turned your head and saw a sight that swelled your heart.

Heeseung was fast asleep; his face turned toward the bassinet, his lips slightly parted in soft breaths. One arm was stretched protectively toward your baby, while the other was tucked under his head. The faintest shadow of exhaustion lingered on his features, but even in sleep, he looked peaceful.

You smiled softly, your gaze drifting to the bassinet. Your baby girl started to stir, her little legs kicking lightly under the blanket. Her pacifier bobbed as her mouth moved slightly, and you could tell she was moments away from waking fully.

Leaning over, you gently touched her chest, hoping to soothe her for a moment longer so Heeseung could rest. “Good morning, bunny,” you whispered, your voice full of love.

Her little eyes fluttered open, blinking against the soft light. She yawned, her arms stretching above her head in that adorably dramatic way she always did. You couldn’t help but smile at her sleepy antics.

“Did you keep Dada busy all night?” you asked softly, brushing a finger across her chubby cheek. She cooed in response, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep as she focused on you.

Carefully, you lifted her from the bassinet, cradling her against your chest. She was warm and soft, her tiny body curling into you as you rocked her gently. You glanced back at Heeseung, still sound asleep, and your heart ached at how hard he’d worked to care for her overnight.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, you know,” you murmured to her, your lips brushing the top of her head.

She let out another small coo, her tiny hand reaching up to grab your shirt. You held her close, swaying gently as you moved to the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

For a while, you just sat there, holding her and watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Heeseung’s chest. It was a peaceful, perfect moment—the three of you together, wrapped in the quiet love of your little family.

As your baby girl started to wiggle, signalling her readiness for the day, Heeseung groaned softly, his head turning slightly on the pillow. His eyes cracked open, squinting in the morning light.

“Morning,” he murmured sleepily, his voice rough but warm. His gaze landed on you and the baby, and despite the fatigue in his eyes, a smile tugged at his lips.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft to not startle the baby. “She’s just waking up. You can sleep a little more if you want.”

Heeseung shook his head, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Nah, I’m up,” he said, his voice still laced with sleep. He reached out, his hand brushing over your baby’s tiny foot. “How’s my bunny this morning?”

She turned her head toward him at his voice, letting out a happy coo. He chuckled, exhaustion melting away as he leaned over to kiss her forehead.

“Looks like she’s ready for round two,” he said with a grin, sitting up fully. “What about you, Mama? You okay? Is our second bunny kicking too much?”

You nodded, your heart full as you watched him interact with her. “I’m good. Our bunnies can't wait to meet each other, hehe. She’s lucky to have you, you know.”

Heeseung looked at you, his eyes soft. “We’re both lucky,” he said, his voice sincere.

And as the morning unfolded, filled with tiny giggles, warm cuddles, and sleepy smiles, you couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest family in the world.

requested by: @leilamaybelyla

my perm taglist<3 <- request here

@seonhoon @dollrincess @ethanatvre @rei4sunoo @shxhdsstuff @jakeflvrz @laylasbunbunny @jiiyen @saphiranishimurashan @lovelycassy @starry-eyed-bimbo @babyboomysweetie @24svnn @pinkglitterpuke @mellowgalaxystrawberry @heavenki @s1rawb3rry @madslove-enhypen @chasinthatboobie @aishigrey @yangjungwonnie

[damneddamsy]

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

RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM—A process begins to build from the wreckage.

summary: Birthday dinners and blues, laughter over a crowded table—and Joel, caught between the past and something new.

a/n: are you ready for your prescribed serotonin boost :) are you reading to die :) are you ready to have your heart broken :) are you ready for pain :) if yes, it's here, and it's fucking good! can you spot where exactly I had a mental breakdown? virtual bear hugs for those who get it!

Joel had faced a lot of things in his life—clickers, raiders, shit ration food, the long, merciless stretch of empty roads—but this?

This might actually do him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the open boxes like they might bite. Three whole boxes. Packed full of baby clothes, soft and delicate, in shades too clean for a world like this—pale yellows, powder blues, faded pinks. Those colours didn't belong in this world anymore.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his beard. It was just one of those things, one of those moments where life threw something at him he wasn’t built for anymore. Throwing a punch, taking a knife, breaking his nose—those, he could handle. But picking out a damn dress for a baby?

“This ain’t my thing, baby girl,” he muttered, glancing at Maya sprawled out beside him on the bed. She kicked her legs, fists flailing like she had strong opinions on the matter. The second he walked through the door, she’d lit up, beaming that wide, gummy grin at him like his very existence was the happiest thing in her tiny world.

Joel shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You ain’t the one stuck pickin’ through all this.”

He waved a hand at the neatly folded mass of tiny expensive dresses, bloomers, and booties, smelling faintly of time and soap. They’d been Leela’s once. That part stuck with him—the fact that these had once clothed her, when she was no bigger than Maya.

His rugged fingers hovered over the fabric, hesitant. Everything was so soft, worn down in the best way—not ragged, but loved. Clothes, to him, had always been practical. Denim, leather, sturdy boots. He’d spent years in a world where softness didn’t last, where anything delicate got torn up, dirtied, or lost. And yet, here it was. Preserved. A little piece of the past, kept safe.

He picked up a tiny white dress with a lace collar, holding it to the light. “This fancy enough for a birthday dinner?” he asked, squinting at Maya. “Hm, looks like your mama's dress, doesn't it? Just missin' those... buttons.”

She just cooed, kicking harder, wiggling like she might crawl right out of the blanket. He set it down and picked up another, something in a buttery yellow with embroidered flowers. Lighter, easier.

“This one. Like a pretty sunflower.”

Maya squealed like she agreed, flailing her arms toward him. Obviously sick of laying there, wanting to be up here with him.

He snorted. “You got strong opinions on style, huh? Don’t take after me, then. I ain’t got a clue.”

And yet, here he was. Doing this. Going through the whole process because Leela had asked him—because it mattered to her. The realization settled in, quiet and solid. He was doing this because he cared. About Maya, sure. But about Leela, too. Enough to sit here, sifting through baby clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, picking up a tiny pair of bloomers and setting them aside with the yellow dress. “Guess that’ll do. Don’t want you upstaging your mama.”

Maya gurgled in agreement, and without thinking, Joel reached over, scratching a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her onesie. Happy, just because he was here.

And he was only here because Leela had asked this of him. After all, she was downstairs, turning the kitchen into a goddamn laboratory. She’d been at it since morning, long before he even peeled himself off the pullout in his living room. The kitchen light had been on when he woke up, spilling a soft glow onto the snow outside, and through the open window, he caught glimpses of her—stirring, measuring, dicing and slicing with careful, mathematical precision.

At one point, she’d pulled out a scale. A scale. Like she was preparing for an experiment instead of a birthday dinner. Her own birthday dinner, that is. The one Maria had specifically asked her to butt out of because then it'd be pointless. Don't think Leela caught that part.

He’d spent his morning like that—half-awake, watching her move through the kitchen with the kind of focus that made his chest ache. Maya was strapped against her in a sling, her dozing head tucked beneath Leela’s chin, and her mother’s long braid trailed past her back, swaying with every movement. She barely stopped to sit down.

And Joel—still groggy, still warm from sleep—just lay there, watching.

Watching from the outside. Watching a life that wasn’t his, but could be.

Maybe, in some version of things, he’d be sitting at that damn marble island with her, sipping coffee, watching her openly instead of from behind the glass. Maybe he’d be close enough to tease her about overcomplicating her own birthday meal, close enough that she’d smile that shy smile, but lean into him anyway, chin up for an apology kiss.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder what it would be like—because he’d already know.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off. Right. First things first.

He crouched down, dragging Maya closer to him over the bed, the buttery yellow dress draped over his arm. “Alright, darlin'. Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, slipping her tiny arms through the sleeves. She surprisingly went along with it without a fuss, blinking up at him, her round face curious, watching him.

Joel worked quickly, big fingers clumsy against the delicate buttons, careful not to tug too hard. “Y’know, you make this real easy,” he said to her, smoothing the fabric over her legs. “Your ma ever tell you that? Some little shits scream their heads off over this kinda thing.”

Maya just cooed, trying to catch her toes, like she knew she was being praised.

He snorted, lacing up her brown booties—useless, yet so adorable. “Don’t let it go to your head. You're still trouble.”

With a final adjustment, he lifted her, tucking her against his chest. She fit there like she always did, perfect and warm, her breath puffing against his throat. The second she was settled, her legs kicked in delight, hands curling into the collar of his shirt—habit, just like always.

Joel huffed, pressing a steadying palm against her back. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, rocking slightly, just enough to keep her from getting squirmy. “Yeah, you are.”

Maya gurgled in response, gripping tighter, like she had any real strength to keep him there. Like she thought she needed to.

Joel didn’t move for a second, standing there, one hand spanning nearly the whole of her back, feeling the tiny rise and fall of her breaths against him. He arched his head to brush a kiss at her ear and turned toward the door.

Then he noticed it. The humungous closet doors were open.

It wasn’t like him to pry, but something about Leela always pulled at his curiosity. He glanced at Maya, as if seeking permission—she only pushed her lips into a pout—so he stepped inside.

Due to lack of better words in his dazed head: it was a rich woman’s closet. Joel had worked on plenty of houses back in the day, done high-end custom storage, and seen his fair share of luxury—but he’d never been around long enough to see it lived in.

Drawers lined one wall, sleek and built into the cabinetry. Rows of dresses, coats, scarves, bags, and belts filled another. Shoes—so many shoes—lined the shelves, some still wrapped in plastic, some broken in just enough to show which ones were loved. In the centre, a long glass table gleamed under the dim light, scattered with jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, and jade sat in their cases like they belonged behind some jeweller’s counter instead of lying out like an afterthought.

Maya made a soft, curious sound, leaning forward in fascination. Joel caught her before she could squirm right out of his arms. "Woah, kiddo."

His attention snagged on the dress draped over the table, carefully selected from the clutter.

Black. Velvet. Long-sleeved. Nothing flashy. No lace, no frills, no shimmer. Just smooth, short, heavy fabric, dark as ink, the kind that’d cling in all the right places. Understated, sure—but that only made it worse.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening. Christ, that can't be it, can it?

But Leela didn’t dress up much. Hell, he was used to seeing her in practical things—thick holey sweaters, clean jeans, and overstretched socks. Even the night dresses she wore were simple, easy. Unbearably cute.

But this? This was intentional. This was her putting thought into it, picking something that would fit her like a fucking glove. Black so stark against her skin, those big eyes, her legs. And Joel—he needed to stop thinking about that immediately.

He shifted Maya in his arms, clearing his throat like that’d help steady him. She was still staring, as if equally entranced, her small hands flexing toward the diamonds glinting under the glass table. He sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stepped back.

“Don’t even, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I ain't raisin’ no flashy tastes in you.”

She gurgled in protest, kicking her feet, and Joel took that as his cue to get the hell out of there.

Now mind you, the past two weeks had been a state of grace.

He didn’t know what else to call it—what else to call the way he found himself here more often than not, the way it felt more natural by the day. He wasn’t just some frequent visitor anymore or a guest, or that guy who'd come around to hover with his tools. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was here with them. Even after patrol, he still ended up on their porch, dropping his rifle and pack by the door before stepping inside like it was just a given.

Hell, it kind of was. A little 'honey, I'm home' moment, if he really brooded on it.

Breakfast. Dinner. Sometimes all three meals, if time allowed. And they’d sit together on the kitchen stools, him and Leela, Maya on either of their laps, silent but companionable, sharing the space like it had been carved out for them alone. They didn't talk about much, sometimes Joel would hit her with a 'back-in-the-day' spiel, or Leela would inform him what happened in her workshop, though most of it went over his head. He liked to listen hard when she spoke, especially when she gave so little. And each morning to come, each evening in leave, Joel would feel it—that want, quiet but persistent, tugging at him, already pulling him into the next day.

Even Leela was eating again. Not much, but enough. It relieved him that she hadn't entirely given up on herself. He noticed the way she still picked at her food sometimes, however delicious it was, pushing it around more than eating it, and he never said a word. Just let her be, let her do what she could. He’d take what he could get.

There were moments, though—times when she got stuck in her own head as if phantom hands had reached out, clawed in and dragged her back to whatever had put her here in the first place. He’d see it clearest when she nursed Maya, like something about it sent her spiralling inward, caught in something he couldn’t see. But he could pull her back to him. He quickly learned how.

“Hey.” His voice was always low, careful, like he was trying not to spook a horse. And then a distraction, a lifeline. “How about I get us a cut of lamb again tomorrow? Y’know, those meatballs you made last week?”

Her eyes would clear, focusing again. “Yeah. Koftas.” And that smile would come alive, trademarked in his name. “Did you like them?”

“Too much. Hits the spot.”

It helped that Leela was a stupidly good cook. It wasn’t about the skill or the recipes—though she sure as hell knew her way around those—it was the way she did it. The way she measured things down to the last goddamn granule, cut with a precision that could’ve put surgeons to shame. She had a scale drawn onto her chopping board, and every damn herb on her windowsill was labelled like she was running a test kitchen instead of a home. He thought about it sometimes and had to bite back a smile.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he'd asked her once while stuffing his face with generously salted roast potatoes he'd passionately complimented. "I dunno, deadlift three thousand kilos? Roofing? Fix a busted engine? I bet that's nothin' to you."

She'd laughed, aimlessly twirling her fork in her hands. "Hmm... I'm quite inartistic. I can't strum a guitar as well as you. I can't sing or dance either."

"I'll give you five days until you're a pro guitarist," he challenged playfully.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, Joel. Now that I think about it, I might be a lost cause.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You learned how to do everything else, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Not everything. You make me sound like some superhero.”

Joel stabbed another potato with his fork. “Nah, I bet you’d pick it up fast.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He chewed, swallowed. “You got the... hands for it.”

Leela looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could see what he meant. She had the prettiest fingers, long, soft, wide nails that would've graced those fancy designs once upon a time, and pale nerves coiling over lean bone. Jesus, he really was losing it.

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought,” she mumbled.

Joel just shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not that much thought.”

Her mouth quirked, but she didn’t push. Just filled his cup with more water. “I still don’t think I could do it.”

“Why?”

She tapped the prongs of her fork against her plate. “I don’t know. I guess… it’d feel too good. And then I’d have to wonder why I spent so many years not doing it.”

Joel watched her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her eyes had gone elsewhere. He thought about telling her that was the whole damn point. That just because you hadn’t done something before didn’t mean you didn’t deserve to now.

Instead, he just said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She met his eyes, and after a second, she nodded. “Yes. I do.”

And the way she stated it—gentle, effortless, like it was unmistakable—had Joel suddenly very interested in his plate again.

Then there was little Maya. His ray of sunshine. Growing like a wildflower, changing in ways he barely had time to keep up with. And he was there to see it. More than that—he was there for it.

Like that day, sprawled on the living room carpet beside her, lying flat on his back while Leela worked at the blackboard nearby, mumbling numbers under her breath at miles per hour, the scratch of chalk entwined with the dusty warble of Merle Haggard on the record player. Just another quiet moment, another stretch of time folded in between everything else.

Until Maya grabbed at his hand.

Her fingers curled tight, her little voice rising in breathy coos, calling for his attention. And then—just like that, way too ahead of schedule—she twisted, flipped herself over onto her front, and grinned at him like she’d just conquered the goddamn world. All that, in scarcely three months. The kid's going to be a genius just like her mama.

“Shit!” Joel breathed, pushing up on one elbow. “Daggum, girl. C'mere. That was really good, baby, real nice. You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She grinned wider, pleased with herself, kicking her legs against the carpet. He lifted her right off and plunged her in the air, pulling out a happy squeal. He brought her all the way down to push three deep kisses into her bunched cheeks.

Leela turned, brows raised, eyes flicking between them.

“Finally rolled over, she's been trying for weeks,” he told Leela, laughing, out of breath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Rolled over?”

“Oughta get a picture or somethin’,” he muttered, still looking at Maya, pride swelling in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand over her downy-soft hair. “It’s a milestone. Turnin’ point, as I say.” The pun slipped out before he could stop it, and he cursed Ellie in his head.

Leela just blinked at him. Like it hadn’t even occurred to her. And maybe it hadn’t. Because, later that night, without a word, she passed him a little silver digital camera and said he spent more time with Maya than she did.

Joel had caught her elbow before she could walk away. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to as he told her, “You’re doin’ a great job at being her mom. It's not just me here.”

It didn’t help, not the way he expected to. She just nodded, scooped up Maya, and left the room.

That was the thing about Leela.

She didn’t believe it. She didn’t think she was in a position to care for another person. Like she was still caught somewhere in between—stuck in the space between whatever hell had given her Maya and the life she was trying to build around her.

She didn’t even have to say it. Joel saw it.

He saw it in the way she tried. The way she forced herself to be soft, forced herself to hold Maya just right, forced herself to soothe her, talk to her, to touch her like it was second nature instead of something she had to teach herself from scratch. It was in the way she hesitated when Maya reached for her like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be needed. It was in the way she lingered outside the nursery door some nights, just standing there, like she was working up the nerve to go inside.

It wasn’t easy for her. But she tried. Joel marvelled at that, her patience despite whatever tormented her. And yeah, progress was slow, but it was there.

Joel’s boots scuffed against the freshly washed mat at the foot of the stairs—he’d done that himself, thanks for fuckin’ noticing—as he made his way to the kitchen. Leela was crouched in front of the oven, arms wrapped around her shins, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Somethin’ wrong, or you just real interested in watchin’ bread bake?”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scent hit him—sweet and sugary, with a crispness that wasn’t quite like bread or cake, something lighter, airier.

Leela still didn’t look up. Whatever was in that oven had its hooks in her.

Joel pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, bending just enough to peer in. White. Puffy. Looked like a cloud. “The fuck is that?”

“Pavlova.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.

He squinted at it. “Uh-huh. The fuck is that?”

She exhaled, shifting just enough to glance at him. “For Eton mess.”

Joel lifted a brow. “You just sayin’ words at me now, smartass?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something in her posture—the way she kept her nose tucked between her knees, fingers lightly gripping her calves. She was nervous.

“It’s meringue,” she admitted lowly, like she didn’t want to say it too loud in case that made it collapse in the oven. “It’s delicate. Needs to set just right.”

Joel straightened, rubbing at his jaw. “So it’s just sugar?”

Her mouth twitched the closest thing to a smile she could manage while preoccupied. “And egg whites.”

“Ah, so fancy sugar.”

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He snorted, ready to argue—but then Maya leaned in against his chest, watching them with big, curious eyes, her tiny hands reaching for the oven knobs. She was getting handsier every day.

Leela finally turned, and for the first time, she really saw Maya, and took her in—the tiny white dress, the soft embroidery, the way her dark eyes blinked down at her with nothing but unfiltered, open-mouthed joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just love for her mama, plain and easy.

And just like that, Leela’s whole face softened. Melted, almost.

“Oh, Maya,” she breathed, reaching for her. “You look so pretty. Aw, my sweetheart.”

She scooped the baby out of his arms without a second thought, cradling her close, and tucking her against her shoulder. Her fingers ran through the fine baby hair at the nape of Maya’s neck, gentle, reverent, like she was trying to memorize her.

Then, before Joel even knew what was happening, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Maya’s forehead.

Not him. Oh, never him. But he felt it anyway. It relaxed in his chest, warm and unwanted, curling into the space he’d been trying real damn hard to keep empty. Like a ghost of something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose, adjusting his stance like that might shake the feeling off. It didn’t. Because the truth was—he’d thought about it. Too much. Too often.

The way she tilted her chin when she looked at him, how her mouth softened when she spoke to Maya, the bare curve of her throat when she laughed—all of it had lodged itself in his head, taken up space like it belonged there. And the worst of it?

He’d imagined it. His own mouth against hers. Slow and deep, catching the breath between her words, pulling that softness into him, feeling the curve of her spine, the softness of her hair twisted into his fingers.

And it was fucking ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Didn’t stop the way his gaze snagged on the spot where her lips had just been, where his had been too—because yeah, he’d kissed that exact place on Maya’s cheek before. More than once.

That was different, though. Right? Had to be.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless, needing something to do. He settled on the island, finally taking in what was right in front of him.

And, Jesus. Five trays. At least.

Stacked and spread out across the counter, gleaming under the low kitchen lights. There was no rhyme or reason to it—roast lamb chops, some kind of stewed eggplant, rice flecked with peanuts and saffron, a whole mess of things he didn’t recognize.

Still, she was gonna lose her goddamn mind. Not because Leela had transcended her at her own game—but because she’d cooked her own birthday dinner. Like she didn’t know how to sit still, even for that, or that she couldn’t let people do for her the way she did for them.

Joel shook his head, dragging a hand down his beard. One of those things. Something about Leela that made sense and didn’t, all at once.

“I’m going to go get dressed before Maria gets here,” she said, finally pulling his attention back to her.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something tight curling in his gut, she added, “I laid something out for you, too. If you'd like to wear something nice.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the foyer, leaving Joel standing there, staring after her like an idiot. Like a man in deeper than he had any right to be.

X

Joel had thought long and hard about what to get Leela for her thirtieth, and it had damn near driven him mad.

He wasn’t good at gifts. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, really—at knowing what people wanted, at knowing how to give without feeling like he was handing over pieces of himself. It felt impossible.

What the hell do you give someone who already has everything—even in the goddamn apocalypse?

Leela didn’t need anything. She had a home, one of the nicer, better-built ones, passed down to her like an heirloom. She had clothes, ones she patched up herself, sewn with delicate little stitches. She had music, kept safe on a high shelf, and books stacked in neat piles by the fireplace. She had cars, she had diamonds just sitting up there in a closet, and she even had her own plants thriving.

She had all that and more. So, yeah. He’d considered it all. Clothes. Music. Books. Lights. Pictures. A cat, even. Something that meant something. Significant.

And then, out on patrol, he’d found it.

A cherry tree. Growing wild, untamed, tucked between dense brush and the gnarled twist of maple roots. Dark fruit hanging low, the weight of them bending the branches, like they were waiting for him.

At first, he’d strolled right past it. Just a tree. Just cherries.

And then he’d stopped, brows furrowed. He’d remembered the way she wove them into her life. The careful little cherry embroideries, the tiny red-painted symbols on her sugar and salt tubs, the delicate pattern etched everywhere.

She loved them. Enough to keep them close. Enough to mark them as hers. And so, like a damn fool, he’d kneeled and plucked them.

In a few hours, he'd picked the whole thicket clean. He’d stuffed them into his jacket pockets, let them fill the space in his backpack, red staining the fabric, fingers sticky and sweet with their juice.

It had felt right at the time. He'd felt so proud of himself. She was going to love the shit out of this.

Now, standing by the front door, having Tommy and Maria say that they'd managed to acquire a goddamn Polaroid camera for her—yellowed with age, probably out of photo paper but still lasting—Joel felt like a massive fucking idiot.

At least their gift had value. At least it wasn’t perishable. But, she already has a digital camera, his conscience reasoned with him. Sure, but especially to her, it was the thought that counted. She wouldn't be out here, letting Joel borrow cashmere sweaters and luxury denim on the fly.

And then Ellie had showed off her gift—another layer of shit over his confidence—a handmade journal, stitched together with patience and effort, thick pages bound in soft, timeworn leather. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Her best friend, Dina, definitely had a hand in this. Ellie didn't have the patience to craft something this considerate.

And Joel was the one to talk—well, Joel had a box of cherries. Fucking cherries. Cherries he’d spent hours picking, his fingers raw, his back aching for two days straight. Cherries he’d plucked in pairs, stems still intact, trying to mimic the little embroidered ones she stitched into her life. He’d thought he was being thoughtful. Now, how the fuck was he supposed to compete with journals and cameras?

So he did what any man with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

He pretended they didn’t exist. Let them sit out on the little porch shelf where he’d left them, where he figured he’d grab them when the time was right. Except now, the time wasn’t right. Never will be. And he’d just let them sit there forever, let the cold creep into them, let them wrinkle and rot and become another thing he never got around to.

Better to just let everyone think he was a callous, inconsiderate bastard than actually admit he’d put his heart into something. Easier that way.

As Maria and Ellie jogged upstairs, loud and chattering, off to greet the birthday girl and Maya, Joel made his way into the kitchen—only to get cornered by Tommy’s knowing look. That damn eyebrow, he got that from their dad.

Joel ignored him. Busied himself with laying foil over that one lonely tray, the rhythm of his hands methodical, grounding. It wasn’t until Tommy leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice low and amused, that he finally spoke.

“I knew you hated sappy shit, big brother, but this is a new low.”

Joel exhaled slowly, flattening the foil more aggressively than necessary. “Not now, Tommy.”

“Not now,” Tommy mimicked in a baritone, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You couldn’t even get her somethin’ small? The girl was ready to let you move in, for cryin' out loud.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Hell, Maya, at least?”

That one stung. He didn’t know why. And somehow, the thought of that bothered him more than the idea of disappointing Leela. Maybe because he could take being an asshole to her. Could brush it off, let her think he was callous, numb. That was easy, safe.

But Maya? She was just a baby. His little girl. This tiny thing with nothing in the world except her mother, who carried all the pain and all the worry, while Joel sat on his hands and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about them more than he should.

He pressed down on the foil harder, smoothing out creases that weren’t there. He could feel Tommy watching him, expectant, waiting.

“Right,” Tommy sighed, knowing what to expect. “I’m gonna go drain the lizard.”

He scowled, finally looking up. “That's some real dignified talk. Better tone it down at dinner.”

His brother just grinned with a playful salute, disappearing down the hall.

Joel stomped his way into the dining room, fists stuffed into his pockets. Not because he knew what the hell he was even looking for, but because he had to move. The ache in his chest was getting to be too much, and if he sat with it any longer, he might actually have to acknowledge it.

Leela had transformed the shit out of this dining room, and Joel took it all in. Candles flickered across the table, their golden light pooling over the wood, catching on the edges of intricate ceramic plates, and warming the dark corners of the room. The food that Leela had slaved away to make was spread out, lavish, rich, the kind of meal that had no business existing in a world that had already ended. As if this little town, this home, was untouched by the decay beyond its walls.

The blackened, humungous yard outside those slightly gaumed French windows—he ought to get around to that this week—was paved with a clean sheet of snow, and it was clear what lay under it. A manifold garden of some sort, from the cursive-letter markers sticking out from the ice. And a pond, maybe.

It was all so soft. Painstaking. Conscious. Like everything Leela touched.

A sudden thrum of light, breathless, girlish laughter echoed from upstairs, Ellie's the most rambunctious of the lot, obviously having fun with that new camera.

“Maya, smile...” Then later, “Ha-ha, she's got no fuckin' teeth!”

It flushed a small smile of his own at the sound. He hadn’t heard that kind of laughter in years. Not since Sarah. Not since the days when she and her friends had holed up in her room, voices tumbling through the walls, their shrill giggles slipping into his evenings, melding with his exhaustion, belonging there, like a part of his house itself.

Back then, he’d barely noticed it. In fact, he'd wanted them to shut the hell up so he could focus on paperwork. He’d never thought to savour it. And now? Now it pressed against the deepest crevices in him, brittle and aching, something he couldn’t touch without it breaking apart in his hands. It still hurt like hell.

And then, as dinner time neared, the big room filled out—oh, Joel hadn't meant to look. Hadn’t meant to let his eyes linger that way. Fuck, he forgot how Leela was going to be tonight.

No. He dragged his eyes from her, yet the image remained seared into his head.

But there she was, standing at the far end of the room, completely different and exactly the same.

That velvet dress—Jesus Christ, he needed air.

He’d known it’d be trouble the second he saw it. It fit too well, soft in places he shouldn’t be noticing, snug over her hips, floating around her legs bare, smooth, unfairly right there. Her usual braid was pulled back tight, but a few strands had already come loose, slipping against her cheek, catching at her collarbone, and softening her face. A thin strand of pearls nestled at her neck—simple, understated. Like she was one of those lunching ladies in country clubs, lugging their crocodile leather bags, and clutching their pearls. Fucking adorable now that it registered, she was probably dressed like what she'd seen her mother wear back then.

And in another life, a girl like her would’ve walked right past a man like him. Would’ve mistaken him for a valet. Would’ve never even looked at him. He should be thanking his stars that the world went to shit and brought him her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced his gaze away, and focused on the room instead. Maya, the real star of the show, was being passed off between the rest like a pack of smokes, her little chubby arms reaching, everyone cooing, fussing over her pretty, new dress.

Everywhere except. Leela...

She had drifted toward the bar cart at the edge of the room, breaking out the good stuff. He glimpsed the label—vintage Pinot Noir, knotty French scramble and expensive as hell. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that somehow, without even thinking, he’d ended up standing beside her.

And when she looked up—she smiled at him. Small, a little shy, the kind of smile that said she was nervous for no reason at all.

“Hi, Joel.” Her hand smoothed down her stomach as if flattening that cute little belly bulge, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. “Do I look okay?” she murmured, hesitant. “Is it too much? It is, isn't it?”

Too much? For him, fuck yes. Fine? Fine wasn’t even in the same goddamn ballpark.

So, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing.

“No.” A beat. “You…”

Nothing again. He was drawing a blank. The words dried up before they even had the chance to form, like dust in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be poetic about it, but there was nothing in his head that felt close to good enough. No simple word, no half-mumbled compliment that could measure up to her tonight.

Leela stood in front of him, shifting slightly, looking down, constantly pressing her palm over her stomach like she was suddenly self-conscious. She was always incredible. She always knew her way around things. That wasn’t news.

But tonight, she just...—his jaw tightened. He wasn’t even gonna let himself finish that thought. His throat worked as he opened his mouth again, ready to force something out, anything—

“God, this smells fucking delicious!” Ellie’s voice tore through the moment, shattering it.

Leela startled slightly, before blinking, exhaling a soft laugh, and looking away. And just like that, the moment was gone.

The next thing he knew, everyone had settled in, chairs scraping against the wood, good wine flowing, voices overlapping, the liquor kicking in, laughter beginning. The candlelight flickered against the dishes, the soft golden glow catching on deep greens, bright reds, and the spread of food that looked like something out of a damn painting.

Joel wasn’t even sure where to start, but Ellie had no such problem. She was going to town, her plate stacked high, fork stabbing into rice and lamb and eggplant, making a goddamn mess of herself.

Maya sat in her lap, eyes wide, fists curled into her mouth, watching every movement with a sort of blank curiosity, like she was studying some unknown species.

Joel almost smirked. Baby girl had better instincts than most.

Meanwhile, Maria was not having it. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, watching Leela with something sharp in her gaze.

“Why would you cook your own birthday dinner? I told you to let me handle it.”

Leela shrugged, reaching for Joel’s plate once more. He barely had time to grab his plate back before she was scooping more roast potatoes onto it. Christ. At this rate, she was gonna have him fattened up like a prize hog by the end of the night.

“I had to say thanks to all of you somehow,” Leela murmured, matter-of-fact like it truly was that simple. Like, it wasn’t the most Leela thing in the world. “For everything you did for Maya and me. Thank you.”

Maria sighed, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Tommy beat her to it.

“Honey, there’s no thanks between family. You just take it and be happy about it.” His laugh was muffled by a sip of his wine.

Leela, in the middle of reaching for another serving spoon, paused. And Joel saw it—the way she responded. It was subtle. Not a gasp, not anything dramatic, but something small. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she should smile like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. He let his own smile grace his face as he did.

Before he could think on it too much, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Leela, still standing, still serving, still doing everything but eating.

Joel set down his glass with purpose.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, and firm, leaving no room for argument as he grabbed the spoon from her hand and dropped it onto a tray. “Eat. They're grown-ups, they can serve themselves.”

Leela sighed and sat. Finally. “Okay.”

Joel didn’t give her much choice, pressing the chair in behind her knees, setting her plate in front of her like it was law. He caught the flicker of hesitation, the way she lingered as if she had something else to do, something else to fix. But there was nothing left. The food was hot, everyone was fed, and she was out of excuses.

He scooped a little of everything onto her plate, careful not to overdo it, careful to leave out the eggplant. He didn’t know when he’d learned that about her, just that he had. And she didn’t object, just picked at what landed in front of her, moving the food around with her fork. She didn’t eat right away, not really.

Maria, Tommy, Ellie, and Joel had a rhythm. They talked over each other, ribbed each other, passed stories back and forth like well-worn cards, easy and unthinking. They'd raised a toast to the birthday girl, Maya's new dress, this astonishing dinner, Joel smiling for once—it felt… safe. Loud, but not in a way that grated. Just lived-in.

He wasn’t sure what she thought of all this. Maybe it was too much, too loud, too different from what she was used to.

Especially when Tommy, halfway through a sip of whiskey, nearly choked and gawked at her. "Wait, wait—back up. You didn't know turnin’ thirty was a big deal?"

Leela blinked, clearly lost. "Why would it be? It’s just… a number."

Tommy clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. "Oh, Jesus. Joel, tell her. Tell her what happens when you turn thirty."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at her, smirking. "Your knees start makin’ noises you ain’t never heard before. The hangovers last three to five business days. And suddenly—" he jabbed a finger at Tommy, "—this clown starts talkin’ about cholesterol like it’s the Grim Reaper."

Tommy pointed back at him, indignant. "It is the Grim Reaper! You think I like checkin’ my blood pressure for fun?"

Leela stared between them, unimpressed. "So, you’re telling me turning thirty means getting old and miserable?"

Joel shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tommy raised his glass. "Welcome to the club, darlin’. It’s all downhill from here."

Leela huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but Joel could feel her eyes on him. Not in an obvious way—Leela wasn’t like that. But he could tell. The way she always tucked herself into the background, listening instead of talking, watching instead of stepping in.

Like she was still trying to figure out how all of this worked. How they worked. And Ellie, for one, was having the time of her life.

She jabbed a finger at Joel, like she was about to make some grand accusation. "I swear, it’s like clockwork! Dude’s got, like, five phrases in rotation. Seriously, he's some old Western cowboy stuck in a fucking time loop. It’s insane."

Joel exhaled sharply, already tired. “The hell are you talkin’ about, girl?”

Maria smirked, leaning in like she knew exactly where this was going. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“That one didn't count. You ready? Okay, let's go.” Ellie straightened in her chair, cleared her throat dramatically, and then—“‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Tommy barked a laugh. Maria made a face that said, damn, that was actually a good one. Joel just shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pushed on with that wicked smirk. “‘Coulda told you that one.’”

That got Maria and Tommy good, they were already in fits. Joel sighed, reaching for his glass. Meanwhile, Leela pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“See? See?” Ellie counted on her fingers, riding the high. “‘You ain't gonna like the answer.’ Huh, Tommy?”

Tommy wiped at his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Shit.”

Joel took a drink, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. That one was sadly dead on.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head, but Tommy only leaned forward, grinning wide. “Oh, oh, what about ‘Never said I was a good man’?”

Ellie, inspired, went for the kill. “Right, yes! And my personal favourite, ‘Shit’s fucked,’ obviously.”

That one did it.

Maria actually turned away, full-on wheezing hard. Tommy clapped a hand on the table, throwing his head back to roar out a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for his whiskey. “Table’s turned against me.”

He flicked his gaze to Leela, watching her reaction—like maybe if she thought it was funny, it would be worth the humiliation.

She met his eyes over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable for a beat, then—slowly, her lips curved. She took a sip of her water like she was trying to hide it, but he caught the way her eyes softened, the way she tucked her chin slightly, almost sheepish.

Leela finally spoke, her voice a soft, amused murmur. “I think they just know you too well, Joel. It's nice.”

Joel paused mid-sip, watching her as she turned back to her plate, finally taking a bite.

It was a simple thing, but the words sat with him. It wasn’t just that they were teasing him. It was the fact that she was here, part of it, taking it in, letting herself be in this moment. He realized then—that Leela had spent so much time holding herself apart, hovering at the edges of things, always wary. Not tonight.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head like he wasn’t entertained, even though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Whole lotta talk for a bunch of ingrates,” he muttered. “Maybe I oughta keep my words to myself. See how y’all fare without my wisdom.”

“Your wisdom? Are you fucking kidding?” Maria scoffed, still wiping at her eyes. “Joel, the day we take life advice from you—”

“Will be the day the world actually ends,” Tommy finished, reaching for his drink. “Again.”

Ellie snorted, still looking way too pleased with herself. “Go on, old man. Say something profound.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just took another sip of whiskey, glancing at Maya on Ellie's lap. That same warmth ravaged him for a moment.

But when he looked to his side again, his eyes found Leela. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of them—not outright. No sharp, teasing glances, no knee-slapping or head-shaking.

Just that same small, quiet smile, the kind that broke his fucking heart in two.

He wasn’t sure how long they looked at each other, just that he noticed how the candlelight softened her features, how her fingers smoothed over the rim of her glass absentmindedly, how her braid had loosened slightly throughout the night, one long stray wisp of hair curling by her shoulder. God, she took his breath away.

And then he noticed the table. Maria. Tommy. Even Ellie. Side-eying and smirking like damn fools.

Joel scowled, bracing himself. “What now?”

“Not a damn thing,” Tommy said, though the way he fought back a grin suggested otherwise.

Ellie waggled her brows. “Oh, no, you just—look really wise right now.”

Joel fought the urge to groan, letting his head tip back slightly. “No, really. Thank you.”

Leela shifted, clearing her throat, poking at her plate like she wanted to disappear into it.

Tommy looked like he had more to say, something locked and loaded, but before he could get it out, across the table, Maya started to fuss, her hands curling and uncurling toward the plates on the table, making that small, needy noise. Baby girl was the centre of attention, as always. She had a way of pulling eyes to her without even trying like the whole world naturally revolved around her.

But the moment Maria chimed in, her voice carrying easily over the table—“Maya, honey”—that was when it happened.

Her eyes snapped up, searching the table with a determination far too strong for someone so small. Her fingers flexed, hands opening and closing in that telltale way, reaching, waiting—and then Maria tried something else, something that shouldn’t have stood out, except—

“You wanna say hi to Joel?”

The second it left her mouth, Maya’s little head swivelled, locking onto him with that same urgency, that same expectation. Maya made a soft, almost questioning noise, like she was waiting for something, her arm stretching further, fingers still curling and uncurling.

He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t think about how much she knew him now. How his name meant something to her, how she was already learning that when she reached, he would be there.

“Ugh. But I just got you,” Ellie clucked her tongue, bouncing Maya slightly. “Can’t believe this, you're straight-up ditching me for a fogey. Breaking my heart, kid.”

“Guess she's just sick of you, kid,” Joel teased.

“Shut up.”

Maya squirmed, unsatisfied, her arm stretching further. Then came that stubborn cry, the kind Joel had long since learned to recognize—the warning before real tears, before she got herself all worked up.

And, well, he had tried to resist it before. Tried to tell himself to let her be, that she needed to settle on her own, that he wasn’t supposed to get her used to always having him right there. Didn’t matter one fucking bit. The minute those eyes got glassy, he was already reaching across the table.

"C'mere, baby girl," he muttered, hands steady as he lifted her from Ellie’s grasp. “There you go. Hi.”

She melted against him instantly, her warm little body pressing into his chest, a fist curling into the fabric of his shirt. He barely had time to adjust before she shoved both hands into her mouth, hiding that big, gummy grin like she was suddenly shy.

He chucked her chin. "Happy now?"

Maya let out a tiny giggle, then dropped her head forward against his shoulder, burrowing in, pressing her face into his collar like she wanted to disappear inside him.

"Yeah, that tracks," Ellie said, smirking. "Guess she just likes dinosaurs."

Joel only fed the fire. "I think it's my rugged good looks."

That drew out a few annoyed groans around him.

Ellie snickered. "Not that she’s got much to compare to, though.”

It was a silly joke. A throwaway line. She didn't know any better.

But Joel felt it shift the air at the table, quiet but undeniable, like the slow pull of a storm rolling in.

Leela’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles paling around the metal. It was barely a reaction. Just the barest pause. A slow blink, calculated and measured, like she was pushing something down, pressing it deep, locking it behind her ribs before it could surface.

But Joel caught it. He wasn’t sure what it was—not exactly. He only knew the way it felt. The way a sharp sense of awareness dug into the back of his skull, the way his chest clenched, like something inside him had just brushed against a wound he hadn’t known was there.

Maria noticed, too. She shot Ellie a look. Just a quick, subtle thing, but full of meaning.

Ellie’s chewing slowed, the realization dawning. "Shit. Sorry," she muttered, suddenly fascinated with her plate. “I'm so sorry, Leela. I wasn’t trying to—”

Leela’s voice was too even, barely managing the dismissive smile. “It’s alright, Ellie. It's nothing.”

It wasn’t. She was practically forcing this lie out of her mouth.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go... um, be right back.”

Joel caught the way she moved—not hurried, not frantic, just a little too controlled, like she was forcing herself not to make it obvious that she needed to get out of there.

He should’ve stood. Should’ve gone after her, said something, done something.

Maria was already moving. “Let me check on her,” she said softly, chair scraping against the floor as she followed Leela through the kitchen doors.

Joel exhaled, slow through his nose.

The warmth of the meal, the easy hum of conversation—it all dissipated like heat off an open plate, leaving only the scrape of utensils, the occasional clink of glass. The space Leela left behind stretched thin, like a too-wide gap in a picket fence.

Ellie exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I really wasn’t trying to… god, I have such a big fucking—”

Joel adjusted Maya in his arms who was busy combing fleece off the expensive cashmere on his chest. “Ain’t your fault, kid. 'S’all right. Just a touchy subject.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the candlelight slice through the amber liquid.

Because it was the truth. It wasn’t Ellie’s fault. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wishing he could take back that moment, wipe it clean. Like smudging out a scuff on a wood floor—pretending it had never been there at all.

Ellie nodded, but her fork just scraped uselessly at the plate, pushing food around in slow, absent-minded circles. She curled in on herself, shoulders drawn tight.

Tommy cleared his throat, voice pushing for something lighter. “Think it’s time we brought out dessert, huh? Said it was some trifle or somethin’.”

The words hovered, waiting for someone to catch onto them, and keep the momentum going. But no one did.

Joel didn’t answer either. He just tipped his whiskey back, letting the burn roll slow down his throat.

“Ah, what the hell,” Tommy muttered, scratching at his jaw.

Joel barely registered it. His mind wasn’t here. It was behind that door, past the threshold of the kitchen, where Maria had gone.

He should’ve been the one to follow. But Maria knew better. Knew when to step in, when to let someone walk away without pressing.

And Joel—Joel just sat there, gripping his glass too tight, holding Maya closer, listening to the faint rattle of silverware, the flicker of candlelight, the distant creak of the floorboards in the kitchen.

The moment had died out. They just hadn’t called it yet.

X

Maya's nursery looked different now.

It used to be dim and quiet, a place half-lived in, half-abandoned—just a room with a crib shoved into it, like it didn’t belong there. Like she didn’t belong there.

Now, it felt like a home. A place meant for a child to grow. Soft, muted green stretched across the walls, warm in the glow of the low bedside lamp. Shelves lined with neatly folded onesies and tiny socks, stuffed animals tucked into corners like silent sentries. The window bench had been cleared of dust and laid out with a fresh quilt, facing the snowy street below—facing his house.

Joel rocked on his heels, shifting Maya higher in his arms as the low murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Goodbyes being said. Chairs scraping back. The door cracking open to the cool night air.

He should go. He knew that.

But hell, it was barely ten. He never left before Leela fell asleep—not until he was sure she was actually going to sleep. And that wasn’t for another couple of hours, at least.

Not that he was leaving anytime soon. Not unless he figured out a way to pry this little troublemaker off him.

Maya wasn’t having it.

He’d tried everything—rocking, pacing, humming low in his throat—but she refused to close those pretty eyes, just kept watching him, Her fingers patted at his chest, curling into his shirt. Then she'd reach up, clumsy and determined, fingers smushing against his nose, his cheek, his scruff.

Joel exhaled, shifting her slightly in his arms. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Maya blinked up at him, all big, dark eyes and stubborn little fists. He knew how much she loved conversing with him, even if it seemed deranged to talk to a fucking infant.

"You gonna let me put you down, or you plannin’ to keep me hostage all night?"

Maya made a breathy 'o' up at him, mouth parting in a wide, drooly grin. Like that would get her off the hook.

Joel snorted. "Yeah, that so?"

Another coo, this one higher-pitched, like she had a whole argument ready.

He shook his head, tired but amused. "Mhm. I'm convinced."

Joel sighed, lifting her up so they were at eye level, holding her by the armpits. Her legs kicked in the air, her chubby fists went straight to her mouth, and she tilted her head back, distracted by the warm glow of the nursery lights.

Too big. She was growing too damn fast.

He felt it in the way she relaxed against him now, her body stretching longer, heavier. Felt it in the way her head fit differently in the crook of his neck, in the way her fingers, once barely able to grasp his thumb, now had a grip strong enough to tug at his shirt.

It was frustrating. Fucking unfair. She'd only been in the world for a few weeks, and just when she was starting to fit perfectly in his arms, she was already growing out of them.

Joel swallowed thickly, staring at the soft roundness of her cheeks, the dark lashes fluttering against her skin. His fingers traced the slope of her back, feeling the tiny, steady rise and fall of her breath. How can you miss something that was not yet lost?

A lump pressed against his throat.

“You know I love you so goddamn much, right?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A thought barely forced out past his lips. And yet—it felt so final. How long until he heard it back from her? Another year? Two years? Would he still be around when she said it to him?

Joel clenched his jaw, sighing. Hard as hell, saying it out loud. Felt damn near impossible, like something fragile, like something that wasn’t his to admit. Like if he said it too much, too often, he might have to face what it really meant. That he’d already taken responsibility for her, or if anything were to happen to her—

Maya let out a breathy giggle, legs kicking, fingers smacking against his cheek.

Joel blinked, barely catching himself before he smiled.

When he pulled her closer, she wriggled against him, pressing her small, warm face to his, her tiny palms patting at his chin, his nose, his temple. Soft puffs of air landed against his skin, clumsy, open-mouthed, like her own sloppy, little version of a kiss.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. This was really all he needed in whatever was left of his life. It seemed too easy to make it enough.

“Fine, you win this time,” he muttered, voice rough, thick.

Maya gurgled against his cheek, cooing, like she understood his plight.

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Maya too much, hoping the rhythm might finally lull her to sleep. Her head lolled against his shoulder, tiny fingers curled into his collar again, but she was still awake, just blinking wide-eyed at the world.

Joel paused at the landing when he caught voices near the door—Ellie and Leela, still lingering. A strange sight, to be honest.

“Look, I really messed up back there and—” Ellie started, arms tight around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

Leela didn’t let her finish. Instead, she pressed something into Ellie’s palm—a tightly rolled set of charts. “Joel told me you love astronomy,” she said simply. “These belonged to my mother once. She was like you, too.” A beat. “They should go to someone who’ll actually use them.”

Joel shifted against the railing, watching as Ellie unrolled the top just enough to glimpse the faded celestial maps inside—one for each month, constellations inked in delicate, ghostly lines.

Her breath hitched. “Holy shit.”

Leela blinked. “Is that a good 'holy shit' or—”

Ellie nearly lunged forward—almost, but not quite. She caught herself, scratching the back of her head instead, a grin breaking through like she couldn’t hold it back. “Best fucking holy shit. Thank you.”

For a moment, she just held the maps, careful, reverent, like something fragile. Then she exhaled, shaking her head with a laugh—the kid really couldn’t believe her luck. “This is so sick. I’m gonna—I don’t even know, but it’s gonna be fucking awesome.” She clutched the charts to her chest, voice lighter than it had been all night. “Thanks, Leela. Really.”

Leela gave a slow nod, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gratitude. She hesitated, then tested out a cautious, “Um. Have... fun.”

Ellie barely caught any of that. She whooped into the night as she left, the charts still hugged close. Oh, Joel was definitely not going to hear the end of this for at least a month.

Leela lingered in the doorway, lips parted, watching Ellie disappear down the street. Then, almost like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened, she slowly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands lifted, covering her face, fingers threading through her hair. A breathy laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving.

Joel caught the tail end of it, the faint curve of her smile before she tucked it away. Small. Quiet. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

And hell, if that didn’t do something to him.

“I take it you enjoyed dinner then,” he said, his voice rough with amusement.

Leela startled slightly and hadn’t realized he was still there. Her eyes flicked first to Maya, softening instinctively before settling on him. The edges of that smile lingered—that wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

She stepped closer, hand brushing over Maya’s back. “Little troublemaker fighting sleep again?”

Maya let out a big, sleepy yawn, eyes drooping but still resisting, gripping the fabric of Joel’s shirt like she could anchor herself awake. Stubborn baby girl.

Joel huffed, shifting his hold on her. “Like she doesn’t even need it.”

Leela hummed, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the baby’s onesie. Joel expected her to say something, but when he glanced up, he found her watching him—something different in her gaze. A glint, teasing but warm, something playful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It softened him in places he wasn’t prepared for.

Then she took a step back, and before he could think too much about it, she reached above the shoe rack, retrieving something small and wooden. A box.

Joel tensed the second he saw it. Goddamnit. Should've buried that thing in the snow.

She bit back a smile, shaking the box near her ear. “So, um… Tommy found this on the porch shelf,” she mused. “Told me you went through a lot of trouble to get it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. He knew exactly what Tommy had done—ran his mouth just enough to make sure Joel would have to sit through this whole damn thing.

Leela tipped her head, all exaggerated curiosity. “I wonder what it is.”

“Yeah, real mystery,” Joel muttered, walking past her like he could simply exit this situation.

Instead, he focused on Maya, carefully easing her onto the soft padding of the playmat. The thing was space-themed—little planets and stars dangling overhead, catching the dim glow of the living room. Her tiny fingers curled around a plush moon, legs kicking as she let out a gurgled sound of delight.

Joel let out a quiet breath. This was fine. He could watch her do that. Much easier than watching Leela.

But there was no avoiding it, not really. Not when she was already lowering herself onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, looking away. He could’ve bif goodnight, walked out the door, and left her to open the damn thing by herself. He could’ve avoided this whole moment, let it pass, let it go.

With a great, defeated sigh, he sank down beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Leela carefully slid the lid open, and the ruby cherries sat there, dark and glistening, their juices staining every inch of the wood. The smell of them hit the air—ripe, sweet, unmistakable.

She sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp.

Joel pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to explain himself. That it was dumb. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was silly. That he’d done it because—hell, because. Because he wanted to see her smile for him. Because he wanted to leave some sort of a mark on her special day.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Thought you liked ‘em. It's not much, but...” yeah, it was from his heart. And he went on with a gruff, “Happy birthday.”

Leela nodded with a gentle laugh, but she didn’t say anything at first. Just reached in, plucking one between her fingers, rolling it like she wanted to feel every dip and curve of it before finally slipping it past her lips.

Joel tried not to watch too closely. The way her lips curved around the fruit, the divots on that pillow-soft skin stretching, before her tongue darted out to catch the juice. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. God, he was going to lose it.

“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head. “This is wonderful, Joel. Thank you.” She held up a sudden finger as if lit up by an idea. “How about a blackforest cake?”

He winked. “Right on, darlin'.”

He reached for one, too, grinning, chewing in sync with her.

Then he caught the way she twirled the stem between her fingers, that amused little gleam returning in her eyes, and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Oh, come on. Right now?

Leela quickly popped the stem into her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

Joel smirked despite himself. Fine. They were doing this then.

He followed suit, slipping the stem between his lips, tongue working it in practised motions—an old skill, long-buried, but still easy enough to find. A long time ago, he’d done this a hundred times over, showing off for Sarah, besting Tommy every damn time.

Sure enough, when he held the knotted cherry stem between his teeth, he arched a brow, only slightly smug. “How ‘bout that?”

Leela let out a muffled laugh, sticking her tongue out to reveal hers. Looser, messier, but still knotted. “You’re way better.”

Joel huffed a small, satisfied sound, settling back against the couch. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait for it.”

She cocked her head, intrigued, and he felt it then—her undivided attention settling warm against him. That expectant little gleam in her eye.

Well, hell. No turning back now. He worked his tongue around the stem again, shifting it between his teeth, coaxing it into another trick—one a little tougher, one he hadn’t pulled off in years. One wrong move, and he'd choke.

It took longer, and she was watching him too damn close, like she was trying to map every movement, every small shift in his jaw.

Then, finally, when he held it back out—the knot was gone.

Leela gasped, surprised, hands flying to her mouth. “How?”

Joel smirked, slow and deep, feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her reaction. He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Sworn to secrecy.” Then, just because he could, he added, “It’s a Miller thing.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, shaking her head. “So dumb.”

Joel chuckled along with her, feeling ten pounds lighter at that sweet sound.

Leela, still grinning, tossed another cherry into her mouth. And then another. And another. Until her cheeks puffed up like a damn chipmunk, lips barely able to contain the burst of juice dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Joel snickered at her, shaking his head. “Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching out without thinking. His thumb swiped slowly and easily at the corner of her lip, gathering the stray stain. “Slow down. It’s all yours.”

And that should’ve been it. The moment she pushed him away. But.

Leela didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him. Not startled, not uncomfortable, not embarrassed. Just… watching. Chewing. Observing. Curious.

Her lips, still slick with juice, parted the smallest bit, like she might say something, but she didn’t. And neither did he.

But instead of pulling back—God help him—his gaze flickered down, just for a second, tracking the spot where his thumb had been. And before he even fully processed what he was doing, he brought it to his mouth, pressing the tip between his lips, tasting the cherry juice there.

A big fucking mistake.

Because it wasn’t just the cherry. It was her. All Leela and sweetness. He'd imagined moments like this for hours on end in his lonesome.

It was the heat of her skin, the warmth lingering on his fingertip. A trace of something softer beneath the tartness of the fruit. Something that made his breath go tight in his chest.

Leela inhaled, shallow and quiet.

See, Joel should’ve drawn off her. Should’ve laughed it off or said something—anything—to keep this from tipping too far. He shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Because for a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine it—let himself fucking want it. Joel wasn’t a man who let himself have much. Wasn’t the kind who asked for more than what was given, especially when life loved to take so much away from him. Sarah, his softness, his humanity.

But this? This, he wanted. He wanted it so bad.

Not just in passing, not just in a way he could ignore, but in a way that curled deep in his gut, low and slow. In a way that had him tilting forward before he could stop himself, his breath hitching ever so slightly, just as any man would attempting to her, his hands grounding against his knee like that might steady him, like that might make this less surreal.

Because she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flicker of amber light in her eyes, the crease between her eyes, the way her breath had changed, softened, like she’d been expecting this.

Maybe she had. And maybe that should’ve been enough to make him stop. Because, Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? Kiss her? Laugh? Maybe for once not leave this home feeling like a drop-in?

Leela was younger, cleverer, and healing. She was light, and he was nothing but a warm, dark, empty void pressing down on her, on this moment, on the air between them, threatened to swallow any hope of life.

She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t moving away. But God, she should’ve.

She should've punched him square in the jaw, woken him up from whatever dream he was walking. She should’ve recoiled at the smell of whiskey on his breath, should’ve been weirded out that he’d even dared to lean in, that some old, beat-up man thought he had any goddamn right to touch something as brilliant as her.

Because that’s all he was, wasn’t he? Worthless. Worn down. Hands stained in more blood than he cared to admit. A hardass heart that refused to stop beating.

And she? She wasn’t for him. She was for someone who could meet her in the daylight, who didn’t have to carry every sin, every regret, every ounce of grief in their bones. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

Yet, something pushed him on. Told him to take that chance.

His breath came rough, unsteady. The space between them felt impossibly small, thinning with every heartbeat, every second, every goddamn pull of the air between them—

Except—just then—

Leela’s shoulders dropped with a slow, measured breath, and instead of leaning in, closing the last bit of space, she leaned away.

Her voice was a sigh, not scolding, not sharp. Just beaten. “Joel.”

It settled somewhere in his ribs, dull and heavy. The truth of it. That this had been a mistake. That she was kind enough, maybe even foolish enough, to let him down gently.

He didn’t pull back fast—he had a little more dignity than that. But he did pull back, gritting his jaw, clearing his throat, nodding once like that had been nothing, like he hadn’t just let himself be stupid, let himself slip into the foolish idea that he could have this, even for a second.

Because he wasn’t that man. He never had been.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Joel could hear the soft tick of the clock in the next room, and the low hum of the wind against the windowpane, Maya's soft, sleepy puffs from the playmat. He could hear his own breathing, slower now, measured, because he had to make it so.

Leela stared down at her lap, at the way her hands twisted against each other. Her shoulders had drawn in, tightening like she was trying to make herself smaller, and he hated that—hated that he’d put that look on her face, that he’d made her feel like this.

He tried to work his voice, to apologize, tell her that he'd leave and never look her way again. Nothing came out. Because, ultimately, in doing so, he knew he stood to lose Maya, too. And he just couldn't let that happen.

But, when she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t sharp or angry. It was just… hollow. Blank. Terrifying.

“I’m rotting inside, Joel.” Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy stirring in his chest. He waited, but she didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at her hands like they held something, some mark or stain, only she could see.

“It’s a good thing Maya needs you more. I'm glad she has you.” She let out a small, breathless laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “She's better off with you than me. You're good for her.”

A fit of unexpected anger rose in him—not at her, never at her. He wanted to tell he she was wrong. That Maya was hers. That no matter what she thought, no matter how deep she believed the 'rot' had gone, she wasn’t something Maya needed to be protected from.

“Any longer, and I’ll sicken her with me. She’s so small and pure… the softest part of me. And I can’t bear to even touch her. To feed her. To just be with her. I'm so afraid...” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and then, quieter: “I think I might really kill her, Joel.”

Joel froze.

The words hit him like a stab to the abdomen, like a goddamn gunshot, something he wasn’t ready for but should’ve seen coming. He’d heard her say those words before, hadn’t he?

That night—Maya’s first bout of colic. He’d rushed up to her nursery, rubbing at her back, murmuring low nothings just to calm her down. The screaming had gone on for hours, splitting apart the thin walls, rattling through the house like something relentless and starving. When he'd hatefully asked her to pull herself together, blamed her for knowing nothing.

And Leela had been standing at the threshold, watching. Her hands limp at her sides. Hollowed out. She had whispered it then, too. I think I might kill her.

And back then, he had thought it was the average… exhaustion. Fear. That helpless kind of inadequacy that came with first-time mothers.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it?

No, this wasn’t about being unsure.

This was agony. That bitter edge, that raw, bleeding thing inside her. That feeling of being left to die in her own body. And she was still living in it, with that numbness within.

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse beating thick in his ears. “Leela,” he managed, rough and uneven. It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud, and it landed heavier than he knew how to carry.

She sniffled, fingers curling tighter into her palms.

“I disgust me,” she whispered. “I stain everything, I know this. I’d never forgive myself if I did it to you.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, because if he didn’t keep himself calm, if he didn’t keep himself grounded in this moment, he didn’t know what he’d do. What he’d say. He didn't trust his instincts anymore.

And Leela was still looking down, fingers twitching in her lap, like she could feel something crawling under her skin. If she dug her nails in deep enough, if she pressed hard enough, maybe she could carve out whatever filth she thought was still inside her.

Joel knew that feeling. The itch of it. The glare from his mind's eye.

He’d stood in front of a mirror after things he could never undo, scrubbing his hands raw, watching the way the clear blood seemed to seep deeper between his nailbed and fingertips, no matter how much water ran down the drain. But no, this wasn’t the same. Not even remotely.

Joel had earned his stains.

Leela had been made to bear hers.

The thought clawed at him, made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Because she wasn’t talking in metaphors. Not really. Not the way he might have, not the way he sometimes felt it, an unbearable burden in his gut, an ache in his chest.

She was talking about it like it was real, like it was something rotting inside her body right now. Like it was fouling her up, stinking only to her.

Because it was. Because someone had done that to her.

He clenched his jaw, heat rising behind his ribs. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know when. Didn’t know the details, and Jesus, did he even want to? He'd lose his shit.

A part of him did. A part of him wanted to be the man he used to be, the man who wouldn’t ask questions, who would just take his rifle and hunt down whoever had put this look on her face, this disgust in her voice, this strife in her bones. If that was what she wanted...

He could still kill for her. He absolutely would, without hesitation. If she said it, he'd walk right out that door and make for the front gates. He could wipe those motherfuckers off the face of the earth, make them suffer, bleed, scream, and beg before he pulled the trigger. He'd done it before, to less violent people. Why not now? What were a few more bodies to him? Nothing but newer ghosts.

But really, what would that do for Leela? What would that change?

She had to wake up every morning in the body they left her with, haunted, festering. And worse—she had to live in the mind, unable to outrun the moments between the others, the life they had shattered.

She had to look at Maya every day and wonder if she was capable of being her mother. Wonder if she was capable of loving her, if she was capable of keeping her safe. How could she when couldn't even protect herself?

Joel wanted to tell her that she could. That she already did. But that wasn’t something his words would fix. Especially not his.

So he didn’t say it.

Didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched her, just took in the way her shoulders hunched, the way she trembled like the truth had broken something loose inside her, and now she couldn’t shove it back down.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to ground her, but he knew better than to startle her. He was stupid, just not a fucking idiot. He knew the way the past could reach through time, could grab hold of you even when you were safe, even when you were far away from where it happened. And fuck, she was drowning in it, wasn’t she?

Drowning in memories she hadn’t spoken aloud.

He didn’t need to hear them to see them.

Because her eyes—those dark, gripping, hollowed-out eyes—were far away, looking at something else. Someone else.

A room. A face. Hands. A warning. A little help.

The moment he thought it, bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t know, not really. But he could imagine. And it made him fucking sick.

He knew, somehow, that she had spent months alone, trying to live past this, trying to bury it under silence, under time, under the thousand little ways she kept people at arm’s length.

Leela sniffled sharply, yanking herself back to the present, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Just wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers curling inward again like she wanted to disappear into herself. Like she deserved to.

Joel wouldn’t let her.

Carefully—slowly—he reached forward, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of her hand.

She flinched. A slight tremor. A barely-there shake in her breath. Fuck, it hurt him, too. That some part of her—some deep, instinctual part—still thought she had to brace herself for what might come next.

But she didn’t pull away.

He worked at her fingers, gentle, patient, until she let him unfold her hand from the tight, white-knuckled fist she had made. Her palm was damp, warm from being clenched for too long. There were crescent moon indents where her nails had pressed into her skin.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he laid his own hand over hers. Mangled beyond repair, scarred, spoiled, lost to time.

Leela finally looked up at him. Finally, he let him see her.

Her face was blotchy, her dark eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, and God, she had never looked more exhausted. More fragile. This girl, who could accomplish anything and everything, looked helpless.

And she didn’t believe him. Not a single thing he’d just said. Yeah, she was right not to.

Maybe he was stained. Maybe he was rotting, too. Maybe it was too late for him, too late for a man who had done what he’d done, lost what he’d lost, to be anything else.

But not for her. Never for her.

He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them softly against her knuckles.

She made a noise—small, unsure and confused. But she didn’t pull away. God, she didn't pull away.

His grip tightened just slightly, cradling her hand in both of his now to brush another kiss, like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to her. He let his forehead rest gently against hers, breathing slow, trying to keep himself from gripping too tight, from pulling too close.

"There's nothin’ left to stain or rot in me," he admitted. "Just a lot of space left for the two of you."

The words landed soft, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, like maybe he was trying to convince her that they were true.

And Joel—he knew what that felt like. To be left alone with it. To drown in it. To have no one there to pull you out of it. So he didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. This time, he wasn't heading for the door.

All he did was stay.

Leela sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together, but Joel could already see it—she was already falling.

And he wasn’t about to let her hit the ground alone.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, his other hand coming up to the back of her head, his thumb brushing just barely along her hairline. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, felt the way her breath came uneven, quick and unsure.

Close enough that he could feel every tremor in her body, every sharp, shallow breath she took. But he didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe. Didn’t whisper that it would be okay.

Because he wasn’t a goddamn liar.

And because this—this agony, this slow, rotting thing inside her—wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t something she could be reassured out of, something she could be reasoned or comforted or willed away from.

It was in her bones. In her blood. It lived there, like a sickness that had no cure.

So what the hell could he say? What good would empty do?

All he had—all he could offer—was this. His hands around hers. His touch, light, present. The slow press of his forehead against hers, grounding, real, unmoving.

And he held her. Not tightly, not desperately—just enough.

Enough for her to know. Enough for her to feel, just for a second, what it was to be held and not taken.

To be seen and not used.

To be broken and not discarded.

Joel breathed out slowly, before pulling back just enough to see her. Leela didn’t move or speak, just watched him quietly. Hoping for something from him.

His palm lifted to touch her cheek. Not enough to startle, just enough to remind her he was still here. That he would be.

“Alright then, birthday girl,” he murmured. “I’ll put Maya to bed. See you in the morning.”

No reluctance. No more questions. No trying to make sense of whatever had just passed between them.

Because nothing had changed. And that was the point. Whatever had been said, whatever had happened—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Leela didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm gently like she was holding onto the warmth he’d left behind. There was a little curve that rested on the edge of her lips.

Joel didn’t look back as he left the room, didn’t linger in the doorway like he sometimes did. He just walked upstairs to Maya's quiet little corner of the world, enduring, sure, carrying her small weight against his chest.

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, unfurling her fists from his collar. She stirred, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she calmed into a deeper sleep.

Joel sighed, pressing his hands against the crib’s edge, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at her, at the impossible being that she was.

Warm, breathing, real. A perfect thing born from ruin.

Joel swallowed against the knot tightening in his throat. How the hell did something like her come from so much pain? From something that had swallowed her mother whole?

He didn’t know how it had happened. Didn’t know when he had stopped just watching from the outside and stepped into the mess of it. Didn’t know how someone like him—someone as stained, someone as wrecked—had ended up here, standing over something so goddamn perfect.

Nothing mattered because the truth was—he wouldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t take back a single second of this.

His breath ached with that same old, familiar twist as he reached down, brushing his fingers over Maya’s impossibly small hand.

She twitched, her lips parting slightly in sleep, and goddamn it—he felt it everywhere. Joel let a small grin pull at his lips as he curled his fingers around hers, feeling the faintest squeeze in return. Yeah, she was all his.

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Once. Then again. Then a third time, lingering, his lips brushing over her fine, downy hair, drinking in the warmth of her, the scent of her, the sheer, impossible realness of her.

No, nothing had changed.

But somehow, everything had.

X

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[surielstea]

Dancing With Fate

Original request.

Pairing: Nyx Archeron x Tamlin’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: While struggling with her relationship with her father, Reader goes to her first ball and stumbles upon a male she has never met, but feels a distinct connection to.

Warnings: slight angst with a parent, mostly fluff between Reader and Nyx

A.Note: I apologize for how long this took me to get out, I really struggled with how to format her back story but I ended up fairly happy with it, let me know if y’all want more of these two I’d be happy to write a few one shots of their dynamic as well as all the family drama since I’m such a sucker for the forbidden love trope ;)

6.4k word count.

"Can you do that again for me, my sweet?" my mother whispered, her voice trembling as she crouched down to my height. I watched her eyes fill with a glassy shine that I didn't understand. She reached out, her hands shaking as they wrapped around my small wrists. I blinked up at her, wide-eyed and oblivious, only feeling the warmth of her touch and the tremor of her fingers.

I balled my hands into tiny fists, scrunching my face with all the concentration I could muster. I wanted so badly to make her proud, to show her what I could do. I willed the claws beneath my skin to surface, squeezing my fists tighter until, with a soft tearing, they slid out, small and sharp, shining like new silver. Her breath caught, and her eyes went even wider as she stared at the claws that had split through my knuckles. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and I tilted my head, wondering why she was sad. I reached out, my claws joining the action as I moved, but she stumbled back, evading the sharp silver, her hand pressed over her mouth.

"What's wrong, Momma?" I asked, my voice tiny. I tried to reach for her cheek, to wipe the tear away like she'd done for me so many times, but she shook her head, forcing a small, shaky smile.

"Nothing, it's alright, my sweet," she whispered, her voice soft and a little broken. "I just... didn't think you'd be able to do this so soon." Her fingers lingered on my cheek, warm and tender. She looked at me like she was memorizing my face, like every part of me mattered.

I gave her a proud smile, lifting my hands. "Isn't it cool?" I grinned widely, my innocence unbroken. I had no idea what my claws really meant, or the sorrow that darkened her gaze as she watched me slash the air with them, filling the quiet night with soft, sharp swishes. She just sat there, quiet and sad, holding her own hands close to her chest as if they couldn't bear to let me go.

It was a late night, much too late for me to be awake. I clung tightly to my mother's hand as she led me through a garden filled with roses that gleamed under the moonlight. The flowers were tall and beautiful, and I wanted to reach out to touch them, but my mother's grip kept me close. She moved so fast, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, like she was hiding from something.

"Where are we going, Mom?" I asked in a small voice, but she didn't answer, her steps quickening as she pulled me along. The roses seemed to shiver in the breeze, their petals brushing against us as we passed, and the moon above us was high and cold, casting everything in a silver glow.

Ahead of us was a huge mansion, bigger than any house I'd ever seen. It loomed in the night, dark and quiet, like it was waiting for us. My mother slowed as we neared the porch, her breathing heavy as she crouched down in front of me, her face serious in a way that made my heart beat faster.

She pressed a folded piece of paper into my hands, her fingers cold and firm around mine. "We're going to play a game, okay?" she said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her fingers brushed my cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I nodded eagerly, happy that she wanted to play. Games with Momma were always fun. She pointed to the paper, her hand gentle but urgent. "Whoever opens that door," she said, her voice steady but quiet, "you give them this paper, okay?" Her gaze held mine, as if she was trying to pour a message into me with her eyes. "And, my sweet," she paused, swallowing hard, "I'm going to hide now. And no matter what they ask you, you can't tell them I was with you. It's a big secret."

I blinked up at her, not fully understanding, but I nodded anyway, like a good girl. She reached out, her fingers lingering on my cheek again, her eyes shimmering with something I couldn't name. "I'll meet you at the window, okay?" Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "It'll be fun, I promise."

I reached up to brush the tear away, but she was already rising. Before I could say anything else, she knocked on the tall doors, and with a last, lingering look, she turned and melted into the shadows. Just like that, she was gone.

Suddenly, the night felt enormous and empty, the shadows stretching out around me, dark and cold. The noises from the forest grew louder, like the trees and animals and everything hidden within the dark were whispering all around me. My heart pounded, and I almost wanted to cry out, to beg for her to come back and take me home. But before I could make a sound, the massive doors creaked open, casting a sliver of light onto the porch.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and fierce, with wild red hair and eyes that seemed to cut through the darkness. One of his eyes gleamed gold, like a piece of metal, and he looked down at me with a frown, his expression stern and sleepy. "Excuse me, Mister," I squeaked, trying to remember my mother's instructions.

His gaze softened just a bit as he took in my tiny figure. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

"I'm supposed to give this to you." I held up the paper, my hands trembling as I waited for him to take it. He knelt down, eyeing me carefully as he unfolded the note, his expression unreadable. I gave him a polite smile, remembering my mother's lessons, but his gaze flicked from the note back to me, his eyes narrowing.

"Where's your mother?" he asked, his voice soft but sharp.

I shrugged, fidgeting under his gaze. "I don't know," I whispered, my heart thudding in my chest.

"But she brought you here, didn't she?" he pressed, his gaze steady. I swallowed, unsure of how my mother would want me to answer. After a long, quiet moment, he sighed, opening the door wider. "Come inside. You shouldn't be out here alone."

I followed him into the mansion, the silence thick and heavy as he led me up a grand staircase. My shoes clicked against the cold, polished floor as we climbed up and up, stopping finally at a pair of wooden doors wrapped in ivy. I was too small to open them, so I just waited, feeling very small in the middle of the enormous hallway.

"Wait here a moment," he said, giving me a nod before stepping through the door. I looked around, mesmerized by the golden chandelier hanging above me, its glow casting strange, twisting shadows that moved as the lights flickered.

"I already told you I'm not in the mood to talk, Lucien." A deep, heavy voice sounded from beyond the door, and I jumped, hugging my cloak tighter around me.

"It's not that," Lucien replied, his tone shifting in a way that sounded unsure, even a little nervous. "You have a visitor."

The other voice was silent for a moment, and my stomach knotted up as I realized they were talking about me. "Tell them to leave," the man said finally, his tone cold and final.

Lucien sighed, and I heard the soft rustling of paper. The silence felt like it stretched forever, but then footsteps approached. The door swung open, and I looked up to see a tall man with golden hair, his eyes dark and sharp as they fell on me. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he wasn't used to children, that maybe he didn't know what to do with me.

But he crouched down slowly, his gaze softening just a bit as he held his hands up, like he wanted me to know he wasn't going to hurt me. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

I told him, my voice a quiet whisper, but he nodded as if he'd heard every word. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, tilting his head, and I shook my head, looking down at my hands.

"I'm the High Lord of the Spring Court," he said softly, his tone proud but his eyes sad. My eyes widened, a little smile pulling at my lips. I'd heard of a High Lord in my mother's stories, someone powerful and magical.

"But, more importantly," he continued, his gaze searching my face, "I'm your father."

I blinked up at him, the words hanging in the air like they were something heavy, something I didn't yet understand. I wanted to ask him what it all meant, but all I could do was stare up at him, my fingers curling around the edge of my cloak, wishing I was safe in my mother's arms again.

———

Ever since that night, I've been confined to this estate on every special occasion, under the watchful eyes of my father's maids, lest I sneak away the moment I'm alone. Tonight, like many others, I'm left looking out the window of my bedroom—the same spot where I'd waited endlessly as a child, hoping my mother would come back for me.

But tonight was going to be different. I'd make sure of it.

I storm out of my room, my heels clicking with determined steps as I march down the hall. I swing open the doors to my father's study without knocking. He looks up from his papers, brow creased, clearly taken aback by my abrupt entrance.

"I'm going to the Dawn Court tonight," I say, my tone leaving no room for discussion.

"Absolutely not," he replies, shaking his head and dipping his quill back in the ink, dismissing me with the kind of finality he's used to exerting over me.

"All the courts are invited," I argue, stepping forward. "I'm obligated to go."

"No," he says again, his tone colder. "It's a high-profile ball. You're not ready."

I draw in a sharp breath, struggling to keep my temper in check. "Not ready? Father, I'm nineteen. If not now, then when?" This age had been difficult for him for some reason, I don't know why but ever since my birthday he's been acting strangely, started keeping me shut out and less involved—I may as well have just been imagining it or it was a coincidence it started happening after I turned nineteen, but once I got the thought in my head it was hard to get it out.

His expression hardens, his voice annoyingly calm. "Just, not now."

A chill spreads through my hands, and I have to resist the urge to bear the claws that hide beneath my skin. "I'm so tired of having every decision made for me," I say, pressing my palms to my temples as frustration wells up. "Of being treated like a prisoner in this house."

He stands, his temper fraying. "And I'm sick of you thinking you know best," His voice rises, echoing in the silence of the study. "You don't understand half of what's at stake."

"No, maybe I don't. But neither do you, apparently," I snap back. "Or maybe it's just that you're afraid to lose the only company you have left in this house. Is that it, Father?"

His hands ball into fists, metal-like claws gleaming from his knuckles. Mine slid out as well, a metallic gleam in the dim light.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarls, eyes darkening.

"Maybe I do," I bite back. "I hate this house." It came out as more of a confession than a retort, but his face falters, pain flickering through his eyes before he regains his composure.

"You don't mean that."

"I do," I insist, voice shaking with anger. "I hate this house, and I wish my mother never abandoned me here." The words are barely out of my mouth before I turn on my heel and stride out, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls shudder, my claws snagging on the wood of the door and scraping the paint off, revealing the bare, slightly rotted wood beneath. It felt like a metaphor, in a strange way.

I make my way to the garden, desperate for air. The night breeze is cool as I step out onto the deck, and I close the glass doors behind me a little more gently this time. Taking a few deep breaths, I walk along the garden path, letting the silence and cold soothe my frayed nerves. Winter's grip is finally loosening, and the garden is starting to come alive with buds and leaves. My favorite time of year.

I reach for one of the rosebuds, my claws retracting ever so slowly, my skin morphing over the hideous metal that gleamed in the moonlight. I forget the feeling of the power my father gifted me and remember the feeling and comforting warmth of my mother's power flickering beneath my fingertips. The flower blooms in my palm, reaching out toward me, and I smile faintly as I coax the other buds open along the path. Flower by flower my frustrating emotions ebb, and by the time I've reached the stone bench, my anger has cooled, replaced by something heavier, more complicated.

I sit, feeling the familiar weight of regret settle over me. I don't hate this house, not really. I hate the way I'm trapped in it.

The glass door opens, and I know without looking that it's him. My father takes a seat beside me on the bench, and I shift away, making it clear I'm not ready to forgive him just yet. We sit in silence, watching the newly-bloomed flowers sway in the night breeze. Finally, he sighs.

"You can go to the Dawn Court tonight," he says quietly.

I turn to him, my eyes wide with surprise.

He hesitates, looking down at his hands. "I'm..." He struggles around the word. "Sorry that you feel like you can't make your own choices," he mutters, his voice filled with a vulnerability I haven't heard ever before. "I'm trying to do better. And, you're right. I am afraid."

My heart softens, and the walls I've built up slowly crumble. "Afraid of what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of losing you, in turn losing everything." He looks up, his eyes—a shade of green I've always found comfort in—filled with an emotion that makes my heart ache.

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, his hand gently stroking my back. "I'm sorry, too," I murmur into his shoulder.

He shakes his head. "Don't be. You're my daughter. You're allowed to be angry with me." He pulls back to look at me. "Just promise me one thing," he says. "Promise you won't run away tonight."

I give him a small smile, the request so obscene that u couldn't help it. "I'll be perfect. Thank you, Father." I reassure.

He nods, satisfied, and rises from the bench. "We leave in an hour. You'd better start getting ready."

———

My dress is a soft lavender that hugs my waist and fans out into a beautiful, flowing skirt, the slit running up my thigh edged in delicate embroidered flowers. The open back crisscrosses with delicate ties, and the neckline is just low enough to be elegant without being too revealing. One of the maids has styled my hair in a half-up, half-down look, a few braided strands framing my face. For once, I feel exactly how I want to feel—elegant, feminine, and free.

I leave my bedroom and make my way down the hall to the marble staircase, where my father waits at the base. As I descend, his eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly as he takes in my appearance.

"Well?" I do a small spin, laughing at his awestruck expression.

He swallows, a proud smile slowly spreading across his face. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug.

I hug him back, letting him hold me close, and in that moment, it feels as if all the tension of our earlier argument melts away. We're just father and daughter again.

———

The Dawn Court ballroom is bathed in golden light, warm and inviting. I've barely stepped inside when a tall, dark-skinned man in white robes approaches, a halo of gold atop his head.

"And who is this lovely lady?" he asks, his voice rich with curiosity.

"My daughter," my father answers gruffly, his protective tone unmistakable.

The man blinks in surprise before offering a sheepish smile. "Ah, well then." He turns and makes a quick exit.

"Who was that?" I ask, amused by his reaction.

"High Lord of Day," my father mutters, a hint of irritation in his voice. "He has a reputation."

I raise an eyebrow, smiling as I unlink my arm from his. "Are all High Lords so... pretty?"

"Careful," he growls in warning.

A cheeky smile appears on my lips as I unhook my arm from his. "Only observations." I shrug. "I'm going to get a drink." I take a step away and he takes it with me. "Father, I'm only going to the refreshments table, not war. I'll be fine." I promise and he solicits a sigh.

"No wine." He demands and I shake my head in disbelief.

"Yes sir." I mock salute before spinning on my heel and walking across the ballroom, I make my way to the refreshment table and pour myself a glass from the fountain of cider, admiring the way the bubbles shimmer in the golden light. My father had said no wine but mentioned nothing about spiked cider. I take a long sip and begin to explore the ballroom, watching dancers swirl in gowns of blue and pink that mirror the sunset outside.

Lost in thought, I wander past an indoor garden filled with gardenias and evergreens. I couldn't help myself but slip inside, a few guests were inside, admiring the flowers just as I wished to do, so I deemed I was allowed to. I approached an arch of budded flowers, standing beneath the green vines that soon would be sprouted in color. I reached out, gently brushing a bud with my fingertips, watching as it blooms in reply.

"Your touch has improved since the last time I saw you," a familiar voice murmurs from behind me.

I turn, eyes lighting up as they land on a tan-skinned male with striking red hair. "Lucien!" I throw my arms around him, grinning.

He chuckles, pulling me into a warm hug. "You look stunning, little Fawn," he says, holding me at arm's length to take in my dress. "How did you manage to get out of the house?"

I smirk with a casual shrug. "Whipped out the claws."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Like father, like daughter." He mused and I chuckled, looking down at the flowers reaching towards me, asking for my attention again.

"You want to dance?" His hand comes to my shoulder and I shake my head.

"You go ahead, I think I'll need a few more glasses before I step foot on the dance floor." I scoff and he shakes his head.

"Nonsense, you're a terrific dancer." He bumps my shoulder.

"I'm okay uncle, really," I reassured and he clamped his lips shut.

"Okay, find me if you need me." He presses a kiss to my temple and I nod.

He saunters away towards a group of friends I didn't recognize and I continue exploring, sipping my champagne as I wander through the crowd.

My gaze is caught by a group of strangers dressed in dark clothing. There's a woman in deep maroon, a honey brunette who smiles at me softly, and beside her, a tall man wearing a black-jeweled crown. I study them curiously, trying to place who they might be.

Distracted, I accidentally walk straight into someone's chest.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I stammer, stumbling back. I trip over my heels, but a pair of strong hands catches me, steadying me before I fall.

"You alright?" an unfamiliar voice asks, deep and soothing.

I look up—and up—and up—at a broad-shouldered man with rugged features and half of his shoulder-length hair tied back. He has a friendly, easy-going smile that immediately puts me at ease.

"Yeah, sorry," I mutter, flushing slightly.

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "No need to apologize. I should have been watching where I was going. You'd think five centuries would be enough time to figure that out." He snorts, red siphons gleaming on his chest and hands.

I blink in surprise. "Five centuries?"

He grins, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, no need to make me sound ancient."

I laugh, feeling unexpectedly comfortable around him. "Right. Apologies again." I clamp my lips shut, embarrassed.

"Who's the lucky person that brought you here tonight?" He asks, sensing my embarrassment and switching the topic, shifting to face towards the crowd.

"Couldn't I have come on my own?" I counter, crossing my arms.

He laughs again. "Touché. But I'll bet that doesn't mean you'll be lacking for dance partners." He gestures to the dance floor.

"Maybe," I say with a smile, "but that depends on who asks."

"Well, I would, but my mate would probably have my head if I danced with anyone else," he says, feigning a solemn look.

"Pity," I replied playfully. "But it's alright—you don't seem all that familiar with your feet anyway."

He gasps, feigning insult. "Hey! I'll have you know I'm a world-class dancer!"

"Oh, really?" I raise an eyebrow. "Shame, then. You missed your chance."

He chuckles, backing away. "Well, it was nice talking to you—mystery lady."

"Likewise," I call after him with a smile, watching as he disappears into the crowd.

The music is lively, filling the ballroom with a vibrant energy as dancers swirl and laugh under the golden chandeliers. I sip the last of my cider, feeling a pleasant warmth spread through me. For the first time in ages, I feel, free. Maybe my father had been right to keep me close all these years; maybe I wasn't ready for this world of strangers and their sharp eyes. But as I watch the colors and movement around me, I know I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

Lost in my thoughts, I wander past the terrace doors and step outside, onto a balcony that overlooks a sprawling garden filled with glistening fountains and delicate white flowers. I take a deep breath, savoring the crisp night air, and let my fingers trace the cool stone railing wrapped in ivy.

Then I hear it—a quiet, amused hum from just behind me. I turn, startled, and my gaze falls on a young man leaning casually against the doorway, watching me with a slight, crooked smile.

He's tall, with jet-black hair that falls in tousled waves, and eyes that are strikingly, disarmingly blue. He wears a dark, impeccably tailored suit, with a midnight-blue shirt beneath, the top buttons undone enough to reveal tan skin beneath. There's an effortless elegance to him, a quiet confidence, like he belongs in every corner of this glittering world.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, stepping forward with a charming half-smile. "But I had to wonder what you were doing all by yourself out here. Parties like these are hardly tolerable alone."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling my cheeks warm under his gaze. "And yet here you are, all by yourself."

He chuckles, eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "Fair, though technically, I'm not alone anymore, am I?"

I laugh, feeling my earlier irritation with my father melt away as I look at him. "I suppose not. Though I doubt you're here to keep me company."

He raises a hand in mock innocence. "You wound me. I've been nothing but kind since we met."

"Have we met?" I ask, tilting my head. "I think I would've remembered," I say with an angled head and something flickers in his sapphire gaze that I can't quite place.

He seems to consider this, tilting his head thoughtfully. "No, we haven't officially met," he concedes. "Which feels like a shame, honestly."

The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. "So, are you going to introduce yourself, or are we just going to continue being strangers?"

His eyes sparkle with something like amusement as he extends a hand. "Strangers sounds nice," I say flippantly, looking out at the Dawn Courts skyline, a sliver of the sun barely visible. This party was supposed to last until dawn, until the sun returned and the entire court could watch the outmatched sunrise of this court.

I wasn't ready to commit to making any friends, I had just gained my freedom, I wished to revel in it for a few moments longer, nameless was my way of doing it.

He laughs, a rich, genuine sound that makes my heart skip. "Alright, stranger," he says, leaning casually against the railing beside me. "What brings you out to the edge of the ballroom?"

"Some air," I reply with a shrug, looking out over the garden. "I hadn't expected to feel so claustrophobic."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Parties can be exhausting. All the faces, all the names. It's nice to step away."

I glance at him. "You sound like you've been to one too many of these."

"Oh, you have no idea," he says with a grin. "I think I've been to so many I could navigate them in my sleep."

"And here I thought you looked like you were having fun," I tease.

"Maybe I'm a good actor," he says, his tone playful. "Or maybe I just needed a reason to enjoy it."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Does that line actually work for you?"

"More often than you'd think," he says, laughing. "But since you're clearly immune to charm, let me try a different approach." He holds out a hand, bowing slightly. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, stranger?"

I hesitate, glancing back at the ballroom, but something about his easy smile, the spark of humor in his eyes, makes me want to take his hand. I place mine in his, letting him lead me closer.

The music inside changes as his lithe fingers make contact with my waist, shifting to a slower, softer melody. He adjusts my stance, guiding me with a gentleness that surprises me. There's a warmth in his gaze that makes my heart pound just a little faster as I look up at him.

"So, princess," he murmurs as we begin to move, his voice barely audible over the music echoing from inside. "Are you here with family? Or did you sneak away to attend the most boring ball of the season?"

I laugh, looking up at him with feigned offense. "Boring? I'll have you know I'm having a wonderful time."

"Are you?" he asks, eyes twinkling. "Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Maybe a little of both," I admit, a smile tugging at my lips. "And you? Do you always call balls like these boring?"

"Only when my mother's not here to overhear," he replies, grinning. "But tell me, how did you get here?"

I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him, but there's something about his gaze that makes it feel safe, to be honest. "My father brought me," I say, keeping it vague. "He doesn't let me out much."

"Really?" The stranger's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I would've pegged you for someone who went wherever they pleased."

"I'd like to think so," I reply, laughing. "But apparently, my father has other ideas."

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity in his eyes. "What does he think you'll do? Start a rebellion?"

"Maybe," I say with a shrug, a playful glint in my eyes. "He's probably right."

His laughter is warm, and he holds me a little closer as we spin across the marbled balcony floor. "Well, if you ever need a partner in crime, let me know. I'm an excellent accomplice."

I arch an eyebrow, smirking. "How do I know you're any good at sneaking out?"

He grins, leaning down until his voice is a soft murmur in my ear. "Trust me, princess. You don't survive my family without learning how to slip away now and then."

I glance up, meeting his gaze, intrigued by the way his words hold a hidden depth, a story he's not telling. "Your family sounds, interesting."

"That's one way to put it," he says with a chuckle, eyes flickering with a momentary shadow. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his easy charm. "Let's just say they have certain expectations."

"Well, then maybe we have more in common than I thought," I say, softening.

"Seems that way," he murmurs, his voice softening too. There's a gentleness in his gaze now, and I feel his hands hold me just a little more securely as if he's anchoring me.

We dance like this, quietly, for a few moments, simply enjoying the music and each other's company. He spins me once, drawing a soft laugh from me, and when he pulls me back, I'm closer than I realized, his breath warm on my cheek.

"Do you think we'd have met otherwise?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blink, a little caught off guard by the question. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Fate has a funny way of working, doesn't it?" He's still holding me close, his gaze warm and thoughtful, and I feel the world fade away a little as we look at each other.

"It does," I reply, almost breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He's quiet for a moment, his eyes glimmering with something I couldn't place. "I hope—I hope fate lets us meet again."

For a moment, I forget about the ballroom, about my father's rules, about everything except him. I don't know who he is, or why he's here, but something about him feels achingly familiar, like we're old friends, like I've known him in some other life.

When the music fades, he slowly lets me go, and I feel the loss of his warmth, his presence. He steps back, bowing with a playful, courtly gesture.

I scoff a laugh and give my best attempt at a curtsy. "You're a natural," He muses as the music dies down and I sidle closer to the balcony, eager to look out at the world beyond that I had never witnessed before.

The balcony feels almost timeless as we stand there, his presence beside me grounding in a way I hadn't expected. We talk as if there are no constraints, just the night around us, a quiet space carved out in the world. His words flow easily, a mix of humor and teasing, sometimes dipping into moments of gentleness that make my chest tighten.

I can't help but keep stealing glances at him, trying to memorize the sharp line of his jaw and the warm, playful gleam in his eyes. And every time I meet that gaze, I feel the strange, unshakable familiarity tugging at me—a whisper in the back of my mind that insists I know him, that maybe I've known him far longer than this one night. But I can't let myself get swept away in that feeling. Not yet.

We talk for hours about anything and everything, I tell him about the flowers below us, and what they symbolize, and in return, he tells me of the stars in the sky, the constellations, and each of their names.

We talked about things that I never voiced before, but there was a steady comfort in his presence that made me feel like I could confess even my deepest mistakes and he'd nod with understanding in his eyes, not a flicker of judgment.

We didn't go into the ballroom the entire night, had taken up the small seating area that curved around the side of the building I hadn't noticed before.

"So, princess," he says, smirking as he leans his back into his chair, arms folded in a lazy, practiced ease, "if you weren't here, what kind of trouble would you be getting yourself into?"

I think for a moment, letting my fingers graze the ivy-covered stone. "Trouble? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't." He smirks, an amused glint in his eyes. "I pegged you for the rebellious type the moment I set eyes on you." He goes on.

I shrug, glancing out over the shadowed garden below. "Well, clearly you don't know me very well," I reply in a snarky tone, my lips curling into a teasing smile. "Perhaps I'm a perfectly obedient daughter who follows all the rules."

His laugh is low and rich, sending a pleasant shiver through me. "Now, I find that hard to believe," he murmurs, tilting his head to meet my gaze. "A wildflower like you, growing in a gilded cage? No, I think you're meant to be out there—" he gestures to the dark mountains beyond the garden, "—living on your own terms."

My cheeks warm under his gaze, but I lift my chin. "And you? What about you, oh wise stranger? Surely you're not the type to follow anyone's rules but your own."

"Oh, I'd follow them," he says, his voice dropping to a playful murmur, "if you were the one making them."

I feel my face flush at his words, but I can't resist matching his grin. "Be careful what you wish for. I'd hate to ruin that roguish charm with a few boundaries."

"Boundaries?" He raises an eyebrow, laughing. "I don't believe you’re the kind of girl to put them in place, life's far more interesting without them, don't you think?" He cocks his head in an all too demeaning fashion, as if he knows me better than to even suggest such a thing. I can’t help but smile at the familiarity, of being truly seen and known, it was foreign, but welcomed. “More than you know,” I reply, a softer atmosphere taking over with the tenderness in my voice.

"So, what does someone like you dream of seeing?"

It's a simple enough question, but I find myself hesitating, surprised by how much I want to answer, how easy it feels to open up to him. "I want to see everything," I admit, my voice almost a whisper. "Every corner of the world. The mountains, the seas. I want to taste the air in different places and feel the ground under my feet where no one else has walked. I want to be free."

It's more than I've ever shared with anyone, especially someone who doesn't even know my name. I swallow, feeling suddenly vulnerable, but when I glance at him, his gaze is warm, and understanding. As if he knows exactly what I mean.

"I think freedom suits you," he says softly like he's revealing a secret. "It's in your eyes—the way they look past this place, like you're already somewhere else entirely."

His words send a shiver through me, and for a moment, I can't find any words at all. So instead, I look away, watching as the sky shifts from deep indigo to a paler shade, hinting at the dawn. "Maybe one day I'll get to see it all," I say, more to myself than to him.

"I have a feeling you will." His voice is quiet, almost wistful, and I glance back to find him watching me with that same, unsettling familiarity, as if he, too, feels this strange pull between us.

We fall into an easy silence after that, leaning against the railing side by side as the stars start to fade. Occasionally, he says something that makes me laugh, and I find myself telling him things I'd never tell anyone else—about the books I love, the dreams I've buried, the way I crave a life that's different from the one set out for me.

He listens, really listens, his attention never wavering. And in return, he shares pieces of himself, though I sense he's careful, holding back just as much as I am. He speaks of a family that has expectations, a life lived beneath a weight that isn't always visible. I don't pry, but I nod, letting him know I understand.

The sky lightens, a faint glow spreading over the horizon, and I can't help but feel a pang of regret as the world around us starts to wake.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice low, "I think this might be one of the best conversations I've ever had."

I laugh softly, though my heart aches a little at the thought of this night ending. "You don't get many opportunities to talk with strangers on balconies?"

"Not like this," he says, glancing down at me, his expression unreadable. "Not with someone like you."

There's something so earnest in his gaze that I feel my resolve waver. I want to tell him who I am, to share every piece of myself, but a part of me resists, clinging to this fleeting anonymity.

"Thank you," I say softly, and I mean it more than he could ever know.

"For what?" he asks, his tone warm.

"For reminding me that people can be kind. That they can listen." I smile up at him, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and hope. "I think I needed that."

The first light of dawn glimmers on the horizon, casting a soft glow over the garden. Slowly, he reaches out, taking my hand in his, his touch warm and steady. I feel his thumb brush gently over my knuckles, and it sends a wave of warmth through me, a silent promise in his touch.

"Maybe one day," he says softly, his voice barely a whisper, "we'll meet again. Maybe fate will give us that."

I can't bring myself to say anything, so I simply nod, letting myself savor the feel of his hand in mine for just a moment longer.

As the first rays of sunlight touch the garden below, he releases my hand, stepping back with a soft smile. He gives me one last, lingering look before turning, disappearing through the terrace doors and back into the world from which he came.

I stay there, watching as the light fills the sky, feeling like I've lost something precious and found something rare all at once.

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[lcvecove]

Cleaning Max’s apartment while he’s gone and you accidentally break one of his race trophies.

𝒏ote , stop i loved writing this so much! thank you for sharing your little thought with me nonnie <3

fem!reader who is very sensitive (like me🥲) I don’t love how I ended this but that’s okay. . .

you had been so careful. so unbelievably careful not to touch the trophies as you dusted the shelf max’s whole life was displayed on.

you’d tiptoed around them like they were sleeping dragons. you used the softest cloth. held your breath. didn’t even blink too hard when you passed certain ones.

and still - still - you heard it.

that sickening clink.

that tiny shift in balance that meant something had moved when it shouldn’t have. you turned just in time to watch the austria trophy teeter and then crash.

you step down the little stool you used to reach up high, making your way over to the scene. your fingers hovered over the damage, the cloth still clutched in one hand like a murder weapon.

you whispered a panicked, “no, no, no…” under your breath, as if that would rewind time.

you hadn’t even touched it. just brushed too close, just shifted the air wrong, apparently. and now . . .

you sit back, legs folded, hand over your lips as you weigh your options.

you could call him.

you could confess in person.

you could flee the country.

“oh my god” you whisper, picking up the two pieces and inspecting them like maybe, just maybe, they’ll magically snap back together if you’re gentle enough.

but no. the clean break down the middle is unforgiving. you hold both halves in your hands like a confession.

“this is fine,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else. “this is totally, completely-”

a soft mrrp interrupts you.

you glance up to see donatello perched on the edge of the shelf, right where the empty spot now is, tail flicking innocently, blinking at you like what?

a few feet away jimmy is sprawled across max’s couch, utterly unconcerned.

your eyes narrow. “you guys suck” you huff with a pout and place the two broken halves down in front of you.

donatello lets out a quiet meow, almost smug. you look down at the broken trophy, then back up at the cat. you consider blaming him. briefly. desperately.

but you had always been a terrible liar and max would see right through it. he’d take one look at your face and know.

still you point a very stern finger “you better back me up when he gets home” as if the cat’s going to deliver a grade A defence statement in your honour.

when max steps through the door of his apartment, he’s immediately concerned by how eerily quiet it is. there’s no music softly playing like there usually is, no clatter from the kitchen.

the kind of silence that makes his chest tighten.

he toes off his shoes, hanging his keys up at the door, carefully holding the bag of takeout in his hand. “baby I’m home” he yells, a faint smile on the edge of his lips over how domestic his life has become.

when there’s no answer in response max frowns and rounds the corner into the living room, stopping in his tracks when he sees you.

sees you curled up on the couch, jimmy in your lap, tissues scattered next to you, eyes puffy and cheeks red, tears streaming down your face.

max’s heart drops straight into his stomach. the bag of takeout hits the floor with a dull thud, completely forgotten.

he’s by your side in two strides, crouching low in front of the couch, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch first. your knees, your arms, your face.

“what happened?” his voice is gentle but panicked, like it’s being strangled by fear. “are you hurt? what’s wrong?” he spits question after question.

you shake your head quickly, clutching jimmy tighter to your chest. the cat doesn’t protest. just purrs against you like he knows your heart is in pieces and somehow cuddling him will fix it.

“I broke it,” you whisper. your voice is hoarse, quiet, like admitting it again might make it worse.

max blinks. “broke what schat?”

your lower lip wobbles as you glance toward the shelf. his eyes follow yours, and land on the empty space where his austria trophy used to sit.

max exhales. not a sigh of anger. just a quiet release of tension. relief. but you misread it.

“i’m so sorry,” you rush out. “I was being careful, I swear. I didn’t even touch it, I just — donatello jumped up and — I don’t even really know how it happened. if it was me or the cat and I tried to catch it but I was too late and then it broke and —” you stop and take a shuddering breath that sneaks right into max’s heart.

your voice breaks as you say “and I ruined it.”

max doesn’t say anything at first. just studies you. his eyes soft, expression unreadable. then he reaches up, gently brushing a tear off your cheek with his thumb.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he says quietly

“but—” you go to protest but he just shakes his head, cutting you off, “it’s just a trophy baby” he reassures you, wiping more tears and sitting on the couch. pulling you onto his lap, jimmy jumps off and your head falls into that familiar crook of his neck.

“it’s okay” he soothes, running his hand through your hair slowly.

he lets you calm down a little before saying, “thanks for cleaning my shelf” with a kiss to your head

“didn’t even finish cleaning it. I was too scared” you admit with a little pout lifting your head to look at him. “i’m so so sorry max, really. i’ll win you another one myself if I have to” you say sincerely

“first you break my trophy and now you’re threatening to beat me in a race? who needs enemies when I’ve got a girlfriend like you” max jokes with a click of his tongue.

a breathy chuckle escapes him when you hit his chest with the back of your hand, a little glare on your face as you start to tear up again.

“i’m just kidding baby. my sweet girl. stop crying now please? it’s breaking my heart” he says, kissing your tears away and cupping your face gently.

“it’s okay. it’s just a trophy. I have lots of them. it was an accident and we can fix it. it’s not the end of the world. you’re okay. we’re okay. everything is okay. okay?” he says and you nod, pressing your lips to his softly.

“i love you” you whisper and he smiles, kissing you again.

“i love you more” he says, gently moving you next to him and getting up to grab the food he dropped earlier. somehow its all still perfectly packaged and in place and max starts placing things on the table.

“wanna watch the austria race? we could relive the trophy’s glory days” max jokes as he settles back on the couch, laughing when you throw a pillow his way.

“you’re an ass” you say, kicking his thigh with your foot, but both of you settle into that comfortable silence as you watch tv, the broken trophy long forgotten.

[realmsofdreams]

broken

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: you are aemond targaryen’s wife, married for love in a union that defied the cold traditions of westeros. just days after giving birth to your first child, a son named daeron, a raven arrives bearing a letter from alys rivers.

warnings: angst, themes of betrayal, postpartum vulnerability and exhaustion, heartbreak and doubt in a romantic relationship, no physical violence, but intense emotional conflict.

author notes: do you guys want a part 2? also… would you forgive him? personally, i wouldn’t, i’d take my babe and leave. but what do you think?

your body still ached from the birth, a quiet soreness that lingered beneath your skin, but there was a warmth too, a fierce love for the babe you’d brought into the world, little daeron slept in his cradle beside you, his tiny chest rising and falling with soft, shallow breaths. he was only four days old, a perfect blend of you and aemond with your gentle features and his sharp targaryen silver hair. aemond had been there, holding your hand through the long hours, whispering promises of a future for the three of you. his love had always felt like a steady flame, unyielding and true.

you were propped against the pillows, tracing daeron’s little fingers with your own, when the door opened. aemond stepped in, his long stride quieter than usual, as if he feared waking the babe.

his eyepatch was off, something he only did with you and the sapphire in its place glinted faintly.

“you should be resting,”

he said, warm voice, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender.

“i will,”

you murmured, offering a tired smile.

“he’s been fussy. i think he misses you.”

aemond’s lips quirked upward, and he leaned down to press a kiss to daeron’s forehead, then yours.

“i’ve missed you both,”

he said, settling beside you. for a moment, it was perfect, the quiet, the closeness, the family you’d dreamed of.

then came the knock. a servant entered, bowing low, a small scroll clutched in her hand.

“my prince, my lady, a raven came for you,”

she said, placing it on the table before slipping out.

you frowned, a letters for you were rare, especially now, when all of westeros knew you’d just given birth.

aemond’s brow furrowed.

“who’s it from?”

he asked, but there was a tightness in his voice, a shadow you didn’t catch at first.

“i don’t know,”

you said, reaching for it.

the wax seal was plain, unmarked, and your fingers hesitated as you broke it. the parchment unrolled, and as your eyes skimmed the words, the warmth in the room slowly drained away. your breath caught, sharp and painful, and you read it again, silently, to be sure. then, with a voice that shook despite your efforts, you read it aloud.

“to the lady targaryen, wife of aemond,

i am alys rivers, a woman of the riverlands. i write with a heavy heart, for i know the joy you must feel with your newborn child. yet i cannot keep silent. your husband and i shared a night together, months past, when he rode through my lands. he spoke of you even then, of his love for you, but the gods saw fit to leave me with a piece of him. i carry his child, soon to be born. i seek no claim on his heart, only acknowledgment of what is true. i leave my fate to you, trusting in the kindness your house is known for. may the old gods and the new watch over you and your babe.

in humility,

alys rivers”

the words heavy as a storm cloud. the parchment slipped from your hands, fluttering to the floor, and you stared at it, numb. aemond didn’t move, didn’t speak, his silence louder than any confession. you turned to him, searching his face the face you’d loved, trusted, clung to through every trial. his eye was fixed on the floor, his jaw tight, and that alone cracked something inside you.

“when?”

your voice was a whisper, fragile and raw.

“when did this happen?”

he swallowed hard, still not meeting your gaze.

“before daeron,” he said, barely audible.

“during the campaign in the riverlands. it was once. a mistake.”

a mistake. you pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could stop the ache spreading there.

“you never told me,”

you said, louder now, though your throat burned.

“i gave you everything, aemond, my heart, my trust, this child and you kept this from me?”

aemond finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eye was a blade twisting deeper.

“i didn’t want to hurt you,”

he said, reaching for your hand. you jerked it away, the motion instinctive, and his face fell.

“it was nothing, i swear it. i love you. i’ve only ever loved you.”

“then why does she write to me?”

your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes.

“why does she carry your child, aemond? how am i supposed to believe you when i’m lying here, still bleeding from giving you a son, and she’s out there with another?”

he flinched, as if your words had struck him, and maybe they had.

“i don’t know what she wants,”

he said, desperation creeping in.

“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t—”

the room spun, the exhaustion of childbirth and the weight of this betrayal crashing over you like a wave. your family was known for kindness, for strength and you’d borne pain with grace, faced every challenge with a steady heart.

but this? this felt like a wound you couldn’t mend.

daeron stirred in his cradle, a soft whimper breaking the silence, and you moved to him instinctively, lifting him into your arms. you held him close, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at aemond.

“i thought we were different,” you whispered.

“i thought your love was mine alone.”

“it is,”

he said, standing now, his voice rough with emotion.

“gods, it is. i’ll write to her, send her away, anything you want.”

“what i want?” you laughed, bitter and broken.

“i wanted a husband who didn’t lie to me. i wanted to believe you when you said i was enough.”

you rocked daeron gently, his cries quieting, but your own storm raged on.

“she’s asking for my kindness, aemond. my mercy. how do i give that when i feel like i’m falling apart?”

he stepped closer, hesitant, his hand hovering near your shoulder.

“i’ll spend my life making this right,”

he said, voice cracking.

“i swear it on daeron, on you, on everything i am.”

you didn’t answer.

you couldn’t.

the letter lay on the floor, a cruel reminder of the crack in the life you’d built. your heart, so full of love for him just hours ago, now ached with doubt. you looked down at daeron, then at aemond, and the question burned in your chest.

could you forgive this? could you still believe in him?

again?

[curlyfriesgalore]

"let it all out, baby."

you've been dating daisuke for a while, already growing accustomed to his body and behavior, but something was off. nothing break-up-worthy, far from it, but you're a little concerned with how quiet he's been in bed.

so one "night," when swansea is too drunk out of his mind, anya is busy caring for curly, and jimmy is doing fuck all, you and daisuke spend some quality time in your room, which miraculously survives the foam.

one thing led to another, and now you're giving him head. however, as much as you want to get lost in your lust, you can't help but focus on his face—not out of your usual affection, but to analyze him.

★ a smut-shot broken down into bullets with dialogue sectioned off into chat-format segments. [2,697 words]

☆ gen tags: post-crash. gn! reader is anya's intern, but your job isn't mentioned in the fic (it's just for lore's sake). daisuke is insecure in his masculinity (some angst). set in our year all because i reference one meme lol.

★ nsfw tags MDNI: dom reader. sub daisuke. fellatio and a handjob. neck biting and nipple sucking. so much whimpering!!!

[ahh, posting again because i found a fic i made for another character two years ago, so i decided to rework it! i was actually really glad to find this 'cause i've been wanting to write daisuke smut, but currently my nsfw drafts are all curly. art by washitquickly on twt —iris🌠]

daisuke squirms as you lap your tongue around the head of his velvety dick, your spit blending with his sweet and sour slick. he digs his gapped teeth deep into his chapped lip. his mouth is in a tight crease, eyes squished shut with brows deep in concentration, wrinkling his lightly pimpled forehead.

he looks so out of breath, yet zilch emerges from that man's mouth. you wonder if your skills have worsened since the crash. maybe it was stress? but no, you knew that couldn't've been the case. your licks have always made him involuntarily writhe in pleasure, and your breath alone was enough to make precum shoot out of his soft slit.

speaking of which, you did exactly that, and a high-pitched moan ensues, finally.

you groan along with him, feeling his clear fluid slide down your throat. when your voice vibrates its low hum, shivers trickle down daisuke's aching cock. it's enough for him to jolt, flutter his eyes open, and mewl out a squeaky whimper.

you look up in awe, expecting to see your loverboy in pure ecstasy, but your heart drops. all you see is his hand clamped over his mouth, eyes wide in horror: the farthest thing from rapture.

gently, you remove yourself, the sensation of smooth skin lingering in your mouth as a trail of saliva connects your lip to his tip. with your hands still on his thighs, you felt him tremble under your palms.

daisuke pulls his legs towards his chest, encasing them within his arms as he buries half his face into his knees. his brows dent into his temple. he mumbles what sounds like an apology and wipes his face against his hinge joints. worry washes away your arousal in an instant.

carefully, you unfold his arms, spreading his legs to reveal the gorgeous mess you so deeply love. you crawl on top of him, resting your stomach on his, feeling his liquid lather onto your abdomen as you softly cradle his chin, bringing his face to yours.

as you thumb away the tiny tears dripping down his acne-scarred cheeks, he carefully brings his gaze to you, revealing the sea of tears swimming in his dark eyes. daisuke looks like a sad puppy, hurt and desperate for his partner's forgiveness, yet you are unsure as to why he's reacting this way.

he tries to gulp down the cries congested in his throat, attempting to force an explanation, but his reasons refuse to be revealed. for a man who spoke so many words, he felt too embarrassed to say any.

so, rather than letting him hurt himself any further, you envelop his warm body in your arms. daisuke silently melts as you comb your fingers through his sweaty hair, caressing his scalp as you try to piece things together. you think back to all the times you guys have had sex.

time and time again, you remember how quietly he'd finish. no matter how intensely his body shook from your touch, nothing but a small sigh would leave his panting chest. daisuke could be a puddle of sweat, drool coating his chin, eyes rolled all the way back as he failed to wait for your cue to let him cum all over your stomach—and yet, the only thing missing were the sounds of his moans.

you didn't question it at first, assuming he was, ironically enough, a quiet guy in bed, but things weren't adding up.

whenever you sneak attack his sides, tickling the air out of him, daisuke would shriek as if he'd witnessed the murder of his favorite pokémon. his face contorts into the physical embodiment of the 'ash baby.'

then there was another time, a month before the crash, when it was jimmy's turn for movie night. the co-pilot pulled up with his favorite horror film, intending to creep the skin off of everyone, and it nearly did for daisuke. he screeched so hard, practically ripping your eardrums, and lunged himself onto you, toppling the others over like dominoes on the couch.

(you recall a very tired captain curly lecturing a sheepish daisuke, telling him to be more careful with his surroundings, as anya aided swansea's sore back while jimmy snickered to himself next to you).

countless times proved how reactive he was, besides the obvious fact that this man does not have an off button. so, for him to be completely silent during sex didn't make any sense.

well, he wasn't completely. you've heard his soft moans and hushed whimpers escape from daisuke, unbeknownst to him, but you knew he could be much louder than that.

like, hello? he's the daisuke juarez, the guy (in)famously known for talking on and on for days without fail; surely, he could groan the life out of his lungs.

because, clearly, he wants to.

he needs to.

but you didn't know why he was so adamant about being super quiet. you wanted an answer so you wouldn't have to constantly try to get a read on his suppressions. and, by the looks of it, you're about to get one.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

you cup his face and caress his warm jaw. daisuke delicately places his hand on top of yours and strokes it back, rolling his thumb against your knuckles.

"can we talk now?" your question drifts into the soft rumbles of the ship.

daisuke carefully nods, one last garbled sob croaking out his throat before he responds, "y-yeah..."

"tell me. what's wrong, baby?" you ask softly as your hand dances around his face, your fingers tracing his features, wet from tears.

"um, do i..." daisuke pauses, briefly breathing in some much-needed air, "do i sound weird when i—y'know—uh, moan...?" he leans his cheek into your palm, and you feel the bumpy indentations in his skin flush into yours. his sights are set on everything but you.

your brows knit, but clarity relaxes the knot in your shoulders. "d'aww, baby..." you pout. "is that what this is?" daisuke, slowly attempting to match your eyes, purses his lips with another nod.

shaking your head, you bring his chin closer to yours, "no, no... not at all, dai." you press your lips into his pursed ones, tenderly transferring your love to him and relieving his tight kiss into its original plumpness. you pull away, resting your forehead against his, "i've always found them very cute..."

"if anything," you chuckle, "i wish you moaned more." finally, he looks at you, and you're met with wide eyes and lifted brows, "really?"

now it's your turn to quirk your brow. "of course, really! what makes you think i'd feel otherwise?" daisuke laughs at that and eats his lips, looking up at the metal ceiling as he sifts through his memory box.

"well- i don't know, i mean, back on earth," you catch a brief dullness in his gaze, "i once heard the girls in my class talk about how weird some guys sound when they moan, and like," daisuke drums his fingers on your forearm, "when i asked, they'd say any dude who sounded too much like them?" when he looks at you, he falters, "ach- how do i say it?"

your eyes narrow, struggling to understand that train of thought. daisuke frowned, not at you but at the following words, "it was something like 'oh! men who whimper are soOo icky to me' and 'dudes should sound deep, not like...'" daisuke winces, heaving a frustrated sigh as he continues to mimic those girls. "'...whatever weak subby boy bullshit that's been circulating online—' i know, it's stupid." he immediately stops when he sees your grimace.

you blink your eyes shut, shaking your head and sighing when you peel them open. "so," your hand wipes over your mouth. "you ended up adopting that?" you ask, tucking your thumb under your chin as your index rests on your bottom lip, elbow propped up on one knee.

"i mean, sort of?" daisuke moves his hands to rub circles on your bare sides, "when i realized that i moan like," daisuke air quotes, "a 'weak subby boy,' i got really embarrassed and well- forced myself to sound more like a man, i guess..." the shame in his face, apparent.

you hum, taking in the information as he continues to explain his insecurities. daisuke tells you all the times he's been egged on by his guy friends for how he sounds when he'd whine after getting hit by a baseball ball (when that shit HURTS for anybody, daisuke emphasizes) or how often his friend group would point out his squeals, joking about how he'd never get laid with a voice like that. the thing is, he consciously understands that his classmates are biased individuals, so daisuke knows that there's no real point for him to act all secretive with his sounds. but he can't help it. he worries that letting himself just... be himself, in this context specifically, might make you find him less attractive.

"hUH?!" you exclaim, making daisuke jump. you're so baffled that you grab his face and squish his cheeks with all the affection your squeeze can imbue. he looks at you, doe-eyed with lips puffed out like a fish. "i—first of all, what an absolutely shitty thing to say to your friend, let alone do it daily. and second of all, not every man moans the same. just 'cause yours is a little higher doesn't make you any less of one..." he attempts to defend them, wanting to say that they weren't that bad, but you hush him, reading through his lie before he could assess it himself. then, when you rationalize his insecurity, he tightens his lip, taking in your opinion as you continued to speak against the toxicity of his friends. noticing he's gone quiet, you rub his cheek, changing your tone into something much softer. "daisuke."

"yesh...?"

as your serious stare delves deep into his soul, you reassure him, "there is no one—and i mean, no one—in this universe that i love more than you."

"oomph, i shink your beftfriends whould be mhad if they hurd thath." daisuke jokes, and you roll your eyes, shushing him as you stifle your laugh, "hey, i'm being serious here...!" to which daisuke chuckles and nods for you to continue, mouthing an 'i love you, too.'

you sigh, "your whimpers... are the cutest, most adorable noises i'll ever hear in my life, and i don't want you to shut them up, ever. i mean it."

"mph- reallhy?" the innocence in his voice made you squish the sides of his face harder as you hummed in agreement, "really."

"i want to hear them," you take a moment to sit up, straddling his thighs as you wrap your fingers around his dick, it instantly springs. "over... and over... and over again." with every pause, you stroke him. your palm tugs at his cock from the hairs on his abdomen to his soaked tip. daisuke chokes out a gasp, his legs squirming as he gulps, "a-ah, fuck... baby." his body trembles, randomly jerking with every drag of his thick cock.

"nothing will ever change the way i see you," you press your lips onto his jaw, feeling the tiniest stubble. "how sweet you are, how handsome you look, or how good you sound to me." you trail kisses down his neck, and latch onto the edge of his adam's apple, nibbling a whimper out of him.

"if anything, your moans make me love you even more than i already do." as you peck along his chest, his whines squeal breathlessly, and his whimpers exceed his vocal cords. every compliment you throw at him sends his brain into autopilot.

"ngh, mh..." none of daisuke's words made any sense, his mouth melding into mush while yours formed dark hickeys on all his right spots. he was panting uncontrollably. looking down at you with those half-lidded eyes of his, ones leaking with so much love and lust. he grips the sheets with one hand while the other carefully combes through your hair.

your mouth was now at level with his nipple. you watch it harden in anticipation as he edges his chest a little closer to your lips, making you chuckle at how needy your boyfriend's gotten. "now, before i let you cum, i want you to be as loud as you possibly can be, okay? for me, baby."

he nods, loving your coos, but uncertainty nearly cockblocks him, "w-wait, babe, what if everyone hears me?" daisuke watches you huff a laugh, "like anyone's cared about us fucking before." you both chuckle, and daisuke relaxes, "oh right, hehe."

"even if someone hears," you lightly circle his nipple, the tiny bumps on its dark epidermis sliding so perfectly against your thumb. daisuke's dick twitches, already biting his lip at the sight of your tongue inches away from his chest's nub. you continue, breathing hot on daisuke's skin. "they get to know how beautiful my baby boy sounds in bed."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

daisuke's breathing gradually quickens at the heat. when you finally lick his nipple, his cry is instantaneous. it's the prettiest noise you've ever heard, pulling at your heartstrings as a rush surges through your abdomen.

you close your eyes and focus on stroking his dick with every lick you make, his adorable moans filling the air. the way you roll your fingers and wedge them on the damp head, massaging the precum out his slit, melts daisuke, turning him into a pathetic, panting puddle in your arms. he absentmindedly ruts into your hand out of pure pleasure, sliding his slick all over your skin.

soon enough, his whimpers peaked, his voice consuming the room. you knew he was reaching his high based on the synchronization of his thrusts and your pumps. bed sheets crumple under his fist, and his other hand no longer on your hair but on the small of your back, squeezing your waist as he tries to travel down to knead your ass.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"babe, i'm close...! i'm so close." daisuke blabbers between mewls, his hands clutching onto your hips for support. he spills all of him into your palms, creating a wet patch underneath his thighs. you intensify your already vigorous pumping, simultaneously pinching a nipple as you bite the other, "come on, baby... you're almost there." "i'm cumming—fuck— 'm cumm...ing, nghnghm! ohmygod...!" intense shudders siphon through daisuke's bloodstream, his whole body convulsing as he feels his milk bud, moments away from dripping out his sore slit. "let it all out, baby." you coo, tonguing his nipple with your wet love.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

with one final groan, his cum drenches your hand as he arches his back so far that it nearly sends you falling. all that fills your ears are the sounds of your boyfriend's sweet sobs, easing into an aching sigh.

after tugging his cock with a few more strokes, daisuke collapses further into the bed, his head lying so far back into the pillow that you can see his adam's apple bob after every gasp and gulp. your lips leave his nipple, and he shivers from the cold air hitting his wet skin.

as he's catching his breath, you stretch your back and crane your spine far enough to feel every bubble in your ligament pop down your bones. after rolling your neck side to side, you get a good look at daisuke, who is disheveled and disoriented.

you chuckle and lift his head up, daisuke's teary eyes akin to those of a desperate puppy. you bring your sticky fingers to your mouth, swallowing his sweetness, and daisuke watches, thirsty for a taste.

smiling at the drool dripping down his puffy lips, you bring your face to him, gracing him with a smooch. the kiss muffles his deep moan. his tongue explores yours, devouring his own dick with what lingers on your papillae.

daisuke pouts when you pull away, but before he whines, you wrap your hands behind his neck, sitting yourself up and pulling him into your chest. he sighs into the hug, embracing you as much as he physically can while you massage his wet and messy hair. you kiss his scalp and softly praise him for being such a good boy.

[i was going to expand on the post crash aspect but i got wayyy too tired. but know that the story was originally going to have an afab reader, where you ride daisuke till he cums inside you, so i'd then add a line about how you couldn't care less about getting bred 'cause you were probably dying on the tulpar, anyway 😭 so it was going to be a LOT more angsty. i also intended to write a segment (after he admits his insecurity) of him missing earth and the structure of a home so badly that he's developed a mommy kink, so i could use it later when you guys go back to sexing buuut oopsies. i'll save that for another time 🫠. —iris🌠]

[itneverendshere]

imagining rafe while you’re pregnant 🥹🥹🥹

(bartender!reader)

🥹🥹🥹 listen this got me in my feelings about girl dad!rafe

rafe lay beside you, wide awake, his arm draped loosely over your waist. your daughter, just a few weeks old, was asleep in the bassinet at the foot of the bed.

his eyes flickered toward the tiny baby, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest. she was so small, so fragile, and yet, she had already stolen every piece of his heart. he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the feeling—this never ending love, mixed with the constant fear that he wasn’t enough. but every time he looked at your baby girl, he felt the need to be better, to give her everything he never had.

the quiet was broken by the soft whimpering sound of her stirring. rafe tensed, listening as her cries grew louder as he glanced at you—still sound asleep, exhausted from the long days of caring for your little one. without a second thought, rafe carefully slipped out of bed, doing his best not to disturb you.

he padded over to the bassinet, his heart already melting at the sight of his baby girl, squirming and fussing in her tiny onesie. her face was scrunched up, her little fists clenched as she let out a series of unhappy cries. rafe smiled down at her, scooping her up gently into his arms.

"shh, shh, i've got you, sweetheart," he whispered, cradling her close to his chest. she was so warm, downy hair tickling his chin as he rocked her back and forth. slowly, her cries began to ease, her tiny body relaxing against him.

he walked her over to the worn armchair by the window, the one they’d placed there after the first sleepless night, knowing it would be where they’d spend countless hours comforting their little girl. 

she gave that tiny newborn scrunch—her whole face crinkling up in the most adorable way. her eyes squeezed shut, her lips puckered, and her legs curled up toward her chest, all in perfect sync with the softest, sleepiest little noise.

rafe's heart practically melted on the spot, completely awestruck. he couldn’t help the wide grin that stretched across his face.

the scrunch—he’d seen it a hundred times in these past weeks, but each time it felt like the first. it was the sweetest expression, it made everything feel a little more magical. he swore he could feel his heart expanding every time she did it, like his chest couldn’t bottle up all the love that filled it.

“you’re too much, y'know that?” he murmured, gently brushing his thumb over her cheek. her skin was like velvet beneath his touch. “got me wrapped around your finger already.”

his baby girl stirred again, her scrunched-up face slowly relaxing as she settled back into his arms. rafe just stared down at her, completely in awe, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.

“yeah, you’re perfect,” he nodded almost to himself, as he leaned down to place the gentlest kiss on her forehead. "absolutely perfect."

her delicate nose, the curve of her cheeks, the flutter of her long lashes—he couldn’t decide who she looked more like. sometimes, in passing, he swore she had his mouth or his eyes, but then in another moment, he’d catch a good look of her and be certain she was your spitting image.

he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "don’t even know who you’re gonna take after," he traced the outline of her tiny, button-like nose. "but ’m hoping you end up looking just like your mama."

the thought of his little girl growing up to be a mini version of you had his heart swelling all over again. if she inherited even half of your strength and kindness, she’d be unstoppable.

[grenadehearts]

the only exception.

✰ in which you've sworn off love until you meet a crimson haired boy working at a record shop, bound to show you he's the exception.

contains: fem!reader x e!kirishima, modern au, 3.9k words written + smau.

authors note: this was inspired by a request here, idk how i feel abt this fic honestly, but i wrote this fic for people who feel its hard to allow themselves to love, and or allow people in at all, to let you know its okay to love and be loved <3 masterlist link here. i just noticed there's a typo in the smau so ignore!! pls

You were thrilled—a new record shop was opening in your small town. One that exclusively sold rock and alternative pop music. Or, to put it in simpler terms, 2000s emo rock.

Growing up with teen parents who never really matured meant a constant cycle of breakups and angsty rock music playing between those breakups. So, at a young age, you fell in love with that sound. Your mom’s favorite was Evanescence, which she would blast while driving through forested backroads, gripping the wheel a little too tight and muttering, "Love is fake." Occasionally, she'd swerve just enough to make your heart lurch before throwing out a warning—"Never let a man into your life."

As for your dad? Well, he was always a piece of shit. But at least he had good taste in music, which you inherited. Regardless, you swore love wasn’t real and that you’d never let anyone in.

Now, here you were—eighteen and in a completely new town. A small one, no less, which only made your craving for city life worse. Not that you’d ever been privileged enough to get a taste of the things you wanted. That was a fact you learned young, growing up with parents who liked to forget they had a kid, too caught up playing teenagers and chasing each other down.

You had to grow up fast. Which, on paper, sounded like a good thing. In reality, it just left you stuck—unable to fit in anywhere, permanently annoyed by people your age. They all acted like spoiled children, crying over the dumbest things. Meanwhile, you already had your hands full with two actual children at home—your parents. So, you stopped trying. Being alone suited you just fine.

Now, in this small town filled with people you were sure you’d dislike, you told yourself it was okay. At least it was away from everyone back home.

The tiny record shop came into view, and as you pushed open the door, a soft jingle announced your arrival. You were immediately met with shelves of CDs and vinyl records—every band you had ever loved, from My Chemical Romance to Sleeping With Sirens, from Avril Lavigne to Paramore. The walls were plastered with patches, horror film posters, band posters, and concert tees. Dim lighting cast deep shadows, red LEDs glowing against the walls, broken up only by neon signs and the soft streams of sunlight filtering through the glass windows.

Before you could even start browsing, a figure stepped in front of you—a tall, muscled guy with spiky crimson hair. His piercing eyes had the faint smudge of reddish eyeliner beneath them, and his sleeveless shirt did little to hide his build. He flashed a grin, teetering on the edge of a smirk, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp.

"Need any help looking?"

You barely glanced at him before brushing past. "No, thank you."

But he didn’t take the hint. A moment later, he was right back in front of you, leaning across the record bins to meet your eye level.

"Hey, wait—I’ve never seen you around here."

You looked up, unimpressed, one brow raised. "Do you work here or something? Because a customer just walked in." You nodded toward a group of angsty middle schoolers wandering in, skateboards in hand.

The guy let out a dramatic sigh, running a hand down his face. "Ugh okay—wait right here. I’ll be right back."

Thankfully, you were able to find the CD you wanted—Brand New Eyes by Paramore. As you walked up to the now-empty counter, a group of middle school boys shuffled past, laughing among themselves. The red-haired man from earlier was still there, and the moment he saw you, he grinned.

"See? You didn’t wait."

You gave a slight smile. "Did you really think I was going to?"

He laughed—a deep, reverberating sound that seemed to shake something loose inside you. For a moment, it stunned you.

"No," he admitted, still grinning. "But I had hope."

You gave no real reaction, aside from the briefest flicker of surprise. His laugh made you feel—warm, like being wrapped in honey and laid to rest beneath soft petals. A feeling you weren’t quite prepared for.

"Why’s that?" you asked.

He looked slightly taken aback, his expression shifting to something almost… puppy-like in confusion. Then, as if suddenly self-conscious, he rubbed the back of his neck, exposing the flex of his toned arms.

"Not every day you see a girl as pretty as you, y’know?"

You let out a full-bodied laugh, the kind that shook through you, because really? The sheer audacity of this man. He actually believed that would work? Like he could just say something like that and expect you to melt?

Through a breathless chuckle, you tilted your head. "You really got me with that one, big guy. Let me guess—you say that to every girl who walks in here, huh?"

But he didn’t respond.

Instead, he just stared. Captivated. Mesmerized. The sunlight caught your frame in a way that seemed to make him forget himself. The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. The way your nose scrunched in mock disgust when you called him out. He should back off, he really should. But instead, words slipped from his mouth like a secret he hadn’t meant to spill.

"Your laugh is beautiful."

The comment halted you.

Despite everything—despite your reservations about love, despite how utterly ridiculous this was—you were still human. And humans had weaknesses. So, much to your own frustration, a faint blush crept onto your cheeks.

"Yeah, whatever," you muttered, placing your CD on the counter.

As he reached for it at the same time you let go, your fingers brushed—just the lightest touch, fleeting and accidental. But you pulled your hand back quickly, like you’d been burned.

Or maybe… not burned.

Because the touch didn’t sting. It felt soft, like the featherlight kisses your mother used to press to your forehead before bed. Like the quiet hum of something electric beneath your skin.

He grinned, all bright and boyish. Something about it made you feel like a kid again. "Paramore, huh? I’ve been meaning to listen to them."

You nearly jumped over the counter in sheer disbelief. "You’ve never listened to Paramore?! How?"

He just chuckled. "I’ve been wanting to—I just don’t know where to start." Then, with a teasing grin, he added, "Got any recommendations?"

You forced yourself to compose your excitement, clearing your throat. "Yeah. I grew up on their music—pretty much any rock and alternative, actually."

That seemed to intrigue him, because he leaned in just slightly, just enough to be a little closer to your line of sight. "Really? That’s so manly."

You blinked. "Manly?"

He let out a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, like… cool, you know? Most parents are super controlling about what their kids listen to."

You let out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I guess. So, what have you actually listened to?"

He thought for a second. "Well, uh… not sure, really. I listened to a little MCR back in middle school, but after that…" He shrugged, then gave a thumbs-up with a lopsided grin. "I’m more of a ‘whatever comes on the radio’ type of guy."

You chewed on the inside of your cheek before sighing. "Okay, well—I grew up on every band. I’ll burn you a CD." Then, pausing, you turned to him. "Wait. Do you even have a CD player?"

He hesitated. "Uh… no, but I do have a phone."

You frowned slightly. "Well, I’d hope so."

He quickly followed up, "Wait, wait—what I meant was… give me your number, and we can talk music. You know?" Then, as if realizing how that sounded, he shook his head, looking slightly flustered. "I mean, uh—that is, if you want to."

You just shook your head with a small, amused smile. "Here, give me your phone."

Taking it from him, you quickly entered your number before handing it back. He slid your wrapped CD across the counter, and as you grabbed it, you turned to leave.

You were halfway out the door when you glanced back, calling over your shoulder, "Just music, mister. Nothing else."

His grin widened, all teeth. He gave you a playful salute. "Yes, ma’am."

Stepping out into the cold, the air bit at your skin—like it was trying to wash away the warmth still clinging too closely to your heart from that damn crimson-haired man.

As you neared your apartment, you reached into the flimsy plastic bag, fingers brushing against the wrapped CD. But something else was there, too. A small note.

It had a doodled shark on it.

And beneath that, scribbled in casual handwriting:

On the house.

The air was cold, biting through the fabric of your long-sleeve shirt. A thick fog hung in the early morning air, shrouding the quiet streets in an eerie stillness. Snow blanketed the ground, shimmering like a thousand fallen crystals under the faint glow of streetlights. It was too early for most people to be out, leaving you alone with your thoughts as you made your way to the record store.

And maybe that was for the best.

Because, yeah, you were meeting up with a guy—one you didn’t want to admit was attractive, whose touch ignited something in you, a heat that curled in your chest like smoke, dangerous if you inhaled too deeply. Yet, despite everything, here you were. Allowing yourself, even if just slightly, to be in someone else’s presence—something you had always avoided.

What you could ignore was how right it felt. How it didn’t feel wrong at all.

You told yourself over and over again that it was just about music. Just conversations about records and artists. But even as you repeated the excuse in your head like a mantra, your feet had a mind of their own, carrying you into a familiar coffee shop. Your usual order rolled off your tongue before you even thought about it, but your gaze drifted to the menu, scanning for something he might like.

And then you saw it—protein hot chocolate.

By the time you reached the record store, the snowflakes had settled in your hair and clung to the fuzz of your jacket. You pushed the door open with your fluffy boots, the bell chiming overhead. Almost instantly, Kirishima emerged from the storage room, his expression shifting from surprise to mild concern.

“Why didn’t you text me? I would’ve opened the door for you,” he said, gesturing to your hands—full with drinks. “Y’know, because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

You shook your head, sending a few stray snowflakes tumbling to the floor. “I’m used to taking care of myself,” you said simply, then held out the drink. “Here. This is for you.”

His eyes lit up as he took it, grinning wide. “For me?” He took a sip, then paused, his face breaking into an even bigger smile. “Dude, how’d you know I always get this? You got it from the café down the street, right?”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I always go there.”

He cut in. “Me too!”

You smiled—a little shy, a little amused. “Well, I figured you’d like it. It’s got protein. Isn’t that what you gym guys are into?”

He beamed. “How’d you know I’m a gym guy?”

You giggled, tilting your head toward his arms. “Not exactly hard to guess.”

Grinning, he flexed his bicep and pressed a playful kiss to it. “Oh yeah, these babies.”

You rolled your eyes, deadpan. “Right.”

That’s when you noticed it—his outfit. Or rather, the lack of one. A simple grey tank, despite the freezing temperatures outside, left his arms bare except for studded bracelets.You raised an eyebrow and gestured toward his shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”

Kirishima followed your gaze, as if only now realizing what he was wearing. Then, with a smug smile, he shrugged. “Nah. I don’t get cold.”

You gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “Yeah, sure. Because it’s totally not snowing a ton out there.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, looking almost sheepish, he scratched the back of his head and muttered, “...My coat’s in the storage room.”

You nodded. “Ah.”

"Hey, uh, I got something for you yesterday."

Kirishima disappeared into the back room, leaving you standing there, curious. When he reemerged, he held a CD player in his hands.

You blinked, tilting your head. “Got a laptop?”

He grinned, holding up a hand as if to tell you to wait. "Yeah, yeah, just hang on."

A moment later, he returned with a laptop covered in Crimson Riot stickers, the red and black decals standing out against the worn metal surface. You raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in your expression.

"Who's Crimson Riot?"

His face lit up instantly, excitement bursting out of him as he launched into a passionate rant. He talked about Crimson Riot being a pro boxer—one of the manliest, most fearless fighters out there. His words tumbled over each other in an eager rush, his hands animated as he spoke. Then, as if catching himself, his voice softened just slightly.

“I, uh... I take a lot of inspiration from him,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s the reason I dyed my hair, y’know. And, well... I wanna be a pro boxer someday, so... there’s that.”

Something about the way he said it—like a secret slipping past his lips before he could catch it—made you pause.

“Really?” You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes. “I think that’s super cool. You shouldn’t downplay it, like it’s not a big deal or something.”

Your words made him stop mid-motion. His eyes flickered to you, something unreadable in his gaze before he quickly masked it with a chuckle. Walking over, he set down the laptop and a blank CD between you.

“If I didn’t know you,” he teased, “I’d say you’re getting soft on me.”

You nudged him with a grin. “Nah, never.” Then, with a playful glint in your eyes, you added, “Now, let’s burn a CD.”

As you reached for the laptop, a thought struck you. You glanced at him, head tilting. “Wait—what made you get a CD player? I thought you didn’t have one.”

His smile turned sheepish, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface of the desk. “Well… I didn’t. But I went to a shop downtown and bought one. It seemed important to you when you mentioned it earlier, so…” He hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. “And I thought it’d be fun to do together. Which, by the way, totally is.”

You looked away, suddenly very interested in the laptop, but the rosy warmth creeping onto your cheeks betrayed you. “We haven’t even started yet,” you muttered.

He dramatically waved his hands as if dismissing the thought—except his movement was a little too over-the-top, and before he could catch himself, he lost balance. With a yelp, he toppled over, landing hard on the floor. His hands shot up to his face, burying into his palms, his voice muffled as he groaned, “Yeah, but I know it’s gonna be super fun.”

You stared at him for a second before sliding down the wall beside him, the laptop balanced between you both.

“S’okay,” you said, settling in. “We can just work down here.”

“No one really comes by, right?”

He peeked through his fingers. “Yeah.”

You grinned. “Then it’s perfect. If someone does, we’ll hear the chime from the bell on the door.”

At that, he finally lowered his hands, flashing you a full, toothy grin and a thumbs-up.

After sorting out all the technical details—which took longer than expected—and carefully selecting the songs for the disc, your progress was suddenly halted by the static of the radio flickering in and out.

The lyrics to Let Love Bleed Red by Sleeping with Sirens stuttered between bursts of white noise, the words "You deserve much more, and I'll give until I’m all gone..." dissolving into a broken transmission. The melody faded completely as a sudden weather broadcast cut through.

"The snow has intensified. Conditions outside are hazardous. Residents are advised to stay indoors until the warning is lifted."

Kirishima immediately shot up, peering over the counter toward the door. You followed his movements, your heads turning at the same time until your gazes locked.

“Snowed in?” you both echoed in unison.

As if on cue, the lights flickered, the bulbs pulsing weakly as the snow and ice pressed heavily against the outside world. Then, without warning—darkness.

“Aw, crap,” Kirishima muttered, his voice fumbling through the dim light. “Hold on here, 'kay?”

You nodded, watching as he disappeared into the back. When he returned, he was holding his coat, and before you could react, he gently draped it over your shoulders. His breath ghosted across your skin, warm in contrast to the cold that nipped at you, his touch careful—deliberate.

“Don’t want you to get cold,” he murmured, his words sinking into your skin, curling around your ribs, twirling like lace around your lungs.

You both slid down onto the cold tile floor, pulling the laptop between you to finish the CD. But when you opened it, the screen remained black, a small dead battery icon blinking mockingly at you.

“Just great,” you muttered, handing it over to Kirishima. “It’s dead. And with no power, we can’t charge it.”

He gave a sheepish smile, shrugging. “Well, it’s alright. We can just talk, right?”

You glanced over at him, then exhaled softly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, filled only by the muffled sound of wind outside. Then, his voice came, slower this time, hesitant—like he was carefully inching toward something fragile.

“What made you move here?”

You looked down at your lap, fingers fidgeting as you cleared your throat. “Wanted to be somewhere new. Somewhere no one knew me.”

His fingers tapped lightly against the tile. “Why’s that?”

You turned to face him. “Nosy?”

He shrugged. “Not usually. But something about you makes me.”

You sighed, the weight of old thoughts settling in your chest. “I wanted to get away from my parents. Plus, it’s not like I left anyone behind. You’d have to actually have friends for that.”

His expression shifted, softening into something unreadable. “It’s not that I didn’t have the option for friends. I mean, I’m sure I could’ve fit them in somewhere—between parenting my parents.” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “But everyone around me was so childish, and I just… I just preferred my own company. So I never really sought anyone out. And when people tried to get to know me, I shut myself off.”

His hand inched across the tile, stopping just a breath away from your fingertips. A quiet hum left his lips before he murmured, “You’re letting me know you.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Shocker to me too.”

He hesitated before speaking again, this time slower, as if he wasn’t sure how the words would land.

“You know… I used to be like that. Not the same situation, but I grew up weak. And when I saw people getting treated badly, I wanted to stand up for them.” He huffed out a laugh, void of humor. “But when I tried, I realized I was weak too. People laughed in my face—like, ‘Haha, this lame dude really thinks he can take us on?’ Got me busted up a lot.” He pointed to the scar on his eye, his voice quieter. “I moped. Hid from people. But then I realized—if they thought I was weak, I’d just make myself strong. And so I did.”

He glanced at you, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his eyes before he masked it with a grin. “I mean, I still have a long way to go, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job. I mean, hey—I’m talking to a pretty girl. Old me would’ve stuttered and made a complete fool of myself.”

You laughed, nudging him lightly. “Yeah, well… you still kinda do.”

His grin faltered.

“But it’s okay,” you added, softer this time, watching as warmth crept back into his expression. “It’s… somehow cute.”

His face deepened into a shade of rouge as he buried himself in his hands, muffling out a shaky, “Hey, man, don’t say things you don’t mean.”

You laughed softly, inching closer to his aching frame, pulling his coat over both your shoulders. Your skin brushed against his—thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder—your fingertips so close that your pinkies twitched. Bathed in the dim halo of each other’s presence, the static hum of The Only Exception flickered in and out through the radio.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt young. Fresh. Like maybe love isn’t about thrashing and screaming, or hearts cracking against pavement. Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s this—sitting close to another aching soul, breathing in sync. And maybe you should have realized it sooner, instead of always staring at the ground, drowning in the noise of the world. But now, with slight touches and hushed breaths, the sound has stilled. The only thing you hear is him—his breathing, soft and steady, a rhythm you wish to trace straight to his heart.

His pinkie twitches, inching closer to yours. And something inside you—something restless and yearning—claws at your chest, desperate to reach him. So you allow it. You let him link pinkies with you. You let him peer into the dim soul you hold, and in return, he lights it up with the golden glow of his own.

Breaking the fragile silence, he asks, “What’s your passion?” Then, as if nervous about sounding too serious, he quickly adds, “Ya know, like... for a job or whatever.”

You fiddle with the hem of his coat. “Writing.”

His eyes brighten as he knocks his foot playfully against yours. “That’s so cool! Writing’s something I’ve never been good at.”

You laugh. “Well, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be great at boxing, so I guess we’re even.”

A silence falls between you, comfortable yet charged. Then he tilts his head, watching you. “When do you write the most? Like, what inspires you?”

You hesitate before answering, voice quieter this time. “I only ever write when I’m falling in love… or falling apart.”

He exhales, considering. “And which one is it now?”

You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Never been in love, so… the latter, I guess.”

His frown deepens. “I could show you.”

Your breath stills. You know what he means, but you want to hear him say it. “Show me what?”

He exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze. “I just meant—I could be your muse. No, wait—that’s not right. I mean… I can—no, I will love you.” His voice cracks slightly, but he keeps going, determined. “And hopefully… over time, you’d love me too.”

Your chest tightens, breath coming out jagged in the cold air. Slowly, you turn to him, and in his eyes, you see it—your reflection dancing in the embers of his gaze.

“Guess I’ll get to writing,” you murmur.

His face lights up, but then his expression shifts into something more serious, more intent. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “For which one?”

Your faces are so close now, lips brushing, breath mingling.

You smile, soft and teasing. “How about you kiss me… and maybe you can find out?”

His hand cradles your face, thumb tracing soothing circles against your cheek. And you swear, with every beat of your heart, his name is being spelled in the rhythm.

He leans in, breath ghosting against your lips, and whispers, “Only if I can take you on a real date first.”

taglist: @lotusstarr @luvseraphh @wokasiv @candiiee @xoxojisu @cvnt4him @soundtrqck @princessshnazzy @chlosology @203steph @cupkiki p.s sorry if anything in the fic isn't accurate.

[nekonaps0]

Your writing is really wholesome and sweet :3

If it's okay can I request rook and silver separately with a reader who loves collecting seashells and making matching bracelets and giving one of them as a gift to him?

Seashells

✦characters: Rook Hunt, Silver

✦gn!reader

✦(omg that was so CUUUUTE!! I loved writing this so much! I hope you gonna enjoy✨)

Rook Hunt

The golden sand kissed your toes as you strolled beside Rook, a small woven basket swinging on your arm, already filled with tiny, colorful seashells and smooth sea glass.

Rook, as always, had been utterly charmed by the way your eyes lit up when you found a particularly unique shell.

“Ah, ma chérie, the way your eyes shine when you uncover each little treasure… It is as if you are the muse of the very sea.”

You laughed softly, brushing wind-tossed hair out of your face. “I love finding the pretty ones. They all have little stories to tell, even if they're broken.”

You both settled beneath a rocky outcrop, sheltered from the breeze. With careful hands, you laid out your favorite pieces and pulled out a thin thread of braided hemp.

Rook watched, utterly rapt, as your fingers moved deftly. He stayed quiet for once, chin resting on his palm as he studied you with reverent awe. You barely noticed how soft his gaze had turned.

When you were done, you held up a pair of matching shell bracelets one for you, one for him.

“For you,” you said, offering his with a shy smile. “So you can remember today.”

Rook’s eyes widened, and then like a swoon from a tragic romance he placed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“My dear… I am struck! This bracelet shall never leave my wrist! It was made by your hands, guided by affection and intent! How could I not treasure it above all else?”

He took your hand and kissed it, then gently tied the bracelet on your wrist first, fingers warm and lingering.

“Every time the sea breeze brushes my skin, I shall think of your touch. Every time I hear the waves, I shall remember your laughter. Truly, this gift is not a trinket… but a bond.”

Your cheeks turned warm as he pressed a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles, bracelet glinting in the light.

And Rook? He’d never worn anything with more pride.

Silver

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm amber glow across the shore. You knelt by the waterline, humming quietly as you sorted through the shells you'd found. Pale blues, delicate creams, a tiny spiral in lavender.

Silver sat nearby with a book half open in his lap, not reading a word. He watched you with soft, half lidded eyes, his usual drowsiness mixing with the peace of the sea and your presence.

“You always seem so at ease here,” he murmured.

You glanced back at him and smiled. “I used to collect seashells when I was little. I still do. There's something comforting about finding something small and beautiful that no one else noticed.”

He stood and quietly walked over, kneeling beside you. Without needing to ask, he reached into your basket and handed you a curved, speckled shell.

“Would this one work for what you’re making?”

You nodded, heart fluttering. “Perfect.”

After some time, you held up the finished product. Two simple bracelets, adorned with your best shells and tied with threads of twine. You reached for his wrist gently.

“This one’s yours. I made it for you.”

Silver blinked, lips parting slightly. You could see the faintest dust of pink bloom on his cheeks.

“For me…?” His voice was quiet, reverent. “You made this by hand… for me?”

You nodded. “So you’ll always remember today.”

He let you tie it around his wrist, gaze fixed on your fingers as you worked. Once it was secure, he ran his thumb over it slowly, like it was the most precious thing he owned.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

You barely had time to respond before he leaned in and pressed a soft, earnest kiss to your temple.

“It means a lot. You mean… a lot.”

As the sky turned to soft lavender and the waves whispered against the shore, Silver fell asleep beside you—your head on his shoulder, your bracelet glinting beside his, tied by the same thread.

..............................................................................................................................

Btw! I texted my bestie that “look! they said Im wholesome!” And she said: “not you… your writing…” 🥹 she was right ofc BUT ITS STILL HURT!!!

[dckweed]

SWEETNESS, andrew ‘pope’ cody

summary: in which pope’s new neighbor is a generally sweet but heart broken musician that declares him her friend and for some reason..he just can’t say no, not when she's so sweet to im and he's he’s so damn attracted to her, and certainly not when she’s begged him to fuck her oh so sweetly...

warnings: graphic violence, graphic mentions of sex, choking, spanking, marking, spitting, mean dom!pope, soft dom!pope, crybaby reader, musician reader, you're a slut for this man !! bust open like a can of biscuits whenever he wants it kind of slut and ngl im not mad at it !! there will be mentions of death at some point, eventual pregnancy, eventual description of death, kidnapping, physical violence, mentions of mental health struggles.

welcome welcome welcome! this has been sitting in my google docs for over a year, i love my man shawn hatosy !! comment on this post for taglist!

series masterlist here!

You had been living in your quaint little beachside house for nearly two years when somebody new moved into the house next to yours. The previous tenant was a menace to society, always throwing ragers in his tiny ass house that was so close to yours and other neighbors that they were literally touching. There were always prostitutes and drugs coming in and out..you had schemed to get him out and somehow, it had worked, much to your boyfriend’s annoyance (you learned later on around the time you broke up with him that it was because he had rather enjoyed going to the parties and hooking up with random women you were busy working or helping your family). It had sat empty for a good handful of months before you woke up one morning to a group of voices bickering and bantering outside, their shadows cast upon your living room walls due to the way the early morning light was filtering in. 

“Can you guys shut the fuck up?!” You gripe, opening your door enough to poke your head out after shuffling from your bedroom, hair a mess and your eyes barely open, voice thick with sleep. 

You don’t realize what’s going on until one of them speaks. “I’m so sorry, i didn’t realize they were going to be so noisy..” A deep, raspy voice says from your left, his figure blocking the bright morning sun. You open your eyes all the way, your vision focusing on a tall, solidly built man. He had a wild mess of unkempt dark hair atop his head, a pretty shade of brown you noted, and a hard look on his face as he looked towards the other equally tall if not taller and solid walls of muscle’s off to his side. He offers you what you take for an apologetic smile, though it doesn’t seem like something he naturally does. 

You eye him over, opening the door to inspect the situation farther being the nosey bitch that you were. You hear his friends inside of his similarly small home, bantering and rough housing. “S’okay..” You offer a polite smile, stepping out of your home and onto the small little wooden walkway that connects to all of the other homes on your little row of tiny dwellings, just a few steps off from the water. “Thought you were those annoying surfer guys again..” Yesterday a couple of big burly surfers had been hanging out right outside of your front door, arguing and just being obnoxious. You had yelled at them and they had only laughed at you and turned back to what they were doing. The blonde and brunette were both ingrained in your memory and you were hoping they came back so you could give them a piece of your mind once more. 

“Well, we’re definitely some annoying surfer guys..” He says, just as his friends come barreling out of the front door, rough housing with each other and almost bowling you right over the railing and onto the sand. “These are my brothers, they’re helping me mov-”

“You!” You all but yell, catching the man in front of you by surprise as you turned towards the two idiots, both of them turning their heads towards you. They were the ones from yesterday. “Didn’t you two asswipes get enough of an earful from me yesterday about acting a fool in front of my goddamn door?!” 

“What-” 

You cut your neighbor off. “These assholes were out here all morning yesterday acting like dumbasses and kept ignoring me when I told them to shut up.” The one with the long dark hair mutters a half assed apology as he turns and bumps the shoulder of the smaller blonde one, making him tag along back around the corner of the house, presumably to get some more furniture. “Jackass.” 

The man next to you clears his throat, this time a more natural and bemused smile on his face as he looks solely at you, and you suddenly realize that you’re in your fluffy slippers and a tshirt that barely covers your ass. “On behalf of the assholes, my little brothers, i’d like to apologize.” He says. “I’ll make sure they’re more respectful from now on, I promise..” You didn’t know it then, but his promise was as good a promise straight from God’s mouth. “My name is Pope..sorry for waking you..” 

“Pope is your real name?” You ask, scrunching your face as you eye him. 

“No..but it’s what most people call me..” You hum at his words, understanding what he meant. “You could call me Andrew if you’d like..” 

You don’t respond, but you did like the way Andrew sounded. It suited him better. “People call me Sweetie..” Is all you say as his brothers come back around the corner, carrying a large piece of furniture. You glare at them, making your exit back into your house to get ready for your day as quietly as you could, trying not to wake your boyfriend even though he slept like a damn tank. 

You become rather friendly with Andrew over the next couple of months, though you typically only chat in passing, he occasionally is coming home from working out or from god only knows where with a coffee in his hand, usually around the time you’re leaving for work, and somehow, he always has one for you. You always smile so sweetly at him, sometimes you even give him a sweet little kiss on his cheek as a thank you and he honestly was really starting to see why they called you Sweetie..

You trusted him enough to water your plants and feed your cat for you while you had to take a trip for work..you were a high school music teacher (and musician on the side) and you had drawn the short straw to help chaperone the marching band on their out of town game that required an overnight stay way up north, something about the state finals for football or something you couldn’t be bothered to actually care about. Sure, your boyfriend could do it, but he tended to forget and you didn’t want your little Snickerdoodle to go without food or water while you were gone..

Andrew had agreed without hesitation, something that seemed to surprise his brothers (whom you had grown slightly less annoyed with over the past couple of months) and his own self judging by how quickly he had said “okay, yeah, whatever you need.” You gave him your key as you were leaving, having let your boyfriend know, not that he seemed to care very much. 

“His food is under the kitchen sink, in a plastic bin, make sure it’s sealed because he knows how to get into the cabinet..” You say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And his litter box should be fine until after i get back, is one of those self cleaning ones, you know? Jake said they were too expensive and stupid but i think it’s worth it.” You catch yourself rambling, and then stop, shaking your head as if shaking it clear of whatever jumble of thoughts you had running through it. “Okay, anyway, i gotta get going..” You lean up on your tiptoes and place a kiss to his cheek, and surprisingly he finds himself leaning into it. 

“Drive safe!” One of his brothers says in a condescending way, to which you merely flip him off over your shoulder as you go, car keys in your hand. 

Andrew couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he had so readily said yes to feeding your cat and taking care of your plants. He didn’t even like cats, or plants, nor did he know the first thing about taking care of them. Over the past couple of months he found himself somehow willingly doing your bidding, helping bring in groceries, or carry your many guitar cases to your car, and sometimes even helping you hang a new painting or two because for some reason your worthless boyfriend couldn’t bother helping you when you asked, all because you looked up at him with those damn doe eyes and your sugary sweet smile. Something about you captivated him, and he both hated and loved it. He supposed that was part of why he gave you his actual phone number, instead of his burner number, much to his brothers’ dismay. 

He’d only spoken to your boyfriend once or twice, in brief passing, though most wouldn’t consider a grunt or a displeased glare in his direction speaking. He knew enough about the man to know he wasn’t good enough for you, and he sometimes thought that you could see it too, though he wasn’t sure how you continued to stay with him. He often heard arguing when he would come home or step out, the sounds of your tear filled voice trying to let him know he was hurting you before he would start yelling over you. He even heard things being thrown sometimes, and more often than not he had to force himself not to go over there, to not step in and get involved. He knew he would if you asked though, or yelled in pain. Without so much as a thought, he would burst through that door and put an end to the son of a bitch. 

His fist clenched as he thought about it, and he had to calm himself down. He had to talk himself down from holding a pillow over his face when he went over there, because according to you he would still be sleeping after his supposedly long shift at a firehouse, he could easily do it. He watched the time on the clock, watching it tick closer and closer to ten, the hour that you said you’d be back. Around nine-fifteen he figured he’d go over and check on the cat once more, figuring it would be one less thing for you to do when you got home, and to his shock, it seemed like you were already home (though he hadn’t seen you walk past his window) because he heard a loud whimpering moan come from the bedroom when he opened the front door, it had his fist clenching by his side again as he backed out, trying not hear the way your boyfriend was grunting as he fucked you so hard your headboard hit the wall. A part of him wanted desperately to be him, to grip your sweaty body in his hands as you writhed beneath him. 

He closed the door as gently as he could, hurrying back to his small little house. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he closed the door and leaned against it, pulling his phone out to send an apology text. 

HIM: came over to check on snickerdoodle for you one last time, didn’t realize you were already home..sorry if i disturbed you guys. 

And then he left it, at that, shaking his head clear as he grabbed his keys, wanting to get some coffee so he could scheme up how to avoid you for the rest of his life now, completely surprised to hear his phone ping with a response. 

SWEETNESS: what do you mean? I’m still twenty minutes away..

His eyes go wide and he’s about to run out the door and back to yours when you call him, and to his own surprise, he answers it. 

“Andrew, what the hell do you mean?” Your voice is wavering, surprisingly angry underneath what he can tell is panic. 

He hesitates, because why the fuck did it have to be him telling you this? “Well..i..”

He couldn’t get it out, couldn’t find the words until you shouted his name. “Sweetness, I very clearly heard two people having sex in the bedroom when I opened the door..I just assumed that you had come home earlier than you planned..I am so, so sorry..” 

Your side of the line is silent, save for the sounds of passing traffic, and after a moment, you finally speak, your voice so calm that something about it makes him nervous. “Andrew, don’t let him leave. I’ll be there in ten.” 

In ten? He looked at his phone as the line went dead, hadn’t you just said you were still twenty minutes away? He steps out of his house and onto the small little boardwalk, a hand going to the waistband of his jeans, just under his shirt to double check that the gun he always carried was still tucked there against his back, just in case. 

He’s leaning against the wooden railing separating the houses from the beach when the door opens, and Jake comes shuffling out, a black OFD tshirt on, but only in his boxers as he ushers a bottle blonde out, looking with surprise once he sees him standing there. 

“Mornin’ sunshine.” Andrew says, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t think you want to leave, you’re gonna want to stay for this.” He had heard your car screech to a halt in the small alleyway just as the door opened. 

“For what, man?” Jake asks, a clearly nervous edge in his voice. 

“This, you sonofabitch!” You yell, turning the corner like a bullet train. You push past the blonde and go straight for him, your fist balled up. The sound his nose makes as you cleanly break it is quite satisfying to Andrew’s ears as he cheers you on. “Again, Jacob? Can’t keep your dick dry for twenty four goddamn hours?!” 

“I’m just gon-” The bottle blonde tries to back away, but you quickly turn on your heel, a heat in your eyes that makes even him want to stand back. 

“You didn’t see my makeup on the bathroom counter? Or my perfume on the dresser? Lotion on the nightstand?! Are you blind or stupid? Or are you just such a fucking whore that you didn’t care, huh?” You’re yelling now, not paying any mind to the bloody man behind you, but Andrew is. 

He sees him stand up, blood dripping down his face before he sees him start to lunge for you, anger written all over his face. “Ah-ah, fucker, get your hands back!” He steps closer to you, gun raised and safety off. He wasn’t going to let you get hurt, not physically. 

When you’re finished yelling at the woman and send her on her way, you finally turn back to Jake, your hand on his bicep lowering the gun as you face the man who had cheated on you. “And you,” You snarl, Pope swore he saw your lip curl, your eyes darken. “I want you out of my goddamn house you son of a bitch, I don’t want a fucking trace of you left, I don’t want to ever fucking see you again.”

He has the audacity to roll his eyes at you, huffing. “You’re overreacting here babe, it’s not what you think it i-”

“It’s not what i think?” She turns to look at him, as if asking if he could believe what she just heard. “What i think is that the guy who hasn’t been able to make me cum in the past year-” Pope couldn’t help but snort at this. “Just had his fucking dick in some tramp, and from the way her makeup looked im guessing you fucked her real good.” 

“Oh please! I only fucked her because you’ve been eye fucking shithead over here!” The gasp that tore through your body was one he didn’t think could be possible. You push past the man and stalked into the house, rummaging around behind the couch for something, leaving both men stunned. “I’m the problem? It’s my fault you cheated?” You ask, coming out the door fast, neither of them realized that you were swinging an aluminum bat until it cracked against Jake’s kneecap. “I’m the fucking problem?!” Pope wasn’t sure what was worse, your anger, his clearly agonizing pain, or the fact that he wasn’t sure how to stop you. He let you give him one more good wack, hard enough to knock him out before picking you up from behind and all but threw you into your house, still yelling. 

“Hey, hey!” He raises his voice enough to get your attention, hands out in surrender as one of them grabs the bat from your hand, tossing it out of sight. “Sweetness, I need you to calm down, okay?” 

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, though tears begin streaming from your eyes as you sink to your knees. “What have i done?” You whisper, eyes wide in fear as you look up at him. 

He just can’t stand to see you looking like this, so broken and scared. It hurt him, made his heart clench. “It’s going to be okay,” He says, sinking down to his knees, though he still towered over you. He puts an arm around you, bringing you to his chest. “I’m gonna take care of this, okay?” A kiss to the top of your head as he pulls out his phone, texts his brothers to bring a clean up kit and to get over here ASAP because he’s nearly sure that you killed the man. 

You’re not sure what happened, but somehow you wound up on your living room floor, in front of the couch, knees curled into your chest, eyes puffy from all the crying. “Thank you..” You sniffle, looking up as Andrew walked over from the kitchen, a hot mug of tea in his hand, he crouches as he hands it to you before sitting down next to you on the floor. You’re sure he’s uncomfortable, his long legs cramped in the small space but he doesn’t say anything and you’re grateful for it as you lean your head against his bicep. “I should have broken up with him before, i feel so stupid..”

“You’re not stupid.” He was forceful the way he said it, to the point that it almost scared you. “You’re gentle and sweet and he’s some giant prick that took advantage of you.” You don’t know it, but he’s looking down at you with a soft look in his dark brown eyes. “If you hadn’t broken his kneecap already, i probably would have done it for you.”

You sniff, a small smile on your face as you look up at him, sipping your tea. “Maybe not so gentle and sweet then, huh?” He chuckles at your words and it was the closest thing to a laugh that you had ever heard out of him, bringing a tingle down your spine. 

“No, maybe not, huh?” He hums after a beat. He liked that though. That you had that fire in you, that you knew how to use your anger like that. Was it the greatest way in the world? No, but he was sure he could teach you how to do better..wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? 

@thatchickwiththecamera @sidneysidney123

[clandestineloki]

miguel o'hara x shy crybaby housewife!reader (p3)

[based off of a request where a kind anon asked me 2 write one where he snapped at her, tweaked it a little bit so he's actually not mad at her but more concerned, it just came off in the wrong way]

tw: mentions of blood and wounds from shards, suggestive bit at the end

miguel whos just gotten out of the nice warm bath you made for him

having put on a tight white shirt and sweatpants, drying his hair when he hears a something breaking in the kitchen followed by a scream

he rushes to the kitchen where his dimensional jump watch is on the ground in pieces, debris all over

and you're kneeling over it, trying to pick up the bigger pieces

"shit!" he yells, kneeling down and surveying the damage. "get away from that!"

"i'm sorry!" you cry, clearly shaken. "i-it was on the table and i hit it with my elbow-"

"i know- please don't- just let me-" miguel tries to gently usher you away, but you shake your head.

"it's my fault," you cut him off. "i'll clean it up-"

"I SAID GET AWAY! THIS COULD EXPLODE SO LET ME FUCKING HANDLE IT, ALRIGHT?!"

it stuns you into complete silence, making you flinch away and lean against the kitchen counter.

miguel sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"sorry." miguel says bluntly without looking up. "just- fuck- the last time this happened it broke my nose so don't touch anything-"

he pieces the parts of the watch together, brows furrowing when he sees the tiny projector panel is missing. "what? where's the-"

shaky hands place two broken pieces of the projector panel in his hands

his brows furrow when he sees there are specks of blood on your palms

and he realizes you were trying to fix it on your own :((

he looks up and you're staring up at him with tears in your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling as your breathing quickens and the tears stream down your cheeks.

"i-i'm sorry," you whisper, and his heart shatters

"amor-"

before he can react you stand up and flee to the bathroom

"oh no," miguel leaves the watch pieces right there on the floor and follows you

he finds you at the sink

running your hands through warm water as you cry quietly

miguel feels immense guilt for yelling at you

he wraps his arms around you from behind as he looks at you in the mirror

"bebita," he whispers. "let me help you..."

you're still looking down, avoiding his gaze, and he sighs, pressing a kiss to your neck.

"bebita, i'm sorry," he mumbled. "i was scared you'd get hurt, i didn't mean to yell at you..."

you sniffle, turning off the tap. "i messed up."

"we all do," he whispers. "i messed up too, you didn't deserve that, you were just trying to help."

you shake your head, turning to face him and showing him your palms filled with cuts. "yeah, n' look what happened."

"you think too lowly of yourself, cariño," he lifts you up on the counter, taking the first aid kit from the drawer and fishing out the tweezers, some cotton and some rubbing alcohol.

he presses a kiss to your lips. "i'm not mad at you for this. i want you to know that. i had no right acting like a jackass."

you laugh softly through tears, and he smiles sadly, taking your left hand and looking for your injuries

the next few minutes are completely silent as miguel picks out the tiny shards from your palms

he kisses each palm when he's done, then pours some alcohol on a cotton ball.

"bebita, this might sting a bit. take a deep breath for me."

you start sobbing, and he looks up at you.

"bebita, i haven't even put the alcohol-"

"i'm sorry," you whimper, crying harder, and his heart breaks again.

"amor," he leans in, brushing stray hair away from your face and thumbing at your tears.

"you're very pretty even when you cry, but please don't be sad..."

miguel pulls you into a hug and you let it all out while he shushes you softly, kissing your hair and whispering words of love

patiently waiting for you to come back to him, wiping away your tears and sniffling, looking up at him with a tentative expression.

miguel smiles. "there she is," he mumbles, kissing you sweetly. "nobody's mad anymore, i know you meant well, you always do."

he kisses your nose. "i love you."

"love you too," you whisper, and he smiles.

"do you want to watch a movie with me while i clean you up?"

"mhm."

"your pick, amor. anything you want, anything-"

"can we watch top gun?"

"no."

"but you said it was my choice!"

"anything but that! you know i hate top gun!"

"we watch top gun or im not cooking paella for a month"

"BEBITA POR DIOS!"

you giggle and he sighs.

"fine. you're lucky you're the love of my life... and that i dont know how to cook my own paella."

"how about this?" miguel lifts you up in a princess carry.

"i'll watch top gun with you WITHOUT complaining if you promise to never let me yell at you like that again."

you look at him in confusion. "but-"

"promise me." he whispers.

"okay," you nuzzle into his neck. "i promise."

"good. and remind me to eat you out more often im forgetting how good you taste ;)"

"MIGUEL!!"

[gaintsnowflake]

❆ ONE LAST KISS

PAIRING : jason todd x gn!reader

ONESHOT : he appeared at your doorstep, broken and tattered, just like he use to

A/N : hurt with LITTLE comfort. mainly hurt tho. just like my heart writing it because how does one capture the yearning of this brooding man??

masterlist

      WORDS lose their meaning as you as he stood in front of you, suit tattered, mask off, face bloodied and bruised. Months of silence broken. Anger and hatred were both things you told yourself you felt for him before, yet as his breath trembles nothing but concern attaches itself to your body. 

      “Hey,” the quiver of his voice reminded you of who he really is. A broken boy who’s lost too much. 

      “Please don’t tell me that’s your blood.”

      His silence was all you needed to pull him into your small apartment. Closing the door behind him as he stumbled to the couch. He hadn’t looked much different than a newborn animal as he huffed, something that was never meant to fight in these wars.

     Months had passed and yet not a thing seemingly changed in your moth-eaten apartment. The same grungy walls that peeled away everytime the two of you argued. The same mangy couch you watched him read on every night. The timeworn coffee table you would sit every time he came home like this. Broken just beyond repair. The same coffee table you’d sit now, for the first time in months, staring into his drained eyes. 

    “Where’s the worst?” Your voice was softer than it needed to be, as if he’d break if you spoke too loosely.

    “My side,” he groaned as he shifted to show you a large gash, it was ugly. Deep. Something personal.

    His labored breathing and soft groans is what brings you back from staring at his side. Only for you to reach under the table, your dusty medical kit there from all those months ago, waiting for his ghost to appear on night like this. You don’t even need to ask for him to remove his armoured top, for when you look back up at him it's the same shirtless body you use to sleep atop of. Just with a few new scars and bruises, new stories he used to tell. 

     “Why didn’t you go home? Alfred could have done better than me… hell even Bruce could have,” your voice still quiet as you lean in to disinfect the area around the wound, your hands moving as his body wasn’t a distant memory. Not caring to be too gentle, you pressed harder, causing him to curse and flinch. “Sorry.”

     “No you’re not.” 

     “No, I’m not.”

     Silence, a familiar one, consumed the two of you as you began to stitch his deep wounds. Threading moving in and out of his thick skin. You leaned onto his chest just enough you can feel the pitters of his heart. Still there, still strong, still him. The pattern a reminder of all the times you’d kiss his wounds better, of all the times you found yourself curled next to him shielding him from his demons. With every hiss you remind yourself that throughout all the pain he caused you at the end of it all, he was still the same man you met all those years ago. 

     And despite it all, he watched you the whole time. Those eyes— cobalt and crushed— soft the way only a soldier’s could be. Like you were something sacred.

     When you finished the last stitch, you placed a cool rag overtop them moving to a tiny cut on his chin. Leaning further as you tilted his head. His breath warmed against your hand as you disinfected it.

     “You have a lot of nerve coming here, you know?” You attempted to hold an angry glare, yet his eyes were so broken, you couldn’t piece together enough anger in you.

     “I’m sorry, I just… it was instinct.” The whine in his voice was all you needed to hear.

     “Jay- Jason. I know you’re sorry. But that doesn’t change how it ended. That doesn’t change that we agreed to not talk. It doesn’t change it,” your breath hallowed as you moved his chin upward, for him to truly look into the depths of your eyes. “As much as you need it too.”

     “One last kiss,” His hand finally reached up to hold yours. “Please.”

     You shook your head, before dipping forward to kiss the cut on his chin. When you pulled away all you could see was the pleading eyes, before placing your lips on his. 

     It felt familiar. It felt like home. His whine as you pushed your tongue just barely over his capped upper lip was more heartwarming than you could remember. Before you could feel that time slowing feeling and your heart in your throat, you forced yourself to pull away. Before you were too far gone.

     It took you a few moments to open your eyes, moving your body away. Throwing a bloody rag at him, closing the first aid. Feeling the ache of his eyes on your being as you walked away. 

    “You can stay the night,” you whispered, not daring to look back, knowing his yearns would break every ounce of discipline in your body, “But this is the last time Jason. I mean it. Next time I won’t open the door.”

     This time, you walked away from him. For the first and last time, you walked away first.

     By the time you woke up, the towel and spare blanket was left perfectly folded on that neglected coffee table. Along with a note, only displaying the words “THANK YOU.”